The Scarlet Generation

by Christopher Nicole

  They had all believed her, simply because most of the time they had been too frightened and exhausted to think for themselves. They had spent the summer crawling from one hiding place to the next, never sure when they would hear a challenge and the crackle of automatic fire. They had eaten their fish and their birds raw, because they had been afraid to light a fire. They had also, at Tatiana’s insistence, followed the good book and eaten edible moss, bark and flowers, to provide a balanced diet. They had survived and, amazingly, so far not one of them had fallen sick. But pneumonia and hypothermia, perhaps scurvy even, were lurking in the wings; whatever their efforts they were all definitely undernourished.

  And even Tatiana’s confidence had begun to wane as autumn had set in and there was still no word from the outside world. Her real fear was that the High Command in Moscow might have believed the German propaganda that Group One had been entirely destroyed, and that there was no point in attempting to contact them, much less drop food and munitions. She knew that lacking at least some boost to their food supply and tools to recreate some shelters for themselves — they had lost everything save their personal weapons in their flight — they were not going to survive the winter.

  Thus she had made the decision to go to seek help from the other groups who she was certain were operating somewhere else in the vast recesses of the Pripet. She had taken her step-brother and lover with her and left Olga Kaminskaya in command. She had not said how long she would be away, but she had not yet returned, and the temperature was dropping every day.

  So was morale. It had not been very high to begin with, but they had continued to be imbued with her spirit, even when she had warned them that she and Feodor might have a considerable search in front of them: the area involved was a matter of several hundred square miles of the most inhospitable country, including several large rivers, and they had no idea how close the next group might be, or how far the Germans might have penetrated.

  “We may be weeks,” Tatiana had said. “Have faith.”

  That had been four weeks ago. Now at last she had returned. She came through the trees, accompanied by several men and women. “Tatiana!” they shouted. “You have linked up?”

  Tatiana stared at them as though they were strangers. It was Elaine who asked the fatal question. “But where is Feodor?”

  “Feodor is dead,” Tatiana spat at her.

  The Volga, in addition to being the longest river in Europe, had also, Joseph reflected, to be the busiest. This was because the Russians had not yet succeeded in building any intensive network of either roads or railways, so that their navigable rivers remained their main arteries for transport; the Volga was the superhighway of all Russia. Now it was packed with craft of every possible description, from sleek river-gunboats to rowboats, as well as paddle steamers that would not have been out of place on the Mississippi in the previous century.

  He and Ivan travelled by government steam-launch, flying the hammer and sickle ensign, threading in and out of much larger vessels, being given water wherever and whenever they wanted it; everyone could see there was a commissar on board. They enjoyed every comfort, the food and wine were excellent, and when they tied up for the night at a station on the bank girls were brought on board to entertain them. Ivan took the fullest advantage of these perquisites, and was disappointed that Joseph did not appear to be interested, not even in his well-filled young secretary, a girl named Nadya, who he intimated was perfectly willing to share herself with the American. Joseph certainly had women on his mind, but they were not Government-employed whores: he was too concerned at the absence of any news from Priscilla. His last certain known fact about her was that she had left America, but exactly when or by what ship he had no idea — convoy sailings were naturally top secret. But the message from his brother-in-law James Cromb indicated that her departure had been well over a month ago. Since then, nothing. Her ship could have been torpedoed and she could be dead!

  Ivan was reassuring. “Travel takes time in war,” he said. “Look how long it is taking us to get down the Volga. Your wife will be waiting for you when you return.”

  Some 50 miles north of Stalingrad they were told the launch could go no farther. “The Germans have reached the river in places, Comrade Commissar,” the Colonel who had greeted them on the bank told them. “It is too dangerous to proceed.”

  “They have not crossed?” Ivan was anxious.

  “Not yet. But they have also penetrated the city; our men are steadily falling back.”

  “Are they authorised to do this?”

  “They have no choice, Comrade Commissar. They are outnumbered at least two to one, and outgunned by an even higher ratio.”

  “Take me to your commanding officer,” Ivan said.

  This involved a long drive in an American Dodge truck, Joseph was interested to note. And with every mile the evidence of war — and defeat — became more obvious. Apart from the roars of the guns to the south-west, there were men on the move, some down the river bank, but others east. “Why are those men withdrawing?” Ivan demanded of the Colonel.

  “They are exhausted, Comrade Commissar.”

  The general in command of the Stalingrad Front, Marshal Igor Sheremekov, was a tired-looking man with a nervous twitch who bristled when Ivan started asking questions. “Of course those men are exhausted! They have been trying to hold back the Germans now for three months. I need more men, Comrade Commissar. I need more guns. I need more shells, I need more bullets. Above all, I need more planes.”

  They were in an underground bunker, but could still hear the crump-crump of bombs dropping all around them; the Germans had total air superiority. “You have not said you need more tanks,” Ivan said.

  Sheremekov grimaced. “I would very much like some more tanks, Comrade Commissar. But as I cannot throw them against the Germans until I can cross the river in force, supposing that is ever going to be possible, they are at the bottom of my list of priorities.” He indicated the map. “You see that the Germans are on the Volga at Rynok in the north; they have been there since the twenty-third of August. They are also on the Volga at Kuperosnoye in the south; they have been there since the beginning of September. My principal task, as I see it, is to prevent them crossing the river and thus manoeuvring in our rear. We are managing to do this.”

  “You are wrong, Comrade General,” Ivan said. “Your principal task, your only task, is to prevent Stalingrad from falling.”

  Sheremekov straightened. “I do not think that is possible. The Germans are already in the city.”

  Ivan continued to study the map. “I see that you still hold three bridgeheads: the one marked Gorokhov, the one marked Ludnikov, and the one marked as the Main Bridgehead.”

  “That is so, at this moment, Comrade Commissar. But we can only use them at night, and then it is highly dangerous.”

  “War is highly dangerous, Comrade Marshal. I have given you your orders. You must carry them out.”

  Sheremekov’s lip curled, contemptuously. “I do not think you understand the situation, Comrade Commissar. Have you ever been under the sort of firepower the Germans can bring to bear?”

  “No,” Ivan said. “But I intend to see for myself what this fire power is. Who commands at the Main Bridgehead?”

  “Vassily Chuikov. He is a hothead.”

  “That is what I want, hotheads,” Ivan said. “Mr Cromb and I will go down there tonight, Comrade Marshal.”

  Ivan showed Joseph what he had written to transmit to Stalin. “You are recommending the dismissal of Sheremekov? Just like that?” Joseph attempted to think of any British or American state secretary, who possessed such power. Or who would dare exercise it in so ruthless a fashion.

  “He is too defeatist. He does not believe the Germans can be beaten. We have to have a Front Commander who believes they can be beaten. Here.”

  “Who do you have in mind as a replacement?”

  “I have no one in mind. It has to be Josef Vissarionovich’s choice.
He has told me what he wants done. I am telling him what he needs to do to have it done.”

  “Amen! Would you put in a personal message from me? I surely would like to know where Priscilla is, and what she is doing.”

  “Of course,” Ivan said, and wrote some more.

  Joseph realised that he was actually becoming quite fond of the fellow. He had disliked him on sight, because he was mentally conditioned to dislike all Communists on sight, certainly anyone who might have had anything to do with his imprisonment, and as Ivan was an intimate of Stalin’s it seemed obvious that he would have been involved. But since arriving in Russia this time he had realised that the average Russian official changed his opinions whenever required to be part of the current Party outlook — for example Ivan and Jennie, having not been to church at all for 20 years, had recently become regular attenders at St Basil’s simply because Stalin had indicated that it was now acceptable to pray for the survival of the Motherland, as long as the Germans were invading — and was nonetheless a genuine and even enthusiastic believer in whatever he was told had to be his mores of the moment. Ivan had been told to be friends with the American observer, and he was prepared to be as friendly as possible. Besides, he was obviously good to, and for, Jennie. While he was now revealing a side of his character Joseph had never suspected to exist, as in addition to recommending the immediate replacement of Sheremekov after a single meeting, he was listing with both expertise and panache the military requirements he considered necessary to hold Stalingrad.

  “Get that off tonight,” he told Nadya. “And do not let anyone know what is in it, or I will scar your plump little bottom.” Nadya giggled enthusiastically and Ivan pinched the object of his desire. “When you have done that, come back here and I will scar it anyway, eh?”

  So here comes another sleepless night, Joseph thought.

  Not that he would have slept much anyway. They were perfectly secure in their bunker, but the German air raids continued all night, and the constant shaking of the earth would have kept anyone awake. But he was also excited. He had served with the British Army on the Western Front in 1917 and 1918 — and been awarded the Military Cross for gallantry — and he had briefly been a staff officer with Denikin’s doomed army in the Great Civil War. But he knew this was warfare on an entirely different scale — even to Passchendaele. The difference was in the fire power. He recalled borrowing his batman’s rifle to take potshots at German aircraft strafing the British positions during Ludendorff’s great push in March 1918; what price a rifle against a Heinkel or a Messerschmidt!

  Next morning they drove down to the command headquarters for the actual defence of the city. This was comparatively safe, as the rain had now set in with true Russian intensity, and accurate bombing was no longer practical. In another bunker they met General Chuikov. Here was a bluff, hearty, professional soldier rather than a Party appointee; thus he was still only a general while Sheremekov was a marshal. He grinned as he shook hands. “I have received a call from Front Headquarters,” he said. “Warning me that a dragon is on the way, Comrade Commissar. A dragon who will require me to do the impossible.”

  “Your orders are to hold Stalingrad. No matter what.”

  Another quick grin. “That is not a practical order, Comrade Commissar. What you should have said is that I must hold the city to the last man. Very well, sir, I will do that. But to hold it, no matter what, is not possible, for the simple reason that very shortly I am going to run out of men.”

  “You will have more men,” Ivan promised him. “You will have all the men you need.”

  “Then Stalingrad will not fall.” Suddenly, and for the first time, Joseph realised that he was hearing the simple truth.

  “I wish to visit the city itself,” Ivan announced over lunch. As usual both the food and the vodka were of the best quality, no matter what might be happening only a few miles away.

  Chuikov raised his eyebrows. “You understand that this is dangerous, Comrade Commissar? The Germans are actually in the city. No one knows for certain where they are at any moment, but they control most of it. Our people are defending mere pockets.”

  “Nevertheless, I must see one of these pockets for myself.”

  Chuikov shrugged. “Very well. I will arrange it for tonight.” He looked at Joseph. “Are you going too, Mr Cromb?”

  “You wished to look at some fighting for yourself, Joseph,” Ivan pointed out.

  “Why, so I did. Sure, I’ll come with you, General.” Chuikov grinned. “Oh, I said I would arrange it. But I am not coming with you.”

  “You are afraid? To be with your own men?” Ivan was scandalised.

  “If I were afraid, Comrade Commissar, I would not be here at all. But tell me this: do you have a replacement ready to step into my shoes and continue controlling and co-ordinating the defence if I am killed?”

  “Of course I do not.”

  “Therefore you must permit me to exercise the greater courage of remaining at my headquarters, hopefully controlling events, until such a replacement is available.”

  “Touché,” Joseph grinned, as Ivan looked utterly dumbfounded.

  *

  The night was ideal for their purpose: low cloud and a persistent drizzle. Without headlamps they drove to the river bank, but their driver seemed to know every inch of the rough track, as well as the various craters in it. Chuikov accompanied them as far as the water. From the east bank they looked across nearly half a mile to the city itself, perhaps a more fearsome sight in the darkness than it would have been in daylight. It burned in many places, the red glows melting into the rainmist to give an impression of a city in hell, and the gunfire, mostly small-arms, was continuous, punctuated by occasional shrieks or shouts that echoed through the night. “I assume all civilians have been evacuated?” Ivan inquired.

  “All who could be,” Chuikov said. “You will not find any alive.”

  Joseph noted that despite the real chill in the damp air, a portent of winter which could not be very far away, Ivan was sweating heavily. If he was as afraid as he appeared, then he was a very brave man for persisting with this surely unnecessary adventure. As for himself, he had already determined that the Lend-Lease equipment was being used to its best advantage...but he was not going to back out now. Besides, his sense of excitement, his anxiety to participate, was growing with every second. He might have been educated in England as an Englishman, he might have spent the past few years in the United States and become a naturalised American, and he might have spent the most horrible ten years of his life in prison in this country, but yet, this country was where he had been born, and where his mother and father had been born, and where both had died: no matter what, he was a Russian. And here were Russians engaged upon a defence which would surely become as famous as Hastings or Waterloo, as Bunker Hill or Gettysburg.

  The river was in constant use; Chuikov took advantage of the conditions to ferry fresh men and munitions across to the city, and bring out those too badly wounded to continue fighting. There was, of course, no question of bringing out the dead. Joseph and Ivan were found seats in an inflatable dinghy, and paddled out into the darkness by their escort. “I cannot swim,” Ivan confided. “If we are hit I will drown.”

  Joseph grinned. “I’ll save you, old son!” Ivan gave him a very odd look.

  Then they were at the other side and scrambling ashore, crawling over what had once been docks but were now rubbled heaps of stone, half in and half out of the fast-flowing water. Now they were actually in hell, rather than merely looking at it. Despite the drizzle the heat from the burning buildings was intense, while rising above even the smell of burning materials was the stench of decaying human flesh. A Colonel Vladimirov had accompanied them, and he now led them forward, over what must once have been one of the main streets of the city, but was now a shell-cratered rubble. In front of them, looming out of the gloom and silhouetted against the red haze beyond, were the frames of once high-rise buildings, their roofs long gone, th
eir windows empty of either glass or frames, their walls seeming about to collapse. Ivan apparently had the same apprehension. “Do those often come down?” he asked Vladimirov.

  “Regularly, Comrade Commissar,” the Colonel grinned. They entered what had once been a department store, Joseph estimated, ducking low as a barrage of mortar bombs landed all about them. “They are not firing at us,” Vladimirov hastily reassured them. “They are just firing.”

  Inside, the building was as great a shambles as without, what had once been orderly counters now a mass of splintered wood and glass, some even with the remains of the dry goods on display still visible, if equally torn and destroyed. Vladimirov led them down a flight of stairs into the basement, where they found some 50 men, lying or sitting, drinking vodka and chewing lumps of bread and sausage. “Captain Arkovski.” Vladimirov gestured to the man who had risen at their entry.

  The captain looked no different to any of his men. His clothes were filthy, his hat seemed matted to his hair, and he wore a stubble of beard. Nor did he seem the least impressed at being introduced to a commissar, much less an American hanger-on. “The situation is that the Jerries hold the far side of the street,” he explained, having taken his visitors up to the sentry station, where half-a-dozen begrimed figures were standing guard, occasionally exchanging shots with the enemy, more, Joseph estimated, in a mutual communications exercise — “I am awake so don’t try anything funny; are you awake?” — than because they actually saw a target.