It was Ivan Volkov’s Praetorian Guard, his elite Orenburg Guard Legion, each man wearing a red shoulder patch identifying them as one of the chosen. As infantry went, they might match any other in the world, save perhaps the elite Brandenburgers and the tough grenadiers and fusiliers of the German Grossdeutschland Division. Most had fought for years on the Volga front, rotating in and out of regular divisions, until they were selected out in a special draft and sent to the capitol for extended training as guardsmen. Only these seven divisions would leave the city, for Volkov always kept at least two divisions close by, his personal security force at the heart of the warren of stone buildings and military bunkers in the Grey Zone. Trucks, trains, and airships came and went, bearing officers, men and the machinery of war as Ivan Volkov feverishly rushed to complete his general mobilization.
His armies stretched from the Ob river to the east, back through Chelyabinsk and then across the lower Urals to the upper Volga. There he posted his largest army, the 1st, all of twenty divisions standing watch on the long broad flow of the river as it wound down as far as the industrial city of Samara. Four other armies remained in the main force, the 2nd Army posted south of Samara to Saratov, then 3rd Army extending down to Volgograd. From there the line dog-legged southwest to the Manych River, the 4th Army sector, and then 5th Army took over at Salsk, where there had been heavy fighting for the last several months all the way along the line as far as Kropotkin on the Kuban River. Each of these armies were smaller, with ten infantry divisions, and a few supporting mechanized elements. The reserve 6th Army was on the Ob facing down the Siberians. Together they numbered 70 infantry divisions, with another five armored, five mech and several armored cavalry brigades. It was a force three times the size of every man Great Britain would put in the field during the war, and it would soon be further swelled by even more troops arriving from the vast hinterland provinces of Kazakhstan, and Turkmenistan.
Beyond Kropotkin, a patchwork force raised from local militias had been battle hardened into the Army of the Kuban, where they fought to slow the Russian advance towards the rich oil fields of Maykop. Here the divisions bore regional names instead of sequential numbers. There were Rifle Divisions from the Taman Peninsula, Krasnodar, Armavir, and the Talmyk and Kuban cavalry. On the shores of the great inland sea, Volkov’s Black Sea Marines stubbornly anchored the line at Tuapse. They had been pushed out of the major sea port of Novorossiysk a month earlier, and now they were digging in for another expected enemy assault, but none came.
The long line was faced by an equal number of divisions on the Soviet side, but in recent weeks, offensive operations by the Red Army had tapered off in the east, and trains had been moving men and materiel west to the German front, where two-thirds of the Soviet army was engaged. Yet the need to keep at least sixty divisions and twenty other brigades on the eastern front meant that those troops would not be available to face the heavily mechanized juggernaut of the Wehrmacht. And considering the fact that every man now standing to arms under the black and red banners of Orenburg was one more man that should have been filling out the ranks of divisions raised to fight Germany, Volkov’s forces weighed heavily in the equation.
And so it begins, thought Volkov. The men assemble in their perfect uniforms and overcoats, and the drill is well rehearsed. Then off they go to the hell this war will soon become. How many of these men will survive?
Even with its forces stretched over two long fronts, the manpower resources of Russia were vast, and the number of rifle divisions that would be raised in this war boggled the minds of German planners at OKW. Hitler was hugely overconfident. In the beginning he had boasted that, where Russia was concerned, ‘it was only necessary to kick in the door, and the whole rotting structure would collapse.’ And now the hard boots of the German troops kicked off their long planned campaign, the bloodiest and most costly military engagement in human history.
It started early, in late May of 1941, a month before the German Operation Barbarossa actually began in our history. Hitler has planned for a sharp, brutal, fast paced war that he hopes might last only six months, thought Volkov, yet even in these altered states, the bloody hand of war might still be at the throats of his generals for a good deal longer than that, and then comes ‘General Winter.’ If things progress as in the history I know, by April of 1942, a million German soldiers will lie dead in Russia—a million… That was more deaths than all the wars the United States had ever fought throughout its entire history, including the 600,000 dead on both sides in the American Civil war. Yet that first million dead in feldgrau will just be the opening round of this Great Patriotic War. Three more years of bitter fighting might follow—if Russia survives this first year. I must see that Kirov is defeated quickly, and that never happens. Then, once I’m in charge, I’ll consider what to do about the Germans.
Volkov stood in the window, watching his dark clad Guard march off, and thinking about all that was coming. He knew every battle as well, and every mistake and wrong turn on the road. Yet this campaign might end up very different.
Yes, there will soon be misery at Stalingrad, Volgograd as Kirov calls it today. But I will be the wolf at the door this time, and not the German Army. And this time I must attack from the east. It will be no good trying to cross the river directly into the city. The fortifications there are simply too formidable. We’ve sat on opposite sides of that river for years now, trading artillery rounds each day. No. The only way I will take that city is by double envelopment. I’ll launch my attack with the fourth Army in the south, and pull their reserves to that line. Meanwhile, my Guardsmen will move by train to the selected crossing points north of the city. All our intelligence indicates that line is very lightly manned. Kirov does not think we can cross there, but my Guardsmen will prove him very wrong.
Volkov rubbed his hands together, thinking. Once they get me a bridgehead, then I’ll move the armor from both 3rd and 4th Armies across, and we’ll push for Serafimovich on the Don. This time I’ll put my 22nd air mobile units to good use instead of throwing them away at Ilanskiy. The Southern Air Corps can get several battalions in, and they can cut the rail lines Kirov will need to rush reinforcements to that sector. With any luck we can get over the Don before he can react strongly, and that will put us in a good position to cut Volgograd off, if I can scrape up enough reinforcements to support the attack. This time the Russians will be trapped there instead of the German 6th Army.
He smiled at that, yet he was under no illusions that it would be as easy as he hoped. His troops were already blooded in battle against the Soviets. The Bolshevik zeal was equal to his own, and the standing army Kirov now fielded was even greater than the one that faced the Germans in the history he knew.
And there has been no purge, he thought. That officer Corps is intact, the bumbling fools are still there along with some very good men. Many were simply promoted out of privilege and favor, but some are real army men, and they know how to fight. I know the men who will rise like cream and win this war for Russia: Zhukov, Konev, Malinovski, Rokossovsky, Vasilevsky, Chuikov, Yeremenko, Vatutin. A pity I can’t get to them and eliminate them all now. Some are already in high level positions. Other are simply division or corps commanders. I should have foreseen this earlier, and ordered Kymchek to round them up. Yet, it is likely that other men would rise in their place, just as I so easily supplanted Denikin here. That said, I must see about some attempt at assassination where these men are concerned.
I have raised a fine army here, though there are limits to the manpower at my disposal. My front line troops are as good as anything Kirov can put in the field, though his tank production will become a major problem soon. Yet I must rely on the tribesmen of Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan to flesh out my reserve armies, and who knows how well they will stand up in a war like this. Even the Germans are about to get a nasty little surprise when they realize that they cannot easily stop the newest Soviet tanks.
In that regard, I must shift all my production
to advanced weaponry as soon as possible. I have tried to help the Germans, pointing them in the right direction in their early missile trials, and removing obstacles. Yes, I could hand them the plans for a high performance missile tomorrow, but they could never build it. That technology relies on microelectronics, metallurgy, composite materials, and even propulsion fuels and explosives that could not be duplicated today. Yet I can help them take the right steps at the right time, and get them down the garden path six months to a year early.
Yes, if the Nazis can get missiles and jet engines developed soon, then things might be different. They might be able to stop the Allied bomber offensive, and save their heartland from aerial destruction. As for the tanks, the Germans will do well enough on that score. Yet this development of a new British tank is most troublesome. Damn, I wish Kymchek were still here. He would have photographs and hard information on this tank by now. I must find out where they are building it, and how it was designed. For my part, I will stick to the tried and true. We have all the plans for the T-34, and I can move directly to the 85mm gun. Yet my industrial capacity can only take me so far. It is likely that I will not have the strength to produce these tanks in the numbers that will be required.
So then I roll the dice, just as Hitler does, and gamble that this war will not last through those long murderous years of 1942 and 1943. We must make a quick end of things, and link up with the Germans in the south as soon as possible. Kirov was very clever, and he saw the danger easily enough. That is why he launched his Caucasus campaign well before the planned date of the German attack—to gain some breathing space and push that southern frontier away from the Germans, as much as to get his hands on the oil at Maykop.
Yes, that is the one trump card I hold, the oil. The Soviets have stockpiles for six months, a year at best, but if they do not find new sources, then it won’t matter how many tanks Sergei Kirov builds. He won’t have the fuel to run them!
So on that front, I must send the Khazak Armies from reserve as soon as they are fully mobilized. We’ll launch a strong counterattack aimed at Rostov from the south, because the Germans will be pushing for the lower Dnieper in due course.
Volkov smiled, watching the precise movement of the men in the square below. Off you go, he thought. How many will live out the remainder of this year? These are the best troops I have, and I must use these divisions as a strong shock force and cause some serious trouble here. The Guard will lead the way, and then I will mass all the armored formations I can come up with, and plan one good offensive to stick a nice iron rod up Sergei Kirov’s ass. After that?
He did not wish to think further, on what might happen if these tall strong men were not enough to get the job done. The horror of the Great Patriotic war was too much to contemplate, yet how could they fail? How could the Red Army possibly weather the hammering it is now about to receive?
We shall see…
Chapter 20
The footsteps in the hallway sounded hollow, a mocking echo against the stark walls and high ceiling. Up ahead two guards stood in stony silence, suddenly animating as Rommel approached, and then stiffening to a frozen posture of attention. He proffered a perfunctory salute, and the door was opened from within by a young adjutant, who turned to announce him as he entered.
“Ah, Rommel,” said Keitel. “I hope you have had time to get the sand out of your boots.”
Rommel ignored the remark, his attention transfixed on only one man at the table, leaning over a map, head down, and an air of ominous silence about him—Adolf Hitler. He waited, until the Führer slowly raised his head, his dark eyes enveloping him with unwavering attention. There was, in that moment, a sense of emptiness deeper and more profound than any Rommel had ever known in his life. There he stood, twice defeated in the deserts of North Africa, and this by a nation that would field little more than 30 divisions throughout the entire war. The shame in Hitler’s dark regard was a palpable thing, and Rommel felt its crushing power, an agony that weighed ever more with each passing second. Several other men stood in the shadows behind the Führer, the harsh overhead light only falling on their gilded uniforms. Rommel knew one man immediately—Eric von Manstein. The others were in civilian clothing, and unknown to him. Then Hitler took his hands off the table, straightening himself, a movement of shadow and coal black ire.
“So you have taken back all of Cyrenaica… Again…” said Hitler. “Yet what good are your hard-earned gains if you immediately lose them?”
Rommel said nothing, knowing he would have to endure this, and most likely find himself removed from his position before this meeting concluded. Is that why Manstein was here, he wondered? Were they sending him in my place? So be it. The medals on my chest eclipse anything that man has ever done, but face it, Herr Rommel, he chided himself. That is all past glory.
Hitler spoke again, just one word. “Explain.”
Rommel swallowed, his pride long gone, his throat still dry with the desert heat he had recently left behind. Then he mustered his inner strength and spoke.
“My Führer, the enemy is now fielding a heavy tank that is completely impervious to any weapon our ground troops possess. As a breakthrough weapon on the attack, it is unstoppable, and it fields a gun that can destroy my best tanks with a single shot. In fact, there were instances where the enemy fire not only penetrated the frontal armor of my Panzer IIIs, but also blew completely through the tank and out the other side. Against such a weapon, offensive operations involving my Panzer divisions are impossible. Almost all the gains delivered in my last offensive against Tobruk were achieved by the infantry.”
“You were inside the perimeter of the Tobruk defenses?”
“We were.”
“And you ordered a retreat?” Hitler’s voice raised in volume, his eyes beginning to smolder.
“I did, and if I had not done so, those troops would still be sitting there—but surrounded by British and Australian troops and simply waiting for the next ship to come in before they were sent off to the prison camps. The enemy heavy armored brigade had already broken through our lines to the south—through the entire front of my 15th Panzer Division. I could not afford to leave my hard fighting ground troops to be cut off in Tobruk. They were already down to their last rounds. Without those men, all that remained in the north were the Italians.”
“My Führer,” said Manstein. “I concur with Herr Rommel on this matter. To leave those troops in a cauldron would have been most unwise. Given the circumstances, his actions were correct, and I would have done the very same thing.”
“Oh? Well I suppose it matters very little now,” said Hitler. “It is obvious we will get nowhere in that filthy desert against the British. Very well, Herr General, we have read your reports concerning these new British tanks. When this matter was first reported to me during your initial offensive, I did not take sufficient notice. Now you have my complete attention, and I will not be as hard on you here as I might. Steiner reported the very same thing in the Middle East—tanks! Huge tanks that could not be stopped. Have we no artillery? Do we not lay minefields and dig hard defensive positions?”
There was a slight quaver in Hitler’s voice now, and Rommel could see, by the tremor in his hand, that he was struggling to contain the inner rage he must be feeling. “We stopped them in the first war when they came, by simply standing our ground! And that was with artillery falling on us the like of which you have never seen, and the men choking with the gas. Yet we held the line! We stayed in our trenches and fought to the last man, and you must learn to do the same!” He composed himself, taking a deep breath and running a hand through the hair falling on his pale forehead.
“My Führer,” said Rommel. “I placed the best troops at my disposal on the southern flank—the Grossdeutschland Regiment you were gracious enough to send me. They were dug in with good positions on difficult ground, and yes, they held that ground. The enemy 7th Armored Division attempted a flanking maneuver in that sector, but they could not get through.”<
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“You see! All it takes is the same iron in the will that we put in the tanks.”
“Agreed,” said Rommel. “Yet at the moment I would be happy for just a little more armor in the tanks.”
It was a bold remark, but Rommel had spent many hours with the Führer in the past, and knew the limits of what he might say here. He had not yet explained that the enemy’s new heavy brigade had not attacked Grossdeutschland, but further north. Instead he returned to the matter that he believed was his real undoing in the desert, the lack of adequate fighting power in his all important panzer forces.
“I will put it very simply,” he said, gaining resolve and determined not to be made a scapegoat here. “Grossdeutschland was tough that day, but the tanks they faced were not the heavy brigade. If those monsters had fallen upon Hörnlein and his boys, there would have been nothing they could have done to stop them. Yes, they would have stood their ground as ordered, and yes they would have died to the last man. The iron in the will is there, My Führer, unquestionably. But they would have died in place, because we could not put that same iron into the tanks and guns they were fighting with. I will tell you once more—this new enemy tank cannot be stopped! Oh, we did get one that threw a track and was left behind. The Stukas managed to put a couple 500 pound bombs on it. If Goering would be so kind as to lend me a few hundred planes, then perhaps I might be making a better report here today. That said, of the thirty Stukas we had at our disposal, half were shot out of the sky by these damnable enemy rockets.”
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