Men shouted orders across the open fields. Only one boat remained to be filled. The Chief Surgeon, the remaining nurses, and a small number of men who did not require stretchers boarded it. Several of the younger men gave up their places to the older doctors, and the nurses. Among them was Mickey Tchekov. He remained on the beach, to whatever fate destiny had in store for him.
Guns blasted all around him as the Russian antiaircraft gun carriers rolled up to the field where a few minutes before the wounded men waited to embark. One of the boats seemed to be having motor trouble. It was filled with men and women attendants, nurses and doctors who attempted to protect the wounded men from the devastating machine gunfire. The motor on the boat finally coughed and gave up.
One of the Nazi pilots must have seen the boat in trouble. It made an excellent target for his front machine guns. He dived down on the boat from a height of five hundred feet firing all the way down, and racked and rocked it with burning tracer fire, felling the men and women who were still standing up. The small boat floundered a moment, and with the loss of buoyancy of live men and women and wounded soldiers, the small craft turned on its side flinging its stricken cargo into the Kuban River as it started to burn.
Three of the ack-ack guns concentrated their fire on the Nazi dive bomber and the pilot had not time to pull out of the dive. As he attempted to pull the nose of the heavy ship up, his tail section struck the water and the impact twisted it beyond further use. With full engine on, throttle wide-open and Jumo screaming, the plane pancaked as the pilot’s cubicle was ripped apart with the exploding ack-ack. The Stuka dived into the Kuban and sank, submersing the already dead pilot, leaving the battered, twisted tail sticking up out of the water like a camouflaged cross.
Mickey turned to one of the other doctors who had stayed behind with him: “That couldn’t have happened before that rat sank the hospital boat.”
“Now we see why we must not lose this war,” remarked the man. “That is only a sample of what the Nazis will do to us if we do.”
II
The fires in the hospital building continued to rage. Walls collapsed and sent great geysers of burning embers showering over the guns still active on the grounds.
Mickey called his colleagues together under the protective shadow of a huge Soviet tank which stood by near the main road.
“I told Commandant Kousoff that we would try to join the unit at Batalpashinsk. If we stick to our forces, I think we’ll have no difficulty making it. What do you gentlemen think?”
“I think if we’re to try joining our hospital unit,” suggested one of the doctors, “we’d best start now. I see the infantry is moving off.”
Stormovik fighters took up where the ack-acks left off and were smashing at the remaining Stukas high overhead. The Russian Infantry unit continued on in its retreat recognizing now how little they could do to save the hospital. With pressure being brought upon them by advancing Nazi tanks and men, they started to gather their forces and move out of Amavir in orderly fashion, putting the torch to anything that still stood intact and maintaining their policy of leaving nothing but scorched earth behind them.
With Amavir in flames, the only thing the Russians left standing was the prison camp. So fast was the onrush of the Nazis that the men of the Soviet had no time to put the torch to the buildings, or take the prisoners with them.
As Mickey drove on with his other officers in a small, light truck, he saw Von Starheim on a box in the middle of the prison yard haranguing the Nazi prisoners to take possession of the camp. He saw them break for the switches, cut off the current as they ran screaming about the yards at their liberation, and threw the unelectrified gates wide-open.
That was the last thing he saw of Heinsel too. For the little German stood off from the mob; he let them run amok and stood calmly by watching them.
As the little car which carried Mickey and his medical colleagues drove into the green of the Caucasus hills, tanks clashed with tanks on the outskirts of Amavir. Shells dropped around them and blew dirt up on both sides of them. It fell back and smeared their uniforms. Some of the dirt blew into the driver’s eyes and blinded him. The car veered off the road and drove up a small mound. An 88-millimeter shell from a Nazi tank dropped just behind the veering truck and drove its nose into the ground just beneath it. It blew up and carried the rear of the small car with it. The occupants were blown over the greenery of the Caucasian countryside. The driver was killed instantly. Two of the other doctors lay quite still where they fell. Three of them came through; one of the three was Mickey Tchekov.
When he regained consciousness, and opened his eyes, he was still in the hills. A familiar face looked down upon him. Gradually it fell into focus. A familiar voice spoke as if it were relieved.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” it said. “I hated the thought of anything or anyone else killing you. I wanted that distinctive pleasure for myself.”
* * * *
It was Von Starheim. And he held a Luger in his hand. The man had spoken truthfully. He did not stay a prisoner in the Russian camp twenty-four hours. In fact, he had not been a prisoner half that time.
“Hello, Von Starheim,” muttered the still-dazed Mickey. “I’m surprised you didn’t put a bullet into me while I couldn’t fight back. That is typically Nazi, isn’t it?”
The Nazi’s eyes narrowed venomously.
“I wanted you to know that it was I who did the job,” replied Von Starheim. “Now that you are conscious, I would do it but I have too many of my men around me to see it. It might shock their sensitive souls to see me put a bullet through you here.”
“I’m sure it would,” replied Mickey. “They’re so unused to it.”
Von Starheim ordered the men to cover Mickey and take him back to the prison camp which had temporarily held him a prisoner.
As Mickey rose to his feet, he found his kitbag lay a mass of debris not far away.
“That’s no good anymore,” he remarked dully.
He looked about him at the other unconscious and dead men.
“What are you going to do with these men?” he asked.
“Oh, they’ll be taken care of,” said Von Starheim.
“Why don’t you let me see if they’re alive?”
“No need for that,” replied the Nazi. “They’re all dead. All but you.” He smiled, as if in gratitude to a good Nazi Rosenberg-created God.
One of the other doctors stirred. Mickey dropped to his knees and turned him over.
“Get up!” ordered Von Starheim threateningly.
Mickey looked up and saw the man aiming a Luger at him. “But you can’t let this man lie here and die,” he remonstrated.
“I said he’ll be taken care of!” shouted Von Starheim furiously. “Now get on with you.”
As Mickey entered the gates of the prison camp he could hardly help smiling woefully. The uniforms of the men now walking the yard were changed from German grey-green to Russian mud-brown. The Heinies were out; the Vodkas were in.
It was a strange metamorphosis; but that was the fortune of war.
Mickey wondered how the boats with the wounded men, the doctors and nurses who escaped with them fared; and if they succeeded in reaching Batalpashinsk and safety. He hoped so, though he doubted it because of the rapidity of the German onslaught.
His uniform was a bit battered with the recent explosive experience; but he himself was none the worse for it though he was a bit shaken up. The Nazi Commandant of the prison camp sent for him.
“I understand you are a good doctor,” he began.
“I have a fair reputation,” replied Mickey. “I finished my studies in Breslau.”
“Oh,” said the man perking up. “Breslau. Then you must be good.”
“Not necessarily,” explained Mickey with meaning. “Not everything that comes out of Germany is good.” Then he added significantly. “Lately, in fact, not anything.”
The Commandant eyed Mickey a few minutes with eyes that were not
unkindly. In fact, he half-smiled good-naturedly at the American’s attitude. He might have taken offense but he did not. He dropped the German language and to Mickey’s amazement spoke a perfect American English.
“I can understand how you feel, Captain,” he smiled. “There are still a few of us left with some human instincts.”
Mickey eyed the man with surprise.
“I see you’ve been to the States,” he said quietly.
“I had a large family in Berlin,” explained the Nazi Colonel. “I had a lot of money; large business interests in Philadelphia and in Berlin and Hamburg. It was suggested I cooperate with the Party. I saw Dachau for my relatives if I didn’t. So here we are.”
Mickey didn’t know why but he liked the man and his frankness. He apologized for his seeming brusqueness.
“Oh, that’s all right,” replied the Commandant. He seemed a little weary. He looked at Mickey’s uniform. “It seems strange seeing that uniform here in Russia.” Then he added quietly, quoting a famous American patriot: “If this be treason, they can make the most of it; but I like seeing it over here.”
Mickey smiled.
“I think we understand each other, sir,” he said. “Now how can I serve you?”
The man took his tunic off.
“First you can relieve me of this boil under my arm,” he said. He pointed to a table. “That medical kit will be yours.”
While Mickey operated the man talked.
“There is a shortage of medical officers with my unit,” he said. “I’ll have to ask you to take care of the Russian prisoners. My own men will take care of our soldiers. However; if we need your services there, you will be called upon.”
Mickey concentrated on the wound and nodded his head in understanding. A low clucking sound dropped from his mouth. The Nazi looked at him in wonder as he winced with a momentary shock of pain.
“What was that?” asked the German.
“I always do that when I’ve done a job satisfactory to myself,” Mickey replied. “I’ve just removed the core. You’ll be all right now.”
“Of course,” went on the Nazi Commandant, “you’ll still be a prisoner and have the status of prisoner in spite of the freedom you will have in making the rounds of the camp.”
He looked at Mickey thoughtfully as the young American applied a compress to the wound and placed a roll of bandage to it clamping it in place. He watched Mickey as he rolled the bandage about his arm, and added: “With all that freedom, you will naturally think of escaping.…”
“Naturally,” agreed Mickey.
The Nazi smiled.
“You will be pursued,” he warned.
“Those are the chances I’ll have to take, sir,” Mickey grinned. He finished his job. The medical kit the Commandant had given him was complete. It was assembled with typical German precision for every field emergency.
“There you are, sir,” Mickey said. “What next?”
“Report to my Chief Surgeon,” he said. “He will assign you to your job.”
The Chief Surgeon was unlike the Colonel. He was brusque, almost to offensiveness. But Mickey did not mind the man. He was used to Nazi arrogance. When the man learned that Mickey had studied in Breslau, he softened a little. But not much.
* * * *
The American was assigned to the Russian prisoners. The men liked that. They had heard of the American doctors who had come up from Iran and were doing a fine job. They had heard of Mikhail Tchekov, the American born of Russian parents, and heard that he was an excellent man.
He looked about him for Von Starheim, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He asked the German Sergeant of the Guard about him. The man knew Mickey and liked him. He had treated him for a swollen gland and reduced the pain and size so quickly, that the man asked him if he could do anything for him.
“Yes,” replied the American. “I haven’t seen Captain Von Starheim all day. Has he been transferred?”
“Oh, yes,” the Nazi Sergeant replied. “He was given a company of two hundred men with machine guns to go out and find the guerrilla Koslovitch. They say he and his band have been picking off our men like flies. I suppose he’s somewhere up in the mountains looking for him.”
Mickey had examined all the Russian prisoners; had talked to them of Koslovitch, and one by one they stuck their tongue in their cheeks and smiled knowingly.
No. They had not seen Koslovitch. But they had heard of the exploits he and his little band of fifty had perpetrated. They had sniped at Nazis for months and sent more than their quota back to Germany in pine boxes, when their bodies were found or, with transportation from the Caucasus difficult, saw them laid to rest under Russian soil. They believed that all good Germans were those laid to rest under any soil.
The Russians told him of many things Koslovitch had done; destroyed an airdrome; smashed a hundred Stuka dive bombers on the ground; blew up an ammunition dump; and many other equally dangerous and courageous pieces of destruction.
In making the rounds two days later, he found a new man—or rather, a boy—in one of the prison tents. No one knew how he got in—not even his tent mates, and they didn’t ask questions. He was there—and he was wounded.
Mickey examined the boy.
“Where did you get this?” he asked in Russian.
The boy did not answer. He merely scrutinized Mickey’s face in an effort to discover what he wanted to find there.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked the American.
“You are Mikhail Tchekov,” asked the youngster. His dark Caucasian eyes continued to gaze piercingly at the American.
“Yes,” replied Mickey quietly. The other prisoners had stepped out of the tent. He saw their shadows plastered against the canvas, as if standing guard over it. “Yes, I am Mikhail Tchekov. Why do you ask?”
“You will come with me tonight,” the boy replied. It was the tone of authority. It was not a request but an order.
* * * *
Mickey looked at the youth. He was ragged. Not in uniform; slightly dirty with the mud of the Caucasus caked on his leather boots split at the vamp. As Mickey dressed the flesh wound on the boy’s arm, he said:
“That sounds like an order.”
“It is an order, Comrade,” said the boy. He could not have been more than fifteen; in years, that is, but in attitude, experience, the boy seemed a hundred. Mickey had never met anyone quite like him before and he studied the bronzed, serious face that bore the marks of great responsibility.
“If I should refuse to go with you?” asked Mickey.
“You cannot refuse,” the boy told him firmly. “We are comrades with one aim; to destroy the Nazi lice and everything they stand for if we are ever to have peace in this world again.” His eyes narrowed a little as if he was determined to have his way no matter what it cost. “You will not refuse.”
Mickey smiled at the boy’s confidence; his self-assurance.
“How do you know we can get out of here?” he asked.
A wise smile crept over the small face; his lips became compressed with a tinge of contempt. “I got in,” he boasted. “We’ll get out. You leave that to me.”
“Who sent you to me?” asked Mickey.
“Koslovitch, the guerrilla,” replied the boy suddenly. “His band needs a doctor. You are the only one we know of here we can trust. Besides,” he added, “you are an American. You represent everything all free men admire, and respect and love and die for.” The boy’s eyes shone with an almost holy light. “Koslovitch loves his country and is ready to give his life for it. Just as your countrymen did in 1776. You can’t refuse to help him or his wounded men.”
Mickey knew right then and there that he couldn’t.
“What time shall I meet you and where?” he asked putting the finishing touches to the job of patching up the boy.
“Here, at this tent,” he said. The tent stood on the end of the line near the barbed wire enclosure.
“What time?”
�
�At twelve o’clock,” replied the boy. “They change the guard then and for five minutes there is no one near this tent.”
“The barbed wire is electrified,” warned Mickey.
“I know. I have a pair of insulated wire cutters. We’ll cut our way through.”
“I don’t need to do that,” explained Mickey. “I have the freedom of the camp. I’ll meet you on the other side.”
“That won’t do,” replied the boy. “You will be followed. Do it my way and we’ll have no trouble.”
Mickey had never met so positive a person before. The kid certainly had what it takes to lead men, he thought. Someday this youngster would be a figure in Russian politics, he expected. Mickey agreed. He would meet the boy at the appointed place and hour.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“You can call me Feodor,” the boy replied. “And—oh, yes. Fill your bag with plenty of bandages and other medical supplies we’ll need for our men.”
“That’s the simplest part of the job,” replied Mickey.
* * * *
At five minutes to twelve that night, Mickey approached the tent at the end of the line. As he reached the middle of the tent street, he was halted by a sentry. He moved closer to the man so that he could be recognized in the dark. His bag hung heavy in his hand.
“I’ve a patient with a high fever in the last tent,” he explained. “I’m just going to look in on him.”
“Very well, Herr doktor,” replied the sentry. “I’m sorry I stopped you. Pass.”
“Thank you,” said Mickey. “Can’t be too careful these dark nights.”
“Quite right, sir,” agreed the man.
As Mickey entered the tent, the four men lay on their straw-filled mattresses on the tent floor.
“Feodor,” whispered Mickey.
“Ready,” replied the boy in a whisper. “Is the coast clear?”
“I’ll see,” answered the American. He pushed the tent flap cautiously aside and peered out. He turned around and whispered, “All clear.”
Feodor dropped to his knees; looked out and crawled to the barbed wire fence. He hesitated in some tall grass near one of the fence posts as the guards changed places. He waited a few breathless moments and with thickly rubber-gloved hands he grasped the electrically charged wire near the ground and lifted it high enough to allow his body to pass silently through. Mickey followed after passing his bag through the large opening Feodor made for him. Carefully, the young Russian replaced the wire against the post. So skillfully did he do the job that even in broad daylight, it would not be discovered.
The Military Megapack Page 37