The Bloody Road To Death (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

  ‘Careful, now,’ warns the Old Man. ‘Don’t hug the beggar to death!’

  Porta lifts his Tokarew and brings the butt down on the commissar’s neck.

  With a grunt the big man collapses. Quickly we tie his arms behind his back. A loop goes round his neck which will tighten at the slightest movement. Like a sack of potatoes the bound commissar is thrown into the back of the lorry.

  Tiny sits on him. Porta starts the truck, with a noise which makes the air tremble. A nearby rookery is awakened and protests harshly at the noise.

  ‘If we get out of this I’ll run to Mass every Sunday from now on,’ promises the Old Man, solemnly, wrapping his fists tightly around his Mpi.

  ‘’E is the right Commie, this time, isn’t ’e?’ asks Tiny, nervously. ‘There’s that many of ’em around ’ere it’s easy enough to make a mistake!’

  ‘Wrong ’un or right ’un, he’s the last I’m fetching out,’ says Gregor, with decision.

  ‘It’s OK,’ says Buffalo. He limped like a goat with three legs. He’s gotta be this Hromoj guy!’

  ‘He’ll get a surprise all right, when he meets his fellow countrymen again,’ laughs Barcelona.

  ‘Then the bleedin’ starlin’s gonna be let ’ave a crack at the tomato, son,’ says Tiny, drily.

  ‘He’ll hang,’ confirms Heide, brusquely.

  ‘He ought to be hanged five times over,’ adds Gregor.

  ‘Yea-a-a-h, an’ with thin violin strings, the way they do in Plôtzensee,’ suggests Tiny, radiantly.

  The second truck is following close behind us with the Legionnaire at the wheel. Porta drives like the devil himself. We have to hang on to the sides of the truck to avoid being thrown out.

  Soon we have left Juraciszki behind us. Shortly after, Porta swings away from the main road and on to an uneven, broken, side-road, but without reducing his speed.

  ‘He’ll smash the sodding axles,’ shouts the Old Man, banging on the wall of the cabin with the butt of his Mpi. Porta pretends not to have heard him, and increases his speed even more.

  Rasputin has one paw round Porta’s shoulders and growls lovingly as he licks the back of his neck. The bear is happy to see him back again.

  The Old Man smashes the tiny window with his Mpi muzzle.

  ‘Reduce speed, you bloody madman, you’re nearly killing us in the back here!’

  ‘So what? If you’re killed one way or the other, what’s the difference?’ As he speaks he tramps on the brake and we are all thrown violently forward against the cabin wall.

  Three Russian MP’s, each with an Mpi at the ready, have made a cordon across the road and are swinging a red lamp in circles.

  ‘Drive over them!’ orders the Old Man, sharply.

  Porta tears at the gears and switches on the headlights. The Russians are completely blinded.

  The heavy personnel truck jumps forward.

  ‘Gome death, come . . .’ hums the Legionnaire.

  The three guards are thrown up in the air. One of them lands with a bang on the shield, but slides straight down to the road. We feel the bumps as all three sets of wheels go over him.

  The two others lie stretched out on the road behind us.

  At breakneck speed Porta races on down the narrow forest road and wrenches the wheel round suddenly. The heavy half-armoured vehicle bounces up and over a hill and across a half-rotten bridge which sways threateningly. Without hesitation the other truck follows us at the same breakneck speed.

  With a cracking rumble the bridge collapses behind us, and disappears into the river.

  ‘All you need’s just a little bit of all the luck there is in the world, to get by with,’ grins Tiny, in satisfaction.

  Soon after we are out on a wide main road again, and Porta draws to a halt.

  ‘Where the devil are we?’ he asks, looking about him.

  ‘We have, of course, gone wrong,’ answers the Old Man, grumpily, studying the map. ‘Why the devil do you have to drive so damn fast? You’ve been driving towards Rakow. We’ll have to turn back!’

  ‘Back?’ cries Gregor, fearfully. ‘Not me!’

  ‘Back at least fifteen miles,’ says the Old Man. ‘We’ve got to get to Gawja, but there’s no danger till we get to the Lida crossroads. They’ve got a special checkpoint there, by what the captain said. We go through at top speed! It’s an ordinary green-cap point with no heavy weapons. They shoot at us, we shoot back! Down behind the sideboards and MG’s in position! Any questions?’

  ‘Will we be home in time for coffee?’ asks Porta.

  ‘Shut up,’ growls the Old Man, and crawls up into the truck.

  In Wolozyn Porta turns off and drives straight towards Iwje without our seeing a living soul.

  It is growing light when we near the Lida crossroads.

  ‘They’ll get a balalaika turn as’ll take their breath away,’ says Tiny, lifting his kalashnikov.

  ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,’ the Old Man warns him. As the words leave his mouth Porta brakes violently, locking the wheels. Like lightning he is out of the cabin and has the motor cover open. He pretends to be making repairs.

  ‘What’s up?’ whispers the Old Man.

  ‘Stay inside,’ warns Porta. ‘Half the neighbours’ bloody Army’s up at the crossroads looking through their Commie glasses. They’re certain sure out looking for the wicked men who’ve pinched their Hromoj!

  Carefully the Old Man positions his binoculars behind one of the truck’s narrow firing-slits.

  ‘They’ve sent out an alarm! No doubt about it,’ he says. ‘There’s four tanks behind the house. Now they’re turning their turrets this way. We’ve got to get out of this place. Can you turn here?’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ snarls Porta. ‘Hold on tight in there! We’ll be movin’ but fasti

  ‘Where the devil are the others?’ asks Barcelona, and looks back down the road.

  ‘They’ve stopped round the bend,’ says Tango. ‘They must have seen the heathen before we did.’

  ‘You Fascist swine aren’t going to get away with this,’ growls the Commissar, who has regained consciousness.

  ‘Hromoj, keep your bleedin’ mouth shut, an’ speak when you’re spoken to!’ says Tiny, treading heavily on his stomach. ‘Otherwise we just might serve you up for breakfast to Rasputin!’

  ‘We can’t get away with it,’ mumbles Barcelona as Porta begins to move slowly forward. ‘Soon as we start to turn they’ll do us with their bloody tank guns!’

  ‘Nothin’ bad can ’appen to me,’ says Tiny, with assurance. ‘I’m goin’ to ’ave an ’appy death with no pain. Far as I’m concerned they can shoot as much as they bleedin’ like!’

  ‘Turn, for Christ’s sake!’ snarls the Old Man, impatiently.

  ‘Not yet,’ says Porta. ‘Further on. Then I can get round in one go without having to back.’

  Tiny peers over the sideboard of the truck.

  ‘Swarmin’ with bleedin’ green-caps. They’ll make mincemeat of us, if they ever get ‘old of us!’

  ‘They’ll gouge out your eyes,’ promises the commissar, spitefully.

  ‘We’ll ’ave cut your bleedin’ belly open first, though,’ Tiny assures him, wiping his long, pointed combat knife along the man’s upper lip. ‘An’ we’U’ve cut you up a bit longways an’ crossways, just to make your mates laugh, an’ your Commie bleedin’ arms we’ll ’ave ‘angin’ round your neck, so you won’t need a tie no more, even if you ’ad arms to tie it with!’

  A tank rolls out from behind the house and stops across the road.

  ‘Those dopes must think we’re coming straight through,’ grins Porta. ‘Take a lame-brained Russian to think that one out!’

  ‘They’ll shoot you to pieces,’ laughs the commissar, tauntingly.

  ‘’Ere now, me old Commie bell-weather,’ Tiny pricks his chest with his knife. ‘When we’ve ’ad our fun with you we’ll take a trip to your ’ome town an’ ’ave your ol’ mum’s eyeballs for breakfa
st, we will!’

  ‘I’ll take care of you personally,’ the commissar promises, taut with rage.

  ‘You’re full o’ shit,’ replies Tiny. ‘You ain’t got more’n five days left! By then you’ll be danglin’ from a piece of good German rope an’ the crows’ll be sittin’ on your shoulders ’avin’ a good time with you!

  Porta moves forward slowly in first gear. I bite my lips with excitement and press the machine-gun into my shoulder.

  ‘Hold on!’ shouts Porta, tearing the wheel round. The engine whines at maximum revolutions.

  We roar out into a field, The truck rocks, and is close to turning over, but we make it back onto the road.

  ‘Fire!’ screams the Old Man, and all three MG’s rattle away at the astonished NKVD troops by the road-block. Several of them fall, but then there comes a short sharp report close behind us and a shell drops on the road in front of us.

  Another tank gun fires and the shell explodes a little closer. Then we are round the curve.; The truck is on two wheels and comes close to turning over.

  Seven miles further on we meet the other truck. We wave to them without lessening speed.

  Porta swings into the forest along a road which is no more than two wheel tracks, and stops under some trees. In the distance we can hear the drone of the tanks. Shortly after they roar past along the road leading to Oszmiana.

  ‘Go on,’ orders the Old Man and waves a signal to the other truck.

  After a few miles a deep roaring makes us look up. Low down over the road a ‘Crow’20 comes rushing. It swings off into a steep climb, then comes down at us in a howling dive. It is so low that we can see the pilot clearly.

  Two bombs fall right behind us but do no more damage than to throw a great deal of stones and dust up into the air.

  ‘That sad sack’s in contact with the green-caps,’ shouts Porta. ‘There’ll be a shower of tanks trying to work it up our arses before long!’

  ‘I’ll fix him,’ boasts Heide, swinging his MG round.

  ‘You couldn’t touch him with that ant-piss syringe!’ says Gregor, contemptuously. ‘Don’t you know Crows’re armoured against MG fire?’

  ‘The untermensch in the cockpit isn’t, though, snarls Heide, wickedly.

  The Crow comes at us again, this time swooping down from the opposite side.

  Heide opens fire immediately. Bullets splatter and rattle off the Crow’s armoured sides.

  Bombs go off in front of and behind us.

  Heide fires like a madman, but without hitting the pilot.

  ‘Another of these mad bastards who shoot at people without hitting ’em,’ shouts Porta, raging. ‘That’s the kind of idiots who bring all the troubles of a war down on us!’

  The Crow disappears with an earshattering roar. We see nothing of the tanks.

  When the Crow is out of earshot we continue, skirting the edge of the forest. The road disappears in the end in tall grass but the earth is so firm that we are able to keep moving.

  Suddenly a huge shadow falls across us. It is the Crow, gliding along with motors cut off.

  The pilot sees us and begins to drop bombs. Shrapnel tears great holes in both trucks.

  We fly helter-skelter into the shelter of the trees. Tiny has the MG at his shoulder ready to fire at the Crow when it returns.

  ‘We’ll stop his farting in church for him,’ hisses the Old Man, tight-lipped.

  There he is!’ shouts Porta, pointing.

  ‘I’ve got him!’ roars Tiny, pressing the butt into his shoulder.

  All three MG’s fire simultaneously. A long row of smoke-tracks bore themselves into the pilot, who falls forward. The machine wobbles and puts its nose straight up into the air. The pilot is thrown back.

  Joyfully we watch his death flight. There is not a soldier in the Army who doesn’t hate the Crows.

  The plane flies straight into the tall tree-tops and seconds later the silence is torn by a gigantic explosion. Bombs, petrol, everything on board the Crow, goes up in one blinding sheet of flame. A yellowy-red finger of fire shoots up over the forest and changes to a great black mushroom of smoke.

  ‘One Communist less,’ says Heide, folding the MG supporting legs together.

  ‘Climb aboard!’ orders the Old Man. ‘Let’s get on. It won’t be long before those tanks are after us.’

  A little later we turn in to the forest. The grass comes halfway up the sides of the trucks.

  ‘Let’s hope there’s not a tree trunk across the road,’ mumbles Porta, nervously.

  ‘If there is we’ll turn a somersault that’d sure be worth big money in a circus,’ considers Buffalo.

  We drive along the Sehtschara, circle Selwa and disappear into the Bialowiejer forest. Now the road becomes impossible. Brambles have grown together to make tunnels down which we drive, despite the strong autumn sun, in a sinister green twilight. Even Rasputin does not like it. He becomes hard to handle when a herd of wild pigs crosses our path at the gallop and disappears into the forest.

  Tiny is going to shoot at them but the Old Man forbids it.

  ‘You silly sods,’ he rates us, when we agree with Tiny. ‘Start shooting and we’ll bring the whole of the Red Army down on us. Not forgetting that there are large partisan units in these forests!’

  We can only move at all now by using the booster gear. We are continually having to navigate round large holes and up over steep inclines. The engines are boiling.

  We stop for a moment. In the distance we can hear the roar of heavy motors. The tanks are on our track.

  ‘So the Crow was in touch with those four bastards,’ says Tango, scratching his thin chest nervously.

  ‘Bad shit,’ says Tiny, looking back in the direction of the deep rumbling.

  ‘Now they’ve got you!’ says the commissar, triumphantly. ‘As soon as you took to the forest you’d had it!’

  ‘Shut your trap, you dirty bleedin’ traitor,’ hisses Tiny, pricking him with his combat knife, ‘or just maybe the bear’d like your liver for bleedin’ hors d’oeuvres!’

  ‘Cut his ears off,’ suggests Porta. ‘He won’t listen to what we tell him, anyway, so what does he need ears for?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon,’ jeers the commissar, ‘soon you’ll be finding out what it’s like being dragged behind those tanks!’

  ‘Old ’un, let me turn this shit off,’ shouts Porta, angrily.

  The Old Man does not reply.

  Now we can hear the noise of the. tanks even above our own engine noise. They are gaining on us steadily and we are easy to track. Our broad tyre marks show clearly in the damp ground.

  ‘Can’t you go faster?’ shouts Buffalo, nervously.

  ‘Sure, son,’ grins Porta,’ but you’d fall off!’

  ‘’Ow much bleedin’ further to ’ome?’ asks Tiny, impatiently.

  ‘A damn long way yet,’ answers the Old Man, moodily.

  Porta brakes the truck so sharply that the Old Man flies forward over the bonnet. If the windshield had not been down he would surely have broken his neck.

  Porta has stopped the truck at the last moment, on the very brink of a cliff. We sit semi-paralysed, gaping down into the depths below us.

  ‘So far and no farther,’ sighs the Old Man, quite worn out.

  He is right. It is impossible to turn the truck and even more impossible to go round this enormous gap. Behind us the sinister rumble of the motors has become louder. Every moment the tanks are closing on us.

  ‘Empty the trucks,’ orders the Old Man, ‘at the double now, lads!’

  We snatch up hand-grenades and ammunition, load all magazines. Luckily there are two automatic loaders in the truck and we get it done fast.

  ‘Into the woods,’ orders the Old Man, ‘spread out!’

  Porta and Tango pour petrol over both the personnel waggons, throw the empty cans into the cabin and dash to cover amongst the brambles just as the first of the tanks noses it’s way round the bend. It is an old Landsverk 30.

  ‘W
here the devil did they get that from?’ whispers the Old Man, wonderingly. ‘Far as I know they haven’t been to war with Sweden long as tanks’ve existed?’

  ‘No, but with Finland,’ answers Heide, who knows everything. ‘The Nyeland Dragoon Regiment had them on trial.’

  The Landsverk sends a long MG burst above the trucks in the belief that we have taken cover on the other side of the ravine. Bullets smoke their way with a thud into the trees.

  Two BA-64’s round the curve. They are close together, a proof that they are inexperienced. A little behind them comes the most dangerous of them, a Humber Mk II. The turret flies up and an officer examines the ground cautiously.

  ‘A Starschi Leitenant21,’ says Porta. ‘He must be tired of living, the way he opens his turret before he knows where we are.’

  ‘He’s probably been brainwashed that much by the Commie buddies, he doesn’t know what day it is,’ reckons Buffalo.

  21. First lieutenant.

  ‘They shouldn’t use such strong soap for washin’ brains with,’ says Tiny, seriously, pushing off the safety catch of the MG.

  ‘Shut it,’ whispers the Old Man.

  The Russian platoon leader has trained his glasses straight on us.

  The trapdoors of the other tanks clang open. A fat sergeant crawls, with difficulty, from the Landsverk.

  ‘They’ve got away,’ he shouts, annoyedly. ‘They’ll have cut the Hromo’fs throat by now!’

  ‘Good luck to ’em then,’ shouts a warrant officer from the leading BA-64.

  Tiny nudges the commissar, who has again been gagged with a cap.

  ‘Your bleedin’ comrades don’t seem to like you. Thats ’ow it goes with all wicked men! You get pissed on, an’ you don’t even know it!’

  The commissar sends him a killing look.

  The lieutenant lifts his arm and the motors stop. All four tank commanders jump down and saunter over to the deserted personnel lorries.

  ‘The German dogs have poured petrol over them but haven’t had time to set them on fire,’ says the lieutenant and laughs aloud.

  ‘Here’s Hromoj’s cap,’ shouts a corporal, holding up the commissar’s green cap. ‘Let’s hope they manage to liquidate the bastard, before we get our hands on them!’