Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  Oleg gritted his teeth, staring out into the cold fog as he slipped the rifle silently from his shoulder, stepping forward tentatively and raising the weapon, his head turning, ‘Get back to camp...warn them...the Germans are here!’ Mishka’s eyes widened behind him, her heart beating hard in her chest as he slipped to the side of the track, pushing his shoulder against a frozen tree trunk, her eyes straining to look beyond him.

  Another distant startled hoot from an owl, the forest falling deathly silent again as Oleg shivered, the rifle raising to his right cheek as he stared out into the cold, eyes bloodshot. Mishka stepped back, her thighs straining from the stretched exertion and cold, her voice lowered, ‘I will be back soon...bring some other...’ The tiny distant flash was followed by the sound of a shrill crack sweeping through the trees. Oleg yelped in surprise, the bullet whisking past his position and smacking into a tree trunk behind.

  Throwing himself into the undergrowth, he grunted in alarm, ‘Mishka...get back! Fascist snipers...they are hunting us!’

  He scrambled forward into the bushes, frozen branches tearing at and scratching his exposed features, the crack of an extended root beneath him as he turned to stare. Mishka was gone...he was alone.

  Gasping for breath, his fear rising, he struggled with the thorns that caught in his overcoat and hides, a whimper of frustration coming from his lips as he finally freed himself. Lying back in the snow, his heart pounded in fear as his frame shook, the iced air and snow seeming to bite into his flesh. Slipping his rifle forward, he slowly turned his body, shuffling forward through the thick undergrowth, raising the weapon to his cheek once more.

  Biting his lower lip in nervousness and rising terror, he considered the sniper must be an excellent shot, the distance and cold being far beyond his own skill. Shaking his head in rising dread, he wondered how many there could be...convinced there would be more than a group to sweep the forest.

  Ducking his head out quickly, he stared back along the track, his eyes widening as he glimpsed distant crouched figures moving across the end of the track before it descended into the depression, a cloud of air around him as he raised his rifle. The flash in the distance was instant, the rifle crack resounding through the cold forest.

  Mishka was scrambling through the frozen snow, tears in her eyes as she gasped for breath, her heart pounding in fear. Following the discretely marked tracks, she gathered speed, the snow becoming more compacted, the path having been used by many of the scouts, her movement becoming easier. Whimpering as she heard the second muffled shot behind, she lunged on, slipping between trees and round snow laden bushes, her muscles painful in the cold.

  Descending a slope, her boots slipped and slid across the iced surface, her blurred vision glimpsing several shadows ahead, the men moving towards her at a half crouch, one calling out as she approached, a brief fleeting recognition of her father’s voice as she slumped into his arms, ‘What is happening ahead? Has Oleg seen something?’

  Shaking in fright, she gasped a broken response, ‘Fascist snipers...we need to leave...they are in the forest!’

  The older Russian held his daughter tightly, indicating to the others with a jerk of his covered head in dread, ‘Go and clear the camp...they need to move now...’

  Mishka struggled upwards, the hands holding her tightly, as she hissed frantically, ‘We need to get Oleg! He is facing them...’

  She stared into her father’s bloodshot eyes, the older man shaking his head, ‘It is too dangerous...we will lose men...Oleg must get back by himself, he knows the way...we will not find him if he moves.’

  More muffled shots rang out, the burst of a Maxim machine gun and an explosion far off to her left, one of the tripwires pulled, her father’s hands dragging her back towards the camp, his voice firm, ‘They are near the bank...getting close!’ He spat into the snow in irritation, ‘They must have killed the other sentries we put out...they were further forward.’

  Another explosion off to the left, a burst of machine gun fire, then another, the old man swearing in rising dread, ‘German MG34 machine guns...the Einsatzgruppe are here...they will have security police with them!’

  Maxim machine guns chattered out, the crack of rifle shots and explosions as a skirmish erupted, Mishka sobbing as her father and another burly Russian dragged her roughly back towards the encampment. Then muffled rifle shots to the right, the forward sentries firing at movement on the edge of the forest, a Cossack unit advancing into the forest from the east.

  Oleg exhaled heavily, slumping back against the gradual bank, his position in the undergrowth covered, but also under the scrutiny of at least one German marksman, the fascist soldier having been flown in with a number of other specialists by several Fiesler Storch aircraft in the late afternoon, the small planes able to land in nearby fields and not requiring a formal runway.

  Gritting his teeth, his body shaking, he heard the bursts of gunfire erupting on either side, his eyes clenched shut as he considered how close the last shot had been, his frustration rising as he realised the sniper was indeed very good, the bullet clipping the bark just above his head. His thoughts seemed to spiral in shock as he considered the experienced sniper was now hunting him down, the stalker moving closer whilst keeping a watchful eye on the position he knew his prey was hiding in…death was near.

  Pavel dropped the packs, wrapped hides and food, glimpsing Mishka being dragged against her will back into the encampment, his eyes glistening with the cold and emotion as he realised she had probably been looking for Oleg, his heart racing in almost panic as he grabbed his rifle. Lunging towards the older men and struggling young woman, he shouted desperately, hearing the shooting echo through the trees to the south, ‘Where is Oleg…where is my friend?’

  Mishka stared up at him, her eyes widening as she pointed back up the track, Pavel running forward and beginning to scramble up the bank, her frantic shrieks ringing in his ears, ‘He is near the track…there is a German sniper…bring him back!’

  Pavel glanced back briefly, pushing his tired legs forward up the slope, the encampment of low tree trunk built sheds for sleeping and tarpaulin covered supplies dotted across a wide area, the tall pine trees above having offered adequate cover in the last couple of weeks.

  Running on, he felt his adrenalin surge, overcoming the tiredness of the early evening, he remembered Oleg’s body next to him convulsing in deep dream, the younger soldier eventually holding his friend tightly to his chest as his countryman wept in his sleep. Pavel had felt the pain of his new ‘brother’, not understanding Oleg knew his entire family was dead, the older Russian talking as though they were alive when they conversed, the soldier seeing them hung from lampposts by commissars as he was forcibly driven to the front in an American lorry. His father had made the mistake of speaking out publicly in outrage against the local communist leader’s draconian actions against a minority group in their village, the family of suspected Kalmyks cast out into the freezing wilderness.

  Feeling his legs weaken, he drew deep breaths, the freezing air painful in his chest as breathing wheezed through his lungs, the temperature seeming to become even lower, gunfire now resounding on either side. Reaching the track, he slowed his pace, wary that the firing was becoming a lot nearer, the shrill cracks of rifle shots echoing between the tree trunks.

  Dropping to a crouch before the brow of the narrow forest lane, he glanced upwards, a gap through the branches showing a deep black clear sky, stars seeming to twinkle in the frozen heavens, the sight beautiful if not chilling in its intensity. His body ached, muscles seeming to scream for clean fresh oxygen, the air chilled beyond belief as he stared upwards, momentarily mesmerised by the clear and fresh beauty.

  Shaking himself from inaction, he instinctively raised the rifle to his left cheek, jerking the weapon around nervously, hearing muffled firing to either side, his confusion mounting and becoming almost intoxicating in the escalating fear. The crack of a distant rifle made him instinctively grimace, his voice a l
oud hiss, ‘Oleg!’

  There was silence as he listened intently, then the brief rustle of frozen bushes ahead, a determined but flustered reply, ‘Stay down and low…he knows where I am…’

  Pavel ducked further in response, his heart swelling as he recognised the voice and glancing to his right, ‘Oleg, you are alive…’

  The reluctant yet concerned stern tone cut him off, ‘Pavel…go back. He is an excellent shot…leave me.’

  The younger Russian grinned in defiance, ‘He is a fascist…we will escape together or die trying. He is just a man…’

  Oleg grimaced in frustration, his eyes straining, ‘Pavel…he is very good...get away now!’

  The young Russian pursed his lips in annoyance, glancing at the snow bound slopes on either side of the track, the lack of bushes or thick undergrowth at the brows of the inclines providing open and exposed areas before the darkened trees on the other side.

  Pavel lowered to his stomach, the muffled distant machine gun fire seeming to escalate, clouds of exhaled breath around him as he stretched the Mosin Nagant rifle out, reaching for his bayonet as he felt the cold seep through his clothing.

  Oleg winced as he glanced round, the bushes and immediate trees protecting his current position, the frozen land around too exposed for him to run, his eyes straining in defeat as he heard the shuffling nearby, his voice a firm frustrated hiss, ‘Pavel...go back!’

  Grunting came from the brow of the track, the soldier struggling against the cold, Oleg’s apprehension rose as he realised his younger countryman had no intention of leaving him, tears filling his eyes as he considered the stubbornness may well get them both killed.

  Pavel shivered as the cold became almost unbearable against his chest, his hands shaking as he thrust the bayonet into the underside of the iced cold barrel, his eyes strained as he winced in pain, the freezing metal tearing some of the skin from his palms. Almost crying in intense agony as the ragged gloves ripped, his voice was shrill, explosions echoing through the forest, ‘When I say run...come to me!’

  Oleg grunted, shrugging as more rifle cracks echoed through the trees, the partisans now retreating as fast as they could towards the north, the young Russian resigned to the thought they would not escape. His head moved slowly round, biting his tongue painfully as his teeth chattered, ‘Just go...leave me here!’ He fumbled with his rifle, the panic surging through his chest as he struggled, the bolt rasping back as he determined to take a shot at the sniper, even if it was to be his last.

  Pavel’s body was shaking as he adjusted his position, edging nearer the brow on the track, his breath held as he gasped, ‘Run when I say...stay on the slope and come towards me!’

  Oleg glanced across the nine metres between them, seeing an exhaled cloud of his friend’s breath in the middle of the track, the younger Russian whimpering in pain and intense cold as he dragged his body across the snow, keeping low.

  The scoped Kar 98 moved silently across the snowed terrain, the sniper having moved forward silently whilst Oleg lay in the bushes, attempting to maximise his position on the other side of the track and possibly gain another shot due to the angle.

  The thirty year old German had been flown north from Von Manstein’s headquarters early in the afternoon, the local SD Commander requesting urgent additional support after his men were ambushed earlier in the late morning. With two years’ experience as a sniper on the Russian Front, his instructions were made very clear upon landing, ‘He was to kill anyone and everyone he saw in the forest...’

  Dressed in a heavily padded white combat uniform with specially adapted gloves and hood, he edged forward through the undergrowth, his cloth wrapped boots moving silently as he pushed them across the snow’s surface.

  Staring into the telescopic sight, the soldier lowered to a crouch, forcing his thighs against the tree trunk next to him to steady the barrel. His breathing becoming more shallow, he strained his eyes, glimpsing the air distortion through the low thin fog, his hands slowly panning the rifle across to where he knew the Russian partisan must be lying.

  The man he was hunting had obviously raised his feet, the German grimacing in annoyance as he slipped another boot forward, louder rifle shots nearer to his right. Another step, the soldier glancing down briefly as his movement was restricted, then glancing upwards again. The rifle jolted instinctively to the right, the crack echoing as he pulled the trigger, the rifle lowered as he dragged the bolt back, quickly raising the weapon once more as he exhaled, his breath promptly held as he stared back through the sight.

  Grinning ironically, the German shook his head in disbelief, kicking out at the exposed root that had distracted him as he exhaled once more, lowering himself into the snow and chuckling, a knowing whisper emitted through his lips, ‘Cunning Ivan bastards...you are lucky...I would not usually fall for that.’ He shook his head once more before lowering the rifle across his thighs and reaching for his cigarettes, the American ‘Lucky Strike’ packet his last of captured stock.

  Oleg and Pavel rolled across the declining track, giggling in utter relief, their chests heaving as they came to rest in the frozen ditch by the side of the bitterly cold narrow thoroughfare, their ripped greatcoats covered in snow. Oleg pushed his friend playfully, his vision blurred from emotion as he chuckled further.

  Pavel rolled over onto his front, wincing as the pain once more surged through his injured hand, his body rising as he scrambled forward and retrieved his helmet, his eyes scrutinising the bullet hole just above the base as he glanced round, ‘You were right...he is a very good shot!’

  Oleg grinned, nodding to his friend as he rose to his hands and knees, ‘I told you...’ he indicated to the brow of the slope above them, the rifle fire seeming nearer, ‘...we need to go before he gets closer...we will never make it back to the camp, the Germans seem to be everywhere!’ Smiling further, he added, ‘The helmet at the end of your rifle must have distracted him…I thought we would both die at his hand!’

  Pavel slipped the damaged helmet over his head, rising to a low crouch and advancing towards his friend as he grinned in reassured triumph, ‘Where shall we go?’

  Oleg shrugged, the intense cold once more becoming apparent, ‘We will go south for now...the fascists have passed...then cut sharp east behind them. It is too dangerous to go anywhere else and I think they will expect us all to go north...I presume they will be waiting at the edge of the forest there! Maybe with tanks or armoured cars...this was well planned.’

  Pavel nodded despondently, lifting his rifle from the snow, ‘We need to move now then...will we see Mishka again? I really like her...’

  Oleg lifted himself up, slipping through the undergrowth by the side of the track, his breath held as he heard more shooting to the north and north east, the rattle of German MG34 machine guns and explosions as the specialist infantry with Cossacks advanced, chasing down their foe, ‘We will see...I hope she escapes too...’ He nodded knowingly to himself as his body slipped between the trees, frozen flakes falling onto his shoulders from the disturbed branches, his thoughts drifting to the young Russian female although he presumed she was older than himself, his voice almost silent, ‘I hope we do see her again...’

  Chapter Forty Seven: Schwarm high

  Ernst Brandt stared through the side of his canopy, the light sparkling across the machine guns on the wings, the camouflaged paint a mottled light grey and white. Streaming northwards, the fighter was flying level as part of a schwarm ‘V’ formation, a grouping of four aircraft in which he flew at the furthest rear right, another formation opposite the flight leader to match the first, the dull sun glinting against the glass canopies.

  He glanced down, checking the internal instruments within the Focke-Wulf FW190, his satisfaction rising as he glimpsed the fuel levels, the stock more than adequate for the mission at hand, including additional reserves for any dogfight that may materialise. Excitement began to churn in his lower chest, the sortie to attack the outskirts of the large city to the nor
th for the first time, observe the Russian defences and weaken them if possible, their flightpath designed to intercept fighter bombers in the next few minutes.

  Glancing out of the cockpit to either side, he grinned to himself, the formation flying at fifteen thousand feet and rapidly approaching the rendezvous point. Shifting in his flight seat, he looked downwards, the snow covered terrain below seeming distant and inhospitable, slim lines of black smoke rising on the horizon, the fighting now past the river before Kharkov. He considered briefly how desperate the Russian forces must now have become, numerous divisions now simply wiped out with vast quantities of equipment seized or captured.

  The briefing the night before had been enthusiastic, the squadron’s commander openly grinning as he talked of the devastation that had befallen the enemy. The pilots had toasted each ground unit destroyed, the surprise counter offensive now rumbling northwards against a determined, but woefully unprepared and openly demoralised enemy.

  There had been few prisoners taken, with many weakened and defeated Russian soldiers believed to be hiding in the freezing temperatures, seeking food and lodgings from Ukrainian inhabitants long since tired of war, many too afraid to assist their countrymen as the increasing patrols and sweeps of security forces became more and more vicious. Reprisals had apparently been swift for attacks on rear echelon troops and supply convoys, SD and Cossack units roaming the terrain at will in search of a broken and fragmented foe believed to be sheltering in forests and any cover they could locate.

  They had even heard firing next to their makeshift airfield, a local SD unit basing itself amongst the pilots to provide support to the Luftwaffe sentries, but also to deter any roaming enemy from the temptation of attacking the fighters.

  Shaking his head from distraction, he stared out to the east, glimpsing the River Donetz in the distance, German defences on the west bank being strengthened by additional forces from the south, the current front there descending into stalemate, albeit with localised attacks.