He followed the man’s gestures all the way to the riverbank.
‘A boat!’
Haines took a moment, turning back to survey the ongoing surrender, weighing his alternatives and making a decision.
Sliding back down the slope, he gestured at the new-found hope.
Grabbing the young Lance Corporal’s shoulder, he issued a quick instruction.
“Walshy, nip down to that boat and gimme the nod if it’s watertight.”
He spared a look around at the rest of his motley crew.
“Make sure the eyeties don’t do a runner with it, ok?”
“Sir.”
Something in the young soldier’s eyes made Haines add a note of warning.
“Don’t shoot any of them, ok? Just make sure they don’t do a runner with the bugger.”
“Sir.”
Haines looked at the back of the departing Inniskilling and understood.
‘Boy to killer, courtesy of the bloody school of war.’
He returned to the immediate needs of his men and a simple hand gesture brought the Italian Lieutenant to his side.
“If that boat’s up to the job, we’re all getting in it and heading up river… quietly and with no fuss. I need you to find things we can use as oars, anything that’ll shift water, ok? Understand?”
The Italian officer did not bother to tell Haines that he had studied at Cambridge so understood him perfectly, he just acknowledged and got on with the job.
Killer sidled up to his commander and sought silent permission to light a cigarette.
“Makes you wonder, dun it boss.”
Haines knew exactly what his loader was on about.
“The Eyeties’ve done well today. Some bloody hard fightin’ men there, eh? Why didn’t they do it up the blue, eh?”
“Beats me, Killer… but thank fuck they were up to it today… or we’d all be dead… and that’s a fact.”
His statement was accompanied by a smile as the young Irish Fusilier gave him the thumbs up from the river bank.
“Ok, Killer, we’re leaving. Organise Stumpy and get him in the middle of the boat. I’m going to make sure the bus won’t be of any use to the bastards.”
Killer remonstrated immediately.
“Hang on boss. You can’t do that. It’ll bring the Reds down on us like a ton of bricks.”
Haines slapped the loader’s shoulder, part in annoyance that his man should think him that stupid.
“Give me some sodding credit, Killer! Now, get Stumpy away.”
With the help of three of the Italians, Stumpy was carried gently to the boat, a fully intact and larger than it looked rowing boat.
Haines slipped inside the turret, having first placed a can of petrol on the top.
Opening the breech, he slipped the unfired HVAP round out and placed it on the floor, replacing it with an HE round that he only partially inserted into the weapon. He then added a few more HE rounds to the pile on the floor and slipped a pair of primed grenades into the pile.
Killer returned and stuck his head in through the turret hatch.
“We’re ready to go boss. The Eyeties are very keen. You ready?”
“Soon. How we off for rowing stuff?”
“There’s four oars and the infantry have scared up some planks.”
“Take my Thompson, grab the shovel off the bus, and get that boat moving. I’ll be quick as I can and I’ll swim out to you… but what I’m doing probably won’t buy us too much time.”
“Ok, boss. Just hurry up.”
Alone again, Haines paused to pay one last moment of respect to the remains of Sparkle before he exited the tank.
He dipped the ties he had salvaged in the petrol can, tying them together to make something long enough to hang inside to the floor and have enough left to tie to the MG pintel.
Fishing in his pocket, he extracted three Woodbines from his pack and pushed them together, making one long cigarette.
The contents of the fuel can were then added to the interior, although the Lancer was very careful not to disturb the lethal pile in the middle of the floor.
His final act was to slip one end of the ‘cigarette’ under the knotted section of the ties and light the other end.
The boat was already moving southwards, the men working up a sweat in the cold night, moving against the flow of the river.
Haines plunged into the icy water and his testicles immediately protested at the new indignation, albeit only for a moment, as the chilled water provided an anaesthetic effect for his aches and pains, and the cold in general provided the greater distraction for the exhausted officer.
The burning head of the super cigarette came close enough to the petrol soaked tie that the heat it brought to the process was sufficient to start combustion.
The tie burned, slowly for a moment but then, almost as if fanned into life, flared and made the journey to the end of the edge of the cupola in two seconds.
It did not need to go further.
The interior of the tank was rich with fuel vapours, actually too rich to burn, but the hatch area provided the perfect area for the vapours to ignite.
Orange flames danced eagerly, burning up the fuel greedily, dropping lower into the turret until the perfect point of air-fuel mix was present.
Half a kilometre away, Lieutenant Colonel Kozlov was on the radio, receiving the accolades offered freely by his army commander, Zhumachenko.
His immediate promotion to command of the 75th Rifle Division was announced, part of his mind controlled his mouth and delivered the expected thanks, the other part directed his thoughts to consider how much of the division was left to command.
He watched absent-mindedly, as the orange glow transformed the distant area in quite an entertaining fashion, flames shooting skywards as if confined by a cylinder fifty feet high.
Then it exploded.
Haines, dripping and shivering, watched as ‘Biffo’s Bus’ came apart, unsure of which of the possible mechanisms had claimed her.
The flames died down almost as quickly as they started and the night was returned to relative darkness, a safe darkness that swallowed the boat and its seventeen souls headed south in search of safety.
Makarenko had made an excellent recovery, especially as he was in the hands of Stefka Kolybareva, her own hideous injuries healing well and permitting her to do light duties to help ease her mental anguish.
Two beds down from Makarenko lay Rispan, the valiant Major’s injuries more severe than first thought.
Today was the General’s first time out of bed, and he was revelling in the freedom that the stiff backed chair offered.
A number of men from the Zilant attack force had survived to be nurtured in the hospital facilities of the former concentration camp, now prison camp, to be passed into the detention area when medical science had put them back together.
Next to Makarenko was Egon Nakhimov, still recovering from his ordeal and one of the last of the survivors to surrender to the recorded announcements from Makarenko, pleading with his men to turn themselves in, and guaranteeing them fair treatment.
Only one man from Makarenko’s last command remained out in the forests.
Thus far, Nikitin had not surrendered.
Intelligence officers had swept down upon the Soviet General, keen to extract as much information from him as possible, seeking him out at all hours and without the niceties of medical permission, most being unceremoniously ejected by the hospital staff, who feared for their patient’s life.
Over time, they relented, permitting short sessions, which were sufficient for a picture of the Zilant operation to be completed, adding new detail to their own existing knowledge.