Opening Moves

Had he known of the events at Exen, Serov would not have been so calm.

“Ok then boys. He is yours. Silent and quick.”

Collins sidestepped to let the two survivors of 3rd Platoon do the job.

The older man walked up to Serov and launched his rifle butt straight into the Soviet officer’s mouth, smashing teeth and breaking his jaw, blood flying as the man’s head recoiled from the blow.

Still conscious, the Soviet commander fell to the ground.

The soldier carefully placed the butt of his rifle on the terrible wound and pushed hard, stifling any sound Serov was capable of.

Brennan and Collins watched dispassionately. It was not to the Geneva Convention but neither of them cared a damn.

The younger soldier slid his bayonet into Serov’s open flies and destroyed his penis and testicles in a rapid sawing motion.

The rifle butt pressed harder as a high-pitched squeal tried hard to escape.

Withdrawing the bloodied bayonet, the emotionless young soldier planted his left boot on the awful wound and pushed his weight down hard, steadying himself for a powerful lunge.

That lunge caught Serov in the upper chest and mercifully extinguished the pain instantly.

His corpse never felt the rain turn warm as his killers relieved themselves in a final act of vengeance.

It was Brown’s group that went in first, and the few shots fired were probably lost in the general hubbub of the battlefield.

Seventeen men and women had stood before the charge. Ten now faced the attackers, pawing at the sky in surrender.

Each was forced to their knees and, in turn, bayoneted to death. The two women were first to die and were quickly dispatched. However, after them each death became more creative as the killers tried to outdo each other.

Brennan, Brown, and Collins were stood together observing and the horror of it clearly broke through the red mist.

“What have we done?” asked Brennan, an appalled and pained look distorting his face.

“Jesus Buck, we’ve become animals.”

Collins said nothing but couldn’t disagree with Brown, especially as he could see the same thought processes going on in the minds of his soldiers. So much so that the last man on his knees was not executed, the horrified GI who had stood in judgement on him unclipping his bayonet and sliding the virgin blade into it’s scabbard very deliberately.

The old soldier from C Coy took his place and stove in the back of the last Russians head with an already bloody stock, but he did not delight in the killing and ensured the man died instantly.

The survivors felt cold and tired, their motivation and energy all consumed by the anger that had died at the same time as the Russian prisoners.

It seemed that only Collins wasn’t paralysed by it all. He walked into the middle of the disorganised group and started to rap out orders, waking them from their malaise and bringing them back into some semblance of a fighting unit. Brown shook the party out into new squads. Brennan, jolted from his own personal waking nightmare by a steady encouraging hand gripping his shoulder, was now accompanying the owner of that hand in a search for Finch.

Collins found the officer thirty yards from the Soviet position.

“Reckon he must have tripped and fallen during the run in, Major. Neck’s broke.”

Brennan thought for a few seconds.

“Get his body put in one of the dinghies and we will use it as a stretcher.”

Collins started his objection but was cut off short by a tried and stressed officer.

“I am not leaving him here, not,” and he pointed squarely at the line of murdered Soviet soldiers, “Not with that nearby. We owe him more than that Caesar.”

There was no more to be said, so Collins doubled away to organise the recovery of his officer.

Prudently, Brennan moved his group on swiftly, moving down the line of trees towards the river beyond.

0655 hrs Saturday 11th August 1945, Stammen, Germany.

Chekov actually had more men left than would fit in a lorry comfortably, but he still managed to shoehorn thirty-three men, himself and cargo into a space more readily used by twenty-four.

The battered lorry slowly carried him and the survivors away from Trendelburg and towards the promised peace and quiet of Stammen.

A working suspension had long since become a distant memory for the ancient weather beaten driver, but that didn’t stop him from hitting nearly every dip and pothole on the road back.

Even the cessation of the rain didn’t ease the pain of the journey, as potholes filled with water looked very much like puddles unless you looked closely. Chekov was convinced the old fool was blind in any case.

Finally, the lorry drew up outside a large undamaged building in North Stammen and the weary engineers dismounted and were chivvied into line by Iska. Under orders from his commander, Iska organised the removal of the boxes and crates from the back of the lorry and instructions were given to clean weapons and replenish ammunition.