A scream erupted from one of the detention cells, the unfortunate prisoner having been wrongly identified as a German sympathiser by one of his bitter neighbours, the accuser keen to gain favour with the local commissar. The accused sank back in the lone chair, gasping for breath, his thirty eight year old crippled frame shaking in fright, an early farming injury preventing him from being enlisted. Glancing down in horror at his severed finger, he shrieked as the interrogator thrust a mug of vodka upwards, the strong alcohol swirling around the open wound.
The NKVD soldier leant back in his chair, relishing the moaning that came from the two other interrogation rooms, knowing the interviewers were taking a break and considering their next horrific unorthodox surprises, his thoughts wandering from the techniques he had seen himself, his anticipation rising for the anguish to come.
Then there was a knock on the exterior door, three dull strikes in line with an arriving prisoner, the sentry rising wearily and in distain, his voice rising, ‘Who is it? There is only one cell free? Where is the interrogator?’
The voice was muffled, ‘New prisoner…open up.’
The sentry reached for the hatch in the door, the catches clicking back as he determined to give the unscheduled visitors a gruff dressing down as to the base’s NKVD schedule. The small wooden opening set three quarters up the frame swung open, the sentry thrusting his face to the opening in distain and rising annoyance.
His eyes strained as he stared out into the darkness, then a flash of light from the lanterns within as his head jerked violently backwards, a mind suddenly confused and distraught as a dull crunch resounded across the walls of the short corridor. Attempting to swallow instinctively, his eyesight briefly blurred, pain sweeping through his mouth and head, a slow gurgle as saliva and blood swept into his throat, his gulping restricted. The long bayonet cracked through the top of the man’s skull, the gripping hand twisting as the eyes before the assailant widened, the pupils seeming to twitch then dilate uncontrollably as massive haemorrhaging occurred.
The twitching body fell backwards, collapsing onto the rough cement floor, the steel helmet cracking against the wet surface, the body convulsing as a greedy hand swept through the open viewing hatch, fingers fumbling on the interior bolts as the sturdy door began to open. The shuddering sentry stared upwards almost lifelessly as the figure passed overhead, the opening door roughly pushing an extended boot to one side, then a weight on his chest that he could not comprehend. A short gurgle and slurp, then a squelch as the bayonet was dragged free, the eyelids flickering briefly before darkness descended, the silhouette advancing beyond the extending blood pool spilling from the lifeless twitching frame.
The middle aged interrogator leant forward onto the blood smeared desk before him, his face contorting to a sneer as he neared the prisoner, ‘Tell me again so that I may understand properly…the stores in your barn…who were they for? Did you expect the fascists to continue their advance beyond the Donetz River?’
He stared venomously into the prisoner’s eyes, the man bound tightly to a sturdy chair with leather straps, a stout and bald headed NKVD soldier gripping the sweat drenched hair and holding his head upwards, metal bands across his fingers. With a broken nose and blood splattered features, the crippled man in his late thirties looked back defiantly through blackened swollen and bruised eyes, crimson liquid soaking his open linen shirt, his moustache matted with blood from a broken nose.
His eyes fleetingly moved to the severed finger on the table top, a low groan coming from his chest from cracked ribs as he spluttered, ‘A-As I said before comrade commissar…the food was for my animals and family…I have no support for the Germans. They are our enemy, have brutalised our lands…’
The interrogator shook his head, unwilling to accept the man’s story as he licked his lips in anticipation, a jolt of excitement stirring in his stomach for the continued torture, ‘Your neighbours all state that you had been missing from your farm…that you travelled to speak to the German sympathisers in the south…’ His voice lowered tauntingly, ‘…how do you explain such a visit?’
Tears of defeat filled the man’s eyes, his determination broken as he swallowed in dread for what was to come, ‘I-I am only telling the truth Sir…my son is in the south. When the Germans attacked I wanted to go and bring him home…to help on the farm.’
The interrogator’s hand struck him hard across the cheek, a dull crack resounding across the walls, the impact forcing the man’s head to the right violently as his hair stretched, a pained whimper coming from his swollen lips. The NKVD soldier leaning over him spoke once more, his tone venomous, ‘You lie! The food was for the Germans…we found two rifles in your house. One a fascist weapon…how did you come by such a rifle?’ The interrogator straightened as the prisoner coughed violently, wincing as his chest ached painfully, blood dripping from his open mouth with his head lolling forward, the man beginning to lose consciousness, a pitiful groan slipping from his lips.
The NKVD officer glanced at his subordinate, a faint smile of relish crossing his lips, ‘He is no use to us in this state. Take him back to his room and we will continue tomorrow. Bring me the woman…she will prove to be more entertaining for us both…her screams may encourage the others to talk more openly.’
The soldier grinned through crooked teeth, nodding his approval as he wiped saliva from his mouth, his lust growing for the female prisoner in her late twenties, the slim and curvaceous woman accused of sexual favours for Nazi sympathisers in Kharkov before the Red Army re-took the city.
The officer turned away, stepping towards the door as the soldier behind pushed the prisoner’s head forward, the man’s face hitting the desktop hard as the NKVD guard leant down for the leather restraints, the tight course material cutting into the captive’s wrists and ankles.
The NKVD officer’s eyes narrowed as he heard shuffling outside, and muffled moaning, the door opening slightly as he glanced out into the hallway, head turning towards the interrogation room at the end of the corridor, the furthest from the entrance, two of the three other ‘suites’ occupied, the one next door empty. Pulling the door wide open, he stepped into the narrow dimly lit corridor, the light above flickering briefly as the door swung closed a metre behind him. As he stared along the floor and walls, his eyes strained suspiciously as he realised the lights at the end were no longer working, illumination only coming from the adjacent corridor which led to the main entrance.
Stepping forward again, his head lowered at an angle as he stepped to the left, glimpsing a shadow at the end, his voice cautiously rising, ‘Where are the lights? Is your prisoner talking?’ His eyes widened as he glimpsed another open doorway further along to the right, opposite the entrance corridor.
The low moaning continued, a scraping in the darkness as he took another step, his hand reaching for the holster at his waist as he spoke again, ‘What is the matter with you? Answer my questions…report…’ His voice trailed off as a bloodied hand pushed into the light, a gurgle coming from the crawling soldier’s mouth, his other hand grasping a torn throat, blood dribbling uncontrollably between his fingers onto the wet and smeared cement.
The officer’s hand fumbled for his Togarev pistol, his eyes moving to the open doorway on his right, seeing blood splattered across the far wall inside, a twitching crimson soaked hand, the pistol sweeping upwards as he glimpsed the NKVD uniform cuff, his eyes moving back to the crawling soldier at the end. The man’s eyes were wide and pleading, further gurgling coming from his lips as he struggled painfully forwards, the officer swallowing hard.
Then he drew a sharp breath as his boot hit another body in the darkness, the soldier slumped against the wall beneath, his head lolling forward as the officer stared down, slowly lowering to a crouch, the pistol held before him. His trembling hand reached down, withdrawing quickly as he realised the prone soldier’s tunic was torn wide open, his fingers glistening with blood from contact with exposed internal organs, the flesh still warm to the to
uch.
Rising quickly, he backed away slowly in rising fear, the pistol raised as the crawling soldier ahead fell forward weakly, the blood now spilling across the concrete floor as his hand fell away, the body shuddering in death. The officer’s boots scraped along the cement in the darkness, the pistol jerking back and forth nervously as he reached the open doorway to his own room, his low voice rising in fear, ‘Get out here…the men are dead…we are under attack!’
Shuffling into the room as he looked warily down the corridor, then a delay, his eyes straining in the darkness, a blood pool extending from the figure face down in the light further along. His hissed voice rose, ‘Get out here…’ His head turned fleetingly before his eyes widened, his breath caught as he stared dumbstruck into the interrogation room.
The prisoner was slumped forwards in his chair, his head lying on the bloodied table top, hands dangling freely. Behind him, the lifeless eyes of the stout NKVD soldier stared towards the open doorway, the bald man lying on his back, his throat cut from ear to ear. The floor was now soaked in blood, the officer realising the open wound had been cut deeply to prevent sound, his hands shaking as he spun round in the darkness.
Then a vicious blow to his arm, the sharp crack of a bone as he shrieked abruptly, his legs kicked from under him as he fell backwards, the pistol clattering to the floor as his head smashed against the wall, his body shuddering to the floor. Stunned, he shook his head, one hand rising as a vicious punch smacked against his nose, the bone cracking as he screamed once more, his eyes rolling as he fought the pain and unconsciousness. Another crack as his remaining wrist was twisted abruptly, the tendons stretching painfully as the bone snapped, his whimpering rising as blood ran into his throat from his shattered nose.
Rough hands grasped his collar, his body twisting as he was dragged along the floor and down the corridor, his terrified senses just making out the nearby door opening, his body cracking against the doorframe and into the free interrogation cell.
The sentry at the gate glanced round in concern, his countryman and fellow soldier still to return to the main entrance of the compound. Grimacing as he considered his friend had been unable to resist stopping off for a drink, he shook his head, reaching for his battered American cigarette packet. Then he stiffened, glimpsing the great coated silhouette trudging towards him along the perimeter fence, his head turning back to view the darkened track before him, a muffled distant shot ringing out from the west.
Hearing muffled footsteps behind, he drew deeply on the cigarette, glancing down at the burning ash in satisfaction, the blend from across the world pleasing him. He coughed briefly, shaking his head in dissatisfaction as he spoke, ‘You have been a long time…’ The soldier chuckled, ‘…you are lucky the duty commissar did not venture out, he is probably deep into his vodka ration by now with his cronies…’ He glanced round, his eyes widening in shock as the blade swept forward, slicing through his throat, the rifle falling from his shoulder as his hands rose to the deep wound.
His knees sagging, he toppled backwards, slumping down into the deep grass by the sentry position as he struggled to breath, blood pouring into his lungs. His eyes stared up at the figure that hesitated briefly over him, then the silhouette turned and lunged away as the sentry’s head slumped backwards, wet undergrowth covering his features.
His darkening senses became aware of a muffled shout of alarm from within the compound, an NKVD political soldier staring aghast at the torn lifeless bodies in the interrogation block, one in an empty cell, the officer tied to the table. The soldier stared in horror at the injuries, the hated superior’s tunic ripped open and chest almost surgically broken, shattered ribs protruding from the frantic and brutal stabbings the man had received with a long bayonet. The blood drenched floor of the interrogation room was smeared with boot marks, the soldier glancing at them briefly before shouting out desperately, ‘The rebel is here! Alarm! Two of the prisoners are loose!’
The gaunt figure crashed through the undergrowth and darkened trees, his blood soaked great coat thrown aside as he progressed, a cunning grim smile on his face as he heard the muffled shout, considering the soldier had yet to visit the prison block…there were more dead there, and all the cell doors were open. His thoughts drifted back to his earlier decision…it was time to move west and quickly, the local Red Army would want his head in a noose…he must now get back through the defensive lines to safety.
Chapter Two: The Ghosts of Stalingrad
The bedraggled group stood between snow laden trees, clouds of exhaled air swirling around their shivering figures. A low cold mist filled the steppe either side of the small wood, the blanket of iced snow unforgiving, several of the huddled figures considering this would now inevitably also be their last resting place.
Many sniffed as they stood, their physical frames virtual shadows of what they had been less than a year earlier, their clothing torn and dirt smeared, many wearing the ragged uniforms of those friends who had fallen. Dulled minds sometimes recalled the people they had individually been in incomprehension, some recollecting loved ones and emotional moments from their past, the memories vague and seeming disconnected due to undernourishment and weakness.
A solemn figure shuffled before them, many of the emaciated men staring blankly at the silhouette with blood shot sullen eyes, a freezing breeze engulfing the group as they pushed together for further limited warmth. Behind the lone figure, the frozen open graves of men that had fallen were lined side by side, covering the woodland floor and providing a place of reflection and a grim memorial to the fallen.
Many of the casualties were not even given the courtesy of a funeral, their frozen cold bodies thrust unceremoniously into one of the camp’s incinerators, some men still alive and screaming as unsympathetic guards and collaborators prized or smashed their weakened hands from any obstruction that delayed their journey into the engulfing flames.
The unfortunate victims were usually simply suffering from trench foot or frostbite, their feet no longer able to support their bodies and therefore useless to the authorities and work details. Anyone suspected of contracting an illness in the severe conditions was also despatched in a similar manner, the fear of an outbreak overcoming any diagnosis or even basic medical care.
Work details were viciously cruel, the men having seen many a comrade fall and not get up when clearing forests or working in the stone quarry and coal mine, the iced and frozen rocks almost impossible to break with the rudimental tools they had been provided with.
Most such weakened prisoners had succumbed to their fate whether inevitable or not, beaten viciously for sport by the guards then left to freeze and die of exposure in the surrounding woods or quarry and mine as the work details departed. The frozen bodies were then collected upon return early the next day for transport to the ovens and pyres, the guards eagerly taunting and pushing the wretches that were selected on a daily basis to remove the corpses.
Similarly, any misdemeanours were dealt with in the same way, the guilty man or one suspected of any crime beaten viciously in reprisal and example to others before being left to freeze or even dragged pleading to the incinerators as they protested their innocence. In the eyes of the guards, all the miserable and hated prisoners were guilty, they just needed any reason for brutal punishment or sentence.
The ovens provided basic warmth through a pipe system for the garrisoned guards and their commander in their nearby barracks, the prisoners left to their own devices for heat in low wooden huts. Many worked while a thin and flurrying ash from the camp chimneys fell upon the work details during the morning and throughout the afternoon. In the evenings, the harvested wood from local forests was burnt in the ovens, thus providing twenty four hour basic warmth for the overseers of such human misery.
Food was basic and insufficient, the once proud soldiers scoffing the watery soup or stale bread and potatoes as soon as they received it, eager to see if there were additional portions for the fallen or those that had been l
eft to the elements that could be distributed to provide additional comfort or energy. Some even deprived those asleep of their rations, but if discovered this would lead to reprisals and punishment beatings, the unfortunate man who had missed his food still not receiving the rations due to him.
The lone figure shuffled further, stopping next to a shallow grave and glancing down at the dishevelled clothing covering the frozen corpse, the cold air catching in his throat as he looked up at the forty or so men stood around him in the low trees. Considering they had little time before they were required back in the nearby quarry, he sniffed as he stared downwards, his eyes filling with emotion as he spoke softly, his voice trembling, ‘Soldiers of the brave 76th Infantry Division...we gather here to bid farewell to one of our own, a man who fought alongside us all...’
The figure seemed to sway in weakness, his straining muscles hurting as the cold swept through his bones, his body shaking with emotion, ‘I fought alongside this man for three years in France, the Balkans and Russia...he was my commander and friend.’ The man’s sullen face looked up into the trees as if seeking inspiration, two guards grinning in sneers as they strode past behind, rifles over their padded uniformed shoulders and long sticks in their hands ready to distribute punishment if required.
The man cleared his throat again, ‘Many of us have now fallen and I have only to hope my friend is now sitting with these fine soldiers, drinking schnapps and recounting the adventures or events that brought us to this miserable place. We are now few in number, but must pay our respects to the fallen, support each other and continue...this cannot last forever.’ The figure stiffened, a hand raised firmly to salute as the forty plus men responded in unison, all saluting amongst the trees, their bloodshot eyes strained against the cold as they recounted yet another lost soul.
Bloody Citadel Page 5