RHYKOV (Part 6)


By KATZMAREK ©


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AUTHOR'S NOTE.


Some of the events and personalities in this story are real,
other's aren't. Please don't Email to tell me that X was with Y
in Z and not in Q. This work is Fiction.


As always, it remains my property and may not be reproduced for
profit without my express permission in writing.


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Slutsk was predominantly a Jewish town of about 15 to 20 thousand in 1900. In 1920, near Slutsk, Belarusian Nationalists had fought losing battles against the Red Army's Omsk Brigade in the Civil War. Many of the inhabitants had fled to Poland who'd, traditionally, a relaxed attitude to Jews compared to many European countries.


The countryside was one of the poorest in Belarus, but the citizens had been adept for centuries at looking after themselves. Any arable land was used for cultivating vegetables and most citizens kept pigs and chickens.


Slutsk's population had swelled with Russian immigration during the twenties and the Jewish population declined sharply in consequence. When the Germans arrived in 1941 any Jew who had not fled were gathered up and transported to camps in Poland and Germany. Any Communist Party Official who was foolish enough to let themselves be captured was executed immediately.


As the months rolled on, men who had a useful skill were rounded up and transported West to work in German factories by Organization Todt.


Slutsk, itself, eventually ceased to exist as a useful town. Its few factories had been comprehensively destroyed by the Red Army. The Germans had attempted to restart the brewery, something of a landmark in the area, but, in the end, had given up. Hops, in any case, were impossible to be had as the Red Army had poured diesel oil onto the fields as they'd retreated.


The remaining inhabitants had carried on, trying to make a living as best they could. Some hired themselves as servants to the German garrison and, generally, these Wehrmacht troops didn't treat them too badly. But, over time, things began to change as the partisan war intensified. German reprisals on the population got heavier and heavier and, for the few that remained in Slutsk, life became intolerable under occupation.


Risa explained all this to Rhykov, even though it all had a ring of familiarity about it. True, because of Slutsk's Jewish influence, the Nazis had been particularly savage in the area, but such things were happening all over occupied Russia.


The sisters lay beside Rhykov in his small cabin on simple straw palettes. They each were encased in woollen blankets as impenetrable as if there was a wall between them. If he believed they were going to have a 'party,' Rhykov was quickly disillusioned.


Her husband, she explained, had been 'insistant' and cruel to her. She'd married young, as was the custom, in an arranged marriage. Her husband had been much older and, having lost his first wife, the community thought it 'proper' that he marry again. His alcoholism was well known and, it was thought, a new wife would divert him from the bottle.


But it hadn't worked out that way and he continued drinking heavily during their life together. Risa described him as 'a bitter man' plagued with 'inner devils.' In one of his rages, he'd knocked one of her teeth out and broken a rib. Despite these injuries, she still had to continue with the household chores or risk another beating. A year later, she'd miscarried, having suffered another beating. 


The Community Council had told her to 'be patient,' but, if the war hadn't intervened, she was certain she'd have to leave him or be killed.


When the Germans arrived, everyone was required to 'register' and the Jews were promptly taken away. Ostensibly they were being sent to 'Colleges' to be educated and to farming communities in Germany. The Germans explained how life was to be so much easier for them and many of them were singing with joy as they were loaded onto buses and lorries.


Risa's husband was picked up soon after by the Todt Organisation because he was a skilled craftsman, a die maker. The fact that he'd been unable to carry on his craft for some years due to his drinking wasn't told to the Nazi Officials. Her husband had been happy to go. The Nazis had promised him  a fat wage packet and idyllic accomodation in one of their new workers' hostels.


Risa had moved back to her parents' house. However, German soldiers had been  billetted on them and she found her Mother had to cook and do their laundry for them. Soon, Risa found that they looked on her and her sister as 'available' and she was afraid that one night they'd be raped. It was then she decided to take her sister and go into the forest.


Rhykov, however, suspected some more serious event had taken place before they made the decision to flee. He didn't push the questioning, being content to allow them their secret.


He listened to the sisters' breathing until it was shallow and rhythmic with sleep, then went back to the radio monitor.


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Rhykov was turning himself into something of an amateur radio expert. At first it had just been a hobby, an interest, sparked when he was initially shown the latest generation of sets developed before the war.


The surest way to establish the location of a signal was by triangulation, using two monitors at different fixed locations. That was not always possible, so the next best thing was by using 'signal attenuation.'


But the strength of a signal depended as much on transmission power and atmospheric conditions as distance so Rhykov used a great deal of intelligent guesswork when trying to figure out the location of an enemy signal.


Large German transmitters were based at Minsk and some of the main bases. He'd plotted these on a map, then compared other signals in relation to these known values. Thus he was able to build a rough picture of German units in the area.


German radio discipline was good, but entirely predictable he found. A flurry of signals usually heralded a major operation, overlaying routine situational reports. By attenuating the signal as it moved he could roughly calculate the distance and direction of a column on the move. What was more difficult, however, was to estimate the size of the enemy force.


South of the Neman, near the railway North to Lithuania, was the small town of Novogrudok. For several days Rhykov had been tracking a number of converging German columns in the area. He was now sure what their objective was.


Novogrudok was an important strategic position protecting a German supply line. It had been the subject of partisan raids for some months, and Rhykov figured the SS were launching a major clearance operation.


The Red Army had only recently crossed the line of the Desna, and thus were too far to provide air support. Novogrudok was beyond his operational area and, in any case, Rhykov was in no position to intervene in the coming battle. He radioed STAVKA with the information, however, they'd been monitoring the operation already. The Novogrudok partisan Brigade was ordered to hold on. Rhykov thought it suicidal and condemned the fighters to destruction.


The whole point of guerilla warfare was to strike when you're strong and retreat when you're not. Russian partisan forces were singularly ill-equipped for pitched battles against major German ground forces backed by aircraft. Stalin and Viroshilov were asking the partisans to take on costlier and costlier operations against vastly superior forces. Any small success was seized on by STAVKA as an excuse to demand even greater efforts.


The partisans had no heavy weapons and their only transport was the horse. STAVKA seemed to regard them as regular units. Rhykov thought it criminal.


He listened to the drone of an aeroplane overhead. By the sound he concluded it was a Heinkel He-177 on a reconnaisance flight. The plane had a very distinctive exhaust note and whine from its two massive propellers. It didn't alarm him, there was nothing to see below. His men were a true guerilla force who knew how to remain invisible.


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"Polkovnik... I mean, Rhykov?" came a small voice behind him, "you've been up all night? Would you like some breakfast?"


"Please," he replied, pulling off his headset, "there is some mutton stew from last night, I believe."


"Won't the smoke from the fire..."


"It's foggy outside, dull and grey. The smoke will not go anywhere."


"Y'know," Risa said, as she busied herself with the fire, "I don't think I've ever eaten so well."


"We take care of ourselves out here. In this climate you must eat well or you cannot survive the Winter. A good layer of blubber is an asset... insulation!"


"You don't appear to have much blubber?" she laughed, "rather the opposite. You are tall and strong... well-muscled. Unlike my husband who..."


"Let's not talk about your husband," Rhykov replied, "after what you said last night, I think I've heard enough of the man."


"Rhykov, I'd like to thank you for last night. It was a relief to unburden... to tell someone about my life and to have someone listen. It was important someone understands."


"Quite all right."


"I know you... perhaps was thinking I'd... we'd, um..."


"You'd what?"


"That we'd... entertain you, as a woman entertains a man. Thank you for not being insistant."


"Madam, I have no need of 'insistance,' nor am I a rapist. You came to me for protection from such things. I made a promise, I don't break promises."


"My sister Katya, she's never laid with a man. I want to spare her that until..."


"'Spare her'?" Rhykov replied, looking up from the radio, "it doesn't have to be an ordeal. Perhaps if you two find some good men who will treat you properly, you won't find it such an ordeal?"


"My husband was cruel," she sniffed, "he hurt..."


"Your husband, madam, is a poor example of a man. A good woman deserves a good man with whom she finds it a joy to sleep with."


Risa came up to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you for saying such things," she told him, with moist eyes.


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The daily routine involved the necessities of living. Rhykov collected firewood, some went hunting, and others took mules down to collect meat from one of the small forest communities.


The two sisters helped Rhykov split the firewood and stow it in the shelter. It was wilderness law that the firewood should always be left well-stocked. It was hard work in the freezing conditions and Rhykov was blowing gusts of foggy air as he returned inside.


Risa and Katya had got a roaring blaze going in the stove. He immediately began to sweat, so Rhykov doffed his overcoat and uniform jacket. Risa saw he wore the uniform of a Polkovnik of the VLV. She asked him about it.


"Convenience," he explained, "OSNAZ has no uniform to wear in battle, only for parades and such other bullshit."


"OSNAZ?"


"OSobovo NAZnacheniya [Special Purpose]. It means nothing, just a name. We come under the administrative control of the GUGB but the operational control of the NKVD. In action, we fight as part of the VLV Airborne Brigades. [Sometimes called the 'VDV,' Vozdushno-Desantnye Vojska: Auth]."


Risa shook her head in confusion. "So many different departments and organisations. It's a wonder anything gets done."


"I've often thought the same thing," he laughed, "but we Russians are fond of our bureaucrats. Lately STAVKA have been directing our operations. That is a pity because they treat us like any regular Brigade. They expect us to conduct regular operations, which, of course, we are ill-equipped to do. We are a guerilla force, not an Infantry Brigade. It is unreasonable to expect us to sacrifice ourselves against superior forces. It is waste of valuable resources."


"You must explain it to them."


"I have and I will till my last breath. They tell me of the great battles, the sacrifice, being made by our soldiers at the fronts. That is probably true, but we must learn to fight smart, not by depending on the size of our armies. We are winning the war of technology over the Germans, but still they send young foot soldiers against armour. The Germans have Panther and Tiger tanks. You cannot disable such machines with infantry weapons."


"You did such a thing?"


"Aye, against an old model, obsolete. No side plates on the hull or turret, weak mantlet and poor internal protection. It was simple."


"That's not what I heard."


"Exaggerration! Soldiers always bullshit, you must get used to it."


"They are not the only ones who bullshit."


"Listen," Rhykov told her in frustration, "don't start the hero stuff with me, okay? I bleed like the next man, I'm mortal, a man, and I'm not exempt from fear. Everything I do, and order others to do, is calculated. I've been a soldier a long time. It is a science."


"You're a scientist?"


"Some say an art. Perhaps I'm an artist?" he grinned.


"Then you must paint our portraits?"


"Perhaps? But I see you're wearing too much clothing. I couldn't possibly do you justice. I'd need to view the female form," he teased.


"I'm sure you need to!" she grinned back.


Rhykov was pleased with himself. The woman seemed much more relaxed around him.


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It was late, perhaps after midnight, but time had little relevance out here. 'Daytime' was short and dull, the sun being low on the horizon. It barely penetrated through the perpetually grey skies in any case. The wind was a constant moan outside and the men of OSNAZ only moved about if it was strictly necessary.


The pickets had been drawn in for their own safety. It was hovering at thirty below outside, one of the coldest Winters on record, and no-one could remain outside without shelter for long without risking frostbite, or worse.


The horses had been sent South, to be stabled in the outlying villages. Rhykov had sent instructions that they were not food and expected to find them well and uneaten when the weather eased.


The German mechanised columns converging on Novogrudok appeared to have stalled. Rhykov imagined they were waiting for the weather to clear before recommencing their clearance operation. Flying was impossible and visibility was being measured in metres.


With the monotony, depression was a constant companion. Rhykov, like so many others inured to the climate, focussed on the detail and minutae of living as he waited. As usual he stooped over his radio monitor most days, or charged the batteries using a hand-cranked generator.


His cabin was double-walled with the cavity between the two stuffed with straw and other insulating materiel. The iron wood stove was always kept stoked and radiated a ferocious amount of heat. Consequently, it was possible to walk around naked inside.


The two sisters were bundled up, apparently asleep in the corner. Rhykov, at last, grew bored with the radio and decided to get some shut eye. He went and lay down beside Risa.


She turned over, eyes blurry from sleep. She greeted him wearily and said she was glad he was now being sensible and getting some rest.


"I need very little," he explained, "I have trained myself."


"Are you receiving anything?" she asked, but it was in such a way that didn't display any real interest. It was just a question to ask to signal the need to talk.


"Routine stuff," he sighed, "the odd regular report. Perhaps telling their headquarters the radio operator hasn't frozen to death."


"Y'know something?" she said, her voice low. She checked behind her to see if her sister was asleep and, apparently satisfied, continued. "Y'know, I used to see this boy. Before I married my husband, of course..."


"Hmm?"


"He was Jewish so, naturally, I couldn't marry him."


"I guess not," Rhykov shrugged, "but you were fond of him, just the same?"


"Yes, fond! I was very fond of him. The Germans took him when they came, but then he had married someone else, from his religion."


Rhykov wondered where this was leading, but decided to let her continue. He was very tired and hoped she would be brief. "You must have been... disappointed?" he suggested.


"I suppose so. He was a nice boy, but we both knew it couldn't lead to anything. We used to sneek out... often we'd just talk, dream. He was a special friend. Sometimes, though, we'd... play a little, y'know?"


"Play?" Rhykov asked, suddenly more interested. "Like doctors and nurses?"


"Heh," she giggled, "more like mother and fathers. I hope he's all right. The Germans will look after him, won't they?"


"Probably," he shrugged, although he'd heard some things he preferred not to pass on to her.


"Anyway. He was very kind to me, not like my husband who..."


"Risa, I have heard anough of this man, your husband."


"Sorry," she whispered, "Levy, this boy, liked to watch me. I was only 14 but I was quite well-developed, up here." She indicated her chest. "He liked to look at them, touch. Would you like to see?"


Rhykov was already catching the drift of the conversation. "Risa," he said, "there's no need."


"I don't mind," she replied, "I want to repay you a little... for your kindness." With that she shuffled down her blanket. Her shirt was unbuttoned and she pulled it aside. Her face displayed embarrassment and uncertainty. "Are they all right?"


Rhykov smiled, reached out with his hand and encircled her head. Still smiling he drew her to his face. Risa shut her eyes as he kissed her. As he kissed, his fingers touched the silky soft skin of her breasts and explored. It had been a long time since he'd felt a woman's skin. His cock stirred and he reached down to caress her bottom. 


Risa sucked in her breath and begged him to be quiet lest he wake her sister. She told him she trusted him and was confident he wouldn't 'take advantage.' Tentatively her hand reached down to the front of his trousers.


"Levy liked me to touch him here," she said, "do you know Jewish boys have their thing cut..."


"Yes, I know," Rhykov told her, hastily, "I don't think there's any need to elaborate." Tough as Rhykov was, the thought of introducing a sharp object to his genital area made him uncomfortable.


He managed to insinuate his leg between her's. At first Risa pressed her knees together, but slowly she relaxed. She paused manipulating him and looked at him questioningly. 


"You can't... I can't..." she started to say. Rhykov reassured her that he wouldn't do anything to her she was not comfortable with. After a while, he felt her press her pelvis perceptably harder against him. He watched her face harden in concentration. Deftly she undid his fly buttons and grabbed him by the penis. Her hand was soft and exquisite. Rhykov bent and sucked on her nipples as she pulled on him. "Is this... all right?" she asked, her voice husky.


"Like this," he gasped, and guided her hand in the way he liked to be stimulated. With just the right amount of pressure, it wasn't long before he was ready to come.


Risa watched him as he rose to clean himself up. His dick was a little raw and he thought he needed to use some grease or oil if this was going to become a routine event.


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On July the third, 1944, STAVKA unleashed the greatest single military operation of the War. Against the German Army Group Centre, the Soviet Army attacked with 120 Divisions, over 2.3 million troops, against a denuded front held by fewer than 800,000 German soldiers. Within ten days the German forces collapsed and soldiers of Marshal Zhukov's 1st Byelorussian Front stormed into Minsk trapping over 50,000 Germans.


Soviet losses were typically heavy, some 700,000 men and just under 3000 tanks lost. But the German army group was extinguished, losing over 600,000 of 800,000 men engaged.


With Soviet Army Groups already inside Poland and Romania as a result of operations the previous Winter, the War appeared to be drawing to a close.


As German forces were withdrawn West in the months leading up to the Normandy landings in France, Russia's partisan groups inside Belarus had established control of wide areas behind German lines. Commanders like Rhykov became de-facto military governors, responsible for thousands of square kilometres of liberated territory.


Administration in these areas had become non-existant. Food production had practically ceased and much of the infrastructure in the towns and villages had been destroyed. Rhykov found himself with a situation beyond any one person's control. Millions of civilians were on the brink of starvation, were homeless, and drifting from place to place looking for salvation.


In April, Rhykov led a 30,000 strong semi-regular partisan force against Baranovichi between the rivers Neman and Pripyat. With nowhere to go, the Germans had surrendered and Rhykov established the town as his headquarters. The irregular war behind the lines was quickly becoming conventional, with headquarters, supply lines, front lines, Police and SMERSH units, chains of command and military districts.


There was no counter-attack forthcoming. German Army Group Centre had been stretched to breaking point and there were no units available to protect the rear.


Baranovichi was an important railway junction. The Western line from Minsk cut through there and the line from the Ukraine North to Vilnius in Lithuania intersected with it. It had been a reasonable size town of around 50,000. Like much of the town, the railway marshalling yards, however, had been bombed to a wreck.


Rhykov set the townspeople the task of filling in the holes at the nearby airfield so urgent supplies could be flown in. Arms and ammunition were a priority, but Rhykov also needed grain to feed the many hundreds of civilians.


Among the first planes to land, though, were those carrying SMERSH teams to vet the newly liberated people. Apparently those who had suffered occupation first needed to be cleansed of corrupting influences before being fed.


What the news that Soviet Army Administrations were being set up behind them had to the morale of the exhausted German soldiers can only be speculated upon. That to retreat meant having to fight their way through their very own rear areas must have tested the most disciplined of Hitler's soldiers. As it was, Soviet Tank Corps were being matched against depleted German Divisions and, overall, the Wehrmacht was outnumbered by over three to one across Soviet Union.


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SMERSH was a name made famous by Ian Fleming in his James Bond novels. Unlike the Western spy agencies' Cold War, fictional protagonists, the real SMERSH only existed between 1943 and 46. It did very little spying, in fact, being mainly concerned with weeding out alleged traitors from the millions of displaced people and Russian ex-prisoners of war. It had all the hallmarks of an Inquisition, complete with three-man Tribunals, ala CHEKA of the Civil War era.


The definition of a traitor had always been wide in Russia. In Tsarist times, insurrections and dynastic struggles had been prolonged and bloody. The Civil War body count, flowing on from Great War losses, had been catastrophic and almost uncountable. Nationalist rebellions among Russia's 200 or so ethnic minorities were a constant headache for Russian Governments. Stalin, a Georgian, knew only too well how quickly Nationalistic passions can spill into a bloodbath.


Apart from Stalinist policies, such as shifting whole populations around and suppressing National dress and languages, the Soviet Government clung for many years to the object of creating the 'Socialist man.'


This man put the welfare of the people before himself. This man saw his labour as creating a new World and was an example for others to follow. This man viewed the individualism of the West as corrupt and exploitative. The Soviet Union was the first in a new World order which saw the international working class as on the forefront of the 'great change,' Karl Marx's vision for the next stage in economic, social and historical evolution.


The last thing the Soviet Government wanted was for Western individualist notions infecting its citizens and spreading into violence against the State and its institutions.


Rhykov had already decided he wasn't going to like the man from SMERSH when he first set eyes on him. He was impeccably dressed in an NKVD uniform with blue trimmings. His jacket was buttoned stiffly to the neck and sported the rank badge of a Captain. His moustache was a pale imitation of Stalin's and his chin had only recently been scraped clean of other facial hair. Rhykov never trusted a man who shaved too often, he was quoted as saying.


Rhykov was now nominally a General and entered the man's office still with the acoutrements of combat draped about him. His quilted VDV flak jacket carried no badge of rank; he didn't need any, everyone knew who he was. On his head was a sky blue beret with the parachute emblem of the airborne troops. He wore it on the side, then common practice in the Soviet Army. He unslung his PPSh 42 sub-machine gun and placed it on the desk in front of the Captain. He then sat down while the SMERSH man stared at the gun as if mesmerised.


"Never seen one before?" Rhykov asked, sarcastically.


"Of course, General," the man replied, grinning like a cheetah, "I was just wondering whether you'd come to shoot me?"


"Why, do you deserve it?"


"Some would say that," he shrugged, "but I'm only doing my job, you understand."


"Y'know," Rhykov said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette, "out there are thirty thousand good soldiers. Everyone of them would say the same thing. And everyone of them would be correct. Not one of them, I'd hazard a guess, would think about questioning the motives or courage of their comrades, let alone putting them on trial. That's the difference between your job and mine. I trust with my life everyone of them, yet you distrust those who risk their life so you can fart safely. I have been a spy, and probably will continue to be after the war. Even so, my enemy is clear and numerous. I don't have to go looking for more enemies among my own men."


"I have," the Captain coughed, "the reports of your unit political officers. They say you are a brave and uncompromising officer, loyal to the Party and Government. I have never read such nonsense, did you write them yourself? How did you persuade these officers to file such sycophantic garbage?"


"My political officers fight in the front line. They don't skulk in the rear. They understand me and the task. I didn't have to dictate any report to them."


"See here!" the Captain said, visibly getting angry, "Zhukov, himself, wouldn't receive such accolades from his officers. These reports are... just too unrealistic. I happen to know you are... cohabitating with a couple of young women, sisters. Why isn't that in the report?"


"You'd prefer if I was cohabitating with a couple of young men?" Rhykov grinned maliciously.


"No, but we must be told such things."


"Why? Who are you fucking? Do I want to know? Of course not. I don't give a shit and neither should the Party, NKVD or anyone else."


"See? You are an individualist who puts your own passions before the good of the Motherland."


"Captain," Rhykov grinned, "if you are now going to outlaw sex between consenting adults then I suggest you start building many more prison camps, many more. Shit, I suggest you just build one small enclosure for the law-abiding. Then put yourself in it, for you won't have much company."


"These girls could be foreign agents? We don't know. You're putting yourself into a compromising position..."


"My positions are no business of your's, Captain."


"And you have a radio set. They could be using it to send messages to..."


"Oh, come now," Rhykov laughed, "is this the best you can do? Sending messages to the enemy? In clear, or do you suppose they've devised a secret code?"


"It's not unheard of."


"If so, how come the enemy were taken by surprise by the Byelorussian offensive? Surely the girls would've tipped them off? And why weren't the Germans in this sector better prepared when we attacked, hmm? My companions must be playing a very clever game to keep us so fooled. And the Germans must be equally clever to not alert their soldiers of a coming offensive so expertly revealed. I wonder what tricks the Germans have in store for us, now that they're been told of our intentions and movements?"


"You must take this seriously!"


"Why? Say something serious and I'll consider it. Otherwise, you're wasting my time. Listen, I'm an intelligence officer and a soldier. I know all the tricks and some you've never heard of. If these girls are spies I'll gladly turn myself in. No, I'll shoot myself and save you the trouble. Now, have we finished with the bullshit?"


"One moment, please, General," the SMERSH man said, "I understand you're friends with a Britisher?"


"I am? Who?"


"One Colonel Greenhaugh of the V.V-S?"


"He's not my friend, he's my assignment. You should know this. He is a combat pilot and from New Zealand, not Britain. He is also now a Soviet citizen and has done more for the defense of this country than most native Russians. If you try and impeach this man you'll not only have the Air Force to contend with but the GRU. And, I will add, you will be lucky to leave here in one piece."


"It sounds like," the Captain looked sly, "that you have a great deal of, if not friendship, then respect for this individual?"


"Of course. Should we not respect our heroes?"


"And he has a wife, a Spanish Anarchist? You... 'respect' her as well?"


"Idiot! You have not read the reports very thoroughly, have you? You turn on Benin and you'll lose Greenhaugh. He will not be coerced and is a dangerous man to make an enemy of. Do you seriously want to initiate a rift in the armed forces at this time? You wish to be responsible for causing mutiny? I am not the only one who has 'respect' for John. He is greatly loved and admired by even Viroshilov himself. You wish to anger the Kommissar of Defence, now? As well as the only Russian intelligence service worth a shit. Even Stalin thinks highly of him, and you want to interrogate his wife? How would you like to spend the rest of your life in the Arctic? Y'know, those Siberians are short of women, I hear. They'll fuck anything, including an effete prick like you."


"See here..." the man started to say, visibly shaken.


"I presume this examination is over. I've work to do!" With that, Rhykov took his gun and stalked out leaving the Captain staring after him. Rhykov grinned evilly to himself.


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Rhykov chuckled as he returned to his quarters. It had been so easy to monster that idiot, he thought. He wondered whether the SMERSH Captain would have the balls to check what he'd told him with his superiors. He doubted it and, in any case, sexual 'misconduct' was of little interest to the hierarchy unless it impacted on unit discipline. Clearly that was not the case, nor, he thought, were the sisters spies of any kind.


He strode back to the former Gestapo headquarters that he'd made his own. The Germans had looked after themselves well, and he'd found the premises well-stocked with booze and delicacies. It also featured an immense wooden bath with running water fed from a coal-fired boiler.


When he entered, he could hear faint giggling coming from the rear of the building. Rhykov licked his lips in anticipation.


In the main office, a couple of Officers were wading through paperwork. They looked up and grinned as Rhykov walked in.


"The girls?" he grinned.


"In the tub," one of the Officers smirked salaciously. "You think we may be excused? We have some urgent business in town."


Rhykov had no-doubt what that 'urgent business' was. Some of the taverns had been doing a roaring trade as liaison venues for the local women. Most, he remembered, were without their menfolk. He nodded to the men and they dashed out.


As he made his way towards the giggling, he couldn't remember ever having such luxury, certainly not in the midst of a war. It was like he was a Viking warrior and he'd arrived at Valhalla, complete with maidens for his pleasure. He opened the door, noting it'd been left unlocked. There, amidst the steam, were the two sisters, splashing and giggling in the tub.


"We couldn't wait for you," Risa smiled, "I hope you don't mind?"


"Not at all!" Rhykov felt the familiar urge. It had been some months, now, since he'd last had the pleasure of these girls. He quickly shed his uniform until he was as naked as them.


Risa's large breasts floated just below the surface of the water. She knew they excited him and wore a mischievous grin. Her had moved furtively in the dark thatch between her legs.


Her sister, Katya, too, grinned at Rhykov as he looked down on them. Being the taller of the two girls, her smaller breasts were clear of the water and jiggled as she shook with laughter. Her hand, too, slyly played with herself.


Although a married woman, Risa was barely out of her teens. Her sister claimed to be 16, but Rhykov suspected she was younger. They had come so far, he thought, since those tentative explorations back in the forest.


His cock already at half mast, he stepped into the large tub as the girls made room for him.


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KATZMAREK ©

 





