by Gee, Colin
There was also something he wanted to know.
As he assembled his men in the clearing, the MG42 teams relocated, providing external security now, the remainder of the Kommando adding to the ring around the camp, now facing outwards and ready for all comers.
Still no verbal commands had been issued; such was the expertise that SS-Kommando Lenz had developed since the start of the new war.
Readying his ST44, Lenz nodded at one of his men who spoke in casual Russian.
“Tovarich Kapitan, a word please.”
The sound of movement inside indicated that the words had been received and the NKVD officer emerged sleepily, suddenly becoming wide-awake when he saw the muzzle of Lenz’s assault rifle aimed at his chest.
Behind him came the unit’s senior NCO, his PPSh useless in his hands, resistance so clearly futile.
Disarmed, the two men were moved into the centre of the clearing, more so that they could examine the work of the Kommando than for any other reason.
The Russian speaker set about his task, questions fired rapidly at the officer, a proud and haughty man, who remained silent, his contempt, and hatred plain for all to see.
After a third bout of unanswered questions, Lenz held up his hand.
The two NKVD soldiers stared at it, appreciating it had some significance well beyond the silencing of the interrogator.
The hand dropped and four men stood forward, grabbing the NCO, and dragging him towards one of the larger trees.
Lenz did not watch them; he watched the officer, the man’s eyes changing, at first questioning and inquiring as he watched his Sergeant dragged away, then filled with fear, as he understood what was to come.
Most of Lenz’s assassination party was plundering the dead for booty, cigarettes, and alcohol being the most prized.
The NKVD officer’s attention moved to one group, the bodies of his dead men being tossed around like rag dolls as the commandos went in search of their trophies.
His attention refocused as the NCO groaned, his mouth full of oily cloth rammed home by unfeeling hands.
Lenz watched as the man’s face went from fear to outrage to full blown horror in a microsecond.
The scream of pain was choked by the cloth.
The Serzhant was now suspended above the ground, his feet desperately trying to broach the gap from his boots to the earth below, the few inches being as good as a mile for a man who was being held up by knives rammed through his shoulders.
The first time that Lenz and his men had crucified a prisoner, they had made mistakes. Now, they ensured the flat of the blade was uppermost, supporting, rather than cutting.
The entry area was sufficiently low enough not to rip through the flesh, yet high enough to ensure no fatal wound was inflicted.
Extending the moaning man’s arms, four more blades were rammed home, again supporting the weight.
Even through the rag, the man’s agony could be heard.
Lenz watched the enemy officer’s reaction.
‘Two more will do it.’
He hadn’t been wrong so far, but he was this time. The NKVD Captain did not crack as another two long blades were hammered into the sergeant’s thighs, pinning him further against the cold trunk.
Nodding at his man, Lenz listened as the interrogation continued, the Russian clearly not talking despite ordeal of his soldier.
Those Kommandos at the tree waited for further instructions, receiving the signal from Lenz.
Bending the legs, slicing more flesh as the blade in the thigh resisted the movement, two of them rammed blades through feet held flat to the bark.
The muffled screams became animal-like, the extremes of pain being realised by the unfortunate man.
‘Tough bastard.’
Lenz wondered for a moment which of the two men he was referring to.
Over at the tree, the Kommando torturers reasoned that they would soon need to be creative, as this was as far as they had gone previously.
The NKVD officer stood immobile, tears running down his face, his silence condemning his NCO to a painful death.
A simple nod from the Kommando leader followed, and the Russian closed his eyes, the increased sounds of extremis the only link to the brave man he was condemning by his silence.
The sound changed, an almost high-pitched whimpering, rhythmical in its nature, as a blade worked steadily and carefully.
Something struck the Soviet officer on the chest, falling to the ground, via his right toecap.
He opened his eyes.
Even in the low light, the sight of his NCO’s testicles and scrotum were unmistakable.
He broke.
The answers quickly flowed, each one punctuated by a plea for mercy, a swift end to the tortured man’s suffering.
Once Lenz had what he needed release was granted, a silenced pistol removing the temple of the crucified man.
Pointing at the broken NKVD officer, Lenz issued his last orders.
“Bind that piece of shit. We will put him with the others. Jensen, he is yours. Any trouble…” the Hauptsturmfuhrer drew a finger across his throat, ensuring that the Russian saw the universal sign and understood.
Turning away, he nodded to one of his NCO’s.
“Leave our calling card, Weiss.”
The young NCO extracted his Hitler Youth dagger and cut away at the crucified man’s shirt, working quickly on the bare flesh below.
Watching the youth at work, Lenz lit a cigarette from a pack given to him.
“American,” he said to no one in particular, as he drew the smoke deeply into greedy lungs.
Checking the clearing, and satisfying himself that all was in order, he gave the order to move.
“Emmering,” the Senior NCO immediately attentive, “Pick up the other group, then north-west towards Neuburg.”
The Kommando moved off, Lenz considering the recently gained information. Lenz was a cautious man, and had mentioned Neuburg openly, just in case.
As was their normal practice, two of his best men remained to, as Lenz called it, ‘dress’ the casualties for those who found them later.
Once they had all joined up with the rest of the Kommando, Emmering would steer them towards their real target, the newly formed Soviet supply base near Ingolstadt.
The reason that the United States Navy does so well in wartime, is that war is chaos, and the Americans practice chaos on a daily basis.
Karl Donitz
Chapter 81 - THE SWEDE
1247hrs, Sunday, 9th September 1945, one kilometre south-west of Pörnbach, Germany.
Using her binoculars, Captain Larisa Sverova surveyed the scene, trying hard not to focus on the disgusting sight that was screaming for her attention.
Her unit of twenty-one replacement mortar personnel had been moving up to the front, when their aged GAZ lorry had broken down.
Leaving the cursing driver to do his best, she and a few of her unit decided to explore the surrounding woods.
The discovery of a brand new Studebaker down a track was a matter of celebration, until one of her young girls spotted a pair of feet beside it, the blood purple and dried upon the exposed flesh.
Harrying the inexperienced women into some sort of organised group, Sverova moved forward carefully, her only combat-seasoned NCO moving amongst the female soldiers, advising here, pointing there.
As she approached the clearing, Sverova silently ordered the group to stay put, and beckoned her NCO forward.
It was then that she first saw the horrors of the new war up close.
Senior Sergeant Ponichenkarova silently dropped beside her officer, the PPD in her hands ready for action at a moment’s notice.
“Govno!”
The almost male voice of the NCO spoke that which her inner voices screamed.
She had also seen the awful apparition that stood out from the slaughter.
Sverova’s words interrupted Ponichenkarova’s train of thought, bringing her attention back to the busine
ss in hand.
“I count at least thirty men here, Dina. NKVD uniforms.”
A low-key ‘uh-huh’ confirmed her NCO’s agreement.
“Pick two and move up to the right, there,” Sverova indicated a denser patch of undergrowth, “Send me two, and I will work my way round to the tree,” she had no need to say which one.
Checking around the position they were concealed in, it seemed fit for purpose.
“Get the rest of them lined up here. Put Astafieva in charge, with orders to cover us”
Sverova paused, looking around her.
“But leave two on each of the flanks for security.”
This time Ponichenkarova managed a grunt by way of agreement, and the solid framed NCO was off, harrying the group behind into some sort of order.
Quickly, the women sorted themselves out. Astafieva, quietly efficient, organised her covering force and set the pairs on each side in position.
The two small flank groups moved off.
Ponichenkarova was first to her appointed spot, carefully examining the scene in front of her, the evidence of quiet massacre all too plain to her eyes.
Beyond the clearing, the horrified NCO could see the officer and her two soldiers moving up, approaching that unspeakably bloody something hanging from the tree directly opposite them.
Sverova nodded, a silent message across the divide, and both parties moved up and into the camp, picking their way over the horrors.
Both NCO and officer silently extended arms, directing their soldiers to move further apart.
The two met in the middle of the clearing, not even the tweet of a bird to break the tension.
“Killed while they slept, Dina, all except that one.”
As if by common assent, they both turned to face the body that had been pinned to the tree with knives, the bloody swastika carved into the torso appearing the least of the apparent horrors.
“Werewolves.”
Not a question, just a statement.
Sverova slipped her Tokarev pistol back into her holster.
An agreed hand signal summoned Astafieva’s group.
“Check their lorry over. If it’s fine, we will load the bodies aboard and take them to the nearest checkpoint.”
The NCO moved off to inspect the lorry, the cover force emerging from the woods to start the grisly task of recovering the dead.
It took Ponichenkarova a few seconds to find the grenade booby-traps on the vehicle, and less than a minute to make them safe. She warned her soldiers to be vigilant, something that Sverova was also doing back at the clearing.
“Be careful, Comrades. Who knows what the SS bastards have left behind?”
Sverova and two of the older women removed the tortured man from the tree, placing him gently upon a blanket and rolling him up, as they would swaddle a baby.
The three of them carried the burden, moving gingerly across the clearing as others, similarly wrapped, started their own journey to the waiting Studebaker.
Most of the weapons had been damaged, the rifles and sub-machine guns bent, probably by smashing the metal against a tree trunk.
One PPSh sat propped against a pack, inviting attention.
“No, Olga!”
The female soldier who had been looking carefully at the vignette, nodded without moving her body, responding instantly to the voice of command, but keeping her eyes focussed on the threat.
Sverova knelt down gingerly and swept away the leaves with care, seeking the telltale signs of interference and hidden death.
There were none.
Both she and the soldier, Olga Matalinova, breathed out with relief.
The unit’s youngest soldier was crying openly, her ginger hair matted with blood, saying a forbidden prayer over the men she was tending.
Her eyes fell on the German helmet and she snapped, a wail of anger escaping her lips.
Sverova screamed.
“NO!”
She lashed out viciously with her boot, sending the object of her hatred flying.
The moment the helmet moved, it activated a simple tilt switch, igniting a detonator.
Two-thirds of a second later the zinc-encased charge exploded.
A loud bang mixed with the high-pitched screams of the horribly injured.
Ponichenkarova rushed back to the clearing.
The pretty ginger girl was no longer intact, the pieces of her svelte body now spread around the clearing.
Other women soldiers were also amongst the dead, many dismembered and spread to the four corners of the open ground, the odd portion hanging from a branch like a macabre Christmas decoration. There were a handful of survivors, some hideously injured and yet still clinging to life.
Additional horrors had been wrought on the already dead bodies of the NKVD soldiers.
Sverova was propped against the torso of an NKVD soldier, looking across the clearing, the smoke of the explosion stinging her eyes and robbing her of her final clear memories.
She was silent, unable to speak, her lower body torn away from the hips down, her upper body naked and unblemished, save for some splashes of blood and other fluids from the unfortunate Matalinova.
The horrified NCO made it to her side in five huge steps. Sverova’s destroyed body failed her before the third step was complete.
SS Werewolf Kommando Lenz had ‘dressed’ the site with a standard three-kilo explosive charge, and it had done its work well, twelve of the women soldiers joining their NKVD comrades in the after-life.
1328hrs Monday, 10th September 1945, Two miles south-west of Mother Owen’s Rocks, Gulf of Maine.
The periscope hissed as it slid back up, breaking the surface above for the final time before the orders were given.
“Fire one.”
A stopwatch clicked, four seconds passed.
“Fire two.”
Both releases accompanied by the sounds of torpedoes in the water.
“Starboard twenty, both engines make revolutions for six knots.”
The Elektroboote, B27, had found a fast mover, a single merchant vessel intent on crossing the Atlantic alone, relying on her speed to keep her safe.
The rumble of an explosion through the water, followed shortly by another, marked the folly of the attempt for the American steamship.
Manoeuvring to get away from the firing position, B27 relocated to the east of the sinking, the submarine’s detection apparatus indicating that no allied vessels were in the vicinity.
The Captain raised the scope once more, focussing in the area the vessel went down, its bulkheads noisily surrendering to the inrush of water, tasting its final gasp of air just six minutes after being struck by the last torpedo.
As the commander quickly swivelled his periscope, he saw the lifeboats, two of them filled to the brim with survivors.
The flash of gold braid caught his eye, and he upped the lens setting immediately.
“What have we here, Comrades? Senior military personnel on the lifeboat ahead of us.”
A moment’s thought.
The First officer waited expectantly.
“Threats?”
Confirming with the sonar crew, he turned back to the commander.
“None detected, Comrade Kapitan.”
As was his habit in times of deep thought, the Captain pinched at his nose, squeezing it to stimulate the process of decision-making.
“We will surface, and quickly, Gun crews on deck as soon as we are in air. Deck party armed. I intend to offer assistance to the senior military survivors.”
A questioning look from the second in command was understood, and his concerns addressed.
“We will be up and gone before they have a chance to organise a search, even if she did get off a signal. Now, let us be quick, Leytenant.”
The First Officer turned to organise the crew.
“Chief, I want you in your diving kit, just in case they lose something overboard, like a briefcase.”
The ship’s senior rating understo
od, acknowledged the order, and moved away quickly to get ready.
Eight minutes later, the ex-German elektroboote B-27 rose to the surface, thirty yards from the nearest lifeboat.
1337hrs, Monday, 10th September 1945, airborne over the Gulf of Maine.
“Enemy submarine, on the surface, bearing 035.”
“Action stations, standby for bombing attack.”
Other voices confirmed that it was one of the new submarines, which were unmistakeable and could not be confused with any Allied vessels.
New boy Hawkins had been in the cockpit passing out coffee, and it had been he that had spotted the sleek shape.
It was also he that spotted the lifeboats.
“No skipper, you can’t attack. There are survivors there, in boats. Could be the Dawes Castle people.”
Joy looked at the horrified man.
Momentarily confused, he alternated between examining the U-Boat and his crewmate.
With eyes suddenly heavy with duty and the responsibility of his decision, he opened his mike, directing his gaze at Hawkins.
“Stand by to attack,” he said to the crew, seemingly cold and businesslike.
“To your station, Bob,” was more softly spoken to the new airman.
The pain distorted the wireless operators face.
“You can’t, you simply can’t. Those are our people.”
“To your station, Flight Sergeant! Send a contact report. Navigator, pass on the position.”
The inexperienced man turned away, leaving Joy to line up the Canso.
Behind him, the sounds of argument between Hawkins and Parkinson grew in volume and ferocity.
The delay caused by Hawkins’ outburst had caused the Canso to miss its prime approach, something that would guarantee Hawkins a court-martial once the aircraft returned to base.
The submarine had spotted them, and multi-coloured tracers leapt from her conning tower, indicative that the vessel intended to fight rather than dive.
‘Perhaps they think the lifeboats are a shield?’