by Gee, Colin
The PE-8, Silniy-Two-Two, exploded violently and catastrophically, transforming itself into small pieces of metal in the blink of an eye. The largest pieces, the engines, raced each other to the ground, pursued by a myriad of smaller bits.
On the ground below, closely packed and moving swiftly, part of the supply train of the 6th Guards Army was deluged in life-taking metal and burning fuel.
Scores of horses were killed and maimed, their handlers equally ravaged.
Part of the bomber’s port wing came to ground on a spot occupied by the Colonel commanding of the 6th’s Supply units, where he was deep in conversation with a communist party member of the Army’s Political Council.
It was some days before the bloody mulch was recovered. The two men buried together, for fear of putting the wrong headstone over the wrong pieces.
De Villiers hit the ground hard, the jarring contact bringing his thigh wounds to the forefront, causing him to yelp aloud.
All around him, guardsmen from the 2nd Guards Rifle Corps gathered, some with curiosity as their motivation, others with more sinister intent.
A young Major strode into the group and spoke loudly, causing the majority to lose interest in the new arrival.
The four men he had detailed scooped up their prisoner, and marched him swiftly to the rear.
0030hrs, Friday, 5th October 1945, Swedish covert military installation, Gotland.
According to plan, and to the second, the five Achgelis took off and immediately turned towards their target, intent on describing a straight line above the cold waters of the Baltic, all the way to their destination on mainland Europe.
Törget and Rossiter watched them go, silently and without excitement, both men wholly aware of the risks involved, and the possibility that none of the men they had just watched fly away would ever return.
The fuel issue had been resolved satisfactorily, so much so that the point of take-off had nearly been changed.
However, Rossiter had introduced some nasty, but necessary, changes to the plan, and that still meant Gotland as the nearest point.
0158hrs, Friday, 5th October 1945, Fischausen, Soviet Occupied Prussia.
The impending move to centralise the ‘guest’ families had knocked Savitch back. He immediately understood that his days with Greta were numbered.
So he made the most of the time her had, spending his evenings and nights in her company, sometimes not returning to his billet until the dawn was already spreading itself across the dewy ground.
Tonight, he was indulging in his favourite ‘Troika’, and Greta Knocke was performing with all her normal enthusiasm and flair.
He had already taken her once, orgasming noisily, fantasising about fertilising the woman, as he spent himself in her moist depths.
The second party of the troika was recently completed, his hands gripping her head as she moved her mouth around him, accepting his gift.
The third section of the Troika gave him so much pleasure; its significance, the domination, the subservience, all being much to his liking.
Greta, face down over the dressing table, moaned. He knew not whether it was pleasure or pain, and cared not a jot either, as he slid himself into her anus and commenced a deep and rhythmic thrusting, his large penis, hard and unforgiving with her soft female flesh.
0208hrs, Friday, 5th October 1945, Fischausen, Soviet Occupied Prussia.
Each Achgelis had been adapted quickly, converting to the specific needs of the mission.
Three men onboard each, rather than two. On three of the Achgelis were women, or more correctly, a woman and two girls, making the one-way trip from Sweden to the mainland.
The pilots, now over land, throttled back, and looked for the sign.
The Police Station was illuminated as promised and a small bonfire pointed the way to the selected landing zone, where the agent had placed four metal buckets, the contents of which burned brightly enough to describe a square inside which the five helicopters could safely land.
The helicopters touched down and men dressed in familiar uniforms moved quickly away, three carrying burdens, three with strange backpacks, the others empty-handed, for now.
As had been planned, each Achgelis pointed in a different direction, enabling the pilots to take up the MG15 defensive machine-guns, ready to defend the landing site if necessary.
A swift discussion took place as the twelve men gathered on the fringes of the open area, their police officer contact gesticulating quickly but carefully. The group disappeared into the dark, swallowed up as they moved off towards the village.
Karl-Lothar Pohlmann waited until they were out of sight and then hefted the two small drums he had ‘appropriated’, keen to discover whether his new air force comrades would appreciate his efforts in finding a modest amount of petrol for their return journey.
Four of the Achgelis shared the extra litres greedily, their gauges not registering the modest addition.
As Savitch plunged ever deeper inside Greta Knocke, his other senses encouraged him to become more alert.
‘Engine sounds? This time of night? What’s that about? Surprise inspection?’
The yelp of pain as he drove hard brought him back to the matter in hand, the delicious thought that he had hurt the bitch arousing him even more.
‘If there’s a problem, Honin will deal with it and let me know.’
He became more vigorous.
0210hrs, Friday, 5th October 1945, adjacent to Route 192, Fischausen, Soviet occupied Prussia.
The planning had been rushed, but thorough, the photo-recce work proving a real bonus to the Kommando unit.
In silence, they went to ground, permitting their commander to survey the ground up to, and the other side of, Route 192.
He tapped two of the men on the shoulders, and they immediately set to work on two others, each man carrying one of the heavy backpacks.
Both men also carried the Sturmgewehr-44 assault rifle, although theirs were different from the norm, being equipped with the Vampir infrared system.
The two soldiers stepped back having secured the packs, both sets of batteries now online.
Having seen the order from the Kommando leader, the machine-gunners had set to work powering up their own Vampir, this one attached to an MG42.
The work completed swiftly, the raiding party moved off on cue, crossing the road one at a time, each movement covered by one of the infrared weapons.
Moonlight started breaking through the high clouds and, just occasionally, enough light filtered down to earth to pick out the insignia of the Waffen-SS on the collars of the twelve men.
Moving slowly westwards, the two ST44 Vampirs led the way, carefully sweeping back and forth, until suddenly one froze and gave the signal to halt.
Shandruk moved carefully forward, the point man’s hand indicating the direction of the sentry.
Another one of the Ukrainians responded to Shandruk’s silent order, placing his Gewehr43 on the ground and drawing a long blade. In a second, the man had melted into the darkness, only seen by those with the infrared equipment.
The point Vampir grunted at Shandruk, the only recognition that a man had died in the silence of the autumn Baltic night.
The group moved forward, one man pausing to retrieve the Gewehr, ready to return it to its waiting owner.
Buildings recognisable from their photos came into view, as the moon made greater efforts to cast its light on Fischausen.
Without instruction, the group became three separate entities, the two ST44 Vampir soldiers moving to the rear of the NKVD barracks, the MG42 team slipping past them, and into the rubble of a large house to the south of the T-junction.
The larger group stole towards the Gasthaus, pausing only to attach something to each of the three BA-10 armoured cars parked on the road.
Shandruk risked a look through the shuttered window, a crack of light enticing him to make the effort. He was rewarded by the sight of two men drinking, whilst two more lay gently s
noozing in front of an inviting fire.
Silently, he passed the information to the assault party of five, the three females and their escorts not needed at this time.
The group rose up and slipped around to the rear entrance, easing the door open, and entering the old Gasthaus.
Ignoring the sound of carnal pleasures that faintly drifted down from the upper floor, the five men prepared for the kill.
Kuibida, one of Shandruk’s old pioneer company, stood ready, hand on the knob, testing the action without turning it.
The signal came and the handle was turned, silently, the door pulled open to permit Shandruk to see the sleepers.
They still slept, and soon would sleep forever. However, for now, his priority was the two men mumbling over their cups.
A glance around the door brought him eye contact with one of the two drunks, contact that instantly sobered the NKVD soldier.
He went for his rifle.
The clack-clack-clack of the silenced Sten was lost in the sound of a dead body striking the wooden floor.
The other drunk turned, knowing he was already dead, but needing to see his nemesis.
The SS officer sent a burst into him and he knew no more.
Kuibida had quickly moved in, and was pushing his knife into the throat of the second sleeper before the last drunk slipped to the floor.
The front door opened, and in strode Kapitan Honin, still sampling a bottle, his eyes glazed with the alcohol so recently liberated from a nearby farm. He had been drinking from the moment they strung old Lerner up, to the moment he walked into his last second on earth.
A shout died in his throat, as Shandruk ripped him from crotch to breast with a ten round burst.
The sounds from upstairs became more urgent, the familiar rhythmic sounds of a man approaching the moment of release.
Shandruk slid a replacement magazine into his silenced Sten, and whispered an order to a soldier, who disappeared back out of the room to order the outside party into the house.
The three soldiers brought the females into the house now, setting them down as best they could, ready to perform their vital role.
The pace picked up.
Shandruk, Kuibida, and two others, mounted the stairs, the rest moved through the ground floor.
A door, invitingly ajar, permitted a look inside and silent entrance, where Kuibida’s knife found more work, the female guard slaughtered as she sat dreaming. He left the two young girls asleep for now, but let Shandruk know that he had found them.
The second bedroom had yielded nothing at all, except the uniform of an NKVD Major hung neatly on the wardrobe door.
Again, Kuibida tested the third door as Shandruk readied his submachine gun.
The door opened slowly, silently, revealing a scene of depravity, the soft, rounded curves of a woman’s buttocks being pounded heavily by a wiry naked male.
Immediately deciding that he could not shoot, Shandruk gestured to Kuibida, who almost leapt across the small space.
Savitch groaned and squealed, his orgasm complete and intense, his semen pumping inside the compliant woman.
Savitch groaned, but he could no longer squeal as a sharp blade penetrated his windpipe and sliced his jugular.
He fell to the ground, blood spilling everywhere, his eyes wide with the horror of his approaching death, his hands desperately sealing the cut in an effort to stave off the inevitable.
Greta Knocke, naked, dirty, and sweaty, turned to look at the dying NKVD officer.
There was something there that made the man very afraid, and his panic intensified.
Sparing a thankful look at the two SS soldiers in the room, she held out her hand, silently demanding the knife from Kuibida.
He passed it over without a word, both soldiers silently accepting what was about to happen.
She knelt beside Savitch, his eyes wide and pleading, his mind resigned to what was to come.
“I have endured you to protect my girls, you fucking bastard.”
His eyes followed the bloody blade as she slowly waved it in front of him.
“Every time your cock defiled me, I promised myself I would have my revenge!”
The knife dropped low and made a decisive movement. The blood pulsed as his penis was separated from his body.
Savitch screamed, despite the neck wound, the act causing his blood to flow around his desperate fingers.
“I will feed this to the dogs,” she held up his manhood.
The knife worked swiftly again.
The pain almost caused him to pass out, but his brain fought back, seeking to remain alert for as long as possible.
His testicles were dropped onto his chest.
“These will feed the pigs at Lerner’s farm.”
The blood loss was now becoming critical, and Savitch started to drift off.
Greta Knocke spoke into his ear.
“And now, for every time your cock has penetrated me, I penetrate you.”
The tip of the blade probed the awful wound between his legs, the pain stimulating him into consciousness once more.
The next time it entered his body was through his navel, the penetration limited to no more than a centimetre, not enough to kill in its own right, but sufficient to cause extreme pain.
Shandruk and Kuibida watched as the naked woman worked the blade all over the Russian’s body, shocked, but aware enough to know that the woman needed the few moments to do what she had to do.
Greta slid the knife into Savitch’s left armpit, not noticing that the eyes had glazed, and the blood no longer flowed.
Shandruk took hold of her hand firmly, and removed the blade, passing it back to his NCO in silence.
Greta Knocke stood, unashamed of her nakedness, looking down on the piece of dirt that had threatened to rape her two daughters unless she became his mistress.
She spat venomously, missing the corpse, but discharging more of her angst.
Shandruk held out some clothes and turned around as Greta put them on.
A shot made all three jump.
Downstairs, an unseen sentry had been drawn back to the Gasthaus by the scream from the dying Savitch. On seeing the hated SS in the downstairs room, he had fired through the window, killing one of the SS men instantly.
Shandruk clicked his fingers at Kuibida, sending him down to investigate, the sound being sufficient to mask the clack-clack as a Sten gun put the sentry down.
“Frau Knocke, we have no time to lose. Please give me that,” he indicated the opal necklace she always wore, a treasured wedding present from her parents, “Now, please go with this man, and bring your children downstairs. We must leave very soon.”
The woman took it in her stride, something that he was not surprised about, given her pedigree.
A firefight erupted outside, the covering sections becoming swiftly engaged.
Three rapid explosions marked the end of the venerable armoured cars. Although old and out of place on a modern battlefield, they had been considered a threat to the raiding force.
Spurred by the closeness of the combat, Shandruk moved swiftly, shouting his encouragement to the two men organising the girls.
Once downstairs, he set the subterfuge in motion.
The three female bodies were taken upstairs and placed in the correct rooms, the two girls, recently carefree Swedish school children, had died because they ate the wrong sort of mushrooms. They were to replace Knocke’s daughters and Shandruk’s team set them in place with suitable reverence.
In the next room the adult corpse was put in place; a librarian, who had just dropped dead next to the classics section at her place of work.
A change of plan was necessary, requiring a more creative ‘set’. A knife was slipped into the hand of Elisabet Hägglund, spinster, former employee of the Gothenburg University Library.
The necklace followed, garish against the milky white and lifeless skin.
The substitutions complete, the group moved off, their dead com
rade dragged clear, in order to preserve the evidence of his uniform and corpse. They had all understood the risks. Uniform scraps had been prepared, had there been no casualties. However, a comrade had fallen, and they were prepared to leave him behind; a necessary evil that they had planned for, and reluctantly accepted.
The last three soldiers, now relieved of their dead female burdens, set fire to the old Gasthaus, before joining the rear of the group.
Kuibida, breathing heavily, slid in beside Shandruk.
“The ‘42 has butchered the bastards. They came out straight into the line of fire. All down, from what I can see. Be careful, in case any are just wounded. The Vampirs have been firing round the back too.”
“Our route out?”
“Clear, as far as I can see, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
The Major’s rank was an acknowledgement of Shandruk’s worth to OSS, a personal recommendation by Rossiter himself.
The Ukrainian officer slapped his senior NCO heartily.
“Move them up then, Oberscharfuhrer. Back to the spinning tops as quickly as we can.”
It was as good a name as any for the strange machines that had brought them to Fischafen.
The rescue party rose up and moved off, each of the Knocke females having a personal escort, either to steer them, support them, calm them, or to get their bodies between the rescued and the bullets, whichever was needed.
The MG42 team remained vigilant, as the main group slipped across their line of fire, the loader commencing the countdown for their own withdrawal.
The Vampir gunners saw the group first, and watched for signs of pursuit. There were none, as they and the machine-gun team had been extremely effective in subduing the NKVD guard unit.
There was no sign of the tanks, nor of the Maxim machine-guns.
Gehlen had managed to organise a demonstration at Baltiysk to the south, and all four T34’s had been sent to assist the local forces.
One of the Maxim mounts lay to the north, covering the most obvious approach. The second was situated to the south-west, its dual purpose to guard the air approach from that direction as well as to serve as a guard post on the shoreline.
