Death March

by James Rouch

  On the far side of the village there was a cloud of exhaust fumes marking where trucks were entering the area and were about to unload. A stampede commenced, with children being abandoned and old people flung down in the rush to reach the vehicles. To Revell it looked like the trucks of the convoy they had seen tackling the hill. It was an unsophisticated process. The first one reversed to a clearing under Russian direction, its perimeter was marked by barbed wire, again a single strand It sagging between poorly dug-in posts. A handful of Russian soldiers vigorously pushed back a fast increasing number of civilians who were crowding as close as they could.

  The first truck, a dumper, tipped its entire cargo on to the dirt. Even as the load began to slide on to the ploughed field the surrounding mob surged against the wire and the posts came out of the ground. Most of the first rank fell as they rushed forward, tripped by the wire, and were trampled by those following. The few who tried to step over the wire became caught on its vicious barbs and after a moment of trying to maintain their balance they went down as well. It was only when the jagged strand was covered by bodies that the mass of people could throw themselves on the avalanche of various foodstuffs without impediment.

  The other trucks did not even try to reach the same spot. Two more were tippers and they shot their loads at the closest point they could reach. Masses of cans bounced across the tarmac of the single village street and into ditches and drains. It was the children and the elderly who flung themselves on those, at times struggling with each other in ugly and bizarre fights across the generations. Anther truck up- ended it cargo close by and some of the civilians found themselves hemmed in by the deliveries. Two at least were buried beneath the loads, and their plight ignored. Others were pushed against and under the wheels but such screams as there must have been were drowned by the baying of crowd as they tore at the piles, grabbing up anything within reach.

  The remaining trucks were driven in to the camp and simply abandoned by the drivers and their escorts. A wild surge and the mad fury with which the refugees attacked the foodstuffs intensified, becoming a wild scramble to board the trucks and loot what ever could be snatched.

  The ropes and chains that were retaining some cargo were thrown aside and the grossly over-loaded vehicles rocked violently. The first time it was caused by the cargo pouring over the sides and then by the frantic women, children and men jumping aboard. Their actions ensured that even the cartons that had survived the rough handling and journey were now reduced to battered pulp as the entire consignment fell with a crash that spoilt more of the lightly wrapped food. And then it was used as stepping-stones by people desperate to reach the most valuable canned goods.

  “The Russians aren’t bothered about a proper distribution network.” Thorne watched as human anthills formed over every vehicle.

  “They don’t need to, “Andrea had watched with contempt. Before joining Revells’ unit the camps had played a large part in her life as an East German Border Guard. “Much of that food will still be circulated, as currency, in a years time. Only fools will eat it.”

  The newcomers watched the scene in amazement. Too tired and too frightened to join the throng they were learning the first of many lessons. Bedraggled and weary they never noticed that the few guards just walked off and they were left to their own devices. They milled about, hardly registering the importuning of the few black-marketers who had remained. Most of those poisonous scavengers had dived off to pillage what they could from the trucks. Revell recognised the opening gambits of several black market transactions as cases were opened and property changed hands. As they carried no baggage and their clothes were worthless no one bothered the trio.

  “I don’t see any evidence that the Reds are hiding equipment in the camp itself. There’s just that load of infantry and light armour in the forestry plantations.

  “But they are up to something.” Andrea had witnessed many strange scenes in the camps but never the Russians handing out food. And on this scale and in this manner it was unheard of.

  “This is by far the biggest camp I have ever seen.” Revell had tried an estimate and his best guess was in the region of twenty thousand, a staggering number, four times the size of most other large camps. But it seemed to have been established almost overnight. There were hardly any shelters erected and he couldn’t imagine what the over-crowding and sanitation would be like in the few buildings in the village. Also there didn’t appear to be anywhere the refugees would obtain materials for shelters. It was not quite spring and the nights were cold. The children and the old would be affected first but soon there would be a death toll of hundreds per night. Especially if the weather deteriorated from the mild spell they were fortunately enjoying at present.

  And food. There were no crops in the ground to be lifted, no roots or berries and no game. Such a camp was not viable. Within days it would split up and disperse, that was why the Russians were trucking in food. Nothing else would keep the people here, and that would not work for long, not unless the few tons of food were swiftly followed with the materials to create minimal accommodation. These were not hardened Zone dwellers, experienced in scraping a living from the ugliest terrain in the world. They were town and city people, torn from their comforts. In fact few of them seemed to have bought anything useful with them. The open cases he had seen appeared to contain little more than mementos from home, photo albums, favourite ornaments. They should have contained tools, food, waterproof sheets and general survival gear like matches and fishing gear. On reflection Revell knew his estimate of the potential death toll was woefully inadequate. It was going to be thousands every single day for the next few days.

  In the distance he saw a small family group clustered around an old man laid on the ground. His face was blue and the females of the family and a couple of children were crying. This was the first of many.

  The whole area was a seething mass of unhappy humanity, except for the children. They seemed to be taking it all in their stride, and hunger had not yet made them fractious. It would be a different matter when in the next few hours their parents or guardians ran out of the scant rations they had doubtless brought with them. The children were making friends, playing. It was the adults who appeared to have been crushed by the sudden change in their circumstances. Coalescing into small groups, the women seemed for the most part to be apathetic and even frightened.

  “We have to get back I’ve seen enough” Revell had a gut feeling that the Russians brutal but effective efforts in gathering together a vast number of refugees was going to lead to bloodshed on a huge scale. The Russians would not be able to hold on to the camps inmates for long. When the food was gone the refugees would depart, breaking up in to smaller more viable groups. And the mass burials at each dawn would soon scare them away. So whatever the Russians purpose in gathering these poor souls together they were going to have to make effective use of it in the next day or two or the camp would atrophy very quickly.

  Some small groups though were seemingly better organised than most with tiny quantities of food and canned drinks being shared out in an orderly fashion.

  It was in one of those, an obviously new group, that Revell recognised some one he knew. Her raven hair made her stand out, it was the woman who they had encountered in the underground service area. Rounded up and trucked in she still could not have been here for twenty-four hours yet but she was already organising a flimsy shelter.

  . Attempts by other individuals and groups to pilfer plastic sheeting or sticks she countered by waving a nail studded piece of plank. With it he saw her see off a couple of shaven headed young men who tried to muscle in and commandeer her developing shelter. Taking a chance, Revell made sure she noticed him when they walked past. It was a risk, her behaviour marked her out as single-minded and that might extend to her betraying them to the guards.

  “Have you deserted?”

  He could understand her line of thinking. The Zone was full of men who had deserted, from all armies. There
was anger, bordering on contempt in her question.

  “No, we still have our transport. Will you do something for me?” From a deep jacket pocket he took out a mobile phone and concealed it between them as he offered it to her. “If the Russians start to move you, will you let me know? Use hot key five.”

  She flipped it open and noted the battery held a full charge. “You think they will?”

  Revell swept his hand over the listless crown around them. “This camp cannot be sustained. They trucked you here so they want you. They might have followed their usual course and let you and the others die in the city. No, they wanted you, but they will have to employ you fast. Before hunger, illness and lack of facilities forces dispersal.”

  “What can you do? Can you get us out of here?”

  It was a shrewd question. She could yet give the ‘phone back.

  “I doubt it but if you keep the phone I just may be able to do something. I cannot make any promises. It’s a long shot though, just finding you…”

  Slowly she pocketed the ‘phone.. “Do you have any idea what the Reds have planned, what they intend doing with us.”

  Revell knew there was no point in trying to lie to her. “At this time, no. If I find out, if I am in a position to let you know then I will. That is likely the best I can do.”

  There had been a flicker of hope in her eyes, Revell had seen it come and then go. One of the children was hanging on to her coat and whining about some trivia, an argument with another child. With a word or two she resolved it.

  “I’m Linda, what’s your name.”

  “James, James Revell.”

  “Special Forces?”

  “Yes, good guess.” Revell was starting to admire her sharp mind as much as her looks.

  “My husband is…was Special Forces. A Ranger. He didn’t make it out of Hamburg.”

  Revell wondered if he should tell her he had been there as well, almost did, then decided against it. “But you’re British.”

  “That hardly constitutes a mixed race marriage, does it.” She couldn’t prevent a flicker of a smile. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “No, unless you know a way I can get back to my APC with these two.”

  For the first time Linda looked at Thorne and Andrea. It was on the girl her eyes rested. “Which direction is your transport.”

  This was the dangerous time. The Russians would have given a small reward for the capture of spies, as they would doubtless label the three of them, but for a tip off on their vehicle, for that they would have been more generous and when you have nothing, anything is generous.

  Revell pointed up the slight slope behind them to the untidy copse at the top of the hill, where two hedges made a sharp angle. “That way, just beyond the rise.”

  “You are fortunate. To the other side of the trees I have been told the Russians have excavated a pit. We have seen them taking bodies that way.”

  “Any suggestions how we get there?” Thorne kept a nervous lookout but so far had seen no one taking any interest in them. The only Russians in sight were outside the wire, strolling in pairs and mostly deep in conversation or watching each others backs as they took turns to roll a joint.

  “First you need a body. Then you take it to the gate.”

  “I know where I can get one, if we’re quick.”

  Revell felt awkward, he would have taken the woman’s hand but she leant forward on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Good luck. I hope I see you again.”

  It was one of those ambiguous statements and he would have loved to have the courage to ask in what way she meant that, but he didn’t, especially not with Andrea standing close by.

  * *. *

  Lieutenant General Gregori gently tapped the Havana cigar on the edge of the ashtray and watched with satisfaction as the light cylinder of ash collapsed into a thin even layer across the coloured glass.” The attack on Nurnberg is going as planned?”

  Major Andropov held his breath as the nauseous whiff of the strong tobacco flowed past him. “Yes Comrade General Gregori. It is failing.”

  “Good. Zucharnin has no hint of an idea that I influenced the decision by the Army Command to reduce his scales of armour and air support and replace them with the thirty-two punishment battalions who have been sitting around, eating their heads off?”

  “No Comrade General, he knows nothing. His ignorance ensures his attempts to take the city continue with a degree of desperation. Leading elements of his troops have reached the river but the bridges have been blown and he has not the armoured engineer assault equipment to replace them. He has taken barely a third of the city.”

  “That’s very good. “Any thing else you know that might add to my pleasure?”

  “I understand the NATO rearguard had been successful in blocking some autobahns, slowing his ammunition convoys. I understand that difficulty may be overcome now to some degree but his stocks must be low and will take a while to build up again.”

  “Oh excellent, so even the Gods are on my side. I never planned on that. Yes, excellent. And have you compiled that report on him and the nature of his covering for his stepson, Captain Pritkov whose incompetence he has repeatedly condoned and concealed.”

  “The report is here.” Major Andropov slid a bulky folder on to the desktop. Many loose leaf sheets inside it made it untidy and he ineffectually tried to pat it straight, then stopped when he realised his fussing was irritating the General. After removing his hand from it he could not resist giving it a little extra push forward for emphasise.

  Ah, how Andropov wished he had such a report on General Gregori. His KGB controller had made it very clear that his further promotion depended on his submitting a dossier on his superior. Damn, the man had to have a weakness. A liking for expensive cigars hardly qualified as evidence. He had also furnished his office and quarters with the last word in luxury, but it was all looted from the West Germans, so enjoying such trappings was hardly something he could make much of in his reports. Indeed he was not above indulging in such luxuries himself.There had to be something more substantial.

  General Grigori was a realist, a hard headed practical man. He knew that the report on Zucharnin protecting his stepson was of no real consequence. Everyone in the army was doing favours for someone else, but any such facts coming to light at a critical time, like just after an assault has failed could have a measure of importance quite unexpected when added to everything else.

  If things went wrong, mistakes were made, and there was a trial, such a document could be made to serve many purposes. He knew General Zucharin to be a spiteful man. He was also devious and ruthless. And his fate, his future, could possible be determined by a few lines that told how he covered for a worthless relative who, among other errors, sent a few trucks the wrong way and in to a enemy ambush.

  “And Captain Pritkov himself, what of him. Is he of any use, beyond presently supplying snippets of tittle-tattle about his step-father?”

  “To employ a saying the British have, he is a waste of space General. Incompetent, deceitful, untrustworthy.”

  General Grigori ignored a second file that was edged towards him. “So, there will come a time, quite soon, when General Zucharnin will be eliminated. But the Captain, he has been a useful tool. Could he be again?”

  “The report on the General could not have been compiled without the information he provided” Major Andropov measured and delivered his words carefully. He did not want to appear to gloat. He tried to project an air of efficiency with just a touch of subservience. A balance that made him appear valuable, prepared to carry out his orders to the letter. No matter what they were.

  “So he adds traitor to his other qualities. He is quite prepared to betray his family…for what?”

  Andropov coughed behind his hand. “There was a certain clerk in my office he wanted to meet.”

  “And was he suitably rewarded, did he get his leg over her?”

  “Him.”

  “It
gets better. I have the whole family on a plate. That is in his file as well?” Grigori played with a paper knife, spinning it on the top of the inlaid rosewood desk. When after several rotations it came to rest with its point facing Major Andropov, he let it lie. “Tell me, it is some time since I saw the Mother. You visited Moscow recently. Has she kept her looks, has she still that superb figure, and does she flirt just as much?”

  “Yes Comrade Lieutenant General, very much so. She is much admired, a superb woman and much in demand for the Moscow dinner party circuit.” Major Andropov felt a gentle breeze of satisfaction waft through his body. The hint was the lightest but he had found what he was looking for, a weakness. He knew Lieutenant Gregori’s ambition would eventually be his undoing but that might be far in the future, too far to do him any good. but this gave him a definite lead. He knew Gregori was inordinately ambitious but he hadn’t realised it ran to Zucharnins wife as well as his position. Later he would add some pages to the file he had on his General.

  Gregori could be smugly satisfied with himself. Zucharnin had frequently absenting himself from head quarters on fishing trips and during those periods of absence he had sat in his place at planning meetings. Drip by drip he had influenced the outcome of those, chipping away at the allocations of armoured and airborne support. On his superiors return he’d sadly reported the outcome, but not that he had engineered it. Andropov was well aware that having made sure Zucharnin was short of the helicopters and armour he needed had been a risk but he had done it through hint and innuendo without taking any part in the direct decision-making. His contribution to the meetings had seemed so slight he had rarely featured in the minutes. There was method in what he had done and the way he had done it. By ensuring Zucharnin had barely sufficient manpower but an ample supply of ammunition to do the job had ensured that failure would be his and his alone. Grigori would be there to step in, to pick up the pieces and to succeed in his place. Any miraculous turn around of the battle would be to his credit alone.