by James R Benn
Teddy took a right, following a narrow dirt track along a stream, pulling over at what was left of a farmhouse. The low-lying land was wet, and the men’s boots squelched mud as they reluctantly dragged their dead comrade along with them.
Teddy gave his paperwork to a sergeant. Six soldiers delivered, as ordered.
“Now we go to the shtrafbat,” Teddy said. “And I hope we leave as easily.”
The penal company was even closer to the front line.
Artillery shells whistled overhead, cratering in the field behind us. More crashed into the woods on our left as we drove over a small stream, rough pine logs serving as a bridge.
“Fritz is firing blind, hoping to spot our artillery when we return fire,” Teddy said. “An old trick. There, look.” He pointed to tents set up in a clearing. Men sat in the field, about a hundred of them, eating from their mess kits.
“At least they’re fed,” I said.
“Of course,” Teddy answered as he parked the truck. “They must be strong enough to walk, after all.”
“What are the civilians doing here?” I said as we got out. I’d noticed about a third of the men weren’t in uniform.
“They are from the recently liberated villages,” he said. “If they have been under German occupation for the last three years, they are obviously traitors. Otherwise they would have committed suicide or fought the invaders to the death.”
“You have got to be kidding,” I said, stopping to look at the gaunt faces staring at me.
“Comrade Stalin does not kid. Nothing he says is to be laughed at, I promise you. These men are lucky. Usually they would be sent to labor camps in Siberia, where they would die a slow, miserable death. Now they will die more quickly, or if by chance they live through three months of this, they are rehabilitated, and may go home.”
If that was Russian luck, I’d take the luck of the Irish any day.
One man spoke to Teddy, a look of surprise on his face. Apparently, they knew each other, and I could guess the guy’s question. What the hell are you doing here?
A couple of officers strode out of the tent, quickly followed by two soldiers toting submachine guns. Teddy stood to attention, saluting smartly as if to demonstrate he was once again a regular soldier, not a mere shtrafniki. I stood by his side, saluting when I made out the rank of major on one of the officers’ shoulder boards.
He didn’t bother returning the salute. Instead, he snapped his fingers and barked an order, and in no time, I had two Russian submachine guns pointed at my belly. Teddy let loose with a volley of Russian, gesturing to me and handing over his orders. I was glad he had them. If I’d reached into my pocket one of those things might have gone off.
As Teddy and the major spoke, I spotted one man get up and walk slowly toward us. He shuffled, slack-jawed and confused, focused on me.
On my uniform. He recognized an American, and the closest Americans were at the Poltava airbase. That had to be our man.
“Kapitan Boyle,” Teddy said, pulling on my sleeve. “You may talk with Nikolin, the major says.”
“Is that him?” The guy had stopped ten feet away, his eyes warily watching the officers. And the guns. He had blond hair, a long chin, and blue eyes. He was maybe twenty-five, tops, and shaky, like someone who’d had his legs knocked out from under him. The ground under his feet wasn’t about to get any firmer, especially not after he found out I wasn’t here to spring him.
“Yes, the major says that is Vanya Nikolin. We can use this tent, come.”
Teddy motioned for Nikolin to come, and when he hesitated, one of the soldiers got him moving with the butt of his weapon. Once the three of us were inside the tent, the soldier tied back the front flaps and stood guard, his eyes following our every move. There were a couple of cots in the rear, boxes and rucksacks piled along either side. Teddy pulled three wooden crates out of the stack and gestured for Nikolin to sit. He looked at both of us, hollow-eyed and frightened. Teddy spoke to him, calmly and patiently. Nikolin’s eyes fluttered, as if he was having a hard time taking in what he was being told.
“I told him who you are, and that you’ve come from Poltava to ask him some questions,” Teddy said. “I stressed that it was not within your power to get him released. Best to get that out of the way.”
“Good,” I said. Nikolin’s gaunt face looked about to crumble. Outside, another submachine-gun-toting soldier, a non-com, whispered to our guard, then left. Nikolin’s eyes widened, following the man as he moved among the shtrafniki, waving his arms. “Ask him if he knows about the murders in the warehouse. Lieutenant Kopelev and Sergeant Morris.”
“No, he does not,” Teddy said, after their back and forth. “He is shocked to hear that Sergeant Morris is dead. He was a decent man, very kind.” I could see the pained look on Nikolin’s face. Surprise and sadness, mixed with confusion.
“You don’t seem upset about Lieutenant Kopelev,” I said, speaking directly to Nikolin and letting Teddy work the translation.
“I am sad to hear of any death, but Kopelev was a difficult man to like,” Teddy said, picking up on how I was working the conversation. I needed to hear Nikolin’s own words, to the extent I could. “He loved rules and regulations as much as he loved Mother Russia, but more than the people in it.”
“But Sergeant Morris was different?” I asked.
“Yes. Jack was friendly. He liked Russians and was curious about our country. He could speak a little Russian and wanted to learn more. What happened? Were they killed in an attack?” Teddy raised his eyebrows as he finished translating. Outside, the men began to mill about, their non-coms moving them into line.
“You mean you don’t know what happened?” He didn’t. “Before you were sent here, you’d been on guard duty at the warehouse. What happened that night?”
“I was ordered to report to General Belov. That little fellow Max came running up and said the general wanted to see me immediately. He had a note with Belov’s signature. I didn’t wish to leave my post, but I had little choice. I had two men with me and thought that would be a sufficient guard. I went to the Operations building and then to the general’s office.”
Artillery thundered from beyond the next hill. It was outgoing, the measured volley of a dozen or so cannon. Nikolin flinched, then rubbed his temples.
“What time was this, Vanya?” I asked, leaning forward and trying to look him in the eye. Another volley of cannon fire sounded, and Nikolin took a deep breath.
“An hour or so after midnight. There was no one in his office, although a few people were on night duty. Then Major Drozdov walked in. He demanded to know why I had left my post. I told him about Max and the written order but that only made him angrier. I tried to show him the note, but he threw it back at me, called me a counterrevolutionary, and said my shoulder boards were obviously too heavy a burden for me. He ripped them off.” Nikolin fingered the torn threads of his shirt, his eyes all the while on the shtrafniki moving slowly into formation. His breathing quickened. I could smell his fear and despair.
Shouts came from the soldiers gathering the shtrafniki, the curses of those who drive others to their deaths. Angry, demanding, in a hurry to get it over with.
“What happened then?” I asked. I could see the major watching us. I got the sense we didn’t have a lot of time. Now Nikolin was frozen. I told Teddy to ask again.
“What?” Nikolin said, unable to focus as the officer drew closer. Then he rallied, as if he knew this might be his last chance to tell his story. “Yes, Drozdov had me disarmed and put under guard. Within the hour I was in a truck headed here. I have no idea of what crime I committed. I had orders to leave the warehouse, orders from a general! I don’t understand what is happening. What have I done wrong? I am a Party member!” Nikolin’s voice broke, and he struggled to regain control.
“Lieutenant Kopelev and Sergeant Morris were killed,” I said,
leaning in to grab him by the arm and shake it. “Murdered in the warehouse, in the upstairs NKVD section where the OSS supplies are kept. They were shot in the back of the head on the night you received that note. Do you still have it?”
“No. They took everything,” Nikolin said, staring in horror at the major standing not ten feet away.
“Him? This major?” I asked.
Yes, it had been the major. He took everyone’s personal effects upon arrival. I asked Teddy if he had had anything returned when he was released.
“No, but I had nothing to begin with,” he said. Machine guns opened fire, maybe a hundred yards ahead. An assault was brewing.
Nikolin asked if I knew who killed the two men, and why, as his eyes flitted between the guard, Teddy, and me. There was a desperation in his voice, a plea for a delay, any small thing to postpone what he knew was coming.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Is there anything you remember, anything unusual you saw that night, or even before that? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“I saw General Belov arguing with Major Drozdov earlier that evening. At one point the general pushed him.”
“A general throwing his weight around is not so unusual,” I said.
“No. But the major pushed him back. A hard push. And the general did nothing. He looked afraid.”
The major whispered to the guard, who gestured with the barrel of his weapon. It was time. Nikolin spoke to Teddy, grasping him by the arms, begging, pleading, tears glistening on his cheeks. Once an NKVD man, now he was nothing. A shtrafniki, good for only detonating a mine and clearing a path for the true Soviet frontoviki.
Chapter Twenty
Guards on their flanks and at their backs, the shtrafniki marched into the woods to the tune of Stalin’s organ. That’s what the Germans called the Russian Katyusha artillery, rocket launchers mounted on trucks. The array looked like a pipe organ, and the screeching sound they made sounded like a song from the devil’s own hymnal. I watched the rockets blazing across the sky, heading for the German lines, just as Nikolin was.
The major wasn’t going with his men. He stood outside his tent, smoking and watching the rockets along with Teddy and me. He came over and spoke to Teddy in a friendly tone, as if the brutal departure of tramplers had all been a charade.
“He remembers me,” Teddy said. “He told me he was glad to see me alive.”
“Really?” I asked, giving the major a quick but respectful nod.
“Perhaps. But what he really wants to know is why you spoke with Nikolin. I think he is worried it may affect him in some way, since Nikolin was NKVD,” Teddy said.
“Tell him the young man was simply a witness. Another NKVD officer and an American were murdered, and he may have seen something,” I said. As Teddy translated, I could see the major relax. It wasn’t something political that would come back and bite him. He wouldn’t be denounced as a counterrevolutionary, at least not for having Nikolin under his command.
“He says he hopes Nikolin survives his sentence,” Teddy explained. Apparently, the major had a soft spot for the former NKVD man, as opposed to the other deserters and criminal scum who filled his ranks.
“Does he recall the paper he confiscated from Nikolin? The order from Belov?” I asked.
“He does,” Teddy said, and we followed the major as he beckoned us into his tent. He rummaged through a worn and bulging briefcase, pulling out a file which I assumed was about Nikolin. He withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, a half sheet with a couple of sentences typed in Cyrillic letters. At the bottom was a scrawl.
“The name is Belov,” Teddy said, after consulting with his former commander. “And it does say report to the Operations center immediately.” The major nodded and spoke to Teddy.
“He wants to know if this will help Nikolin,” he said.
“Hell, it can’t hurt him,” I said. “I can take this back to Poltava and see if I can get Drozdov to change his mind.”
The major handed me the order as he spoke to Teddy.
“He knows Drozdov. An ambitious man. He warns you to be careful,” Teddy said.
We didn’t hang around long. Teddy didn’t want to reminisce, and I wanted to get the hell out before the Germans returned the favor and started their own artillery barrage. I stuffed the order in my pocket and held on as Teddy drove as fast as he could without kicking up a cloud of dust. Somewhere, on a ridgeline not too far away, some Fritz was watching with binoculars for just that.
The boom and slam of artillery melded with the rapid fire of machine guns until the sound of battle washed over us in a single incoherent melody. Maybe a quarter mile away, no more than that, men were advancing against the German positions. Nikolin and his fellow tramplers might be in the middle of a large minefield, or perhaps it was just a grassy meadow, untouched by war until today.
“Who do you think killed those two men?” Teddy asked me, perhaps to take his mind off the memories of what he’d gone through with the penal company.
“My guess is either General Belov or Major Drozdov pulled the strings,” I said, holding onto my seat as Teddy skirted a muddy patch and drove up on the wet grass. “But I have no idea who pulled the trigger or why.”
“To steal something?”
The whistling sound of incoming artillery shrieked in fast, explosions shattering the woods to our right. Teddy floored it, all worries of dust vanishing as debris cascaded over us. We got back on the road and barreled by rear area positions with frontoviki diving for the trenches.
The road veered through the woods again, giving us some cover. We hit a checkpoint and our papers withstood a thorough inspection. Teddy breathed a heavy sigh of relief after we cleared that final hurdle.
“You still worried about being sent back?” I asked.
“Less with every kilometer I put between me and those ublyudki,” he said. “Now, who stood to gain from the murders?”
“There were a lot of valuables in the storehouse,” I said. “Weapons, drugs, gold. But nothing was stolen.”
“Weapons are not hard to come by,” he said. “And who can use gold in the Soviet Union? A few extra rubles are nice, but what is there to buy with gold? Nothing. In a state with no private property, what use is gold? It would mark you as a capitalist or in their employ. Not a good thing, my friend.”
“There was morphine. I did manage to steal a carton of morphine, but only as a test, to see if the warehouse could be broken into,” I said. “I gave it to the base hospital, where they needed it. I don’t want you to think I’m a vor v zakone.”
“A vor would have slit my throat by now and stolen my boots and the truck,” Teddy said with a laugh. “That was a good thing you did, giving the morphia to the hospital. We could use some as well.”
“Your hospital is running low?”
“It is very bad. There is only a small amount for the very worst cases. I had no idea there was a shortage. But why was a supply locked away in the warehouse at Poltava?”
“It wasn’t a lot, and it was destined for some joint NKVD and OSS mission to Bulgaria,” I said, watching Teddy’s quizzical expression. “The OSS is our NKVD, only a lot nicer.”
“That would not be difficult,” Teddy said, as we drove past the burned-out tank where the Messers had attacked us this morning. “Do you think they were killed where they were for a reason?”
“It was a secure area. Quiet, no one around to ask questions,” I said.
“That describes much of the Motherland,” Teddy said, downshifting to climb the hill as he scanned the sky for airborne threats. “But I mean near the drugs, when there is such a shortage.”
I hadn’t thought of that angle.
I should have.
The warehouse was chosen to send a message. Teddy was on to something. They could have been killed anywhere. But their bodies had been left next to the only supply
of morphine in the area. It wasn’t much, but it was a new way to look at this case, at least.
“That could mean something, Teddy,” I said. “Did you hear anything about a shortage of morphine anywhere else?”
“No, but I did not think to ask. I will talk to the head of the hospital when we return. He is not a bad officer and has been asking the high command for more drugs,” Teddy said. “Vodka only goes so far.”
As we both searched the sky, I wondered about the five live soldiers we’d delivered, and how many of them would survive their first fight.
“Do you have any idea where the morphine comes from?” I asked. “Has the war interrupted the poppy harvest?”
“All I know is that the poppy is a crop grown in the Kirghiz Soviet Socialist Republic,” Teddy said. “It is a region far to the east of the Caspian Sea, on the border with China. The war has not reached that far, I am certain.”
“What did you say you taught at college?” I asked.
“History. Well, Soviet history. It is sometimes complicated,” Teddy said. “It can change, and change is dangerous if you are not aware of it.”
“You know, you’d make a good policeman,” I said, as we drew closer to the gate at the airbase. “You’ve got an interesting way of looking at things. You’d make a good investigator.”
“No, not an investigator. In the Soviet system, there is only one way to look at things,” Teddy said, shaking his head as he laughed. “That is, the way the Party looks at things, which changes like the seasons. Men are sent to labor camps simply because they have not kept up with the latest ideological fashions and favors. No, I am quite happy as an orderly. Hospital bedpans never change.”