There Will Be War Volume VIII, page 18
“Major Grishin would seem to be very brave,” he told Steinmann in an offhanded tone, “to take over pursuit of well-armed renegade Combat Engineers.”
Steinmann caught his eye. “Grishin is a fool,” the big East German said simply. “I am well rid of him.’’ He put the map down and left the van.
Captain Martin Wrenn, United States Naval Intelligence, tightened the sling securing his wounded left hand. With his American uniform, Wrenn could hardly move about with the work details repairing the train or trading with the people of Suschenko, but he had promised Rostov that, wounded hand notwithstanding, he would shortly go very crazy with nothing to do.
Wrenn wandered into a passenger car and saw Sergeant Zorin approaching from the far end, a coat draped over his arm.
“Sergeant Zorin; good to see you.”
“Captain. Wrenn. I thought you might want to cover your uniform with this.” Zorin held out a Russian-issue greatcoat. “There are several civilians around the train, and you never know who might be watching.”
Is there any eventuality you don’t anticipate, Sergeant? Wrenn knew that the Red Army simply did not have noncoms like Zorin. At least they didn’t when the war started. Still, there was no reason they couldn’t have learned to keep men like him where they did the most good. Wrenn was sure Rostov blessed his luck for the man every day he woke up alive.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” With one arm in a sling, Wrenn was glad to let the stocky noncom help him on with the heavy coat. It was late summer in Russia, the day was chilly, and most of the train was open to the air, but presently Wrenn understood why the Russians had never phased out greatcoats from their military dress codes.
A warmer and far less conspicuous Wrenn followed Zorin out onto the platform. Wrenn and Zorin took the air, looking up to see thin clouds threading in from the northeast.
“Christus,” Zorin muttered, “more snow.”
“Still, winter’s coming slowly this year,” Wrenn said, not adding his worry that it might not come slowly enough.
“I suppose even God has second thoughts sometimes, eh, sir?”
Wrenn nodded, then wondered what Zorin meant by that. Jesus, I really am getting paranoid.
“Or maybe we’ve just been lucky,” Zorin said in a lighter tone. “How much luckier do you think we’ll have to be, Kapitan?”
Wrenn almost laughed. “We got out of Moscow alive, Sergeant Zorin. Let’s take one miracle at a time.”
Stepping down onto the platform, the two men passed down the line of cars, frequently sidestepping to get through the activity surrounding the train.
Amid the frantic activity of repair, the Combat Engineers were trading surplus items that Rostov had judged could be spared to share with the people of Suschenko. Surgeon Blaustein had been pleased to find large stocks of vitamins and nutritional supplements in one of the boxcars, and he was presently trading some to the townspeople for additional antibiotics and medical supplies. He looked up and waved as he caught sight of Zorin and Wrenn.
“This bartering is interesting,’” Wrenn said after a moment.
Zorin nodded. “I would not have expected Aleksei to loot these people, but he could just as easily invoke supply requirements, take what bare necessities we require, and we could be on our way.”
“That might make Fedorin and his Rail Security Forces suspicious. They might then decide to report our visit.”
Zorin nodded. “Perhaps. Besides, I don’t particularly think we are doing a great deal more of it than is strictly necessary.”
Wrenn looked around them at the civilians. Their faces were still lined with hunger and care, but most were smiling now, probably for the first time in weeks. Those soldiers not engaged in work details were helping in whatever ways they could, and the townspeople were responding in kind.
Already, flour donated from the train’s stocks was returning to the soldiers as pastries and fresh bread. Sometimes it was even delivered by someone’s daughters, or a young widow, and despite the fact that the girls were always heavily chaperoned by stern-faced babushki, the effect on morale was considerable.
“No, Sergeant Zorin, I don’t think so, either.”
Rostov himself arrived then, his arm about the shoulders of an old woman with him. They recognized her as the grandmother who had greeted Rostov when they first arrived. Rostov kissed the babushka’s cheek and returned her parting wave as he approached Zorin and Wrenn.
“You should see Grandmother’s helper; beautiful kid, six, maybe seven years old.” Rostov half grinned, shaking his head. Zorin read some emotion on his Lieutenant’s face, but even he could not tell what it might be. He wondered if Rostov knew himself.
“How are you, Captain Wrenn?” Rostov asked.
“Not as well as you, evidently, Lieutenant.” It was true; despite fatigue and overwork, Rostov seemed rejuvenated. “Just trying to make myself useful.” Wrenn gestured with his wounded hand by way of apology.
“Not to worry, Captain, we shouldn’t be very much longer. Oh, you might want to see Surgeon Blaustein about that hand; he’s got some more medical supplies from the stores here—what a rail supply depot was doing with medical supplies, don’t ask me, I’m just grateful to get them—anyway, he might want to change the treatment for your hand.”
“I will, Lieutenant. Thank you.”
Rostov nodded, a little embarrassed by his rush of words. “Very well. I’ve got to check with Colonel Fedorin about the stocks of uncontaminated fuel he has here. They have more than we need, but we’ll treat all of it with Immunizer. That will get these people through the winter; maybe even give them something to barter in the future.” He saluted Zorin, then Wrenn. “Carry on.”
Rostov spun on his heel to go, and suddenly stopped. He turned back to look sheepishly at Wrenn. “Uh… sir. I mean–”
Wrenn tossed a brisk salute and deadpanned: “Aye aye, skipper.”
Rostov grinned self-consciously and left.
“We’ve got to get him promoted,” Wrenn said.
“Beg pardon, Captain Wrenn?”
“Hm? Oh, just a thought, Sergeant. It’s going to be a while yet before we get to the Alliance lines. Any one of us could get killed on the way. Your unit needs a more dispersed command structure to absorb any losses that might occur among the officers and noncoms—which right now means you and Rostov. Even if we make it in one piece, it wouldn’t hurt your position to get to the West with a few more chiefs and a few less Indians.”
“Sir?”
Wrenn smiled. “Sorry. Poor choice of idiom.” He took Sergeant Zorin’s arm and steered him toward the crowd. “Let’s pay a call on Comrade Surgeon Blaustein.”
Captain Drachev drew an “x” on his map with two savage strokes. He handed the map to Piotr and left the communications wagon without a word.
I’ve gotten sloppy, that’s the problem. Drachev cursed himself as he stalked through the town square in the ruins of Viluk. I’d forgotten just how much damage one stupid bastard of a political officer can do. He thought of a joke from his days at Frunze that had been as popular as it was forbidden: What’s the most dangerous thing we will ever face in combat, Comrades?
“A Commissar with a map,” Drachev answered under his breath.
Like Bodii and Yemadzoy before it, Viluk had appeared deserted, and his new “aide,” Major Grishin, had insisted they move in before it was properly reconnoitered.
Drachev didn’t trust himself to look at the covered bodies of his men. So much for appearances, Drachev thought bitterly. Forgive me, Comrades.
Ten men dead was bad enough; Drachev had become close with all his troops in the months he’d been in command. But if the loss of his men saddened him, the waste of two of his tanks enraged him. He reached the chief mechanic’s tent and sought him out for the status of the other vehicles.
“We have had a little luck there, Captain. The bandits dropped those demolition charges right on the engine grates of Eight and Three, so that’s the bottom of the bowl for them. But for once our production committees did something right. These light tanks are almost all modular in design, makes them very easy to cannibalize for parts. I saved enough pieces from the two hulks to repair all the light damage to the rest of the vehicles.” The chief mechanic watched Drachev’s impassive features. “Sorry, sir, that’s the best I could do.”
“No need to apologize, Lieutenant. It does put a little brighter face on the whole mess.” Too bad you can’t repair men like that, he’d been thinking, turning at last to look at the blanketed forms outside. We could start by carving up that fool, Grishin. Drachev’s gaze continued on to the other side of the square, where Grishin was interrogating their sole captive.
“Carry on, Lieutenant.” Drachev crossed the square, idly reaching down to open the flap of his holster, and flick the safety on his sidearm to “off.”
Major Grishin did not look happy. The man before him had single-handedly destroyed two tanks as smoothly as in the training films. That was bad enough, but the ensuing confusion had allowed his comrades to escape. Grishin had taken a leg wound during the ambush, and Drachev guessed it had opened again, as the bandage on his calf was a bright red. It did nothing to improve the KGB man’s disposition, and he was eager to take it out on their prisoner.
You brave son of a bitch, Drachev thought as he looked at the captured bandit. I’ve seen a dozen men die trying to do what you did; I’ve killed dozens more of the enemy who tried it on me. You mastered that piece of work in the Red Army, no doubt about it. “Major Grishin. What do you have for me?”
Grishin’s leg wound had to hurt; Drachev had dressed it himself and it looked bad. Not bad enough, he’d thought at the time. But the KGB man’s voice was calm, almost reflective.
“Nothing. They are Ukrainian bandits. They saw our force and hid in the town, hoping we would bypass them. When they realized we were coming in, they set up the ambush.”
“We’re not ‘bandits,’ you KGB prick,” the prisoner said quietly. “We are partisans.”
Grishin jabbed the man in the ribs with the barrel of his rifle, but Drachev ignored the comment. “Sounds reasonable enough. Do you believe him?”
Grishin gave him a look. “I am prepared to believe anything that expedites shipping him to the slave camps.”
“Does he know anything about a train, Major?” Drachev hoped an ironic tone might remind Grishin of their original mission.
“No, Captain Drachev. These thugs routinely raid–”
“Patrol,” the prisoner interrupted, and this time Grishin sent him tumbling with a rifle butt to the face.
“As I said,” Grishin continued as if nothing had happened. “They routinely raid these border areas, but they haven’t seen any rail activity in months.”
Drachev looked at the bloody face of the prisoner as the man struggled back up to a sitting position. Sure of his fate, the partisan watched him with an absolute lack of interest.
“Send this fellow to the camps,” Drachev said as he walked around the prisoner. He then drew his Makarov and shot the man behind the ear too quickly for Grishin to do anything about it. The body pitched face forward into the dust.
Grishin went livid, his composure at last shattered. “Drachev! That man was to be an example; once broken in the camps he could even be sent back here as an intelligence asset.”
“Major Grishin, you cost me two tanks and sixteen men! Because of you, we have suffered more casualties in one ambush than in our last four engagements. Combined! I don’t have men or vehicles to spare to hold prisoners, and certainly not to transport them anywhere.”
Drachev’s knuckles were white around the grip of the still-smoking sidearm in his hand, and twice he saw Grishin’s eyes flash to the weapon. He prayed the KGB man would give him an excuse to use it as he pressed his attack.
“We are only a few dozens of kilometers from the Free Ukrainian Republic; we have been operating along its borders for six days, and it is only by heroic good fortune that we have not encountered their patrols in strength.” Drachev lowered his voice, hoping Grishin would respond to a reasonable tone.
“Major Grishin, there is only one town left on the Revenant list, and we cannot get there before nightfall, so we’ll have to leave tomorrow morning. Unless you call off this nonsense and let us get back to our usual patrols.”
“You have your orders, Captain Drachev.”
Drachev refused to back down. “Very well. Then, as I am required to report our progress to Revenant, I will do so in great detail, and let him decide if we need to subject ourselves to another day of this pokazuka.”
Drachev turned his back on Grishin and headed for the communications truck. He had intended to have the prisoner executed anyway, but he had no intention of seeing a fellow soldier sent to those camps.
The fact that it aggravated the hell out of Grishin was simply a bonus.
Surgeon Josiv Blaustein was a curiosity. Like many of the men in the unit, he had been rescued from the KGB by Podgorny, who had often traded weapons or fuel for skilled men who might otherwise be executed or imprisoned. As a Jew, Blaustein was a de facto enemy of the State since the Israeli Incident of the War’s first year, but Podgorny had needed a doctor for his men far more than he’d needed another commendation for loyalty from the KGB.
As the oldest man in the unit after Podgorny, he had the respect of the men. More important, as a Captain in name only, he had their trust, and was valued by them for his counsel.
At such times, Blaustein would run his palm over his forehead and down the back of his neck, a habit the men took as a universal trait of the very wise. Actually, since he’d starting losing his hair, Blaustein’s pate had developed the same fascination for him as a broken tooth.
Wrenn and Zorin had sequestered themselves with Blaustein in the command car, and now watched him stroking his scalp as he pondered the issue they’d brought before him.
“I believe your point is well taken, Captain Wrenn.”
Blaustein was short, with an athletic build that belied his age and made Wrenn think of a gymnast. The image was enhanced by the surgeon’s balancing of his chair on its two back legs as he spoke, frowning at the floor before continuing.
“Colonel Podgorny had often spoken to Rostov about promotion, but the Lieutenant wasn’t much interested in that sort of thing after Kiev.” He shared a look with Zorin, who nodded.
“A week before we met you.” Blaustein continued, “we lost Captain Mescheryakov, Lieutenant Gontar, and Lieutenant Gavrilov, all in the same bandit attack. That’s when Podgorny told me that he was going to give Rostov a field promotion, and the lad’s reluctance be damned. Despite the reduction of the regiment to barely more than a company, the strain was beginning to tell on Podgorny.”
Wrenn thought a moment. “Do you think this Fedorin would oblige us?”
Zorin nodded. “I would bet on it, sir. Colonel Fedorin seems to think we all walk on water and piss wine. I think you will have difficulty with Lieutenant Rostov, however. I have fought beside Aleksei for four years. He was never a climber, but since he lost his wife, he has had no interest in rank, despite the fact that command comes to him easily.”
“That’s why I believe we need to have Fedorin approach him,” Wrenn said, “with no hint that we are behind the idea. But how do we get Fedorin to do it and not tell Rostov that it’s coming from within his own unit?”
Blaustein looked up. “Oh, that’s easy enough,” he said in an offhanded manner.
For a moment Wrenn was pleased, then he saw the way Blaustein was looking at him.
For the first time in months, Colonel Fedorin was actually happy. Although his first duty was to the Soviet Rail Security Forces, he had spent many months here in Suschenko; the people had been good to him and his men, feeding and caring for them long after supplies had stopped coming in. He was part of this community now, and it was good to be able to help his neighbors.
Fedorin leaned back in his chair in the station house and went over the list of items before him. He had been able to acquire food, good Army-issue blankets, a few weapons to defend themselves, and hunt some game. And it was all possible because of these Combat Engineers and their stolen train.
He looked over his shoulder in guilty reflex at his thoughts. Of course, it was obvious that the train was stolen; you could tell from the looks on the faces of Rostov and Zorin and their men, if nothing else. But what really gave them away was the glaring lack of any KGB presence.
Fedorin scowled at the thought. Those arrogant bastards with the green shoulder boards were everywhere now, drafting any young man who could carry a rifle, dissolving regular Army units and incorporating them into KGB ad hoc forces. “PRGs,” they were calling them. Pfah!
The KGB didn’t trust the Army, never had. It was too independent; they would certainly never allow an entire train full of Army Combat Engineers to move about unescorted.
Fedorin had dealt with enough of those bastards in the last few months, and didn’t care if he never saw another one again. Four of them had come ripping through Suschenko just six weeks ago, shooting the place up and throwing their weight about.
There was a new reality to get used to, they had told him, when they took two girls away from their families, all the while laughing at the foolish old reservists in their ill-fitting Rail Security uniforms.
As far as Fedorin was concerned, it was the same old reality as always. But those KGB soldiers had been introduced to a new reality, all right. Crossing himself absently, Fedorin wondered what the four chekisti, lying together in a shallow unmarked grave outside of town, thought of the afterlife they’d purchased with the rape and beating of those girls. Probably not the sort of thing classes in Marxist-Leninism prepared them for.
But that was the past, and as he took a deep breath and looked out on the Combat Engineers loading barrels of diesel into a boxcar, he wished them luck wherever they were going. In a way, he even hoped that they might run into a KGB patrol or two. He smiled at the thought; small ones, of course. Easy kills.
