The Lure of the Pack Page 18

  The broken, shattered city of Kharkov had to be retaken, and over the last twenty-four hours Von Kurst’s hard-hitting detachment from the Waffen SS Totenkopf division had been fighting like mad dogs in the northern sector of the city. Amidst the din of war, Von Kurst looked around, his face filthy and lined with sweat. Where the hell is Falck, he thought? Deeply concerned, he turned to one of his most trusted SS colleagues. “Scharfuhrer Kempler, prepare for covering fire, take your team to the left and set up over there,” Von Kurst pointed to a clearing of rubble, it was a perfect area for an MG42 machine gun nest, a true killing zone. “Hit the scum as they move out. WHERE THE HELL ARE THE OTHERS?” Suddenly, a white-hot torrent of lead spewed down on the grenadiers from a battered three-storey house on the left. More Reds thought Von Kurst, his eyes aglow with hate and loathing; the bastards are giving my men the fight of their lives. The SS troops returned fire, as what was left of the broken building’s glass window frames splintered inwards from a lethal assault of firepower, the Panzer III, with a loud thunderous roar firing again, giving further cover. But not enough!

  “WE’RE BOTTLED IN HERR STURMBANNFUHRER; THE REDS WILL CUT US TO PIECES IF WE DON’T MOVE NOW!” A grenadier yelled the uncomfortable truth to his highly respected senior officer.

  In a tactful response, Von Kurst shouted once again down his radio to the commander inside the Panzer. “TARGET LEFT, INCREASE ELEVATION, TEN O’CLOCK HIGH!”

  “AFFIRMATIVE.” A loud metallic clanking sound could be heard above the cacophony of battle, the Panzer’s turret slowly rotating, its gun barrel elevating to meet the SS Major’s instructions. The tank fired, its mainframe jolting with the cannon’s release of its shell, giving way to another massive explosion. The Totenkopf grenadiers crouched down, holding onto their helmets as bricks, glass and wood spewed out around them. Then they heard the sound they had all been waiting for, another tank, this time accompanied by a half-track.

  “GIVE COVERING FIRE!” Hauptsturmfuhrer Jurgen Falck’s order was concise, the gunner of the front mounted MG 42 machine gun beginning his usual short, three-second bursts into the building to the left of him. The result was devastating. If it was one infantry weapon the red army feared the most from Germany’s Waffen SS units, it was the finely crafted Machinengewehr MG 42. With its cyclic firing rate of 1,200 rounds of 7.92 mm ammunition per minute, the sound of the weapon firing its lethal projectiles was sometimes likened to tearing cloth. Every Bolshevik soldier feared it!

  “HERE THEY COME, HIT THEM NOW!” With bated breath, Von Kurst and his men levelled their own weapons once again and let loose a torrent of death. A savage response met the SS grenadiers assault, the seasoned veteran’s of the Russian front dropping to the ground, finding cover quickly amidst the shattered, filth laden debris of a once beautiful city. As always, Von Kurst and his men were all covered in dirt and the remains of dried blood, both Russian and German, but they didn’t care, they just wanted revenge. The Reds had retaken the Totenkopf’s prized city just a month earlier, now it was time to hit back.

  Shouting manically a horde of Russian soldiers appeared from the broken, shattered buildings to the right of the grenadiers, the enemy knowing instinctively their only way out of the hell hole known as Kharkov, was through the northern sector of the city. The sector now heavily encircled by the Waffen SS Death’s Head division.

  “CUT THE PIGS DOWN,” yelled Von Kurst. It was slaughter on a grand scale as the battle hardened SS soldiers opened up with everything they had. But the Russians still came forward, as always chanting and roaring brutal defiance against their Nazi aggressors, seemingly fearless, running towards death itself down the bloodied, broken, shattered street or firing from vantage points in the ruinous, fear filled debris. “IRON HORSE ONE AND TWO, TARGET THE BUILDINGS TO THE RIGHT, QUICKLY!” The terrifying sounds of brutal combat were everywhere; seemingly surrounding both German and Russian combatants in a vortex of hate filled battle. Heavy machine gun fire and explosions from grenades and tank rounds echoed all around, and as usual, the most horrifying sound of all stood out within the hellish cacophony of death. Namely, the screams of dying and injured men!

  “HAUPTSTURMFUHRER FALCK, WHAT OF THE SITUATION IN THE CITY’S SOUTHERN SECTOR?” Karl Von Kurst could hardly hear himself speak as he huddled behind the Panzer III, yelling yet again into his radio transmitter. The firefight was gaining in intensity.

  “THE LEIBSTANDARTE AND DAS REICH HAVE MADE EXCELLENT PROGRESS,” Jurgen Falck replied, “THEIR TIGERS AND MARK FOURS HAVE PUNCHED STRAIGHT INTO THE BOLSHEVIK DEFENCES. THEY ARE RETREATING LIKE FRIGHTENED PIGS!” There was a pause as a loud explosion enveloped Falck’s half-track. A grenade had been tossed by a Russian infantryman. A high-pitched wailing scream echoed across the street as the grenade’s sickening, crumping sound enveloped the battle-scarred vehicle. One of Falck’s men lay yelling in agony.

  “FALCK, FALCK, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?” Karl Von Kurst’s concerned, shouting voice could not be heard as further explosions enveloped Kharkov’s arena of death, the second Panzer slowly moving forward, carefully seeking new targets. Von Kurst watched as the metal beast opened up with its co-axial machine gun, scything into the Russians, cutting them down like so much poultry in a slaughterhouse.

  “YES HERR STURMBANNFUHRER,” at last Falck’s eagerly awaited reply came, and not a moment too soon, “THE REDS ARE RETREATING THIS WAY, WE HAVE ONE HELL OF A FIGHT ON OUR HANDS!”

  “ANOTHER DETACHMENT IS ON ITS WAY JURGEN, FALL IN WITH MY MEN, NOW!” The Panzers continued covering fire as the two detachments of grenadiers became one.

  “COME ON YOU BLOOD SUCKING, BOLSHEVIK SCUM, COME ON!” Every three-second burst counted for at least two dead Reds thought Fritz Kempler as he squeezed the trigger of his MG42, the newly acquired position in the rubble giving him and his team an excellent vantage point. Now another two machine gun positions from Hauptsturmfuhrer Falck’s detachment, were set up to the right of them. Any Reds moving down the blood-drenched street would be cut to pieces in a hail of lethal crossfire. As Kempler looked around at the terrifying scenes of violence and bloodshed, he glimpsed a figure with a weapon. High up, to the left of him, a sniper! Grabbing the young grenadier at his side, Kempler rolled to the right as the sniper’s bullet tore into his leg. “SHIT,” he yelled, a searing pain slicing through his thigh. Within seconds, as blood began pouring down his leg, Scharfuhrer Fritz Kempler realised he had been seriously wounded.

  “SNIPER, THIRD BUILDING TO THE LEFT! IRON HORSE ONE, HIT THE BASTARD,” yelled Karl Von Kurst. By now the two detachments of Waffen SS grenadiers were fighting as one battle-hardened unit, with one singular goal in mind, the total annihilation of Russian stragglers within their hard won sector of the city of Kharkov.

  Karl Von Kurst was fully in command again as Jurgen Falck knelt at his side. As always with senior officers of the Waffen SS, they fought alongside their men in the thick of the action, courageously leading from the front. With another massive bellowing of cordite from its gun barrel, the lead Panzer III let loose another high explosive round as a ravaging explosion took the front of the sniper’s cover away. Terrible screams were heard again as several broken bodies corkscrewed through the air. The round had killed the sniper and several fleeing Russian soldiers, but Fritz Kempler was injured and both Von Kurst and Falck knew their friend needed urgent medical treatment.

  “I’M GOING TO GET FRITZ,” shouted Falck.

  Von Kurst looked at his helpless friend screaming in the rubble. “DON’T BE AN IDIOT JURGEN,” this was no time for sentimentality, “YOU’LL BE CUT TO PIECES. WE HAVE TO WAIT, LET THE PANZERS CLEAR THE BUILDINGS AS BEST THEY CAN!” Anxiously, Von Kurst and Falck looked on, powerless, as the hellish, brutal quagmire of war engulfed their surroundings.

  It was a short burst of machine gun fire that killed the young grenadier as he urgently applied a tourniquet to Fritz Kempler’s damaged leg. As the young man’s blood-soaked, lifeless body fell by his side, Kempler knew he was slowly bleeding to de
ath…and no one could help.

  “I’VE GOT TO GET TO HIM; HE’LL DIE IF I DON’T!”

  “NO JURGEN, NOOOOOO!” Karl Von Kurst grabbed his friend by the scruff of his filthy jacket, but his hand slipped as Falck, his body bent low and firing a full round from his MP40 sub machine gun, sprinted to the rubble where Kempler lay. “GIVE COVERING FIRE, NOW!” Von Kurst leapt into the half-track as adrenaline exploded through his body. “GIVE ME THAT!” He shouted to the grenadier firing the MG42, “I’LL TAKE THE BASTARDS ON MYSELF!” Von Kurst squeezed the trigger of the heavy machine gun as another horde of Russians made a last desperate attempt to gain their freedom.

  With explosions, darting tracer and screams revolving all around him, Jurgen Falck violently shook his semi conscious friend. “FRITZ, FRIIIIIIIIIITZ,” he yelled, “LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, SHIT!” The explosion knocked Falck off his feet into the dirt and rubble. His ears were ringing, the sounds around him muffled as he grabbed Kempler by the shoulders. Quickly he glanced back at his fellow grenadiers firing at the oncoming Russians. Then he saw his friend, the man whom he greatly admired, firing the MG42, giving no thought to his own safety. It’s now or never, he thought! Pulling Kempler over his shoulders, both Falck and the last grenadier in the machine gun nest hastily began to make their way back to the half-track, a distance of only thirty metres or so, but in the deadly hail of Russian gunfire, it might as well have been a thousand.

  “KEEP FIRING, KEEP FIRING!” Karl Von Kurst’s voice could only just be heard over the dire sounds of urban warfare and the close up waspish rattling of the MG42. The Totenkopf grenadiers were hitting the Russians with everything they had. “QUICKLY JURGEN, MOVE, DAMN IT!” Along with his men, Von Kurst continued covering fire as Falck struggled on with Fritz Kempler hanging limply over his shoulder, his enemy’s lethal tracer continuing to slice through the dust laden air around his struggling form as men from both opposing forces lay screaming in the dirt. As Falck and the grenadier dropped down by the half-track, shards of metal splintered near their faces. They were both exhausted.

  Hastily, Von Kurst crouched down inside the armoured confines of the half-track, another grenadier swiftly taking over the firing position on the MG42. Nimbly, he moved to the rear of the battle-scarred vehicle and exited, keeping his body low, the scathing sounds of bullets hitting the half-track’s light armour plating making him grimace. Panting heavily he noticed the blood on his filthy, padded jacket. A bullet had sliced across his shoulder, just missing vital muscle tissue and bone. “IRON HORSE ONE AND TWO, TURN THOSE BUILDINGS INTO RUBBLE, NOW!” The two Panzers fired again at the Russian positions. “YOU DAMNED IDIOT JURGEN, WHAT DID I TELL YOU?” Waffen SS Sturmbannfuhrer Karl Von Kurst was not happy, but he still managed a smile at his two close friends. “Tighten that tourniquet around Fritz’s leg, quickly.” Falck did so.

  “You crazy, wonderful bastards,” muttered Kempler, a look of increasing agony welling up on his fatigued, stubble-ridden face. “Ha, these piss stinking Reds, they’re such easy pickings!” With the continuous discord of battle surrounding them, Karl Von Kurst and Jurgen Falck laughed grimly at their friend’s feeble joke as Fritz Kempler slowly fell into unconsciousness.

  “Sergeant Piper, I have something for you!” It was 09.05 hours, Tuesday morning and Nick Lucas walked casually down the corridor leading to Colonel Mann’s office.

  “Oh, and what’s that Nick?” Ash Piper, who was due for a morning meeting with the Colonel at 09.15, took the sheet of paper from his friend’s hand; it was a copy of an e-mail from the Financial Times Head Office in London.

  “You’re in…the promotional evening, this just came through, minutes ago!” Nick’s tone of voice could not hide the fact that he was buzzing with excitement.

  Without any show of emotion Piper quickly glanced at the e-mail. It was a confirmation of acceptance for Mister Oliver Drake to attend the Von Kurst Electronics Promotional Cocktail Evening on Thursday at their Head Office in Dusseldorf. Cocktails were to be served from 18.30 hours, prompt!

  “At last, I’ll show this to the Colonel, thanks Nick!”

  “No problem, catch you later!”

  As Nick briskly walked back towards CEATA’s Communications Room, Piper peered down at the e-mail once again. This is it he thought, at last I’m going face to face with Otto Von Kurst. He growled menacingly, his thoughts racing.

  “Are you ready Ash?” Jeanette Descard’s velvet voice and radiant smile brought Piper out of his entranced state of mind. As usual, she was dressed in a stylish business suit, her shoulder length, dark brown hair seemingly gleaming under the corridor’s overhead fluorescent lights. “What’s that?” she said, inquisitively.

  “Mmm…oh,” Piper paused for a second or so, once again admitting to himself just how attractive Jeanette Descard really was, “it’s the confirmation I’ve been waiting for regarding the VKE promotional evening.” The smell of Doctor Descard’s perfume and the underlying aroma of her body stimulated the wolf’s senses, “yes, as of now Mister Oliver Drake of the Financial Times is officially confirmed on the VKE guest list.” Piper smiled as his blue and amber eyes met Jeanette’s.

  “Fine!”

  As Piper approached CEATA’s Chief Criminal Psychologist, he felt a foreboding hint of sadness enter his thoughts. Coupled with the look of intense disquiet on Jeanette’s face, it wasn’t difficult to guess how she was feeling. “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

  Jeanette boldly returned Piper’s gaze, “you know my feelings regarding this stupid show of arrogance…”

  “What!”

  “Arrogance Ashley! Stupid, downright annoying, arrogance! You think you can do battle with Von Kurst all by yourself, don’t you?”

  “Don’t bloody well start this again, Jeanette,” Piper was in no mood for another of the good Doctor’s in depth, psychological lectures, “we’ve been through all this before. I have to go there, you know I do!”

  A sudden, grim silence enveloped the corridor, then in a hushed tone Jeanette spoke again, “you’re playing the part of Daniel, aren’t you?”

  More riddles thought Piper, more mind games, “and just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “The classic biblical tale, where Daniel comes face to face with the lions, only that has a happy ending!”

  There was something in Jeanette’s eyes that made Piper start to wonder. Was he doing the right thing? Perhaps she had a good argument after all, but then…“look Jeanette, there is no need to worry, just trust me on this, please! When I am attending the event, the Followers who are monitoring Von Kurst and Oratz will be right outside, and from what the Colonel has told me they are quite capable of looking after me.”

  “So, you just walk right into the lion’s den, hoping that CEATA Followers will be your guardian angels. I’m right aren’t I? You know you’re taking one hell of a risk, don’t you…well?” Jeanette raised her voice, “YOU ARE, AREN’T YOU?”

  “Time’s moving on, we’ll be late for the meeting.”

  “Don’t ignore me Ash. You’re playing a stupid game with a man who could quite possibly…” Jeanette’s hesitant pause made Piper lean over and kiss her gently on the lips, “…kill you,” she whispered.

  “I’ll be fine Jeanette,” Piper smiled, his eyes radiating confidence, “besides, you’ll be monitoring my every move by overhead satellite. So what’s the problem?”

  “You…are the problem,” she muttered, hesitantly.

  “Now what does that mean?” This time Piper laughed, not understanding the significance of Jeanette’s statement. She looked angry.

  “You just don’t understand do you, Sergeant. At times, YOU, are so…so…”

  “Yes Doctor, go on, say what you have to say!” The laughter had ceased, the smile on Piper’s face, gone.

  “YOU’RE SO DAMNED, PIG HEADED!” Just for a few seconds Jeanette cast her mind back to her recent meeting with Colonel Mann, to her outburst after he accused her of having emotional thoughts for Pipe
r. Once again, she felt slightly foolish. She took a deep breath, this time keeping her voice down, “I’ve been watching you a great deal over the last few days Ash. I’m worried about you.” She looked at him, her steady gaze penetrating deeply into the wolf’s eyes.

  Gently, Piper placed both his hands on her shoulders, “Jeanette, I promise you, this won’t be Daniel in the lion’s den. Think of it more like…Oliver Drake, in the wolf’s den. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” Once again, gently, affectionately, Piper kissed Jeanette on her lips, “come on Doctor Descard, let’s get to that meeting or the Colonel won’t be very happy.”

  As they strode briskly down the corridor Jeanette’s face wore a gritty frown. Yes, pig headed, she thought, and so damned stubborn!

  “The total number of guests including the media, will be two hundred and seventy three. I have just finished sending out the last few invitations.”

  “Excellent Helga.” Otto Von Kurst stood up and walked over to one of the large windows in his well-appointed office. He opened it and breathed in a large, refreshing lungful of air then looked back at the woman sitting across from him. As usual, she looked radiant. Closing the window, he walked over to her then sat boldly on his newly repaired, french polished desk. “I take it the staff who have been invited to Thursday’s event, have all confirmed their acceptance?” Helga nodded, “and catering and general decoration, including the podium, all confirmed?”

  “Everything will be ready. The promotional hall will look splendid, I guarantee it!”

  “What, even more splendid than it already is?” They laughed aloud, together. If it was one aspect of Otto Von Kurst that Helga Zeist truly loved and indeed admired, it was his stoic sense of humour. All of a sudden, the couple’s laughter came to an abrupt halt as Von Kurst’s mobile phone began to ring. He leaned across his desk and picked it up, the facia glowing with the word KREUTZ. As Von Kurst put the phone to his ear, Helga Zeist noticed the look on her lover’s face turn to that of stone.