Colin Gee - Impasse

Leander’s screaming redoubled as his tears froze on his face and ice played havoc with his eyes.

The first shot passed through the camouflage jacket of the last trooper, closely followed by the second, which missed by two feet. The third hit home.

Leander’s Garand spat out its redundant metal clip, signifying that the weapon was empty, the metal falling to ground at the front of the hole, coinciding with the thud of the ski trooper’s body, left knee destroyed by the passage of the heavy bullet.

The wounded man scrabbled for his own rifle, but it had fallen too distant.

In desperation, he extracted a grenade and primed it, underarming it accurately towards the small hole.

Leander ducked and the deadly missile struck his helmet, deflecting to the rear of his position.

It exploded and brought silence to the man who had killed Clay.

Slipping another charger into his rifle, Leander took deliberate aim on the wounded man to his front, but still needed three shots to put the man out of his increasing misery.

Another grenade, this time better aimed, dropped into the hole at his feet. With reactions previously unsuspected, he picked up the deadly object and tossed it out, ducking his head before it exploded, heaping yet more ignominy upon the living and dead in front of his position.

Standing upright again, Leander felt the products of defecation slide down his legs, his fright causing him to constantly soil himself.

Three Soviet troopers approached, aiding a stumblingfourth man, a comrade, whose injuries were leaking rich red blood, soaking through the white snowsuit he was wearing.

Leander screamed again and discharged his rifle indiscriminately, hitting the wounded man in the calf, bringing him down and, in the doing, causing the others to fall to the ground.

One man recovered himself quickly and brought his PPD into action, the burst kicking up earth and snow all around the petrified black soldier but failing to cause him harm. None the less, the fear caused him to drop the new charger, then the Garand.

The ski soldiers saw their opportunity and rushed forward.

A PPSh is a superb close quarter weapon, capable of a phenomenal rate of fire.

In the hands of a trained soldier, it is a deadly beast and was rightly considered the finest submachine gun of WW2.

It could also be a very forgiving weapon in hands unfamiliar with its traits, and so it proved, as Leander scrabbled for the discarded weapon and brought it to bear.

The sound of his screams disappeared in the rattle of automatic fire as the weapon belted out the remaining sixty-three bullets from its distinctive round magazine.

Seven bullets found targets beyond the immediate threat, wounding two ski troopers and one buffalo soldier prisoner and dropping all three to the snow.

Forty bullets missed any target, finding termination in frozen earth, wood, or snow.

The remaining sixteen spread themselves between the three Soviet attackers.

The middle soldier died instantly as three bullets struck him in a microsecond, smashing his face and turning his brain to mush.

Either side of him white ski suits blossomed with scarlet buds and the other men went down, neither killed but both most certainly out of the fight.

One lay silent but conscious, the blood bubbling on his lips.

The other joined the screaming, his pain equally spread between the eight wounds he had sustained.

Another grenade bounced nearby and exploded, its arrival and detonation simultaneous and not permitting Leander the opportunity to duck.

One piece of metal sliced across his forehead, dropping a two-inch sliver of flesh across his left eye. Another piece smashed into his left elbow and stuck in the ball joint, bringing with it yet another reason for the young African-American to scream.

Movement to his right focussed him and he pointed the PPSh at whatever it was.

“Shit!”

He had not realised that the weapon was empty.

Some clarity descended on his mind and he turned to the body of Clay, grabbing at the pistol holster and the weapon within.

A bullet thumped into his left shoulder, passing straight through without contact with vitals or bone, but jarring the elbow against the body of NCO and causing him to almost faint with the pain.

A second bullet took the dead body in the upper chest and a third struck Clay’s forehead, sending parts of his skull and brains flying across the snow behind the position.

The Colt 1911A came free and Leander swivelled, seeking out his attacker.

No obvious enemy came into view but his vision was still restricted by icy tears of fright and pain in equal quantities.

To his right, a shot was followed by a short squeal, signifying another life terminated prematurely.

Again, to the right, the snow seemed to open like a set of theatrical curtains, permitting clear view of a group of four Russians carrying a kicking Buffalo soldier away. The curtains closed as quickly as they had parted and Leander was alone again.

His right hand trembled, the automatic pistol shaking as he pointed it at any and every small sound that followed the end of the Soviet raid.

Nothing.

‘I’m still alive. Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!’

A distinctive crack made him jump.

The Colt swivelled and he looked down the jumping sights as the broken branch descended to ground level, bringing snow with it.

A soft thud behind him reminded him of a grenade and he ducked as best he could, not realising that another ravaged stump had surrendered its weighty load of snow.

His wounded elbow banged into Clay’s metal canteen.

He screamed, and relieved himself once more.

“Medic! Medic!”

There was no answering call, no repetition of his plea, save that which echoed off the increasing snowfall.

Nothing.

His eyes blurred as temperature, stress, blood loss and tiredness fought for control.

He jumped as his mind sought to fight back and remain alert.

He watched and listened.

Nothing.

“Oh Lordy, it’s cold.”

Private First Class Frederick Lincoln Leander, only survivor of his platoon, slipped into the bottom of his little hole and passed out.

The GRU briefing ended and Poboshkin waited expectantly.

He had not been asked one single question throughout, everything he said apparently accepted without dispute.

“Thank you, Comrade PodPolkovnik. That will be all.”

Poboshkin swept up the documentation and stowed it quickly in his case before saluting and turning towards the heavy door.

Beria’s voice followed him.

“Oh, and please inform General Nazarbayeva of our concern for her well-being, and that we look forward to the time she’ll be able to travel and brief us herself, particularly on her report regarding Pekunin’s treachery.”

Poboshkin nodded by way of response and left.

Stalin looked quizzically at the bespectacled NKVD Marshal and, with unusual humour, commented on the exchange.

“Very touching, Lavrentiy.”

“I meant no more than that, Comrade General Secretary. She’s competent and loyal to the Rodina, certainly more competent and loyal than that shit Pekunin.”

Stalin grimaced and then pursed his lips, not wishing to be reminded that treachery had dwelt so close at hand but, now that it had happened, turning his mind to the matter.

“How goes the NKVD investigation into the traitor?”

Beria went straight for the glasses and handkerchief routine, betraying his desire to exercise care in answering.

“We have established some unusual activity in the last two months, activity that’s now being interpreted in a different manner, given the circumstances. It will take time, as I’ve ordered my men to be thorough, but I think his betrayal started only recently. He’s no family that we can interrogate, Comrade. They died some time ago,” Beria studied the gleaming spectacles as he finished his verbal assessment, “And his Deputy also fell by our Nazarbayeva’s hand. Extremely efficient… and extremely convenient.”