by Ralph Peters
He could not understand how Paulina could be so young now. And his son was only a child. That wasn’t right. Malinsky felt his age pressing down upon him like tons of cold stone. Every movement was slow, difficult. He was an old man. How would he ever hold Paulina, if he was an old man? How could he explain this absurdity, this unaccountable accident, to her?
All around him, formed along the steep slope in unruly crowds, dark figures awaited an unknown event. Their faces would not hold still for him to identify them, yet they were all glancingly familiar. A performance of some sort was about to take place.
Paulina called out in fright. The boy. The boy!
And Malinsky saw that Anton had escaped his grasp. The boy slid away from him, sleighing helplessly down the steep slope, falling backward, skidding out of control, looking up at the old man with reproachful eyes.
Malinsky ran, tumbling, after the child.
His son. His only son.
The dark crowds watched with no evidence of emotion.
Malinsky struggled to run, losing his balance, tripping again and again. He chased madly after the boy, who always remained just out of his grasp. They were going so fast, there was no way to stop. Momentum drew Malinsky into a headlong, out-of-control downhill run.
“I’m old. Paulina, I’m too old,” Malinsky called out. Yet he could not understand how it had come to be. He could make no sense of it.
He grabbed at the child, never quite reaching the boy’s delicate limbs. Ahead, somehow, somewhere, he knew there was a precipice. There was a great precipice, and there were only moments before they would reach it and topple into space, and still the dark crowds watched in silence, unwilling to help him save his child.
“Help me,” Malinsky shouted, half an order, half a plea. “For the love of god, help me. It’s my son.”
But the boy slithered away in silence, skating down the icy mountainside on his back, flailing his small arms as he sought to stop himself. Malinsky could see Anton’s eyes: large, dark, wounded child’s eyes. He knew that he had failed the boy, that he would always fail him. Then they were sailing through dark space, beneath a gruesome, spinning golden sky.
“Comrade Front Commander,” Chibisov’s voice called him back, insisting that he wake. “Comrade Front Commander, wake up.”
Malinsky felt Chibisov’s small, firm grasp on his forearm. Just before he opened his eyes, Malinsky stirred and clapped his own larger hand over that of the chief of staff, holding it there a moment too long, reassured by its human warmth.
“The Germans are counterattacking Trimenko,” Chibisov said. His voice was crisply urgent, but there was no trace of panic. Chibisov at his best, Malinsky thought. “The Dutch are trying to get at him from the north, as well. Dudorov has already identified a fresh German division and at least one Dutch brigade that had not been committed previously. They’re trying to pinch off Trimenko’s penetration.”
Malinsky regained his faculties. “Only one German division?”
“So far.”
Malinsky shook his head. “They think small. They’ve lost their vision, Pavel Pavlovitch. Did the Sixteenth Tank make it in?”
“The lead regiments are well beyond the counterattack sector. We’re in behind the Germans. But Trimenko had to turn the trail regiments to fight.”
Malinsky thought about that. “I don’t like to see a division split up. Can Trimenko manage the command and control?”
“The Sixteenth Tank Division staff is controlling the lead regiments. The trail regiments are temporarily under the control of Khrenov’s division.”
“Good.” Malinsky wanted a cup of tea to clear his head. He pressed the buzzer to summon an aide.
“The Germans were right on time,” Chibisov went on. “And exactly where expected. The roads dictated the tactical axes. Dudorov has them dead on. You need to see his map. The detail is amazing.”
Following a discreet knock on the door, a young officer appeared.
“Bring us tea,” Malinsky said.
The officer disappeared again.
“Well,” Malinsky told Chibisov, “it’s up to Trimenko now. What about Starukhin’s sector?”
“He’s hitting the British with everything he’s got.”
Malinsky surveyed the spotlit map. But all of the details were already inside his head. “All right,” he said, donning the voice of command. “Trimenko’s on his own. Weight the front’s support to Starukhin. It sounds like the enemy has taken the bait.”
Thirteen
Lieutenant Colonel Shilko had been waiting patiently for over an hour, but the column remained stationary. He still had two of his self-propelled batteries, his target acquisition gear, and the battalion control and fire-direction elements tucked in behind him. He had no idea where his third battery was now. All attempts at radio contact or courier linkup at former locations had resulted only in wasted breath and missing couriers. And he had been ordered to send several officers, including one battery commander, forward to fill out depleted units and to act as forward observers. It sounded as though the toll among officer cadres was very high. But Shilko accepted fate. He was pleased enough to have most of his battalion herded together and reasonably under control. He would have liked to move faster, to reach the next locations designated for his fine guns, to run them back into action. But he saw no point in joining the inevitable shouting match up ahead on the road, wherever the holdup was focused. The column would move when it was ready.
The sounds of battle were so constant that he hardly heard them anymore. The thunder of the guns had long since worn down his already-poor hearing, and he contented himself with another cigarette. The night had grown wonderfully fresh since the rain stopped, and his peasant’s sense told him there would be a fine morning in a few more hours. Pleasant weather to be out of doors.
Shilko had insured that his soldiers were fed with a bit of warm gruel from the old cooking trailers and that they had a sip or two of hot tea before pulling off of their positions. Shilko had never understood why some officers insisted on making life as miserable as possible for themselves and their men. The gaunt, baggy-pants types. Well, Shilko thought, a soldier’s life was hard enough. If you had to meet your fate, why not on a full stomach? In the end, the slight delay had made no difference that Shilko could see. The march schedules and overall organization of traffic were little more than some staff officer’s fantasies now.
An officer dashed down the line of vehicles. He hastened past Shilko’s command car, and Shilko thought nothing more of it until the officer suddenly reappeared, slapping at the side of the vehicle to get Shilko’s attention.
Shilko leaned out of the vehicle, cigarette stuck in his mouth like a stalk of straw.
“Are you the commander of this artillery?” the officer shouted. He was an agitated, ferret-faced major with all the trimmings of the commandant’s service.
“These are my boys, Major,” Shilko stated matter-of-factly, waiting to see what the other officer wanted. He had already made up his mind that he was not going to clear off the road and lose his place in the column, if that was what all the fuss was about.
But the major had another objective entirely. “Comrade Commander,” he said, almost crying out, “we’ve got to do something. The enemy are up ahead. The motorized rifle troops can’t hold them.”
“Up ahead? Where?” Shilko demanded, quickening, reaching for his map case.
The major produced a map of his own and traced over it with a hooded flashlight.
“Here. Here, I think. In this general area. Can you fire in support?”
Shilko scrutinized the map. “There, you say?”
The major nodded urgently. But, in fact, as Shilko could see now, the target area was not exactly up ahead, but several kilometers off to the south, along a road that intersected with the one on which they were standing.
“How do you know the enemy’s there?” Shilko demanded.
“Comrade Commander, I’ve seen them with my own eyes.
I went forward to straighten out the traffic. The motorized rifle regiment’s trains were backing up from the south, blocking all movement to the west — an impossible situation. I’m responsible for the movement of traffic on this route. I went to see what was happening. The motorized riflemen are hanging on by their fingernails. It must be an entire German division counterattacking.”
Shilko rolled his fading cigarette in his mouth, pondering the map. It was clear to him that the local terrain would not support an enemy division in the attack. And, allowing for the commandant officer’s natural exaggeration, this was probably more a matter of a reinforced battalion, perhaps leading a brigade-sized attack. But the enemy division would be spread out over multiple routes, if, indeed, there was an enemy division. In any case, there was a road running through a forested area. Any attacker would be backed up down that road. The terrain was extremely restrictive. In greater depth, there were several small towns that would also restrict any movement.
Shilko didn’t trust the major’s precision when it came to the current locations of the enemy. But it was clear to Shilko that the enemy, in some size, was definitely out there somewhere. Shilko took a decision.
Moving with determination now, he climbed out of his vehicle and rousted Captain Romilinsky. He ordered the fire direction center prepared for hasty action. The batteries were to come to a high state of readiness and await their missions. Romilinsky snapped to the task. Meanwhile, Shilko set to work on the hood of a vehicle, plotting fires by the light of a pocket lamp. He figured that, if he shot the long, straight stretch of road through the forest just south of where the major claimed the enemy were advancing, he would range safely beyond the forward Soviet positions, except for any that were cut off — and that couldn’t be helped. The road would provide the likeliest concentration of enemy targets, and if he could strike everything behind the enemy’s leading combat troops, those troops could be forced to a standstill. At the very least, if you jammed up the road, you slowed down the enemy counterattack. Shilko was rapidly becoming an expert on the criticality of roads in modern war — especially in the northern extreme of the Germanies. Now his instincts told him he had a good target.
Shilko’s staff moved like a farmer’s family, well-accustomed to fitting their chores together, making everything come out right. Shilko ordered the guns to elevate their barrels before pivoting into firing positions in order to avoid smashing one of the long tubes into the trees that lined the roadway. The heavy barrels elevated like elephant trunks, ready to snort fire upon command. Sleepy-eyed officers shook themselves awake and leaned over their survey equipment, doing their best in the darkness. Shilko doubted that his boys had been paying very close attention to their maps during the march, since every man was weary and willing to simply follow the leader. Paternally, Shilko hinted to them where they were presently located.
Lieutenants and sergeants shouted instructions and waved tiny signal lamps as the big guns aligned themselves in the constricted space. The tracks bit into the surface of the road, and the vehicle engines growled as if in bad temper at being disturbed in the middle of the night. Each noise, each lurching movement, attested to the power of the guns, even before a single round went skyward. The guns reminded Shilko of great, barely manageable animals.
Captain Romilinsky approached. “The first battery is prepared to accept its fire mission, Comrade Commander.”
Shilko nodded. He took Romilinsky by the arm, heading for the fire-direction track.
“Comrade Commander, shouldn’t we at least call the division and inform them that we’re firing a hasty mission?”
Shilko chuckled. For all of his marvelous staff skills, Romilinsky clearly did not understand how to make the system work when the situation was critical.
“You’re thinking like a Prussian,” Shilko said with a smile for the younger man. “Look around you. Personally, I haven’t recognized a passing unit for hours. I don’t know where division is located, and if I did, I wouldn’t waste the time to attempt to get a mission cleared under these circumstances. You might as well try to get an apartment in Moscow on an hour’s notice.”
“But there could be complications.”
Shilko liked Romilinsky. The captain was a terrifically serious young man, always painfully sincere and concerned. Shilko expected him to be an excellent battalion commander in his own right someday, if he didn’t disappear entirely into the swift current of the General Staff officer program.
“Hesitation… the reluctance to take responsibility… is something of a Russian disease,” Shilko said. “I have never suffered from it myself. Perhaps that’s why I’m an over-age lieutenant colonel. But it has always been my conviction that, when things go bad and good men are in demand, there will be enough of us who are willing to say, ‘To hell with it,’ and do what we believe is right. Tonight I intend to harvest the maximum benefit from all the years of fine training the Soviet Army has provided me. After all, the only things a good artilleryman needs are targets and a known location.” Shilko released the younger man’s arm, tapping it playfully away. “Did Lenin ask permission to make a revolution? In any case, I want you to run things here while I work my way forward and get those motorized rifle boys straightened out. Listen for me on the radio. And give them hell.”
Major Kolovets was unsure of which decision to take. His reinforced tank battalion, tasked to operate as a forward detachment, had simply driven into the enemy’s rear after a bit of inconclusive skirmishing. All of the sounds of combat were tens of kilometers behind them now. The situation seemed absurd to Kolovets, so much so that at first he thought it must be a trap. He led his tanks over a series of good secondary roads, unchallenged. Now and again, flickers of light showed through the trees or across open fields, but no one fired a shot. Kolovets ordered his men to hold their fire unless the enemy fired first. They had driven so far that Kolovets noticed a change in the countryside, which rose slightly and had a drier feel to it. Briefly, the column became disoriented in the darkness, and Kolovets feared that his career would be ruined. But his forward security element struck the autobahn’s north-south course, and it appeared the unit was in a very good situation after all.
He attempted to call in and report his location. But the airwaves were crowded with static and bizarre electronic whines. He did not know whether he was the victim of electronic attack, or if the interference was accidental. He only knew that he could not talk to his higher commander, and he felt unsure of the real object and latitude of his orders now.
He moved the main body through a narrow, unprotected autobahn underpass, working along gravel roads and trails. The path of least resistance soon drew the column toward the southwest. Several times, the flank security detachments reported enemy vehicles moving on parallel roads. Kolovets feared losing radio communications with his own security elements, as well as with higher headquarters, but local communications cut through the white noise in the air with reasonable dependability. He was terrified of being discovered, then ambushed in the forest. The situation reminded him of fairy tales told him by his mother, in which bad things always happened at night in the woods.
Kolovets repeated his instructions to all units not to engage unless they were fired upon. Then he tried once again to raise anyone in a position of greater authority than his own.
When his calls to the rear brought no response whatsoever, Kolovets halted the column along a hard-surface road in a forested area. He ordered the trail elements to close up, except for the rear security detachment, which was to guard the autobahn underpass, in case the unit had to retrace its route of march. Then he put down the microphone. He decided that the radios were junk. Why couldn’t the Soviet Union at least produce decent military radios that could talk through a bit of interference? Kolovets was certain that the enemy didn’t have such problems. Everything they had would be brand-new and a marvel of technology. He decided that the battalion communications officer was going to get a stinging official evaluation out of this.
Kolovets leaned out of his turret, staring into the darkness as if he might find an answer in its depths. To his amazement, a vehicle drove straight toward the column with its headlights blazing.
It was a civilian automobile, driving along as though on an outing. Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes. The automobile had been traveling at a high rate of speed, and it was comical to watch the vehicle twist and turn, attempting to weave its way to safety between the armored vehicles and the trees lining the road. The driver finally got the vehicle under control, and he hastily backed and turned. Only when the automobile had nearly escaped, shifting gears to speed off, did a burst of automatic-weapons fire send it crashing into the trees on the side of the road.
Kolovets reached for the microphone, ready to curse the man who had disobeyed his orders by firing. But he stopped himself. There had been no choice, really. The driver would have revealed their presence. Perhaps he was even a spy.
The lieutenant in command of the left flank security element reported in. Kolovets was slow to answer, filled with concern over who might have heard the firing. Belatedly, the little automobile burst into flames.
Kolovets slumped against the turret ring. Now they would have to move. He answered the lieutenant’s radio call, hoping it wasn’t a major problem. He just wanted everything to go smoothly.
But things were not destined to go smoothly. The left flank security element had discovered a backed-up column of enemy vehicles just to the south. There were artillery pieces, engineer vehicles, and kilometers of trucks. None of them showed any concern about an enemy presence. They were just sitting at a halt between an autobahn crossing point and a small town. Some of the drivers had even gotten out of their vehicles without their weapons. The lieutenant insisted that the column was defenseless.