Casca 42: Barbarossa, page 21
They threw down a hasty meal and then were sent to a stretch of foxholes in front of their few remaining panzers. Night had fallen by then and a whispered order to stand by came along, passed on from hole to hole. Langer had appropriated a large entrenchment and all of his crew were with him along with three other men, all footsoldiers, armed to the teeth.
Langer placed his spare clips before him and checked them. Then he put them in his pouches where he could get hold of them quickly. His pistol was checked and slid back into its holster, then his bayonet was pulled up, and slid back. Clean, fast and without a catch, as it should be.
He had two grenades, too, and then looked each way to make sure his men were similarly prepared. A sergeant came sliding in from the rear, the smell of his sweat announcing his arrival before he spoke. “There’s going to be a huge explosion in a moment or so, and don’t be scared. It’s a trick, a signal for Ivan to attack. We’re making it look like everyone’s been killed and our equipment destroyed. Lie still until the order comes to shoot, then shoot and shoot, got it?”
“Sarge,” the men chorused.
Langer nodded. “What’s out there facing us?”
“As far as we know, it’s the 47th Army. Mostly soldiers but a few tanks. They’re not worth a shit though. They’ve got more men than we have and more ammo. Keep shooting, got it?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll do just that.”
They waited after he went, all busy with their own thoughts, and Langer didn’t know what each was thinking. For his part his mind went back to Subedei, that Mongol general he’d known all those centuries back, a rogue, overweight hard-bitten genius. He’d been quite prepared to resort to intrigue, Langer recalled, during the time he’d been in possession with the Khanate Stone. Two factions had tried to get hold of it and Subedei had sent in his own spy to cause trouble.
Langer bore him no ill-feeling, though. Everything had turned out for the best and he’d even got away with a beautiful girl and a close friend, and they’d enjoyed a few years of adventure elsewhere.
Another whispered word came along to be ready, so they all lowered themselves to the bottom of the hole and braced themselves. Langer idly wondered what they were using to fool the Russians – fuel and ammo were in short supply so it would be foolhardy to use that as bait.
The explosion shook the ground and a huge ball of fire erupted high into the night sky, lighting everything up for hundreds of yards. Flames billowed up and a roar filled the senses. Langer clamped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. It was like being caught in an artillery barrage!
Then the detritus struck the ground all round and there was only the crackling of flames and the dancing shadows cast by them. Langer eyed his companions and they one by one nodded that they were fine. He raised the barrel of his MP40 and indicated the others to do the same.
They all tensed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Highlit by the crackling flames from the explosions, a wall of men came towards the seemingly wrecked German positions, cradling guns. They came in groups, not a solid wall, one man here, then three there, perhaps six in another place, all separated by small gaps. Langer gently brushed a smoldering ember from his jacket to the ground. Some pieces were still gently dropping to the earth. He nodded to his group and they tensed, waiting for the word.
“Feuer!” came a shrill command from behind them.
The Germans rose to the edges of their foxholes and opened up with everything they had. Langer had a vision of shocked faces illuminated in orange and red. The flames showed them up all too perfectly. Langer’s MP40 spat bullets out in an arc as he weaved the barrel from side to side, mowing down a line of Soviets. He could even see the impact of the bullets on their bodies, sending them twisting and jerking, falling to the ground. Guns blasted out all along the line of entrenchments, and even the panzers opened up with their machine-guns, adding their lethal contributions to the massacre.
The front of the Russian advance seemed to melt as it was scythed down. Langer’s gun clicked empty and he yanked the clip free, throwing it away behind him. He fumbled for the replacement, quickly checking it was the right way round before ramming it up into the gaping hole on the underside of the weapon.
It fitted with a satisfying click and he jerked the cocking lever back and peered along the line of attacking Russians, running at them now the initial surprise had passed. Some were shooting back, blasting away with their rifles and automatics. Two men in particular were leading a group of attackers straight for Langer’s trench. The scarred eternal mercenary sent a three second burst at them, sending both men staggering and then falling to the ground.
More Russians came past, shooting desperately. A panzer machine-gun sprayed the air, the bullets passing three feet over the Germans’ heads, cutting the Russians down. It was a slaughter. Cries of pain came to the right and Langer turned to see one of the foxholes overrun. The defenders’ guns had ceased shooting, possibly due to a jam or running out of ammo. “Gus – to me!” he snapped, swinging his gun barrel round.
The feeling of Gus’ large frame close behind came to him and he scuttled to the far side of the entrenchment. Two Russians turned to shoot down the line of dugouts but Langer got them first. Both toppled backwards, their chests ripped open by multiple impacts. Gus bounded past, a shovel somehow in his hands, roaring at the surviving Russians. The first one to encounter Gus got the edge of the spade in his throat and he went down, spitting blood, Gus all over him in a rage.
Langer saw another Russian closing on the giant from behind so he yanked out his bayonet and sprang at him, not wishing to risk shooting Gus by accident. The blade slid in under ribs and up. The Soviet soldier gasped and stiffened, then slid to the earth. Another came at him, swearing huge retribution. The man’s rifle was empty, having shot all his bullets out in the attack.
The bayonet on the end of the rifle made it almost like a pike from times long gone, and Langer easily morphed into a soldier of the fifteenth century. He waited for the thrust, then dodged aside, taking hold of the end of the rifle and pulled it hard. The Russian fell forward, straight onto the blade in Langer’s other hand.
The Russian’s eyes bulged and he emitted a curious half-gasp, half-gurgle before sliding to the ground. Langer hauled his bayonet out and looked left and right.
Gus was bludgeoning back an opponent while a wounded Russian was picking up a fallen rifle, ready to shoot Gus down. Langer moved. His strike sank into the Soviet’s stomach and he forgot about the rifle, falling to his knees and bending over into a fetal position.
“Carl, behind you!” Felix yelled from the left.
Langer swung round, his blade sweeping round in an arc. An enemy, close to him, bent backwards violently, the tip of Langer’s bayonet narrowly missing him. “Whoreson!” he spat.
Langer spread his hands wide, bayonet in the right, the fingers in his left splayed. His legs bent, planted wide. The Russian, a big man with close-cropped blond hair and a rugged face, smiled widely, revealing tobacco-strained teeth. “Now you die!”
“Try it, Comrade,” Langer said evenly, watching the man. He was aware Gus was finished killing his opponent and was looking to see if Langer needed help, but it seemed it wasn’t necessary.
“Try a fight unarmed, Fascist!” the Russian snarled. He was unarmed, having dropped his empty PPSh after mowing down a line of Germans. “Or are you too frightened?”
“As you say,” Langer said, throwing the blade to one side, landing near Gus who bent to pick it up and looked on in curiosity. “Give it your best shot.”
“If I win you let me go,” the Soviet soldier said. The attack had been smashed, Russian losses had been numerous, and the survivors had fled into the darkness. The easy attack they had been promised by their officers and commissars had been nothing of the sort.
“Agreed,” Langer nodded. He looked at Gus. “Let this toad go if he defeats me.”
“Pah! I’ll pin his cock to the nearest panzer,” Gus said, spitting on the ground.
“That’s an order, Gus, I’ve agreed to it.”
Gus grunted, then sat down, folding his arms. “Then hurry up with this; I’m hungry.”
Langer smiled briefly, then turned to his opponent. “They will comply if you defeat me. Now do your worst.”
The Russian yelled and sprang at Langer, arms wide, hoping to crush the fascist in a bear hug. Only when his arms closed there was naught there but thin air. A sharp pain in his ribs told him he’d fucked up. The German’s punch had hurt. He swung, his teeth bared. A wild swing went for the scarred man’s head. Another miss.
Langer’s mind emptied. This hulk of a man was totally untrained in hand to hand. He clearly had hoped to batter Langer through sheer power. He sent in his right fist against the Russian’s chest and his left swept away the intended counter towards his head.
The Russian grimaced. He had been hit many times in his life but never with the force this fascist was striking him with. He was also a wraith; every time a blow was sent against him, why, he merely vanished and reappeared a foot or so to one side. How could one fight someone – or something – that belonged to the spirit world? Desperation replaced determination and he lunged again, hoping to trap his opponent in a hug and pin him to the ground where he could bludgeon him to death.
Langer spun, his right hand angling up into the jaw of the Russian, snapping his head back violently. The blow ruined the timing of the attack. Even though their bodies clashed, Langer was in control. He pulled down his opponent’s right arm with his left hand and turned the Russian over his hip. It was over in seconds. The Russian lay on his back, dazed, while Langer stood over him, a curiously sad expression on his face.
“Finish me, do not torture me looking down on me!”
Langer shook his head and extended his hand to the surprised man. “Get up. I’m no murderer, and neither are my friends here.”
The Russian slowly reached up, expecting some kind of trick, looking over the faces of the Germans ringing him, but none made any move towards their guns. The scarred one’s grip was as hard as his punches, and he was up on his feet in a moment. “Are you not going to shoot me?”
“Nazis might, but none of us are Nazis,” Langer said. “Go – you are free to return to your own people. As I said I’m no murderer. I’d kill you quickly enough if you had a gun or weapon in your hand, but there’s no honor in killing an unarmed man.”
The Russian scratched his head. This was not what the commissars had taught him. “But – the murder squads…”
Langer shrugged. “Not us. We’re soldiers. Go – tell your commissars you were knocked over and escaped before you were taken prisoner. They won’t question it.”
“Thank you – German.”
“No problem – Russian.”
The Soviet soldier grinned, waved briefly, then went to the lip of the entrenchment. He took one last look at the men grouped there, then slipped over, crouching, and ran hard for the darkness. A shout went up from behind but Langer stood up on the lip so as to get in the way of anyone trying to shoot the running man, and he was joined by the rest one by one.
A furious sergeant came running to the rear of the hole. “You stupid swine! You let that Russian get away!”
“Sorry,” Langer said, “but we were out of ammunition.”
“That’s shit,” the sergeant growled, his men flanking him. “You, Sergeant, you shall answer a charge for this!”
“Oh that wouldn’t be a good idea, Sergeant,” Gus said loudly. “After all, your gun is not discharged yet ours are all hot through killing nasty communists, and as you know that’s good for easing tension. You’re clearly over-tense for not killing enough commies. I tell you what, I’ll help you out of your predicament; let me escort you to their lines and you can then kill as many of them as possible. I’m sure they’ll keep a count and present it to General von Kleist.”
The others doubled up and even some of the sergeant’s men tried unsuccessfully to suppress grins.
“Are you fucking insane?” the sergeant demanded, eyes bulging.
“Yes, completely,” Gus grinned. “I love it; it takes away any worries I might have in having no home to go to once we sweep Stalin’s horde out of Russia, or whether my shoes fit comfortably, or why my left testicle is larger than my right.”
Steffan fell over clutching his stomach. The chorus of laughter rose up all round. The sergeant gritted his teeth and pointed at Langer. “You are a disgrace to the Wehrmacht! You have idiots and insubordinate scum as men. You’ll be in deep trouble once I’ve finished with you!”
“What’s the trouble here?” Captain Heidemann asked, walking up to the edge of the entrenchment.
Langer quickly appraised him of the situation. “So, sir, this man here wishes to level charges against us.”
Heidemann scowled and turned on the now stiffly standing sergeant. “Sergeant Lowisch, you have been with us for three weeks. Clearly you have not yet fitted into the unit properly. I suggest you report to my adjutant tomorrow morning with a request to join the pioneer battalion.”
Lowisch stammered in panic. The pioneers always went out ahead to clear minefields. It was a suicide posting. “Sir – I withdraw my accusations.”
“Good thing, Sergeant, or by tomorrow you may well be occupying a grave not far from here. Shut up and learn to be a good soldier like these men. They’ve been fighting since 1939, unlike yourself. Perhaps you could learn from these men, and if so, you may yet survive the war.”
Lowisch saluted and turned away. He marched off, outrage written all over his back. Heidemann sighed. “Alright you lot, you can step down. The attack has been stopped and they’ll think twice before trying anything like that again. Go get some sleep. Well done.”
Langer saluted. “Alright you scruffy specimens, you heard the Captain. Go to your units and get some sleep. We’ll be back at it again tomorrow. Well done.”
There were back at it the next day, but not from the ground; Soviet ground attack fighter bombers, the feared Sturmoviks, came in at dawn, unopposed, and subjected the German front lines to a half hour of machine-gunning and bombing. The few flak crews shot gamely up at the circling vultures and succeeded in bringing down two, but they were helpless to stop the rain of destruction being heaped on their comrades.
Heidemann slid over to Langer once the last of the planes had departed. “We’re out on a limb here and intelligence says that Ivan is making progress on our left flank. We’re pulling back ten miles. Hopefully we can pick up your panzer on the way back. Get your men ready to go.”
That began the retreat. Over the next three days they pulled back not only the ten miles planned, but also another fifteen. Finally they dug in and awaited reinforcements. Langer’s tank was salvaged and the crew thankfully piled in and drove back to the new front line, grateful they were not foot-slogging it with the hordes of gnats and flies that buzzed incessantly about their heads.
As autumn came the news arrived that any reinforcements were not being sent their way but were instead going to the battle raging at Stalingrad, way off to their north-east. Without the troops to push further south any hope that they could capture the oil fields that lay to the south evaporated.
They would have to wait until that battle was won. Or lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The air was chill but Isabella felt nothing of the cold; she was away from the oppressive world of Hitler and was in Malmo, Sweden. She had passed through the customs checks without a hitch and had spent a week or so in the safe house the resistance had sent her to, and she had used her time well. She had telephoned Switzerland, something she had never done before, and marvelled at the fact she could talk to her uncle so many miles away.
Her uncle had been delighted in hearing from her and knowing she was safe, but advised her it was safer to use letters from then on. He gave her a name and address of someone that one of the family knew in Sweden, a shipping company clerk who lived in the middle class district away from the docklands.
She had contacted this man, Mags Linderroth, and he had taken her in as a tenant for a month until new digs had been arranged. Linderroth didn’t want someone around his property who was on the run from the Nazis any longer than necessary, and Isabella decided it was better not to tell him that possibly the Reds and certainly the Brotherhood would also want to get their hands on her. It might give him an apoplectic fit.
Her new lodgings were in the working class area nearer the port facilities but still far enough away not to smell it unless the wind blew off the Baltic.
This day she had been contacted to meet someone in a café off the center where the town hall stood. It looked out onto the hall and the busy street that ran to the central area. She arrived, her hair now grown mostly back to what it had been before, and she had it tied behind her neck. A few males gave her admiring looks as she passed and she smiled demurely, wondering if they would think the same if they knew what she had been up to these past couple of years.
The café was dark and homely and she ordered a coffee, something that hadn’t been that easily available in her latter days in Germany; the allied blockade had been biting by then. There was a single man seated at the rear, his back to the wall, and he looked up from under his trilby hat and nodded briefly to her. She went walking over to him, her figure accentuated by the tight knee-length skirt and white blouse, open down to her cleavage. The man doffed his hat and waited till she sat opposite him.
“Welcome, Isabella,” he said softly, keeping his voice down.
“Hello, cousin August,” she said smiling, also in a low voice. “How is father?”
“He’s fine but was very worried about you; the news you had reached Sweden was received with much relief. I was sent here by your uncle with new instructions.”
“Oh?” Isabella looked faintly alarmed. Was she going to be sent back into the Reich?
