Warrant Officer Phillips added up the figures on the log. “27 rounds inbound Sir. 12 double salvoes and three single rounds. We fired 21 rounds Sir.” Perdue nodded and telephoned in the information. “Larry fired 20 and Moe 18, making it 59 rounds total went out. I wonder if we got Petrograd Pete?”
Perdue shook his head. “Doubt it. Long range duel like that, we’d have to be damned lucky to get him.”
The telephone rang again and Perdue picked it up. He listened for a few minutes then put the receiver down. “That was the battalion command. We’ve got a problem. Those rounds we thought were overs? Well, they’ve smashed up the railway line and a bridge behind us. The Russians are getting a work team on the tracks right away but the bridge is looking pretty sick. They doubt if it can take the weight of the trains, not without a lot of work. So, we’re cut off for the time being.”
Phillips shrugged. “It’s not as if we’re going anywhere, Sir. And we’re well stocked up with food. A supply train brought in a load just a few days ago. Mostly canned beef stew but that isn’t so bad.”
Phillips paused and looked at his officer. Just for a moment he’d thought Commander Perdue had whimpered.
“The fascists are moving already, Tovarish Lieutenant?” Sergeant Batov sounded doubtful. The storm had lessened greatly and was now no more that a minor background irritation for the Siberians but the Germans weren’t so used to the wind and snow. Even now, going into their fifth winter in the Rodina, the Germans had still not adapted to the rigors of the Russian weather. Yet, this time they were moving before the storm had cleared.
The firefight had been brief and vicious. Neither side had been expecting to make contact. The Germans weren’t expecting to find a Russian unit so far behind their nominal front line while the Russians hadn’t anticipated that the Germans would be on the move so soon. It had been a classic meeting engagement. The two groups of skiers had emerged from the snow; for a moment, both had been frozen, partly with disbelief at the meeting, partly with confusion. Who were these people? Friend or enemy? They all wore white uniforms, had skis, carried guns. It was the sight picture that had done it. The curved magazines on the German rifles were just that bit more recognizable than the Russian rifles and submachine guns.
That had given the Russians the tiniest edge, an almost invisible edge in the pause that had lasted for brief seconds before the fastest-reacting soldiers on either side had opened fire. When using automatic weapons at point-blank range, even an advantage so small it couldn’t be measured was enough to make a vital difference. All four Germans and two Russians had gone down in the brief blast of gunfire. The PPS-45s had scored again; their phenomenal rate of fire literally cutting the Germans in half. It had been over so fast that the men carrying SKS rifles hadn’t had a chance to open fire.
One of the four Drags that had been brought by the transport earlier had carried a PPS-45. He’d emptied a 71-round drum at the Germans and now wore the blood-marks of a Brat on his forehead and cheeks. Two of the four looked at him with envy. They were carrying SKS rifles and had missed their chance. The last of them had also carried an SKS but hadn’t missed his chance. He’d been killed in the savage exchange of fire. His body was already being stripped of weapons and identification. The ski group couldn’t bring his remains back, so they had to make sure they held nothing of value. Other members of the group were stripping the German bodies.
“Bratishka?” Stanislav Knyaginichev had been looking at his map and trying to work out what was going on.
“The fascists, Tovarish Lieutenant. It is very early for them to be moving.”
“I have been thinking the same thing. And such a small unit as well. When did we ever run into a detachment of just four men?”
“Only when they were the flank guard for a larger unit. Oh.” Batov saw what the Lieutenant was driving at.
“Exactly. I have been looking at the map. We are here, just under this ridgeline. It looks to me as if those four were paralleling the road down here. Perhaps looking for a patrol like ours. They left early to catch us before we could move in but forgot we are Siberians, not pampered Leningraders or soft, feeble Ukrainians. We caught them, not them us. So what is moving on this road that requires flank guards?”
“A supply column?”
“Perhaps, but I have a sense it is something more important. We should check that road, see what it has to tell us. I will take a group of four men down, you stay here with the rest of the men. Get ready to cover us if we need it.
Knyaz picked his four men and skied down the hill to the road that lay half-buried in the fresh snow. Half-buried perhaps, but the tracks there told him everything he wanted to know. The area was still quiet when he rejoined the rest of his unit.
“Bratischkas, we must move back quickly. There is information we must relay to our headquarters.
“Not supplies than.” Batov’s observation was almost superfluous.
“Not supplies. Tanks and armored infantry carriers. I would say in at least battalion strength. Half tracks certainly, the tanks are Panzer IVKs I think. With Ostketten.”
Batov nodded. The fascist Panzer Vs, the Panthers, had the reputation but the Panzer IVs were still the backbone of the fascist tank units. Especially here on Kola, where the heavier tanks had grave difficulty moving. Fitted with the specially-designed Ostketten wide tracks, the IVKs were almost as agile as the T-34s, A lot more so than the heavier fascist tanks. Their interleaved suspension usually clogged with mud and snow, then froze solid. If German armor was on the move, that was something their headquarters needed to know fast.
That was when Knyaz heard something he hadn’t for months. Not since Nikolay Dmitrevich Dyatlenko had been killed by a fascist sniper. Dyatlenko had not been a particularly good soldier but he’d had one unequalled virtue, an ability to emit sustained farts of unparalleled volume and duration. In one competition, the artillery had produced a worthy challenger; he’d been routed by Dyatlenko, who’d managed a remarkable 47 seconds. The artillery unit had offered a double or quits on whether Dyatlenko could beat a minute. He had, with five seconds to spare. It had been agreed afterwards that nobody should light a match in the dugout for at least 30 minutes.
Only, this wasn’t the sound of a soldier passing gas. The noise came from high overhead, passing from the south on its way north. The rumbling growl grew as it neared, Knyaz mentally begged it not to stop until it was past his little unit. Everybody knew that when the engine on the fascist Fi-103 flying bomb stopped, the little unmanned aircraft was about to crash to earth. To his relief, the engine kept working. The flying bomb passed on its way to wherever it had been sent. In the silence that seemed to follow after its passing, Knyaz listened hard. He was rewarded, in the distance he could hear other flying bombs on their way north. This also was something that needed to be passed back soon, but he had a feeling that headquarters would find out about the flying bombs before he could tell them.