Last Citadel

by David L. Robbins

  To Luis’s eye, Colonel Breit was the epitome of a general staff officer. The man was slender, with a close-cropped head of dark hair, flecked with white. The colonel was pale and seemed uncomfortable with speech, the opposite of the energetic and verbose Thoma. Breit wore a War Merit Cross with swords on his breast. This was not a battle citation but the sort of medal won by administrators, for non-combat contributions to the war effort. The only tank this one has ever handled, Luis considered, is on these maps. Breit welcomed Luis with a handshake and a curt, tight-lipped smile. Nothing on the man’s face betrayed any thought about Luis’s appearance. He’s the brainy sort, Luis decided. He doesn’t care about anything that’s not on these tables.

  ‘Captain de Vega,’ Breit said. His tone was clipped. ‘Thank you for coming. Major Grimm has been telling me you’re an impressive young man.’

  Major Grimm piped up. ‘You should have seen him, Colonel. His planning was impeccable.’

  Grimm said nothing more. There was no mention of the killings by the rail mound. Luis supposed they had been covered earlier by the major. But Breit held on to Luis’s hand for a longer moment, nodding into Luis’s eyes, seeing something there he approved of. There was much unspoken about this SS colonel.

  Breit let go of Luis’s hand.

  ‘Captain, let me bring you up-to-date on the situation around Kursk.’

  The staff officer turned to indicate the giant map and all its pieces. Thoma came to stand beside Luis, Major Grimm sidled around to the Soviet side of the chart.

  ‘As you know,’ Breit said, ‘Germany has spent two summers now in the Soviet Union. We have not succeeded in destroying the Red armies as we’d planned. In fact, now in our third summer here, it has become unlikely we will do better than a stalemate on the Eastern Front.’

  Luis stiffened at this candidness, smacking of defeatism. Breit cocked his head and smiled in his taut way again.

  ‘Captain de Vega, don’t be shocked. You’ve been away from the war for a year now, recuperating. The situation here in Russia is common knowledge, at least among the general staff. We keep up appearances among the men, of course, but we are officers here. You understand?’

  This was the first time Luis had heard this view expressed as an official stance. He knew the coming entry of the Americans into the war made it urgent that Germany win in Russia this summer, at this battle. But now, to hear there was no victory to be had at all in Russia, simply a stalemate? What would happen after the Americans landed in Europe to his chances of returning home a conqueror? What will they say on the Ramblas in Barcelona to a tie? A million dead and ruined, for this? The notion lay rancid on his tongue. The bull must always die. When is it allowed to call a draw?

  Thoma laid a hand on Luis’s shoulder. The touch said, Don’t worry, brother. These are not fighters like you and I. We will be the ones to decide, not them.

  Luis swallowed. He indicated the map and Colonel Breit.

  ‘I apologize, sir. Please continue.’

  The colonel resumed. ‘The question has been, what strategy will achieve for Germany the best political solution of the war? Our defeat at Stalingrad last winter cost us more than just men and weapons. Germany lost the initiative. Some of our allies have been looking for the back door out of their support for us. Romania and Italy have both contacted the Allies with peace feelers. Turkey is sitting on its hands and has decided not to attack the Soviet Union in the Caucasus, though they had agreed to do so. Japan is up to its neck with the Americans in the Pacific and is therefore upholding its non-aggression pact with Russia. And Finland has made entreaties to Stalin for a separate peace. Under these circumstances, Captain de Vega, you can see why Germany cannot sit back this summer. For both military and political reasons, we need an offensive on the Eastern Front to reclaim our momentum.’

  Luis asked, ‘Sir, tell me about the Americans in Europe.’

  ‘Italy,’ Breit answered, shaking his head. ‘The Americans will invade Italy, most likely Sicily, and they’ll do it soon. This summer, certainly. When they do, the only place the Führer will be able to find troops to fend them off is here, the Eastern Front.’ Breit pointed down to the map, speaking to the German black blocks now, as though urging them. ‘If we haven’t broken through to Kursk before the Americans land in Europe, Hitler will almost certainly call off the attack. He will bleed off units from Citadel and send them to Italy. To Mussolini.’

  Breit left his finger dangling above the map, contemplating the impact of such a thing.

  ‘Then,’ he said, lowering his voice and his hand as though lowering a flag, ‘I can make no predictions for Germany’s future.’

  The colonel dug into his jacket for a cigarette. Major Grimm took over now. He raised one arm, a counterpoint to Breit’s deflated half-mast, and moved his flattened hand over the map’s terrain like a scudding cloud.

  ‘But we are going to attack, gentlemen. It will be fast and it will be magnificent, with more force than Germany has ever assembled. And the Americans can go hang. Right?’

  Colonel Breit’s quiet face flared behind a flickering match. Thoma filled the void, responding with ‘Right.’ Luis said nothing and Thoma raised his eyebrows at him. Grimm said, ‘Take a look here, at the front line, stretching from Leningrad to Rostov. It doesn’t take much to see the best place for us to strike.’ He turned his flat hand into a pointing finger, as if the cloud had released one large drop of rain.

  ‘Here,’ he said, looking up at Luis. ‘Our target is Kursk. Operation Citadel.’

  Luis brought his gaze down to the map and saw how right Grimm was, how easily the decision must have been made. The Soviet lines projected into German-held territory as though kicked into them by a mule. On the northern border of the bulge sat the city of Orel, in the south lay Belgorod. A straight axis drawn between the two cities met in the middle of the bulge, at Kursk.

  ‘We’ll attack from the north out of Orel,’ Grimm said, ‘and out of the south from the area west of Belgorod. If we can meet at Kursk, we’ll have wiped out two Soviet front armies.

  After a successful pincer action on Kursk, we’ll be able to straighten our lines, shortening them by a hundred and fifty miles. These are men and materiel we will need elsewhere. As Colonel Breit mentioned, the Americans are expected to land soon in Italy. Once we have Kursk, we can send our forces south to fight off the Allies for Mussolini.’

  Colonel Breit sucked loudly on his cigarette. Grimm stepped back and Breit trod up to the map.

  ‘At first, it was discussed that our forces should wait on a Russian summer offensive. We would grind them down and then go on the offensive ourselves. Take them ‘on the backhand,’ Field Marshal von Manstein has called it. But it’s been decided by Hitler that we will be the ones to go on the attack. The ‘forehand,’ so to speak. And so…’ Breit swept his own hand over the map, ‘… here we are. Looking at the same chart the Russians are looking at. They know exactly what we intend, and where. History, it seems, will have it no other way’

  The four officers stood around the huge map, sombered by the notion that they stood at a pivot point in world events. Luis looked to Thoma. The young officer seemed to be calculating the coming clash, his eyes shrewdly tagging the positions and strengths displayed in red and black blocks. He did not appear to Luis to be daunted, though some of the devil-may-care and dash in the set of his spine was gone.

  Thoma spoke to Breit. ‘Colonel, may I?’

  The officer nodded.

  Thoma turned to one of the orderlies. He took from the boy the long stick. The tank captain addressed Luis.

  ‘The Reds have about one and a half million men inside the salient.’

  He reached out the stick and tapped several red bits and flags inside the bulge, bearing the names Voronezh Front, Central Front, and Steppe Front.

  ‘We’ve got eight hundred thousand men. That’s a two-to-one advantage for the Russians.’

  Thoma took in all the German positions with a wave of the stick
like a wand. The ebony blocks were spread north, middle, and south, while the crimson ones concentrated in the middle. The blocks were clotted in each color, crowding each other for space on the map.

  ‘We’ve got ten thousand artillery pieces,’ Thoma said. ‘The Reds have twenty thousand. Two-to-one again. Facing our twenty-five hundred tanks and self-propelled assault guns, the Russians have five thousand.’ He lowered the stick and grinned at Luis. ‘I believe the math speaks for itself.’

  Major Grimm began the long walk back around the table. ‘So you see, Captain de Vega, those ten Tigers you delivered to us are crucial. There are only a hundred and thirty-three of them out of all our tanks in Russia.’

  Colonel Breit stepped to Luis, laying a hand to his arm.

  ‘You did a great service seeing those Tigers through. We don’t have a numerical advantage against the Russians. The Führer is counting on these tanks to even the score. Yours was the final shipment of Tigers. Captain Thoma?’

  ‘Yes, mein Herr?’

  ‘Captain Thoma here commands one of Leibstandarte’s armored companies.’ Colonel Breit kept his hand and eyes on Luis. ‘Out of the forty-two Tigers in the SS Corps, we have fourteen in our division. Sixty-two Mark IIIs. Thirty-three Mark IVs. And… how many T-34s, Captain?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Twenty-five Russian tanks we will turn against their former owners. So. There we are. Captain Thoma here will find you suitable quarters. I am assigning you to my staff, Captain de Vega. I assume you have no pressing orders requiring your return to Germany?’

  ‘No, Colonel.’

  ‘Good. From what Major Grimm tells me, I can use a steadfast manner like yours around this table. Settle in and report to me here at oh-five-hundred.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Colonel Breit nodded to Thoma and left the room. Major Grimm gave both young captains an approving nod and followed in the colonel’s wake. The two orderlies went behind them. Thoma hung on to the long stick.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘good for you.’

  Luis was conflicted about the assignment to Colonel Breit’s tactical staff. How much of the battle would be fought in this room? Real lives won’t be taken, real ground won’t be gained on this colossal paper plate. Standing here during the battle he might win for himself one of the merit badges worn by officers like Breit. But what he craved was the Iron Cross worn by Erich Thoma.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Thoma asked him. ‘How did you get to be called la Daga? As soon as Major Grimm told me I said: Now that’s a wonderful nickname. Tell me the truth. Was it some bullfighting thing you did?’

  Luis folded his arms, reluctant, but Thoma’s grin fanned a spark inside him. He had not had a friend in almost a year. He’d been an invalid, a recovering patient, surrounded by nurses and doctors who’d marveled at his willpower to heal and return to the war, but no one had dared enter the bulging eyes and white, straining frame to see if the heart and soul of the Spanish soldier had shrunk, too. They had not. Thoma stood now cajoling Luis, wanting a secret, something from beneath the flesh to share, something only for the two of them to know.

  There was not much room anymore in Luis, he admitted this. He looked at smiling Erich Thoma and found there was enough for a friend.

  ‘No. It wasn’t from bullfighting.’

  Thoma grinned. ‘And?’

  ‘In Barcelona, there’s a long boulevard through the old quarter down to the water, La Rambla. Gypsies used to walk along the stalls and mix in with the tourists. They taught me how to come up behind tourists and slit their pants pockets with a razor.’

  ‘Why?’ Thoma’s face was incredulous.

  ‘To get their wallets.’

  ‘Gott im Himmel,’ Thoma cried. ‘You’re a pickpocket!’

  ‘Shhhhh.’ Luis waved his hands at the laughing captain. Thoma pretended to compose himself, then burst out guffawing again.

  ‘That’s better than any bullfighting story! That’s beautiful. You stole wallets!’

  ‘Alright,’ Luis said. Alright. Get it out of your system.’ He looked about to see if anyone else could hear this outburst from Thoma, but they were alone. Luis admired the wellspring from which Thoma laughed, it all seemed so rooted in him, so confident and authentic; at the same time, Luis was sorrowed by the knowledge that he no longer had such depths himself. Erich Thoma was the man Luis would have been.

  ‘Now it’s your turn. Tell me something. The truth, as well.’

  Thoma cleared his throat and smoothed down his hair, worn longish for a combat officer. His face crinkled.

  ‘Citadel.’ Luis gestured at the campaign map. ‘I want to know about the battle.’

  Thoma stepped to the map, lowering the long stick like a lance.

  ‘One thing’s for certain. It’s going to be one for the record books.’ He hovered the stick over the map. All the great generals are here.’ He tapped the stick to a set of black blocks on the northern shoulder of the bulge. ‘In the north, running the show, we’ve got Field Marshal von Kluge. He’s not so sure about the operation and has said so. Hitler, I think, has more confidence in General Model.’ He laid the stick to a collection of blocks in the north bearing the 11th Army signet, Model’s force.

  ‘Problem with Model is, he’s the one who’s been dragging his feet, making us all wait with his demands for more and more armor when we should have jumped off months ago. It’s July now, and he’s got his tanks and guns, but in the meanwhile the Reds have used the time to dig in like ticks.’

  Luis took in the thickness of the red blocks. The analogy was apt, the map seemed bitten and swollen ruby by them.

  Thoma swept the stick over the southern shoulder of the bulge.

  ‘In the south we’ve got our genius Field Marshal von Manstein. For the most part Citadel is his brainchild. And the best fighter in the bunch is down here, too, with 4th Panzer. Papa Hoth. Next to us here… on the SS right flank is Army Detachment Kempf. It’s an ad hoc collection, really, strong enough on paper but Werner Kempf has never commanded this many men before. He’s got to keep up on our right.’

  ‘How about the Russians?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Thoma chuckled, touching the stick to the hillocks of clustered red blocks inside the bulge, north, middle, and south. ‘They’ve brought out their top guns for this one, too. Central Front is under Rokossovsky. Voronezh Front under Vatutin. In reserve at Steppe Front, Koniev. And over all of them is Georgi Zhukov, who kicked our asses in Moscow and Stalingrad. I can’t wait to meet Georgi.’

  ‘Thoma.’

  ‘Yes, de Vega.’

  This was the first time either man had not called the other ‘Captain.’

  ‘What do you think? Personally?’

  ‘Me? I’m just a soldier, I don’t have my own block. But I’ll tell you this. The Reds have got more of everything, men, guns, tanks, planes, we’ve hemmed and hawed long enough to give them all the time they needed to get ready for us. There’s aerial photography for every foot of the salient, but it’s been hard to estimate the Reds’ strength. They’re so damn good at disguising their forces and using fake positions. Even so, hanging over all this is one big fact that every one of these blocks is aware of, red or black. Up until now, in every German offensive, the Soviets outnumbered us then, too. But you know what? Not once have they stopped a German advance before we got far behind their lines. We’ll go deep on this one, too, you can count on it. The question is, will we get to Kursk? And will we get there before the Americans hit shore in Italy and Hitler pulls the plug on Citadel?’

  ‘Where are you?’ Luis asked. ‘Where’s Leibstandarte?’

  ‘In the heart of II SS Panzer Corps.’ Thoma dabbed the stick in the center of the southern lines. ‘Right here, to the left of Das Reich and Totenkopf. We’re going to be in the vanguard. Leibstandarte will make straight north. Right along here. Citadel jumps off in two days.’

  Luis leaned forward to read the map under the point of Thoma’s stick. Red blocks crowded along the p
ath.

  ‘The Oboyan road.’

  Thoma laid the stick to the Russian positions. ‘Right across from us is 6th Guards Army. They were at Stalingrad, so they’re battle-tough. Behind them, in front of Oboyan, is 1st Tank Army. Vatutin, here on the Voronezh Front, has put his best forces along that road, figuring Papa Hoth was going to dive straight for Kursk through Oboyan. Instead, 4th Panzer is going this way, northwest to Prokhorovka, around their best force. We’ll take on this group here, 5th Guards Tank Army, kept in reserve. We’ll deal with them, then swerve back west toward Oboyan and Kursk. As long as Kempf keeps up and protects our right flank, we should be alright.’

  Luis was galvanized by the map. It was almost impossible for him to translate his combat experiences to it, to reduce the memories to such a tiny scale. But there it was. Head this way. Deal with this force. Turn and go that way. Where was the carnage? Where was the wound in his gut, where was it on the map?