The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  Kasseri reached his friend and turned him over. Leonid was unconscious but Kasseri sensed he was still alive. He looked up to check the position of the tanks; they were closer and moving fast. It would be impossible for him to drag his friend to safety in time, but he had to try. Kasseri lifted Leonid from behind, under his arms, and began pulling him backwards in the direction of the cover. He was still only half way there when he judged the first Panzer was now within machine gun range. Out in the open with a wounded man and only his standard rifle for protection he was in trouble. His mind raced as he tried to think of an escape. There was only one hope. He glanced back over his shoulder to see where they were.

  Pasha was running like a man who had just seen his naked, young wife smiling at him from their bedroom window. Snow flew from his boots and he carried his sniper rifle in both hands to aid balance and speed. He turned his head to see where the tanks were and as he looked back, he stopped running and turned around. Kasseri, his commander, had gone back and was dragging a wounded Leonid. The tanks were getting closer. Kasseri was never going to make it.

  ‘Alexei,’ he called out. The experienced tank buster was slower as he had been further out and was carrying a much heavier weapon. He reached Pasha, stopped and turned to look. Both men knew Kasseri and Leonid had only one chance.

  ‘Can you do it?’ Pasha asked Alexei. The tank buster didn’t waste time with an answer. Both men dropped to the ground and readied their weapons. Pasha adjusted his scope and Alexei planted the twin front legs of his weapon and banged home the five-shell clip.

  Kasseri turned back to see the black machine gun muzzle swing across and aim directly at him. The leading tank gunner targeted the Russians and prepared to fire. The second Panzer was six lengths further back and had moved to the right, steering in the direction of the running soldiers. The tanks roared as they came closer and their tracks tore up the snow.

  Pasha rested his Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle across the crook of his arm and aimed through the scope at the head of the leading tank commander. Alexei lay on his front, gripped his anti-tank rifle and took aim at the front Panzer. Both soldiers needed to work at a rapid pace, targeting a moving tank at fifty-five yards. To save Leonid and Kasseri, Alexei knew he could not miss. He had to somehow disable the gunner and then take out the driver of the first tank and then the second. In the heavy snow and with the gusty wind they were near impossible shots. If Pasha could take out the Panzer commanders then it would help but Alexei it was who had to make his shots. Both men made their final adjustment, kept perfectly still and then fired.

  The German tank commander was looking at the two Russian soldiers. One dragged his wounded comrade through the snow like a sack of grain.

  ‘Peasants,’ he said with disgust as he watched and waited for the machine gun to kill them. The tank gunner was waiting until he was close enough to make the kill without wasting ammunition. He was only ten yards away when he decided it was close enough.

  Kasseri stared up at the tank and continued to drag Leonid backwards as fast as he could. He knew they were about to fire, and then he heard the report of the sniper rifle, immediately followed by the much louder bang of the anti-tank rifle. As Kasseri watched, he saw the bullet from Pasha’s sniper rifle hit the tank commander in the upper chest causing his head to jerk violently. Pasha watched through his magnifying scope. The bullet tore through the German’s uniform coat leaving a dirty circular mark on the light grey cloth. The man’s body vibrated with the impact and fell against the constraint of his lookout position. For a brief moment, he remained conscious and his hand instinctively pressed against his wound. Pasha watched the blood gush through his fingers before he dropped forward out of his turret and died face down on the snow-covered tank.

  The shell from Pasha’s rifle hit the beast but away from where he had aimed. It struck the front body of the tank where the thickest section of armour plating was difficult to penetrate. It left the gunner unharmed. The German inside was shocked by the unexpected shell strike which unnerved him. He regained his composure and focused on the two Russians. He pulled the trigger on his machine gun; certain he would kill both men. The machine gun exploded inwards with a devastating backfire that sent metal and flames flying into the German’s hands and face. He fell backwards from the blast, wounded, deafened and burnt. The strike from Alexei’s anti-tank rifle had damaged the tank’s machine gun barrel, squeezing the round tube together and bending it fifteen degrees causing the backfire.

  Kasseri did not waste time considering what had happened. He continued dragging his friend with all his strength; motivated by the relief of still being alive.

  Alexei immediately fired a second time. This time, his aim was better. The high-velocity bullet struck the tank lower down and on its side where the tracks ran. The shell exploded inside the continuous metal tread, breaking the links and forcing the runners to fail. Grinding metal screeched, sparks sprayed through the snow and black smoke billowed as an oil fire took hold. The tank lurched violently like a derailed steam engine and then stopped abruptly.

  The commander of the second Panzer, watching what was happening, reacted immediately. He ignored Kasseri and instead ordered his gunner to target Pasha and Alexei with the main 50mm gun. The second tank slowed and then stopped, allowing for an accurate shot. The gunner adjusted his sight and prepared to fire. In the few seconds that this had taken, both Pasha and Alexei realised what was happening. As the 50mm gun recoiled loudly from spitting out its shell, both men had already jumped to their feet, picked up their rifles and were running, crouched low towards the tank. The huge shell flew over their heads and landed with a thunderous explosion only yards from where they had been. Both soldiers now dropped to the ground, prepared their rifles again and took aim. The Panzer did not move. Instead, the commander had made the order for a second shot. This was a grave error. As the gunner aimed his 50mm cannon once more, Pasha and Alexei targeted their motionless prey less than forty yards away. They both fired quickly and within seconds of each other. Both shots were faultless. The sniper’s bullet entered the commander’s head through his right eyebrow causing his head to snap back as though pulled cruelly by an invisible string. The anti-tank shell hit the exact spot where Alexei knew from experience would kill the gunner and probably the driver as well. It made the metallic explosive noise that Pasha loved to hear. Alexei still had two bullets in his magazine and although the tank was silent he was not about to take any chances. With professional accuracy, he fired twice more. Both shells struck the Panzer’s vulnerable spot. The metal track snapped apart leaving it grounded. Alexei and Pasha exchanged glances. The other soldiers from the Russian unit now returned and began advancing on the two stranded German tanks.

  Kasseri rested. He dropped to his knees with Leonid held against him. The rest of the unit engaged in a rapid attack on the tank crews. In just a few minutes, all the Germans were dead. The Russians salvaged anything useful from the tanks and then regrouped under cover in the ruins of a nearby storage building.

  ‘We must get him back as quickly as possible,’ Kasseri said after he had examined Leonid’s wound. His friend had lost much blood and his face was deathly pale. A ugly piece of shrapnel had cut through the clothing and embedded deeply into his back on the left side between the hipbone and the ribcage.

  Four soldiers lifted the stretcher and the others fell into formation. Kasseri led and they headed off through the snow. They moved fast and arrived back in less than ten minutes. Kasseri entrusted his friend to the medical staff and the surgeon. He knew there was nothing more he could do.

  Later that evening, the soldiers sat on low wooden chairs with the fire dancing and crackling at their feet. Kasseri leant forward and poked it with a long stick. The burning logs shifted and settled with sparks shooting high. He sat back and took a gulp of vodka.

  ‘You two saved my life today,’ he said.

  Pasha and Alexei sat next to him with vodka in their hands. They looked at each other but nei
ther of them spoke.

  ‘If you hadn’t stopped…’ Kasseri said and then paused. He stared at the two young men. ‘…a Panzer moving across open ground, fifty yards away in a snow storm, with only seconds to make the shots.’ He paused again. ‘It was the most incredible shooting I’ve ever seen,’ he said.

  Again, the two young soldiers looked at each other, and again they said nothing. They simply shrugged and drank more vodka.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kasseri said.

  The doctor worked quickly. Leonid was close to death. He was delirious with fever and muttered warnings against an imaginary foe. The huge blood loss had almost stopped his heart. The doctor administered an injection of morphine to lessen his pain, and this combined with his physical exhaustion was sufficient to keep him unconscious. Next, they had to give him blood. The transfusion was successful, leading to an increase in his blood pressure, and supplying the critical proteins needed for clotting and immunity.

  Once Leonid was stable, the surgeon was able to operate to remove the jagged shrapnel from his back. The surgeon’s scalpel cut down from the point of entry allowing him to remove the metal while avoiding further trauma. As he examined the wound and the damage caused, he saw confirmation of his fear. Leonid’s kidney had been smashed and would require removal. The surgeon operated swiftly and within thirty minutes, he was suturing the wound with a long curved needle and black catgut.

  The doctors put his chances at fifty-fifty; they had seen men die from lesser injuries. They said it would depend on how tough he was and how lucky.

  The following morning, Kasseri went to see him. Standing by his bed, he stared down at his friend. His condition shocked Kasseri. Leonid was still unconscious, his breathing was shallow, his face was ashen and his closed eyes were sunken inside black and purple bruises. Kasseri felt his hand. It had some warmth. He squeezed the hand in hope. His friend was going to be all right, he was certain of it. Killing Leonid was not so easy.

  It was a further thirty-six hours before Leonid regained consciousness. His first two thoughts were he must have water and that a mule must have kicked him in the back. He drank the water and it tasted like the tears of a thousand angels. The doctor told him that the mule had been a piece of shrapnel and that he had lost a kidney.

  ‘Your blood pressure is stable,’ the doctor said. ‘Take regular sips of water; that’s important. If you avoid infection you’ve got a good chance of making it.’

  The doctor spoke with the cold professional voice of an army surgeon. Leonid drank more water and then fell asleep.

  The next day Kasseri returned to see him. He recounted what had happened.

  ‘We didn’t see the two Panzers until it was too late. They were behind the tree and hidden by the snowstorm. The second shell landed behind you and just in front of Vassily. It killed him instantly,’ Kasseri explained.

  Leonid stared at him, not remembering any of it. ‘Then what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Then we ran for cover,’ Kasseri said. ‘The nearest buildings were about seventy yards away.’

  Leonid nodded. ‘Who got the Panzer kills?’ he asked.

  ‘Alexei got them both and Pasha killed both commanders,’ Kasseri answered. ‘It was a good recovery, only one dead and one injured. It could have been much worse.’

  Kasseri didn’t tell his friend the full story. He didn’t think it was necessary.

  ‘It could still be two dead,’ Leonid told him.

  Kasseri laughed.

  ‘You’re not going to die,’ he said. ‘Not this time.’

  Despite his protestations, Leonid returned to Moscow to convalesce. He was adamant he did not need to go but Kasseri insisted.

  ‘You can’t fight anymore and we only have use of fighting men. Anyway, it’s just a matter of time until we win this war and you need better medical care which is in Moscow,’ he told his friend. Kasseri was right and Leonid knew it.

  ‘When you’ve beaten the Germans here in Stalingrad and the rest turn and run,’ Leonid said, ‘make sure you chase them…chase them all the way back to Berlin.’ Leonid gave his parting advice. Then he fixed Kasseri with an intense look and gripped his arm.

  ‘Destroy them,’ he said. ‘Kill every single one of them. Make sure they never come back. Make sure that when they think of Russia they think only of their own death.’

  Kasseri nodded at his friend.

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  6 August 12, 1944, Italian-Franco border

  The August evening air was soft and warm.

  A song thrush whistled loudly. Rafferty listened but he couldn’t tell if the bird was Italian or French.

  Rafferty, Fitz and Smithy prepared their weapons and their kit. The three soldiers were camped on the Italian-Franco border less than two and a half miles from the German army group G south of the Loire.

  Smithy brushed the polish into the soft leather of his right boot with a rapid up and down movement.

  ‘You’ll wear them out,’ Fitz said.

  ‘We’re going to walk twenty miles tonight,’ Smithy replied. ‘Soft boots are important.’

  ‘With that rapid hand action, I’m surprised you haven’t worn your cock out,’ Fitz told him.

  Smithy threw the brush at him but missed.

  Rafferty picked it up and handed it back.

  ‘Tonight’s important,’ he told them. ‘Let’s start concentrating.’

  The three young soldiers, all of them of Irish descent, walked out of camp shortly after last light. They wore black combats and black faces, and within ten paces had vanished into the black night. Smithy’s boots felt soft and comfortable. He grinned to himself. As the best scout of the three, he led, with Rafferty next and Fitz at the rear.

  Their night-time missions, behind enemy lines, had been to gather intelligence on German positions. Tonight’s mission, though, was slightly different. Tonight, they had to rendezvous with an American spy and return with the documents he was to pass them, which contained important intelligence that would help with the Allied invasion. The American had been living in occupied France, undercover as a Frenchman, and working with the résistance. The three soldiers only knew him by his codename, The Cardinal, which he was to tell them when they rendezvoused by way of identification. Fitz had asked if he was a priest. Rafferty had answered he thought the name came from a character in an old French novel. Fitz had said it was a better name than his. Fitz was just Fitzgerald shortened.

  Smithy kept away from the roads. He led them cross-country, over fields of summer grasses, around dense forest groves and through orchards of apple trees. It was harder than using the roads but they avoided any German patrols.

  They were aiming for a small town, ten miles from the border, marked by a church with a tall spire and surrounded on one side by fields of sunflowers. The rendezvous point was the graveyard in the grounds below the church. They were to meet the American spy by a gate in the brick wall on the south side, behind a large spruce tree.

  The three soldiers crossed a shallow stream and Rafferty checked his compass and his map. Smithy didn’t seem to need his compass. He occasionally looked up at the clear night sky where a quarter moon hung lopsided like a bumped picture.

  The church spire appeared, silhouetted against the midnight blue sky as if it were a cardboard cutout on a film set. Ahead, an owl hooted and swooped as it hunted for field mice.

  The soldiers split and circled the church, approaching the graveyard from different directions.

  Rafferty lifted his head slowly and saw the gravestones raised black and grey by a weak shimmer of moonlight. Fitz vaulted a low wall, landed silently and held his squat position. He listened to the dark shadows and watched for any movement in the eerie silence. Smithy noticed one of the double arched wooden doors was half-open. It led through a stone portico onto a compacted pathway and up to the main church entrance. He stepped sideways and followed the wall, walking on the grass between the headstones. He noticed some of the graves had cut flowers
placed in remembrance. Rafferty reached the large spruce and circled it slowly. He walked to the brick wall and saw the wooden gate with a tall hedge running south-west. They were early and the three soldiers settled down in concealed positions to wait. The night was quiet, broken only by the sound of an occasional "hoot" in the darkness.

  It was more than an hour after the agreed rendezvous time when Rafferty heard footsteps on the pathway. He watched the female legs come closer and then saw a light coat tight at the waist and then dark hair under a soft hat. She stopped and turned. Rafferty saw her face. She was a girl, only fourteen or fifteen. She turned again as she searched and listened. Rafferty waited until she stepped away and then he slipped out silently and came up behind her. He stopped her with both arms, wrapping them around her and he forced his hand over her mouth. Her head pressed back against his chest and he felt the warmth of her body and caught the smell of her hair. She didn’t struggle or make a sound as if she wasn’t surprised. He pulled her backwards, into the shadowy cover of the spruce. He kept her mouth covered.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he whispered.

  His lips were in her hair. She felt his hot breath and nodded her head.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. She didn’t respond. He removed his hand slowly and she turned slowly within his grasp. She was poised and confident. Her dark eyes shone with passion.

  ‘The Cardinal,’ she said.

  Fitz had broken cover and he scanned the pathway and graveyard holding his gun ready with both hands. He glanced back and Rafferty gave the signal. Smithy appeared from the dark bushes beside them and they all moved silently through the gateway and into the field of sunflowers. They crouched below the drooping, yellow faces. Their bodies had bumped the stalks and the flowers nodded their heads like wise old men agreeing to an unspoken truth.

  Rafferty held the girl very close. Their faces were only inches apart. Fitz and Smithy flanked either side and watched for danger. They searched and listened. The night was still and silent. The girl had come alone.