Upfall

Mofaz reached Itzak just as the young commando let the pistol slip from his hand. Itzak lay on his back in the Polish dirt, a wine dark stain of blood soaking the ground about him. Mofaz threw his body on top of the dying soldier as a group of Russians standing at the gateway to the big house fired towards them. Mofaz deliberately killed one of the Russians at the gate, and drove the others to cover. He was about to fire again when he saw Shapira, Bolander and Roi charge into the Russians, shooting them apart in a hail of automatic fire.

Itzak died in those seconds he lay under Mofaz, strangely comforted. Mofaz tore open the Lieutenant's vest searching for an injury, but saw the gaping wound in the Itzak's leg and understood.

Yatom emerged from the house followed by Nir and looked about. Itzak had killed eight Russians hirnselfin the northem yard, and Mofaz, Shapira and Roi, several more. Another disorganized gaggle of Russians who attacked through the motor pool had been gunned down by Rafi, Chaim, and Roskovsky, shooting from the windows of the small house. The Russians had done almost everything wrong or amateurishly—but had they not been staggeringly drunk the sayeret still might have been in real trouble. As it was they'd lost a good man. Yatom ran to the gateway of the big house and there met Shapira.

Mofaz, soaked in Itzak's blood, joined them moments later. It was time to deal with Marshal Samsonov.

Samsonov and Zinoviev had tried to watch the battle from the upper windows of the big house, which looked over the smaller manor.

The two Russian officers had noted a lot of shooting and screaming, which was to be expected, but no other sign, one way or the other, as to whether the attack was successful. Kuba had offered to waive a pair of women's bloomers from the neighboring house to signal success. Quite a funny little idea frorn the raucous sergeant thought Samsonov.

But unbeknownst to the Marshal, Kuba was dead, killed by Itzak‘s grenade. The bloomers, thick though they were, didn't stop shrapnel.

"I think we should go" said Zinoviev abruptly. "Why?" grunted Samsonov. "You frighten too easily. How did you ever become an officer?"

"Samsonov—seriously—we should get out of here. The attack..." but Zinoviev couldn't finish. Even now he couldn't bring himself to challenge the hm sergeant. Several more minutes passed and the big house fell silent. One way or another the battle was over, he only question was who won. No bloomers waived from the smaller manor, thought Zinoviev glumly.

Then on the lower floors the two men heard shooting, the cries of several women and a terrifying, if muffled explosion. This was followed by more shouting, now from angry men in a bizarre language, not English at all. Samsonov was sure he heard the voice of Colonel Jones, in the strange tongue. The enemy soldiers continued to shout to each other as they clambered up the stairs, the clump of boots marking their progress, supplemented here and there by the crump of a grenade, or the burst of an automatic weapon. Samsonov and Zinoviev sat nervously at the big table. A loaded PPSh-41 lay between them. Zinoviev ignored it and reached for the last bottle of vodka, sucking down several huge gulps. Samsonov picked up the gun at the sound of clanking equipment and footsteps in the hall. The door to the room was wide open. Samsonov pointed the gun at the open threshold. A small odd looking grenade skittered across the floor.

Zinoviev closed his eyes and waited to die, hoping it would not be too painful. Samsonov pulled the trigger on the submachinegun spraying rounds at the door until the grenade exploded. The Russians were blinded by an effulgent flash and stunned by a hard concussive blast. Seconds later the ‘English’ commandos were on them, punching, kicking and clubbing, but not killing.

Marshal Samsonov came to in his undershorts with his hands bound in front of him. He was sitting in front of the wireless set. Zinoviev squatted beside him, similarly inconvenienced hut, thought Samsonov, the the lieutenant appeared happy just to be alive. ‘Colonel Jones' and the other English offirer stood nearby, along with several of their troops. Examining the commandos in the light of day, Samsonov thought that the soldiers didn't look very English at all, they looked swarthy— like Arabs or Turks. The muscular officer who had beaten his guards the night before walked over and grabbed Samsonov by the chin. It seemed that this man, and not Colonel Jones, was now in charge.

"You are going to do just as I say" said Yatom in English "and answer my questions. Do you understand?"

Samsonov considered playing dumb, maintaining that what had happened was a mistake, but realized that no matter what he said, Zinoviev would undermine him, if he hadn't already. Samsonov nodded.

"Good" said Yatom. "Do you work for the Germans?"

"Yes" said Samsonov "but I have no choice."