Casca 11: The Legionnaire Read Free

machine-gunned.
    The field left few spots for cover. Dropping his body down into a clump of calf high yellow grass, he waited for the Ivans to pass on. The half -track ripped across the field, its treads gouging up clumps of earth, leaving behind a yellow wake of dust mixed with diesel fumes as the machine traversed the field.
    Langer snuggled down closer to the earth. Shifting his Sturm Gewher he released the safety, hoping they would pass, him by unnoticed. As usual, his luck left much to be desired.
    From the half -track he heard a cry of Stoi! The order to stop brought the half-track to a crashing halt.
    He held his place on the warm earth a moment longer, hoping against hope that they had just stopped for one of them to take a leak or something. Anything but find him. The Ivans were arrogant and careless in their confidence. They had seen too many thousands of the former members of the Wehrmacht simply drop their weapons and march back to their holding pens without even an escort.
    "Ruki verkh!" The order for him to raise his hands ended any fantasy he had of their going on. It was also their mistake. The half-track was about a hundred meters away from him. Twisting to the side, he scrambled to a half crouch and moved straight at them. This was not expected. From the hip, he let loose with a full auto burst from his assault rifle, letting the rounds walk up the metal sides of the vehicle and into the chest of the Siberian who had ordered him to put his hands up. The other lvans ducked for cover. That small action gave him enough seconds to close the distance between him and the half-track to forty meters. From his belt he took out his last remaining potato masher grenade, then hit the ground in a roll, unscrewing the cap and pulling the striker cord in one movement as he rose back to his knees. Twenty meters now from his target, he heaved the grenade in a high arc.
    Two of the six Russians in the back of the vehicle scrambled to get away when they saw the grenade dropping toward them. The others went up in a cloud of cordite and diesel flames when the grenade set off a pile of land mines stacked neatly in the rear of the half -track.
    The driver and the man next to him were blown through the windshield to hang half in and half out of the truck. From the waist down they were turned into flaming cinders. They were lucky. The explosion which threw them through the windshields had snapped their necks and spines before they had a chance to feel the flames dissolving their lower limbs. The two who escaped the explosion were stunned as they staggered to their feet, eyes trying to focus on the figure coming at them. One of the Russians tried to raise his hands to surrender but couldn't find the strength. It wouldn't have made any difference. Langer had no intention of leaving anyone around to call the wolves down on him later. Two quick three round bursts from his rifle and the Russians went south.
    At a lope, he left the half-track and its occupants behind. He knew he would have to acquire a new identity soon. He'd have to get to where he could find civilians and lose himself in the crowd.
    Finding the body of a civilian lying near the Autobahn, he made a quick change of clothing, keeping only his P -38 pistol. He put his identity papers on the body and set it square on the road where the next passing tank or truck would be sure to smash it. From that moment on, Carl Langer would be listed as dead if anyone ever bothered to go through the pockets of the body that carried his ID. Now he was just another refugee fleeing from the hordes of Soviet Asia. He knew there was little likelihood that he would be able to claim he was a non-combatant; he just didn't look the part. But from a distance, he should be able to blend in.
    He still kept to his plan of traveling by night when he could, avoiding when possible any other parties of refugees or soldiers that he saw. It took him nearly a week to cross the plains, living off potatoes he