Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

“Ritter?” Herzog asked.

His companion nodded. “He wants it bad, my friend.”

Herzog looked at him for a second, then down at the bridge; more men were filing across it, joining Ritter who was standing safely on the far bank.

A grenade went off near Herzog, killing two men. He glanced over the hedge and saw that all the cossacks had now dismounting and were contenting themselves with picking their opponents off with rifle and pistol fire. Many of them were scattered around, slumped over their horses. Wounded animals raised their heads as if soliciting help. The sight of them made Driest want to cry.

Schiller prodded him. “There’s a bloody fortune lying out there.”

Driest looked puzzled.

“Glue,” Schiller told him, “they make it from horses’ bones. Christ, a bloody fortune.”

Vogel threaded another ammunition belt into the MG and rested his finger on the trigger. He was sweating profusely. Herzog glanced round and saw Foss leaving with the last of the men.

There were now just twelve Germans between the Cossacks and the bridge. He hoped that the explosives had been primed properly. As he watched, the corporal saw a number of Cossacks swing themselves up into the sadle. Were they going to cut the Germans off from the bridge? The thought spurred him into action.

“All right,” he called, “when I give the word, run and don’t stop until you reach that fucking bridge. Don’t stop for anything.”

A final fussillade of gunfire and the Germans fled.

As one man, the Cossacks leapt into their saddles and thundered after their foes. The pounding of hooves began to grow louder. The gunfire ceased and the Germans dared not look behind them for fear of feeling the hot breath of the horses in their faces. Ignoring the cramp in their muscles, they ran.

A young private tripped and sprawled, twisting his ankles. Whimpering like a puppy he held up a hand for help but was ignored. The Cossacks swept over him, crushing the body beyond recognition.

Two hundred yards to go.

Breath seared in lungs, clogged in throats, the men felt red-hot spears of pain jabbing into their thighs and calves but they found reserves of strength and ran on.

A hundred and fifty yards and the leading Cossacks were gaining.

One, a huge man with one eye, hurled his sabre as if it were a dagger. The blade whirled through the air and buried itself between the shoulder-blades of a private who screamed and pitched forwards. Laughing like a maniac, the cossack drew his Tokarev pistol and prepared to fire. There was a loud retort and he toppled out of the saddle, a bullet in the chest. His companion reined his horse back, stunned, then he saw a number of Germans crouched on the bridge, covering their fleeing companions. It was one of these who had shot his friend. He turned to ride away when a bullet tore open his cheek and he slumped forward over the neck of his horse.

Seventy yards.

The bridge beckoned them. Herzog could see Foss, crouched behind one of the girders. Far below him the water roared along. Schiller felt as though his lungs must burst, perspiration coursed down his face, running down his face and blinding him. But he ran on, grabbing Driest when he faltered, screaming at him to keep going. Bullets ploughed up the ground around his feet and he thought he heard the snorting of a horse next to him but he didn’t look round. The Cossack swept past him and struck out, the sabre slicing open his forehead. Blood spurted madly into the air. Schiller stumbled, thought he was going to fall, but powerful hands dragged him on. He saw, through blood-flecked eyes, his attacker fall before him riddled with bullets.

Fifty yards.

Herzog could see the packs of explosive strapped to the central girders of the bridge, then he felt the rush of air as the sabre swept past him. He swung his MP 40 up and squeezed the trigger, blasting the Cossack from the saddle. The man’s foot remained in the stirrup and, as the horse galloped wildly away, he was tossed and battered like a broken rag-doll. Schiller, blood pouring from the cut on his forehead, stumbled again, but the others dragged him on until they heard their heavy jackboots beginning to crash out a rhythm on the metal of the bridge.

The leading Cossacks swept after them, the horses’ hooves striking sparks as they clattered after the fleeing Germans.

Herzog could see two men hunched over detonators on the far bank, wires running from the boxes to the explosives on the bridge. Yelling madly, the Cossacks flooded onto the parapet and raced for the far side.

The Germans reached the safety of the bank and, simultaneously, two plungers were rammed down.

There was an enormous explosion and the bridge rose into the air on two tongues of flame. It hung there for a second as if suspended on invisible strings, then, with a shriek of buckling metal, it plunged down into the river below. Whole lengths of girder thudded into the banks like enormous javelins and a massive wave rose up from the river as it swallowed its prey, the white-flecked spray filling the air and drenching the cowering Germans. Cossacks and their horses plummeted into the swirling water, thrashing frantically about for long seconds before disappearing beneath its murky surface. The powerful current swept them away.

Finally, the two ends of the twisted, shattered, structure tipped inwards and even the fast-flowing water could not stifle the clang of metal on metal.

After a few moments, the Germans grouped together and prepared to move off.

“That should hold them off for a while,” said Ritter, smugly.

Herzog grunted. “The Cossacks maybe, but the rest of the army will have bridge-building equipment, you can bet on that.”

“Talk of the Devil,” said Foss, pointing to a hilltop on the far bank. The other men followed his pointing finger and saw the cossacks milling impotently around the remains of the bridge, but now they had been joined by other men, dressed in the familiar brown of the Russian army, and, as the Germans stood quietly by, they saw the unmistakable shape of a T-34 nosing its way through the throng.

“They must have been closer than we thought,” said Herzog, softly.

“What is behind is no longer important,” announced Ritter, “we must move on.” He clasped his hands behind his back and strutted self-importantly to the front of the column. Herzog watched him go. “Pompous bastard,” he muttered under his breath. Then he turned to see how Schiller was. Synovski was just in the process of tying the bandage around his forehead, finishing it off with a neat bow.

“There we are,” he said, proudly, helping Schiller to his feet.

“It’s a dressing, not a bloody Easter bonnet,” said Vogel.

Schiller stood still for a moment, his hands pressed to his temples, then he carefully replaced his steel helmet and stepped into line. Herzog looked questioningly at the Pole.

“He’ll be all right,” he shrugged, “the wound was only a minor one.”

“It didn’t feel like a minor one,” grunted Schiller, touching his head. “That Russian almost did for me with his oversized razor.” He looked across at Kahn. “Now I know what it must be like fighting you, you slant-eyed bastard.”

The Jap smiled. “You be OK, just have headache.”

The column moved off watched by the Russians. There were a few half-hearted shots fired after them but it didn’t really matter.

After all, there was plenty of time.

Ritter lowered the binoculars and handed them to Herzog. He adjusted the focus and squinted through the lenses.

Spread out before him, with amazing clarity, was Poznan. He lowered the glasses again and it receded into the distance.

“Two miles,” said Ritter, smiling, “and it looks as though the bridge is still intact. We should be able to cross with little difficulty.”