《Out of the Motherland》


 Chapter 1 - Hauptmann Tesdorpf, Demyansk

    North-West of Demjansk, Eastern Front.


    3rd December 1941, 3:35 p.m.


    German territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°The summer birds fly,


    Over the forest and field,.


    It''s time to say goodbye,


    We go out into the world.


    Halli hallo, we go out,


    We go out into the world.¡±


    - Excerpt from a German folk song


    Ice bounced glaring reflections from the low sun across the Polomet river, each shine masking the glint of a potential sniper scope or watching binoculars. Under the watchful gaze of the icy waters, twenty two men churned up a path along the steep river bank, making for the promise of warmth and safety at the other end. A frosting of ice drifted down from the high clouds.


    Their breath froze into crystals as they marched, the warmth it provided snatched by the cold around them. They huddled deeper into their overcoats and wrappings for what heat they could provide. The ground beneath their feet was disturbed mud, frozen into chunks of icy dirt. It was treacherous footing, but the men were as well equipped for the cold and the terrain as any Germans were these days and they made their way along without major incident.


    Soon the half platoon arrived at their destination. Two trenches, gashes sundered in the ground of the Siberian countryside, emitted the chuckles, swears and mutters expected of bored soldiers about to finish their watch. The swathe of ground the two trenches covered had been quiet, as the sprinkling of snow on the mounted MG34 and lack of alertness would suggest. The glow of a heater turned up as far as it could go was blocked by the huddle of bodies around it, struggling to penetrate the freezing Soviet cold.


    As their replacements drew closer, the two trenches burst into action. Dirt and ice was brushed away, cigarettes were stowed and viewing slits were cleared.


    Ten men filed out of each trench, ten men filed in. Weapons were shouldered or laid to rest and the watch resumed. Outside the trench, however, the relieved officers had another concern on their mind.


    ¡°Hauptmann.¡± Loring, the first officer to emerge, saluted. His colleague, Jurgen, joined him as soon as he noticed who they were addressing, although his salute lacked the precision of one used to military formality. Junior officers like him weren¡¯t trained on the front, they were born of necessity.


    Twenty of the men who had made the march to the vantage point entered the trenches, leaving two outside. The Platoon¡¯s commanding officer, Senior Lieutenant Meier, and the troops¡¯ captain, Karl Tesdorpf. Of those two, the more senior gave a nod to his men, his breath blowing out in a long puff of steam.


    ¡°At ease,¡± Karl said to Loring. ¡°We¡¯re here to observe the position, nothing more.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Hauptmann,¡± Loring said. ¡°It seems the Ivans are quieting down after the march on Moskau stalled. They haven¡¯t made a move on our lines and now winter is setting in. That¡¯s sure to slow them down.¡±


    But the captain shook his head. ¡°The cold is more our enemy than theirs. This will not be a quiet winter, mark my words, even if our assault is called off in the coming days.¡±


    Sigwald Meier glanced at the two, who gulped down saliva and wished they hadn¡¯t spoken. If they had been cows, his glare would have curdled their milk. ¡°Enough idle talk. Both of you, take your Gruppe back to town. The Hauptmann and I will follow you shortly.¡±


    As the twenty men sped away, Karl pulled out his binoculars and scanned the horizon. ¡°It is as we feared,¡± he said to Sigwald. ¡°The river has frozen solid all the way to the flatlands, and the ice will only get thicker as time goes on. As it is, we could move a Gruppe down it. In a few weeks, a Panzerdivision. It will be a highway through our lines, not an obstacle.¡±


    Sigwald patted Karl on the back. ¡°Let¡¯s walk as we talk. There is no need to worry the men.¡± He glanced at the grenadiers poking their heads around the edges of the trench, already looking for distractions in their hours-long shift.


    Karl nodded agreement and began striding back the way he came, examining directions and widths of the river. Every so often he pulled out a compass to orient himself with the town, fumbling it through his thick gloves, imagining paths of artillery fire and potential for sapping the nearby trails. The smaller oberleutnant had to jog at times to keep up, although he welcomed the chance to keep warm. On occasion he scratched the corners of his trimmed beard, deep in thought.


    The path backwards was no less treacherous for being more downhill. The one benefit was that the forty boots running over it, twenty in each direction, had softened it - but that turned parts of the trial alike to the sucking mud of the Rasputitsa, while others remained icy. The two officers managed to make it along the riverbank path, although their breaths were coming fast before them by the end of it.


    As they returned to the better maintained woodland trails, their journey eased up. North Watch, the furthest of the company¡¯s three watch posts, was a long trek in the cold, but one that needed to be made if they were to keep watch for the inevitable Soviet counter-offensives into the region.


    A Blitz cargo truck was waiting for them, engine idling, in a townlet the locals called Serki. In the back were the twenty freezing infantrymen who had gone ahead. The lack of a canopy and the winds that one would have shielded sent chills through those inside. Karl and Sigwald climbed in the back and the truck sped out, wheels churning up mud and snow.


    As they pulled away, Karl cast his eyes over the abandoned houses that made up the townlet, their residents having fled before the first Wehrmacht troops arrived. Perhaps they were the clever ones. But he doubted it, given how poorly the Soviet people had fared this war.


    As the half buried doorways and broken rooves disappeared behind the trees, he joined his men in surrounding the oil heater as their vehicle bumped its way along the unpaved woodland trail on its way back to the icy main road. He had his own more pressing concerns if he wanted to survive the winter.


    The truck pulled into the depot back at the base camp of the 30th Infantry Division and the two dozen occupants poured out like a black and camo flood. They flowed back into the main army camp and its occupants, all hurrying about their business and hoping it would lead somewhere warm.


    All, that is, but a few.


    Several shadowed figures were scattered around the barbed wire fence that formed the exit of the motor pool. While they were standing in a nonchalant fashion, Karl saw hands within easy reach of weapons and eyes scanning the faces of those disembarking.


    Their uniform was not black and white like his own subordinates¡¯ camo, but rather a deep grey lined with silver. The grey of a cloudy sky, of funeral ash.


    Sigwald spotted them too. ¡°Do you think they¡¯re here for you?¡±


    ¡°Who else?¡± Karl asked. He felt for the cross in his breast pocket, its sharp corners against his fingers giving him comfort. ¡°We knew this was coming. In fact, I¡¯m surprised it took so long.¡±


    Karl¡¯s fingers rubbed the worn edges of the cross, remembering the man who had given it to him and the battle in which it had been won. Their division against four of the enemy¡¯s, stretched out far further than they could hold. The men ready to break, Polish armour and cavalry advancing. A final, desperate charge of the reserves, rallying the men at all costs. An injured commander and a fighting retreat.


    And the terrible losses that day.


    Then the moment was gone, his old commander had fallen to a VVS air strike, and he was back in the Siberian winter, approaching a half-squad cordon of four SS Riflemen.


    The two of them slowed down as they approached the gateway in the fence. Their men passed through uncontested, until the two of them stood alone on the edge of the motor pool. Then the SS formed up, confirming Karl¡¯s suspicions.


    ¡°Go on ahead, Sigwald,¡± he said, loudly enough for the SS to hear. Then, softer, ¡°Give the General my regards. If I don¡¯t write I¡¯m on my way to L¨¹beck.¡±


    Sigwald gave a stiff nod and saluted. Hidden by his arm, he gave his own parting words. ¡°Stay safe. And remember everything we discussed.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s for me to worry about, not you,¡± Karl muttered as Sigwald strode through the blockade. They made a show of checking his papers but let him go untouched. It wasn¡¯t him they were after.


    ¡°So what do you want?¡± Karl called out. He didn¡¯t bother with formalities - he doubted any of them were of his rank or higher.


    He was proven correct when an SS Lieutenant stepped out from behind his men, bringing the total number to five.


    ¡°Greetings, Hauptmann,¡± the officer called out. ¡°Were you expecting us?¡±


    ¡°Untersturmf¨¹hrer.¡± Karl put as much condescension into the rank as he could, and was rewarded with a scowl. ¡°Why would I expect such elite troops in a backwater such as this? Is there some great enemy of the state that needs chasing down?¡±


    ¡°Interesting choice of words there, Tesdorpf. Interesting indeed.¡±


    ¡°Use my rank, Untersturmf¨¹hrer.¡±


    The officer pulled out a missive from his greatcoat and handed it to Karl. ¡°Your former rank, you mean. You have been temporarily stripped of command while the inquiry is in place.¡±


    Karl smiled at the officer and didn¡¯t take the papers. ¡°What inquiry, Holger?¡±


    ¡°You remember it. Just like you do my name, it seems.¡±


    ¡°Enlighten me.¡±


    ¡°That your family are harbouring enemies of the state.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that one. I thought the General had sorted that out.¡±


    Holger smiled, sensing a target.¡°Your hook handed general isn¡¯t around to protect you and your precious family any longer.¡±


    Karl took a moment to hold back his surge of anger, but before he could respond Holger cut in again, taking back the papers in his hand. ¡°Enough dodging the issue. We¡¯re taking you to the Sturmbannf¨¹hrer. You can explain your family to him and, if you make the right decision, you can¡­ mediate with them on our behalf. If that happens things will work out well for you. If it does not, there will be consequences.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Two soldiers stepped up behind Karl and grabbed him by the soldiers. A quick note brought his mental total of SS soldiers up toseven - too many to take on. Not that he needed to make his move now.


    While the others watched the pair of soldiers patted him down with rough slaps of his clothing, a rushed job. They pulled off his pistol and binoculars, but let him keep the cross in his pocket. They missed the compass and hand-drawn maps of Demjansk among his winter clothes.


    The two men reported the all clear and handed Karl¡¯s effects to the Untersturmf¨¹hrer. he smiled and patted Karl on the shoulder. ¡°Good. We¡¯ll take you back to Rshev, and there we¡¯ll see how well you sing.¡±


    He turned to the four SS troops behind him. ¡°Search his quarters. Take his belongings and bring them to my Peno offices. We¡¯ll find what he has to hide.¡± He handed them a warrant and turned away as they saluted.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get on the road. A quiet departure is better for you too, yes?¡± He glanced at the muted activity in the camp behind, the SS troops just disappearing into the rows of broken buildings, tents and campfires.


    Karl sighed as his gaze followed the officer¡¯s to the camp of the 30th. His home for the past two years, the Briesen Division. If God willed, he would see them again.


    Although he would not, he thought as he was bundled into a canopied truck by his two burly guards, give in to the SS to make his return a reality. He was giving himself up, not joining them. No harm would come to the company this way, from him or from others. The ones to pay for his family¡¯s choices would be his family alone.


    He shook his head to clear it as the four took their seats in the truck. Him against the driver compartment. The Untersturmf¨¹hrer opposite him, as close to the single brazier as he could achieve while remaining in his seat. And the two guards on opposite sides of the entrance, lowering the cover into position over the entrance. The truck¡¯s interior was cast into darkness, lit by a few patches of light. The palm-sized window looking onto the driver compartment. The flare then dull glow of a guard lighting a cigarette. The seeping illumination of the brazier, casting leaping shadows across the Untersturmf¨¹hrer¡¯s face.


    As the acrid cardboard smoke of the Russian-made cigarette started to fill the air, Karl leant back and settled in for a long, bumpy ride.


    Karl didn¡¯t check his compass lest it be taken from him, but he could see from the direction of the sun through the front window that they were heading South. Twice he heard engines outside, one of which sounded like a tank - either a village or a passing German convoy. When the truck stopped for the men to piss and eat, he looked around, but could discern little from the surrounding area - the sun had already gone down, the temperature far below freezing, and nothing but sparse woods lay in all directions around the road. They had a scant meal of hardened rations in the headlights of the Blitz.


    Before they returned to the truck, he heard the Untersturmf¨¹hrer and the driver, frost covering his clothes from the unheated vehicle cabin, arguing about enemy lines and danger on the roads. He didn¡¯t know who won the argument, as they finished it off in the woods, but when they resumed driving they headed off the cleared road before it veered to the East onto an unmarked, icy trail leading deep into the Russian forest.


    Looking at the nervous and distracted faces of the guards, Karl started thinking of escape, but dismissed the thought as it arrived. It was now when the guards would be most alert. He would use that against them the next morning.


    He lay his head back against the rail of the truck and slept the deep sleep of an experienced campaigner, huddled in his greatcoat and gloves.


    When he awoke, the sun was starting to shine into the driver¡¯s eyes, meaning the time should be approaching nine in the morning. One of the guards was fast asleep, and the other was awake, albeit tired, so they must have slept in shifts. The truck was back on paved roads, although the stress on the Untersturmf¨¹hrer¡¯s face - who, amusingly, looked like he hadn¡¯t slept at all - meant that the danger wasn¡¯t past yet. Or perhaps something else had gone wrong.


    Karl stretched, bringing his awakening to the attention of his captors. The one conscious soldier, who seemed about to fall asleep again, brought himself under control. The other was too far gone to pay any attention.


    Karl was expecting a stop for breakfast, but time passed without any indication that would happen. That wasn¡¯t a good sign - perhaps even with the truck¡¯s slow pace, skating over patches of ice, they would arrive soon.


    Seeking something to calm himself, Karl pulled the cross from his pocket and spun it, resting his fingers on the swastika in the centre. Its sharp corners, and the memories that came with them, focused his mind.


    Holger noticed Karl¡¯s fingers and focused in on what he held between them. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were decorated. What battle was it from?¡±


    Karl hesitated before answering. ¡°It was won in Bzura.¡±


    The guard by the entrance nodded to the response. ¡°An impressive victory.¡±


    Karl didn¡¯t vocalise his disagreement, but did think back to their horrid casualties. Many new troops reinforced the division after that battle.


    Interrupting his reverie, the SS officer pulled something to him from Karl¡¯s effects. His pistol, an M1912. It was dragged from its dark leather holster and held near the brazier, the fine leaf filigree spinning and twisting as it glinted in the firelight.


    ¡°Somme. Arras. Cambrai,¡± the officer read off. ¡°I saw this before, but you do have quite the hoard. Is this an heirloom? I suppose the make is old enough. Did it belong to your father?¡±


    Karl nodded, clutching the cross tighter in his fist. The points dug into his palm, nearly drawing blood. ¡°It was a gift.¡±


    Holger flipped the pistol over in his fingers, examining it from multiple angles. ¡°So he was an officer on the Westfront, was he. Poor bastard. It¡¯s such a shame that we achieved what his generation could never do.¡±


    Karl gripped the cross a little tighter. A spark of pain flared in his hand, but he ignored it.


    ¡°If only he had been born twenty years later. Or maybe it wouldn¡¯t matter. How old is he? You¡¯re not that old, so he could rejoin the fight if he wanted to, couldn¡¯t he? I wonder why he didn¡¯t try to make up for his old mistakes.¡±


    A single drop of red tainted the silver edge of the Iron Cross in Karl¡¯s hand. By the exit flap, the guard stuck his head into the crack to get his head away from the conversation.


    Holger wasn¡¯t done. He brought the barrel of the gun to face Karl, his index finger off the trigger but his thumb flicking the safety on and off provocatively. ¡°Maybe like you, he was a cow-¡±


    Karl burst forward, knocking the brazier over. Hot coal scattered across the floor of the truck. His left hand slammed Holger¡¯s throat against the wall. His right stabbed two of the points of the Iron Cross into the Untersturmf¨¹hrer¡¯s left eye. The SS officer devolved into panicked panting, his hands clutching at nothing before his face. Blood spurted from between his twitching eyelids.


    The alert guard fumbled for his Karabiner, bringing it up and ready as Karl snatched the pistol from where it had fallen on the bench. The second guard started to wake, darting his eyes around and shivering at the frigid air.


    The standoff continued for a few seconds, the guard switching his aim between Karl¡¯s gun hand and his head. Karl for his part used Holger as a shield, hiding as much of his body as possible behind the smaller man. The rousing guard noticed the situation and snatched at his own rifle. He was slowed by the woolen blanket tangled around him.


    The standoff was broken when the truck jolted, passing over an icy bump on the road. The guard stumbled backwards, his aim shifting towards the roof. At the same time, the hot coals on the floor slid to the back of the vehicle, burning against the boots of the two guards.


    Karl was supported in front by Holger, so he wasn¡¯t nearly as affected by the jolt. Before the armed soldier could recover, he fired two precise shots from his pistol, one into each opponent. They sagged like dropped potato sacks. The sound of the pistol was drowned out by the roar of the engine as the driver regained control of the Blitz.


    Karl was left with his prisoner - the Untersturmf¨¹hrer. His cries had turned into feeble whimpering, both eyes clenched shut in an effort to stop the pain. He started to crawl his way along, leaning against the wall, one hand feeling around the P38 on his waist. Karl pulled a bayonet from the body of one of the SS troopers and stabbed it through his chin to the hilt, holding his mouth shut to prevent any more sound leaking out to the front compartment.


    Checking on the driver, he was still focussed on the road, probably insensate after the long drive. More important than that, the engine was still heaving the truck along. Karl sighed in relief and checked over the men he had killed. A few long years ago he would have hesitated, but time and battles had passed since then. Of course he would regret. But hesitation had been drilled out of him by necessity.


    A quick search of their possessions yielded some results. His own effects were reclaimed, the blood and fluid stained cross returned to his pocket. He kept the bayonet as well, although he cleaned it on the officer¡¯s once grey uniform.


    There were a few other useful items. Ammunition from the P38, which he emptied to use in his own pistol. Half a bag of rations, the other half having been their meal the previous night. The woolen blanket the two guards had been swapping between them, now with a few holes where coals had scattered over it. The now empty sack that was used to store the coals for the brazier.


    He tore off a piece of cloth from one of the blankets and wrapped it around his head in a makeshift cowl. It would keep him warm better than his helmet would. The rest he wrapped around himself underneath his clothes, anything to keep himself warm in the Russian snow.


    He didn¡¯t bother with a canteen as any he brought would soon freeze, if they hadn¡¯t already. Snow and ice would have to do.


    He jumped over the bodies to the back of the truck, minding the hot coals and puddles of blood beneath his feet. The cargo space was a mess - if it had been cleaner he might have considered dumping the bodies, throwing off the scent. But that would leave other clues behind - better he disappear here and leave the SS with dozens of kilometres of highway to search, not knowing exactly when he disappeared.


    He untied the rear canopy straps. A few patches of ice dropped off the canopy as it opened.


    Now that he could see outside, he was confused by the road they were travelling down. Besides having to avoid Russian frontlines around Ostashkov, their path to Rshev should be along major roads. Instead of what he expected though, they were travelling down an uneven, single lane path with forest encroaching on either side. They had to have taken a detour for some reason or another, perhaps trying to avoid checkpoints. That would make it easier for him to disappear into the forest.


    Mindful of another bump or icy patch on the road ahead, Karl lowered his body over the edge, resting his feet on a metal bar just rear of the spare tire. The wind picked up underneath the truck, blowing back mud and ice kicked up by the snow tires.


    He stuck his head out to the left of the truck, looking for a turn to come up ahead. Slow as the truck may be going, he wanted it to slow down before he risked a jump.


    Instead of a road ahead, however, he saw only trees and the truck slowing down. Confused, he loosened his grip, before the truck spun around to the right and he felt his right hand slip free of the edge. Inside the cabin the coals all rolled to the left.


    Acting quickly, he dropped his left hand as well, tucking in his head as the truck accelerated into the turn away from him. He felt two heavy impacts, one on his side and one on his back, one after the other, as the world spun around him. Then with a crunch, everything was white and cold.


    Sticking his head up out of the snowbank, he watched the truck drive off down the road with its cargo of German corpses. He was lucky to not be one of them.


    As the truck passed out of sight, he stepped away from the snow and shook himself dry. The dull ache in his side faded away when he remembered what he was facing. He had evaded the SS for now, but they would search for him - especially back among the 30th. At least that would tell his men that he had slipped from their grasp.


    Instead, he would head into the lion¡¯s mouth. The SS wanted him South? Then he would head South. He would vanish without a trace, right next to where they wanted him to go, and then reappear on his terms.


    That being said, he could evade the SS but they were not his only enemy. General Winter could not be escaped - only endured. And without shelter of some sort, there was no way he could survive a single night. He should also beware a Soviet advance. Fugitive though he may be, he was still German, and they would show him as little mercy as they gave to their own. The only people he could count on were himself and his division, if he could find them.


    Chewing on some dry rations that would suffice for a late breakfast, he strode off into the woods in search of a place to lay low.

 Chapter 2 - Oryl Denikin, Rzhev

    Rzhev, Tver Oblast.


    4th December 1941, 11:22 a.m.


    German territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°You will not grasp her with your mind


    Or cover with a common label,


    For Russia is one of a kind ¨C


    Believe in her, if you are able¡­¡±


    - Russian poem


    A jacket, stained with aged traces of mud. Boots worn through the heel. A cloth cap perched atop a grimy, grease-stained head, from beneath which stared dark eyes. A Mosin-Nagant slung over his shoulder, once polished surfaces buried beneath grime.


    Oryl slouched on the outskirts of the wood as his feet drew him closer and closer to home. Despite having spent months crossing the lines, dodging patrols, scavenging food, anticipating and worrying about his return more each day, it felt like the buildings had sprung up on him in moments. Rzhev was like that - surrounded by patches of woodland on all sides, especially when approaching from the east like he was now. It was so secluded that sometimes a traveller would approach the walls of a building and only then realise they were approaching a town.


    Even more so now that the surrounds were so deserted. As empty as the fields were expected to be in winter, there would be people in the farmhouses, smoke rising above the trees from wood fires, the sound of industry from further into town. Instead, there was an oppressive silence, as if the town had been wallowing in fear for so long that the earth had developed a taste for it.


    Not to say that the air was totally clear. If he concentrated, he could taste a hint of petrol and sweat blown from further into the town. The scent of occupation. He shouldered his weapon and moved forward.


    Oryl stood in an alley on the north side of town, keeping an eye on the goings-on in the railway station. He stood as far back in the shadow as he was able. His rifle would draw more attention than he wanted if he was seen, but he couldn¡¯t be comfortable with throwing it away.


    The station was busier than the outskirts or the residential area had been, but also more rushed. Gaggles of local women and several lone old men hurried somewhere or another, wishing to be done with their errands before they were noticed. Bundles of foreign soldiers, huddled together for warmth and security, stalked the streets on their patrols. The train line itself had been destroyed far earlier, during the German advance, but the area still remained a prominent part of town.


    On the far side of the tracks lay the grain sheds and storage yards, and that was where some of the Germans had made their camp. Sandbagged shelters and temporary buildings sprouted out on the ground. Guards against doorways or atop watchtowers spoke of the value of the camp¡¯s contents, but the trial was too dangerous for what he might find inside. Besides, he had other aims here.


    He was safe in his alley for the moment, but the longer he was on the streets for the more likely he would be found. He had no papers and was armed - there was little chance he would get away from soldiers without conflict. Instead, he searched the horizon for a vantage point. The top of a building might do in a pinch, but more useful would be a tall, out of the way building where he could rest out of sight and watch for his next opportunity. A building like the belltower, perhaps.


    He slipped back into the alley, checking corners and dashing across paths, making sure he wasn¡¯t spotted. He stayed off the streets, running through back gardens out of sight of passersby. He still had a few close calls, lying in the snow below fences as the green-coated policemen and darker-dressed soldiers made their rounds.


    He kept a tight grip on his rifle the whole way. If he was discovered, it and his knowledge of the town were the only things which might keep him safe.


    In the end, he made it safely there. Just a short dash through the graveyard followed, and he was against the wall of the building. The tower stood just above him, feeling taller now that he was at its base. A mere four stories high but more than large enough of a fall to kill a man.


    His plan had been to climb the outside of the tower, but he found the inside of the building run-down and empty. The front door had been broken in and, sneaking a look at the inside of the congregation, much of the beauty of the church had been ransacked. The sole stained-glass window had been cracked, not quite smashed. The altar had been upended. The candlesticks, the books, the artworks, everything small enough to remove had been taken.


    Even several pews seemed to be missing. One of the remaining had been broken in half and the remnants of a fire rested in the corner - the only value of the furnishing being how long it could burn.


    Oryl stared at this with dead eyes and moved on. Perhaps he should have cared about it, but heavier burdens lay upon him - both mental and physical. This was but a feather compared to that.


    The top of the belltower was windy. The bell itself had fallen to the base of the tower where it had cracked with the stone floor. Now the view from the top was clear where the bell would have blocked it, and although the four-storey hole in the floor made him uncomfortable Oryl was fine as long as he didn¡¯t look down.


    Laying his bag down as a cushion and his rifle within easy reach, he settled down. The platform creaked under his weight but stood firm. A loaf of stale bread, one of his last, appeared in his hand as if from nowhere to fill his growling stomach.


    He gazed out around town, minding the activity. Besides the setup at the train yard, the Germans were building a sizeable camp in the centre of town. From what Oryl could see through the parts of the wall that were yet to be built, pits were being dug into the earth and sheds were being erected throughout the space. He wondered as he was waiting who was doing the work - perhaps local labour, perhaps some German youth squads. There was no way to tell from this distance. Perhaps some of his old comrades, if the Germans and commissars felt kind enough to spare any of the Red Army.


    Down to the south, across the river, the town was still in shock. That was where the Soviet defenders had been stationed, those that hadn¡¯t been marshalled further West to support the rest of the Front, and as such it would have seen the worst of the fighting until their retreat.


    Craters from shell impacts still dotted the outside of town in that direction. A scattering of broken rooves indicated that the shelling was not limited to the uninhabited areas. Some had been patched up by tarpaulins and wood scaffolding. Others remained ruined, ominous in their stillness.


    The sky was clear and dry, too cold for snow to easily form. A few pale clouds drifted above, and he watched them for a moment before they were broken apart by a surveillance plane. Lyuftvaffe forces keeping watch on the front.


    Looking over to the south again, at the still houses between the trees, he felt sick to his stomach. Anxiety drew a rusty chain through his innards, stretching and drawing them together. He forced it down with practiced concentration, but he couldn¡¯t ignore what he already knew. German troops were converging on the centre of town. It was shift change - time for their meal, and that meant time for him too move.


    He slipped back down through the stairwell of the belltower as clouds cast a patchwork shadow over his now deserted hiding place.


    Oryl stole through the bushland by the northern bank of the Volga river. To his left, houses rose from the top of the hillside like bunkers. Beneath him, packed snow cracked with his tread. To his right, the frozen surface stretched out to the far shore, a hundred odd metres away.


    The bushes on the far side welcomed him, but the crossing before then was a hazardous trek. The scrub surrounding the river did not shield the open ice from the eyes amid the houses, making any crossing an exposed affair.


    German ingenuity provided a possible answer. Twelve barges stretched across the river, anchor chains and hulls frozen into the ice. Planks of fresh wood, hewn from local trees, stretched between them, forming a safe bridge, if not an even one.


    If he crossed there, he would be innocuous at least, and that would be enough for him. With the change of shift, nobody should be watching from nearby, and for anyone watching from further away he donned a German metal helmet, taken from his pack. From a distance, with a helmet and thick cloak obscuring his features, he could pass for any other foreign soldier crossing the bridge. But only from a distance.


    The footing on the bridge was treacherous, at best. A handful of light snowfalls, plus the daily tread of dozens of soldiers and civilians, had packed down the once-rough surface of the wood into a glossy sheen of ice. Oryl¡¯s tread was the careful one of a man who knows what he has to lose. Having come so close, he was not going to stumble - literally - on the final stretch of his journey.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    At one point, his foot slipped forwards out from under him, bringing him down onto one knee. A woman, of perhaps thirty or forty, chose that moment to cross the head of the bridge. Sliding his knees across the ice, he managed to bring his pose to something approaching checking his shoelaces¡­ but he needn¡¯t have bothered, as the woman had fled upon spotting the lone soldier.


    Once he was safe in the concealing shrubbery on the other bank, Oryl slipped out a relieved sigh. At the same time as he dropped the helmet back into his bag. Useful as it was, it made him shiver to wear it. Its visor was too low, its material too hard and its chin strap too tight. It brought him too close to feeling like a soldier.


    Now his final obstacle, the river, was out of the way, only a few blocks lay between him and his destination. With hurried steps, he moved on.


    The sights here were more familiar, yet somehow more unsettling. The park, with fountain normally drained of water every winter cracked and frozen over. The streets empty of their usual traffic. The houses of his neighbours. And the bakery, home¡­


    His boots ground to a halt.


    A caved-in roof. Boarded windows. Dilapidated bricks. Dead, frozen plants. No signs of light or heat. The medieval house that had stood for hundreds of years, reduced to such a sorry state.


    Instead of the smell of fresh bread, all he could sense on the air was dust and disrepair.


    Stepping closer, he rested his hand against the front door. A flapping piece of paper caught his attention, tossed back and forth by the midday wind. Straightening it out, he read from the text - the Latin alphabet, probably German words, with the letters R U S and an eagle stamp at the top. Not that he needed more evidence of who could have done this.


    He kicked against the door in a burst of anger, breaking it off its worn hinges. He felt regret for a moment, but pushed it away - there was no future to be had in this house anyway.


    Looking around the inside of the house for anything of use, his eyes didn¡¯t chance upon anything important. An old umbrella still inside its stand. The shards of a mirror below where it used to hang, with the frame stolen from the wall. Fragments of glass beneath the boarded windows, probably showing where looters had come through. Anything valuable or useful - all of the food - all missing. The stairs up the second level smashed and broken - there may be something up there but he didn¡¯t want to risk trying.


    Closing off his search, he sat down at the base of the stairs, which creaked under his weight. What would he do now? Saving his family would mean coming to a head with the Germans, but he couldn¡¯t manage that alone. Just thinking about the number of soldiers in town, with tanks, halftracks and machine-guns, terrified him. If the army attacked the town, there might be an opportunity, but the front lines were probably pushed back a long way by now. Who knew how long it would be until a counter-attack arrived.


    His family still had some friends nearby. If he went to one of them, perhaps he could wait out the occupation for some time until an opportunity came. It wouldn¡¯t be fast or easy, but he could help his family while staying safe. At least he wouldn¡¯t get conscripted by the Germans in the meantime.


    His mind set, he forced himself to his feet, ignoring a pang of despair. He needed to keep moving. Keep moving, and then¡­


    He spotted a flash of green through the doorway. He froze, grabbing for his rifle. It was a bottle green, the sort that the German police, the Orpos, wore on duty.


    Striding to the doorway and peering out, he spotted the flash again - the edge of a winter coat, flapping around the corner. Looking at head level, he could see the top edge of a helmet like the one in his bag poking around the edge of the same corner.


    Shrinking back into the shadows and looking down the roads to the left and right through gaps in the window boards, he could see another Orpo - a policeman - down one of the side streets. This one hadn¡¯t bothered to hide himself, given the tiny angle that he would be visible from from the house. He was clearly not patrolling though, instead standing in the street with his pistol drawn.


    Oryl ran upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time. Some boards fell away behind him but he ignored them, sliding into position beneath a hole in the roof on the second layer. Here, with fewer walls to block his ears, he could hear a distant whistle - a call for reinforcements. If it was him the call was after, there would be more police - or perhaps soldiers - on their way.


    Reaching down into his bag, he pulled out the few things that could help him. A handaxe, a pair of binoculars he had managed to steal, spare ammunition for his rifle, and a looted German stick grenade. He could probably take out the Orpos with this and make his escape before anyone else was close enough. He had a quick glance for any other green shirts from the holes around the roof, but couldn¡¯t spot any. These two were all he had to face, then.


    Crouching into position against the joists, he balanced the end of his rifle against the crumbling edge of the hole in the roof. He aligned his sights with the body of the German policeman as he moved the grenade close to his body with his other hand.


    Taking his rifle back into two hands, he steadied his nerves as best he could. His stomach was still churning - worrying about what he would do next. Even if he shook of his pursuers here, nobody in Rzhev would hide him. Nobody was that close to him before he left for the army, and now with the Nazis after him, he didn¡¯t think there was anyone else who would risk their family to protect him.


    So where would he head? Off into the wilderness? Back towards Russian lines? Scavenge for another month or two, even as winter set in and he slowly starved and froze, hoping that the Russians would retake the town? He had no idea.


    What he did finally realise, though, was that this struggle was distracting him from the real issue at hand - the policeman at the other end of the scope of his rifle. Partly for the fact that he was alive, and partly for the other issue around that. After all, Oryl had never shot anyone before.


    Even back in the 98th Rifle Division, he had only fired his gun a handful of times, and most of those were him panicking at shadows or blindly at hidden soldiers. When he did finally meet an enemy, they were tanks that he couldn¡¯t even try to damage with his rifle - he couldn¡¯t call that firing back as much as he could wasting ammunition.


    So now, with time to think about his actions and consider what he was doing, could he truly pull the trigger?


    His target stepped back and forth, switching the pistol between gloved hands. He switched his weight from foot to foot as his breath fogged in the air. Even from this distance, Oryl could tell that he was a living person.


    But if he left these policemen alive as he ran, how could he get out¡­


    His finger tightened on the trigger. He held his breath, aligning his focus with the line stretching out from his barrel, bringing it to rest in his mind on the Orpo¡¯s chest. His finger grew closer and closer to the trigger weight. He felt the balance shift, ever so finely, within the weapon as the firing pin drew back.


    He jerked in surprise as he heard a crash from downstairs. His shot went wild, ricocheting off the ground a metre away from the policeman. But that was the least of his concerns right now. Thuds of footsteps echoed from down below, furnishings being knocked over and calls in German. Oryl quickly grabbed his gear back together. Stowing most of it in his sack but keeping the axe in his belt, he prepared to dash out.


    Grabbing the stick grenade from beside him, originally intended for the Orpo around the corner, he pulled the pin and tossed it down the stairs. Ignoring the shouts from below, he dashed to the back of the building, away from the policemen in the streets and the imminent explosion.


    The blast rocked the building to its foundations. The stairs had probably collapsed, sealing the soldiers away from the roof, but Oryl didn¡¯t stay around to make sure. He jumped through the rear window, sliding down the eaves and dropping from the roof into the snow in the backyard.


    Without stopping to catch his breath and ignoring the panic from the house behind him, he leaped the fence to his neighbours¡¯ yard and dashed on.


    The street beyond was clear of soldiers, so he hastened down it. The past traffic on the road would hide his footprints and his intentions - otherwise, if he ran through fresh snow in the yards, the traces in the snow would give him away too easily. Perhaps that was how the Germans had followed him. Or perhaps he was just spotted.


    Circling around the bakery, he ran back north towards the river. That would be his way out, and the brush by the banks would cover him as he left town.


    Two blocks away, his first obstacle appeared. Sliding around the corner on the icy ground, Oryl came face-to-face with an Orpo, his attention called to the disturbance. With his rifle shouldered and slow to draw, the Orpo had the advantage in close quarters with his already drawn pistol.


    Instead, Oryl charged forwards with his axe as the Orpo tried to cry for help. All the concerns from before were gone - now it was simple. One of them would walk away, and the other one wouldn¡¯t.


    The pistol came up, but Oryl dodged the first shot, dropping low. The second went wide as the policeman panicked and tried to adjust, and then Oryl was in and swinging - untrained blows powered by raw ferocity.. He missed a few strikes before managing to separate the pistol from the policeman¡¯s hand with a lucky blow, taking a finger or two with it. The next blow with the butt of the axe came down upon the policeman¡¯s head, stunning him.


    Grabbing the pistol from where it had fallen, Oryl kept running. He could have finished off the policeman, but the shouts from back towards his former home convinced him otherwise. Instead he dashed off along the street, dropping the axe back in his belt.


    As he was about to round the corner, a few cracks of gunshots sounded from behind him. He saw from a glance over his shoulder that another policeman had come around a corner behind and was taking potshots at him from down the street. The stunned policeman was stumbling to his feet.


    A loud smack from behind him, a stinging pain in his right arm and another bullet whizzing by drove Oryl to keep running even after rounding the corner. The gunshots died off, but the chaos behind him did not.


    Coming to the river, Oryl spotted the shapes of a few more soldiers crossing the makeshift bridge upstream. None of them spotted him as he hid in the bushes against the bank.


    A quick check of his arm indicated a heavy graze around his shoulder. It might not hinder him, but it was bleeding and painful. He pulled a bandage from his bag and loosely tied it with his other hand. It was a patchwork job all up, but it would have to suffice.


    Almost worse was the crack in the wood just below the barrel of his rifle. It had deflected a bullet away from the meat of his shoulder, but had taken the force of the shot in the meantime. Potential damage to the rifle wouldn¡¯t matter unless he had a chance to use it in future, though.


    Trying to get away before word spread, he stumbled through the bushes beside the bank of the river. As he fled, confusion and fear grew in the town behind him, feeding the hungry air.

 Chapter 3 - Oryl Denikin, Volga River

    Volga River, Tver Oblast.


    4th December 1941, 2:18 p.m.


    German territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°A sense of terror was deforming


    His features. And he would then press


    His hand to heart in a great fastness,


    As if to make its tortures painless...¡±


    - Excerpt from a Russian poem


    The world pressed in around Oryl, the outskirts of Rzhev now past and faded into the distance. His focus drew into the pain in his shoulder, the burning in his lungs, the smack of his feet against the snow-covered ice, and the undulations ahead that could be his only indication of a thin spot in the ice - and a sudden plunge into deadly waters.


    He had abandoned the bushes beside the river to gain speed, but unfortunately that meant dealing with other problems - namely the ice and snow threatening to slip him up and casting a trail of footprints behind him as he propelled himself along despite the treacherous footing.


    The light snowfall would soon fill in, or at least hide, the footprints he left behind, although it did send a chill through his body at the same time. His winter coat kept him warm while he was still moving, but once he stopped there would be little keeping him from freezing. The temperatures in the past week had approached negative thirty, colder than most winters he had lived through, and there was nothing keeping them from going even lower as midwinter drew closer.


    The hum of engines off to his left shook him from his concentration, and he almost stumbled on the ice, catching his footing at the last moment. Once he saw the cause, though, he relaxed. The source was a German supply truck travelling in the opposite direction, hurrying along on some errand or another. They wouldn¡¯t be on the lookout for him.


    As the snowfall picked up, Oryl started to slow his pace and relax. Looking down the river, he could see no indication that he was being followed by Germans. Nobody sane would chase down a single deserter in this snowstorm, even if he was armed.


    Blowing a snowflake from his chin, he started to think about his next move. If he was going to be forgotten by the Germans, he might be able to find somewhere to hole up nearby. There would be hunting lodges in the wood - he should be able to stumble across a hunting trail and follow it to shelter. It was probably his best option, given that returning to Rzhev wasn¡¯t going to happen anytime soon.


    If he remembered correctly, there was a jetty for ferry boats further down the river. If he found that, he might be able to follow the trails from there to a place he could settle down for the night. He would be safe until morning then - no German soldiers would be wandering through hunting trails in this weather. No German soldiers who weren¡¯t in a position like his, that is.


    Keeping an eye out along the right bank of the river, he tried to spot the jetty as he continued downstream.


    The snow began to intensify as Oryl began to worry that he hadn¡¯t seen the jetty. Coming to a bend in the river that he recognised, he was sure of it. He knew it would be hard to spot given the coverage of snow, but he didn¡¯t think that he could miss it. With the river shrunk in winter, it should have stood out, but he had to have missed it.


    He turned back and hurried in the other direction. The sky had begun to grow darker, and it wasn¡¯t just because of the storm. The sun was beginning to sink behind the treeline to the southwest. Another vehicle passed by along the road, but it was far out of sight and didn¡¯t stop to look for him.


    Getting worried by the amount of time he had left, Oryl got lucky at last, not as much by seeing the jetty as running into it. His foot kicked one of the pylons on the landward side, half buried by snow. The other pylon he couldn¡¯t see poking out anywhere - presumably it was damaged since he had last been there and hadn¡¯t been repaired.


    Now that he had his bearings, he could finally begin to seek out the trails between the trees. A pair of them stretched out in different directions, and he hesitated for a moment, trying to remember which one might get him closer to shelter.


    Another growl of an engine further down the road behind him alerted him to danger. He stepped away from the riverbank and back among the woods, the freezing cold beginning to seep into his body now that he was no longer moving. For the moment, however, he had no choice but to huddle up and deal with the chill. The road at this point drew close to the road to let ferry boats drop off passengers - there was a clear view from the road to his position as the trees against the river had been cut down.


    Into this gap in the trees crawled a half-track. A handful of German soldiers, huddled together for warmth but still shivering, stared out in all directions from the crew compartment. It wasn¡¯t moving quickly, letting them keep pace with flanking infantry, who emerged from the trees alongside it.


    The infantry fanned out into the open space by the river, with a few running down to the water to scout out the area. One called out and waved more soldiers over, and the group suddenly stepped up their alertness. The machine gunner on the halftrack braced and armed his weapon, and a foot soldier fired off a flare to alert any other nearby groups.


    They had spotted Oryl¡¯s footprints from the last time he had passed through.


    The five soldiers on the ground split up, gesturing and calling orders to each other. Four of them followed the footprints further downriver, while the last walked towards Oryl¡¯s current position, checking out the rest of the area. A fresher set of footprints awaited him, just metres ahead.


    The half-track¡¯s engines were muted by the snowfall as it inched down towards the river. Troops aboard disembarked, the driver not sure if the ice could take the weight. The rumble of a second engine from further away indicated more German troops would soon arrive.


    Hidden behind his tree on the other bank, Oryl cursed his carelessness. But how could he have thought the German troops would care so much? Assembling an entire task force just for a single deserter?


    He chambered another bullet into his rifle as the German soldier drew closer, the empty shell casing that fell into the snow reminding him of the soldier he had almost killed before - and the one he would now have to take the life of.


    Hearing the crunch of snow across the river behind him cease, Oryl clutched his rifle in ready position, then stepped out from behind the tree. He brought the barrel to point at the unlucky soldier, taken unawares as he bent down to check the fresh set of footprints in the snow.


    The rifle shot echoed out through the frozen landscape, drawing the attention of the other soldiers. Several of them dived for the ground across the river, searching for the enemy.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The soldier Oryl had shot fell back against the ice, scarlet blood scattering away and painting dots in the snow. Oryl himself dashed off into the trees before the fallen soldier¡¯s allies could react.


    A hail of bullets spat among the trees as the machine gunner opened up on Oryl¡¯s position. He dove for cover as splinters were flung from trees, a blunt impact in the same right arm indicating a hit. The other soldiers added the weight of their fire to the barrage, sending a blizzard of bullets to match the falling snow into the trees where Oryl had been hiding.


    After the initial automatic fire faded into a few bursts from the machine gun, Oryl took to his feet again, running through the deep snow of the path. A few bullets buzzed by his ears, but Oryl was quickly lost among the woods as the German soldiers gathered and prepared for their pursuit.


    The shouts from behind continued as Oryl pressed on through the tree cover. He was losing warmth, both from the snow slipping into his garments and from the bleeding cut on his arm that had pierced through his outer garments. The offending chunk of wood, too large to be called a splinter, used to be a branch from a pine tree. It was still stuck in the cut and shouldn¡¯t be taken out until he could give it more attention than he could afford at that point. At least the snow was covering the trail of blood.


    He broke the large part of the piece outside of his clothes free, withstanding the pain as the force he applied rubbed the remainder of the splinter around inside the wound. That way it wouldn¡¯t slow him down as he ran.


    With the sun now hidden completely behind the treeline and the wind starting to pick up, the air chilled rapidly. It was probably even colder than it had been the past days - up to forty below in Centigrade, or even lower.


    Oryl couldn¡¯t take the time to rest, however. The barking and howling of dogs carried through the air behind him, as much trained into the dogs for intimidation as it was their nature. A German wardog unit was on his trail.


    He had no way of telling how far behind the barks were either, as the sound was muffled by the snow and the forested landscape, but he couldn¡¯t see them behind him for now. There must have been something confusing the dogs¡¯ smell.


    He held the stolen pistol for self-defence. His rifle was useless, injured as his shooting arm was. Instead of the pain, a feeling of numbness had begun to soak through his hand and forearm, perhaps indicating a lack of circulation or perhaps something more sinister.


    The trail drew out before him, twisting and turning as it ran around fallen trees and rocky outcrops. He had seen two paths that may have led out to hunting cabins, but hadn¡¯t been able to move towards them with the Germans so close on his trail. His hope was for them to call off the hunt with night drawing closer and head back to Rzhev so he could find shelter. Otherwise they might all freeze to death, even if he was caught.


    Glancing over his shoulder again, Oryl spotted a bounding shape making its way through the terrain, over a collapse tree he had passed just thirty seconds ago. He slowed to a halt, putting his back to a tree and readying the pistol as the dog drew closer.


    It slowed as he did, walking out with a growl. It had followed the path through the snow that he had left behind rather than blazing its own trail, but it still shook the last few flakes from its back as it circled Oryl.


    Looking around with one eye still on the wardog, Oryl didn¡¯t spot any other hounds - it was just the one that had followed him. It was quite the brute though, with well muscled limbs and a jaw filled with teeth bared in a growl.


    Training his pistol on its bulk, Oryl prepared for its attack, but it seemed content to circle. It sniffed the air, still keeping up its growl, but then turned its head in another direction as if distracted by something. As Oryl kept his pistol on it, it turned away from him and dashed off on a tangent into the woods, leaving him alone and still quite confused.


    As Oryl kept moving, the sounds of German pursuit faded off. They were likely pulling back to Rzhev - he had outlasted them. But now he needed to outlast the winter night, as frozen blood started to gather in his jacket.


    Snow slid from trees as the wind howled between them, Oryl¡¯s new pursuer tickling against the back of his coat as it gusted over the snow. A pair of gunshots carried over the now full snowstorm through the forest - perhaps the German soldiers running into an animal, perhaps a hunter, perhaps something altogether different.


    The trail was starting to grow harder to follow as the light drained away. Oryl didn¡¯t have a torch or other light to guide his path, so he relied on vague memories and a feeling of where a campsite might be. They would be built where they could stand clear of normal snowfalls - so atop an outcrop of rocks, into the side of a hill.


    A brief flurry of snow emptied away, clearing his vision for a moment. Among the trees off to the side of the path he saw the oblong shape of a roof.


    Stumbling towards it, he was able to make out more of the detail. Its shaped, windowless wooden walls stood out against the rough vertical forms of the pine trees around. There was a small cowled chimney emerging from one of the corners of the building, promising the potential for warmth inside.


    He collapsed against the door, panting clouds of white mist in and out. The relief had taken as much out of him as the cold and wounds did. The door was locked, but a chop from his axe broke the thin chain, dropping the padlock free, and he was through. He stepped through the raised doorway, the snow having not yet reached the sill, into the blackness of the camp.


    The inside was just as cold as out, but at least there was no wind. Oryl squinted around in the darkness, trying to spot some sort of light. He could see a fireplace in the corner, but he had no way of lighting it. There were some slots in the wall he could open to let light in, currently letting the barest glimmer through, but he had no wish to expose himself to any more cold than he needed. He was best off with the door closed and him on the warm side.


    Feeling his way along a shelf by the door, his hand ran into boxes and packaging, something furry but dead and cold, and finally a square box with a rough patch like sandpaper on the sides. Matches. He dropped his bag and grabbed them off the shelf with his good hand.


    The fire caught with a flare of light, propaganda leaflets around the base of the fireplace crumbling and blackening as they burned. If a commissar had been here they might have locked him up for political crimes, but at the moment warmth was the only thing Oryl cared about. And as the twigs and finally one of the logs in the fireplace caught, warmth was what he got. He sank back against the bed and closed his eyes as he felt heat soak into the air in the cabin.


    Once he felt the snow in his clothes start to melt, he removed the sleeve from his arm to check the wounds. The first bandage had come loose, but the cut had scabbed up, leaving trails of dark red down his arm. The newer injury was still bleeding, sapping warmth and feeling below his elbow.


    It would have to be taken out, and it was going to be painful. He may have to rest here for a few days to recover. Right now though, he was more worried about how he could get all the fragments. The injury was on the back of his arm and was a tricky spot for him to reach.


    A small medical kit on the wall by the door provided part of the solution, hanging next to an asbestos fire blanket. In it he found a syringe containing painkillers.


    He pulled out a pair of tweezers from the kit, started melting some snow in the fire, sat down and injected himself with the morphine.


    ¡­ And heard footsteps approaching the cabin.


    He reached slowly for his rifle, then realised once he had it that his arm was still injured. Instead he grabbed his pistol, his shadow flaring on the wall as the footsteps stopped outside the door. Whoever it was, it was going to be bad for him.


    ¡°Let me in?¡± A voice called out from beyond the door. ¡°I know someone¡¯s inside.¡±


    Oryl didn¡¯t say a word. The language was Russian, but the accent was not.


    The call repeated again. ¡°No Russian? Hallo, kann ich fragen, wer drin ist?¡±


    Oryl¡¯s head spun and he snapped himself into focus. Now was the worst time to be distracted - he was exhausted, having run all day and nearly been killed, but now was the time he needed to concentrate the most.


    The knock on the door happened again. ¡°Hallo?¡±


    Before he realised it, the gun had slipped out of Oryl¡¯s hands. He coughed. Somehow it didn¡¯t matter any more. He couldn¡¯t hold on to his wakefulness for any longer.


    So he did what he had done once already. He gave up.


    As the door opened and a man in German uniform stepped inside, Oryl drifted off into senselessness.

 Chapter 4 - Karl Tesdorpf, Volga River

    West-Northwest of Rshev, Eastern Front.


    4th December 1941, 1:40 p.m.


    German Territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°This cold winter air


    calls with hearty strength.


    Behold such a mighty Lord,


    summer and winter He makes.¡±


    - Extract from a German folk song


    A storm was approaching. Karl could feel it on the air and see it in the patterns in the sky. The wind was picking up in the heavens, and by nightfall the clouds, like swollen bombers, would empty their sodden cargo onto the earth.


    He had cut an indirect path north-east once off the road, keeping to his compass and the path of the sun. If his understanding of the area was correct, he was heading towards the Russian and German front lines, but depending on how far he had been taken he may be able to hit to the Volga before that.


    That being said, he might have already passed the front lines - Ivan defences should be concentrated further North, around Selizharovo, or East around Stariza. No German forces would be likely to push through this area in the winter, and the Soviet defences would be weak as a result. The major offensive Wehrmacht units were concentrated around Moskau anyway.


    The sun gazed down in a valiant attempt behind Karl¡¯s back, casting a shadow for him to perpetually chase. Yet it couldn¡¯t do more than take the edge off of the bone-deep chill on the air.


    Karl crested a hill, looking out as best he could at the terrain ahead. He could see the depression cast by the main body of the Volga, perhaps an hour¡¯s struggle through the terrain around him. Stretching off to his right and a little ahead was the road he had left behind. Dotted throughout the forest were traces of smoke indicating habitation. Most of them were likely collections of buildings, perhaps some workshops, but some could be patrols from either army - something he didn¡¯t want to run into right now.


    Worse news, though, was on the horizon. A few buildings peeking above the surrounding sky indicated a major town - likely that was Rshev, where the SS camp was located. He couldn¡¯t have left it any later to get free of his captors.


    But that meant that they would soon find out he was missing, and be on his tail. Perhaps they already were. He needed to get away from the road and into the forest - the one advantage he had right now was that they didn¡¯t know where he had slipped away, and he wanted to keep it that way.


    For now, he needed to keep moving, both to keep away from his pursuers and to keep the cold off his back. He slid down the hill through the snow, coming to a running stop at the base.


    The first obstacle in his path to the Volga was a small frozen stream covering the base of a deep but narrow gully. He managed to leap it at a thinner point, dipping a toe in the water but managing to scramble up the slope on the other side.


    From there was a struggle through snowdrifts half a metre deep. It was like walking through sand with shoes on. The snow sucked his feet back when he tried to pull them up and hid the uneven footing when he tried to put them down.


    While walking, he ran into a townlet with its original residents still present. He wasn¡¯t spotted by the woman chopping firewood out the front, but he had to hide in a thicket of trees while she finished her chopping. Ten minutes later, colder and delayed, he slipped away as she brought the next stack out from the cellar beneath her house.


    He considered taking a fur blanket he spotted on a chair beneath the awning, but he wasn¡¯t going to risk being caught and didn¡¯t to take away even more from these people - more than their communist leaders and his fellow Germans already had. He feared that other soldiers, German or Russian, may not have those qualms, but there was nothing that he could do for them.


    At last he arrived at the river, his destination. It stretched out, downstream to the Northwest and upstream to the Southeast, curling around North as it turned towards the sea. Beyond was a thicker forest than he had been passing through, but that meant less snowfall and less chance of being spotted.


    Now that he was away from any potential SS search parties, he could find a place to lay low in the wilderness. His next move was to get to his supply cache East of Cholm, but that would take time and some equipment.


    His effects would also be held by that officer at Peno. If he could, he wanted to retrieve those. It would make it easier to get into his storehouse if he had those.


    Sitting in the shrubs across the river, he ate a quick meal of frozen rations. He chased it down with a handful of snow, but it didn¡¯t deal with his dry mouth. He struggled to decide whether he needed water or warmth more. Thirst, he finally decided, could be dealt with when he had something to melt snow to reasonable temperatures.


    At least he wasn¡¯t sweating.


    Finishing off his meal, Karl heard voices approaching from upstream. A hunting party walked into view, a pair of men with rifles slung over their shoulders. Both were bundled up in layer upon layer of fur and looked much warmer than Karl was feeling at that point. One kept his attention on the ground, following or searching for tracks, while the second kept his eyes on the surrounding trees and bushes.


    His alert gaze passed over Karl but didn¡¯t seem to notice him in the shadows away from the edge of the river. Instead, the tracker pointed out Karl¡¯s footprints crossing the ice. They stared at them for a few seconds, then laughed something to each other and moved on.


    The one on watch glanced at the sky and muttered something before the pair hurried their pace. Karl, glancing his head at the grey ceiling of the clouds beginning to drift down larger flakes of snow. He needed to get moving too.


    As the winds began to trail flakes of snow from the tops of snowdrifts, creating a veil of foggy particles down their sides, Karl started to worry about shelter. He knew there would be houses around, but had no idea where, and hadn¡¯t had paper available to map out the smoke trails from his previous vantage point.


    Instead, he wandered down what he thought might be an animal trail as the skies began to loose their payload. He entertained the thought of building a snow cave or some kind of shelter out of snow, but he didn¡¯t think the drifts around here were thick enough to allow that sort of shelter. It would probably be blown away by the wind.


    As he was thinking, there was a gunshot from far off in the forest. He couldn¡¯t tell where it came from, but from the sound it was somewhere in the direction of Rshev.


    The first crack was not alone. Soon the forest opened up with distant gunshots, all from the same direction. Some sounded like single shot weapons, others were a chatter that he recognised as an MG34 firing. It sounded like German troops engaging enemies - Soviet or otherwise. Unless it was a training exercise, his pursuers had to have come out in force.


    As soon as he thought that, the gunfire died away. Karl could only hope that whoever was the other side in the firefight distracted the SS for long enough that they couldn¡¯t find him.


    As light died away, the howling of wild animals pushed that hope from his mind. It sounded like there were wolves around, and Karl was still definitely on his own. He checked the operation of his pistol, making sure no parts were frozen stiff, and kept advancing.


    However, the howls only grew louder as he continued. Baying resounded from multiple directions as he realised he was surrounded. He tried to climb a tree to stay away from the animals, but the branches at ground level were barely thick enough to support the weight of the snow atop them, let alone him, and before he knew it the pack were on top of him.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    They weren¡¯t wolves, they were dogs of war. Four of them were circling in the snow around him, hindered by the terrain and in pain from the cold but egged on by their hunger and the promise of the end of the hunt.


    One eyed him from atop a nearby rocky outcrop, while the other three pushed themselves in a circle around him through the snow. They were huge and angry dogs, the drifts of snow barely reaching their knees. Had they been standing on their hind legs they might have been as tall as him.


    His concentration was cut short as two dogs leapt at him, barking. He stepped out of the way and let the two crash together. He was knocked staggering by one which was knocked from the collision into his legs, but regained his balance and ended its life with a quick pistol shot.


    A second pistol shot took out the leg a second dog as it leaped from atop its rock at him, then he switched hands to draw his bayonet and meet the final pair.


    He kept the two at bay with swings of the weapon, the last rays of sun glittering off it across the small clearing. As they started to circle him to attack from two directions, he jumped for one of them, cutting across its forehead and blinding it with drops of blood in its eyes.


    As it shook its eyes clean and blindly lashed out, the other jumped forwards to assist its ally. Its legs snapped shut inches from Karl¡¯s leg, but he jumped clear, backing towards the exposed boulder behind him.


    The remaining two growled as they stood together against him, but with a gesture from his pistol and a whistle in the distance they turned tail and ran, leaving him scraped and battered but not seriously wounded.


    The injured dog would freeze to death within the hour if he left it alone. Instead, he ended its whimpers with a two-handed thrust from his bayonet.


    Wiping the blade clean, he spotted an insignia on the dog¡¯s collar. A rotated Wolfsangel, chosen perhaps for its similarity with the ? character.


    ¡°Schutzstaffel hounds,¡± he said to himself. ¡°Of Das Reich?¡± Perhaps they had his scent. Yet there seemed to be no soldiers following on the tracks of the dogs, which he couldn¡¯t explain. The dogs themselves were there to find him, wound him and slow him down, not kill him. Yet that would mean nothing if nobody was following the dogs to bring him back.


    Counting it as a stroke of luck, Karl pushed himself through the threatening storm towards what shelter he could find.


    Minutes later, despite keeping an eye on his compass, he couldn¡¯t be sure where he was or where he was going anymore. Visibility had fallen as the blizzard picked up to match anything he had seen before in the Alpen. He had no idea what the temperature was, but when he scratched at the edges of his beard he could feel the hairs frozen solid. His toes were aching in their boots, and he had no doubt that if he stayed out in the cold for much longer he may find himself with frostbite.


    However, moments ago he had spotted a glimmer of light and hope among the pale flurries. It was as little as a single spark, but to him it indicated a near-certain promise of warmth and safety.


    Growing closer, watching the patch of light flicker as it was hidden and revealed by undulations in the snowfall, he found himself running into an artificial wall. The light he could see was through the barest crack in the wall, a viewing slit not closed perfectly allowing a glimmer of illumination through.


    Moving around the wall he came to the front of the structure - some sort of house. A chain for a lock was hanging against the doorframe, but the door wasn¡¯t sealed. Someone was inside, perhaps a local family.


    He thought back to what Russian he knew, pulling up a few words. ¡°§£§á§å§ã§ä§Ú §Þ§Ö§ß§ñ? §¹§ä§à §Ü§ä§à-§ä§à §Ó§ß§å§ä§â§Ú.¡± (Can you let me in? I know there¡¯s someone inside.)


    There was no reply inside, although he could hear the crackle of a fire. Stomping around to keep warm, he tried German. ¡°§ß§Ö §â§å§ã§ã§Ü§Ú§Û? (You don¡¯t speak Russian?) Hello, can I ask who¡¯s inside?¡±


    Something groaned inside, perhaps a floorboard or perhaps just the roof settling with the snow on top. Karl reached for his pistol.


    ¡°Hello?¡± he tried again. He heard a clatter inside, then a thud. After a moment¡¯s deliberation, he stepped against the doorframe and pushed the door open.


    After a moment¡¯s resistance it gave way, giving him a view of one side of the room. It was sparsely lit, the flickering of a fire casting monstrous shadows along the walls.


    However, his view was obscured by a flood of thick smoke, pouring out the doorway at head height. Coughing, he reeled a step backwards, letting the smoke clear out before he poked his head around the corner to check the contents of the room.


    The source of the smoke was a fire in the corner. It was burning through its fuel with ardour, coughing up a steady stream of smoke into the air of the hut.


    The only occupant was an insensate Russian soldier, walking wounded from what Karl could see. His pistol had fallen next to his body, probably the clatter Karl had heard. A medkit was open on the floor next to him.


    Judging him as no threat for now, Karl strode over to the fire, bent double to stay below the fumes. He pulled the chains to open the flue. A small clump of snow fell onto the fire and sublimated in the pop and hiss hiss of steam.


    With the flue open to let the smoke escape, the air in the cabin started to clear up. Karl closed up the door and took stock of the space.


    It appeared to be no more than a rest space for a single person, with a small cot, a table and tiny kitchen area. Cupboards held some cans of food, and a few useful items and trophies, including a stuffed fox head, were scattered among the shelves.


    The next point of call were the Russian¡¯s wounds. Checking him over, he looked to have passed out from smoke inhalation - his wounds had bled, and he appeared to be in the early stages of frostbite, but there was nothing there that could threaten his life.


    He was wounded twice in his arm, one a small cut around his shoulder and the other a larger slice into his flesh with a large chip of wood embedded inside. Scattered around the wound were smaller cuts, probably from flying shrapnel or a fall against a sharp surface.


    Karl cut a patch from his jacket away from the wounds - with the holes in them the arm would have to be patched anyway, and it was warm enough in the cabin now not to have to worry about him freezing. Frozen blood spilled out of the Russian¡¯s glove and scattered onto the floor, melting into puddles.


    ¡°These Ivans, always so quick to kill themselves,¡± Karl muttered to himself.


    He grabbed a pot from a shelf and stepped outside with deft movements to fill it with snow. Within moments the water was melting over the fire and some rags were shredded to be boiled in it.


    He pulled the injector the Russian had been using away from his arm, tossing it away into a corner. Painkillers were missing from the medkit, so these had to be those. More minor injuries was the last thing he wanted to give this man right now.


    The already opened medikit provided a complete resource to deal with the injury. He scattered a few pinches of disinfectant powder into the wounds. The soldier didn¡¯t even stir in his sleep - either his rest was deeper than was healthy or the painkillers had kicked in.


    As the large piece of wood came free from the wound, a steady stream of blood followed it. Karl used a piece of cloth to mop most of it up, but it welled up once he was done soaking.


    A pair of tweezers extracted remaining fragments of wood from the wound, interspersed with the now blood sodden cloth. That was as far as Karl¡¯s medical knowledge would take him. Now it was time to seal the wound, and he didn¡¯t know how to stitch cuts.


    A hot poker, steeped in the fire, was a crude but effective solution. Karl tapped the soldier¡¯s shoulder with it until the bleeding slowed enough to be bandaged. He wanted to do minimal damage, but a few grunts of pain even through the painkillers were unavoidable. With the wound sealed, he wrung out the boiled cloths. Half were used to dab the wound clean and the other half to bandage it.


    He was no doctor, but he did what he could. The man would live. With no infections. Hopefully there were more dis


    The immediate issues out of the way, Karl had to figure out where he was going to have the soldier recuperate. He did want to sleep himself, but there was only one bed and he didn¡¯t fancy getting cosy. It wasn¡¯t quite that cold yet.


    Eventually, Karl gave up his right to the wounded. The other man was there first, after all. He padded up the soldier in the bed and covered him in blankets from the cabin, keeping his wounded arm free.


    He set up a spot for himself on the table near the fire, huddled in the blankets stolen from the truck. He kept one hand free to poke the fire, the block of wood he tossed in heating his face through to the depths of his soul.


    He let himself slip into a half sleep, ready to jump up should the Russian awake before him. He doubted it based on his wounds, but it always paid to be prepared.


    The storm may rage outside, his men may be a hundred kilometres away. But he was free and he was alive. He had survived until today. God wills, he would live until tomorrow. And who knew what tomorrow would bring.


    ¡°When your woman invites her friends


    To gossip about you


    Open the gas tap fast


    Then she''ll pass out.¡±


    - Alternate extract from a German folk song

 Chapter 5 - Oryl Denikin, Volga River

    Volga River, Tver Oblast.


    5th December 1941, 7:52 a.m.


    Border of German and Russian territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°At noon, our bravery¡¯s diminished;


    We have been tossed and more afraid


    Of slopes, steep, and ravines, peevish,


    And cry, ¡®Be easier, you, brat!¡¯¡±


    - Extract from a Russian poem


    Light crept into the cabin from a few angles. The two slits in the wall were not perfectly closed, and a beam shone through each of them. A crack also shone through the front door.


    The fire had died down to embers, but the burning charcoal still spread warmth through the hut to combat the invasive chill.


    Oryl crept his eyes open, hair by hair. He could feel a numbing pain in his arm, meaning the painkillers had run through his system. But he could also feel tight cloth rub against the wound when he shifted. That meant that it had been bound or otherwise covered. He was laying on the cot in the cabin and had clearly been moved there the previous night.


    The interior of the cabin was black, with a few tendrils of light beginning to pry away at the mass of darkness. He could make out the walls, the fire and could feel a faint breath of air on his neck from the doorway behind him.


    He could also see the outline of a human shape, sitting rugged up on the table and staring into the fire.


    Looking around, moving his head slowly so as to not rustle the blankets, he spotted some of his belongings, including his weapons, laid out on a stool by the bedstead. He reached out one hand from his cocoon and picked the pistol off the nightstand, again taking care not to scrape it against the wood. He brought it to his chest, ready to point against the figure in the dark.


    ¡°I see you are woken,¡± the figure said in broken Russian with a light accent. He stirred the embers with a poker, causing a glow of light to colour his face. Oryl couldn¡¯t see his face, but he could tell that he was bearded. ¡°Please don¡¯t try to shoot me. Be glad you¡¯re waking up this morning.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Oryl asked.


    The figure tossed a fresh block of wood on the fire instead of responding. The piece was enveloped by the hungry flames, using its fuel to combat the chill in the air.


    ¡°My name is Karl.¡± He turned to face Oryl, the fresh firelight flowing from nose to cheekbone and laying sheets of shadow across the space in between. The light revealed him - the eagle on his breast, the patches on his shoulders and cloth around his body - as a German officer.


    Oryl raised his gun.


    ¡°I would not leave you with bullets in your guns.¡±


    Oryl put the gun down, reluctant to give up his sole power over this man but knowing it was meaningless to threaten him with an empty weapon.


    ¡°Besides. I helped you live. I would not kill you now.¡±


    ¡°Then what do you want?¡± Oryl asked.


    ¡°I wanted shelter, and you were here first. I helped you for the chance to stay here. But once the last of the storm is gone I will leave too.¡±


    Oryl nodded. That was good for him. He needed time to recuperate without an enemy officer here drawing attention.


    ¡°But before that I have questions for you,¡± Karl continued to ask. ¡°Who are you? Why are you here and who injured you?¡±


    Oryl held his tongue for a moment, thinking it through. Right now, information was his advantage. But more than he cared about that, right now, didn¡¯t he want to tell someone his story? Perhaps if he died alone in the snow, like his brothers had, this person would carry on the story for him like he had for then. And perhaps then none of them could truly die.


    ¡°Well?¡± Karl asked again. ¡°Not saying?¡±


    ¡°No. I¡¯ll tell you. My name is Oryl. I¡¯m a former citizen of Rzhev and volunteer to the 98th Rifle Division, part of the 22nd Army. I enlisted at Velikiye Luke months ago. I deserted after losing at Smolensk and tried to return home. But I found an occupation. My family were gone. I was chased out of town by German soldiers.¡±


    ¡°They injured you?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And I am here for the same reason you must be. Because I seek shelter and have nowhere else to go.¡±


    Karl nodded, sinking into introspection for a moment. ¡°Smolensk. What happened?¡±


    Oryl shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk about it.¡±


    ¡°I understand. Did the Germans chase you out of town?¡±


    ¡°Uh, yes. They came after me on halftracks, more than a squad of them.¡±


    ¡°They came on what?¡± Karl asked.


    ¡°A car with long rolling wheels.¡±


    ¡°Ah, der Sonderkraftfahrzeug.¡±


    ¡°If you say so.¡±


    Karl remained silent, then spoke again. ¡°Thank you. I don¡¯t need to know any more.¡±


    ¡°Then I have questions of my own,¡± Oryl said. ¡°Who are you? Not your name, but who are you?¡±


    ¡°I am Karl Tesdorpf, Hauptmann in the 30. Infanterie-Division. I come from L¨¹beck. I was in Demjansk with my soldiers but was brought down here to complete a mission. But I can not tell the local German soldiers about my mission so I am with no help for now.¡±


    Oryl nodded to him. ¡°So who are you really? And why were those Germans after you? Is that even your real name?¡±


    Karl did a double take, spotting the glint in Oryl¡¯s eye. ¡°I see. I am sorry for not telling the truth. Yes, that is my real name and position. But I was not brought here for a mission. I was taken here by the Schutzstaffel because of my family. I escaped capture and killed other soldiers. So they came after me.¡±


    ¡°And what do your family have to do with these¡­ schutstyaffel?¡±


    Karl smiled at the mangled word. ¡°Back home, Germans are doing the same thing here. They are bringing workers into Germany from Poland and other places. They are treated like the Russians here, not well. My family helps some of them. Lets them escape. The Schutzstaffel and police, they think my family are connected with the Resistance, so they come after them. But we are an old family, with many allies. So they come after us where our friends cannot help us. That is me here in Russia.¡±


    Oryl moved his head closer. ¡°So your family are like the old Russian nobles and the Schutzstaffel are like the communists?¡±


    Karl thought about the comparison for a moment. ¡°Yes, that is right. Although the reason is different.¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°Then I understand your fight. You are like castaway nobility, fleeing from the new world. We have stories about these things.¡±


    But Karl shook his head. ¡°I am no¡­ what did you say? Castaway nobility. I am a soldier, as my father before me was. I am not back home. I turned away from what happens back home until the Schutzstaffel made me care.¡±


    Oryl sank back into his blankets. ¡°I see now. But I don¡¯t understand why you saved me then. If you don¡¯t care what happens to the people you conquer, why save an enemy soldier?¡±


    Karl shook his head, driving back Oryl¡¯s doubt. ¡°I fight for my fatherland. What threat do you pose to it? I fight to win, not to kill enemies. At that time, you were not my enemy, so I did not have to fight you. Russia may not have signed die Genfer Konvention, but that does not mean I cannot follow it.¡±


    Oryl cocked his head at the unfamiliar word but passed on nonetheless. ¡°So what is your next move then, servant of your fatherland? Keep fighting? Save more Russian soldiers? Kill more Germans? What is it you are actually doing for your fatherland?¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.Karl froze for a second, giving the question proper consideration. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said, a simple but effective answer. ¡°I don¡¯t know. For now, I will survive, and then see what is next.¡±


    Oryl grinned, but it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ¡°So you are like me then, eh? A survivor? And where are you planning to survive?¡±


    ¡°I have a storehouse,¡± Karl said. Oryl¡¯s eyes lit up but he tried to hide it. ¡°If I get there, I can survive the worst of winter and then decide what to do.¡±


    ¡°And where is this storehouse?¡±


    ¡°Behind German lines, up North and West. The town is easy to get to, but not the place.¡±


    ¡°What is the problem?¡±


    Karl spread his arms, the poker held out to the side. He had come the whole way around to face Oryl now, the fire burning away forgotten. ¡°I didn¡¯t make the storehouse and I do not remember where it is.¡±


    Oryl slumped back in regret. ¡°So how are we supposed to find it?¡±


    Karl smiled at him. ¡°We are supposed?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I mean¡­ I need some way to stay alive. And this is the only plan I¡¯ve had since I left Rzhev.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°It will help me, in fact. The map was with my men. There is but a problem. The Schutzstaffel must have took it with them when they took me. It will be with my other items in Peno.¡±


    Oryl shook his head. ¡°Peno is a long way from here in the cold.¡±


    ¡°It is. But it is shorter than our rations will last for. And that is shorter than how long we would be stuck here.¡±


    ¡°So how can we get this map out of Peno?¡±


    ¡°I will think of that on the way.¡±


    The pair lapsed into silence for some time. Karl must have been thinking through his plan, and Oryl thought through what he had been told. If he was honest with himself, it was the only suggestion he had heard so far that gave him a chance of victory. He couldn¡¯t return to a life in Russia after deserting. Nor could he hope to last for long across the border without the help of a German like Karl. And this one seemed like he could be influential.


    The key point that struck Oryl was how long Karl had evaded capture for, hinting at his connections. Poland had been conquered more than a year ago, and it was only now that his family¡¯s actions had caught up to him. If he made a good enough impression, he could get out of this with friends in the German army.


    And even if he didn¡¯t, well, there was still that cache of supplies for the winter. With that, who knew what he could manage to do?


    He didn¡¯t like his chances of dealing with these SS people, but he may have to deal with them anyway as a Russian in Nazi occupied lands.


    Oryl nodded to Karl as Karl looked up himself. The German got the first word in. ¡°I have an idea of what we could try,¡± he said. ¡°Or more a weakness. If I am correct, we can get in and out of Peno without fuss.¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°I have also decided,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll come with you. There is nothing left for me in Russia, with my family gone. I will follow you for now, and see where your path leads until I need to find my own.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll make sure you won¡¯t regret following me.¡± He stood and opened the two vision slats another inch, finally letting light fill the inside of the cabin but also allowing purchase to a gust of cold air.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Oryl said. ¡°I¡¯m anticipating it. But hey! Watch the cold! I¡¯m wounded here!¡±


    Instead of replying, Karl dropped another block of wood on the fire and the temperature stabilised.


    From there the cabin devolved into the rigour daily activities. Karl stepped into the dregs of the storm to chop wood and gather snow for water. Oryl managed to drag himself free of the blankets and cooked some of the canned food, a simple meal of bean stew with tinned pineapple juice warmed over the fire.


    They ate in silence, Karl watching the other man while Oryl, not concerned, scarfed down the food to abate his hunger and raced for seconds.


    However, before Karl noticed it, the food had broken down his barriers and he was also pouring a second round into his bowl, scraping against the bottom of the tin.


    ¡°This is better than any ration I¡¯ve ever eaten,¡± he said. ¡°Do you Soviets normally eat like this?¡±


    Oryl laughed, a cross between a normal laugh and a hysterical one but still the first time he had seen or heard something funny in a long time. Once he quieted down he finally managed to reply. ¡°No. Definitely not. Making rations edible makes for good cooking practice though.¡±


    ¡°I take it there¡¯s lots of finding food involved?¡± Karl asked.


    ¡°Naturally. From the land and the people of the land. Some are happy to donate to the troops. Others are less so, both the animals and the people.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°It is good though. If you cooked me this back in L¨¹beck, I might even eat it.¡±


    ¡°The food back home is always better in memories,¡± Oryl said. ¡°I found a loaf of bread at home when I went back, the sort I used to eat as a child. When I tried it this time, it tasted terrible.¡±


    That drove Karl to silence for a minute. But as he finished his meal, he realised that something had changed.


    ¡°There¡¯s no snow falling anymore,¡± he said.


    Oryl listened to the wind and the flutter over the snowbanks. ¡°I can¡¯t hear over the fire. Aren¡¯t us young people supposed to have better hearing?¡±


    Karl pushed open the door. The wind was still blowing, but the grey skies had begun to lighten. ¡°The storm is over.¡±


    ¡°So what does that mean for us?¡± Oryl asked. ¡°I don¡¯t want to push myself through the snow in this condition. I am better than last night, but I don¡¯t want to go out and pass out again.¡±


    Karl snorted. ¡°You didn¡¯t pass out from your wounds. It was smoke in the air. Nothing was going up the chimney, it was all sitting in here.¡±


    Oryl sat there for a short moment. ¡°Oh. Then yes, I suppose it can¡¯t be that bad.¡± He smirked. ¡°Just be prepared to carry me if I get tired.¡±


    Karl grunted. ¡°Don¡¯t eat so much then. If you get meat on that skeleton you might weigh heavy for me.¡±


    ¡°How far is it to Peno?¡± Oryl asked.


    ¡°Are you not the one who lives here?¡± Karl asked. ¡°I think one hundred kilometres, but I don¡¯t know where we are.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never walked there,¡± Oryl said. ¡°I¡¯ve never even been there to be correct, only Ostashkov.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to go to Ostashkov,¡± Karl said. ¡°That is Russian territory.¡±


    ¡°Either way, it will take at least two days to get there,¡± Oryl said. ¡°More if we go through the snow.¡±


    Karl pulled out a pair of snowshoes. ¡°There are more of these somewhere here. How long will it take with these?¡±


    Oryl thought. ¡°At least two days, maybe three or four. Two is if we trek from dawn to dusk and go faster than I think I can be.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°A question. How did you survive away from home in winter until now?¡±


    Oryl thought on it. ¡°It wasn¡¯t as cold as it is now. But I found barns and other houses to sleep in. If you stay around the roads, there are often deserted homes around. But there is no straight road to Peno.¡±


    ¡°So what about,¡± Karl asked, ¡°We don¡¯t go straight to Peno and rest along the way? If we cross to Russian land, there should be a road in the right direction. We can rest near that. From there we go to German territory and on to Peno.¡±


    Oryl thought the plan through. ¡°We would take at least a day and a half. But it could work.¡±


    ¡°Then it¡¯s done,¡± Karl said. ¡°But we need to leave now. The sun was up for some time. I don¡¯t want to wait for tomorrow. The longer time we take, the longer time they have to prepare.¡±


    Oryl agreed by swinging off the cot. The two gathered their own gear and what provisions from the cabin they could safely carry into sacks. A shame there were no backpacks or other strapped bags in the cabin for them to carry equipment. Oryl tied his torn jacket back together with cloth ripped from Karl¡¯s padded rag, pouring tar on the joints to seal it.


    Oryl slung his bag over his uninjured shoulder. Karl tied his own around his neck. Strapping snowshoes over their own boots, they prepared to step outside.


    ¡°One thing left,¡± Oryl said. ¡°If you have a white shirt, wear it on top of your coat. It will hide us in the snow.¡±


    Seeing the sense in the suggestion, Karl did as he said. Laden with gear, the fire doused, the two prepared to step outside.


    The ground through the door was laden with a blanket of fresh snow. Perhaps a ruler¡¯s height had fallen since the previous morning, a considerable amount for the Russian forests. For the moment, it was unmarked, with a scattered spot of green here and there where bristles had fallen from the pine trees in the wind, or disruption in the flat surface where a clot of snow or ice had fallen from their perch on the leaves. A fine dusting of powder scattered around, dancing in undulating patterns over the almost even surface.


    Karl and Oryl stepped outside, their tread falling lightly upon the snow. Hope lifted in Oryl¡¯s heart, but also fear. For a short moment he had felt safe, had more than anything been safe, and now he was willingly placing himself back in the reach of danger. But, as he reminded himself, risks were necessary for survival. One step at a time, he needed to move.

 Chapter 6 - Karl Tesdorpf, Peno

    Peno, Eastern Front.


    8th December 1941, 3:25 p.m.


    German territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°Both Kaiser and Reich hear not our cause, Heia Ho


    We shall be our own court of law, Heia Ho...


    The same lawbook for every man, Heia Ho


    From the Prince down to the farmer-man, Heia Ho¡±


    - Extract from a German folk song


    Karl Tesdorpf glanced over the outskirts of Peno. Situated around a broadening of the Volga River, large enough to be called a lake, the town of Peno was built surrounding and across a peninsula into the river. The shape was too unusual to be natural, but given the age of the architecture in Peno, or that which had not been destroyed, it looked to Karl as if it was just an unexpected coincidence.


    The town was an important route over this part of the Volga and a highway into Ostashkov, which was situated some thirty kilometres distant behind Russian lines. Even without that, Karl could see the importance the Army placed on it based on the defences surrounding it. The barrels of anti-aircraft guns peeked over the crenellations on a pair of towers that had stood as long as many German cities. Houses in the outskirts of town had been excavated and their material rebuilt into trenches and redoubts to resist bombardment. Shattered roofs and cratered walls indicated prior attacks, although which side had done the damage Karl couldn¡¯t tell.


    Checking over at Oryl beside him, borrowing Karl¡¯s pair of field glasses, he was impressed, although he wouldn¡¯t tell Karl that. The Russian had displayed unanticipated endurance in the march, pushing ahead of Karl at points through the snow. It wasn¡¯t unsurprising that he had survived to this point, although he did seem hesitant to take the lead in their march. There was likely some past issue interfering there but given the man¡¯s reticence to share, Karl didn¡¯t want to press further.


    They had run into some trouble finding shelter on the first day, Oryl managing to find one of the few barns that were still occupied, but some hurried Russian from the pair of them, mainly Oryl, and the offer of some food had managed to convince the skeptical farmer that they weren¡¯t going to kill him and allow them a safe sleep in a detached space in his barn. It had been cold, but with blankets and hay they had survived the night.


    Now, late in the day on the 8th, they were overlooking the Western side of Peno. Specifically, their sights were set on the road heading into it from German territory. There was a checkpoint outside of town watching for incoming vehicles - a key point in Karl¡¯s plan, which he was narrating to Oryl.


    ¡°So the biggest part is that they wouldn¡¯t have told their troops about me. Most people wouldn¡¯t know information like that. So if I show up brazenly, they won¡¯t anticipate it.¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°Why not make it look like a Russian attack? I can shoot at you if you want it to be more convincing.¡± He shouldered his rifle with his good arm, his grin a little too eager for Karl¡¯s liking.


    ¡°No. That will make them worry about a breach in the lines and investigate. If it¡¯s natural, they won¡¯t look as far into it.¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°I don¡¯t like this plan, but I do like that you¡¯re the one doing it instead of me. Are you ready to head out?¡±


    Karl shook the snow off of his outer jacket, now outside his undershirt as it should be, and nodded. ¡°Until I next see you. All going well, I should come back down this same road with everything we need.¡± He passed his bag to Oryl, who heaved it onto his good shoulder with his own pack.


    With their plan set and everything set up as well as it could be, Karl strode into view of the checkpoint and brazenly ahead, labouring through the snow in his boots. He new that behind him Oryl would be staying out of sight and getting to somewhere safe. He had the rest of the day to get out, before the Russian left to find shelter.


    The soldiers manning the checkpoint were bored as expected, lazy eyes scanning the horizon for vehicles moving out of the woods. They didn¡¯t see Karl until he was within earshot, at which point they scrambled for weapons. At least they didn¡¯t sound an alarm in panic.


    Karl bent over once he reached the road, coughing. It wasn¡¯t forced either. The long march from Rzhev had truly sapped his strength, and he was hoping for an easy ride out of here. But for that to happen he needed to do a proper job here and now.


    He came up the the checkpoint and saluted the soldiers, who snapped a surprised gesture in response. ¡°Sir?¡± one of them managed.


    Karl eyed them down. A young private and a grizzled old corporal, the two left together to learn the ropes and temper each other. ¡°Soldaten,¡± he asked. ¡°Is this town Peno?¡± His mother tongue felt smooth to his lips after all the Russian he had been speaking.


    That snapped them from their reverie, at least. ¡°Indeed it is,¡± the corporal managed. ¡°Can I ask your name and unit?¡±


    Karl gave him a half-hearted officer stare. ¡°Hauptmann Karl Tesdorpf. Of the 30th Infanterie-Division, stationed in Demyansk. Has Untersturmf¨¹hrer Braun not returned? I was travelling with him from Rshev when we crashed and were separated in the storm.¡±


    The two glanced at each other. ¡°No, but we have been expecting him back. We will bring your report to the Sturmbannf¨¹hrer. If he has not returned already, there is little that a search party could do.¡±


    Karl¡¯s pulse of relief was followed by a moment of concern. Holger¡¯s death being reported was good for him. It was the one thing that regular soldiers might have heard about that could blow open his story, but thankfully the news had not yet been spread. Perhaps the SS superiors were still deciding how to spin the story.


    The concern was due to the presence of such a superior SS officer. Karl had been under the impression that there were very few SS located in Peno, but apparently some of their command elements were.


    ¡°In the meantime,¡± Karl asked, ¡°I believe that the Untersturmf¨¹hrer had been holding my effects for me while I was away from my unit. Might I be able to visit his offices and get those reclaimed?¡±


    The corporal nodded. ¡°Certainly. If you have a word with his assistant you can discuss the matter.¡±


    ¡°Then gentlemen, shall we set off? I am eager to warm my bones and get some proper food.¡±


    The two soldiers eyed each other, sending silent threats at each other through their glares. Finally the private gave in to the older corporal, accepting charge of Karl. ¡°This way, sir,¡± he said, stepping out of the guardhouse. ¡°I¡¯ll bring you to the Hauptmann in charge of the watch.¡±


    Following behind the soldier, Karl kept his eyes out for anything that might be useful. He noted few soldiers outside, and the few that were looked tired and hungry. Supply lines must be stretched to breaking.


    The damage to the town wasn¡¯t as extensive as it appeared from the outside. More intact buildings could be found the closer one got to the centre, culminating in the old town hall and church, the centre of German administration. Beyond that was the rail station, which the Germans had left intact but which was only connected to a severed line further West.


    The town hall was an ancient building built in the shape of a U, one wing adorned in scaffolding. A dome on top of the centre was currently adorned with the pale results of the recent storm, as were the rest of the roofs, but a few patches of red brick tiles shone through to complement to carved grey stonework making up the rest of the building.


    Karl was led to a windowless office in the town hall while the soldier, private Durnoff, spoke to his superiors. He didn¡¯t hear what the two had to say to each other, but the soldier did look relieved when he returned. Karl¡¯s guess was that the other captain was also not a fan of Holger and hadn¡¯t chewed out the soldier for the news. Feuds between the Army and the SS were often churning just beneath the surface.


    The soldier brought him to a waiting room with two chairs. He took one, the private who had come in with him taking the other.


    They were joined after a short minute by an SS section leader, out of breath as if he had run there. He burst into the room with a question. ¡°You say you were in a crash with the Untersturmf¨¹hrer? And he went missing afterwards?¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°I take it you are one of his men?¡±


    The soldier took a moment to slow down. ¡°Yes, hauptmann. My apologies, but the Sturmbannf¨¹hrer has not returned from an inspection of the front lines. You will not be able to report to him until he returns.¡±


    Karl scowled, hiding his relief behind a facade of annoyance. He wouldn¡¯t have to talk his way through the questions of a clued in SS officer. ¡°What do I do about my belongings, then?¡±


    The section leader hesitated. ¡°I believe we were holding them until your matter was resolved. Did the Untersturmf¨¹hrer speak to you about it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and I have agreed to assist, which is why I was travelling here. Why, did Holger not inform you? Scharf¨¹hrer¡­ Bering?¡±


    The section leader shook his head, hesitant to respond. Karl seized the opportunity. ¡°In that case, I believe you should take that request up with the Sturmbannf¨¹hrer. It isn¡¯t my place to say what information can and can¡¯t be shared - working so closely with Holger you certainly understand. In the meantime, could I ask for my effects? I have sat in these clothes for more than a week, and I believe they are due for a change.¡±


    The section leader considered his position. ¡°I suppose that is acceptable. Very well, Hauptmann. If you wait I shall retrieve your belongings for you, along with a list of what was seized.¡±


    Karl settled back. He had won. ¡°Might I ask for somewhere to wait for the Sturmbannf¨¹hrer¡¯s return? How long do you expect he will be?¡±


    ¡°Within the hour, perhaps. I believe, private, your troops sent word to him? He should be on his way back.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°Then I shall await his return. And what about the quarters?¡±


    ¡°That shall be arranged,¡± Bering said. ¡°If you wait in the Untersturmf¨¹hrer¡¯s offices upstairs, I believe that will be acceptable.¡±


    Karl graciously accepted and was led upstairs again. After a few minutes his belongings were brought in by privates and left for him to check over. He set to the task with glee, and not a little haste.


    The soldiers had mistook some of his effects as army issue gear, in particular a canteen and mess tin he had received from his brother, but most of his equipment was here. He loaded it all into his standard issue pack, ready to move out. He confirmed the map of Cholm was there and secure. It was what he came for after all.


    A glance across the office indicated it had been stripped. Perhaps that indicated they had known that Holger was already dead, or perhaps that meant that there was information here they didn¡¯t want out of sight. Karl flicked through a few drawers but found nothing but blank paper, which he happily pocketed for his own purposes. No sense leaving the good stuff for the SS.


    With a glance around the room, he had everything he needed. All that was left was to get out of the town and away from the SS.


    The private outside the door put that option out. He was in the army¡¯s and some of the Wehrmact¡¯s trust for now, but that one private wouldn¡¯t stand for him against a Major, nor could he ask him to. He wouldn¡¯t ask it of his own men.


    Glancing around the walls and roof, he could see no other obvious exits unless he made a lot of noise making one. That left the conspicuous option, which he didn¡¯t want to take but may be forced to.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Peering out the window, it looked over a vehicle depot and impromptu stables. There were only a handful of horses present, the rest he imagined fallen to the savage winter. But there were plenty of motor vehicles and not many people minding them, so it wasn¡¯t the worst option for an escape.


    That said, unless they had been warmed up there was no sense in trying to take them, as they wouldn¡¯t start anyway. There would be heaters sitting in the guard posts but it would take some serious deception to get access to those.


    First things first, Karl removed his officer cap and the extra padding he had added around his ears and took out the stahlhelm he wore into battle to replace it. The cap made him too conspicuous, and with the helm at least he could pass a distant inspection as a regular soldier. He also took the chance to


    He considered stealing the uniform from the guard outside his door, or knocking him out and walking out another way, but it was too risky with the number of soldiers inside the town hall.


    Glancing through the window, he tried to spot a vehicle that he could safely steal. As he looked out, he spotted a motorcade passing by the gatehouse and approaching the parking bays squashed between the body and two wings of the building. Two motorcycles ridden by German troops escorted a black, full roofed Volkswagen with all the windows closed.


    Karl stepped against the wall away from the window to reduce his silhouette from the carpark. The sparse leaves in the tree outside hid the rest of his silhouette. He gazed down upon the approaching vehicles, unsure about what to expect. Perhaps this was the return of the Sturmbannf¨¹hrer.


    As the cars pulled up, however, the occupants turned out not to be military men. Two men in grey civilian clothes, trench coats and stiff, almost ironed hats, strode from the car. A pair of soldiers from the town hall hurried to meet them and close the doors behind them, bowing their heads in respect.


    Karl kept his eyes on them. He had an inkling who they were, throwing their arms around and complaining about the Russian cold. He had seen their like around L¨¹beck before he had set off to war, chasing down civilians and making families disappear.


    The question was what the Secret State Police were doing in Russia, and whether it had anything to do with him. As one of the policemen paused in his discussion with the soldier to stare up at the room that Karl was currently in, the latter suspicion was ratified.


    The four men walked inside, barking some orders to the soldiers accompanying them. They turned their engines back on and stood around the gateway at the front of the lot, awaiting the return of their charges. The car likewise sat with its engine idling, the driver still inside. The group must have been wanting to make a quick turnaround.


    Karl had to be quick, as the secret police would be upstairs within minutes if they came to speak with him. He heaved the window open, gusting cold air into the office. A leap into the tree later, and he was on a natural ladder down to ground level, hands grasping at branches as he stepped down the back of the tree.


    As he reached the bottom the brancher grew thinner, so he dropped the last metre, bending his legs to absorb the impact and the noise.


    The two motorcyclists were wandering around the lot, doing their best to stretch their legs after what Karl could only assume had been a long ride. There was a soldier watching the approaching road from the gatehouse, but his attention was in the other direction so Karl didn¡¯t need to worry about him. The driver inside his car was hidden behind the windows, so it was difficult to tell where he was looking, and there was also the threat of being spotted from any of the windows surrounding the courtyard.


    Altogether, it was not going to be easy to get out without being noticed. He doubted he would be recognised by the escorts, but he had no idea who the driver might be or what sort of knowledge he might be privy to.


    He snuck around the outside of the courtyard, hiding behind cars and staying out of sight of the driver, into a position behind the stables. There, he took out one of the pieces of paper he had borrowed from the offices he had just left. He then flicked a lighter he had pulled from his personal effects.


    Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing happened. Shaking around the lighter, it was still liquid but he realised again just how cold it was. If he left this lighter out in the snow it might freeze, so of course it would be harder to get the energy necessary to set it alight.


    He shook the lighter around, hoping it still held enough warmth from where it was held inside. Once he tried to flick it again, he was awarded with a flickering tongue of heat.


    Holding the paper to the lighter, he waited for a handful of seconds until it caught. Not satisfied that the fire wouldn¡¯t die out, he moved the lighter around the area for a few moments until the paper was well and truly alight. It would not burn for long, but burn it would. Then he dropped the paper in an open window of the stable, making sure it landed near one of the horses.


    He snuck back around to the other side of the parked vehicles and finished in the shadow of a cart. He checked the window he had left open back above him, expecting something to come out of it any moment now.


    A whinny from the stable was followed by a crash, and then the sound of hooves on stone. The other four people in the lot looked over. Karl started to move out of cover towards the parked motorcycles.


    The guard by the gate and the two escorts stepped towards the stable, one of the escorts reaching for his weapons. Another distressed whinny came out - perhaps the fire had died. Too early for Karl.


    He stepped out of cover and strode towards one of the parked motorcycles. He swung his leg over it, pulled on a pair of goggles and gunned the engine. Then all hell broke loose.


    A shout of outrage came from the upper floor as someone spotted the open window. The two escorts heaved opened the double doors to the stable, coming face to face with a distressed mare prancing around inside. The gate guard span and saw Karl pull away from the other vehicles, straight towards him.


    The guard dove to the side and Karl roared over the spot he had been standing seconds ago, passing the gate from behind the gatehouse. In another vehicle he would have had to wait or smash through, but the motorbike gave him enough mobility to squeeze through against the wall before ending up back on the road.


    Hearing the roar of an engine behind him, the armed escort turned around and drew his pistol. He managed to chew through two shots but both went wide into the wall of the town hall. Lucky for whoever was on the other side, the thick stonework blocked the bullets.


    And then Karl was away, around a corner and out of their range. He left behind the two escorts scrambling to right their other motorbike which Karl had knocked over and the driver, who had made it out of his car at the last second, shouting at the two on the top level.


    Karl grinned beneath his wind goggles despite the icy wind threatening to tear the flesh from his gums. He was off, just another officer on a joyride as the unlucky soldiers truding along the side of the road wished they could be in his position. His smile went dark again when he thought about the side of his position they didn¡¯t see.


    At least he hadn¡¯t had to kill anyone this time.


    That relief was drawn short as he heard another engine behind him, further back into town. The escorts were on his trail.


    He made a left towards the outskirts of town, back to the road he had first come out from. The engine sounds faded for some time, but as he reached the outskirts of town they came back again stronger.


    He blew past the checkpoint in the gap, cutting a short path between the two layers of sandbags across the road and surprising the corporal he had left behind a short hour ago. The soldier stood there, uncertain whether to shoot or let him pass, until the next motorcycle blew through, this time carrying three people.


    Karl rode some time out of town, stopping at the crest of a hill and idling his motor waiting for the escorts to catch up. The did so, some fifty metres away from him. Shouting distance.


    He got off the bike and they did the same, hands near their weapons. He held his own out in a gesture of peace. ¡°Let us talk! I don¡¯t want there to be any violence. That is not why I stopped here. We are all Germans here, we can talk this out previously.¡±


    One of the two stepped forwards. ¡°You are Hauptmann Tesdorpf, are you not?¡±


    Karl held his thoughts for a second, before deciding to reply. ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°Then we must bring you in to stand trial for your crimes against other German soldiers.¡±


    And at once, Karl realised who they were. Field policemen. ¡°And what defence am I able to give?¡±


    ¡°Any that is reasonable,¡± the other called out. ¡°Or that would be the plan. But for now, that is not our job.¡±


    Karl frowned. ¡°And what is your job then?¡±


    ¡°Right now, to find you. Which we have done. You could not go far on such an empty tank after all.¡±


    The two returned to their motorbike, the second calling out again. ¡°We will be nearby. I hope for your sake we will not be needed.¡±


    As they increased their distance, Karl turned to the black car rolling up the hill. It stopped nearby and the three occupants disembarked, their footing unstable on the icy ground without proper boots.


    ¡°Mr Tesdorpf,¡± one of the two from the back called out. A scar stretched from his chin to his lower lip, giving one side of his mouth a snarl. ¡°You can¡¯t run far from us.¡±


    ¡°Not that I know who you are,¡± Karl countered, anticipating a monologue. If he bought time, he might be able to get out of this. Plus the longer they spent in the cold, the more uncomfortable they would be.


    ¡°Perhaps not. But we know you and your family quite well. A shame they don¡¯t respect the regime like you have, and you as a loyal citizen were corrupted and now have to suffer on all your behalfs.¡±


    Karl glanced at each of them, taking in their characteristics. Close cropped hair, pressed uniforms. Poor imitations of soldiers, and ill prepared for the cold to match. ¡°And how do you propose I suffer?¡±


    The three glanced at each other. ¡°We suggest you redeem the dishonour you have brought through service to the fatherland. Time in a forced labour camp, perhaps. Or service to the Party in some other form. Disciplining the rest of your family and devotion to the cause could also redeem you.¡±


    ¡°And what if I decline?¡± Karl asked, squinting at a reflected glint in the corner of his eye. He eyed the three of them, watching their eyes. Two of them stared at the third, the one with the glasses. He had been the driver. And as his eyes narrowed Karl knew he had made his decision.


    The three Gestapo reached for their weapons at the same time he did, although he managed to draw first. His gun was out and pointing at them as the three police let out gasps of pain, clutching their hands and the guns in them. He fired three bullets, a report of their death in triplicate. One shot fired after the other, each one hitting their mark. Three bodies lay on the icy road as the echoes faded away.


    ¡°Never,¡± said Karl as their pained grunts and gasps started to die away, ¡°Touch metal with bare flesh in these temperatures. They will freeze together on contact. Wear gloves at all times.¡± Instead of taunting them further, he hurried to the motorcycle to check the fuel. As the field police had said, the fuel was almost out. There was no way he would be able to take it to Cholm.


    A click by his ear made him freeze. One of the Gestapo, ignoring his fatal wound, had dragged himself back to his feet and walked over in complete silence. Karl had to admire his willpower, as much as the blood ran backwards through his veins in trepidation. He could see the man¡¯s gritted teeth turning down his scar even further through the corner of his eyes.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare lecture me, angepisst Verr?ter,¡± the officer said, holding his hand and gun just out of Karl¡¯s reach. Karl¡¯s breath came thick and fast, his mind spinning in circles while trying to resolve himself to the imminent threat to his life. ¡°You will die alone, and nobody will mourn¡­¡±


    The rifle shot took out the officer¡¯s shoulder, his arm dangling loosely as the tendons holding it up snapped. The second shot took him in the chest, throwing him back on the ground motionless and cooling in the winter air.


    Karl looked around, easing the trembles from his hands. It was never a healthy experience to be so close to death, even with comrades backing him up. He turned and nodded to Oryl in the trees.


    The field policemen, watching from a distance, turned and started to drive back to town.


    ¡°We ran out of petrol, so the Gestapo went on without us,¡± one called. ¡°It¡¯s a shame the Staatspolizei were the ones with the spare can of petrol in the back of their car.¡±


    ¡°Weren¡¯t you going to arrest me?¡± Karl asked, feeling the question worth tempting fate. He glanced over the dead secret police. Six now had died at his hands. He made sure to remember their faces. He would do that much for them at least.


    The field police didn¡¯t respond. Looking back to the road, Karl saw that they had headed back into Peno.


    ¡°Thank you for you assistance back there,¡± Karl called to Oryl, switching back to Russian as the other man stepped out of the trees to the side of the road. ¡°I couldn¡¯t have done it without you.¡± Oryl nodded, and Karl continued. ¡°Help me get this vehicle ready to go. Fuel is in the back of the car. If we take it we can be in Cholm by tomorrow.¡±


    Karl bent down to the three bodies, searching through them. He found exactly what he was looking for. In the breast pocket of each of the bodies was a metal disk on the end of a chain. One side was emblazoned with a Reichsadler, an eagle holding an oak lef and a swastika. The other side was marked with the words - Geheime Staatspolizei, and a four-digit number. The Gestapo warrant, and most importantly one that didn¡¯t identify the agent¡¯s name and face, just their number.


    ¡°Perfect,¡± he muttered to himself.


    Meanwhile, as Oryl stepped over to work on heaving the can of oil out of the car and emptying the chilled material into the motorbike¡¯s tank, he muttered something off to the side, too quiet for Karl to hear. ¡°No. I am the one who should thank you.¡±

 Chapter 7 - Karl Tesdorpf, Kholm

    Outskirts of Cholm, Eastern Front.


    9th December 1941, 9:18 a.m.


    German territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°Eventide falls again


    Over forest and field


    Peace is rustling down


    And the world''s at rest¡±


    - Extract from a German folk song


    The tarpaulin covering the motorbike peered above its shield of snow, its sharp edges standing out against the natural backdrop. Already, however, the scattering of flakes they brushed over the tarpaulin and piled against its sides began to hide its silhouette, and as Karl walked away he noted how well it blended into the background to the unobservant eye.


    "That will keep our back clear," he said to Oryl.


    "Or show them exactly where we are," Oryl said. "We could have dumped it further out away from town where nobody would have any chance of finding it."


    Karl didn''t dispute the point, but even if Oryl was correct he didn''t want to walk the whole distance to his safehouse from the wilderness outside Cholm. He had done enough walking between Rshev and Peno.


    They had decided to hide the bike before hitting a checkpoint on the outskirts of Cholm. A motorcycle ridden by a German officer and a dirty Russian soldier would arouse too much suspicion. That and it was starting to run dry on fuel, the extra that had been donated by the policemen run dry bringing them here.


    Now that they were into the fields, the checkpoint that they had decided to avoid was a hundred odd metres off beyond the frozen fields to the south. They were cutting past the side of the checkpoint at an angle, making best use of the curves in the road to hide their approach until they were on top of town.


    The next step was to head around to the other side of Peno where his storehouse was located. Checking the map, it was within a twenty minute walk through the fields from their current location, but that distance would be more than doubled by circumnavigating the town. The terrain here was also more open fields, as opposed to the forests from the lumber and hunting settlements in Rshev and Peno. Avoiding detection would be more difficult, meaning a wider loop away from people.


    They followed a half-frozen ditch through to the edge of the field, staying low among the packed precipitate and out of sight of the checkpoint. It would be a straight sprint from the edge of the ditch to the next point of cover, a short fence, and they would be in full view of the checkpoint the whole way. When they reached the end Oryl set himself up peering over the edge of the bank, scanning the checkpoint with Karl¡¯s binoculars. He didn¡¯t give an all clear but didn¡¯t give a warning either, so it was unlikely that the guards had seen them hide the motorcycle.


    Oryl finally gave a wave and the two dashed from their cover. Their snowshoes sank further into the snow than usual, the surface pushed down by their heavy steps.


    Reaching the fence, the two caught their breath while Oryl scanned the checkpoint again. ¡°All clear,¡± he said, and Karl sighed in relief. They hadn¡¯t been spotted for now.


    Now that they were behind the fence they could follow it beyond the view of the checkpoint. This would be the chance they needed to get around Cholm, assuming they didn¡¯t run into any patrols.


    The end of the fence was against a small barn or simple house. It had been burned down some time previously, pieces of burnt wood scattered on the snow around. Shapes inside indicated it hadn¡¯t been empty when it burned. Karl hoped the bodies inside were animals, but looking at Oryl¡¯s face it didn¡¯t look like he could bring himself to believe they were.


    ¡°Is this what you Germans have made of our homeland?¡± Oryl asked. He sounded more sad than angry.


    ¡°I would like to deny,¡± Karl said. He faced Oryl straight on, making sure his words hit as hard as they could. ¡°But I can¡¯t say that much. I can say that not all Germans are Nazis. If you knew German I would say it more eloquently, but that much I can convey.¡±


    Oryl shook his head, looking at the corpses. ¡°No, I understand what you mean. But who is to say who is good and who is bad when they all fight for the same thing?¡±


    Karl took a last glance at the corpses. ¡°We should discuss this later. I say we move along and if you have things to say I will hear them when we are safe.¡±


    Oryl looked like he wanted to dispute the point, but nodded agreement instead. The pair stepped out of the shelter of the barn and continued across the snow. They weren¡¯t as concerned as before now that they were out of sight of the checkpoint, but they kept their eyes out for patrols just in case.


    While they were passing through a field, Karl spotted a pair of soldiers walking down a path ahead. He motioned to Oryl and both of them lay flat into the snow, hiding their silhouette.


    The Germans walked across the path, no more than fifty metres away. The sound of their chatter reached Karl, something about surplus rations from their lieutenant. They passed the edge of the field and disappeared from sight.


    Karl shook himself free of the snow, standing up. Oryl did not.


    ¡°What¡¯s up?¡± Karl asked quietly, walking over to him.


    Oryl motioned to the snow beneath himself. ¡°I¡¯m lying on something metal,¡± he said. Hysteria began to creep into his voice. ¡°I think it¡¯s a mine.¡±


    Karl stepped carefully towards Oryl, making sure not to step on anything hidden beheath the snow himself. He scooped handfuls of snow away from Oryl¡¯s side before his fingers struck something solid.


    ¡°Relax,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re safe. It¡¯s just a lost helmet.¡± The round topped German helm was pressing against Oryl¡¯s stomach. He had sucked his stomach back in an attempt not to trigger what he thought was a mine. As Karl informed him, his stomach sagged and he rolled off the helmet into the snow before bringing himself upright.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to go out that way. It¡¯s a cruel death.¡±


    Karl kicked out against the snow. ¡°They would not set up mines so far behind occupied territory. The only enemies here are partisans, and they lurk out away from the towns and prey on transports. They would not attack here.¡±


    ¡°For the sake of the people in this town, I hope you are right,¡± Oryl said. ¡°Such fighting is good for nobody but Stalin.¡±


    The pair moved on, Oryl¡¯s breath coming easier as he recovered from his fright. The fields grew into overgrown hills and lumber mills as they approached the area north of town and passed across the Lovat river. The frozen waters made for easy crossing, with nobody in either direction to observe them.


    Past the Lovat, they were heading northward along the road when Oryl heard engines. He pulled Karl down to the ground, the pair crouching among the trees and looking in either direction for the vehicle.


    Karl pointed up and Oryl looked over to see a group of aircraft stream overhead, not quite close enough to spread the wind of their passing. Four fighters, likely Messerschmitts, on their way to a front.


    ¡°There must be an airfield near here,¡± Karl said to Oryl, the two leaning on each other as they got up. ¡°When we took Demyansk we received some air support from nearby. This must have been where they came from.¡±


    The pilots in their fighters disappeared into the distance. Karl kept his head down and moved on but Oryl kept his eyes on the skyline, fearful of another flyover.


    At this point, Karl pulled out his handwritten map of the Bzura and read through the scrawled notes. ¡°We must be close. Where the Lovat turns away, go to the West. That is here. And we are looking for something built by Germans.¡±


    The pair squinted as a sparkle of sunlight shone into their eyes. Sun shone off the snow at the floor of the clearing back into their eyes from below. At the other end of the clearing, a collapsed German bunker stood, chunks of concrete broken off and lying around its smashed walls.


    ¡°This is it?¡± Oryl asked. ¡°This?¡±


    Karl ignored him, stepping over the chunks, some of which reached to his hip. ¡°Destroyed by its makers. Yes, from the blast this was destroyed by German sappers. And the key is in the other entrance.¡±


    Stepping towards the door into the inner chamber that had come off its hinges, Karl kicked it the rest of the way free. It clattered to the ground. He felt around the edge of the outside of the door, looking for anything which might work as a key, but came up blank. He looked around for a moment before realising to check the doorframe.


    One of the hinges of the door was actually more than a hinge. The metal rod in between the hinge plates was topped with a key bit - the piece they were looking for.


    ¡°And now the door itself,¡± Karl called to Oryl. ¡°It should be around the floor somewhere. Check around this wreckage for it. I¡¯ll look inside the bunker itself in case it¡¯s deeper in. It may be hidden in some way.¡±


    They moved around, eyes on the floor for anything out of place. Karl finally found it in what might have once been sleeping quarters, now with a hole in the roof and snow piled up beneath. A metal hatch stood clear of the snow, leading down into something beneath. The entrance was padlocked, the padlock shielded by the hatch cover so it couldn¡¯t be broken or cut free. It would be possible to get in without the key, but far too difficult for anyone without heavy machinery to attempt.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    The key fit into the lock of the hatch as if it had been made for it. Which it seemed it had. Karl called Oryl over and the two grunted and strained to get the rusted hatch clear of the entrance it was covering.


    Beneath was a ladder leading down into the darkness. Oryl looked down in trepidation, while Karl stepped forward in anticipation. A few flakes of snow fell down the hole from where Karl¡¯s boots knocked them around the top edges of the shaft, making no noise as they hit the bottom.


    ¡°I¡¯m not good with tight spaces,¡± Oryl said. He walked around the edge of the hole, seeing if he could spot anything comforting at the bottom.


    ¡°Deal with it,¡± Karl said, beginning to climb down. The ladder shook and creaked under his weight but held against the wall.


    Alone in the dark at the bottom, Karl realised that the oil in his lighter was frozen and wouldn¡¯t give him any light. ¡°Do you still have that box of matches from the cabin?¡± he asked Oryl. The russian dropped them down in reply.


    Fumbling around in the gloom, Karl managed to find the box and get a match lit. The flare shone on metal objects out into the dark, hitting walls in three directions but not the fourth.


    Oryl started to follow Karl down now that he knew there was some kind of light at the bottom. Once he was into the space, he realised it wasn¡¯t as cramped as he had expected and hurried to the bottom of the ladder, eager to explore.


    Karl took the lead, stepping down the tunnel. His tiny prick of flame guttered and flared as it met the cold, still air of the sealed passageway. The metal objects reflecting light turned out to be struts supporting the passageway as they stepped closer.


    ¡°How long has this space been here?¡± Oryl asked. ¡°Surely you didn¡¯t have time to build all this after invading?¡±


    Karl shook his head, Oryl barely catching the movement in the fading light from the match. ¡°The room was built in the last war. We just had some engineers connect everything together.¡±


    He heaved open the door at the end of the passage, opening up to a wider space that the flickering light couldn¡¯t reach. Karl had to drop the match and strike another one, as it was beginning to burn to the end and singe his gloves. Glancing inside the packet, they only had a handful remaining.


    ¡°There¡¯s a generator in here somewhere,¡± Karl said. ¡°If we can set a fire to heat some oil, we can get some power and heat back in this room.¡±


    Oryl eagerly set to work and soon a fire was burning on the packed dirt floor with a Wehrmacht-Einheitskanister, or jerry can as the British so inaccurately called them, heating nearby. The flickering light covered more of the room, glinting off weapons and cans of supplies. Karl and Oryl got their first good look around the space.


    The jerry can of petrol was taken from a stack of others, their contents frozen but more than salvageable. That side of the room was dedicated to supplies, including snow equipment, cold weather gear, food and military issue camping equipment.


    A handful of weapons were stacked against one wall, nothing too impressive, just a handful of looted weapons and grenades. Some were looted from Russian dead and others looted from German high command.


    The roof was supported by a network of tree roots, holding together the soil from above. They stretched down in an unbroken chain to partway down the side walls, some at the very peak of the ceiling breaking through into open air like tiny wooden stalactites.


    The rest of the room, this half made more of natural rock and cave structure than the other side, was taken up by living quarters. Four double bunks stacked the walls, enough for most of a squad to sleep. Across the centre of the space was an ancient table, a relic of the original inhabitants from back in the Great Wall. It was stained by age and water drip but still stood, marks on its surface showing where maps and plans of battle had once stood.


    Karl ran his fingers over the edge of the table, flaking off a layer of sand and rock dust and revealing some last remnants of oiled wood beneath. Men like his father had lived around this table, fought around this table, and perhaps even died here. And now it was his turn.


    Off on the final side was the generator that Oryl was working on powering and some of the more complicated equipment. Pouring oil into the fuel compartment, he cranked the starting lever until the roar and steady hum of an engine swelled across the room.


    Lights flicked on in the ceiling of the room. A heater against the wall clicked on. Next to the generator, the last object in the room that Karl had yet to review, a signal transmission station, flicked on and began to whirl.


    ¡°So,¡± Karl asked, ¡°Are you impressed yet?¡±


    Looking around, Oryl nodded. ¡°I am. I wish I had something like this to fall back on when I left the army.¡±


    ¡°Then let¡¯s keep this secure. Can you return and close off the entrance? It should be doable with one person now that the rust has been broken away.¡±


    Oryl nodded and walked off, leaving Karl alone to his own devices.


    Straight away, Karl ran to the signal station and unfolded it. Pulling out the morse code transmitter, he plugged it into the radio station. He also stuck a piece of paper, stolen from Holger¡¯s offices, into the receiver for the off chance someone decided to reply.


    He typed out a quick message, making sure not to leave any detailed information inside. Safe - Will await reply - Speak further when able.


    Then he sagged back, relieved. Now at least his officers would know he was safe.


    Looking around, he considered his next moves. The Briesen Division would be busy fighting the war in Demjansk, so he couldn¡¯t expect a reply straight away. They would have to hold here for some time - at least underground they could warm themselves without worrying about wind and weather. They were safe from discovery as well, this far away from the bunker. The engineers who had repurposed this place must have collapsed the original entrance, as one wall was made of fallen rocks of varying sizes packed down to ground level, so they would not have to worry about that being discovered either.


    Oryl returned, rubbing his sore arms. ¡°How did you get people to make this place?¡±


    Karl shrugged. ¡°We had worked with combined pioneer battalions of the different Divisions stationed here building defences around this area when our frontlines were here. The gruppe of pioneers alongside me reported finding this space during their work, and I saw fit not to report it beyond our Division. Some of them stayed behind to reinforce the town while we advanced, and I asked them to develop it further while leaving equipment for the task and supplies and extra rations as incentive for them to do so.¡±


    ¡°And how did you know it would be necessary?¡±


    Karl shook his head. ¡°I didn¡¯t. At that time, I was still protected from the SS. But all things change, especially plans. It was lucky that I prepared for that one to change, because change it did and I was almost not prepared enough. It is easy to lose focus of backup plans when fighting a war.¡±


    Oryl nodded over to the signal transmitter scratching away in the background. ¡°So now that you are safe and your preparations have paid off, who are you contacting now? Your family?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Karl said. ¡°My second family - my division. My own family are too far away for signal to reach, and even if I could they would certainly be monitored.¡±


    ¡°And communications with your Division would not?¡± Oryl asked.


    ¡°I cannot say. But it is safer, and harder to trace. Also better for me is that it is a short route with a small distance of cable needed to have the signal to reach Demjansk, while the communications back with L¨¹beck would have to go who knows where to reach. Plus I do not think that military lines are connected.¡±


    Oryl jumped at that. ¡°This is connected to military lines?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Karl said. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to access them though.¡±


    ¡°Let me try. I have not worked with machines like this, but I think I might have the patience to do so.¡±


    Karl gestured him over and the Russian sat down to play with his new toy.


    ¡°So what is the plan now?¡± he asked as he fiddled with the transmitter and looked over the dials. ¡°Are you returning home? To Lyubeck? To your division? Or something else entirely?¡±


    The question took Karl off guard. ¡°I have not considered it yet. How about you?¡±


    Oryl¡¯s hands stopped. He didn¡¯t say anything for over a minute. Karl was about to ask if he head heard when he finally spoke up. ¡°Smolensk.¡±


    Karl let him speak, sensing that Oryl would explain if given the time. ¡°We were the 98th Rifle Division. We were but infantry. We were ordered to hold, hold at all costs.¡±


    The words came faster as Oryl remembered what he had tried to bury. ¡°We were attacked by your tanks and infantry riding those tracked vehicles. They attacked in a lightning war, I think your people call it. They were on top of us in moments. We had no way of fighting back. Some of us carried grenades, which we used against the tanks. Perhaps some were destroyed, I don¡¯t remember. But more of us died.¡±


    His hands trembled as he spoke the next words. ¡°My friend, and my officer. Alexander. He was shot in the leg, right in front of me. He collapsed in the mud screaming for help, for any of us to save him. All of us were running, the commissar firing blindly into our own ranks until he was shot by the Germans. I don¡¯t know why they killed him, he was doing their work for us.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°I went back to Alex. I don¡¯t know why. I knew I could do nothing. Before I got there, a tank came. It rolled towards us. I dived away and lay still in the mud. But I watched him. He tried to crawl away, and then the tracks came down on top of him.¡±


    Oryl turned and faced Karl, the start of tears brimming in his eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t know if he was crushed or drowned in the mud. I don¡¯t know. He could have been alive next to me until the Russian troops came back and sent me to the rear lines. I didn¡¯t even try to check. I didn¡¯t try to drag him away. I just lay there, next to him as everything went quiet around me.¡±


    ¡°I will say,¡± Karl said, intending to continue until Oryl cut him off.


    ¡°I¡¯m not done yet. I want to thank you.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For letting me save your life.¡±


    Understanding, Karl nodded. ¡°Then there¡¯s no need to thank me. I was the one whose life was saved.¡±


    ¡°Even so, I¡¯ll thank you. Because now¡­ I haven¡¯t found myself again, but I have found that my self is worth seeking. I will go back.¡±


    ¡°Back to where?¡±


    ¡°To Rzhev. To my family. I don¡¯t know if they are alive, but I will find out.¡±


    Karl grinned. He glanced at the empty sheet of paper on the device Oryl was holding, then back at Oryl himself. ¡°That sounds like a goal to me. When do you think we should leave?¡±


    Oryl jerked upright. ¡°We?¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°I still owe you one, after all. You may think we are even, but I say I need to save you at least once before I can call this deal off.¡±


    ¡°You may need to save me a few more times than that by the end of this, Captain.¡±


    Karl stepped up and bumped Oryl¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Then do the same for me the next time. Or the time after that.¡±


    He walked off to sit on a bunk, leaving Oryl to his devices. It wasn¡¯t going to be easy to get back into Rzhev. And it might be even harder to get out. But he was sure he could come up with an idea or two.

 Chapter 8 - Oryl Denikin, Kholm

    Kholm, Novgorod Oblast.


    9th January 1942, 11:08 a.m.


    German territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°He wished to alter everything,


    to make the country greater,


    but he was hanging on a string:


    for he was made of paper.¡±


    - Extract from a Russian poem


    As the days had passed in occupied territory, the deathly cold of earlier in the season was replaced by milder weather. Temperatures raised up to ten below freezing, much milder weather typical of the season. Fires still burned in fireplaces and thick jackets were the norm, but for now the soldiers on the front weren¡¯t freezing to death.


    Karl and Oryl had outlasted the cold spell holed up in their underground lair, bored to death. They had all the supplies they needed but nothing to do with them. Karl had spent the days planning, scanning his map of Rzhev and making Oryl draw fresh maps based on his last visit. Oryl had made Karl teach him morse code and frequently sat on the receiver, fiddling with frequencies and checking in on German communications. Karl worried that he would somehow be detected, but he too was desperate for the information so didn¡¯t try to stop him.


    The news from the front was not good for the Germans. With the air force grounded and supply lines severed by the cold, the better prepared Russians pushed their advantage. Conflicting orders had come through from high command - to advance despite all losses, to pull back to defensive positions and outlast the winter, to hold positions at all costs, digging trenches with howitzer shells if they had to.


    Despite the Wehrmacht¡¯s efforts, the Red Army had advanced the line of battle away from Moscow. Protracted battles still continued as German reserves were fed in to plug the gaps once the weather cleared.


    The initial push had faded, even if it had claimed the lives of millions of Russian soldiers. Moscow had almost been within reach, and still was by any measure, but it was getting further by the day.


    Karl¡¯s old command up in Demyansk had repulsed all attacks so far. He had been in contact with Meier, the senior lieutenant from the 30th, who had informed him of the happenings in Demyansk. Now that the Luftwaffe were back in operation, they could hold against much greater numbers than the Soviets may bring to bear. They would last without Karl there to help them.


    Now, with the weather getting warmer, Karl and Oryl could no longer delay their trip to Rzhev. Oryl was still reluctant to leave, but as they used up less wood on the fire day by day, as Christmas and New Years¡¯ passed by without celebration, he finally made the call.


    ¡°It¡¯s time to go,¡± he said to Karl one morning over breakfast. ¡°The warm weather from the past three days has stabilised. If we wait any longer, it may grow cold again. Now is the time to leave, or we never will.¡±


    Karl, halfway through a spoonful of beans, swallowed as fast as he could. ¡°Are you ready?¡±


    ¡°Honestly, no. But I am never going to be if I sit here until we run out of food.¡±


    Karl nodded, admiring his determination. ¡°Then let¡¯s start moving. Do you have everything you need?¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°Don¡¯t make me doubt myself now. How many times have we gone over this by now?¡±


    Karl stopped himself from asking Oryl if he was sure of his decision. They other man had made up his mind. All that was left was to follow. ¡°Alright. Then let¡¯s get on the road.¡±


    Oryl nodded in thanks, pulling his already packed belongings together. It was no exaggeration to say this was what they had spent the last three weeks preparing for.


    The motorbike was where they had left it, undiscovered by patrols or curious civilians. The tank had been emptied before they left, and the air was now warm enough that their petrol wouldn¡¯t gel and clog the engine.


    Karl got in the driver seat, dropping his gear and a spare uniform in the saddlebags. The folded tarpaulin was stowed against his leg. Karl got on behind him, most of his equipment up front with Karl.


    ¡°South towards Velikiye Luki,¡± Oryl said. ¡°Then east along the motorway to Rzhev.¡±


    ¡°I remember the way,¡± Karl said. ¡°Just remember your part and I¡¯ll get us in and out.¡±


    ¡°And three days,¡± Oryl said. ¡°No more, no less. Can you keep to that?¡±


    In answer, Karl gunned the engine. He knew Oryl was being worried without cause, but at the same time he didn¡¯t blame him. He would have been the same in the other man¡¯s situation.


    At the same time, he thought back to the communique he hadn¡¯t shared with Oryl about Rzhev. He had asked Meier to poke around with a few questions, and the responses hadn¡¯t been favourable. He would have to break the news at some point, but for now he would hold it to himself. The burdens on Oryl were high enough already.


    Snow spat from the tires behind them as the pair tore out of Kholm. Oryl¡¯s thoughts were already turning to the task ahead.


    At dinner, the two spoke with hushed words around a tiny fire. Karl put up the tarpaulin between two trees to block the wind and cover as much of the light from the road as possible.


    ¡°That partisan sign we saw back on the highway. How many partisans do you think there are around here?¡± Karl asked, starting off the conversation. Oryl remained taciturn, keeping his mind focussed. He needed every last inch of willpower he could muster.


    ¡°I¡¯d say there are at least several thousand. Perhaps we could work with them at some point.¡±


    Oryl shook his head. ¡°I am no friend of the state anymore. The partisans, some of them are more radical than the regular army. I wouldn¡¯t fit in there.¡±


    Oryl watched Karl as he glanced over and then back at the fire pit. The other man had something on his mind, that much Oryl could see for sure.


    ¡°Is this about the letters from Demyansk?¡±


    Karl stopped his roaming gaze on Oryl. ¡°How do you know about that?¡±


    ¡°Do you think I haven¡¯t picked up any German by now?¡± Oryl asked. ¡°You¡¯ve been translating German radio chatter next to me for three months. I would have to be a fool not to know any by now. And don¡¯t forget that I¡¯m the one who checks the receiver each morning.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°So you knew all along then. Yes, it¡¯s about that.¡±


    ¡°And you thought I would be afraid? I knew as soon as my family was missing where they must have been taken. It was not good news, but it was not unexpected. It seems the only ones who don¡¯t understand what labour camps are are you Germans.¡±


    Karl shook his head. ¡°No, not all labour camps are like that. Some, perhaps even most, of them are places for workers from all areas, including our allies like Hungary and Austria.¡±


    ¡°Yet they are managed by the SS?¡±


    Karl wavered. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Some of them are. Others are under engineering companies.¡±


    ¡°But this one is under the SS.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°Yes. Under Das Reich, the division in Rshev.¡±


    ¡°Then my point is just that.¡±


    Oryl stood up and strode around the campfire. ¡°Look. I know this will be dangerous. Deadly, perhaps. But it has to be done. And I¡¯m the only one who can do it.¡±


    Karl nodded. Even if he disliked the idea, he couldn¡¯t deny the words. He stirred the fire as Oryl sat back down, sending a shower of sparks out into the snow.


    ¡°And I admire you for that. It isn¡¯t a decision most people can make.¡±


    The conversation died from there as the fire burned down, ember by ember. Finished with their dinner, they pitched the tarpaulin as a tent and settled down in sleeping bags. They took turns on watch, one person keeping the fire alive and the fuel heated for the next day while the other slept through the long night.


    The next morning came around with them in eyesight of Rzhev. It was a dark stain on the horizon, columns of smoke rising from its perimeter and the forest around it. Carried on the wind was the distant sound of gunfire and the ash of explosions.


    ¡°It looks like the frontline is active again,¡± Oryl said. ¡°The winter breakdown of hostilities only lasted for so long.¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°So close to Moscow, there¡¯s no wonder your people are so eager to reclaim there land and the Germans are so reluctant to lose it. Whoever wins here could well win the war.¡±


    Oryl shuddered, imagining a future of Moscow in flames with German troops marching through its streets. He may not like the Soviets, but that many people didn¡¯t deserve to suffer that fate.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving,¡± he said. ¡°If the attacks continue along the frontline, the army¡¯s attention will be away from us. Now is the best time to get close to town without being found. If we continue along lesser used paths, we can make it doubly so.¡±


    Karl agreed and the pair moved on. The road into Rzhev was still frozen and serene, but every so often the pair would spot a body off in the snow either side of the path. The scavengers would not go hungry this year.


    As they crested another hill along their route, Karl choked. Oryl, scanning the horizon, spotted the source of Karl¡¯s revulsion and did the same. A mound of corpses, stacked three or four high and at least the same wide or across, lay by the side of the path. Russians and  the odd German rested side by side, as did some bodies which weren¡¯t in uniform - civilians caught in the crossfire. The trees on either side of the road were splintered and broken, remnants of the intense firefight that had taken place here.


    At least the cold meant they didn¡¯t smell.


    ¡°I think,¡± Karl said, trying to keep his gaze from the bodies, ¡°it¡¯s best that I leave you here. There are clearly German troops acting in this area. If I go any further than here, we may get caught by them.¡±


    Oryl nodded, checking his hands, which he was surprised to see weren¡¯t trembling. ¡°Alright then. I¡¯ll see you on the other side.¡±


    Karl patted him on the back. ¡°God lets us sink, but not drown. Good luck, my friend.¡±


    Oryl disembarked, leaving his equipment on the bike with Karl. All he took with him was a tin of food and a ragged blanket - the better to keep the image of poverty.


    Karl spun the bike around on the ice and started off, disappearing over the crest of the hill. Oryl watched him go, a final wave from the German soldier and he was gone, Oryl only then realising what a comforting presence he had been.


    But time would not stop for him, so he squared his shoulders and marched on. He would great his future with resolution, if a little fear. But that was what bravery was made of, after all.


    The path led through the forest seemed to go on forever, and before Oryl realised his tension relaxed as he spotted familiar sights. He had walked down these paths before, delivering bread to the houses on the outskirts of town when his family wanted to get away from him. Even if the end of the path had changed, the path was still the same. This place was still his home.


    His delusion was cut short by the butt of a rifle to his cheek, knocking him onto the dirt of the path. He cried out at the unexpected pain, sprawling to the ground defenceless. His single can of supplies rolled away from his body and he grabbed at it as if in desperation.


    The soldier who had struck him down stood over him, aiming the rifle at his body. ¡°Stop moving,¡± he said in poor Russian, and Oryl froze. He knew better than to argue with someone holding a literal gun to his head. ¡°Nimm es.¡±


    Another soldier stepped out behind the first, Oryl realising that he was surrounded by five of them. All of them only had one or two stripes except for the one standing over him. A group of low ranking Germans without their officers.


    Oryl lay still on the ground, knowing he was at their mercy. He didn¡¯t resist as what he wanted them to imagine was his last can of possessions was taken away, nor when they snatched away the blanket to get a better look at him. His top was still in his tattered uniform, replaced on to complete his transformation into helpless and weaponless deserter.


    ¡°Wie, Loring?¡± one of the four soldiers asked the one standing over him. He glanced at the can that had been taken from Oryl as another soldier dropped it in his pouch. ¡°Sollten wir ihn als Kriegsgefangener nehmen?¡±


    ¡°Or kill him,¡± Loring, the officer, replied in Russian, shaking his gun in Oryl¡¯s direction. Oryl cowered back, the reaction the German was looking for. ¡°Macht nichts! Wir nehmen ihn.¡± He grabbed Oryl by the shoulder, heaving him to his feet, and hauled him off down the path. His soldiers followed, minding the path around them as the gunshots and explosions grew.


    The noise died out as they approached town, however. Sporadic gunshots were still happening out in the forest, but the blast of heavy weaponry and screams of large scale conflict had died away. On the far side of town, Oryl could see shapes running around, ferrying and treating casualties from the front.


    Looking off into the forest, he thought about how close the Russian troops were. Around him, the Germans seemed to have the same thoughts, holding their rifles close and ducking along the path, perhaps expecting a sudden hail of bullets to ambush them, even this far behind friendly lines.


    Oryl¡¯s inspection was interrupted by another blow, this time to the ribs, sending him back into the dirt. He scrambled back up and hurried along in the direction the soldiers had turned, hands held up in front of him in deference to the guns following behind.


    The party approached town from the south-western side, passing through the medieval and renaissance houses now overtaken by German encampments. With the Red Army pressing from the north, their army had moved their primary operations away from the railroad to the safer South side of town. Field hospitals and quarters where churning German troops, out of one and back in the other. A pair of Stugs in snow camouflage and marked with the triple crossed line Karl had warned him about rolled through town, pitted with impact dents.


    Karl was led away from this activity however, moving further into town. Two of his captors split off and headed back to the camp to report, but the remaining three continued on with him.


    They led him into the centre of Rzhev, towards the construction zones Oryl had seen the first time he passed through.


    Their group arrived as the last of a chain of Russian prisoners disappeared behind its gates. Stepping closer, Oryl realised how tall the walls were The two metre iron and stone fences topped by razor wire stared down on him, the gates topped by the words ¡°Arbeit Macht Frei¡± - Labour sets you free.


    Staring up at these words, Oryl was bundled without ceremony through the gate into the entrance room beyond. A salute from his escorts to the guards inside, a mutter in German about where they found him, and Oryl was shoved in line behind the Russian soldiers he had seen entering.


    The Russian soldier at the end of the line turned around and glared at Oryl as he stumbled against his back, the cuts around his eyes weeping blood. He was from one of the Tartar regiments, his skin daubed with grey ash to better blend in with the snow.


    Oryl dropped his gaze to the floor and stood upright again, his hands clenched at his sides.


    The line inched forward and Oryl remained silent, feeling that speaking would be a bad idea. The atmosphere didn¡¯t seem to permit it either. The soldiers in front of him, some injured, all morose, dampened the mood down to a thunderstorm.


    More than fear, their faces contained resignation. The moment they were captured, they anticipated what was ahead. They had all seen or heard of it before, on their own side as well in the Katorga or Gulag systems.


    Oryl¡¯s musings were cut short as he realised he was at the front of the line. He was grabbed on each arm by another pair of guards in grey uniforms and moved to the centre of the room. A man with a healthy moustache and a blood speckled lab coat bustled around while ordering the soldiers in German.


    The doctor had the soldiers strip Oryl¡¯s clothes, photograph his face, weigh and measure him before he checked the last item on his list. He then had the soldiers thrust Oryl half-naked into the next room where the rest of the processed prisoners had been kept. Oryl managed to get most of his clothing back on as the last stragglers behind him were brought in, until the doors opened for their group to be hustled through into the main body of the labour camp.


    Oryl averted his eyes at the sudden brightness, the electrical lamps around himself drowned out by the burst of daylight. The group started moving forward and Oryl integrated himself with the crowd to avoid the wind chill. He stared around at the contents of the camp spread through the centre of town.


    The huddle moved away from the structures on the side of the camp, containing the administration rooms and one of the guardhouses. A similar structure was built on the opposite side of the camp. Four guard towers were built around the corners of the complex, armed guards in green or grey acting as constant observers over the inhabitants.


    The ground he was walking on was churned up dirt and gravel, shovelled free of ice and snow. That had been piled against the inside of the camp walls to speed up movement through and around the camp.


    A pair of trucks were parked in the centre of the camp, armed guards watching for any stowaways or attempted thefts of the vehicles. Prisoners were carrying stripped logs from piles stacked against the wall to load them onto the trucks.


    If prisoners were what you could call them. They were stumbling along across the even path, their arms struggling to lift in groups of three logs of a size that Oryl thought he might be able to carry alone.


    As one group dropped off their load and headed back for another, a German walked up and hit the slowest one in the back with the but of his rifle. He was knocked off his feet, sent crawling along the ground away from the soldier. He got halfway back up before he was knocked down again with a shout of ¡°Schneller!¡±


    Looking at the tottering figure as he managed to escape behind another group of healthier prisoners, Oryl pictured himself over there looking like that and shuddered. Then he felt a chill as he pictured his father in that man¡¯s place.


    The group were led deeper into the camp, passing by rows of fresh wooden buildings. This was the core of the encampment that the Germans had been building these past months since they had occupied Rzhev.


    Another truck drove past from deeper in the camp. The weight of its contents, hidden beneath a shroud of black cloth, drove its wheels deep in the snow. The efforts of more Soviet labour, to be shipped back to Germany or to build infrastructure behind the lines.


    As the group continued, men were directed left or right along the corridors between buildings to their accommodation. Oryl, stuck in the middle rear of the pack, watched as the pack was thinned out to either side of him. At last it was only him and the last few stragglers left as they were brought along the buildings by the far northern side of the camp. Oryl could almost hear the sounds of industry, of people living on the other side of the walls. Yet the divide between them was so far.


    Oryl was pulled towards a building by a firm grip on his shoulder. A green-clothed Orpo directed him to a doorway in the building, along with another soldier beside him. Oryl shook himself free of the hold, a momentary act of defiance, and walked through the opened door of his own accord.


    He had a moment to review the contents of the room from the light streaming through the door frame. Some grimy bunks, even grimier walls and floor, an unmentionable toilet. The terrified face of the soldier next to him, even younger than he was, and the calculating, suspicious, perhaps fearful gazes of the room¡¯s other two occupants.


    And then the door was slammed and locked shut behind the both of them, casting the room into a haze of shadow and despair.

 Chapter 9 - Oryl Denikin, Rzhev

    Rzhev, Tver Oblast.


    10th January 1942, 12:14 p.m.


    German territory, contested.


    Winter.


    ¡°The exhausting winter road


    Leads the troika, full of strength;


    The light bell with one tone loaded,


    Weary rings through all time¡¯s length.¡±


    - Extract from a Russian poem


    Oryl stared at the three other occupants of the room, taking in their faces in the dim light as the rest of them all took each other¡¯s faces in. Perched on one bed was an older man, his skin sagging off his skinny frame. Perhaps he had been overweight at one time, but time, poor nutrition and hard work had pulled the weight off his bones.


    The man on the other bed was younger but still beyond Oryl¡¯s age. His blonde hair was cut short across his head but still managed to lay unkempt. He was more fleshed out than the other former occupant of the room and his gaze was defiant to show for it. Both men were wearing uniform clothes and coats, thick enough that they could survive but not enough to leave them feeling warm.


    The final person in the room was the one who had just walked in with Oryl. He had managed to get most of his clothing back on after the medical inspection and was the most rugged up in the room. Beneath his cap was a scowling face with a small nose, framed by brown hair. But beneath his scowl Oryl could see a hint of fear that the other man was trying to hide.


    As he took off his cap, Oryl could see that he was young - younger than anyone else here. He guessed that the boy was a year at most over enlistment age. Boy was perhaps the incorrect word, given that he was at an age when he could enlist, but it was close to correct.


    As the four finished their inspection of each other, the elder of the room opened the conversation. ¡°So who are you all?¡±


    While Oryl held his silence, considering asking the man to introduce himself first, the other soldier jumped in.


    ¡°My name is Nikita. I¡¯m a member of one of the scouting units for the 153rd Guards¡¯ Rifle Division, currently tasked with the liberation of Rzhev.¡± He turned to Oryl. ¡°And you?¡±


    Oryl didn¡¯t bother arguing at this point. ¡°Oryl. 98th Rifle Division. Infantryman.¡±


    Nikita waited for him to say more, but the other two moved onto their own introductions.


    ¡°I¡¯m Mikhail,¡± the younger of the two said. ¡°I worked on spare jobs at the farms around here. I got brought in for breaking curfew something like a week ago.¡±


    ¡°And I am Romeo,¡± the elder said. ¡°I used to preach at the church in town. And I¡¯ve been in the camp since the very beginning.¡±


    And in a moment Oryl recognised him. Father Guskov, the meat stripped away from his bones but his feeble gaze and brash nature the same as ever. He remembered his sermons, sitting at the back of the church on Sundays and watching his parents pray. He fought a half smile from his face for a second before it was wiped away by the reality of where he was.


    ¡°So what have they made you do since the start of this camp?¡± Oryl asked Romeo, the most senior there.


    Romeo seemed happy to tell his story. ¡°At first we were building the camp itself. That was worthwhile, because we were happy to move out of tents into proper buildings, as bad as these are. But then they made us work around town. Cutting down trees in the forest to be shipped out or used by their troops as firewood. Burying dead bodies, some of theirs, some of ours and some of us. Building camps and defences in the forest or town.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s been a hard time. But it¡¯s good to know that the army are almost here. How far away were the rest of your troops?¡±


    Nikita shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m just a junior officer. I don¡¯t know how far behind the rest of our soldiers were. But I do know that they will be racing here to free the rest of our men as soon as they possibly can.¡±


    Oryl gave the soldier another glance. He doubted he was telling the truth about being an officer. He pegged ¡°liar¡± to the end of his list about Nikita.


    ¡°But aren¡¯t soldiers who are taken prisoner considered traitors to the cause?¡± Oryl asked. ¡°So what will our fate be if the Russians do arrive?¡±


    Nikita paled and stuttered. Oryl could tell that he hadn¡¯t given his words proper thought. ¡°I have friends in the commissariat, so¡­ I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll understand that we¡¯re just trying to resist from the inside¡­¡±


    As he mumbled explanations, Karl shook his head. The kid was delusional. Perhaps he did truly believe what he was saying, in which case perhaps he was dangerous too. Oryl would have to keep watch around him.


    Neither did he miss the glint in Romeo¡¯s eyes as this went on. That man would be keeping an eye on Nikita as well, perhaps for different reasons than Oryl. He made a note in his mind to watch the priest too. If they wanted to conspire together, that was their business.


    A bell was tolled across the camp and lunch was distributed, conversation ceasing as the two original inmates gazed in anticipation at the door. Oryl and Nikita eyed each other, not looking forward to what the Germans had in store for them.


    A trolley came around to their cell containing a pot of soup. A bite sized dollop was ladled into bowls and a pinch of bread dropped on the side, more as a garnish than an actual accompaniment. The collection was slid under the door where the two hungry inmates fought over the largest bowl. Oryl stepped in and grabbed one, anticipating that he would need his strength, while Nikita was left to choose the last.


    Oryl started eating his share. They had not been provided utensils, so he imitated the other two - tipped the contents of the bowl down his throat and shovelled it down with the bread. The rest he mopped up as best he could.


    He was starting to regret the comment he had made to Karl that time about food back home. This was nothing compared to the bread he used to eat, even after it had gone stale.


    Looking around, Oryl was expecting more to eat, but didn¡¯t see any forthcoming. Little wonder the priest had gotten so thin.


    ¡°So what happens now?¡± he asked.


    ¡°The evening shift,¡± Mikhail said. ¡°They split us up and send us off to work.¡±


    On schedule, the door shuddered open as a German soldier outside turned the lock. Nikita shovelled down the last of his food, choking on the taste, as they were all brought outside.


    They were paraded down the rows of houses, more and more prisoners joining the march as their own meals were interrupted.


    Down the other end of the camp, Oryl could see female prisoners being gathered for their own tasks, but the genders were segregated throughout the camp as far as he could tell.


    The male crowd shuffled into rough lines along an open parade ground, forming lines of ten. They were straightened with the odd whack then counted before being split up into groups of varying sizes.


    Oryl ended up in a group of ten, all of whom were given shovels. They were then led out of the camp and then to the south of town by two Germans in grey uniform with rifles. They were indicated through a mix of Russian and German words and gestures to move all the snow in an area to other places.


    And that was what they did. None of them spoke to each other, the guards watching their every word and action. Oryl could feel blisters grow on his hands and the muscles in his back burning, as he grabbed the snow with his shovel, moved the snow with his shovel and flung it beyond the markers the German troops had laid out. Then he repeated it. And again. And again.


    His mind dulled by the repetitive work, he didn¡¯t even notice that their team had been joined by others cutting down trees from the area they had cleared until some of the branches started falling on his head. Wiping away sweat despite the cold, he glanced over at their activity and moved away from the trees before one of them came down on top of him.


    As the sun sank towards the horizon, Oryl started to count the hours going by. He and the others in his labour team had cleared out an area of snow and ice twenty metres by a hundred, piling the excess into a bank on either side and forming a metre deep gully in the natural lay of the land. Twenty other prisoners were moving through that space now, cutting down trees and cleaning up logs to open the area up for building.


    As Oryl rested on his shovel, glancing around for anywhere he could clear of snow but only seeing places they had already worked over, a whistle sounded to call the prisoners back together. Twilight had just begun to set in, and the German troops didn¡¯t want to stay out overnight.


    Back in the cell, Oryl collapsed back onto a bed, claiming it as his own. He hadn¡¯t felt it while out on the field, but he was exhausted. More exhausted than he had been when on the run, more exhausted than when he had been snowshoeing through the worst winter he had ever experienced. It wasn¡¯t just a physical tiredness either, it was also the weariness to the depths of his bones that came of knowing he was just a piece, cared for by neither side but used by both. He needed to see Karl again, to see his parents again, to speak to somebody who saw him as himself.


    He shovelled down his dinner, now fighting over the largest of the three bowls with Mikhail and Romeo, and fell asleep straight away.


    When he woke up to fight over the morning meal, he realised that Nikita was missing.


    ¡°What happened to the other rifleman?¡± Oryl asked the other two, who didn¡¯t seem surprised by his absence.


    ¡°I told you yesterday,¡± Romeo said. ¡°You must have been dozing on your bed. I was in a work group with him. He was caught in an accident with another worker and was injured. The guards took him to be treated.¡±


    ¡°When will we see him then?¡± Oryl asked. ¡°How serious was it?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Romeo said. ¡°I¡¯m no doctor. I just saw blood as the guards were dragging the two of them away.¡±


    Oryl nodded. With no more information, he had to trust the priest¡¯s word. He did wonder though who might replace Mikhail in their cell, though.


    Reflecting on himself, however, Oryl realised he hadn¡¯t done anything to find his parents. Turning to Romeo, he considered that given the man¡¯s time here, he might have some information about them.


    ¡°Hey, Romeo. How well do you know the goings-on here?¡± Oryl asked.


    Romeo turned half a head to him, still gulping down his soup. ¡°That depends. What do you need to know?¡±


    ¡°People held here. How many of them would you know?¡±


    Romeo put his bowl down, wiping his lips clean. ¡°It will cost you.¡±


    Oryl looked down at himself. ¡°What do you think I have that I can pay with?¡±


    Romeo gestured at Oryl¡¯s still occupied bowl of food. ¡°Three meals if I can give you good information. Plus one extra up front for my time.¡±


    Oryl stared at his bowl of food, then back at Romeo. His stomach growled in protest.


    ¡°Well? Do you want to know or not?¡± Romeo asked.


    In answer, Oryl pushed over his bowl of food to Romeo, who churned it down before he could change his mind. ¡°Alright then, friend. Who do you want to know about?¡±


    Oryl nodded. Now that it had come down to this, he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to know the answer. But at the same time, this was the reason why he was here.


    ¡°I want to hear about two people who lived in this town. Maxim and Ilya Denikin. Where are they now?¡±


    The priest gave Oryl a second look, scanning his face beneath the layers of grime. His gaze dwelled on his chin and eyes, seeking to spot something beneath the remnants of the months of hardship Oryl had gone through. ¡°So you¡¯re the baker¡¯s boy,¡± he said, as much in surprise as for confirmation. ¡°You¡¯ve changed.¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°So have you.¡±


    Romeo glanced down at his reduced frame. ¡°These are changing times.¡±


    Oryl waited a few heartbeats as the priest muttered to himself, then coughed. ¡°My question?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Romeo gazed off into the distance. ¡°Ilya I don¡¯t know about for certain because of the segregation. I think she disappeared around the same time as your father. I stopped seeing him around the camp no more than two weeks ago.¡±


    Oryl stood up and leaned over the priest. ¡°What do you mean, disappeared?¡±


    ¡°Exactly what I say.¡± Romeo waved a hand. ¡°It happens all the time. How many people do you think are in this camp? And how many of them do you think have been in it since the beginning?¡±


    Oryl stepped back, letting the question sink in. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Half or more?¡±


    Romeo shook his head. ¡°No more than a handful. New people come in, old ones disappear. I don¡¯t know what happens to each one. Some of them would have died. Others might be brought to other camps further away from the lines. Some might escape or be set free. I don¡¯t keep track of each of them.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t know what happened to my parents?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Romeo¡¯s simple denial didn¡¯t squash the hope Oryl was holding. He wasn¡¯t naive enough to believe they had been released, with their house destroyed in town. He didn¡¯t think they would have tried to escape either - they were too simple folk for such a plan. But it was possible that they had transferred to another camp, somewhere else. Now he just needed to find out who sent them and where.


    ¡°Then do you know what happened to them while they were here? Particularly just before they disappeared?¡±


    Romeo waved the question away. ¡°I already said, I don¡¯t know. Go ask one of the guards if you really need to find out. They¡¯re the only ones here who might be able to tell you. If you can speak German enough to convince them, that is.¡±


    Karl snorted. He doubted he¡¯d be able to convince the guards even if he knew German as well as Karl. But neither did he think he could get further answers out of the old priest. He had already sacrificed a few meals for it and didn¡¯t want to waste more.


    The final possibility, Romeo¡¯s first suggestion, sat at the back of his brain, but he didn¡¯t give it credence, as if to acknowledge it would be to cause it to happen. Any other option he would take right now.


    The next day, after supplying his breakfast to Romeo, Oryl was marched out with a group of prisoners to clear snow, dig ditches in the cleared space, and fill sandbags from those ditches. None of the people he was working with were the same as those he was alongside the previous day.


    Their team worked alongside a team of Germans laying the filled sandbags into an emplacement. A handful of the Germans, fresher in face than the others, looked like they wanted to burst out singing, but the rest looked like they wanted to be there as much as the Russians did. All had removed their heavy winter coats for the work.


    Oryl had a thought for a moment as they were taken for a brief meal about turning on the workers next to them, using the blade of his shovel to get revenge on those who occupied his home. But the gaze of the soldiers watching over them was always too keen, their fingers always too close to their triggers.


    Instead, he let himself be moved back from their meal to the work. He continued to dig and raise, scoop and pour, carry and lay, as the circular flak emplacement began to take shape.


    The Germans took a break as the guards ordered the Russian prisoners to haul the anti-aircraft gun for the emplacement into position. The team of ten grouped together to drag the half-ton weapon through the snow, forcing its wheels over hidden bumps in the ground.


    The only warning the group had before disaster struck was a faint whine, carrying over the grunts and swears of the team.


    A hail of bullets stitched through the snow, sending up plumes of spray up metres into the air. Oryl dived clear, as did a pair of the more alert prisoners. The rust were still up against the gun when the bullets reached them.


    The first to be hit, closest to the source of the fire, had his spine severed as the heavy calibre bullet passed through his midsection and out the other side. Three others off to the side escaped as the bullets passed in front of their faces.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The final three were the unluckiest. They were struck by bullets after they had broken through the casing of the weapon, bursting out on the other side in molten conflagrations of burning shrapnel. One was dealt a fatal blow with his body almost bisected by the impact, parts of his torso collapsing in on the missing space around his stomach. The other two were hit by shrapnel and collapsed back with a burned and perforated face and arm.


    And then the flyover was past, and the engine noises of the aircraft roared as it passed overhead. One of the Germans was also hit in the leg during its strafe, but Oryl didn¡¯t have a reason to care.


    The Sturmovik flew off, tilting a wing in salute and eyeing the damage it had caused until a stitching of tracer fire through the air drove it off. Oryl watched it go while lying back in the snow, trying to be too small to be noticed.


    He had been so close to death again, and yet again those right by him had died while he had managed to escape. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was a curse.


    The dying Russian received a bullet to end his misery. The other three injured got their turn moments after, the last survivor trying to crawl away with motionless legs as the soldiers moved up to execute him.


    With the wounded survivors taken care of, the guards herded the reduced count of prisoners back to their cells for an early break before their meal. Sensing Oryl¡¯s mood, his two cellmates didn¡¯t bother him besides Romeo asking for his meal as payment. Oryl handed it over without argument.


    And Nikita still hadn¡¯t returned.


    The next morning arrived with another lacklustre breakfast. A speckled bowl of oaty soup. At least it looked filling - which was all the filling it was going to do to Oryl as he had to pass it over to Romeo, stomach growling.


    Romeo gathered his three bowls together as the food cart moved away, spooning mouthfuls from each of them in rapid succession.


    Mikhail gave him an incredulous glance. ¡°How did you get another person¡¯s share? They can¡¯t have delivered you Nikita¡¯s by mistake.¡±


    Father Guskov brushed him away. ¡°Piss off.¡±


    Mikhail snorted and stepped back, waving his spoon at the food. ¡°So you¡¯re just going to hog all that?¡±


    And then it clicked for Oryl. The priest¡¯s - no, Romeo¡¯s excitement at Nikita¡¯s introduction. Nikita going missing. The extra food.


    And how Romeo had survived here for so long despite his obvious trials.


    ¡°You backstabbing hound,¡± Oryl said, clenching his hands into fists.


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Romeo asked, spooning another mouthful down.


    ¡°Nikita.¡±


    At Oryl¡¯s word, Romeo¡¯s spoon froze between his lips. ¡°I said, what are you talking about? Are you trying to accuse me of something?¡±


    ¡°Is that all a fellow Russian was worth to you? A bowl of soup or two?¡±


    Romeo drew the spoon away again. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about. We have no idea what happened to Nikita.¡±


    ¡°I bet you don¡¯t want to know. But you¡¯ve justified it, haven¡¯t you? Let yourself believe your conscience is clean while your victims are dragged away and never seen again.¡±


    ¡°No way,¡± Mikhail muttered in the background, catching on to Oryl¡¯s train of thought.


    ¡°What about my parents? Did you happen to know more about what happened to them than you told me?¡±


    ¡°I swear to you, I don¡¯t know anything about¡­¡±


    Oryl lashed out with his foot into Romeo¡¯s bowls, spilling a pathetic handful of oats and their surrounding murk onto the floor. He surged to his feet, ready to take this further if Romeo pushed him.


    And push him he did. The former priest rose to his feet with a shout, pointing out with his spoon at Oryl. ¡°And so what? You said it yourself, he was a delusional traitor who believed he was a proper soldier! I just made sure he met proper judgement!¡±


    ¡°And caught yourself double rations in the process?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Romeo¡¯s eyes went serious for a moment, staring straight at Oryl. ¡°If you stay here for as long as I have, you realise that all that matters is survival. You might think yourself noble or righteous, but when you¡¯re starving in a cell you¡¯ll learn what your values mean to you.¡±


    ¡°Everything,¡± said Oryl, and punched him.


    Unprepared for the blow, Romeo stumbled back, bleeding off the force of the blow. Undamaged as he was though, he didn¡¯t have time to overcome the shock of the pain before Oryl laid into him with the second round.


    With a few strikes Oryl had him reeling against the cell door. From there, Oryl grabbed him by the hair and forced his face against the grille of the vision slit. Blinded, Romeo flailed around with his arms to keep Oryl off him, but they barely drove him back for a moment before he continued the assault.


    A pair of punches slammed Romeo into the grille, lacerating the skin on his nose and brow. His cries for help grew more frantic as Oryl started to land kicks on him, smashing against his legs and ankles.


    ¡°What do you know about my parents, you bastard?¡±


    Then Oryl was tackled from behind, Mikhail pinning his arms and dragging him off of Romeo. The priest tried to regain his feet with an unsteady stumble before he was pushed off them again by the door opening. Colder night air poured into the room with a pair of guards and their shouts for order.


    ¡°It was him!¡± Romeo shouted, pointing out the restrained Oryl to the guards. ¡°Er was es! He was a traitor - Fl¨¹chtige - like Nikita! He attacked me when he found I might tell you about him!¡±


    The guards glanced over the pair of combatants before grabbing them both and pulling them out into the snow. They slammed the door shut on Mikhail, leaving him alone Romeo cried in pain as he put weight on one of his ankles. He must have sprained or broken it from one of Oryl¡¯s better hits.


    The guard didn¡¯t take the time to check how serious the injury was and didn¡¯t bother dragging him any further. He threw Romeo onto the snow, took aim with his rifle and pulled the trigger.


    And now Oryl was alone with two silent guards, him and a body marched away from the prisoner cells to unknown destinations in the middle of the night. He didn¡¯t have time to acclimatise himself to Romeo¡¯s death before he was far away from his cell with no hope of safety.


    He was lucky to not be shot once they were away from the cells. Instead he was dropped inside an only partly covered cage out in the open, a sprinkling of snow covering the bottom. The soldiers walked away after locking the gate, leaving Oryl exposed in the cold snow overnight.


    While the top of the cage was clothed to keep off the snow, the wind still gusted through the gaps around the ground with no obstruction. Flurries of frozen particles were blown beneath the gap by the wind, settling in his clothes and chilling him further.


    He managed to tear a piece of cloth off the cover, giving him some protection of the wind. He tried to find a warm spot before settling at last against the corner of the cage, sitting upright to keep his head away from the wind at foot level.


    He stayed like that overnight, the temperature dropping off but him at least in a pocket of warm air in a flood of winter¡¯s breath. He would have considered how stupid he had been if he had the opportunity to concentrate on anything but survival. Perhaps Romeo had been right, to some degree at least.


    He was happy to wake up the next morning with all his digits, even if his joints creaked and his toes ached. He stayed wrapped in the cloth in his corner, trying to massage feeling back into himself, as the sun crept up above the horizon and bounced off the snow beneath the shades on his prison.


    In the distance he could hear the guards moving around passing food to the prisoners. Yet however long he waited, as the noises died off elsewhere and the prisoners were all sent to their work for the day, nobody came for him. He was just left to his own thoughts, the cold and his own hunger.


    He packed some snow into a ball and sucked on it for moisture as his lips grew dry. The angle of the sun rose, the temperature increased, and yet still nobody came to feed or even see him.


    That all changed in an instant with boots stopping outside and a rattling around the key of the cage. The door swung open, leaving the rags out the front swinging in the air of its departure.


    Three burly grey-coated guards stepped inside. They kept their rifles at the ready, although Oryl had no realistic thoughts of trying to resist.


    ¡°Komm mitt uns,¡± one said in a deep-throated voice - Come with us. He grabbed Oryl before he could comply and heaved him through the door. Oryl shivered as his cloth covering was cast aside, although the faint rays of sun did abate some of the chill.


    They dragged Oryl across to the east, to a long shack mounted against the outer wall of the encampment. He was led into the building, past a long wall of dark cells with huddled shapes in the corners, before he was dropped in his own space in the row.


    ¡°Da,¡± one said, shoving Oryl into the cell and confusing him with the sudden Russian word.


    Oryl expected them to leave but they didn¡¯t, instead stepping into the cell with him. They backed him into a corner, looming around him like a prize pig they were about to gut.


    The first blow shot out from the left but Oryl managed to slip aside, the butt of the rifle only glancing his waist before thudding into the wall. The second and third he couldn¡¯t dodge or block however, slamming against his chest and abdomen and bending him double, coughing for air.


    More blows rained down on his back and legs, slamming home with slaps of heavy wood into flesh, as Oryl curled up to protect his head and vitals.


    The pain didn¡¯t even come straight away, just discomfort as the impacts slammed into him over and over again. But as the men stepped away and he fell onto his side, the protest from his entire body began to overtake him.


    As his mind slipped into blackness, he heard a few words from the doorway that made him dread the future. ¡°Wir werden zur¨¹ckkommen.¡± He wished he didn¡¯t understand the words, but he had heard them before and knew their meaning too well.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be back.¡±


    From blackness, Oryl woke again into blackness. No light was shining in from outside, nor were the lights inside the building on. A few dots of reflected moonlight danced across the ceiling, but most of Oryl¡¯s mind was concentrated inward.


    He didn¡¯t feel like he couldn¡¯t survive the injuries. The men hadn¡¯t pushed him far enough that he would die outright. He had the feeling that was intentional - if they wanted him dead, they would have just put a bullet into him like they had Romeo.


    The concerning point though was that Romeo had said nobody the guards took had ever come back. So perhaps a body in the snow was his eventual destination, if Karl didn¡¯t come for him before then.


    Speaking of which, the coming day was the third day since he had arrived, although it felt both much more and much less than that. He had sunk too far into the rhythm of the place, although perhaps that was what had been intended from the camp¡¯s design. It pulled its prisoners into a routine and dulled their thoughts through constant labour and dull food, just enough to survive. Oryl did remember reading somewhere that idle hands were the most dangerous. It had certainly worked out that way for the Russian royalty.


    Trying to sit up, Oryl groaned at the pain in his back. He reached back with a nervous grip and pulled his shirt free of his wounds, groaning at the pain as scabs were dislodged. His shirt was crusted with a film of his own blood, sourced from multiple wounds across his body. Part of it was caked in vomit that he didn¡¯t even remember spewing out.


    But at least he could move his limbs and nothing was broken. His body was bruised and his skin torn, but that would heal. He had already seen what happened to the infirm or those unable to work, and he didn¡¯t plan on ending up in the same way as Romeo had, even if it was just another half-day he had to survive.


    Collapsing onto his belly to keep his injuries off the ground, he tried to fall asleep to little success. His back was afire and there was no morphine or smoke inhalation this time to keep his mind off the pain.


    At last, he passed out again, distracting his mind with thoughts of freedom and family for long enough to pass the pain aside.


    The next morning he tried to explore his cell, as best he could given the limited illumination. The sun had come up but it only shone through the high windows onto a narrow strip near the roof. The reflections from that strip were far from enough to light the rest of the cubicle.


    Instead he felt around for anything strange with his hands, running them along the doors, the hinges and what he could reach of the walls. Besides the hole in the floor that served as the toilet, however, the cell appeared to be empty.


    He did discover a cracked open peephole in one of the side walls, but there wasn¡¯t enough light in the adjacent cell to make anything out anyway. If he put his ear to it he could hear faint breathing, enough to tell him the other occupant was alive but no more than that.


    Minutes later, however, after he had moved away, he heard a whistle from the other side of the wall. He rushed, or rather stumbled, over to it and tried to listen through.


    ¡°Petya?¡± came a voice from the other side. ¡°You still alive?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not Petya,¡± Oryl said back after the voice didn¡¯t continue. He kept his voice low, matching the other¡¯s muttered tone.


    ¡°Then who are you? And do you know what happened to him? Did you see him outside in the past two days?¡±


    Oryl shook his head then realised the other party had no way of seeing. ¡°I¡¯m Oryl. I only got brought to the camp a few days ago, and I didn¡¯t meet anyone called Petya out in that time, but I didn¡¯t meet many people.¡±


    ¡°Oryl, the baker¡¯s boy? Didn¡¯t you go off to the war? This is Kassi. From down the road. I didn¡¯t know you were still alive.¡±


    Oryl thought back to town, but didn¡¯t remember a Kassi. Who lived near who was pointless now anyway. But then a thought struck him. ¡°Hey, do you know what happened to my parents?¡±


    There was a moment¡¯s pause, then the reply came. ¡°Yeah, they were here a while ago for a few days. I don¡¯t know where they were taken after that though.¡±


    Oryl almost leaped in joy, but grimaced in pain before he could make any large movements. ¡°Do you know who brought them here? Or took them out?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ do. One of the commanders in the base. Veber, or something. He brought them in, and they might have been taken out on his orders too.¡±


    ¡°When were they taken out? By whom?¡±


    Oryl¡¯s voice grew from a whisper to a mutter, but he didn¡¯t care at that point. What mattered was what he had come here for, and these were the answers he was seeking.


    ¡°I need to know, Kassi. This is important.¡±


    But his answers were delayed by approaching boots, and no matter how much he hissed, Kassi was silent except for urging Oryl to be quiet in return as the footsteps grew nearer.


    ¡°Oryl!¡± a German voice called out. ¡°Gibt es hier einen Oryl? Oryl Denikin?¡±


    ¡°Hurry!¡± Oryl hissed. ¡°It¡¯s now or never!¡±


    But instead of answering Oryl, Kassi shook his head on the other side of the wall. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, before speaking out.


    ¡°Yes! Over here!¡± he called to the guards in Russian. ¡°In the cell next to my left! The one who just came in!¡±


    ¡°No! Tell me¡­¡± Oryl hissed, but then the door was thrown open and guards were pulling him out, heedless of his injuries.


    The leading officer looked Oryl over from beneath his peaked hat. ¡°Sehr gut,¡± he said, then turned to Kassi¡¯s cell. ¡°Thanks. We will remember you.¡±


    Oryl was dragged away from the detention block, staring back at the cell and the answers he needed as he was taken towards freedom - and right now, the only thing he wanted was to be right back in captivity.


    Oryl¡¯s heels and his guards left tracks like a dogsled, two pairs of prints and two dragged lines between them, as they hauled him through the snow to the gatehouse of the complex. Engine noises and conversation grew louder as he came around the final building to the checkpoint.


    A pair of German tanks in grey and white winter camo were parked in the gatehouse, escorting a halftrack full of soldiers. And standing waiting in front of them was the man which Oryl most and least wanted to see at that moment, dressed in an unwrinkled SS uniform and with an entitled smirk on his face.


    Karl, here to escort him out.


    Oryl kept his gaze against the ground and shoulders hunched, trying not to stare at the German convoy or Karl in particular. Instead, he glanced at the officer¡¯s stained boots as he was dragged in front of him.


    The officer who had brought over Oryl turned to Karl and spoke to him in German. Oryl made out ¡°Well? Is this the one?¡±, but the rest of their conversation escaped him. Something about time, and records.


    Oryl felt a hand against his chin, and then he was staring into Karl¡¯s eyes. He looked away, trying to signal that he hadn¡¯t found his answers yet.


    ¡°Wir werden es rausfinden,¡± Karl said, letting his hand drop away from Oryl¡¯s face. ¡°Bringt ihn hierher.¡± Then to Oryl in Russian, ¡°So what comrades did you come here to meet?¡±


    Oryl remained silent, letting the Germans play out their game, until he heard a struggle from behind him and glanced around.


    Another vaguely familiar prisoner with a mop of dark hair and had been dragged up to him from the same direction he himself had come. The only person Oryl could think of that they might have grabbed would be Kassi - giving Oryl hope. Perhaps he would get his answers yet.


    Karl stared at the surprise on Oryl¡¯s face, then nodded. ¡°Ich werde beide nehmen, Herr Sturmscharf¨¹hrer.¡±


    The other officer held out his hand. ¡°Und die Dienstmarke?¡±


    Karl presented a metal disk on a chain to him, which he inspected and made a note of. The officer then nodded to his soldiers, who shoved Oryl and the other Russian towards Karl¡¯s accompanying soldiers in an exchange of custody. From grey to black, Oryl and his unwitting companion changed hands before they could realise what had happened.


    They were bundled aboard the half track before any resistance could be mustered, pinned into the centre of the seating space by black-clothed troops in thick coats. The engines on the vehicles roared as they started and the small convoy began to move out. Karl wasn¡¯t in the halftrack with them but was instead up the front, holding onto the turret of the front tank.


    Kassi nudged his elbow into Oryl¡¯s side. ¡°What did you get me into?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Oryl said back. ¡°Wait and see.¡±


    ¡°Are you crazy? They¡¯re going to kill us. Why couldn¡¯t I have shut my mouth back there?¡±


    ¡°Ruhig sein,¡± one of the soldiers said to the two with a scowl, causing the Russian to catch his tongue and nod.


    The convoy drove out of the centre of town, tank commanders poking their heads out of the hatches of the panzers. Buildings rolled by and grew sparser on either side as they headed out into the white fields and sparse trees to the south of the occupied areas of town.


    Up the front of the convoy, Karl pulled the group over as they drew out of sight of the last occupants of town. The two prisoners were pulled out of their vehicle and, as Kassi freaked out, their bonds were cut and they were released. Oryl sagged to his knees, part in relief and partly because he wasn¡¯t sure if he could stand straight.


    Karl jumped down from the tank and stepped over, taking off his cap. ¡°Das Eagle ist gelandet.¡±


    Oryl looked around at the soldiers scanning the perimiter and grinned. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you pulled this one off.¡±


    Karl waved to the commander of the front tank, who saluted back. The group of soldiers began to drive off, leaving the three behind. ¡°I have friends I can ask if I need to. These are men of the 1st Panzerdivision. I helped them out after a battle. Kutno.¡±


    He turned to Kassi. ¡°Now who is this? Someone who knows you, that one back there said?¡±


    ¡°This is¡­ Kassi,¡± Oryl said, trying to remember who the man had said he was. ¡°He lived near me, I think?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Kassian Smirnov,¡± Kassian said. ¡°Thank you for saving me. I won¡¯t forget this favour.¡±


    ¡°We met again in prison, and he had seen my parents,¡± Oryl said to Karl. ¡°I was asking him questions about them when they came to bring me to you.¡±


    He turned to Kassian. ¡°Now that we¡¯re talking about it, you still had questions to answer. What happened to my parents in the end, after that Veber person brought them in?¡±


    Kassian hesitated, glancing between Oryl and Karl. The two gazed back at him until Oryl broke the impasse. ¡°I need to know, Kassian. This is¡­ the last thing left for me at home. I¡¯m serious when I say that this is important.¡±


    Kassian looked back at Oryl, who stared straight into his eyes without flinching. After a tense moment, Kassian looked away first. ¡°Are you certain?¡±


    Oryl grimaced at his expression but nodded, prepared for the worst. ¡°I¡¯m sure.¡±


    Kassian stared straight at Oryl, the misery in his eyes biting into Oryl¡¯s soul. ¡°They¡¯re dead. I know because they made me bury them.¡±

 Chapter 10 - Karl Tesdorpf, Urdom

    Urdoma, Eastern Front.


    15 January 1942, 9:18 p.m.


    German Territory.


    Winter.


    ¡°Dear sister, dear sister


    Why are you stumbling so dizzily?


    ¡®Look for the chamber door


    Look for my little bed


    Dear brother, it will be fine


    To lie beneath the grass.¡¯¡±


    - Extract from a German folk song


    The trip out of Rzhev had been difficult. Oryl had collapsed inside the volkswagen that Karl had borrowed for their return to the hideout, nursing his injuries both internal and external.


    The bumps hadn¡¯t helped the other man rest, but he hadn¡¯t said a word despite his restless sleep. Karl had respected his silence and kept his distance. Had Oryl been one of his soldiers he would have had the words to comfort him, but in Russian his thoughts wouldn¡¯t flow as easily and his meaning would be too easily lost or misconstrued.


    Instead they had continued straight on in silence, Karl¡¯s attire, vehicle and stolen Gestapo badge passing them through checkpoints despite curious stares at Oryl.


    Until they had stopped for the night and Oryl had gotten up, a fire in his eyes that had only been present fractionally before his second visit to Rshev.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to find this Veber,¡± he had said. ¡°And I¡¯m going to kill him.¡±


    And that had been that. None of Karl¡¯s persuasion had gotten through to him once his mind was made up. Karl did admire that obstinance about him, but it wasn¡¯t a valuable trait when trying to change his mind.


    Kassian had disappeared back towards Rshev as they had set off, so he was no longer around to talk Oryl out of his decision either. And it was Kassian¡¯s words which had set the nail in Weber¡¯s coffin.


    ¡°It was Veber, that officer. He brought the pair of them out and had them beaten. I don¡¯t know what they did to anger him, but it must have happened before they were brought into zaderzhaniye¡­ into, eh, prison. Then he got sick of it and shot them. He made a group of us clean up the bodies. Dragged them to the edge of the camp and loaded them onto those black trucks. Then they were driven away to some mass grave outside town where they were dumped. I don¡¯t even know where.¡±


    Karl didn¡¯t know anyone called Weber in Das Reich, so he couldn¡¯t be a senior officer, but he could get the gist of what might have happened with him. His family had sent him a letter once mentioning the conditions inside one of these camps back in Germany. They were sad places, full of mindless labour and pointless waste of life.


    Most Germans tried to forget they were there, like some kind of ugly tumor upon society, or the child nobody spoke of but everybody knew existed. Their guards were made of the worst Schei?kerlen of the SS, those too afraid to go to the front who instead stayed behind the lines and tormented those who wouldn¡¯t shoot back.


    He didn¡¯t know why Oryl¡¯s parents had been chosen from the rest of the workers for punishment, but at this point it didn¡¯t matter. What mattered was that Oryl¡¯s last connection to his home had been severed, and he was looking for something new. New enemies to take his fears and inner anguish out on, as if he didn¡¯t have enough already.


    Karl pitied him, although he couldn¡¯t and shouldn¡¯t ever tell that to the man. He at least had a home, a family to go back to, and he had faith that they could weather whatever the socialist party and their state police could throw at them.


    In a way, perhaps it was his responsibility to give the man a new purpose. He had done it for his troops before, time and again as they despaired when they killed others, or cried for lost friends, or were heartbroken by those they hadn¡¯t seen for so long. He believed he could do it again, even if this man was more broken than any he had led so far.


    He glanced over at Karl¡¯s still figure across the attic, covered by moonlight. His blanket rose and fell with his breaths, which had come steadier as the stiffness around his chest caused by the bruising had faded away.


    The man, or perhaps even boy, as Karl gazed at his crop of short hair and missing beard, had gone through yet another horrible experience. He had struggled and suffered, been beaten, starved, even betrayed from what he had heard, and as he had finally been freed from captivity his greatest hope had been crushed and replaced with nothing.


    So now he needed something to fill that emptiness.


    As Karl looked out the window at the pristine white blanket outside the attic, he considered their next moves. They needed to start moving away from Russia, away from the war, if that was even possible. Perhaps to America. He heard there were a lot of Germans there digging for gold. Switzerland maybe.


    It would soon be time to move forward on their plans.


    But for now, Karl was on watch, eyeing the surroundings through the windows for wild animals or worse, wild people, until Oryl roused himself for his turn to stare at the white nothingness.


    The next morning came softer than usual, gusts of wind and grey clouds snatching away the sunlight and coating the world in a dull monochrome. The sun seemed to barely be peeking through the clouds at midday as Karl and Oryl sat in their idling vehicle, some distance out from the next village.


    ¡°Do you know you want to do this?¡± Karl asked Oryl, gazing at the road straight ahead and the buildings beyond. ¡°Are you sure? We could just drive straight through. There¡¯s no need to stop.¡±


    Oryl shook his head. ¡°We need to go through with this. We know he¡¯s going to visit here, if your allies¡¯ information is true.¡±


    Karl sighed. He had regretted linking the Panzerdivision with Oryl to share information almost as soon as he had done it. He should have waited, given both of them more time to plan and consider.


    But now Oryl knew his adversary¡¯s name, Manuel Weber, or Veber as he pronounced it, and he knew that he would be stopping in at this tiny town, Urdoma, on patrol. Glancing outside at the quality of the road, Karl doubted this town had seen a motorcar before so it was unlikely there was an army presence here, but here he was coming all the same.


    In reality, the division had only given them a few towns along his route and they had followed Weber¡¯s trail of destruction. Missing people, stolen provisions, he seemed to spread calamity in his wake like a horseman of the apocalypse. They had tracked down his passage over a day and taken a different road to get ahead of his path. His group should be arriving at the village ahead at some point soon.


    And that was exactly what Oryl was hoping for, and Karl was afraid of.


    ¡°Come on, let¡¯s speak with the villagers,¡± Oryl said. ¡°We have to warn them at least.¡±


    Karl nodded. He did think that much was true. He had earned a sense of distaste himself from seeing the state of the villages left behind after the raiding band¡¯s path. ¡°But how much more than that?¡±


    ¡°Then we head away and wait for Weber to arrive, single him out when he¡¯s apart from a crowd and take him out from a distance,¡± Oryl said. ¡°I know the plan. We¡¯ve been over it enough times.¡±


    Karl nodded and dismounted the car, leaving it parked in some trees a short distance off the road. Weber¡¯s men shouldn¡¯t be making their way through this way, and even if they did they should be able to outrun German pursuit through the woods with the snowshoes they had prepared.


    He had changed from an SS outfit to more casual clothes, although he did have one of the military-issue greatcoats on as there was nothing else among their supplies quite as warm. There was an element of talking involved in this incident, and while that would be Oryl¡¯s job due to his accent, he didn¡¯t want to get in the way of civil conversation.


    Oryl strode forward in the lead, Karl following. The few days of rest and travel had done much for the smaller man¡¯s recovery and he was now sprightly rather than subdued, although for all the wrong reasons.


    Their tracks through the snow stood out among the clear coat across the rest of the ground, although only a few millimetres had fallen so it hadn¡¯t been that clear to begin with. Karl was a little worried about a tracker following their footprints back to the car, but he supposed that even if they did there wasn¡¯t much there to steal beyond the volkswagen itself.


    Oryl strode forward with no such worries, attracting more than a few concerned faces as the pair approached town. Visitors appeared to be unfamiliar here, even more so than in the rest of Russia. Unexpected visitors like the pair must then have been even more so.


    ¡°Can we speak with the mayor?¡± Oryl called out to the villagers, who looked at each other and said nothing, although a few more heads popped out of the surrounding houses.


    He repeated the call as they drew closer to the centre of town, although to Karl¡¯s eyes it felt less like a town than even that abandoned townlet near his company¡¯s watch posts back in Demjansk had. The buildings were too far apart, there was nothing on the ground but dirt, and there was even the odd chicken running between peoples¡¯ legs.


    A grizzled old man, although from the wrinkles on his face he may have actually been middle aged, walked out of the shade of a verandah at the final call.


    ¡°No mayors here. I¡¯m the closest thing you¡¯re going to get. You can call me a chief, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Oryl called. ¡°German soldiers are coming to tax your food and supplies. You should think about leaving town for the day.¡±


    The old man cocked his head as the people muttered. ¡°And go where?¡± he asked. ¡°We can¡¯t move. And for those who can, they need to stay back and protect those who don¡¯t. We¡¯re grateful for your warning, but we don¡¯t need it. We can protect our own.¡±


    Karl frowned. Killing an SS officer would be dangerous for these people if they were still around. They would need to change the plans, or try again at another village.


    ¡°In that case,¡± Oryl asked, ¡°Do you have anywhere you hide people you don¡¯t want found?¡± Somewhere underground, a cabin off in the woods, something like that?¡±


    The chief eyed Oryl then nodded. ¡°Of course. Why, you suggest we all hide there? It¡¯s not designed for that much.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Oryl said. ¡°We want in. Can you let us stay there until the Germans are past?¡±


    Karl jumped, uncertain what Oryl was planning, because they certainly hadn¡¯t discussed this.


    ¡°Sure, why not,¡± the chief said, giving Karl a glance. ¡°It¡¯s not like you have a German with you or anything.¡±


    Wincing at his sarcasm, Oryl tried to cover for him. ¡°He¡¯s not a soldier, he¡¯s a deserter. He hates these Germans as much as I do.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say that much. But I¡¯ve killed a few of them,¡± Karl said. He didn¡¯t see the point in staying quiet if Oryl had already admitted to it.


    ¡°And what do we have to go off that will make us trust you?¡± the chief asked. ¡°I tell you how this is going to work. You sit in the crowd as the Germans come. We use you as shields if they try to shoot us, or we sell you out if they ask questions. And we get a rifle,¡± he said, pointing to Oryl¡¯s gun, ¡°and if you try anything strange or try to sell us out one of us guns you down with it, hang the consequences. Either our side get out of this, or you die. Or perhaps both. Either way is fine with us.¡±


    Oryl nodded at Karl¡¯s expression, which he was forcing to stay calm, and nodded. ¡°Deal.¡±


    A village child dashed out before Oryl could react and snatched his rifle from his shoulder, passing it over to the chief who checked it over and nodded before Oryl could grab it back. ¡°Red army. Well kept but not with a good kit. I¡¯ll bet you¡¯re a deserter too, like your German friend, if he is that.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡± Oryl asked, almost too surprised to try at that point.


    ¡°I fought in a couple of the previous wars. The guns you use never seem to change in them, only who you¡¯re fighting.¡±


    Oryl and Karl were kept in the cellar of one of the smaller houses in anticipation of the arrival of the Germans. The door was guarded but otherwise they were left alone to await their fate.


    Karl rounded on Oryl as the door closed behind them. ¡°What did you do that for?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure now,¡± Oryl said. ¡°I thought it would give us a better chance to get to the officer. But I didn¡¯t think they would want my rifle, just any old rifle. Now we don¡¯t have anything to kill him with.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And how do you plan to do anything with German troops all through the village and us, and the villagers, stuck alongside them? If we try anything there could be a massacre!¡±


    ¡°But if we do nothing he¡¯ll get away.¡±


    ¡°And which,¡± Karl asked, ¡°Is more important? We can always hunt him down next time. We can figure out where he¡¯s going. But these people¡¯s lives?¡±


    Oryl shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know anymore, Karl. Before I left this was so certain. I knew where I was going, who I was looking for. Now, it¡¯s all a mess. There are people everywhere and I feel like I don¡¯t know what to do with any of them. I only know this one. Once I¡¯ve sorted him out, I think I can sort out the rest.¡±


    Karl patted him on the back. ¡°Then make sure there are others here left to sort out, huh? I think you need to get out of all this. Make it somewhere safe, where you can lay your feet back and not worry about survival. What do you think?¡±


    Oryl grinned with half his mouth. ¡°Does that sort of place even exist anymore? Anywhere near here?¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°We¡¯ve made one already. Our shelter. We can stay away from the war, there for a time. Let you kick back and just think things through before we need to make it anywhere else. And when we do, we can make sure that place is the right place to go.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Oryl asked. ¡°And where is that right place?¡±


    ¡°Home.¡±


    Oryl shook his head. ¡°You have a home. I don¡¯t. Not anymore.¡±


    ¡°Then make one,¡± Karl said. ¡°It¡¯s easier than you think.¡±


    Oryl laughed, although there was no humour in the sound. ¡°That doesn¡¯t comfort me much. My imagination is quite broad.¡±


    Karl sat back against one of the support pillars of the cellar, glancing around the empty shelves with a few remaining truckles of cheese and bottles of alcohol. ¡°Then just try and imagine what it would be like. Making a family again. Finding a house somewhere. Starting a job. Buying food, instead of scavenging or being rationed it. Laying down at night and listening to the sounds of the city, or the forest, or even the ocean. Isn¡¯t it something special?¡±


    Oryl nodded, almost despite himself, as he lay down opposite Karl. ¡°It would be.¡±


    ¡°Then why not make that what you fight for? Something gentler than hate or death. Or even glory.¡±


    Oryl sighed out, letting some of his tension into the air. ¡°No. I can¡¯t. I need to lay this aside first.¡±


    ¡°Even if it means you regret it later?¡±


    ¡°Even if I hate myself for doing it, right now I¡¯ve resolved to. I can¡¯t let myself make any other choice.¡±


    ¡°You know that¡¯s not true,¡± Karl said, but not loud enough for Oryl to pick up.


    ¡°This is my choice, and I will make sure I see it through whatever it takes. My parents can¡¯t rest, I can¡¯t move on, until I kill Manuel Veber.¡±


    Karl let the silence thicken and play between the two of them before he broke it at last. ¡°I see. Then I¡¯ll do what I can to help, but I¡¯ll make sure you don¡¯t walk down a path that will make you hate yourself while you¡¯re doing so.¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°Thank you for your concern, but I can handle this myself.¡±


    ¡°That isn¡¯t your decision to make.¡± Karl lay his head back against the knotted, whorled wood of the pillar. ¡°Your life is your own, but not those of these villagers, or the soldiers under Manuel. Nor is this all of your life going into killing him, just the part of you that came out on top. I won¡¯t let you sacrifice everything just to fuel that hate. I¡¯ll make sure it¡¯s cut off and that you can come out the other side, to get to that home you need.¡±


    The two sat in silence before the door was opened, the two not even realising how long they had been kept there.


    ¡°It¡¯s time. The Germans are here.¡±


    They came in two L3000 all terrain trucks, thirty men or a single platoon spread between the different compartments of the vehicles. One vehicle dropped its twenty men around the town square, while the second and its complement of troops drove a sweep around the outskirts of town, looking for anyone trying to escape. Finding none, its troops rejoined the main force for their interrogation of the residents.


    The forty residents of the town were gathered before the thirty troops into a huddle under the shadow of the different buildings. Despite their earlier words about human shields, the citizens forced Oryl and Karl into the centre of the circle, one keeping Karl bent at the knees so his height didn¡¯t give away his identity.


    The elder stood at the front, speaking via one of the soldiers translating with the leader of the German troops, a first lieutenant. Despite Karl¡¯s fears, their discussion didn¡¯t seem to be hostile from what he could see between the forest of shoulders.


    In the end, the chief waved his hand and the officer shouted to his troops. ¡°Search the place!¡±


    The troops spread out and started banging doors open, stepping through them to chase down whoever or whatever might be kept inside. The chief¡¯s house received special attention, a full half squad of soldiers storming inside to search the building where other houses received two at most.


    With nobody to watch over them, a pile of loot started to grow on the ground as the soldiers made more and more trips through the houses. Most of it was food, but the pile also included jewellery, blankets and the odd weapon.


    Karl motioned to Oryl and started to pull him free of the crowd as the mood started to change. Depending on how the Germans handled this, things could easily get ugly around the place.


    The two started sneaking out of the crowd, easily done now that the soldiers had their attention on the houses and the citizens were watching the soldiers. Once they reached the edge, Karl grabbed Oryl¡¯s shoulder, stood up straight and walked around the corner with him, hoping to appear to be a soldier to the other Germans and to escape the villagers¡¯ attention.


    The pair dropped back in the cellar where they had been kept earlier, now emptied of provisions. They left the door open to make sure no Germans thought to check the place again, sitting off to the side and listening out for further disturbances. The entrance of the cellar was just visible from the centre of the houses where the people were gathered, so they continued to stay out of sight as much as possible.


    As the searches ended and the soldiers brought the last of their findings to the centre of town, one of them dragged a kicking and crying girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old to the centre of town. One of her feet was turned inwards, a case of club foot which had never undergone treatment. Karl spotted the pair entering the centre of town and held Oryl back.


    ¡°This is going to get ugly,¡± he warned, drawing his pistol from inside his jacket. ¡°Be prepared to find a gun off somebody if or when it does. We might need all the firepower we can get.¡±


    Karl nodded and checked out the situation, sticking his head out of the doorframe to get a glance at the proceedings.


    The situation escalated into a standoff as the girl was brought before the crowd. The first lieutenant and the chief were getting into a shouting match through their translator, the intensity of their words reaching Karl and Oryl¡¯s position if not the exact meaning.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Oryl spotted a villager holding his rifle waiting ready behind one of the windows around. He was keeping the rifle at the ready while hidden behind the wall, ready to lean out and start firing, but he was visible to the pair¡¯s position.


    On the ground, the villagers were looking around at the soldiers in fear while the chief continued to argue with the officer, with less venom at least in consideration for the other citizens.


    At last they seemed to come to an agreement, with the soldier releasing the girl so she could return to the crowd. She stumbled to her family, hyperventilating as she was released from her panic.


    Then the officer shouted something and snapped his fingers, and the soldiers around the square opened fire.


    Bullets thudded into unprotected flesh, and the targets of automatic weapons danced the danse macabre as they collapsed to the floor.


    The chatter of gunfire filled the previously quiet, if not peaceful, town.


    A few people ran, but they were targeted before those that stood still in shocked silence, or those who were too close packed to escape. A mother and her daughter that tried to slip away were caught and picked off from behind with single rifle shots.


    The chief stood before his dying people, his friends, and fell to his knees, begging the officer to stop it, to end the madness. Which he did, in a manner of speaking, as the old man sagged to the ground with the hole in his head sending him to join the rest of the town¡¯s former occupants.


    Oryl and Karl saw everything from their hole, from the first bullet to the last survivor being finished off with a cry not of pain but of distress at seeing his family dead before his eyes.


    The sniper in the window had wounded a soldier with his first shot but had been taken down before he could get off a second, a grenade landing in his window as he leaned out a second time. The rifle spun out of his hands and landed at the base of a tree below.


    The officer divided the soldiers into a few groups, one to execute any survivors of the massacre, another to carry the loot into the trucks. He personally moved off towards the last few buildings with a group of soldiers.


    ¡°I think we do need to go after him now,¡± Karl said below his breath to Oryl. ¡°We have a chance right now, and from what we¡¯ve seen I don¡¯t want to let this continue at another village.¡±


    Oryl nodded. ¡°I don¡¯t want to watch more people die in front of my eyes like that. I¡¯m not following this group any further - I was going to stop him here whether you said anything or not.¡±


    Karl glanced outside at a pair of soldiers on the street, regretting leaving the SS officer uniform in the Volkswagen. ¡°You didn''t bring a stahlhelm, did you?¡± he asked. ¡°If we had one of those, I might be able to walk around uncontested if the soldiers aren¡¯t paying attention.¡±


    Oryl nodded and pulled a German helmet out of his bag. Karl raised his eyebrows, but wore it regardless. ¡°I won¡¯t ask how you got that, but I¡¯m glad you have it.¡±


    The two poised by the doors, glancing around and ready to go, before realising they couldn¡¯t continue their old plan. A whispered discussion broke out before they agreed on their next steps. Oryl would go for his rifle and get out of town to somewhere he could shoot from and escape. Karl would locate Weber, who they presumed was the Schutzstaffel officer, and get him to somewhere Oryl could take the shot from. That should stop their raid, if the commanding officer died.


    The two stepped out in separate directions. Oryl skirted around the north side of town to get to where his rifle had fallen. Karl headed south to the building the officer had entered.


    He reached the building without incident, the Germans too focused on their own tasks to check whether any of the soldiers weren¡¯t who they appeared. From the lack of shouts on the other side of town, Karl presumed that Oryl was managing the same.


    He made it to the building and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The light inside the two-story house was dim, some of the windows snowed nearly covered leaving a handful of dusty electric lights the main source of illumination besides a collapsed lamp lying across the floor. He could hear bangs upstairs and something crashing in another downstairs room as the search of the house continued.


    Stepping with care to not alert any of the soldiers in the building, Karl crept through the first level of the house. He needed to draw the officer out somehow, and he himself was helpful bait. He just needed to be spotted, and the soldiers would come after him. And if he shook the soldiers, the officer would be alone for Oryl to eliminate.


    Peeking his eye around a corner, he spotted a single soldier in the room before him, stomping on a part of the rug beneath the table. Thuds resounding through the room indicated it was hollow.


    Getting down on his knees and leaning on the stock of his automatic MP35 for support, the soldier started to lift the rug away from the carpet to investigate the trapdoor beneath.


    Karl sprang into action. He jumped out from behind the doorway into the room, bearing the soldier to the ground and putting his weight on his back in case he tried to get up. He grabbed the soldier by the head with two hands, one covering his mouth and the other under his chin, and started pulling as hard as he could.


    The soldier struggled and groaned, one hand bashing the butt of his rifle into Karl¡¯s leg to loosen the hold, the other feeling around his waist for his bayonet.


    Karl¡¯s leg shifted a little off the centre of the soldier¡¯s back, but before he could free himself Karl pressed down again with his other leg and jerked the soldier¡¯s neck back again. At last, it pulled back another few centimetres, the metal of the soldier¡¯s helm cutting into his back. He went still, his hands falling away from his weapons.


    The struggle had caused more than a few bumps to ring out but Karl doubted anyone upstairs would notice with all the banging the man had been doing down here.


    Karl grabbed the man¡¯s submachine gun, making sure the magazine hadn¡¯t been emptied on the villagers. It always paid to have a bit of extra firepower, assuming he didn¡¯t have to carry it a long distance.


    Karl gaved down at the dying man, his brain probably now starving for oxygen yet unable to take a breath, and crossed himself in respect. As a soldier he may have been doing horrible things, may have even then been hunting the last survivors of the attack, but in the end he was just doing his job. In some ways, Karl was no worse than these people, killing this man without giving him a way to fight back, and not even for his own safety.


    But with another way of looking at it, this man had just worked with a group of other soldiers to open fire on civilians. Nobody could blame him for having the same thing happen to him.


    Karl started to move away from the body, just as he heard someone coming down the stairs.


    ¡°How is it¡­¡± the soldier asked, before spotting Karl through the doorway standing over his companion¡¯s body. He cried out in alarm or fear, bringing his rifle up and snapping off a handful of shots at the space Karl had been standing.


    Karl ducked against the wall, blind firing the stolen weapon around the corner at the stairs. He heard glass break and shouts from above.


    Karl¡¯s time had run out the moment he had been spotted. He had already run through perhaps a third of his clip, while there were plenty more people upstairs and in the town around to soak up the remaining bullets even if he stole another weapon.


    Instead he snapped off a pair of blind shots to keep the enemies¡¯ heads down and dashed for the back door of the house.


    He was out the door in moments, but he could hear them coming down the stairs inside. It didn¡¯t seem like there was much panic in the rest of town, which said something about these soldiers¡¯ experience, if they were used to random gunfire coming from their officer¡¯s location.


    Karl had no doubt that would change, though, once the lieutenant spread word to his men that somebody was in town. He needed to be out of here by then, but the snow would tell exactly where he had gone if he wasn¡¯t careful.


    Karl ran to the outskirts of town, trying to keep as many buildings between him and the centre of town as possible, but trusting to his helmet and coat to disguise his appearance to anyone who did see him. Once he reached the trail that the trucks had left in the road while driving around town he ran past to another building, stamping some snow off on the porch, then retraced his steps back to the road. He made sure to walk backward, letting his feet land in the places they had landed the first time through to not leave extra tracks.


    There were other footprints around from the normal routines of the villagers, so he didn¡¯t doubt that his trackers would have plenty of other places to check once they found that he wasn¡¯t in the building they had followed him to. That would keep them off his trail for some time, as they breached and then searched for clues.


    In the meantime he circled around town, looking for traces that Oryl may have left behind.


    After more than a half circle, he had to leave off his search due to the trail of soldiers carrying the last of the loot to their truck and returning for another trip. The number was smaller now, but it seemed that even while under attack the officer didn¡¯t want to give up on the spoils from the town.


    Instead, Karl snuck into the centre of the built architecture, right under the enemy¡¯s nose. He kept close to walls and kept watch around corners, staying away from the trained eyes of the few sentries that had been posted and dashing between cover when their backs were turned. Some of them caught the sound of his footsteps but he was gone before they were able to figure out what might have caused them.


    With no trace of Oryl around, Karl had to take care of everything on his own. From the voices he could hear around, most of the troops that hadn¡¯t left to search for him were up ahead around another corner or two. Depending on how many were there, he may have enough bullets to take them on if he caught them by surprise, but he would rather not take the risk. A surgical strike would be less risky.


    Checking the buildings around him, he pulled out his compass and oriented himself against the town¡¯s layout. Most of the soldiers were off to the South where he had lost them. Oryl would be to the North-East, closer to their vehicle than him and likely to have already retrieved his weapon. He could worry about himself. However, to get to that same vehicle Karl on the West side of town would have to go straight through the remaining soldiers.


    He could head off into the forest after attacking, but he wasn¡¯t sure there was any way to reliably hide his tracks and they were thin enough in this region that he may be spotted or caught while trying to escape.


    He could try to climb a building and shoot from there, but the only two-story buildings in the area were the one the villager had shot from before to the North of town and the building where he had killed the soldier back to the South. And he didn¡¯t want to go back down there.


    The only option then, as far as he could tell, would be to get straight through the centre of town without dying and escape out the other side after killing the officer.


    But first, he would likely need another weapon or more ammunition. And the only people with firepower around here were the Germans. He could steal some from a German without killing anyone, but the most reliable way was to take out another sentry, and since he was already inside their net now was the best opportunity.


    He pulled out the bayonet he had stolen so long ago now, the ice catching for a moment on its steel scabbard, and checked the edge with his fingers. Still sharp enough.


    The sentry he targeted was standing in a doorway facing the West of town, shielding himself from the wind while he scanned the approach to town he was covering. In the cover of the doorway he wasn¡¯t visible to the nearby sentries and his view of the sides was covered by the very doorway protecting himself from the wind.


    The only problem for Karl was that his back was protected by the doorway, so while he could approach unseen he wouldn¡¯t be able to attack without being spotted.


    In this case, he couldn¡¯t think up a way to do it silently, so instead he gave up. Karl came up on the corner with his pistol drawn at head height. The sentry heard his footsteps approaching and stuck his head out to check who it was, his last movement. With a gunshot, the sentry¡¯s brains were decorating the doorframe. He fell to the ground, his gun ready to shoot but with no reaction to fire it.


    Aware he only had seconds before someone discovered him, Oryl grabbed at the sentry¡¯s MP40 and posed just outside the doorway, ignoring the stench of crystallising blood around him and the corpse behind his legs. He spun his gun left and right, acting as if he was searching for a target.


    Out of the corner of his eyes as he glanced in either direction, he spotted the other sentries coming to investigate. ¡°Do you see a rabbit out there?¡± he called. ¡°I missed and it scurried off!¡±


    The sentries stared at him and out into the snow for a moment, Karl worrying that they would investigate or spot something wrong, but at last they moved back to their own posts with a chuckle. ¡°If you do catch the bastard, make sure you give us a leg!¡±


    Karl sunk back into the doorway with relief, the dead body beneath his feet yet unnoticed.


    Once he was confident the other sentries were gone, he bent down and ruffled through the dead man¡¯s pockets. He found two loaded and one empty magazine for the machine pistol, as well as a stick grenade, all of which but the empty magazine he grabbed. He didn¡¯t want to imagine where the bullets from that magazine had been used.


    Moving back towards the trucks in the centre of town, he glanced over the status of the SS as they finished off the raid.


    Against him were perhaps four SS stormtroopers, maybe a fifth he couldn¡¯t see, elite troops all. He himself had two automatic weapons, one of which was part of the way out of ammunition, a pistol and the element of surprise. He would need to make all he could get of the tools he had available.


    He watched the SS climb into one of the trucks and raise the tailgate. It looked like they were planning to regroup and head out to the next town.


    Moving to the other side of the building, he spotted his target also climing into the other truck. In moments it may drive off with him aboard, and Karl would have missed his chance.


    The time for stealth was over. Karl stood straight and stepped out from the building, calling out to the SS.


    ¡°Sturmf¨¹hrer Weber?¡±


    Heads turned in the truck as they noticed Karl. Some of the soldiers started to reach for their weapons, recognising the threat. But before they could do anything the lieutenant responded to his name, with a ¡°Yes?¡±, and that was all the confirmation Karl needed.


    He fired the MP35 on full auto into the back of the truck until it was empty. The momentary spray of bullets tore through the cloth of the truck and the men inside, some ricocheting off its steel fuselage and sending burning sprays of metal shards into the occupants.


    Obersturmf¨¹hrer Manuel Weber took the brunt of the barrage, his body thrown back into the truck on top of his platoon¡¯s plunder by the riddling of bullets. One of his men was hit by a lucky shot to the face, slumping back in his seat.


    Karl dropped his empty weapon and ran before the counter-fire could begin, taking a zigzag course between the buildings as he headed out of town. He tried to avoid where he remembered the sentries had been, but he was relying as much on luck as memory to escape.


    Luck, however, had nothing to do with the SS response. As Karl rounded a corner, he was brought face to face with the gun barrels of three sentries staring him down.


    ¡°Stop there,¡± one of the soldiers said, and as he stepped forwards with his gun still trained on Karl¡¯s chest he recognised him as one of the two he had distracted with the story of the rabbit. ¡°Drop your weapon.¡±


    Karl had no choice but to comply, unslinging the MP40 from around his chest and letting it slip free as the three surrounded him. He dropped the grenade onto the snow with it.


    ¡°Pistol too.¡±


    Karl hesitated and was rewarded with a second round of barrels pointed into his body as another group of soldiers joined the scene. He reached down with two fingers and pulled the heirloom free from its holster, laying it on the firmest patch of snow he could find.


    ¡°Stand against the wall.¡±


    Karl complied and was rewarded with hands against his arms and heads pressing him flat against the freezing brick while another set of hands searched him.


    From what Karl could see, there were at least six soldiers around him with weapons drawn and another four searching him. More soldiers would show up as he waited, too, but he didn¡¯t have much chance to leave.


    Faced with no chance of escape, Karl could only hope that they wouldn¡¯t kill him straight away so he might have another chance to escape. He had just shot their officer and killed a tenth of their platoon, so they wouldn¡¯t be feeling favourable towards him, but if he was lucky they might try to question him rather than shoot him outright.


    If their stand-in leader, whoever that might be, knew what they were doing, that is.


    The searching hands finished their roam, pulling the few items they had found away from Karl¡¯s pockets. His compass, stolen identification tag, the keys to the door of the Volkswagen. All the magazines and ammo he was carrying. At least the iron cross wasn¡¯t with him, so they couldn¡¯t pick that up.


    ¡°Well?¡± asked a gruff voice behind him. ¡°What did you get?¡± Karl didn¡¯t dare to turn around and find out who was speaking.


    ¡°Not much,¡± a second voice said, this one younger. ¡°No more weapons. A compass, which is weird.¡±


    ¡°Is he partisan then? His Erkennungsmarke?¡±


    ¡°No, I didn¡¯t find any, so maybe a deserter. I did find this though.¡±


    There was a moment of silence then a whistle. ¡°Now where the hell did this come from?¡± the gruff voice asked. ¡°Oi, you,¡± accompanied by a prod to Oryl¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Who¡¯d you kill for this?¡±


    Oryl chose to remain silent, half because he was unable to think of a response which would help him and half because he could barely breathe with his face ground into the building.


    ¡°Not talking, huh? Do you even speak German?¡±


    ¡°Yes, he does,¡± one of the men holding Oryl said, shifting his grip on his left arm as he did so. ¡°He did fine before, anyway.¡±


    Karl heard the chain rattle as the new leader did something with the tag - put it in a pocket or threw it away, he wasn¡¯t sure. ¡°Well you¡¯ll have no need of this now. Anything else? Food or supplies? Anything else crazy?¡± Karl heard another rattling. ¡°Keys, eh? I wonder what treasure chest this one is keeping. Where¡¯s your hideout, huh?¡±


    ¡°Toropets,¡± Karl said, feeling that remaining mute wouldn¡¯t help him in their eyes but not willing to give information away either.


    ¡°No way, not with that many Germans around. Maybe that¡¯s where you deserted eh?¡±


    ¡°How did he know the Obersturmf¨¹hrer¡¯s name then?¡± a new voice asked from behind Karl, slower yet surer than the others.


    ¡°Good question. How did you know?¡±


    The focus had turned to Karl again. He wet his lips and considered his response. He couldn¡¯t tell them the truth, or could he? He outranked everyone here, but they had no reason to believe him, and he didn¡¯t want to give himself up if he wasn¡¯t forced to either.


    ¡°Not saying then? It¡¯s a shame, it would be helpful . I suppose finding a nest of partisans on our patrol and killing them will do for the report. Explains the villagers too. Men, back away. Give him some space.¡±


    The hands holding Karl let go and the owners of the arms stepped away. Karl massaged circulation back into his limbs, feeling his face to make sure his nose hadn¡¯t broken. It seemed they hadn¡¯t harmed him beyond repair.


    He started to turn around before being halted by the words of the commanding officer. ¡°Stop there. Take aim!¡±


    Karl froze as he felt the barrels of over a squad on his back. ¡°Can I turn around first at least?¡±


    He received no reply but ¡°Ready!¡±


    Darting his eyes from side to side, Karl took in the situation, ready to shout to them to stop. On his right side more troops were filing back, the first of those who had left to chase him earlier. On his left, one of the trucks had just rounded the corner, squeezing between the buildings to pick up the soldiers after he had been finished off.


    Seeing no alternative, Karl called out before he was gunned down. ¡°Wait! My name is¡­¡±


    He was interrupted by a roar of engines to the left as the truck began to gun it down the wide path between two groups of buildings. He turned his head to focus on it, but he wasn¡¯t admonished as the attention of the SS was no longer on him. They were focused on the man behind the wheel, a Russian deserter with an angry smile on his face.


    As Oryl barreled his truck down the pathway, a handful of the soldiers opened fire on him. He ducked behind the wheel as shots sparked off his engine and smashed his window into smithereens, but the truck still came on.


    With attention diverted away from him, Karl jumped into action. He grabbed his pistol and the grenade and dashed around the corner out of the way of the vehicle, shooting the two soldiers who had jumped the same way as him. He didn¡¯t bother with anything bigger, as it would just get in the way of him running.


    Behind he could hear shouts and thuds, the screeching of the car¡¯s wheels on ice, and gunshots from further down the path as the newly arrived soldiers added their fire to the assault on the truck in lieu of the soldiers now dodging out of the way or being run over.


    Karl sprinted and waded away from the conflict, expecting a bullet between his soldiers but happy to be proved wrong. He kept an eye on the town behind him in case of pursuit but the SS never seemed to recover their order to mount a pursuit for him besides a sweep of the town.


    The vehicle had gone down outside the south of town from the smoke, but it was also far enough away from town that Karl doubted the soldiers would be able to catch Oryl. He did take a detour in that direction though, keeping to the rule of never going straight to your destination, and sure enough was rewarded with a view of the stocky Russian wading his way through a snowbank in a gully, staying out of sight of the town as much as possible.


    Karl stepped up behind him, the Russian not noticing his presence until he clapped him on the back. The russian winced and stumbled forward in the snow, caught off guard.


    ¡°Thank you back there. You saved my life. Again.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you were completely in control.¡±


    Karl wasn¡¯t sure about how satire worked for Russians, but he was pretty sure that was a joke. More of one than he had ever seen out of the man, even if in his situation he didn¡¯t find it particularly funny.


    ¡°What happened to Veber?¡± Oryl asked after the moment of silence.


    ¡°I killed him,¡± Karl said.


    ¡°You did?¡±


    Karl eyed Oryl and noticed his hands balled into fists. ¡°I did. I didn¡¯t know where you were and I had to make sure.¡±


    Oryl¡¯s hands relaxed a notch. ¡°I suppose you did.¡±


    Karl stared up at the grey sky, dotted with flecks of blue, and shook his head clear. ¡°So that¡¯s it. What¡¯s next?¡±Oryl frowned. ¡°I should be asking you that question. Aren¡¯t you the one with a way out of here?¡±


    ¡°I wish,¡± Karl said. ¡°I have ideas, but no ways yet.¡±


    They passed out of the gully into an open field, the road stretching across their view up ahead. Karl could see the hood of the Volkswagen hidden behind a group of trees to their right.


    ¡°What was the saying again?¡± Karl asked. ¡°I will find a way, or make one?¡±¡°No idea,¡± Oryl said. ¡°Not something I would ever have heard before. I disagree, but I enjoy the idea.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like something you would say,¡± Karl said. ¡°But stick with me long enough, and you¡¯ll find that it works.¡±


    ¡°Or we¡¯ll find ourselves dead like you almost were today.¡±


    They reached the car and stood by the doors, exchanging some final words before departure.


    ¡°But I¡¯m alive, aren¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°Would you be alive if I wasn¡¯t here though?¡±


    Karl nodded. ¡°That¡¯s true. Perhaps we should change the saying then. I¡¯ll find a way, or you¡¯ll make one.¡±


    Oryl thought it through, an unwitting smile lighting up his face. ¡°I think I like that better.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of making ways, have you got anything to break a window?¡±


    ¡°Why would I need that?¡±


    Karl held up his empty hands. ¡°I think I lost the keys to those SS troopers.¡±


    As Oryl went to work on the driver seat window with the butt of his rifle, Karl gave their next moves some thought. With a quick detour, they could get back to Kholm and the remaining items in their supply cache. That would last them a while to plan their route away from Russia.


    And from there, anywhere.


    Sort of.