Authors: Sam Eastland
Before long, they could smell it, and then they knew it wasn’t wood smoke. The thick haze reeked of burning oil.
They moved as quickly as they could through the maze of trees, over spongy earth where mud sucked at their boot heels and strange insect-eating plants, their smell like rotting meat, reared their open mouths.
Kirov followed close behind Pekkala, cursing softly as he scraped his shins against the limbs of fallen trees. Spindly branches whipped their faces and snatched at the guns in their hands.
By the time Maximov held up his hand for them to stop, Pekkala was completely drenched in sweat. He still had on his coat and the bottle in his hand had made running even more difficult.
Burdened by the bulky PTRD, Kirov was also exhausted.
Only Maximov seemed to show no sign of exertion, as if he could have kept on running without a pause, until the waves of the Atlantic washed about his feet.
They stepped into the trees to take cover. It was quickly growing lighter now.
Ahead, Pekkala could make out the blazing skeleton of the truck.
‘What’s he doing, giving away his position like that?’ whispered Kirov. ‘The smoke must be visible halfway across Poland.’
They crawled forward until, through the shifting flames, they could make out the shape of the tank. In front of it, they saw Kropotkin. He was pouring fuel from a battered petrol container into the tank. Then, with a roar of anger, he flung the container across the clearing.
‘That’s why he didn’t stop at the depots,’ whispered Maximov. ‘He’s been draining fuel out of the T-34. Now he probably doesn’t have enough to drive the tank all the way into Poland.’
‘So he set fire to the truck,’ said Pekkala. ‘The woman I talked to in the village said that Polish cavalry run patrols through these woods all the time. He lit the fire so the Poles will to come to him.’
Kropotkin disappeared around the other side of the tank. When he reappeared, an old man was with him. He was
short and bald, with narrow shoulders, wearing a collarless blue work shirt and heavy corduroy trousers. Pekkala knew it must be Zoya Maklarskaya’s father. Kropotkin had tied Maklarsky’s hands behind his back. Now he hauled the old man to the centre of the clearing.
‘You swore there would be petrol here!’ shouted Kropotkin.
‘There was!’ The old man pointed at the empty fuel can. ‘I told you, they always leave some here for an emergency.’
‘One fuel can is not enough!’
‘It is if you’re driving a tractor,’ protested Maklarsky. ‘You didn’t tell me how much you needed. You just asked if there was fuel.’
‘Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now,’ said Kropotkin, taking a knife from his pocket.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ Maklarsky’s eyes were fixed on the blade.
‘I’m letting you go, old man,’ replied Kropotkin, ‘just like I promised.’ He cut through the ropes and they fell like dead snakes to the ground. ‘Go on,’ said Kropotkin, and gave him a shove.
But Maklarsky didn’t run. Instead, he turned and looked back at Kropotkin, motionless.
‘Go on!’ bellowed Kropotkin, folding the knife shut with a click and returning it to his pocket. ‘I don’t need you any more.’
Slowly, Maklarsky began to walk out of the clearing, following the short path which led to the main road.
Then the three men watched helplessly as Kropotkin drew a gun from his coat. The dry snap of a pistol echoed through the trees.
Maklarsky staggered forward. He did not seem to realise what had happened. Crookedly, he walked on a few more paces.
Kropotkin strode across the clearing. With the barrel of the gun touching the back of Maklarsky’s head, he pulled the trigger. This time, the old man dropped, so suddenly it looked as if the ground had swallowed him up.
Kropotkin returned to the tank. He climbed up on to the turret, whose hatch was already open, and dropped down inside the machine.
Pekkala realised that Kropotkin was preparing to move out, whether he had enough fuel or not. He nodded at Kirov.
Kirov unlocked the tripod from the barrel of the anti-tank rifle. He set it up and lay down behind the gun.
‘Do you have a clear shot?’ asked Pekkala.
‘No,’ replied Kirov, after he had squinted through the sights. ‘Too many trees in the way.’
‘We’ll move around the side and stop him where the clearing meets the road,’ said Pekkala.
Kirov picked up the gun and the three men set off down the road, keeping inside the cover of the trees. They reached the place where the wide path intersected with the road. Here, they realised that the path from the clearing did not run straight out to the road. It curved to the left, so that the tank was out of sight. The only way Kirov would have a clear shot was if the tank drove out to the road.
Knowing they had little time to spare, the three men dashed across the road and slid down into the ditch on the other side. With trembling hands Kirov set up the PTRD so that it was pointing directly down the path into the clearing.
If Kropotkin tried to drive the T-34 out on to the road, Kirov would have a clear shot.
‘Do you still think you can talk him out of it?’ Pekkala asked Maximov.
‘I doubt it, but I can probably buy you some time.’
‘All right,’ said Pekkala. ‘We’ll both go. We’ll have a better chance if we both try to reason with him, but if he won’t listen to us, get out of his way as fast as you can. He’s bound to head towards the road. He doesn’t want to get trapped in that clearing and he’s got nowhere else to go except down that path.’
‘I don’t see how you can walk out there to face a tank with nothing more than words to shield yourself,’ said Kirov.
Pekkala held out the titanium bullet. ‘If words don’t convince him, then maybe this will. No matter what happens, if you see an opportunity to take the shot, take it. Do you understand?’
‘It’s a hell of a risk, Inspector.’ Kirov took the bullet from his hand. ‘If this thing hits you, it will blow you to pieces.’
‘That’s why I’m glad you’re a good shot.’
‘At least you finally admitted it,’ said Kirov, as he settled himself behind the gun.
Maximov and Pekkala set out towards the clearing.
Pekkala felt the open space around him as if it were a field of electricity. He spotted the tank, hunched like a cornered animal at the edge of the clearing. With each step towards the iron monster, he felt his legs weaken. His breathing grew shallow and fast. He had never been so aware of the impossible fragility of his own body.
Leading away from the clearing, Pekkala saw woodsmen’s trails, too narrow for trucks, which snaked into the darkness
of the forest. On one of these, a glint of silver caught his eye. Just off the path, partially camouflaged with branches, a motorcycle stood propped against a tree. A pair of leather-padded goggles hung from the handlebars. The machine looked almost new and it was close enough that he could even see the maker’s name – Zundapp – emblazoned in silver on the teardrop-shaped fuel tank. In that moment, he realised it was the same machine he had seen the day Maximov had tried to gun him down outside the Café Tilsit. This motorcycle was the first indication Pekkala had seen that Kropotkin planned on surviving what he was about to do.
There was no sound except the crackle of the flames still rising from the wreckage of the truck. Smoke swirled through bolts of sunlight which made their way down through the trees.
They reached the clearing, which was littered with strips of old bark from the logs which had been piled there by the foresters. Between them and the tank lay the body of the old man, face down in the dirt, a red circle in the pale blue cloth of his shirt.
The two men halted.
Now that he was only a few paces from the T-34, it seemed to Pekkala that his quarrel was no longer with Kropotkin but with the machine itself. He tried to shake off the feeling that the monster had come to life, and was watching them through the hatred-narrowed eyes of its gun ports.
‘Kropotkin!’ shouted Maximov.
There was no reply. Instead, with a dreadful bellowing sound, the tank engine fired up. The noise was deafening. Two jets of smoke poured from its exhaust pipes. The T-34 lurched forward.
Instinctively, the two men stumbled back.
Suddenly the tank jerked to a stop, like a dog held by a chain.
‘Kropotkin!’ Pekkala called out. ‘We know you’re short of fuel. Just listen to us!’
But if his words reached through the layers of steel, Kropotkin gave no sign of having heard them.
The T-34 jolted towards them, spinning its tracks. Mud and twisted shreds of bark sprayed out behind the machine. This time it did not stop.
‘Run!’ shouted Pekkala.
But Maximov was already on the move.
As Pekkala turned and sprinted for the road the bottle fell out of his hands but he did not stop to pick it up. He could feel the machine right behind him.
One moment, Maximov was beside him and the next he was gone as he dived away into the trees.
Pekkala kept running. The tank was almost on top of him.
The weight of his coat held him back. His feet slipped on the muddy ground. With every gasp of breath, the acrid haze of burning rubber poured into his lungs. Pekkala saw the main road straight ahead. He spotted Kirov in the tall grass growing along the edge of the ditch and the PTRD aimed right at him.
The roaring grew louder as the tank gathered speed. Pekkala realised he would not make it to the road before the T-34 overtook him.
‘Shoot!’ he yelled.
The tank was closing on him, only a few paces behind.
‘Shoot!’ he screamed. And then Pekkala slipped. He barely had time to register that he had fallen before slamming into the ground.
A second later, the huge machine rolled over him, its tracks on either side of his body, their terrible clatter filling his ears. Pekkala was sure he would be crushed, like some animal run over by a car.
As the belly of the tank slid past above him, Pekkala saw a flash from the PTRD, and then there was a stunning crash of metal as the titanium round struck the turret.
The treads of the T-34 locked. The machine slid to a halt and the engine clanked into neutral.
The shot must not have penetrated the hull, thought Pekkala. Kropotkin is still alive.
Now the tearing rattle of the T-34’s machine gun sounded above him. A line of bullets stitched across the ditch. The trees where Kirov had taken cover began to fly apart, revealing pale slashes as the bark was torn away.
Pekkala heard footsteps behind him. Turning his head, he saw Maximov running out of the woods, clumps of mud flicking up from his heels. Clasped in his hand was a bottle of the explosive mixture, the rag end already lit and spilling greasy flames as he sprinted towards the tank.
‘Get away!’ Maximov shouted. ‘Damn it, Pekkala, get out while you can!’ In a few more strides, he had reached the T-34 and immediately climbed up onto the engine grille.
Underneath the tank, Pekkala struggled though the mud, clawing at the ground to free himself before Maximov detonated the explosives. Scrambling clear, Pekkala heard a crash of glass as Maximov smashed the bottle. Then came a
roar as burning liquid splashed through the engine grille and into the T-34’s motor compartment.
Pekkala heard Kropotkin scream inside the tank.
He didn’t look back. Pekkala had just raised himself up, ready to sprint towards the road, when a wall of concussion blew him off his feet. He landed heavily, face down, the wind knocked out of him. In the next instant, a wave of fire washed over him, spreading like fingers over the ground and setting it alight.
‘Get up!’ Kirov waved to him from the ditch. ‘Inspector, it’s going to explode!’
Pekkala climbed to his feet and ran. Behind him, he could hear the crackle of ammunition bursting inside the machine. He threw himself down beside Kirov just as the muffled thump of superheated cannon shells thundered out of the tank.
Still slapping the sparks from his clothes, Pekkala raised his head and watched as the machine tore itself apart.
The T-34 was now engulfed in flames. Its gun ports glittered red as fire consumed first the driver’s, then the gunner’s compartment.
A few seconds later, when the remaining ammunition exploded, the top turret hatch blew off with a shriek of tearing steel. It tumbled like a blazing wheel into the woods, leaving a spray of molten paint in its path. Now, from the ruptured hull of the tank, brilliant orange geysers, tinged with black, reared up into the sky.
The air was filled with the smell of burning diesel fuel and pine sap from branches cut down by the T-34’s machine gun.
As smoke boiled from the wreckage, the T-34 no longer seemed like a machine to Pekkala. Instead, it looked more like a living thing writhing in agony.
When the explosions had finally died away, Pekkala and Kirov climbed cautiously out of the ditch, so mesmerised by the death throes of the T-34 that at first they did not see the line of men on horseback appearing from around a bend in the road.
The horses were moving at a canter, and the men had drawn rifles from the scabbards mounted on their saddles.
‘Poles,’ whispered Pekkala.
The squad of Polish cavalry rode up to them. The men carried their guns with barrels pointed upwards and the butt plates resting on their thighs. The officer of the troop, a pistol on his belt, sat on his horse and stared at the tank, which resembled the carapace of some huge and predatory insect, hostile even when the soul had been burned out of it. The officer looked at his men, all of whom were watching him for a sign of what to do next.
Pekkala and Kirov were completely surrounded by the horses. Not knowing what else to do, they raised their hands.
This drew the attention of the officer. He flapped his hand and grunted, to show that their gesture of surrender was not necessary.
Bewildered, Kirov and Pekkala lowered their hands.
Then one of the men, somewhere hidden in the ranks, began to laugh.