Opening Moves

Without a single word of complaint, his men set about the task. Chekov swelled with pride and walked amongst the men as they professionally went about their soldierly craft.

As Iska wandered around handing out grenades, Chekov strolled to the edge of the village and lit up a Sobranie. The rich Turkish tobacco made him feel extremely light-headed and he leant against the old wreck of a steam tractor that had rusted badly and become engulfed in grass and creepers.

From his comfortable position, he could see the Rapunzel tower and now some of the rest of the castle burning fiercely.

He took out his binoculars, only to find that they too had been damaged during the battle, fragments of one glass lens falling out, tinkling onto the ground where he stood.

Chekov suddenly felt so tired and hoped that the men would soon complete their task, although he knew only too well that he would remain awake for the first sentry turn to show example to his men.

A sound developed more and more in his subconscious until it was identified as aero engines.

Scanning in the direction of the growing roar, he spotted a flight of Shturmoviks heading north-west and flying almost directly over his head.

He craned his head, following the flight.

‘Off to cause the Amerikanisti more grief,’ he mused, too tired to really care.

His gaze lowered the further the aircraft flew on, Just as he was about to look away he spotted the movement, brief, vague, but none the less very real.

Gently but purposefully stretching, apparently unconcerned, he strolled back round the building and to where his men were finishing up their cleaning and rearming.

He needed to ask for one final effort from them, and quickly brought them to order.

Serzhant Iska would take a cover group of the two DP machine guns and six of the best riflemen into the building that was to be their billet.

As Chekov had walked back from the abandoned tractor, he decided Iska’s building’s field of fire would be good enough if the movement was what he thought.

A cover force of six men under a steady Yefreytor was set to watch the right flank of Iska’s group.

He, with the remaining eighteen men, would move west to the riverbank and then move northwards in its cover.

Now that action seemed likely, Chekov’s lack of a suitable weapon needed addressing. He had sixteen rounds left for the Garand and decided to discard it.

Iska went to one unloaded crate and fished out two weapons. The first was an SVT-40 automatic rifle, showing signs of similar damage as that which had rendered his PPSH useless at the bridge. The other was a pristine Mosin-Nagant sniper’s rifle. Whilst Chekov loved shooting, his head won over his heart and he took the SVT, along with a bag of magazines retrieved by an engineer at Iska’s direction.

The sniper’s rifle went with Iska’s unit and was quickly given to the unit’s best shot.

Chekov moved his men out and, using the cover of buildings and undergrowth, reached the river.

It was agreed that if Iska saw enemies on the loose then the lorries horn would be used, three times to confirm and then once for every five or so men seen.

It was simple but should prove effective thought the Serzhant, who stifled a laugh as he realised the rifle protruding from the window he was looking out of was in the hands of the elderly truck driver.

“Make sure you point that in the right direction granddad. You know which way that is don’t you?”

The old man looked at the NCO with something approaching disdain and hawked deeply, spitting the product out of the window and nearly reaching the derelict beyond.

“Have no fear; I have had cause to use one before Comrade Serzhant.”

Iska laughed softly.

“Such as where and when old man? I’m keen to know the metal of the man I fight next to.”

“I joined the Army in 1928 and became a rifleman in the 87th Rifle Division.”

Iska, speaking the truth but intent on mischief, probed further.

“Never heard of them. What did they do? Convoy duty on the Caspian Sea?”

“Bit of this, bit of that Comrade. Finland for the Winter War and of course Kiev. That’s all the 87th did really.”

Enjoying his baiting, Iska searched for more dismissive lines.

“That’s not a lot. Why didn’t you do anything impressive and brave then?”

“Because they changed our unit designation and the 87th was no more Comrade Serzhant.”

“Oh you were disbanded then?”

“No Comrade Serzhant. Just renamed.”

Part of Iska’s mind sounded warning bells but they were overridden by his attempts to wind up the old man. From the grins on the faces of his riflemen, he was providing glorious entertainment for them, grinning to a man as they were.

“Oh really? What was that to? 1st Guards Kitchen Division Comrade?”

With all the skill of a striking snake, the old man put Iska in his place.

“Close enough Comrade Serzhant. 13th Guards Rifle Division. You may have heard of them.”

There was not a man in the Red Army who hadn’t heard of the 13th Guards, mainly for their heroics at Stalingrad.