by Gee, Colin
The IS-II caught fire.
The flames spread, feasting on the free fuel vapour from the two ruptured tanks, greedily moving on to find welcoming diesel fuel in all directions.
Burning fuel dropped around the tree stump.
“What the hell?”
Mearns pushed and scrabbled, his limited strength of no use against the inexorable downward pressure of the tank on the tree truck.
He exerted his strength, dug with his good hand, pushed with his good leg, all to no avail, all the time growing weaker.
More burning fuel dropped around him, catching his trousers alight
In a moment of clarity, he had a last rational thought.
‘I don’t deserve to die like this!’
And then the moment was gone, and Master Sergeant Winchester Mearns became a mental wreck, howling and screaming his last few moments away.
Inside the tank, Antonov knew what lay in store.
As he reached around to his side, his thoughts turned to his wife and his three fine sons.
The heat was unbearable and he did not prolong the moment unnecessarily.
The barrel of the Tokarev was against the side of his forehead, the act of pulling the trigger granting him one final second of life.
‘I don’t want to die like this!’
The sound of the shot was lost on Mearns, his legs engulfed in flames, his animal panic having robbed him of every vestige of humanity.
The sounds of his screams were truly awful, and rose above most sounds of the battle.
Across the river, a young man’s mind found resolve and his Garand put a bullet into the suffering man.
Pfc Oberon Reynolds dropped the rifle from his shoulder.
‘You were right Sarge, you were right. No-one deserves to die like that.’
1459hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, US defensive position at Point ‘Chetvyerg’, Argen River, Germany.
The M36 tank destroyers died within a second of each other, their tender rears fatally exposed to the new arrivals.
To the north, Allied forces had repulsed a Soviet attack aimed at Tettnang, so Berzarin had sent a considerable force southwards to help out on the Argen River, ready to turn westwards and undercut Tettnang.
It was this battlegroup, elements of the 11th Tank Corps, which now took to the field, surprising the US defenders on the hillock, codenamed ‘Chetvyerg’ by the now-dead Antonov.
Communications between the two attacking groups was non-existent, but both exhibited excellent control and restraint, with no friendly casualties resulting in their coming together on the west bank of the Argen.
T34’s of the 65th Tank Brigade supported by motorized infantry from the 12th [Motorized] Rifle Brigade hammered into the rear of the US positions, sweeping all before them.
From the height, they were able to control all of the area west of the Argen through which the American forces had to withdraw.
The Soviet tanks knocked out vehicle after vehicle, aided by the survivors of Antonov’s force.
One anti-tank gun was repositioned, and managed single shot before it was trashed by a wave of HE from the 65th’s armour.
On the Argen, the Soviet engineers finally managed to push through the booby-traps and barbed wire, achieving the 7776 bridge.
The assault elements of the 2nd Company 185th Guards pushed over the other bridge at the same time.
The final phase of the US defensive plan was to destroy both of these bridges, and the surviving NCO of the 305th US Engineers discharged his responsibilities, electronically detonating first the nearest bridge carrying Route 467, then that carrying Route 7776 to the north.
The lead platoon of the 185th Guards was killed outright. First, the soldiers were thrown skywards, as the huge charge propelled body and the 467 bridge into the air. The jumbled mass of men and concrete fell back, either to earth or water, and none survived.
The shock wave claimed more casualties from both sides, the US troops unable to fall back as planned because of the arrival of the northern force.
The delay in switching to the second bridge circuit gave the Soviet sappers hope for survival, hope that died with them, as a second huge charge brought about a repeat performance.
The 116th Engineers did have inflatable boats at the rear, but command and control was shot to pieces, so they remained there, unused.
Soviet mortars, freed by the loss of the bridges, brought down a furious attack on the defensive positions, pinning the US infantrymen in their shallow scrapes in the ground, or killing them with blast and shrapnel.
Some men tried to move away down the river line, but they were seen by the survivors of Antonov’s tank unit, who enjoyed the turkey shoot, mowing down the defenceless men as they struggled in the water.
There was no escape, and hands started to rise, as first, individuals, and then groups, surrendered.
Hardegen’s unit pulled back successfully, crossing over the Argen at Oberdorf, and marrying up with their covering infantry force from the 53rd.
The military situation dictated that they had to withdraw again, and the composite unit withdrew further back to Eriskirch, but not before Hardegen had called in a priority mission on the intact bridges around Oberdorf.
As he settled into the new line at Eriskirch, fighter-bombers of the USAAF took out both bridges, losing three aircraft in the process.
Positioning his tanks to defend the river crossing, west of Eriskirch, Major John Hardegen was frustrated to find no supply vehicles waiting to replenish his low stocks of ammunition and fuel.
Taking time out to eat the rations cooked up by his crew, Hardegen reflected on the day.
‘Some damn good boys died today.’
Task Force Hardegen had certainly lost some good men, but it was intact, although depleted. The 53rd Infantry had lost a handful of doughs, the 37th Tanks left four of their vehicles on the field, whereas 25th Cavalry had escaped casualties. Their positions, covering the rear of Hardegen’s force, had not been tested. The relatively fresh unit was presently out providing a security screen, whilst the rest of his task force rested.
Task Force Butcher was a different story.
There was none of it left as far as he could see, not a single GI had yet reported in; a single half-track or gun found its way to safety.
‘Poor bastards.’
Sure, the Soviet infantry had been given a good hammering, and their armour, particularly the heavy tank unit, had been heavily worked over.
But the enemy held the field, the unsuspected arrivals from the north clinching the victory for them.
A particularly hot piece of beef burnt his tongue, causing him to breathe furiously, bringing cool air to the afflicted area.
The pain brought a new line of thought.
‘I wonder how old Knocke would see today?’
He determined to test the next piece of beef before committing to its consumption.
It was fine, and he chewed as he contemplated his own question.
‘I daresay he would say you’re alive, tomorrow is another day and you will do better next time.’
Hardegen laughed loudly, amused by his own reply.
DeMarco toyed with his meal, the appetite drained from him by the loss of some of his friends. Hardegen’s laugh seemed so out of place to a man grieving for close comrades.
‘Merda! How can you laugh, you heartless bastardo?’
Hardegen caught the gunner’s look, and immediately knew what the Italian-American was thinking.
Picking up his coffee, he moved over and dropped down beside DeMarco.
They ate together, drank together, smoked together, and spoke of friends they would never see again.
You people are telling me what you think I want to know. I want to know what is actually happening.
Creighton Abrams
Chapter 86 - THE BRIEFING
1023hrs, Wednesday, 26th September 1945, The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Nazarbayeva had timed everything very
deliberately, ensuring that she had sufficient time to visit St Basil’s Cathedral, a long cherished ambition.
Never particularly religious, but also not anti, like good communists were supposed to be, the splendour of the domes gripped her, and the incredible interior transported her with its beauty.
The fact that she was in the uniform of Soviet Military Intelligence guaranteed that she would enjoy it in peace.
After having her fill of the grandeur, the GRU Colonel strode purposefully across Red Square, through security, and into the hallowed halls, for her 10am meeting with the GKO.
She sat outside the conference room, her eyes drawn to the huge ornate clock, ticking away with a steady and heavy beat, just as the radio propaganda clock did at Stalingrad. Her mind was suddenly transported back to those desperate times, ‘tick-tock, tick-tock, another German dead.’
10:23.
It was unusual for all meeting times not to run to order.
‘Is there something wrong?’
The door opened, and a stern-faced NKVD Major-General she did not recognize, demanded her presence.
On entering the room, she was momentarily surprised to find the entire GKO seated around the huge table, all expectantly looking directly at her.
The door closed noisily behind her, stiffening her resolve.
Stalin rose from a small separate desk and moved to the prime position, sat between Bulganin and Molotov.
“Comrade Polkovnik Nazarbayeva, our apologies, but other matters have had to take precedence this morning. May I offer you my condolences for the loss of your son.”
Beria remained transfixed by the report in front of him, a small curl in his lip the only sign of his inner thoughts.
“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary.”
More than one pair of eyes swiveled to examine their leader’s face, desperate to find some reason for his uncharacteristic apology and concern.
They found none.
Extending his hand, Stalin invited the GRU Colonel to begin.
Nazarbayeva had been kept waiting because the GKO had been looking at a report from the Far East, in which Vasilevsky detailed reverses, both to his own and Japanese forces, in northern and southern China respectively.
They were already chastened, and had no need for more bad news.
Which was unfortunate.
“Comrade General Secretary, Comrades, a GRU asset within the Royal Air Force has informed us that the targeting of Allied airpower resources has now firmly changed to our support and supply assets, based on their interpretation and intelligence gained, regarding a definite supply issue for the Red Army.”
More than one of the old men slumped in his chair.
“This has been the case for a few days now, and the results are wiping out the improvements made since the issues of supply were first highlighted.”
Nazarbayeva handed over a report containing estimates on losses in reinforcements and supplies.
Stalin slid it across to Bulganin, who deftly deposited it in front of Beria.
The rest of the GKO watched the balding NKVD supremo closely as he quickly scanned the figures and gave the briefest of nods.
‘They knew?’
“Your figures tally with those supplied by Comrades Beria and Kaganovich. However, the reason behind this has now become clearer. Continue Comrade.”
“Comrades, the situation will not improve and GRU expects the attacks to grow in frequency and strength.”
There was an expectant silence, and one that also carried all the dangers of telling great men that their plans were failing.
“Allied air power is growing. Their factories are producing at full capacity. Efforts, such as the NKVD sabotage mission at Boeing in Seattle have had no effect.”
Their silence invited her to continue, but had she looked at Beria, she would have noted something unpleasant in his eyes.
“Our Red Navy has performed magnificently, but recent losses in the Atlantic submarine force have reduced their effectiveness, and no sinkings of note have been made for some time now.”
All in the room understood that the Soviet Navy would try to get more submarines into the deep waters of the Atlantic, and those who were not foolish enough to believe the assurances of the Admirals understood that the attempts would almost certainly end in failure. After all, the Allied navies had defeated the most powerful submarine force in history, a force designed to be ocean-going, and their combat efficiency in anti-submarine warfare was now back to German war levels.
“Our Air Force makes accurate claims now that the system for reporting has been adjusted.”
Sliding free a page from one report, Nazarbayeva quickly reminded herself of some figures.
“Our own air regiments have suffered crippling losses, and we have been unable to make good the gaps in our order of battle, especially as we have started to lose machines from mechanical failure, caused by an absence of spares. By example, two regiments equipped with Capitalist Aircobra aircraft can now muster eight aircraft between them, the others having been cannibalized to keep the remainder flying.”
Malenkov, whose portfolio was primarily concerned with aircraft production, started coughing and spluttering, so much so that all attention focused on him, until a helpful but overzealous thump on the back from Molotov brought an end to the interlude.
“Losses in air force personnel have been huge, both in the air and on the ground, the allied attacks on our airfields killing many qualified ground staff.”
Another file was opened.
“The loss of the train transport shipment T#7979831A, as sustained on Sunday 23rd September, outside of Gniezno, was of huge importance.”
Beria shifted uncomfortably, his own NKVD troopers having suffered grievously at the hands of the Polish brigands.
“A special action train, containing an NKVD battalion, and sent ahead of 831A, was derailed and destroyed.”
Beria did not care for his shortcomings to be aired in such a fashion. The Special Action Units went ahead of important trains, intending to draw fire or set off any ambush, the well-armed NKVD battalions thought sufficient to deal with any partisans.
“831A was forced to halt, and was brought under fire from heavily armed partisans. The NKVD party travelling with 831A performed valiantly, and saved many of the personnel from being killed.”
‘You offer me an olive branch do you, bitch? Fucking bitch?’
Nazarbayeva meant no such thing, her briefing being concerned solely with the facts.
“As a result of that attack, three hundred and one newly trained aircrew were killed, and another three hundred and sixty-three wounded, removing them from immediate flying duty.”
Some had been aware that the train’s personnel had been badly hit, some had even been aware that they were precious aviators. None had been aware of the numbers, except for one man, who had managed the delivery of the bad news in the first place.
Beria removed his handkerchief and cleaned his glasses, conscious of the fact that he was under the unwavering eye of Stalin.
Nazarbayeva saved him, drawing the Soviet leader’s attention back to her.
“Comrade General Secretary, many of our air regiments are operating at below 50% strength, and the loss of 831A ensures that our air power will remain weakened for the foreseeable future.”
Taking a moment to control her delivery, she pressed on.
“On the 19th September, Marshal Novikov informed the European commanders of the new air plan, a plan that is now endangered by these losses in personnel and which, according to Air Force projections, may now only be possible if all other offensive air operations are ceased immediately.”
Stalin crushed his cigarette, doing so noisily, and making himself the focus of the room.
“So, Comrade Polkovnik, you always tell us the facts, and give us your honest interpretation. Do so now.”
There was no dressing it up, but Nazarbayeva tried to let the GKO down as lightly as possible.
/> “At this moment, we are barely holding our own in the air. We have some successes, but overall we lose more crews and machines than they do. The Air Force plan to limit excursions over enemy lines, as much as possible, may save a few pilots from captivity, but such efforts pale into insignificance alongside the losses sustained by events such as the attack on 831A.”
Stalin struck a match, lighting his next cigarette, the flare of the phosphorus highlighting the fact that his eyes were locked firmly on the GRU Colonel.
“That being said, the Allies are recovering from the huge destruction wrought on the RAF bomber force, and seem to be growing stronger across the spectrum of their regiments.”
She caught Beria’s eye by chance, and something flared inside, removing some of her caution in the delivery of the bad news.
“Comrades, unless new aircraft reach the regiments in large numbers, complete with properly trained flight crew, the Red Air Force will be beaten, and with that the skies will belong to the Allies, day and night.”
The atmosphere changed, so unused were the powerful men to such stark and direct delivery, all save Stalin and Beria, who had experienced Nazarbayeva’s honesty before.
The change in atmosphere did not stop her from continuing.
“Without air cover over the assault formations and supply centres, the Allies will destroy the Red Army’s capability to fight, and destroy many of the ground assets, removing the advantage we enjoy in numbers.”
Kaganovich, Bulganin, and Molotov stayed silent, their white faces indicative of the fact that they had heard something new and worrying.
Malenkov and Voznesensky spoke in shocked whispers, the invincibility of the Red Army suddenly not as assured as they had been led to believe.
Beria and Stalin, both with more information than the rest, did nothing.
“Carry on, Comrade Polkovnik, you have come this far, you should finish your delivery. What do you foresee here?”
Stalin’s voice, unusually soft, encouraged the GRU officer.
“Comrade General Secretary, unless we can give the Army and Air Force the necessary means, there will be great difficulties ahead.”