Red Army

by Ralph Peters

  General Malinsky carefully avoided contradicting Starukhin in front of the Third Shock Army staff, but he watched and listened closely, ready to intervene if the situation became critical. He had complete faith in Starukhin in the attack, but he worried that the passionate aggressiveness that served an advancing force so well might prove unsuited to the very different demands of a hasty defense and the give-and-take exchanges required to stabilize a major enemy counterattack. Malinsky found himself wishing that Trimenko were still alive and in command of this sector. Trimenko had possessed balance, a cool mind behind a steel fist. Malinsky looked at Starukhin’s broad back. He realized that the army commander was behaving with unusual restraint in his presence, aware that Malinsky did not like incessant displays of temper. It was like a game between them.

  Would nuclear weapons soon be a part of a greater game? Since the alarm in the night, the High Command of Forces had been silent on the subject, and the KGB boys were pulling their own twisted strings. Malinsky dreaded the thought of a battlefield turned nuclear. But he did not want to be caught unprepared. He did not want to give the enemy the first blow. It was bad enough now with the damned Americans.

  The Americans had moved more quickly and powerfully than anyone had expected. The bits and pieces of intelligence information that had been trickling in now seemed like obvious clues in retrospect. But they had all committed the age-old sin of underestimating the enemy.

  Malinsky shrugged to himself. He was not interested in history lessons. But he made a mental note. For the next war. The technical means of reconnaissance were sufficiently powerful. But the men behind them, who had to analyze the data and make judgments, needed further development. One good man like Dudorov could not do it all by himself.

  Starukhin’s quartering party had selected a fine site for the command post, tucked into a row of West German warehouses spacious enough to hold all of the command and support vehicles. The lessons of the first two days had been assimilated very quickly. Command posts set up in the countryside could be located and targeted almost effortlessly. The cover and concealment of built-up areas at least offered a chance at survival. Increasingly, this was a war of cities and towns, and of roads.

  The din of generators wrapped the command post in a cocoon of noise within the outer shell of the warehouses, and fumes clotted the atmosphere. But the opportunity to work with all of the lights turned on around the clock more than compensated for the bad air.

  Starukhin suddenly raised his voice, drawing Malinsky’s eyes. The army commander quickly got his temper back under control, but it was clear that things were not going well. In the rear, the encircled German corps was attempting a breakout from the Hannover area. Malinsky believed that the inner ring of the encirclement was sufficiently powerful to hold the Germans, or, at a minimum, to channel them onto routes where they would become hopelessly vulnerable and impotent to affect the main thrusts of the front. Still, the added pressure of yet another subbattle was hardly welcome at the moment.

  Starukhin dispatched a nervous staff colonel on a mission, waving his big paws in the air. Then the army commander turned toward Malinsky, wearing the look of a dog who suspects he might have a beating coming.

  Starukhin came up so close that Malinsky could smell the big man’s stale sweat. The army commander looked down at his superior, clearly ill at ease.

  “What is it?” Malinsky asked.

  “Comrade Front Commander… the situation along your son’s route of march has become critical.”

  “You mean the situation along the route of march of the Third Brigade of the Forty-ninth Corps,” Malinsky corrected, struggling to control his facial muscles.

  “Yes, the Third Brigade,” Starukhin agreed. “It’s very bad, Comrade Front Commander.”

  “What does the corps commander have to say? Does Anseev believe he can master the situation?”

  Anton. Malinsky knew that it was not right to think of the boy now. He risked losing all perspective. Thinking of the boy who had grown into a man, yet who would always remain a boy to him. Malinsky ached to see his son. And, he realized helplessly, he wanted to protect him. To shield him from the harms of the grown-up world.

  But Anton was a soldier. A guards colonel in the Malinsky tradition. In the Russian tradition. He would have to do his duty.

  Anton. Malinsky could see his son’s fine, clear features before him. Surely, he would look disheveled now. Black circles. The boy would be tired. He had been on the march for a long time. Malinsky imagined the scene at the brigade command post. Anton weary, but firmly in control, a pillar of strength for his subordinates. Or perhaps he had already gone forward, to direct the combat action in person. It was, of course, a difficult question, given the temporal and spatial issues of modern war.

  To what extent could a commander permit himself to be drawn into the fight? How much distance did he have to maintain to retain an adequate, objective overview? Malinsky felt confident that his son would evaluate the situation and do the right thing.

  “Comrade Front Commander,” Starukhin continued, “we have temporarily lost communications with the corps-level command posts. We can talk to your son’s — I mean the Third Brigade — however.”

  “You can’t have lost all means of communications.”

  The buildings trembled as distant explosions walloped the earth, dusting the already bad air.

  “The Americans are conducting extensive radio electronic combat operations to support their attack.”

  Or they’ve hit Anseev’s command posts, Malinsky thought. Anseev was a good man. Why couldn’t he get his corps under control?

  “Have you tried the corps’ rear control post?” Malinsky asked.

  Starukhin nodded. “Oh, yes. We can talk to them. But they can’t reach Anseev, either. The rear is in the dark worse than anybody.”

  Malinsky pondered the situation for a moment, then reached for a cigarette. Calmly, he told himself, do it calmly. Do not let him see a trace of emotion.

  “And your situation? Tell me about the Third Shock Army.”

  “We’ll manage. We’ll hold them. They’ll never cross the Weser River line.”

  “What about the Hameln crossing site? They could be heading straight for it.”

  Starukhin wiped a paw across his unshaven chin. “They’d have to break in. I have a tank regiment on the west bank. And if they broke in, they’d never get back out. The British force in Hameln is sealed off. They’re fighting like savages to keep us out, but they’ll just provide that many more prisoners in the end.”

  “Any further communications from our air-assault force in Hameln?”

  “Nothing further,” Starukhin said. “Not since yesterday.”

  Malinsky carefully lit his cigarette. “Go on.”

  “I’m moving covering troops and forward detachments across the river at multiple points. The first line of defense will be in front of the hills beyond the river. The Tenth Guards Tank Division holds the Bad Oeynhausen sector, with a grouping from the Seventh at Rinteln. The Forty-seventh Tank Division and the Twelfth are committed to the encirclement of the German operational grouping and the Hannover fight, in conjunction with elements of the Second Guards Tank Army. I’m reorganizing my East German division as a counterattack force.”

  Malinsky was surprised. “They’ve done well, then, our little German comrades?”

  “Good tools,” Starukhin said. “They make very good tools, the Germans.” He smiled.

  “All right. But don’t commit the counterattack force without my approval. I want to know exactly where the Americans are headed. We must not commit prematurely. Also, I’m going to order the release of a mechanized airborne force to you. You’ll have two reinforced regiments. I want you to employ them as light armor, working around urbanized terrain.”

  Starukhin bobbed his head in agreement, obviously pleased with the gift of additional forces, minor though they were. Malinsky knew that Starukhin would fight hard with every weapon put int
o his hand. It was only his impulsiveness that worried the front commander.

  “Yes,” Malinsky said. “The most desirable thing is certainly to hold them west of the Weser and south of the Rinteln-Herford-Borgholzhausen line. I don’t want them interfering with the progress of the Second Guards Tank Army. And we need to hold open as many bridgeheads as possible for follow-on forces.”

  “How long do you think we’ll need to hold on,” Starukhin asked, “before fresh divisions come up?” It was unprecedented for Starukhin to ask such a question, so totally devoid of swagger. It brought home the seriousness of the situation to Malinsky.

  The front commander put down his cigarette and pushed back his sleeve. He checked his watch. To his surprise, he found that it was full morning. It would be broad daylight outside.

  “Twelve hours,” he guessed, wishing Chibisov was on hand, ready with his clear-cut, confident answers.

  A staff officer approached the two generals. From the movement of his eyes, Malinsky could see that the officer was far more worried about Starukhin’s possible reaction to his presence than about Malinsky.

  Malinsky’s stare caused Starukhin to turn.

  “Well?” Starukhin said, in a voice of measured restraint.

  “Comrade Commanders,” the staffer said, looking back and forth between them. “The Third Brigade of the Forty-ninth Corps is being overrun.”

  The sounds of combat action reverberated in the middle distance. When large-caliber shells struck, the roughly erected tentage sheltering the area between the vehicles of Anton’s command post shivered, jouncing the maps lining the canvas walls. The radios sputtered with grim updates. The manning of the command post had been reduced so that a defensive perimeter could be established at the edge of the grove. There was still no enemy contact in the immediate vicinity, but American forces had passed by on both flanks.

  “Try to raise corps again,” Anton said to the staff at large. “There are helicopters. We’ve been promised helicopters.” He half remembered a meeting in the night with the corps commander. They had spoken of helicopters that would come to the rescue.

  Anton had a budding suspicion that his staff had begun to work around him, struggling to carry out his orders to block every key intersection and to establish a hasty defense. They had been caught, and caught badly. The brigade, the entire corps, was a splendid offensive weapon, well-structured to fight meeting engagements. But they had moved too swiftly, brigades out of contact with one another, and with gaps between elements of the individual brigades. It had all been too fast, and the intelligence had been too slow, and now they were paying the price.

  Yet even if all of that was true, the failure remained his, Anton realized. He tried to blame the acid sickness in his guts and the fever and his flesh rubbed so raw it hurt to sit. And the dizziness that made it difficult to stand. He should have turned over the brigade to someone more capable.

  But to whom? Where did duty end? What would his father have thought? Perhaps even that he was a coward. A Malinsky brought low by a bad digestion. In any event, it would have shamed the old man. And Anton would not do it. No matter what it cost.

  He thought of Zena, of all the things he had to tell her. They often talked together. They shared everything. Yet it seemed to him now that an incredible amount had been left unspoken.

  “Where are the helicopters?” Anton asked suddenly.

  “Comrade Commander, we can’t reach the corps.”

  “Try manual Morse.”

  “Comrade Commander, we’ve tried everything.”

  “Don’t tell me that you can’t do this and can’t do that,” Anton shouted. “Get the helicopters. Do you understand me?”

  “I’ll try to relay through the Fourth Brigade.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me we have communications with the Fourth Brigade?”

  There was no response. Anton looked around him. Work had almost stopped. Several officers stared at him.

  “What is the situation of the Fourth Brigade?” Anton demanded.

  “They are… in contact. To the north of us. Comrade Commander, you listened to the report as it came in.”

  Anton tried to make sense of this. The north was the wrong side. He remembered that much. And the Americans were to the north of them now.

  “Report on subordinate units,” Anton demanded. “We must form a counterattack force.” He tried desperately to remember the formulas, the rules, how the schools and manuals insisted it must be done. But he only remembered faces without names.

  Then Zena returned. Zena enjoyed nakedness. She said she wanted to live where there was always sun and no one needed to wear any clothing at all, and Anton always pictured that place as Cuba, but empty of everyone but the two of them. Beaches. Sun. The sun was enormous now, blinding him.

  “Report,” Anton insisted. He felt his belly beginning to cramp again. He would need to go outside soon. But he struggled to wait until the last possible moment, punishing himself. He would not abandon his post.

  “Comrade Commander” — the chief of staff placed his hand on Anton’s shoulder — ”Comrade Commander…” He shook Anton slightly. Anton realized what was happening, but he found it difficult to respond.

  “Colonel Malinsky,” the chief shouted at him.

  Anton looked up at the man. He was unshaven. Officers needed to shave, to set the example.

  “Your father is on the secure radio. He wants to speak to you. Can you talk to him?”

  His father. Anton rose quickly, a bit too quickly. As though he had been caught committing an indiscretion. Letting his father down.

  The chief of staff helped him across the command post to the vehicle containing the secure radio sets. An operator pulled up a stool for Anton. But Anton would not sit. Not in the presence of his father.

  “Your call sign is ‘Firebird,’ “ the operator said. “The front commander is ’Blizzard.’“

  Firebird. Blizzard. Anton took the microphone, steeling himself.

  “Blizzard, this is Firebird.”

  His father’s voice came to him, instantly recognizable even through the disturbed airways. “This is Blizzard. Report your situation.”

  Anton sought to order his thoughts. “This is Firebird…” he began. “We are in heavy combat. Enemy units have penetrated…” He forced his speech to behave, to conform to military standards. It required an enormous effort, the greatest of his life. “We have been penetrated by American armored forces attacking on a minimum of two axes. We have suffered heavy casualties, especially to enemy attack helicopters. Our current course of action involves the establishment of a series of local defenses, oriented on retaining control of vital intersections. We are attempting to channel and slow the enemy’s attack.”

  The voice at the other end was slow in responding. Did I make a mistake? Anton wondered. Did I get something wrong? He stared out through the open rear of the vehicle, straining to read the situation map’s details from an impossible distance, desperate to offer his father whatever he wanted.

  “Firebird, this is Blizzard. Your decision is approved. Continue local defensive actions. Do all that you can to break the enemy’s tempo of attack and to disrupt his plan.” The voice paused, and Anton thought for a moment that the transmission had come to an end. He nearly panicked. He wanted to tell his father… he wasn’t certain… but he knew there were important things to say. Yet how was he to say them now, using this means? The officers and technical specialists around him stared. The hull of the vehicle had grown very still, as had the entire command post. They were all listening. Only the irregular sputterings of fire off in the distance offered any covering noise at all.

  “You must hold out,” the voice came back, and Anton imagined that he could detect a note of human warmth in it now. He realized with perfect lucidity what such a breach in his rigorous personal discipline must have cost the old man. “You must hold out. We will support you. We will support you with every available sortie of attack aircraft. You may expec
t relief by our ground forces in twelve to eighteen hours…” Again, the voice paused. “Can you hold on?”

  Anton straightened his back. “Blizzard, this is Firebird. We will do our duty.”

  “I know you will do your duty,” the distant voice said. “I know that all of your soldiers will do their duty. And you will have all the support the Motherland has to give you. Good luck.” And his father formally ended the transmission.

  Anton stood still. He felt as though a critical link had been severed, not just in a military context, but in his life. He wanted to hear his father’s voice a little longer. Anything not to let go of the old man.

  Voices picked up around him, calling in nervous haste. The chief of staff yelled for the ranking forward air controller. Yes, sorties. Aircraft. We’ll hang on, Anton thought.

  His stomach rebelled. The pang hit him so violently that it bent him over the radio set, and he feared he would lose all control on the spot. He hurried for the entrance flap in the canvas.

  The chief of staff touched him. “Comrade Commander, can I help you?”

  “I’m all right,” Anton said, pushing by. “I’m all right. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He blundered at the tentage, extricating himself with difficulty. Outside, he had to step carefully across deep ruts cut by the vehicles as they positioned themselves between the trees. He looked around, trying to spot the perimeter guards. He did not want anyone to see him.

  His intestines bit him again, struggling to empty themselves. Anton staggered. He decided that he could not worry who saw him. He touched a tree trunk for stability and caught himself around an antenna line. He broke free in an angry fit, charging past the tethers. Bushes caught his trousers.

  He forced himself to march a little longer, to put a few low shrubs between his act and the field command post. Then he tore at his clothing, stripping down. He lowered himself against the trunk of a tree in his agony, straining to crouch on burning calves.

  He knew he had failed. He had failed at everything for which he had spent his lifetime preparing. Now his father was trying to rescue him. He had even corrupted his father.