July 13th, 1940 (cont.)
Viktor waved away the last prisoner, and his men obliged, leading the fellow off to a designated truck. He sighed and sank onto the ground, knowing the adrenaline had ebbed out of him, then ducked his head and closed his eyes. When Viktor opened them, he saw his orderly, quick with the offer of a cigarette and a light. He accepted it and absently puffed heavily, waiting for the nicotine to give him some help.
“Did he confirm the other’s story?” his XO asked.
“Not in so many words,” Viktor replied. His XO didn’t speak Russian; there was no point telling him the details of the man’s evasiveness. “-but, effectively, yes. Still no word from Division?”
“No, sir.” Viktor swore, but only half-heartedly. He hadn’t really expected any. Just as well, perhaps. He should make a report of his findings over the radio, anyway. Of course, that would necessitate getting up off his ass. Can the war wait a minute, he wondered, I’m tired? Still waiting in vain for the nicotine to hit him, he made motion to stand up again.
“I’m heading to the radio van,” he announced, and received a few salutes as he started off. Either the cigarette or the walking started him back to a normal hum again, and Viktor tightened his stride. He watched the last slivers of orange light clinging to hillsides in the east. A few rifle shots popped, echoes distantly blooming in quick succession. Viktor stopped for a moment, regarding the skyline and thinking of the patrols pushing east, chasing the last of the Russians.
“My men are out there. Dying.” He muttered to no one in particular. Shaking off the imagined combats, he resumed his trek to the radio van, only to hear his name shouted within a few strides.
“Colonel Codrescu!” A fresh-faced Locotenent, sullied by the dirt of combat, leading seven or eight scruffy looking soldiers. They were Romanian by the looks of them, but not familiar. “Colonel Codrescu!”
Viktor answered the salute and fished for the young Locotenent’s name. “What do we have here, Gonczol?”
“No, sir,” Gonczol answered, “Stragglers.”
“Stragglers?”
“Stragglers,” the young man confirmed. “From the 8th Infantry Division.” Viktor looked the men up and down. No one held a rank higher than Caporal, and there were only two of those.
“Well, now,” he asked them, trying to something of the gravitas of his rank, “mind telling me what you boys are doing all the way out here on the road to Edinet?” Viktor folded his arms and waited for an answer. One came quickly, but not from where he’d expected.
“They were fleeing encirclement,” Gonczol told him, “or so they claim.”
Good puppy, Viktor thought, I’ll scratch your ears later. Now sit down and shut up. “Locotenent Gonczol, is there anything else critical you feel should be brought to my attention?” The young man thoughtfully considered this for a moment, then answered:
“No, sir.”
“Then why don’t you relax for a moment? Head back there.” Viktor indicated the clump of trucks serving as the ersatz command post he’d just left. “I’ll debrief you personally when I’m finished. Meantime, get yourself a drink or something.” This seemed to satisfy the Locotenent, and he beamed. But then, perhaps to his credit, he turned a glance on his battalion commander, and then to the stragglers he’d just presented. Viktor looked at the empty eyes of the men, and then back to his young Locotnent, fresh and eager as ever.
“Don’t worry, lad, I’ll be fine.” He almost added ‘you run along now’, but didn’t want to appear too patronizing to the lad, so he simply indicated his dismissal with a salute and began herding the men towards the radio truck, his original destination. They followed his direction, if walking a little slowly.\
“Are you guys alright? Are you hungry? Thirsty?” He asked them. They group responded like a bunch of adolescent boys with a collection of half nods, silence, and the odd bit of muttering. He attempted to make eye contact as they walked, finally succeeding when a private made effort to meet Viktor’s gaze as he spoke.
“Your men were kind enough to offer us water. Food would be welcome. We haven’t eaten in two days.”
“Are you boys really from the 8th?” Viktor asked them. More teenage nods followed, along with a few more utterances that approached discernable speech. “What are you doing out here?” And when he didn’t get an answer, he added, “Is it that bad out there?”
“We were cut off,” the private emphasized. “We got lost, and we’ve just kept moving, hoping we’d run in to someone.”
“We were part of a counter-attack the day Ivan crossed the river,” ventured one of the Caporals, finally. “There was some local success, but by evening, more and more troops kept crossing. We lost contact with the adjacent platoons that night, and decided to make a run… a withdrawl,” the corporal finished, correcting himself.
“Where was your platoon leader?”
“All the officers we saw died during the counter-attack. Our plutonier went for help after sundown, but never returned. Serjent Biske was wounded by mortar fire and bled to death in the trench that night. Three of us died in a firefight yesterday. The rest you see here.” Again, it was one of the privates who spoke to him and not either of the Caporals.
Viktor made a point to count them again in his mind and study their faces. Eight men from a platoon of fourty or fifty men. Hell, for all I know, this is Eighth Infantry, or what’s left of it.
“Who are you? What’s your unit?” he asked them in his command voice.
“2nd Platoon, 3rd Company, 16th Rifle Regiment.” At last, one of the Corporals was speaking. Viktor strode up to the Caporal who spoke and asked for his rifle. He snatched it out of the Caporal’s hands as soon as the fellow unslung it. Depressing the catch, Viktor caught the magazine as it fell out, then examined it: 6 bullets. He pulled open the soldier’s ammo pouches and found another magazine: empty. Without speaking, Viktor marched up to one of the talkative privates and examined his rifle in the same way: 3 rounds, and no spare magazine in his ammo pouches. With a bit of a smirk, he tossed the rifle back to the private, who cracked a nervous smile under Viktor’s gaze.
“Serjent!” Viktor called to an NCO walking past with his squad, probably headed out to join the patrols.
“Yes, sir!”
“Escort these men to my command post. Find my orderly and tell him to get them fed. You,” Viktor said, gesturing at the last private who had spoken, “come with me.”
“Yes, sir!” the NCO snapped, and led the remaining seven back to Viktor’s ‘command post’ with his own squad in tow.
Viktor waved away the last prisoner, and his men obliged, leading the fellow off to a designated truck. He sighed and sank onto the ground, knowing the adrenaline had ebbed out of him, then ducked his head and closed his eyes. When Viktor opened them, he saw his orderly, quick with the offer of a cigarette and a light. He accepted it and absently puffed heavily, waiting for the nicotine to give him some help.
“Did he confirm the other’s story?” his XO asked.
“Not in so many words,” Viktor replied. His XO didn’t speak Russian; there was no point telling him the details of the man’s evasiveness. “-but, effectively, yes. Still no word from Division?”
“No, sir.” Viktor swore, but only half-heartedly. He hadn’t really expected any. Just as well, perhaps. He should make a report of his findings over the radio, anyway. Of course, that would necessitate getting up off his ass. Can the war wait a minute, he wondered, I’m tired? Still waiting in vain for the nicotine to hit him, he made motion to stand up again.
“I’m heading to the radio van,” he announced, and received a few salutes as he started off. Either the cigarette or the walking started him back to a normal hum again, and Viktor tightened his stride. He watched the last slivers of orange light clinging to hillsides in the east. A few rifle shots popped, echoes distantly blooming in quick succession. Viktor stopped for a moment, regarding the skyline and thinking of the patrols pushing east, chasing the last of the Russians.
“My men are out there. Dying.” He muttered to no one in particular. Shaking off the imagined combats, he resumed his trek to the radio van, only to hear his name shouted within a few strides.
“Colonel Codrescu!” A fresh-faced Locotenent, sullied by the dirt of combat, leading seven or eight scruffy looking soldiers. They were Romanian by the looks of them, but not familiar. “Colonel Codrescu!”
Viktor answered the salute and fished for the young Locotenent’s name. “What do we have here, Gonczol?”
“No, sir,” Gonczol answered, “Stragglers.”
“Stragglers?”
“Stragglers,” the young man confirmed. “From the 8th Infantry Division.” Viktor looked the men up and down. No one held a rank higher than Caporal, and there were only two of those.
“Well, now,” he asked them, trying to something of the gravitas of his rank, “mind telling me what you boys are doing all the way out here on the road to Edinet?” Viktor folded his arms and waited for an answer. One came quickly, but not from where he’d expected.
“They were fleeing encirclement,” Gonczol told him, “or so they claim.”
Good puppy, Viktor thought, I’ll scratch your ears later. Now sit down and shut up. “Locotenent Gonczol, is there anything else critical you feel should be brought to my attention?” The young man thoughtfully considered this for a moment, then answered:
“No, sir.”
“Then why don’t you relax for a moment? Head back there.” Viktor indicated the clump of trucks serving as the ersatz command post he’d just left. “I’ll debrief you personally when I’m finished. Meantime, get yourself a drink or something.” This seemed to satisfy the Locotenent, and he beamed. But then, perhaps to his credit, he turned a glance on his battalion commander, and then to the stragglers he’d just presented. Viktor looked at the empty eyes of the men, and then back to his young Locotnent, fresh and eager as ever.
“Don’t worry, lad, I’ll be fine.” He almost added ‘you run along now’, but didn’t want to appear too patronizing to the lad, so he simply indicated his dismissal with a salute and began herding the men towards the radio truck, his original destination. They followed his direction, if walking a little slowly.\
“Are you guys alright? Are you hungry? Thirsty?” He asked them. They group responded like a bunch of adolescent boys with a collection of half nods, silence, and the odd bit of muttering. He attempted to make eye contact as they walked, finally succeeding when a private made effort to meet Viktor’s gaze as he spoke.
“Your men were kind enough to offer us water. Food would be welcome. We haven’t eaten in two days.”
“Are you boys really from the 8th?” Viktor asked them. More teenage nods followed, along with a few more utterances that approached discernable speech. “What are you doing out here?” And when he didn’t get an answer, he added, “Is it that bad out there?”
“We were cut off,” the private emphasized. “We got lost, and we’ve just kept moving, hoping we’d run in to someone.”
“We were part of a counter-attack the day Ivan crossed the river,” ventured one of the Caporals, finally. “There was some local success, but by evening, more and more troops kept crossing. We lost contact with the adjacent platoons that night, and decided to make a run… a withdrawl,” the corporal finished, correcting himself.
“Where was your platoon leader?”
“All the officers we saw died during the counter-attack. Our plutonier went for help after sundown, but never returned. Serjent Biske was wounded by mortar fire and bled to death in the trench that night. Three of us died in a firefight yesterday. The rest you see here.” Again, it was one of the privates who spoke to him and not either of the Caporals.
Viktor made a point to count them again in his mind and study their faces. Eight men from a platoon of fourty or fifty men. Hell, for all I know, this is Eighth Infantry, or what’s left of it.
“Who are you? What’s your unit?” he asked them in his command voice.
“2nd Platoon, 3rd Company, 16th Rifle Regiment.” At last, one of the Corporals was speaking. Viktor strode up to the Caporal who spoke and asked for his rifle. He snatched it out of the Caporal’s hands as soon as the fellow unslung it. Depressing the catch, Viktor caught the magazine as it fell out, then examined it: 6 bullets. He pulled open the soldier’s ammo pouches and found another magazine: empty. Without speaking, Viktor marched up to one of the talkative privates and examined his rifle in the same way: 3 rounds, and no spare magazine in his ammo pouches. With a bit of a smirk, he tossed the rifle back to the private, who cracked a nervous smile under Viktor’s gaze.
“Serjent!” Viktor called to an NCO walking past with his squad, probably headed out to join the patrols.
“Yes, sir!”
“Escort these men to my command post. Find my orderly and tell him to get them fed. You,” Viktor said, gesturing at the last private who had spoken, “come with me.”
“Yes, sir!” the NCO snapped, and led the remaining seven back to Viktor’s ‘command post’ with his own squad in tow.
