The unpalatable thought had occurred to Akinfeev.
Another quickly took its place.
“Comrade Izmaylov, a moment.”
Even though Izmaylov was only a private, Akinfeev had always felt comfortable around the highly educated university professor who had volunteered for the Red Army on the day the green toads had invaded the Motherland.
They had shared many conversations about the higher things in life, without any distinction of rank.
“Comrade Izmaylov, something tells me we will not get out of this scrape.”
Akinfeev leant across to the useless radio set and pulled out a spare map and the code book.
Marking the movements of the infamous SS units on the map, he folded it and surrendered both the map and code book to the former professor.
“I want you to find a place out there in the copse, away from the building… a place you can hide and not be found, Comrade. I order you not to take part in this battle. You must evade what is coming and report this information to our commanders at the earliest opportunity. Do I need to repeat those orders, Comrade?”
“No, Comrade Kapitan, you do not.”
All business, Izmaylov secured the documents before bringing himself to parade attention, saluting formally.
Akinfeev returned the salute and, in a typical display of Soviet comradeship, hugged his man, knowing that he had saved his life with the mission.
That Izmaylov was his friend was a given, but he had selected him for the other qualities that made Rodion Eduardevich Izmaylov the most complete and ruthless soldier he had ever met.
The man was a born survivor and, if anyone could bring back the crucial report, it would be Izmaylov.
By the time he had finished the thought process, he was looking into empty air, as the professor easily slipped away and out through the hole.
The radio crackled urgently.
“Pennsylvania-Six to Pennsylvania-six-two, go ahead, over.”
“Six-two to six, we see signs of movement on eastern and northern edges, just set back from the tree line. Infantry only, but certainly not ours, six-two over.”
“Six to Six-two, what weaponry, over?”
“Six-two to six, unsure at this time, over.”
“Six, roger. Out.”
He raised the Greyhound commander, and was none the wiser when that conversation finished.
A decision was quickly made.
“Pennsylvania Six-Two from Pennsylvania-Six over.”
“Six, go ahead, six-two over.”
“Six-two, hold on your secondary line and deploy the sixty. Do not fire until I am taken under fire myself. Clear? Six over.”
“Six from six-two. Understood. Three minutes, six-two over.”
No matter what the plan was, as with most things military, the enemy tended to do things that messed things up.
Hanebury waited for the set up of the 60mm mortar.
To the north, Staff Sergeant Stradley chivvied his men along, trying to get it properly sighted in as short a time as possible.
The M-8 Greyhound crew and their companions waited for signs of anything worth a bullet.
The 60 was setup and Hanebury acted, moving his unit forward and up the concealing slope.
In the base of fire position, Corporal Gardiner used his liberated German binoculars to watch the tree line.
A pink object sprang into view, needing a focus adjustment to interpret as a face… and a…
“Jesus H! Hit the fucking tree line now!”
The .50 immediately spat its heavy bullets in the direction of the copse, the gunner adjusting his fire, walking the stream of metal into the undergrowth.
‘Not close enough!’
Gardiner shouldered his Garand and pulled the trigger until the metal clip sprang clear.
Whatever it had been that the enemy soldier had been holding, and it sure looked like a panzerfaust at the time, was now held by bloodied and dead hands.
Other weapons sprang to life around the edge of the copse, themselves starting a chain reaction from the encircling force.
The mortar’s first shell missed by a hundred feet, but the adjustment was good, and the rest went on the money.
Hanebury quickly spent every round from the 42 and swapped it for his M-1 carbine, then changed his mind, and grabbed for one of the Winchesters.
The .50cal behind him was deafening, but he enjoyed the effect it was having upon the small wood.
A small smokey trail marked a panzerfaust shot, but it went near nothing of consequence and served only to draw attention from the firebase.
Coordinating with Stradley, Hanebury moved forward, the two forces arriving at the treeline together, Stradley to the north, Hanebury to the south.
Both NCOs shouted the normal warnings about possible friendlies ahead.
The firebase ceased pouring shells into the site, but remained active, watching over the battlefield.
The distinctive sound of .30’s betrayed a Soviet attempt to move west. The attempt failed.
Nave was left with the vehicles and the rest spread out. Moving into the tree line.
A groaning off to Hanebury’s right drew attention, not the desired sort, as Rickard put three .45s into the wounded man.
He slipped the Colt back into his waistband and took a firm hold on the BAR again.
A flash of movement made him involuntarily scream.
The impact was heavy, but not enough to disturb his balance.
Continuing the scream of fear into one of intimidation, he swivelled and fired the BAR at whatever it was that had thrown the knife.
Vetochkin had lost his left arm above the elbow, courtesy of .50cal rounds fired from the firebase.
He had also taken a bullet in the right ankle, as one of Gardiner’s shots deflected and painfully wrecked the joint.
He had thrown the Puukko at the nearest American, knew he had hit him, and still had time to be incredulous that the man turned quickly and fired.
Rickard, having smashed the Russian’s body to pieces with heavy rounds at close range, pulled the Finnish knife from the stock of his BAR, knowing how close he had come to death.
Hanebury gave him a moment.
“Reek, check ’em over for intel… then close up when you’ve done.”
‘Lucifer’ plunged on as an explosion marked some sort of action to the north.
Ahead he could see the shape of some sort of building and…
“Cover!”
The NCO shouted as he threw himself off to one side, the rest of his small group following suit.
With hand signals, he passed on information, and rose slightly to check again with his own eyes.
On first sight, he had seen two enemy soldiers, waiting behind a machine-gun.
From behind the small tree stump, his second view revealed two American bodies and a severed bough.
Relief flooded over him, followed by other, more bestial thoughts.
The corpses were identifiable as Buzzy and Hartnagel.
‘They may have been useless bastards, but they were my fucking useless bastards.’
“Covering fire!”
Garands and carbines threw bullets at the building as Lucifer visited himself upon the enemy.
On the north side of the copse, things had gone a little worse. One of Stradley’s men was face down in the mud, his life taken by a burst of SMG fire.
Stradley’s jeep was burning gently, a panzerfaust having destroyed it only twenty yards short of the tree line.
The only casualty of that strike, Stradley himself, nursed a bloody boot that presently disguised the rough amputation of two toes by shrapnel.
None the less, he pushed his group forward.
Bullets swept through the wooden sides of the building, more than one striking soft flesh within.