Whatever the consequences he was going to have to let go. There was no alternative. He could hang on no longer. His muscles began to scream in pain … but then the vehicle began to slow down and eventually rolled to a halt. Kelly suppressed the desire to scream at the almost unbearable discomfort in his hands as he lowered himself back down onto the prop shaft. The pain seemed to increase as he let go of the handholds he had used.
There was a clatter as the tailboard was dropped and the soldiers de-bussed. He could hear the sound of a single person giving curt orders and the shuffling of feet, the squad was being formed up. A briefing quickly followed. It was delivered quietly and concisely but Kelly caught snatches of it.
“One or two men … armed ... saboteur … split into groups of three ... up to the Soviet border … cross if necessary … high alert … other groups searching ...”
There was a flurry of activity, presumably as they split into their search groups, followed by the sound of receding footsteps crunching through the snow. Kelly waited for about five minutes until the feeling had returned to his hands and arms and then he slid slowly and quietly down from his lair, rolled onto his stomach on the road and observed his surroundings.
The vehicle had been halted at the side of the road. On his right was a gentle downward slope away from the road, on the left a slope rising into woods. This was the direction of the border and the direction he had heard the soldiers take. Partly obscuring his view in that direction was a pair of jackboots. The driver had stayed with the vehicle and judging by the sucking sounds he was making, was currently enjoying a cigarette.
Kelly considered his position. If he could slip away from the vehicle undetected by the driver which direction should he take? He couldn’t simply walk up this road, which he believed led to the border, without being spotted, if not by this driver, then certainly by another vehicle patrolling that night. If he went west, down the slope, he would be moving away from the border and back towards the plant. If he went east, up the slope, there was a likelihood that he might be detected by one of the patrols on the border.
Kelly thought for a while before making his decision. Gently and quietly, he slipped from under the vehicle on the side furthest away from the driver. After what seemed an age, he managed to manoeuvre himself to the rear of the vehicle by the wheel so as to be invisible to someone looking underneath. He picked up some loose chippings from the road and then stood up. Drawing the Luger from his waistband, he checked it was set to fire and threw the chippings out to the rear of the vehicle.
The sharp intake of breath was audible. “Wer ist dort?” The voice trembled. He was afraid.
The sound of footsteps came slowly around the vehicle. Kelly levelled the pistol to head height and waited. Just a few more steps.
When the corporal driver appeared, Kelly quickly lowered the Luger slightly to accommodate the driver’s five-foot-four-inch stature, and then without a second thought he pulled the trigger.
The little man was thrown backwards a good five feet. Kelly moved to him and looked down at him. For the second time in the space of a few hours he gazed upon the face of a dying man, a man killed by his hand. He felt no pleasure, but neither did he feel sadness. It was happenstance, something that had to be done.
Quickly he implemented the rest of the plan. He stripped the jacket and cap from the now dead soldier and rolled the body to the edge of the road. With a push he sent it rolling down the bank, watching it gathering speed as it went.
Kelly then tried to dress in the grey jacket. It was hopelessly too small for him, but he forced himself into it. He would have to leave it unbuttoned. Fortunately, the corporal had a rather large head in proportion to his body and once Kelly had cleaned the inside of the cap with snow and rags from the vehicle, he found it to be a near perfect fit.
His uniform would certainly not stand up to close scrutiny, but he might get away with it from a distance.
Kelly climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the dashboard and searched for the starter button. After pressing everything within reach he discovered the starter operated on a pull cable. Once turning, he crashed the gearbox into first, gunned the engine and accelerated through the gears to as near to top speed as he dared on the icy road. The vehicle was equipped with chains, but still it slithered and slid as he cornered.
In the gloom, the headlights of an approaching vehicle appeared to grow bigger and brighter all the time. He slowed slightly so as not to appear too conspicuous and waved to the other driver as the vehicles passed.
There was a screech of brakes and Kelly, in his rear-view mirrors, saw the other vehicle slither to a halt. Just before he lost sight of it, as he negotiated a bend in the road, he saw the other vehicle executing a turn.
He had no idea how far the border was, or indeed if this road did in fact go to the border. Undoubtedly, he was headed in the right direction, but that was all the certainty he had. He dared not increase his speed in case he lost control of the vehicle.
He was now on a straight stretch of road and to his horror he could see the headlights of the other vehicle in his mirrors. It was clear that it was gaining on him. The driver was probably more experienced on these roads and with this particular truck.
Then Kelly saw another headlight appear, passing the truck behind him, a single headlight. After a few seconds he was able to make out the shape. He bit into his lip as he saw the unmistakable shape of a motorcycle combination with a sidecar-mounted Spandau. There was no way his Mercedes would outrun the DKW combination.
A burst of machine gun fire sent a hail of rounds over the top of the vehicle. Kelly started to weave the vehicle, but this just had the effect of slowing him down to the extent that the other truck started gaining on him, as well as the combination.
He was now travelling along a fairly straight road flanked by forest on either side. Every three or four hundred yards there was a fire break in the trees. He had no idea what the going would be like, but what choice did he have? He was determined to take a chance.
At the next break he swung the vehicle violently to the right, it coincided exactly with the moment that the motorcycle combination was trying to overtake on Kelly’s blind side. There was a sickening crash and Kelly’s vehicle lurched violently, bucking high into the air and threatening to go over as the rear wheel crushed the combination beneath. Kelly struggled to maintain control, hitting several trees a glancing blow before regaining control of the vehicle once more.
The combination was certainly disabled, and the pursuing truck appeared to have overshot the gap. Kelly had bought some time, but it was being wasted by the failure of his vehicle to respond to the accelerator. A glance out of the right-hand mirror showed the right-hand rear wheel seriously oscillating. The collision with the motorcycle combination must have sheared the spring mounting and now there were lights behind him again!
There was no option now but to go the rest of the way on foot. Kelly slewed the vehicle to a halt diagonally across the track in order to block it and prevent the other vehicle pursuing, then burst out of the door and took to the trees. As he ran, he could hear the sound of the German infantrymen now disembarking from their own truck, crashing through the forest in pursuit. Machine gun fire rang out, intermingled with single shots and he clearly heard the zing and hiss of high velocity rounds all around him, along with the occasional ‘thuck!’ as one embedded itself in a nearby tree.
They had his direction and it was impossible to move quietly in the forest. Kelly knew he would have to make a stand and fight it out. Stripping off the German jacket and cap he threw them to the side, then crouched down behind one of the thicker trees. Peering round the right-hand side of the tree, he levelled the Luger and fired in the direction of the machine gun flashes. He fired a few times then stopped. The Germans were inching closer all the time and a single Luger wasn’t going to stop them. He would be better to save one round for himself. If the Germans took him, the outcome would be inevitable. He had kille
d two of their number and he was dressed in civilian clothing. Worse, he had at one stage worn a German uniform. They would reach the logical conclusion.
For a moment Kelly fancied that the firing had increased significantly, until he realised that the shooting was coming from behind him as well.
How had he been surrounded?
But, no! Something was wrong. The firing to his front seemed to be receding. He heard shouting, and the throaty roar of a Mercedes vehicle as it started up. Then there were soldiers around him moving forward towards the Germans, skirmishing silently and swiftly from tree to tree like khaki-coloured ghosts.
Khaki?
Two of the ghosts descended on him, one holding a pistol to his head. He raised his hands and was taken without fuss—half carried; half dragged for about four hundred yards —deeper into the forest along the track he had previously tried to negotiate. The group who had him had swollen in number to about eight soldiers. They entered a clearing where several vehicles were harboured beneath camouflage.
A young officer came forward to greet Kelly.
“Sind Sie Deutsch?” he inquired.
“No, I’m British!” Kelly was determined not to repeat his previous mistake.
The young officer smiled broadly and held out his hand. Kelly shook it.
“Then welcome to the Soviet Union, British man!”
Our Russian Friends
Kelly sprang to his feet, but being bare headed, did not salute the Soviet Officer who entered the room. Instead, he made clear from his bearing that he was ‘paying respect’ to the Russian.
The officer, reading the body language correctly, touched the peak of his cap with his gloved fingers as a return of the compliment.
“So, Second Lieutenant Kelly!” The voice was rich and dark brown, with a thick accent. “I can’t wait to hear how you came to the Motherland.” He spoke warmly enough but his eyes were steel grey rapiers that penetrated Kelly’s inner being.
“I am remiss,” he continued. “My name is Yuri Vladeshenko. I am a major at the local headquarters here. I have been sent to officially welcome you!”
Vladeshenko was tall with short fair hair showing beneath his military peaked cap. It was difficult to determine his build, his body being sheathed in a thick greatcoat, but Kelly sensed that he possessed a powerful physique. The hand, now ungloved, that was shaking his own was strong and large, with well-defined tendons that indicated a man used to physical effort.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Kelly said, extricating his hand from the firm grip.
The Russian laughed loudly. “No, you’re not! You’re thinking why doesn’t this Russian peasant get me a ship home instead of messing around. Am I right?”
“You’re half right,” grinned Kelly. “It is good to meet you. It’s good to talk to someone and, if you can arrange a lift home on one of His Majesty’s ships, I won’t mind if you’re a peasant or a relation of the Tsar.”
The smile almost faded from the Russian’s face. “Lieutenant Kelly, the last thing I would ever want to be in our glorious Soviet Union is a relative of the Tsar.” The face was smiling but the body language was hostile.
“My apologies,” Kelly grimaced, “that was a thoughtless thing to say.”
“Now,” said the Russian removing his greatcoat and cap, and in the process confirming Kelly’s impression of his build, “tell me all about your great adventure.”
Kelly recounted his experiences, leaving out the intimate details of his brief affair with Sybilla. The Russian grunted from time to time and occasionally raised his eyebrows. As he listened, he began unwrapping a packet of cigarettes and unconsciously offered a cigarette to Kelly who, after hesitating briefly, took the offered gift. The Russian lit his cigarette from what looked like an expensive petrol lighter, which he then extended. Kelly leant forward and allowed the flame to light his cigarette.
Kelly coughed slightly as he inhaled. He had experimented with various cigarettes and had developed an on-off liking for Navy Cut, mainly because they were always cheap and frequently free on-board ship. This cigarette however was different, somewhat pungent, and clearly quite strong.
“Interesting flavour,” he commented as he paused in mid discourse, examining the dark, almost black tobacco firmly compacted into the black tube.
“Turkish,” replied Vladeshenko. “I wouldn’t smoke anything else. Go on with your story.”
“That’s really about it,” said Kelly. “After your troops rescued me near the border, I was put onto one transport train after another until I arrived here in Archangel.” Kelly paused for a minute as he dragged on his cigarette. He wasn’t much impressed with the flavour but was glad of the comfort factor. “I’m very grateful to you and your comrades for the help you’ve given.”
“But that’s what allies are for Dragan,” said Vladeshenko. “Your people would have been just as helpful to one of my comrades, I’m sure.”
“Yes, they would,” Kelly replied in a matter-of-fact way, but he smiled as he said it.
The Russian returned his smile. “Good. I’ll let you get some rest, and in the meantime, I will try to arrange a berth on an escort with one of the convoys. Let’s get you safely home.”
“Thank you,” Kelly responded, but the Russian had already turned on his heel, swept up his greatcoat and was walking out of the door. He stopped, framed in the open door and turned again to Kelly.
“For you,” he said and threw the half full pack of Turkish cigarettes to Kelly. “I will have Comrade Corporal Dimitri bring you some matches. He will look after you, he has some English.” With that, he was gone.
Comrade Corporal Dimitri entered the room a few minutes later. He was a stocky man of about forty, dressed in fatigues, his dark grey hair becoming scarce at the temples. His features demonstrated his Slav ancestry, but Kelly felt he recognised a hint of the Turk.
Dimitri walked across to Kelly, fumbling with a box of matches as he did so. “Allow me to light your cigarette, Comrade Lieutenant,” he said as he approached. There was an unmistakable, but very slight nod of the head and the eyes were intense.
Kelly took the cue and pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips in readiness for the approaching flame. Dimitri leant over Kelly as he applied the light to the end of the cigarette and spoke in an almost imperceptible whisper. “Beware the Comrade Major, he is Spetsnaz.” He blew out the now redundant match with an elaborate gesture and again Kelly noticed the slight nod and the earnest eyes.
“Thank you,” said Kelly. “I’m most grateful.” He returned the knowing nod. Dimitri seemed satisfied with this and left, closing the door firmly behind him. There was the unmistakable sound of a key turning. Kelly rose from the side of the bed where he was perched and walked over to the door. He tried the handle. The door was indeed locked. Peering through the small window he spied Dimitri walking towards the door.
“Is there something I can get you Comrade Lieutenant?” asked Dimitri in a flat level tone.
“I wondered why the door was locked,” responded Kelly.
“For security, Comrade Lieutenant.” Still the lifeless monotone in the voice, the unchanging countenance, no spark of recognition or friendliness. Clearly, Dimitri was being watched, thought Kelly.
“You are an honoured guest,” went on Dimitri. “We would not want anything to happen to you. I have been placed on guard to ensure that no one can harm you.”
That’s one way of looking at it, thought Kelly. Seems much more likely that I am, in effect, a prisoner here.
He kept his thoughts to himself and nodded at the guard in response. Dimitri neither smiled nor answered; instead, he sprang to attention and saluted. Then wheeled about and marched back to the seat he occupied in the bleak corridor.
Food was brought to Kelly at regular intervals. It was meagre fare, consisting in the main of a black stew with rough, dry bread, but not unpalatable. He also had use of a bucket in the corner of the cell for bodily functions. Kelly
wondered how long he was to be incarcerated in this way and whether he should ask to see someone of higher rank, or perhaps someone from the British consulate, if indeed such a thing existed in Archangel.
There was no window in the cell, which was lit by a single electric lamp hanging from the ceiling, so Kelly had no concept of day and night. When he wanted to sleep, he at first tried to reach the electric lamp to unscrew the bulb, but it was out of reach. He pondered using the bucket to stand on, but the risk of an unpleasant accident deterred him. Trying to move the bed proved fruitless as it was bolted to the concrete floor.
Eventually, he ran out of options and simply lay down on the straw mattress, covering his head with the blanket to shut out the light. In this way he was able to capture a few moments of fitful sleep.
Kelly calculated, based on receiving three meals, having his bucket emptied once by the now uncommunicative Dimitri and by virtue of having slept, however badly, for a few minutes or hours—he wasn’t sure which—that the eternity he had spent in this foul-smelling hell hole had amounted in fact to only one day.
He tried to keep his spirits high by recalling good things from the past and picturing his friends. But this was a bad idea. His mind kept returning to the frigate and the friends he had lost in the explosion.
Just as Kelly was about to sink into despair, a key rattled in the door, which then swung open to reveal Major Vladeshenko.
“Why the hell are you still in this cell?” Vladeshenko’s voice was so hysterically over-the-top, it was pure theatre. “Dimitri! Did I not give an order to have Lieutenant Kelly moved to the destroyer, Ekaterina?”
“The order has not reached me, Comrade Major,” responded Dimitri in a defensive tone.
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