Last Flight to Stalingrad Graham Hurley (sight word books .TXT) 📖

spade in the workshop at the back of the bus depot. Very similar to the spade that had maimed Kirile, it looked nearly new, not a trace of rust on the gleaming blade, and he’d tossed it into the back of the Kübelwagen. Anticipation, he told himself, bred excitement and with excitement came a fierce adrenaline rush that kept him warm. Events had become unreal.

Nehmann had loved the theatre all his life. He loved sitting in the darkness with the play unfolding before him. He adored the clever feints of a good script, the cut and thrust of well-shaped dialogue, the dangerous surprises that lay in wait for cast and audience alike. And here, now, in the moonscape that was Stalingrad, he sensed that the final act was at last upon them.

A Soviet victory, regardless of whatever might follow, was now inevitable. The men of Sixth Army would stumble into captivity and most of them would probably die. Not from the kindness of a Russian bullet but from exhaustion, and starvation, and disease, and most of all from the merciless embrace of the weather. But in the meantime, in the precious hours and days that were left, there might still come just a flicker of redemption.

‘It’s snowing.’

Nehmann blinked. Schultz was right. The windscreen was suddenly white with snowflakes.

‘You think he’s in there? At home?’ Schultz nodded in the direction of Kalb’s quarters, now invisible in the blizzard.

Nehmann said he didn’t know. All he could think about was Schmidt, flat on his belly as the snow fell, blinded by white. White through his sniperscope. White when he lifted his head to peer over the rifle. An eternity of whiteness, a shroud falling over everything, obliterating everything. Schmidt would know what he and Schultz knew: that the forecast was promising two metres by midnight, and that the blizzard was here to stay.

‘We have to take him.’ It was Schultz again. ‘And we have to do it now.’

Nehmann didn’t even bother to agree. Schultz had brought a machine pistol. He also kept a Luger under his seat. He checked the magazine, worked a round into the chamber and gave the gun to Nehmann. Outside, the wind tore through every layer of clothing in seconds.

Nehmann had the spade from the back of the Wagen.

‘You’re going to bury the fucker?’ Schultz was shaking his head.

Step by step they made their way towards the well. From there, Nehmann would know exactly where to head in order to find Kalb’s quarters. The blizzard was becoming heavier, more violent, visibility down to a couple of metres. Then, abruptly, Nehmann caught sight of a shape looming before them, something dark, formless, sprawled in the snow. He stopped for a moment, Luger in one hand, spade in the other. There was fresh blood pinking the snow around the folds of the Russian greatcoat and, as he stared at it, Nehmann caught a flicker of movement and what might have been a groan. One arm raised, then fell again, the gloved fingers flexing.

‘Hilf mir.’Help me. An order, not a plea. It was Kalb. It had to be.

Schultz bent to check, grunting with the effort as he rolled the body over. Kalb’s pale face stared up at them.

‘In here.’ He gestured helplessly at his abdomen. ‘I’ve been shot.’

‘Schmidt.’ Schultz shook his head in disbelief. ‘And we never heard a fucking thing.’

Nehmann nodded. A canvas bucket with a rope handle lay beside Kalb.

‘The Wagen, ja?’He looked across at Schultz. ‘Follow our footsteps back.’

Schultz muttered something Nehmann didn’t catch and disappeared into the blizzard, his head down. Nehmann was already kneeling beside Kalb. He’d never seen the face beneath the balaclava. The Standartenführer was freshly barbered, his chin and cheeks perfectly shaved around the stamp-sized moustache, and as Kalb struggled for breath Nehmann thought he caught a hint of something sour, foul-smelling, with just a hint of menthol, that seemed to come from deep within him.

‘Hang on,’ Nehmann said urgently. ‘We can take you to Gumrak. Hang on. Don’t give up. Don’t die. Verstehst Du?’

Kalb seemed to nod but Nehmann knew he was bleeding out. Not a knee shot at all but something far more serious.

Moments later, a figure emerged from the driving snow. Assuming it was Schultz, Nehmann got to his feet but of the Kübelwagen there was no sign. Then he realised he was looking at the Leutnant from the Feldgendarmerie. He’d come to give Kalb a hand at the well.

‘What’s going on?’ He was staring down at the blood in the snow, at Kalb.

‘Fuck knows. We can get him to Gumrak. We’ll need a hand.’

The Leutnant was a policeman. He was looking now at the Luger, at this stranger, at the tiny black-rimmed hole in the greatcoat.

‘So who are you?’ he demanded.

Nehmann was spared having to answer. Schultz had arrived in the Kübelwagen. He opened all four doors and struggled towards them through the snow.

‘Heil Hitler!’ He snapped the Leutnant a salute. ‘Oberst Schultz. Abwehr. This man is badly injured. We need to get him to Gumrak.’

Without waiting for an answer, he hooked his big hands beneath Kalb’s armpits and told the Leutnant to take his feet. The Leutnant began to protest but Schultz cut him short with a look.

‘You want the man to bleed to death?’

They carried Kalb to the Kübelwagen between them. Kalb’s eyes were closed but he appeared to be still breathing.

‘Schnell, ja? As quick as you can.’

They folded Kalb into the back of the Wagen. The Leutnant was demanding Nehmann’s details.

‘He’s with me,’ Schultz grunted. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

He gestured for Nehmann to get back into the Wagen, offered the Leutnant another salute, and then settled heavily behind the wheel. Moments later, the Wagen was on the move again and, looking back, Nehmann could see nothing but whiteness.

Schultz was adjusting the rear-view mirror with his right hand. When he’d finally got a proper look at Kalb, Nehmann, twisted in his seat, had failed to find a pulse.

‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got much time.’

‘To