Civilian Slaughter (18 page)

“Hope you don't miss the party. I tell you what, if you do, Petrov, I’ll take care of the plump ones and I’ll cut out the piece you like and throw it up to you.”

Taking out his bottle, he hoisted it in mock salute and staggered inside, trying to stifle a burp. He paused in the doorway, and shouted to a junior sergeant trying to look busy with a clip-board.

“Let me know as soon as the trucks return with those refugees, I mean our guests. This time I want first pick. Oh, I do love a good party.”

The three vehicles stopped well within the border of the woods and dropped off the pioneers with their stores. Revell slid down from the roof of the APC with them and walked to the Toyota pick-up.

Carrington wound down the window. “Something the matter, Major?” “No, everything is running smoothly. Remember to keep in close behind me. We're not supposed to be an army unit so let's not make ourselves conspicuous by imposing convoy discipline. If shooting starts before we get in among them, then abandon this wagon and grab on to the nearest APC. If we do make it, you know what to do.”

“Sure do.”
Revell went back to the lead APC. Andrea was arranging herself on the roof, sitting with her legs spread wide, one knee drawn up.

Putting her hands under breasts she bounced them up and down. “Will this do, Major?”

“Yes.” Revell had to brush past her to reboard, and caught a hint of perfume. He couldn't be sure if it was hers or if it was from inside the APC, which still reeked of it.

The pioneers were already at work, emplacing off-road mines and other automatic devices.

Revell gauged the position of the sun, made calculations as to how long it would be before it touched the surrounding wooded hills. He thought of Clarence. The sniper had been ready and waiting for several hours. He too would be trying to judge the sun's height above the ridges. Inevitably he would be carrying out last checks on checks he had already made.

“OK, mount up. All hatches closed but not locked,” Revell looked at Andrea. “Best keep yours open. You might need to take cover quickly if they rumble us.”

“I can take care of myself, Major.”
He thought of what he had seen in the woods, when he'd followed her, hoping to talk. “I know you can, and do.”

“Comrade Colonel. The trucks have returned.” It took Tarkovski several seconds to absorb and understand the announcement. Shit! He hadn't meant to drink so much today.

He leaned over the side of the bed and shoved his fingers down his throat. The stinging bite of the vomit helped bring him around. A flask of water emptied over his head and a gargle with brandy assisted. Drying his face and hair, he went to the door.

“Where the hell are they?” Tarkovski blinked, dazzled by the sun, now very low in the sky. “Am I supposed to play hide and seek?”

“They are over by their compound, Comrade Colonel.” The junior sergeant had to keep ducking and weaving to keep in front of the staggering officer.

“What the hell are they doing all the way over there. Is the party to be at their place? And stay still, you shit. Where are you?”

Another stagger disoriented Tarkovski and he turned a complete circle to face the sergeant once more.

“There you are. Stay there. Now, without indulging in any more shadow boxing. Where are the refugees?”

“By their compound, Colonel. They are still aboard their transport.” “Oh brilliant. Watch my lips, you shit. Why are they all the way over there while I am waiting for them here,” he raised his voice to a scream, “like a fucking spare prick at a wedding.”

“The drivers say they have been aboard all day and they smell...” “You are as much use as a cock on a priest. Stick your nose in there.” With a hefty shove he sent the NCO reeling into the farmhouse doorway.

He jumped back out as if propelled by a physical force, retched violently and then puked.

“And you think I'll be bothered by the fucking smell. On the double, get them over here.”

“Comrade Colonel, Comrade Colonel!”
“Stop screeching, what's the excitement?” A battalion cook came racing around the corner of the building. His paunch wobbled as he ran and his apron flapped tight against his legs. “Coming across the fields Comrade Colonel, it's coming across the fields!”

Unable to get more sense from the man, Tarkovski thrust the cook aside and went out onto the roadway. He was not the first there, and had to elbow his way through a fast-growing crowd to see what was happening.

“Ah, yes. Now this will be much better than a load of stinking skinny civilians.” Eyes lit up in happy anticipation, Tarkovski watched the pair of personnel carriers and their accompanying vehicle labouring toward them over the badly potholed asphalt surface.

His men were obviously of the same opinion. The arrival of the closed trucks, packed with the wretched humanity of the camps, had aroused minimal interest, and no enthusiasm. These brightly coloured APCs were a different matter entirely. As the little column drove nearer, some of the waiting men were running backward and forward in excitement.

A woman riding on top of the lead transport waved energetically. She got a thunderous response from the fast growing mob milling about in the road.

Tarkovski shook his head, to try to clear it. This was no time to be drunk, well not yet. Why had he started so early, damn it. Although he'd never seen it for himself, he knew of Frau Lilly's travelling brothel by reputation.

It had only a couple of hundred meters to go. The colonel shaded his eyes with his hand. Behind the APCs the sun was low and bright, it made their garish pink paintwork glisten.

Very pretty, very colourful, Tarkovski thought. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Fuck the drink. The spirits he'd drunk that day were still clogging his brain. He was trying to grasp the significance of an important fact, but it continued to elude him.

Shit, it couldn't be that important. Tonight they'd have real party, and later on he'd get one of the girls alone. It would have to be one with great big udders. And when he'd got her alone and had what he wanted, he'd get that present for Petrov.

TWENTY FIVE
The mass of men were starting to surge forward, impatient at the APC's slow progress. First to reach it, only yards ahead of the rest, a lieutenant leaped for the side of the moving vehicle. He grabbed hold, then lost it and rolled off. As he went down his uniform glistened brightly.

Tarkovski saw, and his brain made the final connection of what he had been trying to understand.

“The paint is wet, the paint is wet!” Left on his own in the middle of the road, he screamed after his men, now jubilantly crowding about the lead personnel carrier. “Run, get away!”

At least two thirds of his battalion were packing themselves about the eight wheeler. Above their shouting and whistling he couldn't make himself heard or understood.

Mad with frustration and rage he looked to the gun emplacement. The gunners were searching for a way down. He waved them back.

“Petrov, you bastard. Stay where you are, open fire, you shit! Open fire!” Tarkovski tore his hair and whirled to look at the clusters of men now about both of the APCs. The third vehicle seemed to have gone. On the roof the gunners still stood in indecision. At the top of his voice the colonel ranted at them, spittle shooting from his mouth.

“Open up on them. Fire, you shits, fucking well fire!” The girl stood up, swaying enticingly, then she reached in among the litter of parcels on the roof and tossed two small black objects into the crowd. At the same instant she dropped from sight through the open hatch.

In the crowd there was a confused tangle of movement. Men who had recognized what was thrown panicked to get clear. Others who wanted to see what it was pressed forward and pinned them against the sides of the hull.

Either side of the APC there were eruptions of flame and smoke and blood. An arm spun through the air and screams drowned the sounds of the engines.

Every hatch aboard both transports clanged back and above every one appeared a rifle, grenade launcher or machine gun. 

Chunks of flesh jumped from the crowd as bullets smashed into and through them. A mist of blood hung over the scene as the heavier turret-mounted weapons joined in.

Frozen for a moment, the flak gunners grabbed at the netting over their twin- mount and began to roll it back. Petrov was throwing himself into the gunner's seat when his face was pulped and the back of his head blasted away in a single concave bowl of bone.

Tarkovski hardly saw the body that toppled past him to land with a sickening squelch on the cobbles, destroying the last of the skull.

The ladder slipped as he climbed and he had no time for obscenities as he smacked to the ground beside the corpse. Above him there was a drawn out scream and a jet of blood hosed out in a wide arc. A body flopped across the edge of the roof, an arm and leg and several yards of intestines dangling over the side. Blood and filth ran down the wall.

In swift succession came the familiar sounds of armour-piercing rounds punching through metal. Pushing himself to his feet Tarkovski hoped they were striking the slaughtering APCs, but the fire they started was above him as ready- use ammunition was ignited.

Moving steadily forward, the weapons aboard the APCs were hosing non-stop streams of tracer and grenades into every building and corner.

Two men ran for cover behind the field car. The vehicle seemed to jump and disintegrate in front of his eyes as it was hit by several converging streams of automatic fire.

Taking a last look around, Tarkovski could see no fire being returned. Yelling curses, he ran for the farmhouse door. He was no longer drunk. He passed the truck he'd noticed earlier. This time, though, he paid it no attention, assuming it had stalled alongside the building.

A grenade detonated on the cobbles as he threw himself behind the blast wall. There was a searing pain in his leg, and then he was in cover. When he tried to stand the limb collapsed under him, and he experienced the pain afresh. It was broken, he knew without looking.

Dragging himself, he secured the door and then crawled across to the table. It took a strength-sapping effort but he managed to reach up and grasp the holster on top, then collapsed back in agony. Every movement brought new experiences in pain.

A piece of the top of his boot had been driven into the hole in his calf. On the other side of the leg the leather bulged and blood welled sluggishly every time he moved. The large fragment that had struck him had passed almost from one side of the limb to the other. On the way it had snapped the bone, and driven at least a part of it out through the flesh on the far side. That was what was beneath the bulge.

In the farmhouse the sounds of battle were far less distinct. Not that he could call it a battle. It was too one-sided for that. His men had galloped cheerfully, deliriously, happily to their own bloody execution.

There was nothing to be salvaged but his life. He'd kept that this long, he wasn't about to lose it now. He'd cheated the firing squad once, the hangman twice. This could not be any more difficult than that. First he had to find a place to hide.

There had been no resistance. Revell had thought that once he had heard a bullet skim past, but he could have been mistaken, or it could have been a spent round that had ricocheted from one of the metal-clad barns or silos.

Several of the outer buildings were alight. A huge barn was billowing vast quantities of smoke that was fortunately blowing away from them on the light breeze.

The whole area of the road and courtyard resembled a charnel pit. At least two hundred bodies littered the ground. Many of them, victims of grenades or multiple impacts, were flayed or even totally dismembered. Every wheel on the APC was smothered in a red slush.

Blood also spattered the armour. Carrington sprinted from the cover of a silo, his progress slowed when he slipped and rolled through the worst of the mess. He scrambled aboard, his hands feet and clothes daubing more gore on the sticky paint.

“It's set. Five minutes. I'd have been back sooner but there was stuff bouncing all over the place out there.”

The turret gun blasted off behind Revell and punished his ears. Derelict machinery in an open front tractor shed sparkled as the bullets struck sparks from it. A body flopped down from the rafters, and a full burst into the roof brought down three more and started a fire among the shattered timber.

An anti-tank rocket soared from the corner of a much-holed barn. Revell just had time to duck before it struck. It impacted low on the hull, aft of the front wheel. The heat round blasted its jet of molten explosive into a box of reactive armour. With a roar the defensive charge exploded and disrupted the plasma stream, showering droplets of white hot material over the nearby bodies.

“It's OK, we just lost a wheel, we've plenty more.” Revell acted fast to prevent a bail-out as the interior filled with smoke.

“It's buggered the power steering as well.” Burke had to wrench hard at the wheel to get the ten-and-a-half tons of armoured vehicle turning.

“Where's Hyde?” Finding the single periscope in the commander's hatch gave him virtually no vision closed down, Revell opened up and put his head out.

“He's off to our left. Looks like he's fine.” Dooley had spotted the sergeant's eight-wheeler first, through the turret machine gun sight. “What the hell. Doesn't he know he's being followed?”

“Get us over there fast.”
Holding on tight, Revell tried to see through the thickly swirling smoke as they bounced and jolted over a corner of what had been a deeply ploughed field.

As they came alongside, Revell hailed his NCO. “This is a raid, not a looting expedition. Get your men out of those trucks.”

Hyde shook his head. “No, it's refugees, hundreds of them. I've got another fifteen jammed inside here. Looks like the KGB were getting set to do another massacre.”

“Let's move then. We've done all the damage we can.” A burst of machine gun fire raked the tall grass between the vehicles. Both turrets traversed and poured a barrage into the barn from which the rocket had come. Grenades burst flame and fragments against the structure, while the dashes of green tracer punched in through the thin walls.