The partisans began firing furiously at the passenger cars with every weapon they had. Chunks of wood and shards of glass flew in every direction like a covey of frightened birds as the fusillade chewed up the cars. Screams of agony emanated from inside. For ten minutes, the partisans sprayed bullets into everything that moved, turning the passenger cars into Swiss cheese. The open cars carrying the chrome ore had flipped over, dumping their contents along the side of the ruined rails. The attackers charged forward toward the wreckage, pouring on the fire. Overwhelmed, the German contingent began to surrender.
A German Major, an Oberleutnant, couple of burly sergeants and about fifty other enlisted men were among the survivors. They were all SS.
As the men began to scavenge among the shattered supplies, one of Kazanas’ men ran towards the group yelling, “Tanks!” Kazanas ordered a quick withdrawal. The men quickly pulled back leading their prisoners.
They rapidly marched back to their “base” in Stomio. The teenaged boy kept trying to tell Kazanas something, but the partisan leader told him, “not now.”
When they arrived, Kazanas put the prisoners in the hotel’s dining room and posted three guards. The Germans all flopped down in the available chairs, exhausted. “If they try to escape, shoot them.” He turned to the boy and said, “What was so dammed important that it couldn’t wait until we returned?”
The boy pointed at the Oberleutnant and said, “He shot my mother and father.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Kazanas confronted the Oberleutnant. The German looked like someone out of central casting for a Waffen SS officer. Tall, fit, blue-eyed, blond, a cocked eyebrow married to an arrogant face. He lounged lazily in the chair. “What about it, Boche, you shoot this boy’s parents?”
The officer looked at Kazanas condescendingly. “What if I did? They looked like Jews to me.”
Kazanas turned to the boy. He took out his captured Lugar, popped off the safety, cocked it, handed it to the boy and said, “Here, shoot him.” The boy pointed the pistol at the officer. The other prisoners watched, wide-eyed. Larson, Boyd and Williams watched intently. They knew better than to interfere. Hate swept over the boy’s face. His lips trembled. The pistol waved in his hand. He began to weep. “Why?”
The German looked at the boy with amusement and disgust. “As I said, Heeb, they looked like Jews.”
The booming sound of the pistol shot filled the room. The 9mm Parabellum round hit the officer just above the left eye at point blank range. With a look of complete surprise on his face, he flew backward in his chair. Blood, bone fragments, and brain matter sprayed the window behind where he was sitting. With his head above his eyebrows destroyed, he stared up wide eyed at the ceiling, his arms still on the chair’s armrests. Blood began to pool around his head and shoulders.
From Chapter II, World War II Black Ops, Vol. 1