James Rouch: Death March

From within the warehouse came more loud cries, a smattering of single shots and then longer erratic ripples of detonations as small arms ammunition exploded.

“See, the job’s done for us, one way or the other.” A single shot snapped and a smouldering form slumped against a window ledge. A sub-machine gun fell out and down into the road. Sergeant Hyde, feeling the livid scar tissue of his face tighten, watched the weapon fall then turned away from the scene.

Behind him, barely visible in the gloom of the unlit wholesale warehouse the rest of the squad were already sliding down against the high stacked piles of boxes to sit exhausted on the floor. Water bottles appeared and heads tipped back to guzzle the last of the chlorine-tainted liquid.

“This place will go up just the same, the whole district will.” Major Revell looked out past Hyde, still stood at the edge of the doorway.

The building across the way appeared to be in the grip of a growing conflagration, fire gouted from every opening. Glass was exploding in unbroken windows and rolling molten from the heaped crystal fragments on windowsills. “I wonder what’s in that one, it’s certainly going up fast.”

Taking a half pace back into the interior, Sergeant Hyde took off his helmet and wiped the blotched scar tissue of his forehead with a scrap of filthy rag he pulled from his belt. He used the dampened material to casually wipe his assault rifle and its under-slung grenade launcher.

“I saw tyres and drums of electric cable before they forced our evacuation. The quantity of automatic fire they sent at us I still don’t know how the hell we got out. They were dozens of them, hosing the stuff like maniacs.” Even across the width of the road and sidewalks Hyde could feel pulsing waves of furnace heat. “By the time that finishes burning even the steel and brick would have melted. There won’t be anything left in a day or two.”

“Same goes for the whole of Nurnberg. The Russians are pursuing a scorched earth policy even while they’re in the middle of it.” Revell ducked and took a shower of tile and glass fragments across the front of his flak jacket as a NATO six-wheel Saracen ambulance dashed past, its chunky treaded tyres throwing up fans of jagged debris as it was chased from sight by streams of tracer from Russians holding a building further down the road.

A loud hollow clanging sound announced Thorne’s arrival and as he made it to the bottom stair he let the fuel and gas cylinders of the flame-projector fall with an echoing crash. He didn’t bother to pick them up, pushing them from his path with the steel shod toe of his boot. Where the leather had been scorched away by dribbles of fire the soot stained metal was exposed.

“That’s it, out of fuel.” Joining the officer near the door Thorne looked out at the result of his handiwork. Much of the façade of the building was hidden by columns of flame spurting from individual doorways and windows. A fire was flaring about a small heap in the road and was enveloping a bigger one high on the fire escape.

“I’ll hang on to the projector group, the harness and valves. We might be able to pick up something adaptable as an alternative to the real stuff, even a few gallons of diesel would do.”

Revell tapped the single grenade on his webbing. “As likely as getting fresh ammo supplies. We’re being forced to use a hell of a lot of it. I can’t see the Reds keeping up their frantic expenditure of ammunition for long, but while they do, we have problems.”

“Hey, we still have half a city to fall back through.” Ripper had allowed some beads of water to dribble down his chin and now he scrubbed his hand across it, turning the irregular lines in the dirt into a bizarre pattern of mud. “Maybe we’re getting short of ammunition, but.” He waved his arms at the racks of plastic wrapped women’s clothing. “But I suppose we can always dress to kill.”

Wrenching around to reach a pouch, Ripper extracted a nougat bar and began using his teeth to remove the embedded foil wrapper.

“Very good, whimsical.” Taking a flower print maternity dress from a hanger, Dooley held it against himself and made a clumsy half pirouette. “At last they do things in my size.”

“If you’re expecting triplets.” Spitting out shreds of bright wrapping, Ripper began to chew on the candy.

Clarence, cradling his heavy sniper rifle, looked at the empty cylinders. Somewhere upstairs the waves of heat were beginning to shatter windows. “Where to next Major? It will be rather a touch too warm in here soon.”

“We’ll work along to the end of the street and take up a position over-looking the square. Then we’ll have to wait for re-supply. Tell Burke to slap a charge against the west wall; we’ll mole our way through a couple of buildings. We haven’t got the firepower to slug it out with any Ruskies angry at our frying their friends, not the way they’re blasting off ammo’.”

In succession they used explosives to punch through another clothing warehouse, a small cash and carry establishment filled with bubble wrapped fancy goods and finally a wholesale butchers. The concussion of the exploding charge that tore a hole in the wall also burst open the thick double doors of a walk-in cold store. But it was no longer cold. The power must have been cut days before. From hooks hung sides of beef. On the floor beneath each was the grease that was falling from them as they started the process of putrefaction. A powerful stench wafted out and drove the squad to push for the next building. Smouldering bullet riddled automobiles provided cover and no shots came their way as they sprinted along the sidewalk and kicked open the entrance to an office block.

Using the heavy reception area furniture they built a nest for the squad machine gun. A double-door cupboard near the lifts revealed two large water bottles. Revell punctured them with a bayonet, laid them across a desk so that each man in turn was able to sluice the cool liquid over his face and refill his flask. It worked wonders in reinvigorating them, but the effect was short lived.

Reams of paper towels from the rest rooms mopped them dry, and then they passed around camouflage cream to replace the natural effect the layers of dirt and grease had added to their previous efforts.

Searches of the first and second floor offices revealed nothing of value or use. All of the rooms were glass faced and over-looked the open space between the buildings. For a while drifting smoke from the fires provided fitful concealment, then the wind changed direction and they had to return to the ground floor.

“This place is no good. It’s like being in a fish tank” Revell looked out across the square. Waves of tiredness swept over him and he had to blink hard to keep his eyes open, his head nodding forward when a moment’s inattention lulled him towards sleep. “It will be dark in a couple of hours, sooner if the clouds cover increases and that smoke keeps building. We’ll move out then, and make for that banking hall on the next corner.”

“It’s more substantial than here, but we’ll have to put a hefty H.E. round into the door though.” Sergeant Hyde had already made a swift survey of the area. “It’s massive, looks like it has bronze panels on it, we won’t get through it with a shoulder charge.”

“We’ll figure it out nearer the time. Put two men on guard and get yourself an hour’s sleep, then if we are still being left alone we’ll swap over.” Revell knew an hour’s sleep was only a fraction of what they needed to replace that lost, but it was better than nothing.

However they felt though, in a short time they would be racing across the open ground, running for their lives.

The 40mm grenade wasn’t needed but they didn’t know that until after it had been employed. Unresisting, with the locks already broken, the heavy metal clad oak doors swung back and one tore away from its hinges to fall in to the banking hall. It bounced aside as it landed on thickly strewn corpses.