The first part of the story of Master Sergeant Flyorov and Borte is here.
Near Magdeburg, 05:00 Zulu Time
Master Sergeant Flyorov was crouched in fetal position, behind a large group of rocks a hundreds meters away from the Kassel - Magdeburg autobahn.
He's been there for the last two hours. He was safe there. There was no way the enemy airplanes could see him and drop their bombs. All he had to do was to wait a little more, and when the airplanes are gone he would walk away. A nice stroll in the countryside, and in a couple of hours he will be home, at Kiev.
Too bad Borte will not see his farm. Borte was a good fellow, but too slow for this kind of things.
He told him, run Borte! Run!! But the Mongolian boy stayed inside the truck, paralyzed. Then something hit the truck, cutting the driver's seat and Borte in two perfectly symmetrical pieces.
Even behind the rocks, Flyorov could feel the heath from the dozens of Ural trucks burning on the autobahn. Once in a while, an ammo truck exploded, filling the air with the whistle of bullets and fragments. But the rocks are safe, he thought. They cannot hit him behind the rocks.
Now there was someone in front of him. How has he found him? The man was yelling something, and looked angry.
Flyorov looked back at him and smiled. Maybe the man was telling him that it was safe now, and he could stand up and walk to Kiev.
But no, the man kept yelling at him. He was telling something about "cowardice in front of the enemy" and "traitor of the Motherland". Flyorov smiled again, and tried to say something about the airplanes. Maybe the man didn't know, he had to warn him.
Flyorov looked at the man extracting the Makarov pistol from his belt and aiming it at him; he was still yelling.
He crouched back in fetal position, thinking about the lemon cakes his mother would cook for him once he arrived at Kiev.
He's been there for the last two hours. He was safe there. There was no way the enemy airplanes could see him and drop their bombs. All he had to do was to wait a little more, and when the airplanes are gone he would walk away. A nice stroll in the countryside, and in a couple of hours he will be home, at Kiev.
Too bad Borte will not see his farm. Borte was a good fellow, but too slow for this kind of things.
He told him, run Borte! Run!! But the Mongolian boy stayed inside the truck, paralyzed. Then something hit the truck, cutting the driver's seat and Borte in two perfectly symmetrical pieces.
Even behind the rocks, Flyorov could feel the heath from the dozens of Ural trucks burning on the autobahn. Once in a while, an ammo truck exploded, filling the air with the whistle of bullets and fragments. But the rocks are safe, he thought. They cannot hit him behind the rocks.
Now there was someone in front of him. How has he found him? The man was yelling something, and looked angry.
Flyorov looked back at him and smiled. Maybe the man was telling him that it was safe now, and he could stand up and walk to Kiev.
But no, the man kept yelling at him. He was telling something about "cowardice in front of the enemy" and "traitor of the Motherland". Flyorov smiled again, and tried to say something about the airplanes. Maybe the man didn't know, he had to warn him.
Flyorov looked at the man extracting the Makarov pistol from his belt and aiming it at him; he was still yelling.
He crouched back in fetal position, thinking about the lemon cakes his mother would cook for him once he arrived at Kiev.
Overall Situation at D+8, 22:00 Zulu Time
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