by Nick Ryan
“Jesus!” Edge gasped. He heaved himself to his feet and then ducked again instinctively as Russians in the far mortar pit fired indiscriminately into the melee of scrambling, snarling mayhem. The bullets thudded into sandbags with a meaty ‘thwack’. Edge crawled six paces to his left and then bounced to his feet, the M4 shuddering in his hands as he sprayed the Russians with a swathe of fire until the magazine in his weapon clicked empty. A violent explosion shook the ground and a fireball erupted around the second truck. Edge heard Kalina scream and turned in alarm as he reloaded. But it was not a scream of pain. It was a wild rage of noise in the back of her throat as she shot a Russian from point bank range then reversed the weapon in a berserk fury and clubbed him across the face with the stock. Blood sprayed from the man’s mouth and the crack of his jaw breaking sounded just as loudly as the automatic fire that rattled across the night. Several of the Russians threw down their weapons, appalled and terrified, and fled panicked into the trees. One of Edge’s scouts stepped out of the woods to fire on a man hiding behind a sandbag. He missed, and the Russian returned fire, hitting the scout in the pelvis. The Cavalryman sagged to his knees and fired again, then fell dead to the dirt. Waddingham fired then wrenched himself out of the way of a man who came at him with bunched brawling fists. He ducked a punch that would have separated his head from his shoulders and then drew his bayonet and buried it hilt-deep into the Russian’s thigh. He went down howling in agony. Waddingham swung his M4 and shot him between the eyes. Kalina leaped a wall of sandbags and cannoned into a mortarman. They fell in an awkward tumble of arms and legs. The gun in the man’s hands clattered into the dirt. Kalina turned on him like a trapped savage lioness, her eyes wild. She sank her teeth into the man’s cheek and he rolled away screaming, a high-pitched sound in his throat like a steam kettle. Edge had a full magazine and he used it to scythe down three Russians in a mortar pit, a blood-curdling roar of savagery in his throat as each man fell dead. Then he was faced with a Russian wielding a weapon like a club. Edge tried to swing the M4 onto the man’s center mass but he was too close, charging forward with a formless incoherent cry of fury in his throat. He swung his AK-74 like an axe and hit Edge flush on the shoulder. Pain exploded in pinwheels of bright light through the top of his skull. He staggered sideways and the man hunted him, kicking Edge in the ribs. Edge doubled over. A billow of dust clouded the air from his dragging boots and then Waddingham was there again with his M4, snarling. He shot the Russian in the face and the man’s head snapped back, his skull collapsing in a custard-colored mist of blood and gore. The second scout was dead on the ground, lying in a pool of dark blood. A Russian tripped over the man’s lifeless legs and scrambled backwards over the blood-slippery ground, pleading for mercy as Waddingham hunted him.
“Nyet! Miloserdiye!”
Waddingham shot the man in the chest, raised his M4 two inches and shot another man who had turned to flee into the woods. The Russian cried out and clutched at his arm but kept running. Kalina saw the exchange and dashed into the woods after the wounded man. He darted in and out of view, disappearing into a dark shadow of forest. Then suddenly there were no more Russians to fight, no more enemy to be killed. The abrupt silence was not complete, but very nearly so. Men moaned in agony, others writhed on the ground, or clawed at the earth, dragging their broken bodies through smears of their own blood, pleading for help. One Russian lay in a doubled-over heap in the dirt and retched quietly, his hands trying to staunch a bleeding gut wound.
“Jesus!” Edge gasped. He slumped against a blood-spattered sandbag, his chest heaving. His left side was numb, his arm hanging useless at his side. He was standing in a pool of blood, but it wasn’t his. The clearing had been turned to a mud-churned slaughterhouse, blanketed in smoke from the two burning transport trucks. Edge drew a deep breath and looked, numb and bleary-eyed, at the horrific carnage.
“You alright?” Waddingham emerged from the haze, M4 in his hand. He was covered in dust. Kalina appeared from behind one of the burning trucks. She walked like she was in a daze, her eyes glassy.
Edge nodded, sucked in a deep breath and gasped again, “Jesus!”
The clearing was a gruesome abattoir of blood and gore. Everywhere Edge looked he saw fresh horror. He scraped the back of his hand across his mouth. His fingers were trembling.
Vince Waddingham stared at the dead bodies in silent appalled shock. The entire battle had lasted less than a single savage minute. “Now what?” he croaked.
“We need to climb to the top of the ridge,” Edge rasped. “I have to see what’s happening and find out why the Russians are still fighting. The battle should be over. The Russians should have surrendered by now. Something’s gone horribly wrong and I need to know what it is.”
*
“Stay low and keep alert,” Edge warned as they began to climb the slope.
“You think there’s still Russians alive up there after all the fire the M1128’s poured onto that ridge?” Waddingham asked.
“There might be,” Edge said, working the numbness from his arm by flexing his fingers. “Let’s not find out the hard way.”
At first the going was relatively easy. Although some of the American shrapnel and HEAT rounds had overshot onto the reverse slope of the ridge, most of the low-lying foothills remained sparsely forested. But as they continued to climb, the earth turned lumped and cratered, and the incline grew steeper.
They intersected a boot-worn track that followed a rocky spine, winding towards the summit over hard ground. On either side of the trail the earth had been churned into a quagmire. As they approached the summit, the upper slopes were denuded of foliage so the crest of the ridge resembled a desolate moonscape. The mutilated bodies of Russian soldiers lay half-buried in the mire, their trenches blown apart by direct hits, their corpses shredded by the flail of shrapnel canisters. The stump of a dismembered arm thrust up out of the ground, and nearby a young soldier lay dead. The blast of an explosion had shredded the uniform from his body. His remains were slashed with dozens of cruel wounds, his face a pulp of mangled flesh. There were others too. They were no longer recognizable as human. They lay in gruesome poses, their gas-filled, wound-riddled bodies already turning purple and bloating. A crow picked greedily at the remains, cawing noisomely at Edge as he passed.
Edge dropped to his knee when they reached the skyline and waited for the flash of an explosion to light up the battlefield. He was breathing hard.
The American M1128’s were still pounding the ridge with HEAT. Three rounds landed further down the slope and a fourth crashed in the field between the foothills and the dark ribbon of road. For several seconds the battlefield below him was lit in lurid orange flashes of light. Edge stared, and for a long moment nothing made sense. Then the sick realization struck, and a red mist of rage consumed him.
“The fucking Polish haven’t attacked!” he croaked. His voice was incredulous with disbelief. “The bastard! Oh, the cowardly fucking bastard. Nowakowski let us launch the attack on our own. He’s still hiding in the fucking forest!”
Waddingham knelt beside Edge and peered into the fading darkness. The night below was streaked with tracer fire that arced across the night and lit by the muzzle flashes of machine guns.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!” Edge hissed. Ten seconds later Waddingham and Kalina saw for themselves. As the next barrage of American HEAT rounds peppered the foothills, the gloom was lit in bright flashes of light that showed the road littered with dead bodies, debris and the smoldering ruins of Strykers. But the Polish Wolverines were nowhere to be seen.
“The bastard!” Vince Waddingham hissed.
Kalina gaped, stunned and disbelieving. In the fading glow of the explosions her face looked pale with shock.
“I’m going to murder the bastard!” Edge swore bitterly.
“Cover me as far as the road,” Kalina rose to her feet. “I will find out where the Wolverines are.”
“You can’t,” Edge pulled
her down into a shell crater of erupted earth. “You won’t make it alive. Vince and I will do it. We need those Wolverines and we need those Polish soldiers in the fight.”
“I am going,” Kalina shook his hand away. Her eyes were hard as stone. “I’m the only one my father might listen to.”
*
With Edge and Waddingham providing overwatch from a shell crater on the crest of the ridge, Kalina went down the slope at a run. Using the darkness for cover she ghosted into the night, moving like a wraith. Edge and Waddingham lost sight of her as she reached the foothills of the slope. Two more massive explosions landed half-way up the ridge, forcing both men to duck instinctively. When they lifted their heads above the lip of the crater, Kalina was nowhere to be seen.
“Come on,” Edge led the way. “We need to get to the saddle of this ridge and join the fight.”
Edge and Waddingham rose cautiously and began to make their way along the spine of the crest towards the road. They went doubled-over, careful not to leave themselves silhouetted against the skyline. Edge used the flickering light to pick a winding path across the battle-churned ground.
Then suddenly the earth fell away into a deep dark hole. Edge teetered on the lip of the pit. A Russian soldier was laying on his back in the bottom of the trench. His young mud-smeared face was pale with fear. He saw Edge and threw up his weapon instinctively.
“Amerikanets!”
The young soldier fired into the night, hitting Edge flush in the chest. The impact of the bullet hurled him backwards. Edge fell to the ground, writhing and cursing in pain. Vince Waddingham saw Edge fall.
“Jesus!” He plucked a grenade from his webbing belt and dropped it into the trench, then flung himself on top of Edge’s prone body to shield him from the blast. The earth shuddered like a living thing. Chunks of dirt showered them in heavy clods, choked them in thick veils of dust.
“Are you okay?” Waddingham pounded Edge’s shoulder and slapped him across the face. “Are you hit? Are you hurt?” With frantic fingers he searched Edge’s body for wounds, for a warm wet rush of blood. He could find nothing.
Edge clutched at his chest, rolled onto his side and coughed. The pain burned through his body. He drew his knees up to his stomach and lay wheezing in the night.
“Were you hit?” Waddingham asked urgently.
Edge sat up slowly and winced. He tore at the Velcro straps that secured his body armor vest and felt inside his jacket. Beneath his exploring fingers he discovered a lump the size of a fist. The bullet had struck him in the torso mid-way between his chest and navel on the right-hand side. The armor had saved his life. He winced again and drew a shallow shuddering breath.
Waddingham sat down in the dirt and sighed his relief. “That’s gonna leave a nasty bruise,” he gloated.
Edge got unsteadily to his feet. Waddingham helped him refit his body armor. Edge’s ears were ringing. His torso felt like a shirt full of bruises.
“Your turn to be a target,” he croaked. “You can lead the way. We have to keep going towards the saddle of the ridge.”
Waddingham nodded. “Follow me – and try not to get shot again.”
*
The troops were clambering aboard the Wolverines. The vehicles had been turned around and were lined in a column on the fire trail, facing back the way they had come. Major Nowakowski stood with two aides by his command vehicle, impatient to withdraw before the Russians discovered them.
Kalina burst through the screen of trees at the fringe of the woods and stared aghast. She ran towards her father, a turmoil of emotions and conflict.
“What are you doing?”
Major Nowakowski seemed tense and anxious. He turned on Kalina. His eyes were hectic. He saw the accusation on her face and tried to mollify her.
“I am doing what is best for Poland,” the Major said stiffly. “I am making the hard decision that will secure our nation’s future.”
“No!” Kalina protested. Nowakowski reached for her but she shook his hands away angrily. “No! You’re making the coward’s decision. Our allies are fighting and dying beyond those trees to secure our nation’s future. You are thinking only of yourself.”
The Major’s eyes hardened. His voice cracked like a whip.
“You have no right to speak to me that way. I am your commanding officer and you are a member of the Polish Wojska Obrony Terytorialnej.”
“You are a coward!” the word came into her throat like an involuntary exclamation of pain.
Major Nowakowski slapped Kalina across the face. The air between them crackled with fraught tension. Then something seemed to die in Kalina’s eyes. She backed away, her expression pure loathing. She spun on her heel and went running back along the line of Wolverines. Suddenly she was shouting, her voice lifted so every soldier could hear.
“Brave Polish warriors! Our American allies are beyond that wall of trees dying for us. They’re laying down their lives to keep Poland free from Russian occupation. Will you fight with them? Or will you slink away into the night like our cowardly commander? Who amongst you is man enough to take the war to the Russians alongside me?”
“Arrest her!” Major Nowakowski bellowed in a fit of rage. He shoved one of his aides towards his daughter. “Arrest her now!”
As Kalina ran along the line of armored vehicles she bashed her fist against each steel hull, rousing the soldiers inside. They came out into the night, grim-faced with weapons in their hands.
“Follow me!” Kalina shouted. “The battle is almost won. With one brave attack we can crush the Russians and drive them back.”
“No!” Major Nowakowski barked. “You soldiers have your orders. Get into the vehicles. We depart in three minutes.”
“In three minutes this battle can be won!” Kalina defied her father. “In three minutes you can all be heroes. The choice is yours. Will you live as cowards for the rest of your lives, or will you fight bravely beside the Americans who are dying for you?”
The militia followed her, buoyed by a groundswell of patriotic fervor. A ragged cheer rose in their throats and became a roar. The Polish Wojska Obrony Terytorialnej burst from the tree line with their guns blazing.
They were going to war.
At last.
*
“We’re going down there,” Edge told Waddingham, pointing to a knoll of cratered ground that overhung the saddle of the ridge. From the craggy outcrop he would have an unobstructed view of the road all the way back to the bridge and all the way north to where his Strykers were positioned to barricade a Russian retreat.
“It’s going to get noisy,” Waddingham said. They were moving closer to the heart of the battle. “And dangerous.”
Edge went cautiously in the dark, using the flicker of fresh explosions to light the rugged path, past trenches that had been destroyed in the American bombardment, past the bodies of dead enemy soldiers who had defended the ridge. The Russians were fighting fiercely, concentrating around the rise in the road. The soldiers who had endured the murderous direct fire barrage from the M1128’s had evidently gravitated towards the defensive strongpoint and were fighting with desperate determination. They were dug in on both sides of the pass and in ditches along the verge of the woods.
Then Edge heard a ragged cheer above the clamor of the firefight, and a mass of Polish militia rushed from the dense forest out into the night.
The surprised Russians opened fire.
The enemy were deeply entrenched in narrow ditches, safe behind earthen redoubts or shooting from behind sandbag walls. A roar of automatic gunfire ripped the night apart, and grenades flew through the air. The crash of explosions became endless. Somehow the Polish infantry withstood the fusillade and closed on the Russian trenches. Hand-to-hand fighting broke out. Polish militia leaped into the ditches and fought with knives and bare hands, overwhelming their enemy. Others hurled grenades into the deep pits. Some of the Russians cowered in their trenches, firing blindly over their heads. Others broke from their c
over and retreated. The bravest stood their ground and fired defiantly until their weapons ran out of ammunition. Then the Polish Wolverines burst from the forest. Nine of the armored personnel carriers crashed into the Russian flank, their 30mm chain guns blazing.
Edge stood on the knoll of high ground overlooking the road and was overcome with a wave of relief.
The road was open to the Polish and the first of the Wolverines dashed for the crest, but a Russian-fired RPG blew the vehicle apart. The rocket struck the side of the Wolverine as it raced past a trench. The personnel carrier exploded behind a firestorm of flames and smoke. The vehicle careened off the road and into an empty ditch, trailing smoke and fire. A second Wolverine surged forward and it seemed that the Polish would overwhelm the last of the Russian defenders. The vehicle’s engine howled, belching black clouds of diesel exhaust as it gained speed.
The rise of the road was consumed in a new fireball of flashing light and a booming ‘crack!’ of thunder.
Edge saw it all.
There were two Russian T-90 tanks parked on either side of the pass at the point where the road crested the saddle of the ridge. The tanks were hull-down behind three-sided sandbag redoubts, camouflaged to conceal their location. The first T-90 fired on the advancing Wolverine from a range of less than two hundred yards and immolated it. The earth shook. The tongue of flame from the Russian tank’s muzzle leaped thirty feet from the barrel, lighting up the night. The Wolverine was so close that the sound of the tank firing and the appalling crash of the vehicle exploding seemed to blend into a single maelstrom of sound.