Upfall

"If we had them, and their weapons, we'd be very well set" concluded Samsonov.

"What are you planning?" asked Zinoviev warily.

"I'm planning to capture them—or kill them if they prefer" growled Samsonov. "And not dither about it either, like a proper officer such as yourself."

Samsonov drained his tumbler again and looked across the table.

"What men do we have right now?"

"The men here in the house with us, all of my men, and the guard" said Kuba enthusiastically, always eager for a little piracy.

"How many is that?"

Kuba started counting on his fingers, but Zinoviev interrupted him. "Thirty-eight—give or take two or three" said the lieutenant.

"And the rest?"

"They are off doing our business, as you ordered" said Zinoviev, trying to shake off his own liquor, if indeed a fight was near. "Doing business" meant fanning through the countryside, extorting food and whatever else they could from the local peasants and shopkeepers.

"Thirty-eight is plenty" said Samsonov. "Gather up every man not already posted on guard, and have them in the big room in thirty minutes."

"It's going to be dawn soon" tried Zinoviev, suspicious of Samsonov's schemes.

Samsonov looked at him dismissively. "Reder said these men liked to operate at night—maybe even had secret devices that let them see in the dark. So, dawn would be a good time for us to attack."

Itzak patrolled around the house and temporary motor pool despite his fatigue. Dawn broke on the eastern horizon. He'd been out nearly two hours. Until his relief, he fought to stay ready and alert, constantly moving, and gnawing on bits of Feldhandler's dry and chewy Powerbars. He carried neither NVGs, a night scope for his rifle nor his radio—all of which were being recharged. The men considered themselves relatively safe among the Russian partisans. Indeed, Lev, the eighteen year old who was supposed to be patrolling with him had long sinoe domed offnutside a shed near the house's northern side.

Before he'd been deported Lev was a seminary student. He still wore sidelocks but seemed to have otherwise given up on orthodox paraphernalia and rituals after his ride on the death train. At twenty-three Itzak was not that much older than his partner, but five years in the army make a difference. Before he'd joined the IDF Itzak had been a student too—but that seemed long ago. Itzak hoped to join Lev in a peaceful slumber before too long.

Two Russians stood guard at the same roadblock the sayeret had encountered hours before. Unlike the original pair, these two didn't sleep. Itzak decided to talk to them—if a common language could be found—to kill the last minutes of his watch. They looked at him warily whenever he went past on his rounds—whether it was because he looked strange, or they were hostile, Itzak didn't know. By initiating a discussion—or trying at least—he might find out.

He started toward the guardpost when he heard loud talk and rustling back near the shed. Itzak turned around to see Lev being savagely beaten by several Russians using their rifle hutts. More armed Russians were running towards the house. Itzak processed the information, and made his decision. Dropping to one knee he opened fire with his Tavor.

Itzak cut down three of the charging Russians, then remembering the two guards behind him turned back for them. They shot at him first, the wild fire from their PPsh—41 submachinegnns hitting the ceramic plates in his vest and knocking him to the ground. Itzak recovered and rolled away from them into a shallow ditch which defiladed him from the roadblock guards. From the small defilade, he fired again at the Russians moving toward the house, hitting two more.

The Russians still near the shed shot at Itzak, striking him in the right thigh with round from a 7.62mm Mosin-Nagant. The high velocity bullet blew crimson blood and tissue into the dirt. Stunned by the blow, Itzak fired back blindly, emptying his magazine at the Russian riflemen. He only vaguely registered that other bullets were striking around him as he forced himself up on his left leg. Dropping the Tavurhe prrlled out a grenade and tossed it at more Russians now emerging from the nearby woods. Meanwhile the soldiers at the guard post shot him again, this time hitting his left arm and shoulder as well as the protective vest. Itzak fell to the ground again. Behind him toward the house he heard Mofaz calling his name, and welcome rattle of other Tavors joining the battle. He wanted to respond but could not. Itzak drew his pistol, even as he sensed his life blood draining. The Russians at the guard post were struggling to reload their submachineguns with new drums. Still prone, Itzak shifted his body toward the guards and aimed the Sig. The two men were silhouetted in the morning light, like on a firing range. Itzak gunned them down.