by Rik Stone
He turned back to the report and Jez was sure it was to hide a grin. When the colonel’s words had sunk in, he realized who the man in the shadows had been.
The colonel lifted his gaze but his face had soured. “Of course, you realize you could be in a prison cell right now?”
“Yes, sir, but…”
He held up a stilling hand. “No buts. If my man hadn’t been there to stop any further action, that is where you would be. Watch your temper.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, but felt cheated.
Petrichova sifted through the paperwork. “It says here that you became cozy with one of the girls in the unit.” He sounded foreboding.
“We were friendly, sir, but now we’ve gone our separate ways,” Jez replied, but hoped he was wrong.
“Good. I’m about to have you assigned to a special unit and I don’t want my time wasted by you messing around with girls. Understand?”
“Yes, Colonel. And I look forward to the opportunity you’re giving me, sir.”
And he did. He wanted to jump up and punch the air. But more than that, he wanted to run from the office and find Anna. He’d love to hear one of her blunt responses.
*
Jez was already fit, an excellent shot, and he could fight – or at least that’s what he’d thought. But after more than six months of intensive training with Spetsnaz, he realized he’d only been scratching the surface.
He’d not long been back from an exercise in Northern Siberia and he was tired, dirty. They’d given him a tent, a knife, no food, and enough clothes to keep out the brutal weather conditions – barely. When they dropped him off in the middle of nowhere, the unit sergeant shouted, “Let’s see if you can find your way out of this,” and drove off laughing – all part of the process.
He’d lived off the land for three weeks before he got back to base, and the first thing on his list was to shower. He soaked up the tepid water until his skin wrinkled, and then he dressed. No sooner was that done than a soldier pushed the tent flap back. “The sergeant wants you,” he said, and left without another word.
“You want to see me, Sergeant?” Jez said, going into the unit commander’s tent.
“Yes, come in, Kornfeld. Colonel Petrichova has looked at feedback on your performance since you’ve been with us.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Jez said.
His time had come and he’d be on his way again, he was sure. He only wished he could tell Anna, and wondered where she would be now. Perhaps she’d already set out plans for world domination. He smiled inwardly.
“I don’t know what world affairs you keep up with, Kornfeld, but the Greek communist party, the KooKooEh, is at civil war with the conservatives.”
“Yes, Sergeant, I know about as much of the situation as is made public.”
“Good, because that was about as much as I was going to tell you. Pack your kit, soldier, you’ll be flying out to join your new unit in about four hours.”
“Sergeant!”
*
Jez listened to his heart pound as he made his way to the militarized airplane. The propellers of the Lisunov Li-2T whumped as they waited patiently for heavier work, but patience wasn’t a condition he suffered from. The blood had raced through his veins non-stop since he’d been reassigned.
Only a handful of passengers crossed the airstrip; and boarding the right-hand side of the aircraft revealed why: cargo took up ten of the twenty seats. Probably it was munitions for the KKE, or Soviet personnel. He found an empty window seat behind the wing, stowed his kitbag and sat.
A regular army captain flustered along the aisle and bundled awkwardly into the seat next to him. He was a short, thickset man with a kindly, but weathered face.
“Ah, the uniform, you’re with Spetsnaz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re very young. Are you new to the group?”
“Yes, I am, sir.”
Conversation over, the captain nodded, settled his briefcase onto his lap and busied himself with its contents. He hummed so tunelessly that Jez reckoned the composer would have trouble recognizing it.
Not long after the last passenger had boarded, the beat of the aircraft’s engines increased and the vehicle started to move slowly, turned a quarter circle, stopped and then turned a bit more before beginning its journey up the runway. Jez tingled as he felt the bulk of the machine try to get airborne. Several times it lifted from the blacktop only to bounce back to earth and waft small clouds of blue smoke from the tires.
Jez kept vigil out of the window until the plane had enough power to keep the wheels in the air. He knew that this, his first flight, would be the most exciting of all flights. The drone of the engines increased. The plane rose up to the clouds, reached its desired height and changed the angle of elevation towards horizontal. They hit turbulence and the passengers bounced fiercely in their seats.
“Is this the start of a long tour of duty, Private?” the captain asked.
“The truth is, sir, I don’t know.” Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been willing to discuss his remit.
The captain seemed to sense what Jez thought of the question, smiled graciously and returned his attention to the briefcase. The aircraft rode through every available air pocket and Jez enjoyed each twist and turn, until at last they arrived at the KKE landing strip.
In 1948, with two-thirds of the country in communist hands, coming down in a safe region wasn’t difficult. This strip was north of the Balkan Peninsula in a southern area of Macedonia. Historically, the Greek right-wing conservatives had used tyranny to subjugate the Macedonians, which made for an easy alliance with the KKE.
Jez was last off the plane, because the captain took forever to repack his case. When he did leave his seat, another officer rushed by and Jez was held up further. By the time he reached the bottom of the gangway, his travel companion had met his contact and most of the other passengers had left the strip. Workers were unloading the cargo from a rear hatch, and beyond that a young KKE soldier stood by a UAZ-469 Soviet jeep.
The soldier looked too young to be there. His long unkempt hair hung straight, stuck untidily out from under a weather-beaten beret. His features typically Greek, his dusty olive uniform was an exact match for the color of his skin; and his large brown eyes, should he live long enough, would draw the girls like flies to sugar.
He held out a hand to halt Jez. “You Kornfeld?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m Private Kornfeld.”
The boy remained solemn-faced and nodded towards the jeep.
“Good luck, Private,” the captain bid, as he and his associate passed. “I hope the ride you have here is not as bumpy as the one we’ve just shared.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jez forced a friendly grin, but found the lackluster in the KKE boy’s gaze had unnerved him. A face without expression and eyes without life. Jez wondered what lay ahead.
The young soldier crunched into gear and pulled away at breakneck speed, while Jez jerked backwards as they flew from the dirt runway. The jeep formed a sand cloud that trailed their movements. After fifteen minutes of dusty roads they reached mountainous ground, and Jez hung on as the jeep danced over the rough terrain. Rocks jutted dangerously from the track or the road hung precariously over precipices, and he bit his lower lip at the boy’s avant-garde attitude to driving.
“You must have seen a lot of action here?” he said, and hoped he hadn’t interfered with the boy’s concentration.
He looked only around fourteen, but his character seemed a lifetime older. His eyes left the road to give Jez a cursory glance. In the meantime, the jeep took the twists and curves as if on automatic pilot. “No Russian speak,” he replied, and without a line of expression he returned focus to the job.
Jez wished Anna had been by his side. He was sure she’d have something to say about the boy’s erratic driving and stone-faced comments. Whatever, he concluded a great friendship wasn’t about to be forged with his Greek driver, and he turned his attention to th
e elevations around them. The journey took them south, nearer enemy territory, and finally to an open stockade in a dustbowl nestled at the foot of a line of low-rise mountains.
The jeep raced to the center of the compound, the wheels locked up and they skidded to an emergency stop. The dust cloud didn’t follow suit and Jez learned what it was to be enveloped by a sandstorm. The powdered dirt settled, and without a word the young Greek soldier shut off the engine, nodded and left. Jez threw his kitbag over his shoulder and turned full circle in the hope there might be someone more companionable.
Soviet soldiers had gathered in a group near a cluster of tents and a sergeant held center stage. “Excuse me, if you’re Sergeant Viktor Sharansky,” Jez said, breaking the loop, “I believe you’re expecting me. I’m Private Kornfeld.”
The sergeant looked him over derisively. “What’s this? Now they send me little boys to take care of in the middle of a war. Maybe I should stick a broom up my ass and sweep up as I go, because I’m not doing enough already. What say you – err – Private Kooornfeld?” He stretched the name sarcastically, and the others laughed.
Around forty years old, Sharansky was medium to tall with square shoulders that tapered to slim hips. Muscles fought to burst the confines of his short-sleeved combat shirt, and he looked every centimeter the definition of a boyhood hero. A cubed head with rough features on the front of it, creases that denoted laughter and eyes displaying a cheeky twinkle – Jez wasn’t put off by his words.
“You’ll find I’m able to look after myself, Sergeant. I’ll give you no cause for concern.”
The sergeant laughed. “Don’t let that distress you, little one, I have no intention of offering any such thing. What happens to you is down to you. What’s your first name? I’m not giving you Private Kooornfeld every time I’m ordering you around.”
“My name is Jez, Sergeant.”
“Right, Jez Sergeant, I’m busy. Find somewhere for your kit and we’ll see what we can do with you later.”
Chapter 5
For three weeks, Jez watched his peers leave for the front while his presence wasn’t even acknowledged by the sergeant. He had to face up to him, and find out why.
“Excuse me, Sergeant Sharansky.”
“Yes, private, come in.”
He bent as he pushed through the flaps and into the tent. “If I may, Sergeant, I’ll get straight to the point.” Sharansky sat back and nodded. “You seem to be of an opinion that I wouldn’t be of much use in the field. I’ve trained KooKooEh ever since I got here and…”
“And?” the sergeant broke in.
He stood further to attention. “Sergeant, I know this war is bitter and casualties high. I just don’t understand why my skills are not put to better use.”
“Oh – a tantrum. The boy isn’t getting his way.”
Rankled, Jez discarded caution. “It’s not like that, Sergeant, no, I…”
“All right… all right,” the sergeant conceded, and lifted a hand to silence him. “We’ve received information of a rooftop party for a group of significant conservative officers. I’ve looked at your records. Seems you can shoot, but you’ve never killed. Do you think you can go the distance?”
Had Sharansky waited for him to make this approach?
“Yes, Sergeant, you’re right, I haven’t killed, but there has to be a first time for everyone. I’m ready, it won’t be a problem.”
“It’d better not be. Get your combat gear together and make sure you’re ready to travel at first light. Don’t worry about weapons, I’ll sort them out.”
Night still contested with day as Jez emerged. The KKE boy sat behind the wheel with Sergeant Sharansky next to him. It was so early that his mind hadn’t kicked in properly, or was it that he hadn’t clipped his belt buckle properly? Whichever, he got in a tangle and fell.
“Don’t worry,” the sergeant said, “you’re not late.” He turned to the driver. “Let’s go.”
Friendly enough, but Jez could’ve sworn he’d sniggered.
Then it got worse. The accelerator hit the metal before Jez had sat down, and he crashed over into the rear seat. This time the sergeant laughed for all he was worth.
“After the boy drops us, it’ll take him an hour to get to his KooKooEh comrades and let them know we’re on our way,” Sergeant Sharansky said. “We’ll have that hour and another three to get to our position and set up. Oh, one more thing: you’re Jez, I’m Viktor, and we’re without rank. You’re trained, so there’s no need to explain.”
“No, Sergeant, sorry, Viktor, but why the time limit?”
“We’ve arranged for KooKooEh to make a diversionary attack on a military village in the town’s suburbs. When their firepower can be heard we must be in position and ready to open fire.”
They hadn’t driven for long when the jeep left the main road in favor of dirt tracks and paths that wound along low gullies and high mountainsides. But now the boy drove tentatively and made sure the vehicle didn’t kick up dust. Eventually they stopped on a hillside and Jez pulled his rattled body from the jeep. A spattering of houses lay to the west, or at least he guessed they were houses: from that distance they looked no more than an anomaly in the terrain. Viktor took a bag from the jeep and the boy drove off without a word.
“Will there be opposition between here and the town, Viktor?”
“There’d better not be, or the mission is over. Until we’re ready to hit, low profile is the name of the game.”
They crept silently over sterile ground, and the nearer they got the more patrols they found to skirt around. When necessary they bellied out, slung the bag over the back of whoever’s turn it was to be mule, and crawled. When they reached the halfway mark, Jez was up on his feet and trotting crouched with the bag over his shoulder.
“You want me to take a turn with that bag?”
“No, it’s not a problem.”
The lifetime of physical training had paid dividends and his body thrived on the workout. But his mind was full of the task ahead: he would kill; that was why he’d trained so hard. It was a necessary step in his military evolution. Even so, sweat popped on his face – and it wasn’t through physical exertion.
They arrived on the town’s outskirts and nestled into a niche at the base of a hill. Viktor took two AK-47 submachine guns from the bag: a recently developed weapon created by a young unknown called Kalashnikov. Jez had trained with the rifle and liked its responses – accurate to 800 meters and still a kill shot at 1,500 meters. Viktor laid the guns side by side and dipped back into the bag. He took out enough ammunition to fill the magazines twice over.
“Load up, Jez. Then take off your trousers and shirt, and fasten the ammunition belt with the spare bullets in front of you.”
Jez relaxed and grinned. “We’re going to look a bit obvious if we walk into town like this.”
Viktor sighed. “We’re not quite finished,” he said. “Sling the gun over your back.”
Jez obeyed, and as Viktor pulled out sandals and a couple of hooded kaftans, the fog cleared.
“Get into these,” he said. “Reports say there are Arabs in the town, so we should go unnoticed.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Well, I don’t think the conservatives will lose any sleep over killing us slowly.”
“Right, Viktor.”
Reality sobered his thoughts – death was feasible.
“Noticing the AK-47 won’t be a problem as long as you don’t bend to pick anything up in town,” Viktor continued.
Jez held out the kaftan like a girl in a dress shop and nodded. “I could pass as an Arab without the kaftan. And you’re… well weathered.”
He watched Viktor pull the kaftan over his head. His muscular frame could have been a problem, but in the loose-fit garment he just looked fat. Jez grinned.
“What?”
“Nothing, Viktor, just thinking.”
They moved into side alleys of what Jez presumed was a typical mountain town: houses wit
h dark adobe sun-dried brickwork, mainly flat-roofed but some slanted and tiled. Orange trees bore bitter fruit that had been left to over-ripen and wither. Their skins had already bleached to a pale shade of yellow, and the branches they hung from stretched over sandstone walls to reach for the shade of olive trees, whose aged trunks had bloated to more than a meter in width. These olives lined the street, proudly adorning the sidewalks. Their long, heavy branches provided shade for the passersby, while the white paint around the trunks gave guidance to night traffic.
On a main street, Jez watched donkeys pull rickety carts piled with firewood. Rusted old cars belched blue-black smoke so thick that it rasped the throat. An uncovered army truck chugged by, full of soldiers who looked over-heated as they leaned wearily on their rifles. Vehicles had parked on either side of the road, which slowed the traffic. A black chauffeur-driven convertible stopped just ahead with a military officer sat in the back seat, tapping a swagger stick on his forearm and staring straight ahead. His pompous expression raised the hackles on Jez’s neck. The blonde woman sitting next to him was just the opposite: she craned her neck in every direction and showed interest in all she looked at.
They turned off into a side alley and Jez was glad to leave the mayhem behind; but within a couple of meters he found himself pressed against a wall to let a heavily-laden donkey pass. The large wooden cases that flanked the animal looked over-burdening, but it never faltered. A woman led the beast from the front and stared directly at Jez. Her tanned and shrunken face seemed to admonish him, but then he realized she wasn’t looking at him, but through him.
After several alleyways into town they came to an open plaza where Arab vendors manned vegetable stalls. On the opposite side of the square a number of conservative soldiers hung around, smoking, talking.
“Take my hand, Jez,” Viktor ordered.
“What?”
“Just do it,” he said with resignation.
Jez took the sergeant’s hand and they walked diagonally across the square. Viktor clung to him and chatted in Greek – or whatever language it was; it all sounded Greek to Jez. They bumped and pushed their way through a throng of people who eagerly cleared their goods in readiness for an evening of freedom.
