James Rouch - Civilian Slaughter

“Should be two hundred and seventy, shouldn’t it?” Revell watched the Russians listlessly moving about the makeshift compound.

“There are two stiffs on board the second bus. Seems the MPs who broke up the fights didn’t want the bother of hauling them off and sorting out the attendant paperwork.”

“And that master sergeant called them pussycats. What happened to the other thirty?”

“I’ve had a chat with the drivers. Seems our fat friend accepted a bribe to make regular stops during the night for them to get off and have a leak. The Ruskies were allowed off all at once and no guard kept or recount made when they got back in, and no one has any clue as to when the seventh coach went astray.”

“Well at least that all indicates that those we still have, if they haven’t made a break for it by now, then they’re not going to at all.” Revell prodded the pile of contraband at his feet with the barrel of his assault shotgun. “Mind you, that doesn’t mean we’re not going to get any hassle from them. Was this all found among their baggage?”

Bending down he picked up a civilian shotgun that had been shortened by the removal of most of the stock and half the twin over and under barrels. He broke it to check it had been unloaded, then tossed it back on the substantial heap.

“We spotted some of them carrying the stuff, but most of it came from their luggage. There are twenty-six pistols or cut down rifles, forty-two grenades of every type, five pounds of plastic explosive and three detonators.” Hyde scanned his list. “Also four hatchets, eight hammers… didn’t bother to count the knives. Would have been quicker to weigh them.”

“Dump it all in the lake, the whole lot. Pity we can’t do the same with the recent owners.” Among the collection Revell spotted an ornate Nazi dagger of World War Two vintage. Doubtless it had been looted from some abandoned property. It was likely the civvy shotgun came from a similar source. “These Reds may no longer be on the Warpac side, but I’ve got my doubt that they’re on ours either.”

Penned within the confines of the high mesh fences, the Russians strolled or lounged on the ground wrapped in soiled greatcoats. They appeared to be completely apathetic as to their surroundings, taking no interest in anything. There was little conversation among them, not even when their cases and bags had been checked in their full view. No concern, curiosity or resentment was displayed when the finds began to be made, not even when the haul was removed for disposal.

The only spark of animation came when Sampson and one of the pioneers appeared with buckets of water. Then there was a mad scramble for the gate where it was ladled out. It had taken several shots fired into the air to restore any semblance of order.

A thorough search of the transport uncovered another twelve guns and several hundred rounds of assorted ammunition, plus many more edged weapons. Revell was reluctant to, but it was beginning to look as if they would have to body search every one of their prisoners. That was the conclusion he was reaching when Lieutenant Vokes brought one of the Russians to him.

“This one speaks English, after a fashion, Major. He says he wants to…”

“To talk to the major, yes. That is what I am asking.”

“Make it quick.” Despite himself, Revell couldn’t help smiling. The man before him looked like a cartoon composite of the typical Russian.

He stood about five foot nine, but was so broad in the chest and across the shoulders that he looked squat. A short bull neck was topped by a heavy jowled slab of a face. His eyes were dark and narrow, made to look the more so by a broad forehead framed by a severe fringe of jet black hair.

All in all the Russian reminded Revell of a younger version of Brezhnev. Moving ponderously to attention, the Russian made as if to salute, but after his hand jerked twice in indecision he didn’t.

“Grigori Vladimirovich Galinski at your service, Major. Late sergeant in the 445th Company of the Commandants Service, attached to the 75th Infantry regiment, 3rd Shock Army.”

“I’m surprised you are still alive. Do your present companions not know you were with the military police?”

“To survive, one sometimes has to resort to subterfuge, Major. When I crossed the Zone to defect I assumed the identity of a… a friend, who unfortunately died on the journey. I tell you this so that you can be assured of my good faith.”

“You think I need reassuring?” Revell would have dismissed the man, but something made him hesitate. Perhaps he could be useful.

“By telling you this, I place myself in your hands, Major. Perhaps by so doing I might gain trust that would otherwise take a long time to establish.”

“Do you have any influence among this rabble?” Indicating the inmates of the compound, Revell saw that they had resumed their apathetic behaviour now the distribution of the water ration was over.

The Russian thumped himself on the chest, raising a puff of dust. “They know that I am a strong man, a tough boss.” He made the familiar Russian gesture of a clenched fist. “A powerful boss is always respected in my country.”

“Like Stalin.” Overcoming his distaste of the prisoner, Revell realized he might be able to use him. “We’ve wasted too much time here already. I want all the weapons this mob of yours is carrying.”

“Everything?”

Revell knew he was expecting too much if he thought he could net every knife among them, without resorting to a strip search. That would waste the best part of a half day.

“Firearms, grenades, explosives and ammunition. When they come out of there in fifteen minutes I want to see it all in a pile in the middle of the court. Just to be on the safe side my men will do random checks. If we find anything in that list, then there’ll be no food issue today.”

That is a very fair arrangement, Major, very fair. I am sure I can get them to go along with it. If there is anything else I can do?”

“I’ll let you know.” And he would! Revell had to give the man a high mark for initiative, even if it was prompted by self interest. Among the Russian people a display of initiative was considered dangerous, a trait to be stamped on ruthlessly. So rarely was it ever practiced that they didn’t even have a word for it in their language. “By what name are you known, if I need you again?”

“It is fortunate, Major, that my late comrade and I shared the same first name. A call for Grigori will soon find me.”

Revell didn’t doubt that. The man was obviously an operator. He wondered how long it would be before, perhaps, he had to stamp on him.

“You’re ready then?”

The convoy sergeant had been dogging Revell’s footsteps, and hovering about him through all the preparations for departure. All of that time he had been carrying the clipboard with the unsigned receipt.

Whichever way he turned Revell found himself faced by it, and a proffered pen, like a supplicant’s petition.

On top of the buses the new guards had finally settled in among nests of rearranged luggage. Those of the combat company and the pioneers who were to travel in the trucks and Hummers were already boarding.

Revell took a last look around to check that preparations were complete, then finally accepted the offered board. Crossing through the typed figures at the bottom of the torn and creased greasy paper, he wrote in the actual number he’d received live. Signing it and handing it back, he watched the master sergeant’s expression as he read the alteration. He was far from happy.

“Ah hell, Major. There ain’t something you could add, just to sort of soften it a little, is there? You know, about the escort going astray, maybe something on those lines.”