Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (22 page)

Nakhimov took a burning stave from the fire, bringing sufficient light for Makarenko to read the small text.

“Thank you, Comrade. Between le Bambois and Waldersbach.”

Testing the distance in his mind, he continued.

“I want us to be hidden away before first light in this area, southeast of Natzwiller. Clear, Starshy Serzhant?”

“As you order
, Comrade Mayor General.”

Neither man enjoyed the stiff formality
, but both understood its necessity in the circumstances, ensuring military discipline was maintained under the extreme pressures of their circumstances.

“Get some sleep
, Comrade. I will wake you at one.”

Makarenko got no
argument.

Looking through the sights, the target loomed large, the eyes betraying awareness and alertness, neither of which was going to save its life on this sodden morning in the forest.

A hand reached out and touched the rifleman on the shoulder, giving a moment’s pause.

The owner of the hand placed a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet, the finger then moving to point out the problem.

Other than the steady pitter-patter of rain, there was only the sound of spades at work
, and the grunting sounds of the men using them.

The huge Russian overseer had erected a shelter from
where he could watch his flock in relative comfort, prisoners who did not enjoy similar good fortune, being soaked to the skin as they toiled to dig the long holes.

The problem was the gu
ard on the top edge of the site. He had moved, a relocation that had taken him away from the nemesis in the undergrowth.

The nemesis moved after his prey.

Both men watched as their comrade gently slid through the dense greenery, his progress betrayed by a gentle twitch of a stem here and there.

The four guards were positioned on the peripheries of the work area, making an approach easy enough for those tasked with the silent killing.

The overseer’s shelter made a stealthy approach impossible, its position in the centre of the clearing ensuring that he would die last, at the hands of Schultz and Irma.

Satisfied that the killer was now back in prime location,
Müller gave a warble, imitating some bird, in a signal that brought instant action.

The four guards died as one, their lives
taken silently by whatever method their stealthy killers preferred.

The overseer, an NKVD Sergeant, was slow to act, his eyes seeing all
, but his brain failing to understand the death scene he observed as his corporal had his throat cut.

Grabbing at his PPD, he intended to shoot down the murderer, but Irma spat a single bullet, dropping him into the dry interior of his shelter, as dead as his men.

The prisoners stopped working, some conscious only of the single gunshot that had rent the air, others aware that silent killers had taken the life of every guard.

“Good kill
, I think, Feldwebel. Let’s go and calm the nerves of our new allies.”

Slapping Schultz on the shoulder,
Müller dropped gently from their firing position on a huge fallen tree, finding his balance quickly, and walking off with the balance and speed of a man who possessed both his legs.

Schultz, wiping his beloved rifle down with an oily rag, watched his friend and commander, easily spotting the indistinct signs in Müller’s gait.

The four killers moved out of the undergrowth, speaking in either English or French to the confused prisoners.

The Canadian prisoners were heartened to see men in their own uniforms
, bearing weapons, and carrying the fight to the enemy, although the presence of the man in command, clad in the uniform of a Captain of the German ‘Groβdeutschland’ Division, troubled more than one of them.

Müller moved to the shelter and took the item he coveted from the corpse, his professional side noting the entry wound in the left ear of the dead NKVD man. Picking up the PPD
, and stripping away the two spare magazines, he moved to where his senior Canadian was talking with a dishevelled RSM.

The RSM followed his compatriot
’s lead, saluting the German officer.

“Müller, Kommando Bucholz.”

He accompanied the words with his own salute, and followed them by proffering the Soviet sub-machine gun and magazines to the newly liberated RSM.

“Forbes, strip the dead, anything of use, distribute all weapons amongst the prisoners.”

Tasked, Corporal Forbes led his men away.

MacMichaels was checking over his new weapon, clearing it, checking the magazines, his professionalism not dulled by his captivity.

Removing a cigarette from the pack he had just looted, Müller gasped in the pungent smoke, coughing as it stimulated his throat.

“RSM MacMichaels, Seaforth Highlanders of Canada, as are most of my boys here,” the NCO indicating the silent men behind him, all waiting for some indication of what to do next.

The RSM’s attention was taken by the approach of Schultz, similarly clad to Müller, but sporting a Soviet snipers rifle and wearing the Knight’s Cross.

Having spent time with the small Canadian group they had stumbled upon after TostedtLand,
Müller better understood the humour of his new allies.

“This is the tea boy, Feldwebel Schultz.”

Deliberately ignoring the comment, Schultz too checked his handiwork in the shelter, his grunt indicating pleasure at the accuracy of his shot.

“Same in your army I suppose,” addressing his comments to a bemused MacMichaels as he strolled past, nose in the air
, ignoring the grinning Müller, “NCO’s do all the work, officers get all the glory and girls.”

Both men had profited from their time with the Canadian soldiers, their English much improved.

The RSM permitted himself a small smile, one that was not missed by either German.

“Now, I must ask that your men do some more digging for me,” he looked around quickly, making a swift judgement.

“Over there, if you please, nothing fancy, just enough for five to stay out of sight.”

The twenty-eight ex-prisoners quickly dug in the woods, creating a last resting place for the dead guards.

The final touches were made and it was difficult to believe that anything had been there, let alone dug holes and interred dead men.

“Attention men,” Müller called the group to order, “We must move away before you are missed. Complete silence now. One, maybe two hours march
, before we can rest up.”

Turning to his own men, he nodded at the Canadian corporal, who understood and took the point, moving off towards their most recent
base.

Their hiding place was just under a kilometre north of Stemmen, a modest woodsman’s hut, long since forgotten by its owner. It was not large enough to house the thirty-six men who now called it home, so small shelters sprung up quickly, providing a dry resting place for those wearied by their imprisonment.

The two men
Müller had left in camp distributed some of their food stocks to the new arrivals, but supplies were short, so empty bellies with tantalised with a morsel, rather than a meal.

Bordered on three sides by streams, there was no shortage of fresh water, and everyone drunk their fill of the cool reviving liquid.

Most of the new arrivals took advantage of the security and fell asleep.

RSM MacMichaels observed the two
Germans whilst drinking his third ‘can’ of water, careful not to cut himself on the rough edges of the tin that had once contained standard British bully beef.

The t
hree, another Canadian Corporal was involved, were deciding the following nights activities.

He moved closer, expecting a rebuff at any second.

Far from it, as Müller realised the NCO was nearby, and beckoned him forward.

“Apologies
, Sergeant-Maior, I had thought you would sleep.”

Accepting the apology for what it was, MacMichaels took the
proffered hand and found it firm.

“No problem
, Sir. Now that I am back in the war, I don’t want to miss out.”

Turning to the other
German, he nodded respectfully, understanding the requirements of the award that hung around the German NCO’s neck.

“Sergeant Schultz
, I believe?”

The two shook hands and
both found strength there.

“Welcome Sergeant-Mai
or MacMichaels. And don’t believe everything this one tells you,” he indicated Müller, “Whilst I will grant you that he is reasonably competent at what he does, he forgets who gets things done around here.”

Entering into the spirit of the exchange, the RSM challenged his counterpart.

“So you’re not the tea boy then? Shame, I needed a brew.”

That earned him a comradely slap on the back from Schultz.

“Corporal?” the word full of enquiry, aimed at the NCO wearing the Carlton and York uniform.

“Staunton, Lieutenant Staunton Sarnt-Major, A Company, Carleton and York’s.”

Confused, MacMichaels awaited further explanation.

“I was knocked out by a shell outside
Avensermoor. Came to wearing nothing but my pants and boots. This uniform belonged to my batman, poor fellow.”

“I see
, Sir,” which he patently did not, but held his peace.

“I will do something about it
, now you and your men are here.”

Both the
Germans had moved off to one side, seemingly fully occupied with arguing over how to smoke Russian cigarettes, so MacMichaels asked his question.

“What is happening here, Sir?”

Staunton deliberately misunderstood the question, and twisted the map towards the NCO.

“We are only a small group
, but we carry the fight, Sarnt-Major, we carry the fight.”

He tapped an area circled in charcoal, drawing the man into the plan.

“Now that we have your group, we have decided to go for a plum target. The airfield and supply centre at Lauenbrück.”

“So we continue to fight the bastards then? But under a Jerry officer”

“Yes we do, Sarnt-Major, under the command of Captain Müller, who, incidentally, is the most competent officer I have ever served with, bar none.”

His eyes challenged MacMichaels to comment further.

The RSM’s prejudices died under their unblinking scrutiny.

“I want back into the fight
, so that’s good enough for me, Sir.”

“Excellent
, Sarnt-Major. Now, we gave this place the once-over a week back, just in case we ever had the opportunity to do some work there. Here’s what we have.”

And as he sketched the layout of the
Soviet air base, Müller and Schultz drifted back into the impromptu briefing, aware that MacMichaels’ issues had been addressed and that there would be no problems.

Oberst Pömmering was furious, his wrath not confined to the lower ranks that strayed within range, but also heaped upon his closer officers, men who saw a new side to their quiet, laid back commander on this awful day.

Calling a meeting of his Regimental officer
s, the allotted hour had come and gone, and still Maior Gelben and Oberstleutnant Wilcke had not arrived.

Determined to get to the bottom of the sabotage, he waited for the two battalion commanders to put in an appearance, whilst hounding the Regimental Supply Officer, questioning him about the fire still raging in the ammunition compound.

He would wait long and hard for both missing officers.

Oberstleutnant Wilcke was dead, sho
t in the heart by his driver, the body and car dumped unceremoniously into the Rhine, leaving 2nd Battalion leaderless.

The communist soldier, a GRU operative slipped through the lines at the end of the war, walked steadily back to his unit, the story of their beloved commander
’s death at the hands of enemy aircraft already prepared in his mind.

Maior Gelben was actually at the regimental headquarters already, something that would give Pömmering the briefest moment of regret before he died.

Peter Gelben, or as he was known at school, Pjotr Gelben, was another agent who crossed over during the refugee influx into Western Europe.

Setting out his stall carefully, he rehearsed his actions, laying out his tools ready for the job
that he was about to undertake. The other two occupants of the room were beyond help. One, a glassy-eyed Gefreiter, whose shattered forehead was gently dripping blood over the radio set. The second, a Hauptfeldwebel and the important piece of stage dressing, the tunic pocket containing some incriminating letters, already tainted with the blood from his chest wounds.