Slowly the others followed one by one, spreading out to about 5 metres apart to advance across the field. The seven men stepped cautiously across and between the frozen ruts in the snow which impeded their progress, the grooves formed from tank and half tracked vehicles running right to left indicating the enemies’ earlier route of advance. The soldiers held their weapons at a 45-degree angle across their bodies as they advanced, prepared to react to any possible threat.
The iced snow cracked with each soldier’s step, the intense cold having crystallised every part of the landscape, the moonlight causing the surface of the snow to sparkle as the dim rays reacted to the frosted snow. They made slow progress, having to raise their boots when they sank through the ice that had formed on top of the snow…scanning to the limits of their visibility in the gloom, straining their eyes and ears for any sign of hostile life.
The night sky was vicious, yet intensely beautiful in the extreme temperature, the stars seeming brighter and sharper than on any other time the men had looked at the heavens. It was minus fourteen degrees Celsius…the temperature was still dropping.
Chapter Five: Song of the Volga Boatmen
The fisherman’s lodge had sat on the western shores of Lake Sarpa for nearly forty years. Provided by the state, it was mostly frequented by burlaks (barge haulers from the Volga) and was used as a rest point and an area for these men and their families to relax at. The fishing in the lake was good with many fresh water varieties for the parties of workers to feast from. Regular large gatherings occurred there in peacetime, especially during the warm summer days and the many visitors had added to the small grouping of buildings over the years.
The collection of buildings comprised of a main hall and gathering point fixed to the boathouse, a small smoking shed, tool/storage shed for netting and garage for the communist party automobiles when dignitaries visited. The buildings were surrounded by the earth walls of a depression or ravine…the only entry or exit, a small track to the north. A short wooden pier stretched out into the lake, used to tether the one or two man rowing boats from the boathouse when several families gathered to celebrate the warmer months. In the summer evenings, the children would play on the lake’s edge with the observing adults sitting and drinking on the pier. The older relatives would usually remain in the main hall and cheerfully watch their offspring and families through the glass doors facing the lake. The families would sleep in the main hall or in one of the several tents stored in the outbuildings.
The buildings had fallen into some disrepair since the outset of war over a year previously and the visitor numbers had decreased dramatically since the summer. Rumours of the advance of the German armies towards the area in the summer of 1942 had become more and more widespread, demoralising the regular visitors and preventing any mood for a large gathering or party. Collective fear had quickly eliminated the energy for the journey from the city and motivation for a recreational retreat.
In the late autumn of the year the Romanian 20th Infantry Division had set up a forward command post at the small collection of buildings, hastily departing earlier the previous morning upon realising the extensive attack that was about to fall upon them from the east. With the lake surface frozen heavily in the extreme temperature, Russian infantry had approached silently on skis across the ice. The Russians had opened fire sporadically at the rapidly departing command vehicles, forcing them to abandon a considerable quantity of supplies in their desperation to escape being overrun and ultimately destroyed. Several Romanians had been wounded or killed in the skirmish and they lay around the buildings. The wounded had been left in the snow to die from exposure, the cold overcoming most of them during the morning and early afternoon.
The new occupants were a small patrol from a Russian penal battalion on their mission to sweep the area for survivors and deserters. After suffering some quite extreme casualties in the initial assault, the unit had been broken up and scattered across the area to prevent the escape of surviving enemy units to the city that lay to the north. The brutal and vicious tactics of such a unit were ideal for chasing down and murdering disorientated small groups of soldiers that were desperately attempting to escape. No prisoners were expected and therefore none were taken…no questions were asked…the disillusioned and bitter men assigned to the unit eager to extract revenge for their circumstances on an enemy that was finally weakened. Two surviving wounded Romanians, weakened by the extreme temperatures had experienced their brutality first hand, both being kicked to death as they attempted to crawl away. The assailants laughing as the victims’ bones cracked, maliciously taunting the men as they begged for mercy, their lives extinguished as sport.
The fifteen men now sat or lay around the meeting hall, warming themselves on the open roaring fire that they had built. They had used their daily portion of Vodka earlier that evening, but had then found six bottles of Romanian brandy amongst the hastily discarded supply crates lying outside the buildings. These boxes had been placed to the left of the fire and their contents were now being passed around the men as they lazed next to the fire, the strong fiery liquid being slowly consumed as they boasted of their kills and brutality for the day. The fire was utilised to warm the food thoroughly, on the end of bayonets or by placing the tins in the fire for the meals to warm through. As the evening progressed, the men had eaten their fill and had now adopted a more liquid diet. Slowly each man began becoming more absorbed in the high spirits of the group, the common bond of bitterness and hatred focussed into the emotional release of slaughtering their enemy.
Only one sentry stood at a window, facing south, but the alcohol slowly began to overcome the men’s caution, complacency and a group feeling of power from the elaborate stories beginning to distract them. The sentry spent more and more time turned to face the group as the stories became more exaggerated, the laughter and bravado becoming more extreme.
The stories of killing powerful enemies in exaggerated numbers was infectious and the need to ‘outdo’ the last storyteller too enticing. In reality their victims had been the wounded or men weakened by the cold, perhaps a day hiding in low temperatures with limited winter clothing. Most offered little or no resistance, several had begged for help. The men boasted overpowering groups two or three times their actual size, changing weak and wounded men into fully fit well armed enemies in their elaborate stories.
They hardly noticed the soldier that slowly moved to the edge of the gathering, a quiet man who did not quite fit into the group. The man had listened intently to others’ stories and realised he had no story to match or share, his first confirmed kill that day being his hated commissar, butchered in no man’s land…something he realised he could not discuss.
Alone, he had continued during that morning, butchering and torturing any wounded he had found, their cries for mercy going unnoticed in his need for satisfaction. His thrill of perpetuating and prolonging their agony and terror…he gained power from their fear, eventually ending their lives when he got bored of their whining and crying. His chosen weapon of torture was his sheath knife…to him, a glorious weapon of pleasure and ultimate destruction, the long blade usually drenched in blood when he had completed his gruesome and grisly task.
Around midday he had narrowly escaped being caught with his last victim, a Russian captain approaching him only a short distance from the body. He had seen the suspicion in the man’s eyes, the extensive blood on his clothing a clear indication something was not right. He had thought quickly and overturned the suspicions of the captain describing how he had attempted to save a mortally wounded comrade, but had ultimately failed. The captain had ordered him to come to the fisherman’s lodge…to await the returning patrols.
He had hastily departed upon receipt of the order completing the five mile distance to the lonely buildings in three hours. Shortly after his departure the captain had found his last victim, the shock of the discovery and consideration of what had occurred making the officer physically retch. The victim had had
some of his organs removed, and by the look on the poor soldiers face, this torture had been accomplished whist he was still alive.
The soldier in his forties slipped silently from the meeting hall, quietly closing the glass door that faced the pier behind him, the cold air hitting his face and freezing the condensation in his beard as he turned from the building. The piercing cold a reminder of the harshness of existence on the Russian Steppe in winter, the clear sharp skies reducing the temperature to almost unbearable levels. The stars sparkled brightly above him, the freezing air intensifying the sight. The frost clinging and embracing the wooden pier, the solidified water grasping the pier supports in almost a crushing embrace.
Only one of the half-drunk soldiers observed him leave, the departure of the older soldier pleasing him. This soldier found the older man’s presence unnerving…even creepy…the way the older man stared at the soldiers as if examining them physically. With the door closing, he shrugged and swigged from his bottle, the thought that the strange older man may freeze to death a fleeting thought that made him smile briefly before refocussing his blurred gaze on the fire.
There was a freezing breeze sweeping in from the lake as the man shuffled through the snow, his walk restricted due to his right leg injury. He skirted the main hall and struggled slowly in the deep snow towards his goal, the smoking house. Reaching the tightly closed door, he unhooked the two catches above and below the door handle and pulled the tight door outwards. The steam poured from the opening as he slipped inside, the frost in the hut now melted. The heat engulfed him as he ducked his head to enter the small hut, closing the door behind him. He had earlier set a strong fire in the stove in the small room, warming the small cabin. The outbuilding had been insulated to smoke fish in the colder months, and he had chosen it for this reason, realising the structure would also provide some sound proofing.
He turned slowly, the lantern he had attached to the ceiling swaying slightly as he had nudged it on entering, the light cascading across the small room. He reached up and steadied the light before removing his heavy overcoat, dropping this cumbersome hindrance, grasping the handle of his sheath knife at his waist as if to mentally check it was still there.
The moan from the other side of the room sounded alarmed, the shuffling and scraping of hobnailed boots on the wooden floor of the smoke house scratching the rough floorboards as the other man in the smoking house attempted to move away from the bearded man at the doorway. The actions were futile, the young soldier bound and gagged tightly to the rough wooden fish racks at the end of the room. The young soldier had struggled behind the end of the rack with his head against the wall of the hut, his body wedged between the rack and the wall. His brain was filled with panic…he did not know how he had got to this place, or where he was. He remembered riding his motorbike towards the command post to deliver his message, the message in his despatch case. He remembered finding the bodies in the snow outside…he remembered entering the main hall cautiously, his pistol drawn. Then he remembered nothing, falling perhaps…then nothing. His mind was darting from thought to thought. His head hurt on the left side, excruciating pain and he realised there was congealed blood on the side of his face…but how had he got here, what was this building?
The bearded Russian shuffled across the floor, his right leg tired from the day’s efforts. He moved slowly and deliberately, knowing the other man was helpless to protect himself now. Knowing he was watching him…the fear rising within the man was delightful, he could almost sense it. He could almost feel the man’s breathing becoming sharper, more frequent as his fear became more intense.
The Russian smiled fleetingly, the young German despatch rider had no idea what horrors were about to occur in this small shed. He had no idea what was about to happen to him…the sensual pleasure the Russian would draw from the squirming he could inflict on this human over time. He would push the young blonde German beyond his wildest nightmares of pain.
The Russian’s tongue slipped across his lips as he considered slowly removing parts of the young soldier’s body as his victim writhed in pain. The portions of skin he would slowly carve from his legs and torso as he progressed up and down the young man’s body. Slowly the young man would succumb to his inevitable fate, realising the struggle was futile, his resistance becoming simple whimpering. Eventually he would beg to die, but this was one of the Russian’s most cherished parts of this exercise as he could then begin the final parts of his fantasy. Slowly inserting his sheath knife into the most private of areas and openings in the young victim’s body, allowing the release of more and more blood and approaching the climax of his adventure, during which his victim would succumb to death. Once this was accomplished he would slowly and carefully remove the victim’s organs, embracing their remaining warmth. This was to be his special pleasure, not only a German soldier, but a young one. Up until now his victims had all been the allies of the tethered soldier, ‘the stupid and filthy Romanians’ he mused to himself.
The German was now struggling with the ropes around his wrists, seeming to sense the fate that was about to befall him, his panic beginning to become apparent. His moaning becoming frantic, the scarf across his mouth so tight he was unable to form words. His natural sense of survival was screaming in his head…to escape, to run from here, to preserve his life. He was eighteen…he had seen into this Russian’s eyes in the dim light of the shed…he had also observed the arousal and awakening of a madman. He knew he had to get away from this man, but the ropes were tied too tight, his struggling useless, his assailant well versed in such restraint. His legs were tied, but apart and to the rack and a hook on the wall. This intensified his struggling, understanding that something was extremely wrong for him to be in this position. His head was clear now, the dull pain from the injury throbbing but his eyes wide with fear, his throat and mouth dry.
The Russian was now facing the young German, stood less than a metre from him, watching him as he struggled. A smile formed on the Russian’s face…he knew his captive could not escape, the bonds that held him expertly applied. He had learnt this in the backstreets of Kiev, where no one noticed the occasional missing youth, the investigations by the Russian police always inept and incompetent. When war had broken out he had joined up and the army had posted him here, to be stationed on the Volga. Now no one would stop him, no one would find out his actions in this carnage. He smiled further, this war was gratifying, providing ample weak victims for his pleasures. The madness began materialising in his eyes in the form of a hard stare at his victim…his lips were moist, the lust rising within him.
The Russian slowly drew the sheath knife from its leather scabbard on his belt with his right hand. His smile broadened as he observed the German’s eyes widen further, his struggling ceasing momentarily as his victim realised that this was a horror beyond the comprehension of his young years. The struggling then began again, with more panic and vigour as the Russian knelt down to begin his ritual, his left hand grasping the German soldier’s left thigh tightly near his crotch. The Russian leant forward beginning to apply the full force of his weight through his arm down onto the German’s leg, the whimpering and moaning becoming intense as the young soldier tensed his body, trying desperately to move against this further restriction…but it was no use. Slowly the Russian inserted the knife into the fabric of the German uniform at an angle just under the knee. The tip of the sharp blade easily cutting through the uniform at the seam and touching the young man’s leg. The Russian smiled further as the sound of the tearing fabric pleased him, the moaning of his victim increasing as the cold blade touched his flesh.
The German squirmed, sheer terror now overcoming him…but the ropes were too tight and confining. He could only tense his muscles, attempting to pull his thigh towards him as the blade slipped slowly up the outside of his inner thigh. The tip of the large steel blade drawing blood as it progressed up his leg to his crotch.
The despatch rider closed his eyes, tears flowing down his cheek
s, his chest clenched tightly with a feeling of sickness, he sobbed in desperation. He began to blank out the horror of the reality, feeling helpless to the actions of his captor. He could see his mother smiling, her outstretched arms as he returned home from his initial training, the last days before being posted to Russia. This was to be his big adventure, he could almost feel her embrace and warmth, her safety.
He felt the stale sharp breaths of the Russian on his face, the fetid smell of his uniform and body odour and the sound of the tearing fabric. He felt the blade nick his skin near his right calf, the stinging of scratches that now ran down both his legs.
The Russian was breathing heavily, his excitement rising in anticipation of his game and what was to come. He glanced at the young German’s face, almost childlike he mused, his victim’s eyes screwed tightly closed and tears flowing freely down his cheeks. The Russian almost felt pity, but the blood lust was more intense, overcoming any other feelings he had for his victim. His lips wet with anticipation, he slowly ran the blade edge down the young man’s leg drawing blood.
The German felt the knife touch his skin again, this time the pressure was slightly stronger and he whimpered loudly, knowing the man was deliberately cutting him. A feeling of helplessness overcoming him, the nausea rising from his stomach. He felt the cold air sweep over his body, nipping at his now exposed flesh, his mind flickering in confusion.
The young German despatch rider heard the gasp of breath to his right, an exasperated hiss, ‘Was ist…’. Then heard a frantic scrapping, a crack and then a crash. Shadows flickered before his tightly closed eyes and the knife was swiftly withdrawn. Cautiously, but still intensely frightened, he opened his eyes slightly, the light, tears and panic the cause of his vision to be blurred initially.
His mind struggled to recognise the face before him. He saw the scarf wrapped across the man’s mouth and nose, the iced frost across his eyebrows, helmet and uniform. He felt the cold emanating from the man as he looked into his eyes and saw compassion and fear…fear for him. Steam was beginning to rise from the man’s uniform, he was looking into the brown eyes of Udet.
Bloody Stalingrad Page 6