Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

It was his signalman.

Both pulled up their masks.

“Sir, the Kommissarat. The senior group leader himself.”

“Oh, damn,” said the captain.

He turned, signaled for his Kübel to approach, jumped in, and directed the driver to the signals hut. He entered, and a lance corporal leaped up in front of the radio unit.

“Captain, urgent signal from the Kommissariat. I believe the senior group leader himsel—”

“Yes, yes, make contact immediately.”

The man sat down, worked the dials and radio protocols, then turned the telephone receiver over to Salid. “Hello, hello, this is Zeppelin Leader,” he said.

“One second, Captain,” came the voice at the other end.

A second later, “Salid, Groedl here.”

“Yes sir.”

“I want your men assembled in full combat uniform for assignment in one hour.”

“Sir, they are on details spread around Yaremche and—”

“One hour. Get them here quickly, Salid. I require your utmost in a very dangerous situation, do you understand?”

“I—But sir, the White Witch may escape without the pressure of the patrolling, and I thought—”

“Priorities. That is why it is hard to command. Show me that you deserve to command, Salid. Trust that I understand all ramifications, have calculated them against the situation of the war, and have made the proper judgment.”

“I will comply, sir,” he said.

“That is all. Salid, I’m counting on you.”

“I won’t let you down, sir. End transmit.”

He turned, as two NCOs had noticed his sudden arrival to the signals hut and come to see what was going on.

“Get me runners to the patrols and send people to the flame operators. We are recalling all troops, and I want at least two of the panzerwagens on the road within half an hour. The third can remain for stragglers, but we are needed in the city for emergency duties. Hoppe, hoppe, hoppe! ”

It was not an easy trek. Von Drehle did not believe any of Bak’s people had wandered this far south; it was far more likely that, aware the Red Army was about to drive the Germans out of the Carpathians, they would hunker down and prepare to celebrate their survival. Thus, the chances of ambush were slight. But he could not be sure, so he determined that the ascent should be made on full combat alert. The radio, the treasure, was secured in the Kübelwagen that Wili Bober drove; it was also loaded with cans of belted 7.92 for the MG-42s, as well as unbelted 7.92 for the FG-42s, 7.92 Kurz for the STG-44s, a supply of M24s, and two Panzerschrecks with rockets. The buglike little Volkswagen also pulled a small cart loaded with rations and large water cans. The whole graceless, unlikely contrivance, dappled with smeary camouflage paint in the tones of the summer forest, muddled along the edge of the road on the way to Natasha’s Womb, after having been dropped at Yaremche, which was covered with smoke and the smell of burning wood, though there was no sign of the SS group. Maybe they were off on a picnic somewhere.

At the halfway point, Von Drehle called a break, and the boys flopped to the earth but knew enough not to gorge on the water. Instead, they took small, measured sips, enjoying the liquid as it cut through the slime on lips and tongues. He himself looked urgently through binoculars for sign and picked up nothing save more densely packed trees, more treacherous undergrowth.

“Karl, do you think we should make a radio check?” asked Wili Bober.

“No, it would take too long to set the goddamn thing up and then take it down. I do not like being on this open road. The sooner we get up and get a perimeter established, the better. Besides, whatever is happening down there, we can do nothing about, and it can do nothing about us, so what difference does it make?”

“Got it,” Wili said.

“Okay, let’s get moving. Teatime is finished. Green Devils, off your asses and back into the war.”

There was grumbling, but there was always grumbling; only its absence would have been remarkable.

They reached the gap at around seven P.M. He could see the cliffs narrowing in to the road, forming a natural choke point. Natasha’s Womb, in its narrow glory.

“Ginger’s Womb!” somebody cried, and everybody laughed.

Karl blushed. “Enough of that,” he said, but knew it was too late. A nickname, once given and accepted, was never rescinded.

He looked at the narrow walls, chalky in limestone, a soft rock, easily cracked or blasted. Blockading it, then blowing it, wouldn’t be difficult. But not now, after the long, tense trek. Looking around, he could tell they were surrounded on all sides by the Carpathians and, in the fading light, saw an ocean of waves in the earth’s surface, ancient mountains beaten smooth by the passage of eons and now shrouded and softened in pines. He ordered a quick setup of a night defensive position, arranged the guys along the road on either side. Finally he ordered his signalman to set up and make contact with base, for any reports and to make his own.

But in a few minutes, Signals called him over.

“Karl, I can’t get through. Everyone’s on the net, I can’t make contact with Zeppelin, I can’t reach Panzer headquarters or the Kommissariat.”

“Has the offensive gone off?”

“It’s not combat traffic, it’s—well, political.”

“Political?”

“I hear—arrests, worries about loyalty, protestations of innocence, intense allegiance swearing, all a mess. Here, listen.”

He peeled off the earphones and Karl squatted down to dip in to them. He heard a crazed staccato of chatter, no protocols at all, signals coming in and out, basically confusion. It wasn’t like a German army to lose control of procedure so radically. What the hell could be happening?

“Damned strange,” he said. “Is there another channel?”

“I’ve tried them all, sir. Everywhere it’s crazy.”

“Damned strange,” he said again. But the radio buzzed, meaning incoming transmission. Von Drehle took up the telephone mike with the send button. “Hello, hello,” he said. “Oskar Leader here, I repeat, this is Oskar Leader.”

“Yes, dammit, Von Drehle, Zeppelin Leader here, where the hell have you been?”

“Advancing five kilometers into the mountains, Captain.”

“Are you in place?”

“Yes, we have arrived. We’ll wire the cliff for demo tomorrow and set up defensive lines. I do need to pick up that Flammenwerfer, old man.”

“Haven’t you heard? My God, man, get your head out of your ass!”

“I don’t—”

“Someone tried to assassinate the führer. Early reports were that he is dead. But he survived a bomb attempt.”

Von Drehle thought: It was bound to happen. The man is a maniac, without concern for his troops. But he could only say, “I receive.”

“Police Battalion has been dispatched on security duty. We are making arrests from an SA list of probable suspects. I need you to hold secure in your area, be very alert for partisan movement, make certain—”

“Arrests? Who are you arresting, goddammit? There’s no one to arrest in Fourteenth Panzergrenadier, for Christ’s sake, these men have been fighting for two years out here.”

“I am not at liberty to discuss direct orders from Berlin with some parachutist captain on a mountaintop. You will hold your position, build defensive breastworks, patrol for bandit activity.”

“Zeppelin Leader, I am in receipt of message. End transmit.”

“End transmit,” said Salid from wherever he was.

Von Drehle sat back, confounded. What the hell was going on? Arresting suspects? What did that mean? Who was in charge, how would things change, what was his duty now? You had to watch yourself in these crazy times; anyone could end up in front of a firing squad.