The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  CHAPTER 13

  MONGOLIA – FIRST CONTACT

  Sheppard boarded the new train’s only passenger carriage. Its austerity instantly reminded him of an old-fashioned third-class car, with its small, narrow wooden benches and distinct lack of comfort. He took a seat in the back. Soon the train sprang to life, and once more, they were on their way. The Russian-Mongolian border proved to be a small, tumbledown guardhouse manned by bored, unenthusiastic, and very intoxicated soldiers from both nations. A few extra gold coins and a crate of cheap vodka helped ensure another smooth and hassle-free crossing.

  The journey went without incident. The train travelled through the seemingly infinite Mongolian countryside that varied from white peaked mountains to wide-open grassy steppes, all of which seemed almost devoid of people to Sheppard. On their third day inside Mongolia, they stopped at Hatgal, a small town full of old-looking wooden buildings on the southern edge of an enormous fresh water lake, which looked to stretch on forever. While the train fuelled up, Shipov’s men got down to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. Having dispensed with the charade of being Reds, Shipov and his men flaunted their White eagles and the vestiges of the old Imperial regime they had with them on their uniforms trying to give the appearance of ex-Czarists looking for work among the lawless. Sheppard and Shipov chatted with the local station manager, who in broken Russian explained that they were now no more than fifty or so miles from their destination, Turta. The thought of finally getting off the train and getting on with his assignment made Sheppard both relieved and anxious.

  Excusing himself, Shipov proceeded to talk with the few other officers on the train, while Sheppard and Campbell made themselves as comfortable as they could on the hard wooden benches. Both men tried to get a little more sleep when the train moved off once more.

  A few hours later, Sheppard woke to the sound of loud and boisterous cheering coming from outside the carriage. He stood and tried to massage out a painful kink in his neck.

  “What’s going on?” Sheppard asked the nearest soldier.

  “One of our fighter planes is right above us. I can’t believe it—a White plane all the way out here. He’s chasing down a Red bastard,” the man explained, beaming with pride and enthusiasm.

  Sheppard rummaged through his small pack until he found his binoculars, then stepped outside onto the car’s railing to see what he could of the aerial dogfight. Above him, the two planes dove and pirouetted around one another, engaged in a form of deadly pugilism in the air. As Sheppard watched, they twisted and turned, desperately trying to gain an advantage over the other. Each time the White plane gained a perceived advantage the train would break out in loud, lusty cheers.

  Sheppard had seen this lethal ballet played out many times over the trenches of Western Europe. Lacking his compatriots’ enthusiasm for the ongoing fight, he lowered his binoculars and began to scan the horizon for anything else of interest. The countryside was still relatively flat and wide open, with only the occasional tree to break up the otherwise monotonous landscape. Sheppard was about to head back inside, when something far in the distance caught his eye. Adjusting his binoculars, Sheppard cursed out loud as he brought into focus a plane skimming along just above the surface of the lake…coming straight towards them. Thinking back to the war, Sheppard recognised it as a French-built Nieuport bi-plane. It was quickly approaching and would soon be upon them. Calling out loudly to anyone who could hear, Sheppard tried to get their attention turned towards the onrushing fighter.

  The closest group of men, seeing Sheppard frantically waving and pointing, looked away from the dogfight just in time to see the new plane as it opened fire. Bullets shot forth from the plane’s twin synchronized machine-guns, instantly hitting the passenger carriage. Instantly, the glass windows shattered inwards while the wooden sides of the car were torn apart, sending splinters flying everywhere. With a loud roar from its engine, the plane flew right over the train, its dark shadow racing along the ground. Sheppard could see that it was painted green with large Red stars prominently painted on the underside of the wings. With horror, he saw that it also carried several bombs attached to its wings. The Red pilot calmly banked in the sky, climbed slightly and then turned about and began another pass at the train.

  Sheppard could see the plane positioning itself for its run, this time from the rear of the train. He knew that unless it was stopped that it would be able to rake the train from one end to the other. Darting back inside the passenger carriage, he saw that the plane’s bullets had hit home with deadly effect. Dead and dying soldiers were strewn about on the blood-splattered floor. Some pitifully lay there as white as ghosts, moaning in pain as they slowly bled to death while others clenched their wounds and stoically accepted their fate. Sheppard was relieved to see that Campbell was unhurt and was busy applying a tourniquet to the leg of a badly wounded soldier.

  “Harry, stay here and help out as best you can, and for God’s sake keep your ass down,” Sheppard yelled as he ran past his friend and made his way over the wounded soldiers towards the back of the train.

  “Sir, what the hell is going on?” asked a confused Campbell. However, it was too late—Sheppard had grabbed his rifle and sprinted out of the car.

  Stepping outside into the blowing wind, Sheppard saw Yuri Shipov clutching his left leg. It was soaked in blood. Shipov had tied his handkerchief around the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. All the while, he was still was barking orders at his men to fire at the plane as it dove towards the rear of the train. His men may have been enthusiastic, but most were not veterans. They shot wildly into the air, hitting nothing. Sheppard doubted they would ever hit their target, considering their lack of combat experience and the speed of the onrushing Red aircraft.

  Diving fast, the plane flew low once more, aiming straight towards the back of the train. When it was no more than a few hundred yards away, it climbed slightly higher and then opened up on the train. Bullets flew into the train, instantly causing carnage among the unprotected soldiers and their panicked horses in an open car. The moment the plane flew over the first car, the pilot released his bombs, which screamed like banshees through the air as they fell towards the ill-fated train. Sheppard saw a bomb hit the ground beside the train, exploding in a bright flash, sending a tall dirty plume of dirt and rocks skyward, rocking the train. Unfortunately, the second bomb was more accurate and detonated inside a packed troop carriage. The bomb exploded with a loud crash, tearing the carriage and its helpless occupants to pieces, hurling large portions of the destroyed carriage up into the air.

  Sheppard instinctively reached for something to hold onto as the train rocked violently from the blast. Gritting his teeth for the inevitable, Sheppard could see through the smoke that the troop car had been ripped in half. Part of the carriage still somehow tenaciously clung to the moving train. The second half, along with the last car of the train, packed with screaming and terrified soldiers, left the tracks. With a loud sickening crunch of wood snapping, it flipped end-over-end, sending men, horses and material flying onto the ground. The sound of the crash filled the air.

  Swearing, Sheppard knew that he could do nothing for the injured until their adversary was dealt with. Climbing the side of the passenger carriage, his pent-up rage boiling over, Sheppard looked up into the clear blue sky for their winged tormentor. A shape darted behind a low hill, in the distance, before casually banking up in the air, preparing to turn around and take another run at the wounded and smouldering train. Sheppard knew they couldn’t last much longer against the attack of the Red plane and its skilled pilot. Looking around for Colonel Shipov, Sheppard found him sitting down. His face was pale. His blood-covered hands clutched his injured leg. Despite the pain that he was in, Shipov still yelled out orders, spurring his desperate soldiers to resist.

  Sheppard jumped down and ran over to Shipov. “Sir, tell your men to aim straight up into the air…not at the plane. Let it come to us and fly through a wall of lead,” Sheppard
said to Yuri. “Trust me sir, it’s the only thing that will work.”

  Shipov nodded his understanding, then at the top of his lungs passed along the order. Every man who still could, including Sheppard, raised their rifles into the air and took aim.

  “Wait…wait,” ordered Shipov calmly.

  The plane was now a few hundred yards distant and closing. Its machine guns came to life, rhythmically firing a deadly volley of bullets towards its hapless quarry.

  “Now,” Shipov yelled as loud as he could.

  Emptying their magazines, Shipov’s men fired straight up into the air. The Red plane never expected to have to fly through a wall of bullets. With a shudder, the plane rocked slightly as it was struck all over. Thick, oily black smoke started to pour from a fatal wound in its engine block. Below, the men on the train jumped for joy and started to cheer loudly; some gestured rudely at the stricken plane. Realising that he was in trouble, the pilot banked his plane away from his prey and turned north, towards home. However, his luck had run out, as the White plane, having finished off the other Red, dove out of the sun, mercilessly pouncing upon the stricken Red, with both guns blaring. The wounded Red plane was no match and exploded in a ball of flame, its flaming wreckage plummeting straight into the ground.

  The men on the train cheered at the top of their lungs as the Red plane was destroyed before their eyes. Their saviour turned about and then flew right over them, waving his wings in salute before banking over and turning southeast, heading for home somewhere inside Mongolia.

  Shipov, grimacing in pain, ordered the train to stop and then reverse back to where they had lost the other cars. Standing atop his badly damaged car, Sheppard’s heart dropped as they edged back towards the destroyed carriages. The sight was dreadful. Soldiers, equipment, and horses lay all over the ground. Some men were still moving, trying to get away from the wreckage, but most were lifeless, immobile.

  Sheppard, Campbell and all the remaining uninjured soldiers quickly jumped from the train even before it even came to a halt, rushing to the aid of those still living. Walking through the wreckage of the flipped-over carriages, Sheppard was saddened to see how many young men, most in their late teens, were dead or dying. It was madness, sheer madness. Losing his temper, Sheppard hauled off and kicked an empty can, sending it flying over the tracks, swearing aloud at the senseless slaughter. Thinking there was nothing he could do to help the pitiful few survivors, Sheppard was about to give up and head back to the train when he heard a weak distant voice call for help from beneath an overturned carriage.

  Getting down on all fours, Sheppard peered under the wreck into the dark. “Hello! Hello, in there…can you hear me?” he called out in Russian. Agonizingly, he waited for a response. There was none. He tried again…this time louder.

  A frail voice called out, “Yes, yes I hear you. Please help me. I’m trapped under the carriage and cannot move. Please help me…I don’t want to die under here.” It was the voice of a young woman, terrified and alone.

  Sheppard pushed himself between the narrow cracks in the wood, straining to get closer. “Listen to me. You’re not going to die. I won’t let that happen,” said Sheppard, trying to calm the woman’s fears. “Whatever you do, don’t try to move under there. You’ll only make things worse. I’m going to get help and get you out.”

  “Ok, but please be quick, I’m scared,” said the woman.

  With that, Sheppard took off and less than a minute later, returned with two volunteers. Diving down, he scrambled and wormed his way back beneath the carriage looking around for the pinned girl. The smell of dirt and burnt wood filled the air. It was near impossible to see through the wreckage, but Sheppard could just make out a young woman pinned between the tracks and several jagged pieces of the destroyed train car.

  “Hello there, I’m back. Are you hurt?” Sheppard calmly asked the woman.

  “No, I don’t think so. Please hurry and get me out from under here. I’m really scared,” pleaded the woman.

  Sheppard thrust himself as far as he could under the carriage. Finding a narrow hole, he crawled on his stomach until he was beside the trapped girl.

  “Good day, my name is Christopher Sheppard. What’s yours?” asked Sheppard with a reassuring smile, as he took the scared woman by the hand.

  “Zakharov, Private Elena Zakharov, sir,” said the girl.

  “Well, Private Zakharov, my friends, and I are going to get you out of here as soon as we can.”

  Looking around, Sheppard realised that it would be easier to dig her out than to try to move the several tons of wrecked car off her. Sheppard called back, “Get me a small shovel, and a sturdy piece of wood to act as a support.”

  After a few anxious moments, the men returned and handed Sheppard a shovel. Twisting his body so he could dig a little at a time, Sheppard began. The shovel made loud scraping noises as it hit the rocks. Slowly, one by one, the rocks were dug away. Sheppard was soon sweating profusely, but he never once considered leaving his place under the carriage, even though the two younger soldiers offered to replace him. After about ten minutes, Sheppard called for the piece of timber they had found. Slowly, it was pushed in though the gaps in the wreckage until it rested beside him. Telling Elena to move if she could, Sheppard lodged the wood under the train to give it some support as he ever so carefully dug away at the gravel.

  “Won’t be long now until you’re free,” said Sheppard calmly, with sweat running like rivers down his dirt-covered face.

  A loud creaking noise suddenly filled Sheppard’s ears. His heart skipped a beat; his skin turned cold with fear. He silently prayed that the wrecked carriage would not collapse on the two of them, killing them both.

  “Hurry up, please, sir. Hurry up,” moaned the girl.

  Sheppard wouldn’t say it, but he felt exactly the same way she did. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Sheppard decided to pick up his pace; the sooner they were out of there, the better. The wood cracked loudly above their heads; dust fell down, coating them both. Sheppard had had enough. Grabbing hold of the woman’s hands, he called over his shoulder to the two soldiers behind him to grab his feet and drag them out without delay.

  “Hang on, no matter what,” was all Sheppard had time to say before he felt several pairs of hands grabbing hold of his legs.

  Then, with amazing speed, Sheppard felt himself and Elena being dragged backwards. A second or two later, they were out in the open, away from the terrifying darkness of the wreck. Sheppard let go of Elena’s hands and then rolled over on his back. Closing his eyes, he fought to catch his breath, when Elena suddenly ran over and embraced him.

  “Thank you, Mister Sheppard, thank you so much. You saved my life,” said Elena as she enthusiastically hugged Sheppard.

  Sheppard sat up and smiled at her and then, taking her by the hand, he stood. She was young, perhaps no more than twenty, with short blonde hair, a beautiful and alluring smile that complimented her sparkling blue eyes.

  “I’m pleased to meet you too,” said Sheppard, looking deep into Elena’s eyes. “Now tell me, what do you do, Private Elena Zakharov?”

  “I am a doctor’s assistant. But as we don’t have one with us, I guess I’m a doctor,” Elena replied, quite proudly.

  Sheppard looked about at the devastation all around them. “Well, Private Elena Zakharov, I think you had best get to work. There are an awful lot of your fellow countrymen in need of you right now.”

  Elena turned her head, taking in the horrible scene. A look of despair filled her eyes for an instant, before instantly being replaced by dogged resolve. Without saying another word, she gathered herself and went in search of those most in need of her attention.

  Sheppard thanked his two helpers and then walked back to the passenger carriage. Climbing up, Sheppard felt every bump and bruise on his body. Moving along, carefully trying not to step on any of the wounded or the dead, Sheppard found Colonel Shipov propped up on a bench nursing his injured and bloody leg. Bending o
ver to inspect the wound, Sheppard saw that a bullet fragment had passed right through his lower leg; some vodka, or antiseptic and some stitches, and he would be ok in a few days’ time.

  Sheppard collapsed beside Shipov and said, “You’re lucky that you weren’t killed in that attack, Yuri.”

  “I know, but so many of my men were not so fortunate,” Shipov replied solemnly, tears welling in his eyes as he lowered his head, momentarily looking away.

  “Colonel, do you know how many men we lost in that attack?”

  “Yes, I do, and it’s heartbreaking…thirty-eight killed and wounded. Some seriously, but mainly it is broken bones, and those can heal,” said Shipov as he tried to stand but found it too painful, so he sat back down, exhaling through clenched teeth. “Chris, we must bury the dead before we leave here. Could you and the priest and see to it,” asked Shipov. “We have no room for them on what’s left of the train, and I won’t leave them behind for the scavengers.”

  Sheppard nodded and then headed outside to find the priest. After a few minutes, he found him and Campbell, covered in blood and dirt, working on some of the less seriously injured soldiers.

  Seeing Sheppard walking over, Campbell finished what he was doing and then stood. “Damned bad luck, sir?” said Campbell, looking over at the row of corpses covered over by only several long khaki tarps. His heart ached for the dead; like the men in the Great War, they all just seemed so incredibly young to Campbell.

  “Yeah, bad luck all around. Nevertheless, we’re still alive,” Sheppard replied.

  Sheppard placed his hand on Campbell’s shoulder, thanked him for being there, and then left him to his work. Walking to the front of the train, he assisted the few uninjured soldiers still standing and began to help bury the dead. It took several hours of backbreaking work to lay them all to rest. As a blood-red sun began to set on the horizon, Shipov hobbled off the train and insisted that they hold a quick service. Led by Father Grigory, prayers and tears for the dead were given. Sheppard was surprised to see any hint of defeat quickly replaced by stoic resolve as the survivors set to work salvaging what they could from the wreckage and preparing the train to continue down the tracks at first light the next day.