by James R Benn
“Ask if I can travel to the penal company, and if the NKVD commander would allow me to talk to Nikolin.”
“No, it would not be allowed,” Popov said, without translating. “No. never.”
“Don’t worry, Fedor, you won’t have to be a trampler again,” I said, sensing what he was afraid of. “Fedor, that’s Russian for Theodore, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, refusing to look me in the eye.
“Okay, Teddy, now please ask Kapitan Kolesnikov. He seems like a decent man, right? He’ll protect you.”
“Yes, he is a good man,” Popov admitted, and talked with Kolesnikov. It went on for a while.
“Yes, it could be arranged,” Popov said. “But Nikolin may or may not be alive. The company commander may or may not allow you to speak with him, even with the orders you carry. The unit at the front. It will be dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“What does he mean? I have orders signed by an NKVD major. Ask him. Major of State Security Pavel Drozdov, assigned to the Soviet airbase at Poltava.”
As Popov spoke, Kolesnikov shook his head, checking the orders once again, line by line.
“No Drozdov, no NKVD,” Popov reported. “The orders are all signed by General Ilia Belov, Red Air Force. See?”
Kolesnikov showed me the signature lines. The handwritten scribbles were impossible to decipher, and the Cyrillic typewritten symbols didn’t tell me a damn thing.
But while they didn’t tell me anything, they did suggest a hell of a lot.
First, I didn’t have any NKVD clout to back me up. Sure, orders from any Soviet general carried weight, but there was nothing like the long arm of the secret police to put the fear of God—or Stalin, in this case—into any officer who stood in my way. Now that I thought back on my conversation with Drozdov, I was pretty sure he never actually said he’d signed the orders. He did give me the impression he was responsible for them, but maybe he’d had them drafted for Belov’s signature.
Or maybe not. Because the second thing this suggested was that Belov was the one behind everything that had happened. My cop’s suspicious mind thought back to him at the Poltava airfield seeing me off. Was he there because he was a fan of the Night Witches? Or did he want to be sure his plan to get rid of me went off without a hitch?
“Teddy, is there anything in those orders about looking for American flyers? Crewmen who bailed out of their aircraft over Soviet territory?”
“What Americans?” Teddy asked. “Here, in the Soviet Union?”
“Yes, there are three airbases, the largest in Poltava. I flew here on a B-17 bombing run from England, and saw a friend’s plane shot down, near Kozova. I’m hoping your people have found them,” I said.
“I have never heard of Americans in Russia, but I will ask,” Teddy said. He and Kolesnikov huddled, going over the paperwork. Kolesnikov tapped his finger on one page triumphantly. “Here. All security forces are directed to report and detain any foreign nationals within our rear areas. A list is to be compiled and sent to General Belov.”
“That sounds like an arrest warrant,” I said.
“The kapitan says this is normal procedure,” Teddy explained. “Except for a list to be sent to General Belov. He offered to find out if any Americans have been reported in our area. But Kozova is some two hundred and fifty kilometers to the east. He doubts they would move in our direction, toward the front. But he will check.”
“Yes, please do that,” I said, nodding my head to Kolesnikov. “But ask him what would happen to any foreigners found nearby and brought to this airbase. Would they be kept here or passed on to another headquarters?”
The two men had a quick conversation and Kolesnikov left to investigate reports of downed flyers. Teddy watched him leave, then rose to shut the door.
“I did not ask the good Kapitan your question,” Teddy said. “I did not wish to embarrass him in front of an American, since he is a decent man, as you pointed out.”
“About foreigners?”
“Yes. Because the truth is, foreigners in our rear areas are not tolerated. Last week two Poles were found hiding in the woods nearby. Half dead. They had escaped from a German camp during a retreat. Since the Germans left them only half dead, our men finished the job,” he said, making a pistol with his fingers.
“Why?”
“Ha! You do not understand Russia then, or Comrade Stalin, for that matter. Everything foreign is a threat, you see? Better to eliminate the threat. Or deny it exists. You tell me there are three bases in the Soviet Union with American aircraft, helping us to fight the fascists. Very well, I believe you. But no one will hear of it, since Mother Russia needs no help.”
“Would they kill Americans?”
“Stalin murders his own people. What do you think a few American lives mean to him? But he would not do it if it put at risk all the materials you send us. I read English, so I see the markings on the trucks, jeeps, and crates of supplies brought to the front. They stencil over them with Russian, and few can read the English words anyway. But I can. I know which trucks are Studebakers and which tanks Shermans. The average frontoviki, he believes all these machines come to us from our factories beyond the Ural Mountains.”
“Frontoviki?” I asked, as my mind scrambled to figure out what all this paranoia meant for Big Mike’s chances at survival.
“The front line troops. The men who do the fighting and dying, the average solider,” Teddy said.
“I see. Tell me, Teddy, do you think Nikolin is still alive?”
“Perhaps. I have not heard of a large attack, so they may be holding them back. But who can say? Tell me, what is so important about this poor soul?”
“Two men were murdered, one Russian and one American,” I said. “I’m investigating the killings and need to find out if he saw anything. He’s a witness, a very important one.”
“Oh, Capitan Boyle, are all Americans like you? You fly here in your B-17, dropping bombs on the Germans while the Hitlerites kill millions and Stalin washes the blood of his own people from his hands. And you seek a witness to two deaths? Oh, we are all witnesses here, witnesses to many deaths. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Two? Most amusing,” Teddy said, as he buried his head in his hands once again.
“Yeah, we’re real amateurs at this killing business,” I said, wondering how dependable Teddy would be if I got to take him along on a visit to his shtrafniki buddies. He had a good point but making it had nearly shattered him.
While Teddy collected himself, I went back to Belov.
With all the other aircraft at his disposal, what was really behind his dispatching me in the Po-2 biplane? And who made the change in orders to Tatyana? How many people even knew which airfield she’d land at to refuel? It would be a simple matter for a Red Air Force general to set the wheels in motion for her to be sent from there on a mission all alone. What were the odds of survival? Who would even question the regrettable loss of a Night Witch and her American passenger?
There was also the question of Nikolin. He’d gone from soft duty at an airbase in the rear area to suicidal duty with a short life expectancy, clearing minefields the hard way. Pretty easy way to eliminate inconvenient witnesses. I had no idea if it took a court martial to get sent to a penal company, or if any senior officer could make that happen with the stroke of a pen. Given what I’d seen and heard, it was my guess a denunciation by a general would do the trick.
Had Drozdov spoken up for Nikolin? After all he was a fellow NKVD officer. Or was it better all-around to place the blame, and the punishment, on the most junior officer. The shit slid in the same direction here as it did everywhere else. Downhill.
Right now, Nikolin was the key to understanding all this. What had he seen? What did he know? And when the hell could I be done with him and get on to Kozova and start looking for Big Mike?
I leaned back in my chair, trying to think t
hrough all the possibilities. Maybe Belov was the guy cleaning up loose ends by setting up suicide missions for both Nikolin and me, but who actually pulled the trigger on Kopelev and Morris? Why those two victims? What did a straitlaced NKVD lieutenant and a stand-up Army Air Force sergeant have in common, and what did they stumble into that meant a death sentence?
The next thing I knew, Teddy was shaking my shoulder.
“Wake up, Captain Boyle,” he said. “It seems as if you’ve earned me a return to the front. The good news is, we don’t have to travel far. That is also the bad news.”
“Sorry,” I said, looking at my watch. I’d been out for an hour. “I mean, I am sorry you have to go back. But just to translate for me, right?”
“Yes,” Teddy said as Kolesnikov came in, paper clutched in his hand. More orders. “The kapitan has prepared orders and travel documents. I will drive you to the shtrafbat and translate. On the way we must take six men. That way Kapitan Kolesnikov cannot be criticized for wasting fuel while aiding a foreigner.”
“I’m an ally, Teddy, but I get it. Are the six men going to the penal company?”
“No, they were wounded and have been discharged from the hospital. Regular frontoviki. Otherwise I could not do it. Who could deliver men to such hell?”
Kolesnikov explained the orders via Teddy. The men were to be delivered to a regimental headquarters about forty kilometers west of here in the small village of Bratkowice. The 18th Detached Penal Company was bivouacked not far from there. Teddy and I were both named in the orders, traveling on official business per the orders of General Ilia Belov, commander of the Poltava airbase. True enough. No need to mention he probably wanted me dead.
The document requested that the commander of the penal detachment make Vanya Nikolin available for questioning. Kolesnikov apologized, saying a request is all he could realistically manage, having no authority to order the NKVD to do anything.
I told him I understood, and that I liked the last part of what he’d written. Private Fedor Popov was ordered to return with the truck and me no later than 2100 hours tonight. That meant anyone who wanted to detain us might be held liable for preventing Popov from executing his orders. It might not impress the NKVD, but it could tip the scales in our favor with suspicious sentries at a roadblock.
Teddy explained that he’d also written I’d been presented with the Order of the Patriotic War, which was the red star medal Mayor Amosova had given me. While she had presented it to me, I doubted it was official. Still, it was nice to have a cover story in case the wearing of Red Army medals by foreigners was a shooting offense.
I complimented Kolesnikov on his use of military language, and he grinned, lighting up another cardboard cigarette. I asked how he could manage to smoke those things, and the answer came via Teddy.
“Life is short, you might as well get the most out of everything. Including Belomorkanals,” Teddy said, pointing to the name on the package. “The strongest cigarette in Russia. The world, perhaps.”
Life is short. The shtrafniki were sure to agree.
Chapter Nineteen
Kolesnikov told Popov to take me to the mess hall while he organized the truck and six men. Long wooden tables ran the length of the room, with a portrait of Stalin at one end and a red hammer and sickle banner at the other. Patriotic posters of workers and farmers graced the walls, all of them looking heroic and well-fed. We each had a plate of potatoes, fried Spam, and carrots. My American uniform attracted a lot of attention, and Teddy spent most of his time explaining who I was. At one point, a round of backslapping and applause broke out.
“I told them you Americans brought us Spam,” Teddy said. “Some did not believe me, but others knew it to be true. You see, many of the cans are relabeled with Russian words. But enough come through with American labels that frontoviki learn the truth. So, they are glad. At the beginning of the war, I did not have meat for two years. Then the first meat I had was Spam.”
I was about to make a wisecrack about Spam not really being meat, but I thought better of it. It wasn’t a joke to Popov and his frontoviki pals. It was sustenance, precious nourishment sent all the way from America. I cut a big piece, ate it, and grinned.
I washed up, shaved, and tried to make myself as presentable as possible. I combed my hair and put on my fore and aft cap, trying to look chipper and wide awake. The bags under my eyes told another story.
A US Dodge three-quarter ton open-topped truck with a big red star on the door panel was waiting outside the mess hall. Six men, who looked like they believed they’d just eaten their last meal, were climbing into the back. Teddy kept up a line of chatter as he tossed them a pack of cigarettes and hoisted himself into the driver’s seat, wincing as he swung his gimpy leg into the cab.
“I can drive if your leg bothers you,” I said as I climbed in.
“No, Captain. If I am a passenger, then they might keep me at the front,” he said. “No, I have a job to do. Drive this truck there and back again.”
“And translate for me,” I said.
“Of course. Then drive right back here,” Teddy replied as he shifted into first and the truck lurched toward the gate. “Unlike these poor souls. The rumors say a new offensive is coming. It must be true, since they let these boys go. Some still are bandaged under their uniforms. But they can walk and carry a rifle, which is their bad fortune.”
We drove a few miles, the softly rolling landscape of untended fields and overgrown grasses giving way to forested hills, blasted in places by artillery, some of the shattered trees fresher than others. The Germans came through here in 1941 and got chased back out not too long ago. It was the more recent blackened craters I worried about. Were we within shelling distance, or had this road been bombed?
As if thought gave birth to reality, the snarl of aircraft rose from the horizon. This wasn’t the soft sputtering of the Po-2, this was the aggressive sound of high-performance engines, fighter aircraft coming in low and fast.
Teddy pulled off the dirt road, sheltering under the canopy of leaves between two oak trees. The planes roared overhead, their prop blast sucking branches upward as they passed. I could spot the bombs mounted under their wings along with the black iron cross markings.
“Messers,” Teddy growled as the frontoviki huddled in the back, heads down.
“At least a dozen,” I said. “Low level attack on the airbase, probably.”
“I hope someone radioed the base,” Teddy said, backing the truck out onto the road. “They had to fly right over the front lines moments ago, the ublyduki. Bastards.”
“Keep your speed down,” I said. “We don’t want to kick up a lot of dust. Dust means death, we said in Normandy.”
“It means the same here,” Teddy said. “But then, most things mean death here.”
Teddy drove slowly, proving that even fatalists understand common sense. The rutted lane curved and spilled out into a downhill slope, leaving the forest behind. Below, a burned-out tank sat off the road, its red star barely noticeable under the scorched exterior. Wrecked trucks had been pushed off the road, which curved around another hill and brought us to the cover of fir trees. Open ground was dangerous ground.
“Messers!” one of the guys in back shouted, pointing skyward as the sound of droning engines could be heard. The Messerschmitts were returning from their treetop raid, much higher on their journey home. Low altitude was fine for a fast and stealthy attack, but now that Russian fighters had been scrambled, they needed the advantage of height in case they got jumped.
“Easy,” I said, as Teddy craned his neck to look at the planes, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. I knew he wanted to floor it. Hell, I wanted him to, but I knew they’d be sure to spot the plume of dust, even at that height. Slow and easy, we had a chance.
“Easy is hard,” Teddy muttered, his eyes now fixed upon the cover of the trees ahead. He managed not to sp
eed up, even as the excited chatter from the back of the truck urged him to hurry.
We were almost there.
A lone fighter flew in from the east, just over the tree line behind us. He was trailing smoke, maybe too damaged to gain altitude. But not too damaged to point his nose at us and squeeze off a burst that chewed up the road. Rounds lashed the side of the truck as Teddy punched the accelerator and the Dodge spit gravel, swerving into the field, then back onto the track and into the woods.
When he stopped to inspect the damage, the men in back were huddled together, close to the cab. Five of them. The sixth man sat in his position at the end of the truck, one hand clutching the wooden slate on the side, the other gripping his rifle.
His head was gone. His body was drenched in blood, but otherwise intact. It looked to me like he’d been hit with a 20mm cannon shell, an explosive round that could make short work of a human skull.
His pals weren’t taking it well, especially the one with blood and gray matter splattered all over him. Teddy got out and spoke to them, his tone soothing but firm. He held up his hand to stop them as they began to climb over the side. I didn’t blame them a bit, but Teddy had other ideas. He got them to lay the body out in the back, covering it with a rain poncho and laying the rifle on top.
“We could have left him here,” I said. “Those boys are pretty shook up.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I am to deliver six men. No matter that one is dead. If I show up with only five, I will become the sixth. No.”
His logic was solid, for an illogical world.
We came to a checkpoint at an intersection. The sentry called over his lieutenant and pointed to my fore and aft cap with the silver captain’s bars. Teddy handed over our orders and the officer returned a nice salute, more interested in a live American than the headless corpse in the back. He gave Teddy directions and me a big grin. Maybe he thought the second front had come to him.
We drove through rows of camouflage netting draped over supplies and vehicles. I spotted a couple of antiaircraft positions and a field kitchen on wheels serving up food. Blackened craters dotted the fields, splintered trees scattered like toothpicks. The distant crump of artillery and the faint rat-tat-tat of sporadic machine-gun fire told me we were almost to the front lines. Of course, to the men here, this was the front, where a sudden barrage could destroy your entire world. But to the frontoviki in the forward positions, this was the comfy rear area, where you could walk upright without fear of a sniper’s bullet.