by Ralph Peters
“Third Shock Army has the secondary mission of supporting the Second Guards Tank Army’s encirclement and destruction of the enemy grouping in the German Corps pocket.
“In the second operational echelon, Seventh Tank Army follows Third Shock but is prepared to release one division to Third Shock Army upon order of the front commander. Seventh Tank Army also prepares for options calling for it to repel an operational counterattack launched by CENTAG to relieve the pressure on NORTHAG, or to follow Twentieth Guards Army, should the initial success prove greater in that sector.
“In the north, Twenty-eighth Army follows Second Guards Tank Army. The primary mission of the Twenty-eighth is to break out from the Weser line and conduct exploitation operations that culminate in the establishment of operational bridgeheads on the Rhine. Twenty-eighth Army also prepares to release one division to Second Guards Tank Army upon order of the front commander if reinforcement of the Second Guards proves necessary to contain and reduce the German pocket.
“Other reserves or follow-on forces will be allocated to the First Western Front from the High Command of Forces based upon the developing military and political situations.”
Malinsky believed it was as good a plan as could be devised with the available forces and technical support. An apparent pincer movement on a grand scale to draw off the enemy reserves, then a smashing blow to splinter a fatally weakened center. And the real beauty of it, as only Malinsky knew, was its function as a trap within a trap. Marshal Kribov expected Malinsky’s breakthrough to draw off NATO’s last operational reserves from the south, possibly even units stripped from CENTAG’s front line. At that point, a powerful, sudden thrust would be directed against the weakened German-American defenses in the south in the Frankfurt and Stuttgart directions, employing follow-on forces that had, up until then, been portrayed as following Malinsky’s armies. It was a series of blows of ever-increasing intensity, always directed at the unexpected but decisive point, on an ever-grander scale.
“Questions?” Chibisov asked.
Starukhin, the Third Shock Army commander, rose. Usually, when Starukhin got up a second time, it was to voice a legitimate concern. Malinsky watched Trimenko, the Second Guards Army commander, as Trimenko watched Starukhin. Trimenko was the type who never whined or complained, who just coldly went about the business at hand with the available tools.
“While I’m content with the allocation of indirect fire assets,” Starukhin declared, “I remain troubled by the initial unavailability of fixed-wing air support. The Air Army needs to be reminded that it is ultimately under frontal control — army control. In my case — in all of our cases — it’s imperative to deliver a crushing blow that reaches the enemy’s tactical-operational depths simultaneously with the main assaults against his front. My attack helicopters can barely support water-obstacle crossing operations and the accompaniment of air assault missions — which are heavily scheduled. I say nothing about their use as a highly mobile antitank reserve.” Starukhin paused, gauging the other commanders in the room. “The present allocation of fixed-wing aircraft allows the armies very little control over the battle in depth.”
There was no question about it. Starukhin had a point. But there were never sufficient assets to please everyone. Malinsky had made his decision based upon his evaluation of the situation within the constraints imposed by the High Command of Forces. In any case, he was a habitual centralizer, having experienced too much subordinate incompetence over the years, and he felt the army commanders already had more assets than they could effectively manage.
Malinsky stood up and approached the map. Both Chibisov and Starukhin took their seats, leaving the front commander as the only focal point in the room.
“Vladimir Ivanovitch has a strong case,” Malinsky said, surveying them all. As his eyes passed over the East Germans he almost laughed. He doubted they were the men their fathers and grandfathers had been. They looked as though they expected to be fed to the serpents. Starukhin would insure that they were employed to the best possible effect.
“However,” Malinsky continued, maintaining his straight-backed, straight-faced gravity, “I am convinced that the key to the ground war is the air battle. I fully support Marshal Kribov’s decision to employ the bulk of the air and deep-fire weapons of all the fronts to support the initial air offensive. If we failed to reach a single ground objective on the first day of the war, if your units did not accomplish a single mission of the day, but we managed to destroy the enemy’s air power on the ground or while it was in a posture of reaction, I’m certain we could recover lost time in the ground battle. Since the withdrawal of his intermediate-range missiles and ground-launched cruise missiles, the enemy has only his air power to rely upon to reach deep and attempt to rupture our plans. His air power is the cornerstone of his defense. Remove it, and you can knock his military structure apart with relative ease.” This time it was Malinsky’s turn to pause for effect, making eye contact with his leading commanders and finally settling his gaze on Starukhin. “I am committed to the initial requirement to destroy the enemy’s air defense belts and his fixed-wing combat capability. Even if it meant diverting maneuver forces, I would do it. A parochial attitude begs for defeat.
“Now,” Malinsky continued, stalking through the mist of cigarette smoke, “I also understand that some of you are worried about the enemy’s possible employment of weapons of mass destruction. That will always remain a concern. But, as Comrade General Dudorov told us, we have no indications that we are presently in a nuclear-scared situation. If you accomplish the tasks assigned to each of you within the plan, I believe we can defeat the nuclear bogeyman. Speed. shock… activeness …” Malinsky surveyed the group of officers, each one a very powerful figure in his own right. “Once we are deep in their rear, intermingled with their combat and support formations, how will they effectively bring nuclear weapons to bear? The object is to close swiftly with the enemy, to achieve and exploit shock effect, to penetrate him at multiple points, and to keep moving, except to destroy that which you absolutely cannot outmaneuver.” Malinsky turned to face his chief of missile troops and artillery. “I also understand that some of you are troubled by my targeting priorities. Let it be on my shoulders. But I do not believe it is possible to destroy every nuclear-capable system in the NATO arsenal. Anyway, why cut off the fingers and toes when you can more easily lop off the head? Once our trap has been sprung, the targets for the front and army reconnaissance strike complexes must be the enemy’s command and control infrastructure and his intelligence-collection capability. If he cannot find us, he cannot hope to place nuclear fires on us. And without effective command and control systems, the requirements of both nuclear targeting and conventional troop control are insoluble. Yet even such targeting must be selective. For example, we know what we want the enemy to see and how we want him to respond initially. That, too, must be factored into our decisions regarding what targets to attack and when to attack them. Modern warfare is not merely a brawl. It is both a broad science and an uncompromising art. If you have not asked yourself every possible question, the unasked question will destroy you.”
Malinsky considered the men before him one last time. The anxious and the stubborn, men of finesse and born savages. He never ceased marveling at the varieties of character and talent the military required or could at least manage to exploit. Ambitions as different as their secret fears, Malinsky thought.
“I know you are all anxious to return to your formations and workplaces. There’s always too much to do and too little time in which to do it, I know. And every man among us has his own devils, his own worries. My concern in these last hours is that the enemy might strike first. But I know, in my mind and in my heart” — Malinsky touched his fist to his chest — ”that once we have begun, no power on earth will be able to stop us. Each of you wears the trappings of tremendous power, commanders and staff officers alike. Consider what your badges of rank represent. Each of you has come to personify th
e greatness, the destiny of the Motherland. And your actions will ultimately decide that destiny.”
Malinsky thought of his son, a flashing instant of worry, affection, and pride intermingled. “I hope at least a few of you get a bit of sleep, too. I just want to leave you with one final caution. Most of you have heard it from me many times. If there is one area in which I profoundly disagree with the theoreticians, it is in regard to casualties. I believe that none of us, on either side, is prepared for the intensity of destruction we will encounter. Not everywhere. But at the points of decision, and in priority sectors, I expect some units — on both sides — to suffer unprecedented losses. Certainly, the number of soldiers who fall on a given field will not rival the casualty counts of antiquity. But we have not yet found the algorithm to relate modern systems losses to preindustrial manpower losses. The manpower losses will be severe enough, but the losses in what might appropriately be termed the ‘capital’ of war will appear catastrophic to the commander who is weak or has not prepared himself sufficiently. I hope… that each of you is just sufficiently better prepared than your opponent… to remain steadfast when he wavers, to impose your will on him when he takes that fatal pause to count his losses. You must be hard. Each of us will experience things that will haunt him for the rest of his days. That goes with the rank and position.”
Malinsky thought for a moment, searching for the right closing words. “This is not my permission to take needless casualties. One life lost unnecessarily is too much. But…” He reached for words. Without sounding weak, he wanted to tell them to value the lives of their men, and without callousness, he wanted to communicate to them what needed to be done, to prepare them. “Simply do your duty.”
Malinsky strode abruptly toward the door. The officers jumped to attention. Malinsky could feel the collection of emotions grown so intense in the men that it almost demanded a physical outlet. The door opened before him, and a voice barked down the hallway. Malinsky marched back toward his private office in a press of concerns that obscured the braced figures he passed in the long corridor. He wondered if any of them really understood what was about to happen. He wondered if it was humanly possible to understand.
Two
The meeting broke up behind Malinsky. Officers hurriedly folded maps and pulled on their wet-weather garments. A few lower-ranking officers gleaned the remnants of the refreshments that had been set out earlier, while others discussed problems in low, urgent voices. The images were the same as those at the end of a thousand other briefings, but the air had an unmistakably different feel to it, an intensity that would have been rare even in Afghanistan.
Chibisov had another meeting to attend, and a host of actions to consolidate or check on, but he hoped to sneak a few minutes outside of the bunker, breathing fresh air. The East German medicine he took for his asthma now was better than that available in the Soviet Union, but the smoke-filled briefing room nonetheless made his lungs feel as though they had shrunk to the size of a baby’s and would not accept enough oxygen to keep him going. The fresh night air, thick and damp though it might be, would feel like a cool drink going down. But Chibisov could not leave until all of the other key officers had cleared off. Patiently, ready with answers to any of their possible questions, he watched the others leave, judging their fitness for the tasks at hand.
Starukhin, the oversized Third Shock Army commander, suddenly veered in Chibisov’s direction, followed by his usual entourage, augmented now by a lost-looking East German divisional commander and his operations officer. Starukhin was the sort of commander who was never alone, who always needed the presence of fawning admirers and drinking companions. He was a tall, beefy, red-faced man who looked as though he belonged in a steel mill, not in a general’s uniform. His heavy muscles were softening into fat, but he still cultivated a persona of ready violence. Starukhin was definitely old school, and he only survived the restructuring period — bitterly nicknamed “the purges” by its victims — because Malinsky had protected him, much to Chibisov’s surprise.
Chibisov and Starukhin had known each other on and off for years, and they casually disliked one another. At the army commander’s approach, Chibisov drew himself up to his full height, but he still only came up to Starukhin’s shoulders. The army commander smoked long cigars, a habit he had acquired as an adviser in Cuba. Now he stepped very close to Chibisov, releasing a cloud of reeking smoke that carried a faint overtone of alcohol. And he smiled.
“Chibisov, you know that’s nothing but crap about the aircraft.” Starukhin gave his admirers time to appreciate his style. They gathered around the two men, smirking like children. “The Air Force always wants an absurd margin of safety. There are plenty of aircraft. I know, I’ve examined the figures personally. And Dudorov, that fat little swine, needs to get his head out of the clouds and do some real work. You know the British won’t give up all of their tank reserves. I’ll be stuck in unnecessary meeting engagements when I should be pissing in the Weser.”
“Comrade Army Commander,” Chibisov said, “the front commander has taken his decision on the matter of aircraft allocation.” He chose his usual armor of formality, even though he and Starukhin wore the same rank now and Starukhin was technically subordinate by virtue of their respective duty positions. In an odd way, though, he sympathized with Starukhin. Beyond the dramatics, Starukhin, too, was a tough professional. Now he was trying to build his own margin of safety, a type of behavior the shadow system taught every perceptive officer as a lieutenant. But there was nothing to be done.
“Oh, don’t tell me that, Chibisov. Everybody knows he does whatever you want him to do. Comrade Lieutenant General Chibisov, the grand vizier of the Group of Forces. Just get me a few extra aircraft, say one hundred additional sorties. And tell Dudorov his number-one job is to find the British reserves so I can send the aircraft after them. Oh, and Nicki Borisov tells me I need more one-five-two ammunition.”
“Two more units of fire per gun would be good,” Borisov put in from Starukhin’s side. Borisov was a talented enough officer, a recent Voroshilov graduate who was betting on Starukhin to pull him along.
“Comrade Army Commander,” Chibisov said, “at present, you have received a greater proportion of the front’s allocation of virtually every type of ammunition than your comrades. You have more march routes with fewer water obstacles. You have more hauling capacity than any other army. You have more rotary-wing aircraft of every type. You have two deception battalions in support of you, as well as an extra signal battalion that came right out of the front’s hide. You have the lion’s share of the front’s artillery division, you — ”
“I have the best maneuver terrain” — Starukhin cut him off — ”and I have forty-six percent of the tactical bridging assets to cross under thirty-four percent of the projected water obstacles. Don’t play numbers with me, Chibisov. I also have the main attack, and the toughest opponents. In addition to which I expect half of the German Corps to come down on my northern flank when Trimenko gets stuck in the mud.”
“That’s nonsense. The Germans will hold on too far forward and too long. It’s a given. And if they hit anybody, it’ll be Trimenko.”
“A few damned aircraft, Chibisov.”
Chibisov could tell now that Starukhin was sorry that he had initiated the exchange and that he was looking for a token prize so that he would not be embarrassed in front of his officers.
“Comrade Army Commander, as the aircraft become available, I promise you will have priority.”
“But I need to plan.” Suddenly, Starukhin lost his temper. “Listen, I don’t have to beg you, you little…”
Say it, Chibisov thought, looking Starukhin dead in the eyes. Go ahead, say it, you Cossack bastard, say the word. Chibisov knew Starukhin better than the army commander realized. Dudorov had a finger in everything — he was a superb chief of intelligence — as a result of which Chibisov knew that Starukhin strongly encouraged his officers to affiliate with Pamyat, a right-wing
nationalist hate group that wanted to revive the days of the Black Hundreds and to rid the sacred Motherland of Asians and other subhuman creatures, such as Chibisov himself. Oh, he knew the bully with the big cigar. His grandfathers had come for a drunken frolic in the ghetto, coming by the hundreds, to cut a few beards and perhaps a few throats, to rape the women… and to steal. The Slav was a born thief. And Chibisov’s ancestors, but a few generations removed, would not have resisted. They would have bowed and prayed.
Those days were over. And the Starukhins of the world would never bring them back. Even for officers who were not Party members, such affiliations were illegal. Pamyat had even reprinted The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the infamous Jew-baiting book of the Czarist Okhrana so beloved of the Hitlerite Germans. Chibisov needed all of his self-control now not to spit in the army commander’s face. He consoled himself with the thought that he could destroy Starukhin, if it proved absolutely necessary.
“You were about to say something, Comrade Army Commander?”
“Pavel Pavlovitch,” Starukhin began again, switching suddenly to the ingratiating tone that Russian alcoholics always kept at the ready, “our concerns should be identical. The Third Shock Army has a terribly difficult mission to accomplish under unprecedented time constraints. I only want to insure that we have covered every requirement.”
He would really have to watch Starukhin now, Chibisov realized. Now and forever. In a moment’s embarrassment, they had become eternal enemies.
No, Chibisov corrected himself, the enmity between them had merely been uncovered. The Starukhins and the Chibisovs of the world had always been enemies.
“Comrade Army Commander, I am convinced that our concerns are truly identical. As soon as ground-attack aircraft become available, you’ll have your fair share of sorties.”
