Casca 42: Barbarossa Read online

  She would have to get a transfer to that section, and the best way she could think up was to begin an affair with Hans, seduce him and then persuade him she was keen to work close to him. Hans was clearly interested in her, so the seduction wouldn’t necessarily be difficult. She would have to play on the role of wishing to be close to him because she loved him, but not be too cloying as that might drive him away. Wartime romances often happened through opportunity and fizzled out once one was posted away from the other. Then again one might be killed. These kind of romances tended to be very passionate and short-lived.

  She smiled; she was up to it. It was not as if she hadn’t done so before. It was just that playing with the SS or Gestapo was especially hazardous – they were as deadly as she was. Then she thought of why she was doing it and it was, to her mind, completely worth the risk. Casca Rufio Longinus, the founder of her family, and mystical figure. For hundreds of years her family, the Longini, had risked their very existence working in secret to undermine the efforts of the Brotherhood of the Lamb in finding and taking Casca captive.

  Now the Brotherhood were firmly embedded in the Nazi party, they were doubly dangerous, for they could order non-members to carry out their bidding, fanatics who believed they were doing so for the Party, or the Reich, or for Adolf Hitler, or maybe even just the Fatherland. The danger was to identify the Brotherhood members themselves. There was no way of knowing who they were, save for a small tattoo of a fish, the stylized early Christian symbol before it had been replaced by the crucifix. The tattoo could be anywhere on their body.

  She smiled again at the thought of looking for it on Hans Fuessl. He wasn’t unattractive, and seemed fit enough. She didn’t know, of course, whether he was a psychopath or such, but no doubt that would become clear sooner or later. She would give him the benefit of a really thorough physical search, while all the time she’d be checking to see if he was a member of the Brotherhood.

  Perhaps if she had been thorough enough, she might be able to persuade him to get her transferred to his office.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  An explosion rocked the panzer, shaking it to the core. Earth, stones and other detritus fountained skywards. “Gus, move it or we’re pieces of shrapnel!” Langer barked into his microphone.

  “On it already my petal,” Gus responded, heaving the levers mightily, swinging the panzer sharp right and urging the vehicle forward. The smell of burning permeated the shell of the tank, and two funeral pyres of their comrades blackened the sky.

  “Damn these T34s,” Langer snapped. “Teacher, do what you can!”

  Teacher peered through the sights and zeroed them onto one bulbous-turreted T34, spitting fire from across the river. “He’s too far for us to do any serious damage, Carl,” he commented, but all the same sent a shot at the Russian, smacking the shell into its wheels, dislodging the sprocket and sending the track vomiting forward to lie in an untidy heap ahead of the now stuck tank.

  “Nice shot – hopefully some Stuka will now send it to hell. Where’s the rest of the bastards?”

  “Retreating,” Felix observed, squinting through his eyepiece. “Our guns have made a mess of their formation.”

  “Not before they made a mess of ours,” Langer replied grimly. “Gus, watch that crippled T34 – it’s still capable of blowing us to pieces.”

  “I’m watching it. Felix, keep an eye ahead for any other nasty surprises.” Gus wheeled the panzer again and clattered the armored beast onto the bridge over the Dnieper. The Russian sappers who had been trying to finalize the demolition charges lay in bloodied heaps across the span. The river was surprisingly in spate, 800 meters wide, and the immense bridge had been intact when they had arrived, much to their amazement.

  The Soviet teams trying to correct that had been the first to be wiped away, then had come the exchange between the two tank regiments. Langer was thankful that the enemy had only a handful of the T34s – if they had been totally made up of that model, then it was doubtful they could have gotten anywhere near the bridge.

  The damaged T34’s turret began turning. Langer snapped an order into the microphone and Gus gave it everything, boring across over all in his path, rubble, bodies, equipment, wires. It still wasn’t entirely sure that the charges were harmless – someone over the far side might even now be fixing the wires into the detonating switch. The thought sent cold shivers down Langer’s spine.

  The 76mm gun on the T34 spat at them, smashing a shot into the iron grillwork on the bridge, sending red hot shards spinning through the air, rattling on the flank of the panzer. “Teacher, hit it – I don’t give a shit whether it bounces off or vanishes up their commander’s ass.”

  Teacher snapped his fingers and Steffan slammed the next AP shell into the breech. Teacher held his breath and timed it so they had just cleared a strut before squeezing the trigger. The bark of the shot echoed round the tank and the empty case was ejected along with a fair amount of smoke.

  Langer could see the impact of the shot, against the T34s hull. The sloped design sent the shell up and over the turret. He cursed. It was perhaps four hundred meters off to their left, on the far bank. “We need to be up its ass, damn it!”

  Gus roared a warning. Ahead a squad of support troops appeared from their foxholes, grenades and anti-tank charges in their hands. Felix swung his machine-gun and sprayed the air before them, bullets striking the end of the bridge, the ground and the Soviet soldiers, sending them spinning and toppling. Two dived into cover and the machine-gun couldn’t seek out their soft flesh.

  Another T34 shell smashed into the bridge, sending pieces of it spinning lazily up into the air. From the western bank more German guns were now zeroing in on the lone Russian, sending explosions up all round. With a spectacular roar, the turret suddenly lifted up on a pillar of flame and cartwheeled lazily in the air before striking the ground twenty meters from the hull.

  “Christ,” Teacher said with feeling, “those poor bastards!”

  “Don’t waste your pity on them, Teacher,” Langer said, looking left and right as he spoke. “They were trying to blow us to pieces. Gus, run that little shit over, the one with the bag of grenades!”

  Gus drove hard, the panzer emerging from the bridge and spun hard left, closing in hard on a Russian who was desperately arming an egg-type grenade, kneeling in a shallow foxhole. As Gus got to him a grenade looped up into the air. The Russian screamed in terror before his sound was abruptly cut as one track squashed him to a pulp.

  The grenade exploded above them, sending pieces of shrapnel against the turret, playing a macabre beat above their heads.

  “Where’s the other one, Gus, Felix?”

  The men looked each way they could through their sights. Nobody could see anything. Langer cursed and snapped to Gus to get going. The next moment a huge explosion rocked them and the tank span sideways. A smell of burning came to them all.

  “Out! Out! We’re stuck!” Langer ordered, grabbing his MP40 and a couple of spare clips from its grips against the turret behind him. The others grabbed their hand weapons too before throwing open the hatches. The smell of burning was getting worse and smoke was beginning to rise above them.

  Langer thrust himself up into the open air and twisted hard, throwing himself off the top. He had no wish to be a sitting duck atop the turret. His fall was cushioned by the dirt that had been thrown up by the Soviets in a loose breastwork, and he ended up on his belly, MP40 ready, while the others jumped down and scattered.

  Bullets came at them from ahead and to the right. Gus ended up next to Langer, chewing on a sausage. “What – Gus! No time for that now!” Langer exclaimed.

  “I’m not leaving this for the damned Reds, Carl. Not after taking the trouble to cook them, you know.”

  “Any idea who got us and where he is now?” Langer asked, looking round. He saw Steffan and Teacher plunge into a foxhole, rifles in hand. “Where’s Felix?”

  “Here,” Felix answered, his head popping up on the othe
r side of the stricken tank. “I’ve got a present, too,” he added and tossed a heavy object up into the air. The sneering head of a Russian landed with a soggy thud on the ground, the neck neatly severed.

  “If you think that’s going to put me off my sausage, Felix, then you’re sadly mistaken,” Gus grinned. “Nice work, my friend.”

  “Thanks,” Felix said, ducking as a bullet spat close to his head. “The swine was trying to arm another of his bombs to blow you to bits. Thought he could do with stopping.”

  “Keep down, everyone, we’re right out in an exposed position here.” Langer looked at the panzer. “How bad’s the tank, Gus?”

  “Poor little thing is in a bad way – but the panzer doctors will give it a proper examination and bring life back to where there is none,” the big German nodded sagely.

  “Which means, you great lump?”

  “Which means, Carl, that it’s not fit for human occupation. The term is, I believe, fucked.”

  “Doubt you’ll find that in any army engineer’s manual. You think it’s fixable?”

  “Sure – a bit of tender loving care and it’ll be as good as new, or maybe not as new but useable. I won’t want to lose my pot, anyway.”

  They all ducked as a burst from a nearby machine-gun peppered the tank and the ground close by. Someone was trying to finish them off. From the other bank the German artillery was shooting hard and fast, trying to suppress the Soviet infantry which was now creeping forward. More tanks were coming across the bridge and attracting shots from the anti-tank guns the Russians still possessed. Their armor had been obliterated but now it was going to be a case of trying to knock the enemy out of the way who were beginning to pick off the panzers one by one.

  “Come on,” Langer urged his four men. “While Ivan is occupied with our other panzers, let’s take that big trench there,” he nodded to the left, closer to the burning wreck of the T34. There was an empty-looking trench running parallel to the river, and Langer decided it was a better place to fight off the coming counter-attack than the shallow foxholes by the bridge.

  “Follow me,” he said, scrambling up out of the foxhole and scuttling in a zig-zag pattern to the trench, diving in as a couple of rifle shots cracked past his head. He tumbled to the bottom and came face to face with the gaping, bloodied visage of a dead Russian, lying in the bottom of the trench, a bullet hole in his throat.

  Cursing, he pushed himself to the top of the trench and peered over the top. A squad of Russians were gathering fifty meters away, listening to the exhortations of a green-flashed NKVD political commissar, telling them to go kill the filthy fascists for Mother Russia or get a bullet in the back of the neck. If communist ideology doesn’t get them enthusiastic, then the prospect of a summary execution there and then would, Langer mused sardonically. He checked on his four comrades who were all getting themselves ready alongside. Gus was muttering to himself, working the bolt on his rifle. Felix had his rifle and a bloodied knife ready, while Steffan had an entrenching tool in his hands.

  “Where’s your rifle, Steffan?”

  “Dropped it back there,” the loader said apologetically. “Fell over and nearly got shot – so I got here as fast as I could!”

  Langer grunted. There wasn’t much else to be said. Teacher worked a round into his rifle thoughtfully. “Fancy being taken prisoner, Carl?”

  “Not really – I doubt they’re in the mood anyway,” Langer said, nodding at the knot of Russians who were preparing to charge them, gathering at the lip of their trench. “Take as many of them out as you can – we’ll take one charge but I don’t think we can hold them off for long.”

  “Here they come, bless their hearts,” Gus said, levelling his rifle.

  Langer pressed his left knee into the side of the trench and let loose with a long burst of his MP40, cutting down five. The click of the bolt told him the magazine was empty. Gus blew another back with a shot to the chest and Teacher cut one down with a gut shot. The Russian rolled to the ground screaming in agony. Felix took out another but then the Soviets were on them, screaming wildly. Langer reached up and helped the first to get to him over his head, sending him arcing with arms and legs flailing wildly to crash against the other side of the trench. Langer pulled out his knife and stabbed hard into the man’s kidneys, pinning him hard to the moist earth, holding the writhing man, looking round to see where the next danger was coming from.

  A soldier with a rifle and long bayonet. The man had evaded Felix’s spade slash and was coming right for Langer, murderous intent written across his face. Langer had a brief flashback to a fight in a trench outside Petersburg in 1864, then snapped back to reality and dodged the lunge. The bayonet sank into the back of the luckless man Langer had stabbed. Now the Russian was temporarily helpless and Langer sent a vicious blow across the young man’s throat, feeling something give way. A second strike, under the breastbone, send the Russian sinking to the ground, choking on blood.

  The trench was a mass of bodies, but Langer had no time to see what was going on, although he was aware of Gus crushing two men’s heads together. Another Russian was swinging on him, his rifle coming up to shoot. Langer dodged left then swung his arm up, knocking the barrel up. The shot, intended for him, spat through the sky harmlessly. Langer was merciless. One punch connected with the soldier’s jaw, then the other fist went into his guts. The man keeled over, trying not to vomit, so Langer pushed him hard to the ground and stamped on the back of his head as hard as he could, the hobnails of his boot making a mess of the skin and hair.

  He turned, pulled his knife out of the body of the first man, and faced yet another opponent, a man who had jumped into the trench quickly. It seemed those at the lip of the trench were now getting hit by the infantry coming across the bridge in the wake of the panzers.

  The Russian lunged but the bayonet passed by Langer’s chest as the eternal mercenary twisted and his blow came up from low, sinking in under the ribcage and finding the heart. The Russian was dead before he hit the ground. Suddenly there were no more enemy soldiers, save those dead or dying in the bottom of the trench. Langer, bloodied blade in hand, slowly turned full circle. Gus was wiping his bayonet on a dead Soviet lieutenant’s sleeve, while Steffan was kneeling, white as a sheet, trying to pull his shovel out of the throat of another Russian who was still gripping Steffan’s jacket in his death throes.

  Teacher was picking up his rifle, sliding his knife into its sheath, a weary look to his face, while Felix was leaning against the side of the trench, gulping in huge breaths of air, two men lying at his feet.

  The sound of clattering tracks filled the air and the eternal mercenary glanced up to see a column of panzer IIIs and IVs passing by, supporting infantry close behind. Men were scuttling into cover, including the trench, and shots still came their way.

  “You men there, stay where you are until Hauptmann Heidemann calls for you,” a lieutenant snapped, gripping his MP40, pointing straight at Langer.

  Langer saluted, blood dripping from his hand. He grimaced and wiped it on the soil. “Everyone alright?” he queried.

  “Yes,” Gus said, checking the corpses. “You know, I might start a business selling on souvenirs from the battlefield if this keeps up.” He lifted a gold cigarette case from the dead lieutenant and shook it. He flipped it open to reveal five roll-ups. “Not bad,” he said, slipping the case into a pocket.

  Teacher shook his head and sat down, looking up at Langer. “This is all madness, you know, Carl. Where will this all end?”

  “Who knows, Teacher? Would you want Stalin to win this war?”

  “I don’t know,” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “I certainly don’t want Hitler to.”

  Langer grunted non-committedly. “Perhaps we’ll bleed each other white and let the British and French in?”

  Teacher made a rude noise. “Now you’ve depressed me.”

  Langer grinned and checked on the others, making sure they were alright after the brutal fight. The Soviets
were retreating in the face of superior forces, and it wasn’t long before Langer and the four others were sent for, back across the river on the outskirts of a burning Rogachev. Heidemann was sat on a crate, sipping from his mug, sweat and dirt on his face. He looked tired. “Ah, there you are. The war is such that I’m forced to be happy at the sight of you – would you believe that? We are down to 35% of our panzers. I am still getting orders to push on, push on! It’s unbelievable, I tell you.”

  Langer passed Heidemann a cigarette and the captain nodded gratefully, lighting up and sucking in the fumes, closing his eyes in momentary pleasure. “Guderian is riding von Schweppenburg hard, urging greater efforts to move forward. At this rate we’re going to leave all infantry support behind and get ourselves stuck out on a limb.”

  “With the number of panzers we’re losing, sir, I doubt we’ll be able to continue for long.”

  “At the speed we’re using petrol we’ll be stuck here for days! Just the thing to get some of the tanks repaired,” he winked at Langer. “So, two days to rest up, get the panzers fixed, get us to something like operational strength and then we resume. Your panzer will be patched up. In the meantime, you’re to get out of my sight and take your ape into town before he devours the entire regiment’s food supply.”

  Langer nodded and saluted. “Message received and understood. Twenty-four hour passes sir?”

  “I’ve already signed them. Get them from Meissner there,” he waved at one of his headquarter staff, standing rigidly a few yards away, a folder under his armpit. “We wouldn’t want an incident in town, would we?”

  “No sir, we’d need headhunters in one piece to arrest the right people.”