Buzzy checked his map against the place Smith was pointing at.
“Yeah, I reckon that’ll do. Plus, no way for old Lucifer to sneak up on us.”
In the distance they could hear the sounds of Hanebury chewing someone’s ass.
“That fucker should’ve joined the fucking infantry if he wanted to play general.”
The imminent return checked their conversation.
“Well, Sergeant?”
“We’ve sorted a good position. You wanna check it out, Top?”
Hanebury held up his hands.
“Nope. Just get your squad settled in, call me up on the radio, and I’ll come back and make sure you’ve got things properly sorted. OK, now let’s move, Sergeant.”
“Hey, Phelps.”
“Sarge?”
Phelps forced his eyes open.
“You still got those special radio parts tucked away?”
“Sure have, Sarge.”
“Get ’em fitted a-sap will ya. Want to be outta touch with old Lucifer for a while.”
Phelps grinned.
“I’m on it, Sarge.”
Smith, although pretty much a waste of space, was not without some cunning, and he had ordered the defective radio parts kept for occasions when he wanted autonomy and peace.
The subterfuge had fooled Hanebury once before, and he figured it would do so again.
Within minutes, both radios were disabled.
Hanebury, back at his own position, accepted the piping hot coffee from his driver, Collier.
“From your face, I’d reckon that Snuffy ain’t flavour of the week eh, Top?”
Smith’s nickname was not intended to be complimentary
“Typical Smith set up. Total SNAFU, Corporal. He’s sorting it out now… I hope.”
Hanebury took the approach of putting all his crap in one pot, which was why the expectations of Smith’s squad were pretty much non-existent.
Smiling to himself, and without the slightest hint of humour, Hanebury wondered which of the possibles he had spotted would become Smith’s chosen location.
“What’s the odds on him getting it right second time ‘round, Top?”
Hanebury grinned the grin used by senior NCO’s the world over; the simple expression that announced hell was coming.
“I ain’t taking bets, Lou.”
In any case, for totally different reasons, all bets were off.
“Shit, what was that?”
“Just a mangy old dog, Sarge.”
“It dead?”
“You fucking betcha it’s dead.”
The unfortunate beast had decided to run out of its cover and engage the new arrivals in play.
Smith was trying to remember if such an incident was reportable, and whether Old Lucifer would want a ream of paper on the matter. His thought process was suddenly interrupted as he realised how close he was getting to the copse.
“Whoa up there, cowboys!”
The convoy of three vehicles that transported Smith’s squad ground to a halt as ordered.
Using his binoculars, Smith surveyed the small copse, noting the ramshackle wooden house for the first time.
Shouting across to the Dodge, Smith passed on the good news to his friend.
“Hey Buzz. Good call eh? Even got us some shelter.”
Smith dithered, as was his normal approach to military matters. Eventually, he made up his mind.
“Right, just in case the old bastard’s watching, I’m gonna do this proper. OK… Buzz, move your vehicle to the right there and oversee with the .50cal. I’ll move left and do the same…”
He looked around and saw a slovenly soldier chewing gum like it was the finest beef steak.
“Hey Idiot, Purple Heart opportunity! Oi, Hartnagel…,” the unpopular private pretended not to hear his Squad leader, “Hartnagel, you work shy piece of shit!”
“What?”
Hartnagel was simply the most disliked person in the MP battalion, bar none. His ability to avoid any sort of work was only equalled by his genuinely nasty nature and untrustworthiness.
“Get down the track and check out that stand of trees.”
Hartnagel snorted his disgust.
“Bike’s playing up, Sergeant.”
“Then fucking walk for all I care. Move your ass.”
Muttering obscenities, Hartnagel gunned the motorbike and moved off towards the copse, the Dodge 4x4 and jeep moving to either side.
Hanebury did not believe in travelling light when it came to weaponry.
He ensured his vehicles were kitted out with anything and everything he could lay his hands on.
The Dodge had a .50cal pedestal mount, and an MG42 jury rigged for the front seat passenger to have a whale of a time with, in the right circumstances. A special housing held a bazooka and two panzerfausts, and four grenade stations inside the vehicle held three deadly missiles each.
The jeep was only slightly less of a handful, with its own .50cal pedestal, and a .30cal mounted in place of the MG42. The jeep also carried three satchel charges. Hanebury had seen action at the Bulge, and understood the definite advantage of having a lot of firepower and high-explosive to hand.
The squad leader’s vehicles also benefitted from long leather holsters bolted to the doorposts, in which lay silent but deadly Winchester M-12 pump-action shotguns, two per vehicle.
Whilst the MPs traditionally wore white helmets, each man had a combat grade helmet issued as well. ‘Snowdrops’ they may be but, as Hanebury was want to put it, ‘anyone who messes with us better be prepared for a goddamned world of hurt, and the biggest butt fuck of their short life.’
The only problem with the theory was that this particular portion of their world of hurt was in the hands of the less than competent Smith.
“Quiet.”
The whispered command had an immediate effect and silence took over again.
The officer continued, his eyes never leaving the approaching enemy.
“Just one man, but the others are fanning out either side. Ten men in total. No shooting.”
Elite troops are always the same; minimum orders required, maximum violence when needed.
Captain Yulian Akinfeev relayed orders to his two senior NCOs with well-practised hand signals.
Serzhant Vetochkin slung his PPd over his shoulder and unsheathed the Finnish Puukko knife that he carried for the close and silent work so often required of the elite reconnaissance platoons of the Red Army. Dropping to his belly, he silently crawled out through the hole in the side wall.
Starshy Serzhant Urusov slipped upstairs to the small window, and settled behind his Mosin sniper rifle.
The remaining members of 322nd Guards Reconnaissance Platoon remained hidden.
Hartnagel hadn’t lied completely, because the bike was having problems; starting problems, which was why he left the engine running as he slipped off to investigate the building.
Perhaps if he had switched it off then the telltale smell of Soviet tobacco might have warned him, but petrol exhaust fumes masked all of that. Perhaps the small sound made by Vetochkin’s PPd snagging on a branch might have warned him, but engine sounds exceeded the softer sounds of his approaching death.
Vetochkin waited until the enemy soldier was out of sight before acting.
He grabbed the MP’s mouth, kicked his legs away, and dropped him to the ground. The razor sharp Puukko opened Hartnagel’s throat, everything done in one swift and easy motion, and in such a way as to avoid getting too much red liquid on the man’s uniform. Dragging the corpse back by its feet, in order to clear the puddle of blood, Vetochkin stripped the tunic and helmet from Hartnagel.
Other men crawled silently through the vegetation, unseen, but he knew they were there.