Sniper's Honor(86)
A couple of SS fellows came out, including a sergeant like himself, swarthy fellows, familiar in their battle tunics, though foreign in the silhouette of some kind of curving Arabian sword on their tunic collar. It was a festival of camouflage, with the spattered mud pattern the SS favored competing in busyness with the Parachutists’ bonebag splinter pattern, splashes versus slashes. In Wili’s opinion, the splinter was far more amusing than the splatter.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” said Wili. “I’m Bober, Twenty-one Para, Battlegroup Von Drehle, from up at the canyon position. I’m here for one of those Flammenwerfers. General Von Bink set it up for us to relieve you of one. I’d take two if I could get ’em. Ivan does not like flamethrowers.”
It developed that none of the SS men spoke German, only Serbian. But in a few minutes—the SS guys meanwhile offered the parachutists some water and cigarettes—a man with both languages arrived.
Wili repeated his request, the German speaker translated it to Serbian, and the answer, in time, came back through the same conduit.
“Do you know Von Bink is no longer in command of anything? I can’t let you have the equipment without my commanding officer’s okay. And he’s currently occupied.”
“Please,” said Wili, “I don’t have time for any runaround. Think of the order as coming from Command, not Von Bink, but we can’t wait here for your guy to show up. What is he, shitting in the woods or screwing a whore?”
The humor did not translate well, even if Deneker thought it was funny. And the Serbian NCO started to make some kind of excuse, so Wili cut him off airily with, “Look, let’s make this easy. Hop in, we’ll drive around and find your CO, he can give you the okay, and we’ll be out of here before nightfall. No one knows when Ivan’s coming, and no one knows how fast he’ll get here. We need those weapons on our line.”
The Serbs looked at each other, and Wili picked up some kind of odd signal between them, as if they weren’t sure whether to comply, were uncomfortable with the idea of compliance, but at the same time didn’t want to get in some kind of dispute with the two parachutists, which might have its own ramifications.
In time, the senior NCO agreed, if reluctantly, and Deneker climbed into the tiny backseat while the Serbian sergeant—Ackov seemed to be his name—climbed in front.
“Point the way,” said Wili, and Ackov pointed into Yaremche proper. It was the usual Ukraine shit, a lot of shoddily constructed wooden houses with hay roofs, each with a chicken yard, the grid more approximate than precise, though the waterfall and the pedestrian bridge over the river that cut the village in two was an interesting touch. No one had trimmed grass or pulled weeds this century, which the precision-oriented Bober found offensive. No one had planted flowers, no one had raked plots or swept the wooden sidewalks. Such peasants! What could you do with them? Before they reached the bridge, they reached the village’s only substantial structure, a church, also wooden and not constructed of stone; it looked like a strong wind would blow it down. Parked in front stood another camouflaged panzerwagen with a tall radio antenna, clearly the command vehicle of Police Battalion.
“Hmm,” Wili said to Deneker, “I guess our fellow is a pilgrim to the holy land,” and Deneker laughed, because both knew Salid was a Muslim.
Outside, a couple of 13th Mountain SS thugs stood guard with MP-40s, but under Ackov’s nod, they cleared the door, and Wili and Deneker stepped in behind the Serbian sergeant.
Wili expected religious darkness lit only by stained glass, but that was not what he got. He got illumination. At the far end of the church, where the altar once was the centerpiece, a bright beam—dazzlingly bright—defined a rectangle, and it was so bright that its harshness bled the image of color. Laboring in the pitiless glare, three husky Serb SS men, stripped of tunic and smock and down to undershirts, labored sweatily with hammer and nail to erect some sort of wooden gantry, its crossbeam perhaps seven feet off the ground. They were not accomplished carpenters, and the construction looked fragile, supported by a clumsy network of buttressing lumber. But they seemed to be nearing completion.
Then Wili noticed what appeared at first to be some sort of mechanism on a tripod, but since it was outside the zone of illumination, its identity wasn’t clear. He stepped closer, and it resolved itself into a moving picture camera.
Next to it stood a cluster of men who turned at the intrusion. They were all SS, but only one was in Mountain Division camouflage, and he came forward as Ackov hailed him, and Wili recognized him as Sturmbannführer Salid, with his dark glossy hair, his penetrating eyes, the delta of mustache against his mouth, under his prominent nose. His skin was coppery, his expression so earnest and duty-driven that Wili doubted he’d ever laughed at anything in his life.