by W. R. Benton
“Wait, base.” Egorov said and then turning to the Lieutenant, he said, “Sir, they are discussing our moving now and I have requested an evacuation.”
“Good, but stress if the man is not evacuated, the medic says he will die.”
Now talking on the radio, Egorov waved in understanding and kept speaking. Finally, he placed the headset away and said, “We are to remain here until the bodies and our injured man are picked up. Once they are gone, we are to continue our original mission. Uh, Major Sokolov reminded me, sir, that the terrorists often booby-trap the dead, both ours and theirs. The estimated time of arrival for the helicopter is in fifteen minutes.”
“I am aware of booby-traps, Sergeant.” Smirnov said in anger. I should have thought of the booby-traps right off, but I didn't. I need to start thinking clearly, if I want to make Captain and more importantly, survive my tour here, he thought.
“Damn sleet is hard on my eyes.” Private Mikhailov said as he pulled his forage cap down so the bill better protected his eyes.
Senior Sergeant Morozov said, “If the sleet hurts the Private's eyes, wear your goggles. Why do you think they were issued to you? Where in the hell does Moscow find you fools they send me to use as soldiers?”
Egorov said, “I have the helicopter on the radio and he is asking for us to give him smoke when he nears, so he can see the wind direction.”
“He will have it as he nears our location.” the Senior Sergeant said and then added, “Private Pavlorov, have a smoke grenade ready and pop it when I give the word. The rest of you clowns, circle us and at least look like you are in the Russian army. Fools, I am surrounded by damned fools. Move, now!”
Men scurried in all directions and a crude circle was formed just seconds before Egorov said, “I see you and guess your distances at less than three kilometers. Continue on present course. It is hard to see you in this sleet. Pop the smoke now, Pavlorov!”
The private pulled the pin on the smoke grenade and dropped it by his foot. The winds quickly blew the smoke to the East.
Once the aircraft was on the ground, a crewman ran to the group and explained that all movement toward the helicopter was to be made from the very front, so the pilot could see them at all times. He then had the dead loaded on the floor of the aircraft and the injured man was placed on a stretcher that strapped to the wall. In a matter of a few short minutes, the helicopter was gone.
“Get the men up and moving, Senior Sergeant.” the Lieutenant said.
“Efreitor Bulgakov, you take the point and Private Mikhailov, I want you to bring up the rear. Now, Private, keep us in sight at all times. Also as we move, stay alert at all times. It is not unusual for a partisan to pull the last man into the bushes and cut his throat.”
Damn me, Mikhailov thought, why did I ever join the army? I was milking cows on the farm a year ago and now I have to worry about some American cutting my throat.
Tonight as they sat around a small fire about the size of a dinner plate, Private Mikhailov asked, “Why have we not seen the snakes I was told about? In Moscow they made it sound like there were snakes covering the ground here.”
“It is too cold, you fool.” someone said, and it sounded like Bulgakov.
“I know little of snakes, but much about wild boar, bears, wolves, lynx, and wolverine.”
“You will not run into any of those animals here, except maybe a wild boar. The biggest threats here, in my opinion,” Senior Sergeant Morozov said, “are snakes, alligators, and partisans. Of the three, you are more likely to be killed by a partisan.”
“The sleet is changing to snow.” Lieutenant Smirnov said, and then grinned like a kid as he held his hands out to catch the falling flakes.
The Senior Sergeant stood and then said, “I am off to sleep. I want the same guard shift we have had from the start. If you start to get sleepy, wake someone. If I make my rounds and catch one of you asleep, I will kick your ass.”
Morozov moved to his sleeping bag, climbed inside and used his backpack as a pillow. He was an old military man and was asleep in minutes.
The snow began to fall heavily and within an hour, a good inch covered the ground. The guards moved back under some large pine trees and stood their shift wrapped with wool blankets.
Morning dawned with it still snowing, but falling less now and the flakes were smaller. The men coughed, hacked, and moved into the trees to do their morning toilet. The Senior Sergeant had to tell the men to quiet down and shook his head as he pulled out a ration to eat. Most of the men were disgusted by the grease found on the rations, but the old NCO didn't give it a second of thought.
Minutes later, his meal complete, he stood and moved for the trees, his stomach growling as he walked. He passed Lieutenant Smirnov along the way and nodded at the man. He placed his Bison on the leaves, glanced up at the sky, and hoped his stomach wasn't going to bother him again. He removed his webbed belt, unbuckled the belt to his trousers, and then unbuttoned them. He unzipped his pants, let them fall to his boots, and was bending over when a huge explosion filled the morning air. He heard screams and gunshots for a few minutes, then silence except for one wounded man, who was shrieking loudly. He heard a single shot and the screaming man stopped instantly.
Damn it, he thought, I need to see about the Lieutenant. I think the camp was overrun by terrorists!
He pulled his pants up, grabbed his web belt and Bison, and then moved toward the officer. Lieutenant Smirnov was kneeling, a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. As Morozov neared, the young officer swung his pistol toward him.
From where the Lieutenant was in the brush, a quick glance toward the campsite showed Americans ransacking the place. All gear was being collected and weapons, with ammo, gathered up.
The Senior Sergeant whispered, “We will both toss a grenade and then run. Follow me, because I just reviewed the map not ten minutes ago, as I ate breakfast.”
The Lieutenant nodded and Morozov pulled a grenade from his belt. Both men pulled the pins at the same time and then tossed the grenades toward the camp. The Senior Sergeant saw them land less than two feet apart and as he started to stand, he heard an American voice scream a warning. Three seconds after the scream, both grenades exploded, and as Morozov began moving, screams of pain were heard.
The woods were dense, with vines, logs and other obstacles scattered all over the forest. The Senior Sergeant knew once clear of the trees in about a mile, he'd find a swamp. By following the swamp to the west, he'd eventually come to a macadam road, where they could flag down a Russian convoy or walk to the nearest Russians for help. The Russians now had roadblocks, tanks and even machine-gun crews watching all major roadways. Sooner of later, he'd find help.
At the swamp, which was an ugly and nasty looking thing to the two Russians, Morozov said, “Sir, if we follow this swamp to the left we will come to a road.”
“What's to the right?”
“I don't really remember, but more woods and some small villages, I think. I suspect it would be smart to avoid all Americans right now and try to get back to our lines.”
“I was briefed this whole area is friendly.”
Morozov gave a light chuckle and then asked, “Sir, if that is true, then who killed all our men back there? We own this area in the day, but at night, the ownership changes hands.”
“Good point, Senior Sergeant, so lead us to the left, please.” the Lieutenant, now extremely nervous, said.
“Neither of us have our packs, so we are facing lean times for food, sir, unless you have something in your pockets.”
“Maybe a half-dozen hard candies, but that is it, because I was going to the bathroom when they hit us.”
“Well, we can be sure, we are the only survivors.” Just as he spoke, a twig snapped and both men went to ground. The Lieutenant, having left his Bison with his backpack, pulled his pistol.
They heard two voices speaking in Russian. Without getting up, Morozov called out, “State your names! And where you are!”<
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“Huh?” one voice said and then moaned.
“We are Junior Sergeant Egorov and Sergeant Borya Volkov, survivors of an American ambush. We are both wounded, with one being severe.” Volkov said.
“Come to me, but make no sudden moves, keep your weapons in the air, or I will shoot.” the Senior Sergeant replied, in case the Americans were forcing the two Russians to lead them to the others.
“Listen to me, Senior Sergeant, Junior Sergeant Egorov has a bad wound to his chest and I am almost packing him. I am coming to you, but rest easy, no one is with us and I am almost packing our radioman. If you want to shoot us, then shoot. I am tired, bleeding, and had enough of the damned army.”
“Come to us.” Lieutenant Smirnov said and then meeting the Senior Sergeant's eyes, he nodded.
The two men walked out of the snow and the Senior Sergeant recognized both, so he moved forward to help. He helped lay Egorov on the ground and then asked, “Do you have your medical gear?”
“Yes, but he is not going to live, unless we can get him back to the base and quickly. He is bleeding on the inside, too.”
Smirnov said, “Make a litter and we will pack him out, if we must.”
“Sir,” Morozov said, “I do not think you understand. Unless we stop him from bleeding on the inside, he will never last the trip, not if we walk back to the base. He will run out of blood before we even see the main gate.”
“I am not sure how to handle this.” the Lieutenant said.
“The bullet has pierced his lungs, but I sealed him front and rear so he can breath. We can wait here and hope a helicopter flies over or I can put him to sleep.”
“Put him to sleep?” Smirnov asked.
“Give him too much morphine, sir, so the overdose kills him. It is a pleasant death and he will feel no pain.”
“Then, why did you bring him all this way?” the Senior Sergeant asked.
“I am a medic, Senior Sergeant, and I do not have the authority to kill a man. Oh, I would if half his head was missing or if there was no hope, even in a hospital. This man would live, if we had a way to get him to a hospital.”
“End his life now. I will not have one man endangering all three of us as we move. I am not a cold man, but he will, or could, cause the death of all of us. If I were him, I would expect the same thing.”
“I agree, Sergeant, so consider it an order, Sergeant Volkov.” the Lieutenant said.
“Was that his radio I saw on his back a few minutes ago?” Morozov asked.
“Yes, but it has been shot.”
“Did you try it at all?” The Lieutenant asked.
“No and I did not have time to remove it either.” the medic replied and then started removing his shirt. He'd taken a bullet burn on the chest, which had taken his right nipple right off, and then burned a furrow across his chest. He'd bled hard, but a compress quickly applied took care of the bleeding, and a couple of painkillers had kept him able to move.
Looking in his medical bag, Sergeant Volkov said, “Damn me, I am out of morphine. The vials I have are all broken. I took a bullet to the bag and do not have a one left.”
The Senior Sergeant pulled his knife, walked to the downed man and said, “Move out of the way, Volkov. I will kill him, since we lack the medications.”
“With a knife? My God, what pain.” the medic said, his eyes large in disbelieve.
“I cannot afford a gunshot, or I would shoot him. I want to keep all noise to the minimum.”
The medic stood and moved out of the way, as the Senior Sergeant knelt beside Egorov. A religious man in his own way, the Sergeant prayed, crossed himself and placed his hand on the injured man's chest. One quick slash of his sharp knife blade and blood shot into the air; as Egorov's eyes popped open, they grew large. Soon the smell of bright cerise blood filled the air as it pooled under the man's neck. His fingers clawed at the dirt and his feet kicked at the soil as his life's blood spurted high into the air. The medic and Lieutenant turned their heads, but Morozov met the dying man's eyes and said, “It had to be done, son. If you were able to walk, you would still be alive. Go to God as a brave soldier.” He then wiped his blood-stained knife blade on the dying man's trousers.
“Medic Volkov, bring the radio to me.” the Lieutenant said, as he squatted in the snow covered grasses.
Picking up the radio, but still in shock at the brutality of Egorov's death, he carried it to the man and handed it to him.
“Senior Sergeant, bring any spare batteries you can find when you strip the radioman of useful items. Hello, any station, this is Bobcat 1, over.”
“This is base, Bobcat 1, and you are late reporting in. Is all well with you?”
“It works!” Lieutenant Smirnov said almost in a shout, but caught himself at the last minute. He then spoke with his base camp about the ambush and the fact three were needing helicopter pick up.
“I thought it was ruined by the bullets that hit it.” Volkov said and then added, “Killing Egorov was wrong. They will send a helicopter to pick us up now.”
Shaking his head, the Lieutenant said, “You are wrong. All aircraft have gone to Jackson to be ready for our massive push in the morning. We have orders to return to base. We will not be part of the coming fight.”
“I imagine, sir, they need all helicopters to assist with the coming wounded, and there will be many. I will lead us back to camp, but I want Volkov to bring up the rear and to carry the radio. I estimate we are about twenty miles from the nearest Russians, so we will walk all night too, if we have the need.”
“In this snow and sleet?” the medic asked.
“Yes, and in any weather that we run into. We do not want the partisans to capture us, Sergeant, or they will torture us to death.” the Senior Sergeant warned.
“Why the hurry, Senior Sergeant?” the Lieutenant asked.
“At night, once this sleet and snow stops, if it does, sir, there will be aircraft moving east and if they pick us up on their thermal devices they may just kill us. My main reason is I do not like being out here surrounded by the partisans. If they catch us, we will all die a horrible death.”
“Let us move then.” the Lieutenant said and then blinked rapidly, realizing his Sergeant was correct and it was a foolish way to die.
Most of the day was uneventful and no one was seen as they moved. They'd just left the edge of the swamp and were moving north by west, when the Senior Sergeant heard metal hitting metal. He waved his small group into some brush. The three Russians went to ground.
Minutes later, a single partisan walked by and then about five minutes later over forty walked in front of the Russians. Senior Sergeant Morozov prayed neither Russian would be dumb enough to shoot. His stomach turned and a small animal came alive deep in his gut. He felt the urge to soil his pants and to puke, but did nothing. Silence.
When the Lieutenant started to stand, Morozov pulled the man back down and pointed. Following the main group was their drag man. Once the last man was well out of sight, the Senior Sergeant took the radio and called base, reporting over forty Americans.
Handing the radio back to Volkov, he said, “We are to proceed as ordered and some jet aircraft will attack the Americans.”
A few minutes later as they crossed an open field, right at dusk, the three heard a roar in the sky and glancing up, the Senior Sergeant yelled, “Give me the radio, now!”
Volkov handed the headset to Morozov and heard the man yell, “Russian fighter plane, overhead now, you are lining up the wrong targets. The Americans are south by east of us! Do you read?”
“He is lining up for an attack!” the Lieutenant screamed.
“Pull off now! Break off the attack! You have Russians on the ground! I do not have his radio frequency, sir!” the Senior Sergeant yelled, his fear obvious.
“What to do?” the medic asked.
“Split and all run in different directions, now!” the Lieutenant said, and then began to run back the way he'd come.
The grou
nd in the field suddenly erupted with clumps of dirt, rocks and grass being thrown ten feet into the air. Suddenly, Sergeant Volkov flew apart, with his arms, legs and torso ripped to pieces by the Gatling gun. His whole body disappeared leaving behind a thick bloody red fog hanging in the air and very little of the man or his gear seen.
While this was happening, Morozov was running and talking to base in an attempt to get them to abort the attack. Once in the trees, he heard the pilot had just called in confirmation of over twenty dead Americans.
Livid, the Senior Sergeant yelled, “The sonofabitch killed just one man, base, and that one was a Russian! Yes, sir. I wish to report Medic Sergeant Volkov, Borya, as killed by friendly fire. I am
Bobcat 2, base, and I have no idea if the commander still lives or not. I will look for him and have him contact you. Out.”
The Russian aircraft flew over, along with his wing-man, and they rocked their wings in friendship. Senior Sergeant Morozov had to fight the urge to fire on the fast moving aircraft. Soon they pulled up, and were out of sight in seconds.
“Lieutenant! Are you alive, sir?” he yelled.
“I am here, in the woods, but have sustained an injury.”
“Can you move?”
“Yes, but I cannot see. I am blind, Sergeant.”
“I will come to you, sir.” Morozov said and then thought, damn me, this army life is out to kill me. Once this tour is over, I am retiring, finding me a small apartment in Moscow and will drink myself to death. I am getting too old to keep doing this crap.
CHAPTER 3
I continued to move my group overnight and most were understanding, but a few younger members complained about no food or sleep. There was about an inch of snow on the ground and it was cold, but the winds were slight. Corporal Kerr told the youngsters to shut the hell up and to keep moving.
Finally, Private Kelly asked, “Corporal, when will we stop to eat and sleep? I'm dog tired and need both.”
“We'll stop in the mornin', Private, just as soon as we reach the safe house. Right now the intelligence we have from the Russians is more important than when Private Kelly gets his beauty rest or eats his next meal. Grow up some, son, and do the job fast, or you'll not be around next year. Now, close your mouth and don't open it again unless I ask you a direct question. Do you understand me?”