Russian Front (13)
This would work out. He was nearly at the trees, although his legs were starting to feel heavy. What seemed like dozens of soldiers, British Tommies with their soup-plate helmets, began to walk out of the trees with their rifles and bayonets pointed at him. They hadn’t surrounded the house; they had sealed off the entire village, coming in over the hills. He threw down his pistol and raised his hands as high as he could, his breath rasping in his throat. He could feel blood trickling down his wrists. ‘Don’t shoot!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t shoot me!’ Slowly, the soldiers formed a semi-circle around him. Chapter Ten ACROSS THE STYX Dante’s inferno, thought Hugh, as he looked over the water at the tortured city. He and Sergei and Tania were on a small sidewheel tugboat, crossing the Volga at midnight with agonizing slowness. They were in the wheelhouse with the captain, and were relatively comfortable. The barge being towed behind them was crammed with reinforcements, hundreds of young soldiers and not a few women, obviously recent conscripts with brand-new weapons but precious little other equipment. It was below freezing and in the occasional glare from a star shell you could see how bewildered the soldiers were. Leaning against the passenger rails all around the deck were what Sergei called Politrook, NKVD men like himself; there to deal with deserters. Some of them had their hands on their pistols, others were reading from the works of Marx and Lenin, still others were going among the fresh troops, handing out mail. It was all designed to distract the green troops from the sights and sounds around them: the shells from German artillery bursting in the water and covering them with perishingly cold spray, the tracer bullets and fiery orange explosions illuminating the ruins before them on the far bank, the sinister gray humps of sludgy ice that were beginning to choke the Volga as true winter set in. The steamer edged toward the dock on the city side. The noise and destruction were less intense here, under the high banks of the river, where the German artillery could not range. They waited for the troops to be led off, probably straight into battle. A runner from the city garrison identified Tania with an adoring look and saluted Sergei. There was a short exchange and they were off at a fast trot towards Chuikov’s bunker which Hugh learned was adjacent to, of all things, a brewery. There seemed to be fighting all around them, but after a while Hugh identified most of the noise as coming from the West. Sometimes almost crawling, they threaded their way through a maze of ruins, rubble and the usual detritus of war, including unburied corpses, until they entered the mouth of a cave protected by a ring of sentries and machine-gun nests. Through a signals room they came to a map room where three senior officers were bent over maps on a table, smoking cigarettes. All of the rooms were protected from giving away light by thick blankets, and the stench of unwashed bodies, smoke from the small and inefficient oil heater, together with a fug of rough tobacco almost made Hugh retch. The three of them were ushered past the operations room, deep into the bunker, to a small room off a side corridor. The door to this was another blanket, and inside they found two folding beds. Hugh and Sergei were to sleep here. They were given a meal of American Spam, which Hugh had tasted but didn’t much care for; preferring British corned beef. Although, as he reflected, bully beef wasn’t really British since it came from South America. There was also thin cabbage soup and very rough, gritty bread. All washed down with milkless, sugarless tea. Hugh took off his mask to eat. Fortunately they were also given their vodka ration, which turned out to be a much more throat-scraping concoction than his two previous experiences. The room was airless and stuffy, but also cold. The kerosene stoves were obviously not in plentiful supply. Tania had been called away to be personally briefed by Chuikov, the Commander of the Stalingrad garrison. Occasionally the room would tremble as an artillery shell exploded nearby. An orderly took the remains of their meal. Hugh yawned. They had traveled on a succession of American transport aircraft almost continuously from Moscow. The woolen mask he had been forced to wear had become greasy and almost intolerable. He was shattered and he just wanted to stretch out on the camp bed, which, at this moment, looked almost inviting. But he had to know what was in store for them tomorrow. ‘So. What’s the plan? I take it-‘ At that moment the curtain was pulled back and in came Tania followed a few moments later by a bald-headed, jolly-faced officer. Hugh didn’t know whether to cover his face or not – he had taken off his mask to eat. The man reminded Hugh of Sasha. He stuck his hand out to Hugh and boomed: ‘Kruschev!’ For all Hugh knew this could have been ‘hello’ in Russian. He stood up and shook the man’s hand. Sergei had sprang to his feet almost before Kruschev was in the room. He began to speak rapidly to Kruschev in Russian, several times gesturing towards Hugh. The newcomer listened to Sergei’s enthusiastic rhetoric for a while, looking at Hugh occasionally, and then, while Sergei was still in full flow Kruschev turned his attention to Tania. He moved to her and put his arms around her with what looked like avuncular affection then held her face while he kissed her juicily full on the lips. Then he brought her head to his shoulders as if comforting a child – which looked odd since she was at least his height – and rocked backwards and forwards, murmuring what sounded like condolences to Hugh. Sergei had given up on his report. Kruschev, still holding Tania, looked at Sergei and asked a few questions. Satisfied with the replies he gently let go of Tania, clapped Hugh on the shoulder, and left. Sergei and Tania visibly relaxed, she looking even more melancholic than ever. ‘Who was that?’ asked Hugh. ‘That was Commissar Nikita Kruschev. He’s the most powerful man on the Stalingrad front. The Generals can change the sentries outside their headquarters without his approval, but that’s about all they would dare to do without checking with him first.’ Hugh had heard about this. Stalin was perpetually afraid of the Army and its power, and had appointed politically loyal Commissars to approve every decision each army commander made. Military training did not feature in the job description of a Commissar; slavish devotion to Stalin was everything. Tania spoke. ‘Tomorrow, Hugh, we go to work. There is an exit from this bunker that has been reserved for our personal use. It is to the left of the door – it leads to a cellar in a ruined building.’ She gave him a slight smile. ‘You will be pleased to know that you can throw your mask away, or, better still, make it into mittens. Word has been put about that you, Yuri that is,’ Hugh noticed that she had to brace herself to say the name, ‘are recovering from your wound here in the headquarters bunker. I will bandage your neck tomorrow morning before we go out. It is also well known that you are unable to speak until your vocal cords have healed. Good night.’ She left. Sergei sat down on his bunk, ignoring Hugh. Hugh lay on the bed and almost immediately fell asleep. He dreamed of the desert, but for some reason his parents were there. * * * * * Sally was shaking him. The desert night was cold, that was normal at night, but why was the air so stuffy? ‘You! It’s dawn. Time to go to work. You!’ He opened his eyes and there was Tania, shaking him awake. She still couldn’t pronounce his name. It didn’t matter, he had a headache. That vodka was evil stuff, although the ration was small. Or perhaps it was the air in here, he thought, as he swung his legs off the bed, mainly to show Tania that he was awake and that she didn’t need to keep shaking him. He looked around. Sergei was up and gone. Tania placed a tin plate of bread and a mug of milkless coffee on Hugh’s bed. She sat on the other bed with a bandage and some pins. She was dressed in a soldier’s battledress, with an overcoat and a fur-lined cap. She watched as he chewed the bread, washed it down with coffee, and put on his battledress. She tied the bandage all around his neck up to the chin so that it would stick our fairly prominently above the collars of his tunic and overcoat. They took their weapons – both were carrying Mosin-Nagants, spare ammunition and water. They also stuffed some bread in their pockets, Hugh silently giving thanks that the uniforms were not second-hand. The idea of lice eating his lunch was not a pleasant one. The way out to the battlefield made him think of the exit from Badger’s home in the Wild Wood. At first they traveled down a stone corridor, which became a short tunnel through which they had to go bent double, then he could see light appearing through gaps in floorboards above his head. Finally they appeared in the cellar of a ruined house. There was a sound of gunfire, but it seemed distant and muffled. They climbed through the shattered ceiling of the cellar and emerged from the house cautiously into what had once been a broad avenue. Hugh could see now that it was a foggy, dank morning. He shivered involuntarily for a moment. Tania gave that disparaging curl of the lip that he was beginning to know so well. Not that he cared. Shivering is a natural response, as he well knew, and good for cold muscles. ‘When winter comes properly, then it will be better for us,’ she said. ‘It takes the damp out of the air and you will feel warmer. We Russians like our winters cold. But you have to be careful for frostbite. I will teach you about that.’ I don’t intend to be here when winter comes properly, thought Hugh. He felt as homesick in this moment as he had ever felt in the desert, but he knew it would pass. What he needed was activity to distract him. ‘So, what’s the plan?’ he asked briskly, but keeping his voice down. Tania smiled without condescension at his resolve. They were kneeling down in cover, close to each other. He looks sad, she thought. Like a little boy, far from home. He made her feel older. For a second they were searching each other’s eyes. The moment passed without self-consciousness. ‘From now on until we return to your room at the bunker you must not speak unless you know we are alone. Even if you are shot, try to die like a Russian. Up there,’ she pointed carefully over her shoulder, without raising her hand above cover, ‘is Red Square. That is front line. We will tour just behind the lines, Northeast, then back to headquarters bunker. The plan,’ she leaned closer to him, ‘the plan is that you are scratching yourself to get back into the battle-‘ ‘Itching. Itching to get back into battle.’ ‘Yes, very good. Correct my English. Itching to get back to the front to kill some more fascists, break the sticks.’ Genuine hatred appeared on her face when she said this. ‘I will lead you but pretend to follow. I will tell anyone who asks that we are scouting for positions to kill the enemy.’ They moved out. For the next few but exhausting hours they scuttled over dead ground behind machine-gun nests, climbed walls, slithered down heaps of rubble, and crawled through cellars. Hugh hardly saw any soldiers until he was almost upon them. Their camouflage technique was excellent. He had expected to be recognized like a film star – he vaguely wondered how he would cope with being asked for his autograph – but it didn’t happen like that. The fact was that many of the city’s defenders who had known Yuri were themselves dead or wounded. This didn’t matter, since Yuri’s name and deeds were legendary. The morale of troops they encountered seemed generally high but, travelling just behind the front line as they were, Hugh noticed a considerable number of Politrook who seemed to have nothing to do except, he guessed, wait to shoot any deserters that appeared. Some of the troops were very raw, obviously ill trained and press-ganged. Something about their wide-eyed peasant faces made him wonder if they even knew the name of the city they were defending. Others were seasoned, determined and competent. He was recognized as Yuri by only one or two, who gave him broad grins and nods. One clapped him on the back and muttered something approving which, fortunately, did not seem to demand a reply. But he could guess that they would pass the precious word around: ‘Yuri’s back!’ They found themselves at midday beside a knocked-out German tank. A wind from the North had blown away the fog and the sun had appeared, but it was still cold. The tank was a Mark IV, he had seen plenty in the desert, particularly after the push from El Alamein. He looked around to be sure that Tania and he were alone and risked a few whispered words in English, suggesting that they climb into the tank through the side hatch on the turret to eat their bread and drink some water out of the wind. She refused vehemently. The very idea of entering or even touching anything German seemed to offend her. In a moment of insight Hugh saw the scale of the insult the Germans had committed when they invaded Russia. It occurred to him that patriotic passion was perhaps the strongest card the Russians held. Perhaps those stories of battalions of unarmed Russian infantry walking arm-in-arm towards the German machine guns had been true. Back at the bunker, Hugh slept during the late afternoon. Sergei had not returned, evidently he was away on NKVD business, presumably to do with propaganda. Hugh had impressed Tania sufficiently during the day’s patrolling to be allowed to join a night reconnaissance. After nightfall they blackened their faces and prepared to move out to something she called Pavlov’s House. ‘Who’s this Pavlov?’ he asked, ‘a Hero of the Revolution? A tractor driver who helped his collective farm to exceed its grain quota by four hundred per cent?’ ‘Oh, you are funny. Famous British sense of humor. Just like Churchill who sent troops to crush the revolution in 1920. A most witty gesture.’ That shut him up, partly because he had no idea whether it was true or not. He also perceived that it would be pointless to debate the rights and wrongs of British foreign policy with someone who had grown up under Communism. ‘I was only teasing you. Who is Pavlov?’ ‘Pavlov is an ordinary soldier. He may well have been a tractor driver before the war. He is in charge of a house on the front line that he has turned into a stronghold, a fortress. The house is on a corner and commands a good view of the battlefield. The Germans have tried again and again to take the house.’ Tania slung her rifle over her shoulder. ‘Our casualties have been terrible, but theirs have been worse. The streets around the house are littered with rotting fascists. Pavlov and his men were cut off for several days, they ran out of food and water but they fought on. Last night a tunnel was dug which reached one of the cellars of the house. We don’t think the Fascists know about this. Tonight we will go with the men who are reinforcing Pavlov. Then we shall see what we shall see.’ The relief force gathered in what looked as if it had once been a smart town house near the city center. There were about twenty of them, including some other snipers, Hugh was alarmed to notice, but Tania quickly took charge of the situation, putting her arm on Hugh’s shoulder and, he guessed, explaining that he was unable to speak. The others looked at him as this was done. How to behave and react as Yuri? He had never met the man, after all. The nearest he had come to any kind of acting was a bit of Bedside Manner at medical school in Bristol. Tania talked on for what seemed like minutes and they were all looking at him. Then it struck Hugh that Yuri had been a professional, and professionals only show themselves through their work. All he had to do was behave like a hunter-scout who knew his business. He shifted gently away from Tania’s arm. Hunters are solitary and don’t like being touched. He moved to where his back was against solid wall but with a clear view of doors and windows, and kept his eyes on these rather than Tania’s audience. Tania finished the briefing and they filed quietly out of the house, almost immediately freezing stock still as a star-shell burst high over their heads, illuminating the rubbly street like day. Once it was dark the whole group continued their quiet, careful progress. Hugh guessed that they had all seen plenty of action, for which he was grateful. His assignment to impersonate Yuri had already turned out to be rather more uncomfortable and even dangerous than he had bargained for. The last thing he need was to be mixed up with a rabble of noisy, mortar-magnet raw recruits. The tunnel into Pavlov’s House – Tania had used the phrase Dom Pavlov in the briefing – was very narrow, obviously dug in great haste and shored up by only a very few boards, wood being so scarce and needed for fuel. They emerged one by one from the tunnel into what had once been a fairly grand drawing room, lit now by a few candles. There were machine guns on tripods and anti-tank guns at all the windows. Firing slits had been punched in the walls. There were stacks of grenades and spare ammunition at each firing station. There was also a lot of blood on the walls, which were pockmarked with bullet holes and splinters. Pavlov himself was soon surrounded with reinforcements hugging and kissing him on both cheeks. It was impossible not to be moved by the warmth and broad smiles with which Hugh and Tania were greeted. Evidently this group of tenacious warriors had not been made aware of ‘Yuri’s’ mute condition and started to ask him questions. Tania said a few words and led him away up stairs to the observation post at the top of the building. From this point on Hugh wasn’t sure what Tania’s plan was, but he simply stuck close to her. Since it was still night, except for the occasional star shell, there was nothing to do except get some more rest. He dozed and when he awoke it was a fine, slightly misty winter’s dawn, perishing cold on the top floor with a gentle but icy breeze blowing through the shattered windows. He looked up and could see the sky through neat holes in the ceiling and roof on either side of the building that looked as if they had been made by armor-piercing rounds. He and Tania were the only two snipers up here. There was also a group of three artillery spotters with a radio. A soldier brought up hot soup and bread in a metal container strapped to his back. Evidently he had come through the tunnel, as Pavlov’s House had no cooking facilities. Hugh, who had been leaning during the night against what he now discovered was a wooden trunk, crawled with his rifle over to where Tania was looking intently towards the West. The room was very large and, by whispering very carefully, she was able to speak to him in English. The artillery-spotting group was on the other side of the room, intent on their binoculars, maps and radio. ‘Today we wait, lie here,’ she said. ‘Tonight – look.’ He took his binoculars carefully out of their case and pointed them in the direction of her gloved finger. He could see what he guessed she was talking about. A railway line threaded away due North, directly away from them out of the large square which Pavlov’s house dominated. ‘See the hut? The workmen’s hut?’ He nodded without taking his eyes away from the view through his field glasses. ‘As the dawn came up I thought a saw a flash of light on a wire. I think it was dew on a telephone line. Headquarters have put out a general request for more prisoners to interrogate, particularly engineers. I have a plan to get a prisoner. We shall go tonight. A German-speaking intelligence officer is coming with me.’ Tania explained her plan in detail so that she would not have to talk to him in front of the intelligence officer. During the day, as the chilly sun tracked over the square in front of them, he made his first kill in Russia. Most of the time there was very little action, but about three o’clock in the afternoon all hell broke loose as the Germans made another determined, head-on attempt to take Dom Pavlov. Three tanks with infantry on their backs appeared at top speed, careering down Stolichnaya Street, and skidded to a halt right in front of the House. At point blank range they began to fire their cannon into the first and second floors of the house. The shock troops waited behind the safety of the tanks. From where he and Tania were on the top floor they could just see a few arms, legs and helmets. Tania took a snap shot, but didn’t seem to hit anything. Hugh took the leather stoppers off the telescopic sight of his rifle. Shooting downwards is always difficult, but he aimed down in the general direction of the tanks, the machine guns of which were blazing away at the house, but were too close to be able to elevate or depress their fire power. Looking through the scope, he tried to see if he could put a shot through the driver’s vision slit, but the angle was impossible. Then he tracked over to the soldiers behind the tanks. They were in an agitated state – as well they might be, having been ordered to take a strongpoint head on – and were moving around. But there was an elbow that seemed to stay still for a few seconds. He sighted and squeezed the trigger. There was a splash of red against the dust on the hull of the tank and a Feldwebel appeared for a moment, holding his arm in startled agony. For a split second it appeared that the German soldier was looking directly at him through the ‘scope before Hugh shot him in the face. Hugh moved away from the window, pulling Tania with him, away from the inevitable retribution. Rifle and machine pistol fire smacked into the wood of the window frame, but by the time it arrived they were safe within the structure of the building. A few moments later he took a small mirror out of his pocket and cautiously poked it over the windowsill to see what was happening. He was just in time to see the wobbling image of one of the tanks starting to burn. Evidently the anti-tank guns on the ground floor were effective. The infantry behind the damaged tank started to retreat in reasonably good order. A hatch on the top of the tank opened and the tank commander in a black uniform tried to escape, but he was killed before he could get his shoulders out. Three Germans with a light machine gun ran to a corner of a doorway in a building on the West side of the railway tracks and gave expert covering fire, the barrel of the gun resting on the back of one soldier, who had his fingers in his ears. But the troops behind the middle tank may have been replacements, or misread the situation, because some of them panicked and started to run. Hugh could see one of them throw away his rifle - a court-martial offence in any army. The troops behind the third tank saw one tank destroyed and some infantry running away. Hugh could almost hear the NCOs thinking, ‘We can’t be expected to take this place on our own!’ They did the sensible thing and withdrew in good order, supporting each other with covering fire. He kept looking at the small battle through the hand mirror – the fire supporting the retreat was skillfully searching all the visible windows of the building, preventing him from risking another shot – when the commanders of the two remaining tanks decided to call it a day and rumbled in reverse back towards the German lines, exhausts puffing black smoke.
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