me. They’re bloody Russkies,’ Piggy blurted out, as he finally recognized the uniforms. He sounded indignant rather than surprised.
‘What the hell are the Russians doing setting up roadblocks?’ Wellerby wanted to know.
Piggy shrugged. ‘Christ knows. Everyone’s getting in on the act. And I thought we had enough problems with the Yanks, the Anzacs and our own bloody mob.’
It was the light-hearted complaint of a fighting soldier increasingly bogged down in the problems of peace. The war might be over, but Berlin was still a battleground of bureaucracy, with checkpoints and roadblocks everywhere and dozens of garrisons of different military groups still waiting for Supreme Allied Command to work out a concerted policy of occupation. For the time being, it was still largely a policy of ‘grab something and hold on to it’. Or just follow the orders one had, and muddle through.
But even so, it did not pay to take chances. The intensive training, both physical and mental, which any potential SAS trooper had to undergo did more than just produce a soldier whose reflexes and abilities were honed to near-perfection. It developed a sixth sense, an instinct for trouble. And Piggy Baker had that instinct now. There was something not quite right about the situation – he could feel it in his bones.
‘Pull up,’ he muttered to Wellerby out of the corner of his mouth. As the jeep stopped, he turned to the second vehicle as it, too, came to a halt some six yards behind.
Behind the wheel, Trooper Mike ‘Mad Dog’ Mardon looked up with a thoughtful smile on his face. ‘Trouble, boss?’
Piggy shrugged uneasily. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But something smells.’
Mad Dog grinned. ‘Probably just our passenger. The little bastard’s been shitting himself ever since we picked him up.’
Piggy glanced at the small, bespectacled civilian sitting stiffly and uncomfortably in the rear of the vehicle. Stripped of its usual spare jerrycans and other equipment, the jeep was just about capable of carrying two passengers on its fold-down dicky seat. Just as he had throughout the journey, the German looked blankly straight ahead, ignoring Trooper Pat O’Neill, who guarded him with his drawn Webley held across his lap.
‘Pat, I need you up at the front,’ Piggy said. He nodded at the jeep’s own pair of Vickers guns. ‘On the bacon slicer, just in case.’
O’Neill glanced sideways at his prisoner. ‘And what about Florence Nightingale here? Little bastard might decide to do a runner.’
‘Improvise,’ Piggy told him.
‘Right.’ O’Neill cast his eyes quickly around the jeep, finding a length of cord used to lash down fuel cans and fashioning it into a makeshift slip-noose. Dropping it over the German’s neck, he pulled it tight and secured the loose end to the mounting of the spare wheel. Satisfied with his work, he crawled into the passenger seat and primed both the Vickers for action.
Piggy felt a little easier now, but there was just one last little precaution to take. He reached to the floor of the jeep and hefted up his heavy M1 Thompson sub-machine-gun. Slamming a fresh magazine into place, he slipped off the safety-catch and leaned out over the side of the jeep, jamming the weapon into a makeshift holster formed by the elasticated webbing round the spare water cans. The weapon was now concealed on the blind side of the Russian troops, and ready for action if it became necessary.
There was not much more he could do, Piggy thought. He glanced sideways at Wellerby. ‘Right, take us in – nice and slow.’
The two jeeps approached the Russian roadblock at a crawl. Despite Winston Churchill’s eventual conviction that Stalin was one of the good guys after all, there was still a deep-seated mistrust between the two armies.
As Wellerby brought the leading vehicle to a halt, Baker studied the line of twelve Russian soldiers some ten yards in front of him. They stood, stonily, each cradling a PPS-41 sub-machine-gun equipped with an old Thompson-like circular drum magazine. If it had not been for the uniforms, they would have looked exactly like a bunch of desperadoes from a Hollywood gangster film.
There was something about their stance which made Baker feel even more uneasy. In the heady aftermath of victory, most Allied soldiers had tended to let discipline relax, and embrace a general feeling of camaraderie. These Russians looked as though they were fresh out of intensive training and ready to ship out to the front line.
He stood up in the jeep, scanning the line for any sign of an officer. There was none. ‘Who is in charge here? Does anyone speak English?’ he asked in a calm, authoritative tone.
There was no response. The Russian soldiers continued to stare straight through him, virtually unblinking. Several seconds passed in strained silence.
Inside the cab of one of the covered Russian personnel carriers, Tovan Leveski examined the occupants of the two jeeps thoughtfully. He too had been a little confused about their uniforms from a distance, having been briefed to expect a standard British Army patrol. Now, at close hand, he could see that these were no ordinary British soldiers. Clad in dispatch rider’s breeches, motorcycle boots and camouflaged ‘Denison’ smocks, they could have been anything. But it was their headgear which finally gave the clue. The beige berets, sporting the unique winged-dagger badge, clearly identified them as members of that small, élite force which had already started to become almost legendary. Clearly, even four SAS men were not to be taken lightly.
Quietly, Leveski murmured his orders to the eight more armed soldiers concealed in the truck behind him. Satisfied, he opened the passenger door and dropped down to the ground.
Piggy regarded him cautiously. Although the man ostensibly sported the uniform and badging of a full major in the Red Army, he seemed to lack a military bearing. However, the 7.62mm Tokarev TT-33 self-loading pistol in his hand certainly looked official enough.
‘I am in charge of this detachment, Corporal,’ Leveski said in flawless English.
It was a sticky stand-off situation, Piggy thought to himself. Even with the incredibly destructive firepower of the Vickers to hand, he and his men were hopelessly outnumbered – and there was no way of knowing how many other armed troops were inside the vehicles which made up the roadblock. Besides, military bearing or not, the officer still outranked him. For the moment there was nothing to do except play it by ear. They were no longer in a war situation, after all. Apart from the Germans and Italians, everyone was supposed to be on the same side now.
‘Do you mind telling me the purpose of this roadblock?’ Piggy demanded.
Leveski smiled thinly. ‘Certainly. My orders are to monitor all military movement on this road, Corporal. Perhaps you in turn would be so good as to tell me the exact nature and purpose of your convoy.’
Piggy considered the matter for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. His orders had been specific, but were not, as far as he was aware, secret. He could think of no valid reason to withhold information, yet something rankled.
‘With respect, Major, I fail to see what business that is of the Russian Army.’
Leveski shrugged faintly. ‘Your failure to understand is of absolutely no concern to me, Corporal. What does concern me, however, is your apparent lack of respect for a superior officer and your refusal to cooperate.’
Piggy conceded the point, grudgingly and despite the dubious circumstances. ‘All right, Major. I am leading a four-man patrol to escort a German
