The Scarlet Generation

by Christopher Nicole

  “When will they attack?” Ivan asked.

  The captain shrugged. “Who can say? They attacked this morning, but we threw them back. That is the eighteenth attack they have made across this street.”

  “And you have held them every time. That is very good,” Ivan said admiringly.

  Arkovski ignored the compliment. “When they first reached this street, nearly two months ago, they were hysterical. I think they thought the city was theirs. They actually dragged a piano out on to that pavement and one of them played it while the rest danced. I think they were drunk. They had this building, then. But we counter-attacked and drove them back out.”

  “And since then you have held on,” Ivan said enthusiastically. “Tell me what it is you most need.”

  “What I most need, Comrade Commissar, is to take my men out of here for rest and recuperation. Certainly my wounded.”

  “What percentage of your strength are wounded?”

  The captain grinned. “One hundred.”

  “And what percentage can still fire a gun?”

  “One hundred.”

  “No withdrawal is possible,” Ivan said. “What you will have is reinforcement. I am arranging this now. They will be here by dawn. But here you must stay until the Jerries are destroyed.”

  “And are the Jerries not also being reinforced, Comrade Commissar?”

  “They will run out of men before you, Captain.”

  “It is to be hoped so, Comrade Commissar,” Arkovski said. “But give me reinforcements, and I will cross the street and retake that building.”

  “It is time we were leaving,” Colonel Vladimirov suggested.

  “We will stay for the counter-attack,” Ivan said.

  The Russian officers looked as concerned as did Joseph. “If you do not leave now, Comrade Commissar,” Vladimirov pointed out, “you will have to remain here all day tomorrow. You will not be able to cross the river until it is again dark.”

  “I have come here to understand the situation,” Ivan declared. “To do that I must estimate the German capabilities as well as our own.”

  The two officers exchanged glances, clearly both of the opinion that they had enough to contend with without the presence of mad commissars. Joseph felt the same way, although he understood that Ivan was clearly following orders: he would have given a lot to know just what those orders were. But when Arkovski and Vladimirov both looked at him, he shrugged. “I’d like to have a look at what’s going on as well,” he lied.

  “Then you had better be armed,” Arkovski decided. Rifles were fetched, and Ivan and Joseph were given a quick lesson in how to use them.

  “I must return to my duty,” Vladimirov decided. “The boats will be ferrying men all night. So if you change your mind, before dawn, Comrade Commissar...”

  “We shall return tomorrow night,” Ivan said, and watched the Colonel retreat into the gloom. “Are all your senior officers this unwilling to face the enemy?” he asked Arkovski.

  The captain grinned. “They have their job to do, Comrade Commissar, as I have mine. If I survive this, will I be promoted colonel?”

  “You have my word on it,” Ivan promised.

  “Then please do not get yourself killed. How about you, American? Have you ever been in a battle before?”

  “Several,” Joseph told him.

  “Is that a fact.” The captain was sceptical. “Where?”

  “I was in the British Army on the Western Front in France for two years in the Great War,” Joseph said. And grinned in his turn. “And afterwards, I fought in the Great Civil War. On the White side.”

  “Then at least you know how to defend a lost position,” Arkovski said. “I assume you gentlemen have dined?” Ivan nodded. “Then you will permit me to do the same.” He led them back down into the vault.

  If the garrison of the department store was a little short of food, there seemed no lack of vodka; Joseph estimated that at least half of the men sitting and lying around them were drunk. “Do you think that is a good idea?” he asked Arkovski.

  The captain shrugged and took a drink himself. “It makes them fight. To live in hell, Comrade American, one needs to lose touch with reality.”

  They were all also, as the captain had said, wounded, or they would have been counted as wounded in any normal situation. But nicks and scratches meant nothing in Stalingrad, and the several badly wounded, men shot through the chest or with broken arms or legs, had been patched up as well as possible and still retained their rifles, occupying various defensive positions. There were even some dead, lying with rifles cradled in their arms; Joseph was reminded of ‘Beau Geste’. But these dead had been around too long, and the cold had not yet set in sufficiently; they melded into the general stench.

  To his surprise, he nodded off, and was awakened by a great deal of stealthy movement around him in the darkness. “The reinforcements have arrived,” Ivan told him. “We are going to counter-attack across the street.”

  Joseph sat up, checked his rifle, ran his hand over his stubbled chin. The toilet was the ground beside one; everyone else was doing the same; this too melded into the general stench. Cups of vodka were passed round; there was no tea or coffee, as there was no means of heating water — had there been any water. “We do not have to go in the first wave,” Ivan said. “We are not soldiers, eh?”

  Joseph was not quite sure what they were, at that moment, and as earlier, he was again imbued with a desire to participate, to fight with these men. But he did not really wish to die with them to become an unknown and unburied corpse. Thus he willingly fell into the rear rank of the assault force. By now it was just starting to grow light, and Arkovski gave the order for his mortars to be fired. There were 12 of these; Joseph had not previously noticed them in the dark. Now they exploded together, and again and again as their gunners fed them with projectiles. The buildings on the far side of the street burst into flame and rubble. Arkovski was on his feet, armed with rifle and bayonet, waving his arm. His men shouted “Ourrah! Ourrah!” and followed him into a hail of machine-gun fire, which had several of them collapsing amid the stones.

  “Let’s go!” Ivan said, rising to his feet and crawling through the shattered back wall of the department store. Joseph scrambled beside him, following the last wave of Russian infantry. Several more men in front of him had fallen, but he was unaware of actually being shot at. Dimly he realised that Ivan had gone from in front of him, and checked, as he reached the street.

  At that moment he felt a thud somewhere in his body. He spun round and fell, still grasping his rifle. The noise was tremendous, men screaming, weapons exploding, the whole now submerged beneath another very heavy shower of rain which came streaming down. Yet he could hear Ivan screaming. Joseph turned back to find him, saw his friend lying on his back some feet away. The main body of Russians was across the street now, firing their weapons, whooping and shrieking. They were ignoring those of their comrades who had fallen in their anxiety to secure their victory. But I am not a soldier, Joseph reminded himself.

  He made to go to Ivan, and fell flat on his face; all power to move seemed to have been taken away from his legs. Yet he felt no pain. Then he realised it was still the shock of being hit; the pain would come soon enough. He dragged himself forward. “Ivan,” he said. “Ivan!” he shouted.

  Ivan did not move; he had stopped screaming. Joseph lay beside him, for how long he did not know. He thought he lost consciousness for a while, then he was aroused by the thump of boots about him. “He has lost a lot of blood,” someone said.

  “Well, patch him up as best you can,” Arkovski said. “We will send him back across the river as soon as it is dark.”

  “Fucking amateurs!” said the first voice.

  Joseph was inclined to agree with him, for now the pain was starting to strike, making him moan in agony. “Drink,” Arkovski commanded, and held a glass of vodka to his lips.

  Joseph drank, greedily. “The Commissar…?”

  “Is
dead. And you are badly wounded,” Arkovski said. “But I do not think you will die. But tell me something, were you hit before, or after Commissar Ligachev?”

  “At about the same moment, I think,” Joseph said. “Is it important?”

  “Probably not. It is just surprising. What I should have asked was, were you hit before or after you turned round to see what had happened to him?”

  “Oh, before. I didn’t know anything had happened to him until after I was hit. Is that important?”

  “It is again, surprising,” Arkovski said. “You see, you were shot in the back.”

  Chapter 12 – The Animals

  “Well, how is our patient today?” Joseph blinked at Chuikov. He was still not quite sure where he was; the previous few weeks had been lost in delirium, with only snatches of reality penetrating his consciousness. He had been aware principally of anxiety...but he could not relate the anxiety to reality. “I am told that you are now really on the mend,” Chuikov said. “Is that not good news?”

  “Where am I?”

  “You are in one of our hospitals on the east bank of the river. It is quite safe here, you are underground and the Fritzes seem to be running out of aircraft. Or maybe the weather is just too bad for them to fly. In any event, we do not see so many of them about, now.”

  There was so much he wanted to ask. “Stalingrad?”

  “We are holding, and they are making no progress. One has to say that they have the courage of fanaticism. They have poured an entire army into this battle and have not succeeded. Now winter is upon us. Any sane general would withdraw, regroup, and consider his next move. But not Paulus; he keeps edging forward here, being driven back there, and edging forward again. I suppose he is being told what to do by Hitler, just as we are being directed by Stalin. Neither is a military genius. It is the name of the city that makes it so important to our leaders. Half a million casualties, for a name.”

  Joseph wondered how such an outspoken man had got to be a general in this crazy world, and how much longer he would remain one. At least while he was fighting so brilliantly, presumably. “So you have achieved stalemate,” he agreed. “But the Germans will still be there next spring.”

  “I do not think so,” Chuikov said. “General Rokossovsky is preparing a counter-stroke now. If Comrade Ligachev never did anything else, he at least gave us a fighting commanding officer.” He gave one of his so-attractive grins. “There you have all of our military secrets, Comrade American. And as soon as you are strong enough to travel I must arrange to have you sent home. I mean, at least to Moscow.”

  Joseph did not wish to return to Moscow, and a twice-widowed Jennie, and the uncertainty of Alex’s fate. And to a consideration of what had actually happened to him. He had been shot in the back...and the only person behind him to his knowledge had been Ligachev. His friend! And Jennie’s husband! It could of course had been an accident. But if not...there was nothing he could do to discover the truth until after the war, if then. And until then, he wanted to be here, at what was clearly the decisive battle of the war. And where, paradoxically, he would be far safer than in Moscow, if Ligachev’s shot had not been an accident. But Priscilla? Chuikov might have been able to read his mind: “By the way, Comrade American, a message came for you while you were delirious. I assume it is in reply to a query of yours, but as it was contained in a larger message, I am afraid I read it.”

  “What did it say?” Joseph’s voice was urgent.

  “Simply that your wife, who I assume you were expecting to meet you in Moscow, has been delayed. The northern convoys have been very badly disrupted this last summer, and have suffered heavy casualties due to German action. Your wife has been advised that it would be better to wait until things improve before attempting so hazardous a journey.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “I believe she is still in England, intending to come on as soon as it is practical.” Joseph lay back with a sigh. Always the pragmatist, Priscilla. But thank God she was safe. “So,” Chuikov said. “As soon as the doctors say you can travel, I will have transport arranged.”

  “I’d prefer to send a couple of messages. One is to my wife in London, advising her to remain there until she hears from me. The other is to my superior in Moscow, requesting permission to remain with you and oversee the battle for Stalingrad to the end.”

  Chuikov raised his eyebrows, and then smiled. “You will be welcome, Comrade American. And I will give you my assurance that you will not again be shot in the back.”

  *

  “I am so terribly sorry,” Stalin said. “He died most gallantly, leading a charge. Why he was leading a charge I cannot say. But there it is. Ivan Ivanovich was above all a patriot.”

  Jennie sat before his desk in the Kremlin. “But Joseph...”

  “Was badly wounded. However, I believe he is making progress. Is that not splendid news?”

  “Yes,” Jennie muttered. “Will he be returning to Moscow?”

  “When he is fit to travel, of course. Now, Jennie, here is some really splendid news. We have heard from Tatiana. She is alive and well. As I was certain was the case, she and a few of her associates survived the German assault on the Pripet, and she has made contact with another group, farther to the east. And the message says that Alexei Bolugayevski is also alive. Is that not splendid?”

  “Oh, yes.” Jennie was very close to tears. “And Feodor?”

  “Sadly, no. Poor Ivan Ivanovich’s family has been quite destroyed. But yours is well and thriving. And will thrive still more.”

  “You’ll bring her out? Tatiana?” Jennie was not the least concerned about Alex Bolugayevski. “She has surely suffered enough, Josef. And now that Ivan is gone...”

  “I cannot bring her out, even if I wished,” Stalin explained. “Besides, she does not wish to come. She wishes to reconstitute her group and carry the war to the Germans. I think that is admirable. As soon as this Stalingrad business is cleared away, and that will not be long now, I am going to give her all the support I can. Your daughter is going to be one of the great heroines of this war, Jennie.”

  “Until she is also killed,” Jennie said sadly.

  “I do not think she will ever be killed. I think she has the gift of survival. And you will be proud of her. I can understand your feeling depressed. But think of the thousands, millions, of wives in Russia who have lost their loved ones. You must be brave! And as soon as you have spent a decent period mourning, we will find you another husband, eh?”

  Jennie’s head jerked. “No! I do not wish to marry again.”

  “You are depressed,” Stalin repeated. “We will talk about it later.”

  “I will not marry again, Josef!”

  Stalin smiled. “Of course you will not marry again, Jennie. Until, and unless, you wish to. Now go home and rest.”

  Jennie got up. “Am I allowed to ask what has happened to Priscilla and Sonia?”

  Stalin’s eyes became opaque. “They are no concern of yours.”

  Jennie hesitated, then left the room. Once she was safely away, Beria came in. “A crushed woman.”

  “She has been crushed for a long time,” Stalin agreed.

  “But you remain fond of her. I wonder you do not divorce your present wife and marry her yourself.” Stalin filled his pipe, and Beria knew he did not wish to discuss the subject. “What is the situation with Joseph Cromb?” he asked. “I gather that Ligachev failed in his mission.”

  “Ivan Ivanovich was one of nature’s failures,” Stalin said.

  “Considering Jennie, I would say he was even a failure as a husband.”

  “So, shall I send one of my people to complete the business?” Beria asked. “If Cromb is seriously ill in hospital, it should not be very difficult.”

  “I am inclined to leave things as they are, for the moment,” Stalin said, striking a match and starting to puff. “I have had a communication from Rokossovsky. Here.” He held it out. “Cromb appears to wish to stay and see the job fini
shed, as he puts it. I think that is admirable. He may well stop a legitimate bullet. In any event, I wish him to be about, for a few weeks more at the least. He, above all others, will be the man to tell the world of the glory of Stalingrad.”

  Beria knew very well what his chief had in mind, and it was not the glory of Stalingrad. “As you wish. I agree, it would be most convenient if he were to stop a German bullet, or a German bomb. However, if you change your mind, you have but to say.”

  Stalin surveyed him through a cloud of smoke. He had never really liked Beria, although he had to admit the man was efficient. Perhaps that was what he most disliked about him, his efficiency — and his obvious ambition. These were characteristics he had himself possessed when he had been Beria’s age. “I assume that other matter has been tidied away?”

  “Of course, Comrade Chairman.”

  “And you have been through Ligachev’s papers? Was there anything of interest in them?”

  “Nothing,” Beria said, and wondered if he had spoken a shade too quickly. “They contained mostly observations of people and events. Very dull. But then, as you have said, Comrade Chairman, he was a very dull man.”

  Stalin nodded. “Then we shall look forward to victory at Stalingrad.”

  *

  Beria understood that he had been dismissed. He would dearly have liked to ask about that other matter, but he dared not. He clicked his heels and left the room.

  Beria returned to Lubyanka Street. Here he felt at home, because here, everyone was his servant. He could command anyone of these healthy, handsome young women, and men, to do anything he required, and they would obey him without a moment’s hesitation. He wondered at his own moderation. He so often felt like exceeding it. But he was going to have to rely on these people when the time came to seize power, and it could not be very long delayed — Josef Vissarionovich was well past 60, smoked and drank too much, and was impotent. That made him smile. Was the old devil hoping his ex-princess would restore his sexual youth? But the fact was that, on top of all of those debilitations, he had been subjected now for two years to enormous stress. For all his projection of external calm, it showed in his growing paranoia. No, he thought, it could not be so very long now, by those very laws of nature Stalin had so often chosen to disobey.