Danger had lurked near at all times, haunting his every moment as he progressed, originally slipping through the lines to the north of Belgorod before moving east and then southwards, keen to remain within an area of possible escape back to the German lines. He had nearly been caught two or three times, once chased by regular troops through a darkened forest, another by two political officers as he sought food from a village. The most recent was a suspicious sentry, the older soldier approaching him silently and by accident as he slept in an isolated barn, the man prodding the disused soggy sacks he had used as makeshift bedding. The soldier’s eyes had widened in surprise as the sacks moved, his older body turning in fear as he stumbled for the door to call for assistance, the fugitive catching him near the opening, the soldier shaking in fright as he promised solemnly not to expose the enemy soldier, a bayonet held to his throat. The elderly man was subsequently knocked unconscious, his body slumping against the barn door as the hungry soldier fled, hearing muffled shouts behind as the confused and incoherent Russian was discovered.
As he struggled away through thick mud, his thoughts swept back through the last couple of weeks, the realisation as to how much his mind had been polluted by regret and guilt as the German medic had announced his loyal friend would probably die, that he had lost too much blood and the wound was deep, the bullet unlikely to be retrieved to save the man’s life. Walking away in dumbfounded shock from the forward medical unit, he had slipped away silently whilst throwing his identity tags away, remorse overwhelming his senses as he ran and stumbled across mud drenched fields, slipping in the mire as he heard the distant frantic shouts of his name behind, the voice familiar and of his commanding officer.
To justify the grim murder spree he had embarked on, the desperate and embittered human being had spared the younger enemy soldiers, fresh faced inexperienced youths in oversized greatcoats and ill-fitting combat trousers, a faint fleeting smile crossing his lips in recollection as he considered his own pride at wearing a national uniform for the first time. But that had been over twenty years ago, the young innocence and eagerness replaced by grim reality…a will to perhaps be captured or killed overcoming such childish emotional warmth. Unable to end his life personally, he imagined the end at the hands of the enemy…chased down in woodland and shot mercilessly, a lifeless body left in a lonely place. The skeletal remains would be eventually located by local farmers, burying the remains of what they believed would be a fallen Russian soldier, the identity unknown.
Struggling over a fence and on into some trees as he escaped from the barn, he had vowed at that point to return to his own lines, that survival no matter how painful was key, that he needed to go back to his comrades and offer them his loyalty. It was then, running through the forest that he had made the discovery.
As the darkness began to engulf him, his drenched skin felt the lowering temperature, the follicles across his body quivering, rain beginning to fall once more as he stared out towards the low huts ahead. The wooden built structures were hidden within the trees a few kilometres from the front, a chance find as he headed back towards the south west. The realisation that these buildings were some sort of local NKVD headquarters filled his wearying chest with renewed relish and hatred for the war and now the enemy once more. This could be the last personal battle before his escape…
Having skirted the small complex, remaining within the darkened undergrowth, his eyes had scanned the six or seven low structures, realising there were two prison blocks, an administration building and barracks, his eyes straining as he heard muffled shouts and screams from the larger interrogation hut. He had watched as several men had been marched across the corduroy paths beneath trees in the descending gloom, their expressions sombre as they were shown into the foreboding enclosure. The prisoners had glimpsed the blood smears and splatters against the wooden surrounds as they were thrust through the main doors, the man watching from deep in the trees as a couple were subsequently dragged back out. The broken figures had been interrogated for some of the day, the merciless questioning of the replacement captives yet to begin.
A fence surrounded the small set of buildings, rusted barbed wire wrapped tightly around chopped thick branches and logs hammered firmly into the ground, a lone disinterested sentry seeming to occasionally walk the inside of the wire. Other than this one great coated soldier, there was another one of two at the main wooden gate, the men taking it in turns to sporadically trudge round the perimeter, glancing furtively into the darkened trees only a few metres outside the enclosure, all considering it unlikely someone would wish to break in.
As darkness seemed to creep through the trees, the fugitive considered leaving the compound, heading back to the south west towards the lines, the distant rumble of a nightly artillery salvo calling as if to beckon him away. Then the distant muffled shouting of the interrogators broke his line of thought, the candlelight and illumination from oil lanterns spilling from small windows and openings as night began to fall further.
Checking the ammunition in his pistols, he moved the bayonet and sheathed dagger to the rear of his belt, removing his helmet to wrap cloth across his mouth and forehead before repositioning the metal headwear, keen to present himself as a passing sniper looking for rations. Skirting the compound once more, he slipped through the trees for some time, eventually emerging onto the narrow track that led towards the front gate, stepping warily along it.
The two sentries turned to face him as he approached, smoke drifting from their mouths as they tossed cigarettes into the undergrowth, one young slimmer soldier smiling as he glimpsed the sniper rifle, his hand turning to retrieve the only flickering lantern, ‘Good evening comrade…have you claimed many fascists today?’ The fellow older and plumper grey bearded sentry shook his head in distain at the youthful soldier’s enthusiasm and raised a hand in greeting.
The visitor shook his head, accepting an offered cigarette thankfully, the sentries keen on the company after their lonely vigil. Leaning forward as a light was extended towards him, the visitor drew deeply on the smoke, grinning, ‘None today…I am moving along the front…I wondered if you had some food to spare?’
The younger sentry nodded, grinning widely, his grey eyes sparkling in the light from the lantern, ‘We are due off duty shortly…perhaps you would like to share some food with us…we have plenty here. We are interested to hear of your news from the front…where you have been.’ The man indicated to his stained and dishevelled uniform admiringly, ‘Obviously you have seen some considerable action in the defence of the motherland…killed many of our enemies…’
The visitor nodded, smiling fleetingly, ‘Stalingrad…and before that the Crimea…’ Glimpsing two soldiers slip out of one of the huts behind, he grinned at the thought of sustenance, weary eyes blinking in the flickering light as he nodded towards them, the aroma of cooking food drifting across the encampment, ‘It seems your replacements are here…is there a field kitchen?’
The young soldier nodded, his older companion lighting another cigarette and grimacing, ‘Field kitchen…yes. But the food is no good…the old cook’s eyes have seen better days and he smokes continuously, dropping ash in the soup and I think he spits in it too. He is a grumpy old man that drinks too much…I also think he steals some of our vodka ration…his wife left him two years ago…’
The visitor chuckled, adjusting the dirt smeared cloth across his mouth, ‘So, what prisoners do you hold here…deserters, fascists?’
The older man shook his head, ‘No…some locals that have helped the Germans mostly. Three are suspected of being SD collaborators…we captured them before retreating across the river…’ He smiled fleetingly before his eyes darkened in the glowing light, indicating towards the interrogation hut, ‘The commissars will make them talk with their NKVD helpers…whether they are guilty or not…no one can resist their questions…’
‘What happens then?’ The visitor lowered the scoped Mosin Nagant rifle from his back, the two sentries turning t
o face the men approaching to relieve them as the older man muttered, ‘They will hang or shoot them…if they are unlucky, they will be sent to a gulag in Siberia.’ He pointed towards the east into the trees, ‘There is an open grave two kilometres from here…we dump the bodies there…’
The two relieving soldiers arrived, nodding and studying the new arrival intently, the younger soldier exclaiming proudly, ‘He is an established sniper…fought in Stalingrad and Sevastopol…he will eat with us and tell us stories from the front.’
One of the new arrivals moved closer, staring the visitor in the eyes and speaking gruffly to his countryman, ‘You had better be back in two hours comrade…we need to keep alert, there is a rebel somewhere behind the lines…’ He grinned, drawing away in satisfaction once he glimpsed the Slavic features of the visitor, ‘Once we find him, he will be brought here too…his blood will stain the huts and paths before we claim his life…’
The visitor nodded wearily, his gaunt tall frame following the two other sentries as they trudged towards the huts, ‘Perhaps I will have hunted him down and killed him first…save you all the trouble…’
The three soldiers ate in virtual silence, the two guards eying their guest’s hunger with amazement as they swigged from metal cups, consuming their daily vodka ration and a little extra provided for the duty they had, the gaunt man before them consuming two mess tins full of stew before requesting another. The mess hall…if you could call it that, consisted of four worn wooden tables and makeshift dishevelled benches, cold air seeping through the gaps in the tree trunked walls. Short withered branches still stretched out from withered bark, the crusts cracked and debris scattered across the uneven planked floor as the expanding heat and contracting cold had worked on and eroded the wood. Scratched messages from bayonets marked the scored and grooved wood of both the walls and tables, the marks of idle hands of the Russian sentries whilst they waited for the meagre nourishments the kitchen would provide.
Candles on the tables flickered across the darkened small room, a limited burning cooking stove and washing facility in the small adjacent room. In contrast, a newly crafted preparation table situated in the middle of the converted kitchen, the roof bowed from the previous months’ snow. The visitor stared through into the kitchen, a low servery between the rooms flanked with smoother bark logs, several dirty linen cloths hanging from makeshift hooks beyond. Limited rough shelving lined two of the preparation room walls with sacks of food and potatoes beside tins of Russian or American meat and stew boxes stacked in the corners, the furthest containers marked with ‘for NKVD soldiers only’.
Even the elderly miserable chef seemed enthused by the visitor, much to the guards’ surprise, the cook motivated by the stranger’s hunger, shuffling even quicker from his limited kitchen with further offerings of the most unappetising looking additions, the visitor sniffing them briefly before smiling and consuming some of them.
Eventually the dirt smeared man sat back, belching and wiping his overgrown bushy moustache in satisfaction, nodding his appreciation to the elderly chef by the doorway, his eyes falling back onto the two Russian sentries before him and whispering softly as he grinned, ‘The food is not the greatest…but your cook is trying with all his passion…he wants to provide you with the best he can.’ The visitor shook his head at their grimaces, ‘The ingredients are terrible…not him. The potatoes are already badly aged…same as anything else. He has no herbs or spices that I can taste and the soup was watery…’ He nodded knowingly, ‘…give me or him the correct rations and we could prepare a feast.’
The younger guard’s eyes widened in surprise, ‘But we are assured we receive the best rations for this duty…better than forward soldiers?’
The man shook his head, running a hand across his moustache in slight nervousness, ‘Comrade, these are terrible rations…you must see what your commissars and NKVD soldiers receive, they are from American stocks…beef and potatoes that are edible and even tasty. He has done his best for you forward troops.’
The two guards stared at their guest warily, the older shaking his head and smiling, his tone a low whisper, ‘We cannot say such things comrade…even if we know them to be true…’
The younger soldier sat back sleepily, leaning against the wall of the mess area, a brief yawn as he spoke, ‘So…you will hunt more fascists tonight and tomorrow? How have you fared so far? Tell us of what it was like in Stalingrad.’
The elderly cook shuffled back into his limited kitchen, his old eyes filling with emotion at the compliment, straining as he glimpsed the last two bowls of stew he had prepared earlier, realising he would have to cook throughout the night to prepare all the breakfasts as a result of the generosity. Reaching for his old trusted worn knives, he began to move potatoes across to the dirt smeared preparation table, cutting the roots that protruded from the blackened skins before removing the worst sections of the deteriorating vegetables. The murmur of voices came from the other room, his tired eyes checking each potato before cutting, a dull sense of tiredness filling his head.
Eventually glancing upwards, he glimpsed the visitor rise wearily from the bench and sweeping the strap of his sniper rifle over his shoulder, the gaunt man clearing his throat and wiping his bushy moustache and beard, ‘I must go now…continue my hunting.’ He smiled faintly towards the old cook through the servery, ‘Thank you for the food comrade…it was most welcome. I have not eaten like that in many a day.’ The smile widened to a grin as he glanced down at his two great coated hosts, the younger soldier almost asleep against the wall, ‘You men should get some rest…it will be cold outside tonight on your duty…how long have you left before you need to go back out?’
The older sentry grimaced, his bleary bloodshot eyes exuding a fond comradeship as he swigged from a metal cup once more, ‘Maybe a little over an hour…we will bed down here in the warmth for a while and then relieve the others…’ The man extended his hand, ‘Keep safe my friend…hunt the enemy when you can, not when you feel you should…there are many more bitter months of this war left for us all I think. Survival is our only hope to get through this now.’
The figure slipped from the mess hall door, glancing round in the darkness, light spilling from under the interrogation block door to his right, his eyes gradually accustoming themselves to the darkness. Behind the block, the main gate now had two flickering lanterns next to the sentry position, the flames casting shadows across the compound. He noted one of the sentries must be walking the perimeter, the lone guard smoking and staring out into the darkness along the track, a faint smile forming on the visitor’s face as he reached for the knife and bayonet tucked into the back of his belt.
Lowering the sniper rifle from his shoulder, he wedged it against the mess hall door, digging the butting into the soft earth, the muzzle carefully wedged into an open knot in the wood. Lunging forward at a half-crouch, he disappeared between the buildings, slowly progressing in the opposite direction to the walking sentry, the Russian smoking as he stopped by the fence to stare outwards into the darkened trees.
The soldier stretched, clenching the strong cigarette between his lips as he pulled the collar of his great coat up around his neck, the spring dampness and cold seeming to be even more miserable than the winter he had just experienced, cold liquid seeping through his boots from the trek round the perimeter fence. Sighing, he drew deeply on the cigarette once more, gritting his teeth as he realised the next section of the walk was almost a bog, the soil waterlogged from days of continuous rain. Glancing upwards, he stared at the full moon, smiling briefly as his mind considered there would be no rain tonight, just another lowered temperature in the clear dark sky, the stars sparkling downwards.
The grubby ragged glove suddenly swept round his mouth and nose, the grip tight as it closed off his oxygen, his eyes briefly widening in horror before agonising pain swept through his back, the Russian spiked bayonet thrust deeply below his ribcage. Pain tore through his body as he attempted to squirm free, the ba
yonet twisted and thrust deeper, his eyes contorting in extreme terror as he felt the cold metal tear through his insides, a dull crack as his head was twisted abruptly.
His body slowly lowered out of his control, his eyes darting frantically from side to side in panic as he realised in utter despondency his limbs would no longer move, that his weight was no longer supported, his legs useless and buckling beneath him. His frame slumped to the damp earth, a low gurgle coming from his throat as his head lolled sideways, eyes struggling to focus as intense excruciating pain swept through his body, blood pumping onto the wet soil and grass beneath.
As his eyes glimpsed the retreating silhouette, a brief ironic smile contorted across his lips, fleeting recognition of the figure at a half crouch as his vision became blurred. Gradually the light faded from his mind, his body contorted at an uncomfortable angle, the smile still on his face, the silhouette heading for the interrogation block as the last thought drifted through a ‘swimming’ and blurred consciousness, ‘the hated NKVD were next’.
The stout soldier sat disgruntled on the stool provided by the reinforced door, the extra planking behind the half logged door to not only prevent any escapes, but also to ensure limited warping and the sturdiest of doorways due to the frequent use of the entrance. The wood was heavily stained and smeared, darkened blood streaks and splatters from the frequently beaten prisoners mixed with the dirt and scuff marks. The corridor was similar, the walls having seen viciously dragged prisoners bounced and thrust across the uneven surfaces for resisting arrest or in relish by the camp NKVD guards and interrogators, revenge was unmonitored…any reprisals to be overlooked in the name of truth. After all, the detained were already guilty…it was only a matter of time before they admitted it.
Bloody Citadel Page 4