The Fall of America: Winter Ops (10 page)

BOOK: The Fall of America: Winter Ops
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“Not, not really, because I have never done the job.  I suspect how they die determines how much time it takes.  Shooting is quickest, but what do you suggest?”

“I suggest a mixture of shooting and hanging. Take, let us say, half the group to hang and the other half to shoot. The hanging victims can be loaded on flatbed trucks, ropes thrown over telephone poles, limbs on trees, light posts, and then pushed off a truck. No need to wait and watch the victim die, just shove them from the truck and move on.

For the shooting, place the victims in an open field and position tanks at the corners. Bullets from our machine-gun crews will bounce off the armor of the tank, but kill anyone in the field.  Any that the machine-gun crews miss, the tank machine-gunner can take out in seconds. Send them out to the field a hundred at a time.”

Captain Pasha Blinov said, “That is nothing but murder.”

“This is war, sir,” Senior Sergeant Silin said and then added, “and reprisals are part of the game.”

“Game?”
the Captain almost yelled, “Damn it, Sergeant, it is cold-blooded murder in my book.”

A Private stuck his head in the smoke-filled room and said, “A patrol just discovered the remains of six of our troops, all burned to death with petrol. They found the empty petrol containers.”

Lieutenant Colonel Vasiliev smiled and said, “Captain, I want you and Senior Sergeant Silin to go and recover the bodies.  Private, radio the patrol leader that we are coming to recover the remains. I think, Pasha, you will see shortly why we 'murder' Americans.  Now, Silin, gather your men and tell the motor pool to give you the number of vehicles you think are needed.  If you have any problems, let me know. Pasha, you go with him and watch a true professional in this man's army, and learn, my dear Captain.”

The recovery convoy left Edwards two hours later, just as the Lieutenant Colonel had the first 100 of the soon to be murdered people pulled from the gulag. There were five vehicles in the group, plus two motorcycles, who rode in the front and rear of the trucks. The ride was short, less than five miles, and from the road they could see the bodies tied to the posts.  

Jumping from the cargo truck, Senior Sergeant Silin yelled, “Watch for trip wires and mines.  It is very likely they have mines planted near the bodies.”  

A Sergeant neared, the squad leader of the unit that found the dead, and said, “We have not gone near the bodies, because our mine detector is not working properly.” He then noticed Captain Blinov and saluted.

“How do you know they are our men then?”  the Captain asked, his hands on his hips.

“With my binoculars, I spotted bits and pieces of Russian clothing on the ground.  I spotted a forage cap, a helmet, and even a shirt. I know partisans could have left the gear, but that is not likely, so I assumed the men are ours.”

“Maybe they are traitors and were executed.”  the Captain said.

“Sir, with all due respect, but partisans usually hang or shoot traitors.  Also there looks to be a poster or something nailed to a tree near the bodies.  No, those poor dead bastards are Russians, sir.”

“Senior Sergeant, take charge of the men and recover the bodies. I am sure the graves registration unit will identify them.”

Silin snapped to attention, saluted and then yelled, “Men, form on me and step where I step. Look for tripwires and any discoloration in the grasses or soil.”  He then started for the hill, with a squad of ten men behind him.

Near the top of the hill, the Senior Sergeant said, “Wait for me as I check for mines or booby-traps.”  He then moved forward, found nothing and ten minutes later, waved his men forward.  

The stench was horrible and even in the cold weather it was overpowering up close to the bodies.  Each man's head was back, mouth open, and all of their fingers were crooked, like claws.  A new man, Sergeant Avilov, took one look, inhaled the foul odor and stepped to the side to puke.

“Sergeant, get back here becau—”  Senior Sergeant Silin warned.

There sounded a loud noise, like a shotgun blast and Avilov, was knocked to the ground as blood spurted from his groin and thigh.  He screamed, grabbed at his injury and thrashed madly in the grasses.

The medic ran for the downed man, even as Silin shouted a warning, and a few seconds later a wall of flame shot up as a pressure detonating mine exploded.  The medic all but disappeared with his legs and arms, as well as his head, gone. A maimed torso was all that remained, and it was smoking.

“No one move!”  the Senior Sergeant yelled. Avilov was still screaming as blood spurted from between his fingers and pooled on the ground under him. His back was arched and he was shrieking continuously.

Ten minutes passed as everyone stood in place and then the Sergeant said, “I am going to check the pole around each body for booby-traps, recover Avilov, and then we will carry the bodies to the trucks. I want none of you to move until I give the word.” The Sergeant then moved to the first pole and it was clean. He was near the third before he saw shotgun shell buried in the soil.  He knew the primer of the shell was resting on a nail, and as Avilov had discovered, the detonation often caused serious injury and blood loss. Using his bayonet, he dug the shell up and tossed it aside.  At the fourth and fifth poles he found more shotgun shells and dug each up.  The smell of the bodies was getting to him, so he stepped back.

There was a split second, just a small flash of time, when he realized he'd just made a terrible blunder.  He felt the light fishing line on his boot grow tight, knew it was a booby-trap, and also knew he was a dead man.
Oh, I just made a very stupid mistake
, was the last thing Senior Sergeant Silin thought before the Russian MON-50 mine blew him apart.

When the red dust and smoke cleared, very little remained of the six burned bodies, or the ten men who were sent to retrieve them.  Arms, legs, and heads were scattered over the knoll and Sergeant Avilov was no longer screaming, because the blast had caught him in the face. An eerie silence filled the air.

Down by the road, Captain Blinov was in shock, until the patrol leader said, “Sir, I have called the explosion in to headquarters and they have ordered all of us to look for survivors.”

“Yes, uh, of course, Sergeant, so lead the way. Once near the explosion, secure the area.”

“Yes, sir.  Let us move, men. The sooner we recover what we can, the sooner we will return to base.  I need three men to stay here and help the truck drivers provide security for the vehicles.  Private, bring the radio and stay by my side.”

“I will be within an arms reach.”  the tall lanky Private said.

At the top, there was nothing really to recover.  Body parts were gathered and placed in body bags, except it was impossible to tell which arm went with which leg, so they filled three body bags and then moved back to the trucks. Once at the vehicles, the Captain walked from the men and puked a few times. He was looking pale when the squad leader said, “Sir, Headquarters wants us on the road as soon as possible.  It seems we suffered a number of terrorist attacks on small patrols last night and we have another forty to fifty dead.  The exact words from Lieutenant Colonel Vasiliev are, 'return here and now.'”

“Let us leave immediately then.”

Walking to the motorcycle in front, the squad leader gave the order, and within just a few minutes the convoy was returning to Edwards. The Captain was a changed man, only he didn't realize it yet.  He would no longer question the executions of Americans and a small seed of hate had actually been planted in his mind.  As the big truck bounced and shook as it moved over the highway, his mouth grew tight and his eyes narrowed, as he remembered the bloody Russian bodies.  Captain Blinov was learning to hate Americans.

As the trucks entered the small town of Edwards, machine-gun fire was heard and the convoy contacted Headquarters by radio. Captain Blinov grew anxious at the sound and slowed the vehicles down to about half their normal speed.

“Sir!” the radioman, a Private, said.

“What do they want us to do?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Vasiliev has ordered the trucks be returned immediately to assist in transporting more prisoners from the gulag. He wants the remains taken by one truck, dropped off at the hospital, and then it needs to join us at the gulag.”

“What did he say of the gunfire we hear?”

“It is the reprisals he has ordered.”

“Tell him I will obey his orders and will be with the trucks at the gulag.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they rolled down the streets in town, the Captain noticed ropes hanging from telephone poles, light poles, and tree limbs, on both sides of the street. Near the center of town, he had his driver stop as two long trucks with flat beds had Russian soldiers placing nooses around the necks of the prisoners. He expected the Americans to be screaming or crying, but most were not.  Each male prisoner fought hard to avoid the noose, except it did them little good. Once all were ready, the condemned were given a minute to pray.  One man, a tall lanky man on the end of the first truck began to yell, “I pledge allegiance to the Flag, of the United States of Amer—”

 “Driver, go now!” a Senior Sergeant on the vehicle yelled and banged on the side of the truck. The vehicle shot forward and the victims were left dancing madly on their ropes.  

The man on the end met the eyes of Captain Blinov and the officer felt a chill run down his spine.  As the lanky man was dancing as he gasped for breath, the short fall not breaking his neck, and his eyes were huge.  As the man's face turned deep crimson, the Captain thought,
What kind of people are these Americans?  Do they not fear death like most people?  Why was he pledging allegiance to a flag that is no more?  I do not understand this.

“Sir,” the radioman interrupted his thoughts and said, “the Colonel wants to know your estimated time of arrival. What should I tell him?”

“Driver, go on. Tell the Colonel the roads are filled with the hanging crews and I expect to be at the gulag within seven or eight minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

The squad leader, who was seated beside the Captain said, “It is always the same with these Americans when we execute them.”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“They are defiant to the very end, sir.  The tall man back there was actually pledging allegiance to the flag of a country that no longer exists. I could be here a hundred years and not understand these people. Do they not fear the might of the Russian army?”

“He was a fool and now he is a dead fool, Sergeant.”

“Maybe they are determined to beat us, sir.”

“They cannot force the Russian army to run, because we are too powerful. How do they think they can make us leave with our tails between our legs?”

“I know little of Americans, except I do not care much for them.” the Sergeant said.

“Many will die as they resist our power.” the Captain replied and pulled a small metal flask of vodka from his coat pocket.  Taking a drink, he handed the container to the Sergeant.

“I neither like or dislike them individually, sir, it is that I do not understand them. We are the ruling authority over the whole land and yet they fight us. Why? Have they no respect or fear of authority?  They must know they cannot win in the end.”

“I am just a soldier, Sergeant, like you, and follow orders.  I suggest you leave the heavy thinking to those appointed over you and worry about the welfare of your men.  I think you have enough to keep you busy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The ride was quiet the remainder of the trip to Edwards where the Captain stopped the convoy, sent the bodies to the hospital, and then led the other trucks to the gulag. As he rode, he kept hearing the voice of the tall lanky man on the flatbed truck pledging allegiance to a country that for all practical purposes, was no more.

CHAPTER 7

K
err and I moved from the fire and blended into the bushes around our small camp.  We'd both heard something, but exactly what I couldn't say.  We waited; as we did so, I watched the snow fall.  The flakes were small and I figured by morning, if it snowed all night, we might have half of an inch on the ground.

Silence.

After about thirty minutes two filthy looking men with beards walked into our camp and then scanned the area. One was tall, well over six feet, while the other was of average height, but both were thin. The short man picked up an empty Russian ration can, ran his finger along the inside and then licked it clean.

“I'm tellin' ya, I saw a couple of men here a few minutes ago.”

Neither man was well armed, with one carrying an ax and other armed with what looked like an old .22 caliber pistol stuck in his waistband.  

“They left their packs and I saw two, so they've not gone far.”

Gripping his ax tighter and with both hands, the short man said, “They might be watching us right now.”

“Uh-huh, I suspect they are, too.”

The short man called out in a low voice, “If ya hear me, we mean ya no harm. We saw your fire and we're hungry.”

“Who are you?”  I asked as I carefully watched the men.  If they started going through our packs, I'd shoot to kill.

BOOK: The Fall of America: Winter Ops
2.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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