They kept to a narrow track at the edge of the woodland, soon being joined by one or two other small groups of civilians, all heading the same way. No one spoke, no greeting was exchanged. As usual silence was a refugees best protection, keeping them safe by avoiding unguarded talk among strangers. It was always possible that those who heard your words were those who would seek money or favours from the Russians by betrayal.
As they neared the camp they noticed more and more activity within the close spaced plantations of Firs. Under heavy camouflage were masses of Soviet infantry. Tents and improvised shelters filled some patches of woodland. In others were long lines of light armoured vehicles, scout cars and small armoured personnel carriers. Most appeared to be equipped with roof mounted anti-tank missiles or compact radar dishes accompanied by anti-aircraft armament. One area was filled with long lines of Zil trucks beneath camouflage netting leaving only narrow walkways between the rows. Sentries patrolled just within the borders of the trees, their guns cradled in the arms and ready to use.
The strictest of regulations must have been in force. No Russians came near them; none seemed to stir from their shelters. Only once, a Russian officer saw them slowing down to look between the trees and bellowed at them, gesturing at them with a machine pistol to keep moving. The whole scene was surreal. Usually such a situation would normally have meant soldiers swarming out to barter with or bully the passing civilians. But discipline must have been iron hard. Revell realised the sentries were keeping the Russian soldiers in as much as keeping the refugees out.
He tried estimating the number of enemy soldiers but after they had seen three patches of woodland jammed with units he gave up. If the other plantations were as packed and they must be or there would be no point in jamming so many in to the few he had seen, then the best part of a division was close by. As they got nearer the refugee settlement the small parties travelling wearily across country coalesced into large and larger groups. Guards began to appear beside the human convoys. For the most part the escorts were few and far between, widely spaced except where a couple would get together to share a cigarette, and then a gap of a hundred metres would open up before the men wandered back to their positions.
Several times Revell saw evidence of the ruthless herding of the civilians. The first time it was a body beside a wheelchair. Buckled spokes had prevented its further progress and its occupant, unable to keep up, had been shot. From the back of the head a large quantity of blood had run out to stain the grass with a glistening mess. A few paces away, almost hidden in the deep ruts of the muddy ground was the corpse of a young woman in a fur trimmed coat and headscarf. A burst of automatic fire had punctured her chest and abdomen.
“A clear picture” Andrea walked past showing no emotion. “Perhaps he was her father. She must have gone for the Ivan who shot the old man. Foolish, there was nothing she could do that would help him. She threw away her own life.”
“You’re all heart.” Much the same scenario had occurred to Thorne. He could picture the girl’s grief and fury when that had been the outcome after hours of exhausting herself pushing the chair. Perhaps the attack she had unleashed on the killer had surprised him, even momentarily frightened him. He hoped so. It was likely the guards were all too well aware how thin on the ground they were. A determined effort by the few men among the civilians, at the risk of some loss of life, could certainly have overwhelmed the escort.
But to what purpose. The presence of more enemy infantry in the area was now all too obvious. The refugees might have taken on the escort, perhaps grabbed a few weapons but then the world would have fallen on them, and not just on them. Likely a great swathe of the trudging column would have been slaughtered.
The second time they saw death it was when their line merged with another column. Beside the route there was a child’s body, a girl of maybe ten years. A few steps from the widening trampled path, she had very likely been shot down when youthful thoughtlessness had prompted her to stray. Just visible were some wild flowers clenched in her hand. Perhaps it was the innocent urge to pick those that had been the cause her death.
When the head of the column was within fifty yards of the single strand of rusted barbed wire that marked the camps perimeter they were called to a halt.
“It’s a huge area, at least twenty hectares including the village.” Thorne estimated the encampments extent. It stretched right across the gently sloping farmland entirely surrounding the village.
A ruddy-faced Russian officer bellowed for silence. He didn’t get it. For most of the civilians this was a new experience, they kept chatting. A loud burst of machine gun fire hosed tracer above their heads and they fell silent as swiftly, and as shocked, as if they had been slapped in the face.
“There are rules. You will obey them or be shot. Do not go beyond the wire unless on an organised work party with an escort. Disobey and you will be shot. Do not speak to my guards. You will be shot. Do not create disturbance. You will be shot.”
With that he turned on his heel, gesturing for the column to enter the camp.
“Well you can’t say you haven’t been told. Simple and to the point. Thorne watched the civilians as they moved in to the area. Most seemed dazed, lost. Crowding around them came the vultures, the black market operators, with offers of help, offers of trade. Even those who managed to thread their way past those thieves were marked people. Their cleaner clothes indicated that they were new arrivals. What little they had in the way of valuables, even the most mundane of possessions they were not going to keep for long.
On the far side of the village there was a cloud of exhaust fumes marking where trucks were entering the area and were about to unload. A stampede commenced, with children being abandoned and old people flung down in the rush to reach the vehicles. To Revell it looked like the trucks of the convoy they had seen tackling the hill. It was an unsophisticated process. The first one reversed to a clearing under Russian direction, its perimeter was marked by barbed wire, again a single strand It sagging between poorly dug-in posts. A handful of Russian soldiers vigorously pushed back a fast increasing number of civilians who were crowding as close as they could.
The first truck, a dumper, tipped its entire cargo on to the dirt. Even as the load began to slide on to the ploughed field the surrounding mob surged against the wire and the posts came out of the ground. Most of the first rank fell as they rushed forward, tripped by the wire, and were trampled by those following. The few who tried to step over the wire became caught on its vicious barbs and after a moment of trying to maintain their balance they went down as well. It was only when the jagged strand was covered by bodies that the mass of people could throw themselves on the avalanche of various foodstuffs without impediment.
The other trucks did not even try to reach the same spot. Two more were tippers and they shot their loads at the closest point they could reach. Masses of cans bounced across the tarmac of the single village street and into ditches and drains. It was the children and the elderly who flung themselves on those, at times struggling with each other in ugly and bizarre fights across the generations. Anther truck up-ended it cargo close by and some of the civilians found themselves hemmed in by the deliveries. Two at least were buried beneath the loads, and their plight ignored. Others were pushed against and under the wheels but such screams as there must have been were drowned by the baying of crowd as they tore at the piles, grabbing up anything within reach.