Shadows of Vengeance, page 5
A few mornings later, Stalbo awoke to the probings of a doctor he was sure was a confirmed sadist.
“Ah, how are we treating you?”
“Do you have to be so rough?”
“If we weren’t, there wouldn’t be any way to know if you were getting better,” the doctor chortled, pressing heavily on a bandage.
Stalbo howled with pain.
“See? A couple of days ago I couldn’t even get you to scream. See how much better you are?”
“Can I talk to the men who brought me in here?”
“Probably not.”
“Why?”
“They must be dead,” the doctor remarked calmly. “Or they should be,” he added. “Most medics don’t survive this battle more than a day or so.”
“How can I find out?” Stalbo persisted.
The doctor elicited another grunt of pain from him. “There’s new cases being brought in here all the time. Keep an eye out and maybe you’ll recognize one of them.”
“I was unconscious when I was brought in. I haven’t the least idea who they were. Can’t you ask around for me?”
“I can. But I’m sure they’re all dead from a couple of days ago.” With that he was gone and Victor Stalbo—for that was the name he had managed to assume a few weeks before—was left wondering about the little girl who commanded an important place in his memory for a reason that had yet to return to him.
Before he was called Stalbo, he had once been Yuri Sikorski, a senior sergeant in the Red Army by virtue of his ability to survive. His major attribute, and his saving grace, was intelligence. Sikorski kept himself alive by letting the other men cross the minefields, by remaining somewhat to the rear manning the company radio, and in some battles—he later admitted to himself—by pure luck. There wasn’t a soul in his company who’d survived by the time the Nazis effected the Kursk Salient.
It was during the spring lull, while Hitler allowed his generals to retrench, that Yuri Sikorski was captured during a scouting mission behind German lines. Actually, he wasn’t captured in the true sense; he let himself be caught. When his patrol came under fire, three of the men had been killed instantly. With only two of them survivors, Sikorski had made the decision he considered most logical—he shot the other man in the back of the head and surrendered.
Sikorski was so proficient in the German language that his captors offered him the opportunity to join the Vlasov Division as an officer. He was quite positive by that time that the German Army was superior to the Red Army and he welcomed the opportunity. The option to become part of a force led by generals who probed minefields with machinery, rather than infantry, appealed to his common sense. The fact that most Russian troops, whether Red Army or partisan, relished the chance to torture turncoats remained a minor factor, for Sikorski hoped to avoid the front lines as much as possible—just as he had on the other side. But the Germans failed to tell them about the SS who forced the Vlasov Division to the front and were quite willing to shoot any man in the back who showed signs of retreating.
The solution to such a problem was to volunteer as an interrogator of Russian prisoners. His cruelty to his fellow countrymen impressed the Nazis—but word of it leaked back to the Soviets and he learned there was a price on his head. Sikorski pondered his next decision as the German generals delayed their attack on Kursk. There seemed little advantage to remaining with the Germans once he understood that the SS considered the Vlasov Division as so much cannon fodder. And there was no longer any advantage to remaining Yuri Sikorski if Marshal Zhukov continued to push the Nazis back toward Europe.
The SS did a poor job of keeping track of Soviet prisoners once they were turned over for interrogation. More often than not, especially when it became evident that a prisoner offered little of value, the interrogators were allowed to dispose of them. Sikorski often made a few extra marks by selling them to the SS for target practice.
But there was one day near the end of June, when he knew it was only a matter of days before the Kursk offensive, that it became time to make his move. He had been given a senior lieutenant from the Red Army to question. This officer, Victor Stalbo, came from the same region as he did; his accent was similar, he was the same height and build, his family had died in a bombing raid, and as far as Sikorski could determine, his entire company had been wiped out. Like himself, this man was the only survivor of his unit.
Sikorski went in a decidedly different direction with Stalbo. He became a friend, he offered food and drink rather than the torture which all Russians assumed was standard fare, and he explained how well he personally had done since joining the Vlasov Division. His scheme was acted out so well that it took little time to convince Stalbo that he should trade in his Red Army uniform for that of the Wehrmacht; he would maintain the same rank. And when Stalbo agreed and handed over his lieutenant’s uniform, he was rewarded with a bullet in the back of the head. Sikorski now possessed the uniform that would save his neck again. And there was no longer a survivor from Stalbo’s company!
A few days later, orders came for Sikorski’s unit to move to the front with an armored division. Stalbo’s uniform and papers were safely tucked in his pack.
A tank, with a squad of men huddled close behind, broke through the brush and plunged into a stream with a great splash before moving up the opposite slope into a farm yard. Once they were certain the place was deserted, they radioed to others, and soon the area was crowded with tanks and soldiers resting before the final push to the front. Two SS officers remained on the perimeter of the group, ready to shepherd these troops forward.
Lieutenant Sikorski regarded the SS with hatred. Combining that with a healthy fear, he managed to avoid them whenever possible. He knew this was going to be a tough one. The Russian uniform seemed like lead in his pack whenever the SS approached, yet there was no reason for anyone to suspect. Just the same, he was waiting for his opportunity. He didn’t know when it would come, but he’d know when the time was ripe. He moved back into the barn. It would make good sense to get his sergeant on his side.
“Lt. Sikorski …”
“Quickly, Vassily. It’s getting light.”
“Lieutenant, if we are captured …”
This was his opening. It would be easy to convince the sergeant. “We won’t be, or at least I won’t be.”
“I understand that, sir. But, if there is a chance it could happen …”
Now to set the hook. “You have been faithful to me the past month, Vassily, so I will tell you exactly what I plan to do if there is any possibility. I am going to grab the uniform of a dead Red Army officer, and then I am going to throw myself into the deepest hole in the ground I can find. And when Rokossovsky’s men overrun that position, they are going to find me unconscious but a survivor.”
“You don’t think … you don’t think that they will suspect you were in the Vlasov Division?”
“There won’t be any survivors, Vassily. I can assure you there won’t be a soul left alive who could identify me. And, as you have been so faithful to me since we accepted the Germans’ offer, you may be sure I will never say a word about you—if you are willing to follow.” Now would he be so stupid that—?
“But there have to be some survivors.”
“There will be none from our group! None!” He looked around nervously to see if the SS had heard that foolish outburst. Then, more quietly, he added, “I can assure you we can’t allow that. I’ll need your help there.”
“You mean you would kill them?”
“Vassily, to save my own neck I would make sure you didn’t survive. Now you have a choice. If it appears that General Rokossovsky is going to take our position, and I have no doubt the SS will be making sure there is no retreat, you know what I am going to do. If you will help me, then I will insure that Vassily Glukov becomes a Russian patriot some day. Maybe they will even build a statue to you in your village.” He was interrupted by one of the SS officers who ordered them to fall in. The roar of tank engines drowned out further conversation.
They were ordered to a point just south of a railhead near the village of Ponyri. Their regiment was to hold that section of the Orel-Kursk railroad. General Model considered it imperative that they maintain a line of communications between the two cities. It wouldn’t matter so much that the tracks were destroyed as long as the line could be held to rebuild them at a later date.
Lieutenant Sikorski was sure by early that morning that he might never have an opportunity to don the Russian uniform. Never before had they encountered such artillery. The Soviets blackened the skies with planes that bombed and strafed them whenever they weren’t calling in fire on the massed German tanks. Rolling barrages swept across the armor to the infantry as if every big gun in Russia had been concentrated on this particular front. A streambed provided minimal coverage from shelling as they moved forward, and Sikorski preferred to wade in the muddy water rather than remain too close to the tanks.
Rounding a bend in the stream, Sikorski could see that an open valley lay ahead of them. Beyond, more than a mile away, the land rose gently to north and south. His binoculars revealed Russian tanks dug into the hillside up to their turrets, and he was willing to bet that artillery on the reverse slopes had pinpointed every single inch of this valley.
Three companies to his left advanced into the open behind dozens of Tiger tanks. Sikorski studied their progress, positive that this little valley was probably sewn with more mines than his men could count in a day. Sappers moved out ahead supported by a murderous fire intended to suppress the Russian guns. They were allowed to advance to a certain point before another rolling barrage swept through them. Sikorski could see the sympathetic explosions as the falling shells detonated a number of mines. And at the same time, more bombs rained down from the skies as the tanks found themselves in the open and unable to advance.
Well-concealed spotters coached the artillery on the reverse slope onto the columns. Often a tank simply disappeared from view in the dirt and smoke created by innumerable shells. And each time the wind blew the cloud to one side, Sikorski saw only a smoldering carcass of steel. While a tank could not be made to vanish entirely, there was never a trace of the troops who had been huddling so close to the monster for protection. No need for a burial detail later!
The sound was deafening. There was no sensation of battle as he remembered it in the past—no scream of the wounded rose to his ears, no clamor of infantry racing across the battlefield toward the enemy. Instead, ton upon ton of steel was hurled back and forth every second, creating a wall through which no human being could pass.
As he crouched in a shell hole peering through his binoculars, he felt a body tumble in beside him. Vassily’s mouth was instantly at his ear. “You are crazy if you try to get through that,” the man bellowed over the din. “No one can survive out there for more than a few minutes—” He was cut off by the whistle of a nearby shell, followed by an ear-shattering blast. Clots of dirt rained down on them.
Sikorski nodded. Rather than speak, he motioned off to the left where the SS officers huddled. They weren’t about to let anyone retreat. His only advantage, Sikorski could see, was the fact that artillery was indiscriminate—the shells did not select the men they ripped apart. The SS was as good a target as any. If he survived longer than they did, then he might have a chance.
He rolled over and shouted to Vassily, “Maybe you could call in some fire on them.” He again jerked his finger toward the SS. “Just one reasonably well-aimed shot—just one—and maybe we both have a chance to save our necks.”
“Maybe I should just crawl over there and shoot them.”
“I thought about that too. But maybe you’d get one and the other one would get you. Or perhaps someone else sees you do it and they survive to identify you.” He shook his head. “Wait a while longer. They have as good a chance of getting hit as we do.”
“But we’ll probably be moving forward shortly.” Vassily could see that a few of the Tigers had gained ground, enough to blast some of the entrenched Russian tanks out of the earth. The Luftwaffe was bombing, saturating the guns on the reverse slope with a grim determination. Nazi tenacity against Russian numbers—it was a clash of wills, a contest of stubbornness developed over the centuries. Both sides would fight as long as a man was left standing—neither expected the other to give up.
The Luftwaffe eventually softened the artillery to the point that the tanks were able to survive their passage through the cleared minefield lanes. They advanced up the gentle slopes through murderous fire. The survivors rooted the Russian tanks from the earth, and they were followed by infantry who raced down those same lanes even though artillery further to the rear began to lob shells with uncanny accuracy.
Sikorski’s men received orders to advance. As they moved ahead, the SS stuck grimly to their rear, urging them ahead with the silent promise that they might survive the attack but had no chance of surviving the wrath of the SS if they failed to move forward.
Eight tanks ground into position just ahead of them. Sikorski wasn’t sure whether he should take the chance of staying close to one of the tanks or should avoid an obvious target. A rolling barrage answered his question. Not more than a hundred yards away, he saw an entire company that had moved away from the protection of their tanks seemingly disappear as falling shells saturated their location.
He beckoned Vassily closer, indicating that he should trot with him behind the tank. There was no reason to do anything other than try to survive until there was an enemy to shoot at.
Halfway up one of the hills, a shell burst directly in front of their tank, ripping away one of the treads. Instinctively, they dove under its rear as a pattern of shells fell around them.
When quiet momentarily settled, Sikorski peered out to see how many men he had lost. Heads peeked out from ditches and shell holes as the concentration of fire rolled onto a platoon to their right. Sikorski counted almost a dozen helmets that could be identified. But he didn’t see the SS men who had been right behind them.
“Stay here,” he indicated to his sergeant. He ran back among his survivors inquiring after the SS, until one pointed off to the side. The SS did not appear so powerful now—Sikorski was always amazed by how pathetic even the enemy looked in death. “We have our chance,” he said aloud to himself. “For once, we can make our own decisions.”
The gun on the damaged tank startled him as it opened fire. All armored commanders were under orders to remain with their vehicles as long as they could still shoot. That normally meant that they would eventually die in them, for a crippled tank was an inviting target. Creeping back to Vassily’s side, Sikorski peered through his binoculars to see what they were shooting at.
Nothing was visible at first through the clouds of dust and smoke hugging the battlefield. Then he saw movement all along the ridge to his left.
The Red Army was attacking, the infantry pouring over the top without the protection of armor. It seemed foolish for riflemen to be charging tanks until he looked farther to his left. Soviet T-34s were coming in on their flank. It made sense. They didn’t have the armor of the German Tigers, but they were faster and equally as dangerous if they could get close to their targets. So Zhukov had found a new way to sacrifice troops! Send them directly at the Germans with anti-tank weapons while the armor enveloped them. It just might work—and Sikorski had no desire to find out.
“Ease back, Vassily,” he shouted above the chaos around them. “Make sure all of the men follow, and put anyone who is badly injured out of his misery. No need to leave them to be tortured.” Sikorski had no intention of a single man under his command being left to identify him.
The Soviet attack created exactly the confusion he anticipated. There were wheeling tanks, there were troops charging, retreating, dying by the thousands on both sides, and there were diving, exploding planes creating absolute chaos. As the situation developed in the following minutes, the fury of the Russian attack was forcing the German elements around them to regroup. It was difficult enough to tell friend from enemy, much less notice a small group of soldiers slowly retreating. Certainly no one would fault them for being ahead of the rest.
As they came to the rise leading to the single dirt road through the village of Ponyri, Sikorski began to worry. In retreat his men were becoming hysterical rabble. Some threw away their guns and ran for what they considered the safety of Ponyri.
That would never do. If there were SS in the village, they’d shoot his men like dogs—but they would save their leader for something much crueler. Nor could he let them keep going beyond the village. If just one of them got away, Sikorski could find his plans in tatters.
Vassily instinctively shouted for some form of order as the first of the men bolted into the leveled village. Sikorski fired into the air. A few of them slowed, peering over their shoulders, cursing what they thought must be the enemy—or even worse, the SS. But it didn’t stop their headlong charge.
Sikorski brought the rifle to his shoulder and aimed carefully, squeezing off a series of shots. The lead man tumbled face-down in the mud. Then, without dropping the weapon from his eye, he screamed, “Cowards … cowards …”
A few slowed, unsure from where the shooting had originated. Some had lost their helmets. But there was little reasoning with terrified men unless—a second crumbled in a heap in the middle of the street. “You will all die with a bullet in the back,” Sikorski screamed at the top of his lungs. Then a third, ahead of the rest, was hit. He tumbled grotesquely down the middle of the road, kicking and shrieking until he came to rest in a puddle near the gutted tank.
That last death had the desired effect. Still unsure who was shooting at them, the remainder of them dove for cover, some groveling in the rubble, others scrambling on hands and knees behind the tank.
Sikorski advanced to the middle of the road, his rifle at the ready. “You miserable cowards you …” His words ran together as a stream of obscenities flowed from his mouth. “Do you want the SS to catch you running like dogs?”
