Upfall

Yatom halted the column 100 meters from the nearest of the large two manors and dismounted with Nir and Rafi. The commandos their clipped on their NVGs, but hoarding the last battery juice for the devices, didn't activate the goggles. A little light spilled from a window in the larger of the two manors, which was also the furthest away. The light was clearly electric. Yatom led the team to a roadside ditch and flipped on his NVG for a quick look around. Just off the road, about twenty meters from the first house was a poorly sandbagged guard post, manned by two slumbering soldiers, sitting on wooden chairs. Keeping to the ditch the Israelis crept closer, until they came opposite the guards. Rafi raised his Tavor and sighted in on the men, when Yatom stopped him.

"Wait" whispered Yatom. "They don't look like Germans."

"Ukranians then" said Rafi, eager to shoot. "No." It was Shapira, who had pressed up to Yatom's position. The spilled light from the nearby building allowed a few more details to emerge from the murk.

"They look like Russians" said Shapira. "Russian clothes, and look at the weapons." Across the laps of the sleeping men was the archetypal Russian submachinegun of World War II, with a wooden stock, ventilated barrel and most notable, big drum magazine—PPSh-41s.

Yatom carefully examined the sleeping guards. He was in no position to engage in a scholarly debate over the equipment. The sayeret leader decided quickly. "Nir with me" said Yatom. He turned to Shapira and Rafi. "Cover us."

The pair of commandos bounded across the street. They came upon the groggy Russians who tried to stand, only to be knocked down by rifle butts. The Russians struggled to their knees, but Yatom and Nir kicked and punched them back to unconsciousness. The commandos crouched next to the crumpled guards as shouts and footsteps sounded from the two big houses just down the road. Across the way Shapira and Rafi raised their Tavors to the sounds and watched a half dozen armed men tumble out of the larger house. Lights came on in the nearer house, illuminating the street. A large man in a Russian uniform shouted toward the fallen guard post.

Nobody in the sayeret spoke Russian so far as Yatom knew—not even Feldhandler. Perhaps Perchenshky, but she was well back in the trucks. Yatom tried German.

"Halt” he yelled. "Wer sind Sie?"

”Wer sind Sie?” shouted the Russian in return, who stopped with his men in the middle of the road.

Yatom took a chance. "Sprechen Sie English?”

The big Russian laughed. "Yes. I speak English" he said with a thick accent. "Are you English?"

"Yes" lied Yatom. "Who are you?"

The Russian stepped forward into a splash of light from the first house. He was a giant, dressed differently from the other soldiers, wearing an unbuttoned but outlandishly bemedaled officer's tunic over a filthy undershirt, baggy brown pants and old fashioned riding boots.

"My name is Marshal Samsonov of the Soviet Russian army. This is my headquarters. You are trespassing—English."

"You're partisans?" asked Yatom.

"If you wish" answered Samsonov. "I command Soviet forces in this sector."

"This sector is behind German lines."

"You don't see any Germans here do you. We like to keep them out" laughed the Russian.

While Yatom talked to the Russian Mofaz led several other commandos down the road on foot. Yatom noticed the movement and stepped carefully toward the Russian with his arms out in a friendly gesture. Samsonov kept his eyes on Yatom.

"We are English commandos on a mission" said Yatom. "We need petrol and other resupply. Can you help us?"

"You are far from home. You attacked my men" said the Russian with a surprised look. He gestured broadly at the unconscious guards.

"I work with the English sometimes. Why wasn't I informed of your mission?"

"I am sorry about your men. They are not dead."

"Oh, don't worry about them" said Samsonov dismissively. "They deserve worse."

"How do you work with the English?" asked Yatom carefully.

"It is I that should be asking you the questions, no?"

"I've told you what I can. Our mission is secret" said Yatom simply, hoping this would suffice with the big Russian. Samsonov was a man who preferred talk to listening, and he did not press the issue. Instead, Samsonov waived to a soldier standing behind him. A young man in a weather-beaten Soviet uniform stepped forward carrying a machinegun. The weapon had a large banana shaped magazine sprouting from the top. Yatom vaguely recognized the gun from old newreel films, but he was neither a historian nor a World War II weapons expert.

Samsonov pointed to the weapon as proof of his British contacts, and looked hard at Yatom. Uncharacteristically, Yatom dropped his head and shuffled his feet, uncertain what to say. Shapira, still hiding by the side of the road, saw Yatom‘s distress. He also recognized the gun. It was a Bren light machinegun, a common British weapon. Russian appeared to be telling the truth. Taking a chance, Shapira carefully stepped out of the shadows.