by James Rouch
“If you’re expecting triplets.” Spitting out shreds of bright wrapping, Ripper began to chew on the candy.
Clarence, cradling his heavy sniper rifle, looked at the empty cylinders. Somewhere upstairs the waves of heat were beginning to shatter windows. “Where to next Major? It will be rather a touch too warm in here soon.”
“We’ll work along to the end of the street and take up a position over-looking the square. Then we’ll have to wait for re-supply. Tell Burke to slap a charge against the west wall; we’ll mole our way through a couple of buildings. We haven’t got the firepower to slug it out with any Ruskies angry at our frying their friends, not the way they’re blasting off ammo’.”
In succession they used explosives to punch through another clothing warehouse, a small cash and carry establishment filled with bubble wrapped fancy goods and finally a wholesale butchers. The concussion of the exploding charge that tore a hole in the wall also burst open the thick double doors of a walk-in cold store. But it was no longer cold. The power must have been cut days before. From hooks hung sides of beef. On the floor beneath each was the grease that was falling from them as they started the process of putrefaction. A powerful stench wafted out and drove the squad to push for the next building. Smouldering bullet riddled automobiles provided cover and no shots came their way as they sprinted along the sidewalk and kicked open the entrance to an office block.
Using the heavy reception area furniture they built a nest for the squad machine gun. A double-door cupboard near the lifts revealed two large water bottles. Revell punctured them with a bayonet, laid them across a desk so that each man in turn was able to sluice the cool liquid over his face and refill his flask. It worked wonders in reinvigorating them, but the effect was short lived.
Reams of paper towels from the rest rooms mopped them dry, and then they passed around camouflage cream to replace the natural effect the layers of dirt and grease had added to their previous efforts.
Searches of the first and second floor offices revealed nothing of value or use. All of the rooms were glass faced and over-looked the open space between the buildings. For a while drifting smoke from the fires provided fitful concealment, then the wind changed direction and they had to return to the ground floor.
“This place is no good. It’s like being in a fish tank” Revell looked out across the square. Waves of tiredness swept over him and he had to blink hard to keep his eyes open, his head nodding forward when a moment’s inattention lulled him towards sleep. “It will be dark in a couple of hours, sooner if the clouds cover increases and that smoke keeps building. We’ll move out then, and make for that banking hall on the next corner.”
“It’s more substantial than here, but we’ll have to put a hefty H.E. round into the door though.” Sergeant Hyde had already made a swift survey of the area. “It’s massive, looks like it has bronze panels on it, we won’t get through it with a shoulder charge.”
“We’ll figure it out nearer the time. Put two men on guard and get yourself an hour’s sleep, then if we are still being left alone we’ll swap over.” Revell knew an hour’s sleep was only a fraction of what they needed to replace that lost, but it was better than nothing.
However they felt though, in a short time they would be racing across the open ground, running for their lives.
* * *
The 40mm grenade wasn’t needed but they didn’t know that until after it had been employed. Unresisting, with the locks already broken, the heavy metal clad oak doors swung back and one tore away from its hinges to fall in to the banking hall. It bounced aside as it landed on thickly strewn corpses.
Covering each other in turn Revells’ unit rushed from the death trap glass fronted office block and into the bank. Each section reacted the same, skidded to a halt immediately inside the entrance, before cautiously picking their way in to the interior.
In many places the bodies overlapped two or three deep. Hyde’s boot slipped on congealing blood and he began to wipe the sole on a shawl until he saw that it shrouded a child’s partially dismembered body.
Looking around, Major Revell noted the pockmarked polished marble pillars, the many gouge marks in the gilt embellished mahogany cashiers desks. “This was done with grenades. The civvies were herded in and then a handful of fragmentation bombs were hurled in among them.”
“The Russians have not reached this side of the square.” Andrea bent down to pull away an arm that shielded a face. Attached only by some stringy tendons it flopped aside.
“So who?” In a corner Burke saw two Warsaw Pact uniforms. He recognised the stained insignia on their collars, telegraphists. Both were buxom middle-aged women, but the wire wound tight about their necks had made their faces bulge, eliminating any wrinkles. Their arms were bound tightly and the blood had drained from their hands “Looks like these were done first. But why the civvies as well?”
“Perhaps who ever did it had orders to take them along, and didn’t want to be hampered.” Andrea had to take the longest strides she could to step among the corpses, on the majors’ orders, counting them.
“Still leaves the question, who?” Revell ducked as a stray bullet came in through the open doors and shattered a large clock face on the back wall. “But no time for guessing games. Try and raise HQ on the radio or a cell phone. What ever works. We need ammunition before we move on from here.”
“You want to be found among this lot?” Hyde swept his hand to indicate the atrocity. The press are having a field day with us as it is.”
Revell knew his sergeant was right. “OK, as soon as we’re sure that supplies are on the way we’ll let this place have some thermite and arrange to link up with the trucks elsewhere.”
Burke had been examining the bodies, trying to make it look as though he was checking for survivors, but the hand he slipped inside jackets, felt more for wallets than heart beats. Drawing attention, and a deep scowl from their sergeant he made to casually stroll behind the desks, to where massive vault doors stood open.
The boxes on the plain metal shelves were empty of all but a few scraps of paper. Further within a wall of safe-deposit boxes gaped and a sledgehammer and broken steel chisels on the floor indicated how they had been opened.
“Hell, always the same. How come we are never the first to these places.” Burke kicked aside a carelessly tumbled stack of long safe-deposit boxes. In the metal lined interior of the vault the noise rebounded and was magnified to a deafening avalanche of sound.
“And how would you carry enough to do you any good, even if we did escape the Russian advance.” Andrea smiled at the man’s frustration.
“Some of these” he gestured at the litter of battered metal, “must have contained jewellery. I can carry a lot of that without it getting in my way. Give me a chance and I’ll show you.”
“We have a long war ahead of us. You’ll get your chances.”
“Bollocks.” Dooley stuck his head in to the vault and smiled at Burkes frustration. “We’ll be home by Christmas.”
“A prize for everyone who has said that at the start of a European war. People have been saying that every year since the Commies advanced and the Zone was formed.” Hyde ordered them out. “The Russians are still being stalled, by us and by the unreliability of their so called Allies. We are hampered by inept generals and corrupt politicians. This could go on forever. Very likely will.”
* * *
“This is it? We expect a couple of trucks and instead we get one pick-up? Thorne led the chorus of complaint as the squad clustered about the vehicle and the few boxes of magazines and grenades were opened and their contents distributed.
“Don’t blame me.” The quartermaster sergeant who was trying to record who was taking what, was getting more and more frustrated as men just grabbed at the assault rifle magazines and ration boxes. Finally he waved his clipboard above his head in angry frustration. “Major I have to account for all this.”
Taking the board and wiping the dirt from it with
his sleeve, Major Revell scrawled a signature and date across the page. “There, you’re covered.”
Looking suddenly more cheerful the clerk took back the board and returned to the vehicle. The driver accelerated away as the last box was hauled from the back.
From an open container Burke hauled out a short belt of machine gun ammunition. “Don’t know what the guy is worried about. War is a great way of making your inventory come out straight. Every US quartermaster in Europe squared his books the day the Russian came over and through the wall.”
At the end of the street the drab coloured vehicle slowed for a turn and as it did a rocket-propelled grenade arced from a side road. It impacted on the vehicles rear wheel. As the light truck flipped over on to its top the metal of the cargo deck was ripped apart and hidden within the ball of fire from the exploding gas tank. Two figures towing wisps of smoke jumped from the wreckage and sprinted away.
“The Russians are closing in on us. We’d best be moving.” Not even bestowing a last glance on the shattered vehicle, Revell led the unit away and into a warren of lanes.
“They infiltrating darned fast.” Glancing aside Libby saw a stream of tracer flick along a parallel route.
“With the weight of fire they’re putting down that’s hardly surprising.” Hyde kept up a fast jogging pace and fell back a few steps to get alongside the Major.
“They’re just destroying everything in their way.”
Several times they had to change direction, when rocket salvoes crashed down into the street or artillery shells ripped open the tops of buildings and sent torrents of masonry across their route.
“Who is on point?” Revell had unslung his assault shotgun and cradled it, as they had to move to the other side of the road when a mortar barrage ploughed across the small paved area of a tree line square up ahead. He glanced down at the bandolier across his chest. Only eight of the pouches were full and all of those held anti-personnel flechette rounds. He would have been happier to have more, a lot more. A mix of explosive and incendiary would have been better.
“Burke and the new kid. Simmons.”
“An ill matched pair if ever there was one.” Revell smiled to himself, the sergeant had teamed the fittest and the slowest of their squad together. One needed the exercise; the other needed the restraint of a slower partner. “Keep them in sight. Too easy to get out of touch and separated.”
More high explosive rounds were impacting on the rooftops, scattering fragments of slate, copper sheet and shreds of waterproofing felt almost to the middle of the road. A single shell impacted on the tarmac behind them and started a fire in an abandoned Volkswagen, collapsing it on to the ground as fragments punched away the jack holding up an axle without wheels.
“Getting closer. Some one knows we’re here.” Ducking into a doorway to avoid a deluge of tiles that shattered the glass entrance canopy of an adjoining building, Revell scanned their surroundings.
Most of the buildings were of several stories and precluded any useful view of what lay ahead. Just visible between two gable ends was a distant church spire. The officer had caught fleeting glimpses of the structure from time to time. If the Russians had managed to get an artillery observer up there then his view of them would be just as sporadic, and would explain the erratic nature of the occasional bombardment they were receiving.
Two closer explosions demonstrated that his theory was likely correct. “Time to move on, before they drop one in our laps.”
The next couple of hundred metres kept the spire out of view and the mortaring ceased.
From the far side of a small garden filled square arose a plume of exhaust smoke and the roar of a revving engine. The clutter of trees, benches, kiosks and a burnt out bus hid what ever it was from view.
“We don’t have the time or the firepower to engage in a scrap with Ruskie armour.” Revell knew it was time to make another detour.
Signalling for the scouts to return, Revell sent them into nearby buildings to find a way around the potential danger. The engine noise increased in tempo and a blast of exhaust fumes sent the concealing foliage into a thrashing dance. A powerful cannon unleashed a short burst, the punching crack of its firing marking the weapon as a Russian anti-aircraft cannon. It was followed by another longer salvo as twin barrels sent streams of tracer into a distant storefront. For some reason one barrel fired only three rounds before stopping. The other went on to completely exhaust its magazine.
“A museum piece, a ZSU-fifty seven.” Sergeant Hyde identified the vehicle. “It still packs a hell of a punch and we still don’t want to attract their attention.”
The lightly armoured flak tank might be out-dated; a very real surprise in a front line situation but it was still a most formidable machine at close range. In any engagement with armour in a street fight it would always have to be the first enemy vehicle engaged and if not knocked out quickly could unleash a weight of fire that would destroy all opposition.
Twice more the flak tank opened up, not bothering to fire a ranging round first at so short a distance from its targets. There was no pattern to or reason for the buildings it selected. Reduced to the one barrel it still blasted off a full magazine every time. It would pulverise a façade and then a fresh structure would be selected apparently at random.
Burke and Simmons returned, the older man puffing and panting from keeping up. Gathering his breath he let the Simmons do the talking.
“Locked fire doors everywhere at the back of these places. A grenade will get us through but from the windows we can see swarms of Warpac infantry using the service roads to break in to places. They’ll never be able to carry all they’re looting.”
“Then we go up and across. We’ll have to chance being seen by the guy in the church tower. Let’s hope others are attracting his attention for a change.”
Taking the lead, Revell selected an office block of old fashioned construction and led the squad across its small-carpeted reception area and up a wide staircase four floors to the roof.
Dooley’s brute force overcame the short lived resistance of a skylight and then they were up in the fresh air, away from the drifting dust and cordite stench of the canyon-like fire filled city roads.
In the cover of a cluster of ornate brick chimney stacks Revell tried to translate the simplified tourist map that was all they had, into a meaningful route. As he scanned the skyline he could see where columns of smoke and accompanying billows of brick dust from collapsing buildings marked the main line of the Soviet advance. They were sweeping through the city unleashing pile driver force against scant and scattered resistance. To either flank rose other indicators of the Warsaw Pact progress. Isolated fires displayed where racing advance groups of the enemy were blasting a route towards the river. Faintly there came the sound of squealing tank tracks and high revving scout car engines, blended with staccato ripples of wild machine gun and cannon fire.
“They’re throwing in everything they’ve got.” Though it cleared their rooftop by fifty feet, Hyde involuntarily ducked as a rocket swept overhead. It went on to impact on the ornate stonework topping another building, sending up a plume of flame and debris.
A lone helicopter was visible in the distance, skimming the chimneys, jinking between the tall buildings. Tracer silently streamed from a chin-mounted cannon and frequently the timber and plaster frontage of an elegant old house would dissolve under the impacts and bodies would tumble out of the ruined buildings. More massive destruction occurred when it occasionally launched heavier weaponry. Towing a pale vapour trail, rockets would lash out from their launch rails beneath the crafts stub wings and the top floors of another half timbered building would disintegrate.
“They may be lashing out at everything.” Andrea watched the destruction. “But I think the rate of fire has slackened in the last hour.”
“Doesn’t seem like it to me.” Burke saw the chopper soar in a circle to retrace its route, its launching rails empty. A lone orange ball of tracer chased it, mis
sing by a long way.
“It’s academic, by the time it’s dark they’ll be all around us.” Clarence used the telescope of his sniper rifle to watch as a group of Russian infantry came out on to a distant rooftop and after looking around settled down for a smoke.
“It’s still the best part of a kilometre to the river. At this stop-start pace we’ll not make it. We’re having to tip-toe and pussy-foot to avoid civilian casualties while the Ruskies plough forward blasting everything and everyone in their path.”
“They’re not all gung–ho Major.” Taking careful aim Clarence put a single round through the neck of a Russian with a small group who appeared to be setting up a sniper post on a distant roof. None of his companions saw him gracefully topple over the edge.
Sergeant Hyde had watched Revells’ finger trace a grubby path across the tourist map. The lack of detail hid what must be a thousand opportunities for the Russians to set ambushes across their path. Except that they didn’t seem interested in such refinements, they were just moving forward, hosing the streets with machine gun and canon fire, being so careless of the supporting mortar and artillery fire that they were frequently suffering casualties from their own gunners.
Already he had seen two instances, in locations that only Warsaw Pact guns could have reached, where Russian infantry had been scythed down. Scattered groups of Warpac dead filled some avenues or were slumped in the back of blazing trucks.
“We’ll use the rooftops to cover a bit of distance and then go down and see if we can grab transport for the dash to the bridge. There are abandoned vehicles all over the place. They can’t all be broken down or out of gas.”
“Great,” Libby had heard the exchange. “Then we’ll have both sides gunning for us. The Ruskies as we drive to the bridge and the Yanks when we try to cross it.” His muttered aside was to Dooley.
Burke had heard it also. “I prefer to be motoring along in a bullet magnet rather than being towed at speed, on foot, by Simmons.”