Chapter 11
I was sitting on a log, leaning my back against a tree. I sat wearing a Soviet soldier's uniform and an unbuttoned sheepskin coat. Leaning against the same tree, right at hand, stood an MG-34 with a seventy-five-round drum magazine. A holster with a Walther and a scabbard with an SS dagger hung on my belt. Nearby on a bench lay a kitbag, also of the Soviet type. I had recently captured one of the military depots left behind during the rapid retreat. Well, captured... more like stumbled upon. I caused a sabotage, crushed a couple of dozen Krauts, gathered the gear that caught my eye, and burned what was left to Zen.
I sat and thoughtfully smoked a captured cigarette. Actually, I don't have such a stupid habit as smoking, but right now I just wanted to. It truly is a calming process. The consequences for the body are terrible, not for mine though, but the process is somewhat akin to meditation. I suspect that originally, among the Indians, it was used exactly as such, as one of the components. But up to the present moment, it has remained only as a bad habit.
But I didn't care. The amount of deaths that I had seen and, moreover, caused, acts depressingly even on such a weird psyche as mine.
Like a wolf sick with rabies, I wanted to go into the warmth, to people. To kind human warmth. Stupid, probably. I understand myself that it's stupid, but...
Spring is coming. The snow is beginning to melt. The cigarette smoke slowly twirls in the air. The stream released from the mouth goes into the sky...
Yeah right, a veteran of the American War of Independence. Getting all soft. Although, it's not surprising: that little war two hundred years ago is just the scuffle of dirty, angry kids in the backyard of grandma's house compared to this. There were maybe fifty or sixty thousand combatants throughout the entire war on each side. And even then, I'm not sure. But here...
People were approaching my direction through the forest. Tobacco clogs the senses, dulls the sense of smell, but years of martial arts practice develop more than just the ability to kill.
I felt them as if I were standing next to each of them, right behind their left shoulder.
Camouflage suits, submachine guns, knives, a couple of rifles, no talking, soft footsteps, organization... A reconnaissance and sabotage group.
I am currently sitting in the German rear. A German recon group has nothing to do here. That means they are ours.
Although, even if they were Germans, the cigarette was too sweet for me to be distracted. What could they eventually do to me? Except perhaps spoil the pleasure of the cigarette and this warm sunlight.
I was noticed. Stealthily surrounded. The cigarette finished. I took out a second one, lit it with a captured lighter, and again released smoke into the sky.
The group commander finally made a decision, gave a command with a gesture, and the stealthy encirclement became apparent. The fighters left their covers and stepped out, keeping me at gunpoint, without blocking each other's lines of fire.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" asked the group commander, a short, agile man aged, according to my feelings, around thirty. Maybe a little younger.
"My name is Victor Creed," I answered the first half of the question, releasing another stream of smoke and watching as it melted, dissolving in the air.
"What are you doing here?" he repeated the question, frowning.
"Smoking," I stated the obvious. "Warming up in the sun."
"Don't play the fool. You know what I mean."
"Playing the partisan a little," I shrugged. Actually, I didn't lie. That's roughly how my actions could be qualified.
"Playing the partisan?" he became wary. "And where is your detachment?"
"There is no detachment. I am alone," I answered and sighed. I involuntarily remembered the resistance fighters, those who remained forever in France.
"And how much fighting can you do alone?" he chuckled mirthlessly.
"As much as I manage to," I shrugged. "So far, I'm managing."
"And was it you who set the Kraut fuel depot on fire at night?" he asked with suspicion.
"Me," I didn't deny it. Well, I set it on fire, so what? How many of them have I already burned down over these months. One more, one less.
"That was our objective," he scoffed. What could I tell him? I just shrugged.
"Victor, and what's your patronymic?" he inquired. Good question, actually? The body's father was named Zebadiah Creed, it seems. Victor Zebadievich Creed? Or Zebadaevich?
Nah, I don't like it. In my past life, I was Ivanych, so let me be that here too. What's the difference, really?
"I am Victor Ivanych," I answered him.
"Creed Victor Ivanych, then," the group commander scoffed. "Where did a guy like you come from?"
"I've been stomping behind the front line from the very border," I told a half-truth. "Barely kept up."
"Now you've caught up. Why aren't you returning to your unit?" he asked with a bad squint.
"My unit is no more," I replied and put out the cigarette butt on the tree root, then buried it deep in the snow.
"But the army remains. And the commanders will always determine a soldier's place."
"First, the Special Department agents will drag me around and wear me out," I answered gloomily. The conversation was ceasing to please me. I didn't want to kill them, but the guys were clearly escalating the situation.
"If there is a reason to wear you out!"
"Is the lack of documents and four months in occupied territory enough?" I made a final attempt to settle the matter peacefully.
"The proper authorities will figure it out," he cut me off. "You are coming with us!"
"Listen," growling notes broke through my voice. "Lower your tone, or I will crush you right here. And don't rely too much on your fighters' barrels."
"Calm down, guy," he backed away a little under my gaze and the pressure of my words. "The boys are nervous, they might shoot by accident."
"You have ten seconds to lower your weapons. Don't take offense after that," I growled. I understood myself that I was doing something stupid, acting like a fool, but I couldn't back down anymore. My control had weakened significantly over the past months. The rage would literally start splashing from any irritant. Just like now, I was itching to jump up and knock out all the insolent guy's teeth with the butt of his own PPSh. "One!"
"You are not in a position to dictate conditions," the group commander became completely serious.
"Two!"
"Don't be a fool!" he threw his weapon to his eyes and took another step back.
"Three!" I said and lowered my head like a bull.
"Four!" he took another step back.
"Five!" here the head of another of his men popped out of the bushes behind the commander.
"Commander, pursuit!" he said. "They are close already, with dogs."
"Alright, guys, we are leaving," the commander lowered his weapon. "Are you with us?" he turned to me now. "There are about three dozen of them, no less."
"Go ahead, boys. Go. They are waiting for you. And I'll sit here a bit longer. I will welcome the guests. Maybe they'll even forget about you because of my hospitality."
"To hell with you," the commander spat. "Let's move out!"
* * *
"Petya, you sure popped up at the right time with that pursuit of yours," sighed Sergeant Letyagin. Senior Lieutenant Voronov just glanced gloomily in his direction and remained silent.
An hour ago, there was a strange encounter with a bearded man in a Soviet military uniform without insignia, who called himself Victor Creed.
Fleeing from the close pursuit that had been on their heels for half a day now, they had been forced to leave. Literally five minutes after that, from the direction of the clearing where the meeting took place, shots, barking, and shouts in German were heard... And then everything went quiet. Somehow abruptly and all at once.
The group kept moving for another half an hour, but there were no signs of pursuit behind them. Then Voronov made the decision to return and see what was what.
They returned.
They looked.
German corpses were scattered in and around the clearing. A lot of them. Way more than three dozen. Some were shot. Some were stabbed. But the vast majority had been killed with bare hands. The dogs were simply torn in half. And there was a line of footprints from one large man in Soviet military-issue boots. Moreover, from those very footprints, it was clear that he had walked away calmly, without rushing anywhere.
The most terrifying discovery was in the center of the clearing. Right where Voronov himself had stood less than an hour and a half ago. In that spot lay a crucified, still-living officer. His arms and legs were pinned by German rifles, driven more than half their length into the frozen ground. His lower jaw was broken. His belly was ripped open. A cigarette butt had been put out in his open eye.
Voronov shivered and signaled to Letyagin to finish the Kraut off: he was useless for interrogation, and even an enemy shouldn't be tortured. Killed, yes, but not tortured.
"So, you're saying that guy managed to count to five, huh?" Private Kuritsyn Pyotr Vasilich—that very "Petka" who had spoken about the pursuit after popping out of the bushes—scratched the back of his head.
Letyagin nodded and wiped his NR-40 on the uniform of the now-dead officer before putting it away in its scabbard.
"That's it. Let's move out," Voronov commanded, looking over his eagles. "Upon return, we'll report what we saw. Let the brass get a headache over this, not us!"
* * *