Red Army

by Ralph Peters

  Romilinsky nodded. He looked tired. They had been waiting or moving or setting up since the afternoon before, and they had all begun the war as tired men. Now, since the fighting had begun, it felt as though every hour counted for three or four in exhausting a man.

  “Davidov’s right, in a sense,” Romilinsky said, temporarily putting aside his rivalry with the other officer. “Matching the number of missions assigned against the allocation of rounds prescribed by the effects norms, you can see that someone isn’t thinking very far ahead.”

  Shilko suspected that Romilinsky was right, that the officers responsible for targeting were so overcome by the excitement of the moment that they were acting more on impulse than rigorous calculation. But he did not want to discourage the younger man, and he settled on a milder response.

  “When you think about it,” Shilko said, “it appears that the norms to achieve desired effects were developed by artillerymen like us, who wanted to make damned sure that the mission’s objective was achieved, while our allocation of units of fire was designed by rear services officers out to make equally certain that we damned artillerymen don’t get too carried away with ourselves. It’s the way the system has of coming up with a compromise.”

  “Until now,” Romilinsky said, “I always thought the units of fire were rather generous.”

  Shilko shrugged. “In some ways… it’s a very generous system. The art lies in knowing when to be satisfied.”

  To Shilko, his chief of staff, standing unshaven and with dark circles ringing the moving targets of his eyes, looked exactly as an artillery officer should look. Shilko realized that he himself was far from the dashing type. But Romilinsky looked quietly heroic to him. Shilko was proud of the younger man, and he liked him. He liked all of his officers, although it was easier to feel affection for some than for others. They were good boys, his gunners. Russian gunners had outshot the cannoneers of Frederick the Great. Why not the Bundeswehr as well?

  Another volley tore into the sky, and thin smoke rose over the treeline a few hundred meters away.

  “How would you like to be on the other end of that?” Shilko asked. The power of the guns continued to amaze him, even after twenty-odd years and long-ruined eardrums.

  Romilinsky had positioned himself poorly, and the cascade of water from the tarpaulin caught him between the collar and his neck. He jumped as though touched by fire.

  “Direct hit,” Shilko said, grinning.

  A lieutenant thrust his face out of the control post. “Comrade Battalion Commander. Orders. Our forces are across the Elbe-Seiten canal, and we’re to prepare to displace.”

  “Now?” Shilko said, thinking of the rounds piled on the ground and of his trucks that had not yet returned.

  “We’re to be prepared for movement within two hours.”

  Shilko relaxed. Two hours was a long time. “Have they assigned us new fire positions?”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “Division says things are moving very fast. Fire positions will be designated when we receive the order to execute movement.”

  “All right,” Shilko said. According to the manuals, his batteries already should have displaced several times to avoid discovery by the enemy. But there was no place to go on the overcrowded terrain. “Good. Vassili Rodionovitch, call down to the batteries and tell them we’re going to fire everything we can’t lift.” He looked back at the lieutenant. “Son, get me the current gift list, and we’ll see what presents we can send the enemy.”

  The lieutenant pulled his head back into the tentage like a turtle returning to its shell.

  “Standard movement drill?” Romilinsky asked.

  “No,” Shilko said, suddenly adamant, thinking of the possibility of losing control of his battalion on the hectic roads. It was as bitter as the thought of abandoning his children. “The rules are off, Vassili Rodionovitch. We’ll all move together. Or we won’t see our batteries again until the war’s over.”

  “But if we receive interim missions? And no one’s in position to fire?”

  “We can always say we ran out of ammunition,” Shilko said, determined to maintain control of his unit, and delighted at the prospect of engrossing activities that would, at least temporarily, drown his self-doubts.

  Another huge ripple of fire punched the sky. This time, the spillage off the tarpaulin caught Shilko. The water was cold and unwelcome. But Shilko shrugged it off.

  “Direct hit,” he said.

  Major General Khrenov’s divisional forward command post had been hastily composed around a liberated country inn. In the parking lot, communications vans hid halfheartedly under sagging camouflage nets, and command vehicles lurked under dripping trees. Windows had been smashed out of the building to admit cables, and handyman soldiers spliced and taped and carried boxes of staff clutter up the steps to the building’s main entrance. Bad-tempered warrant officers supervised the physical activities, monitored, in turn, by staff officers who occasionally ventured out into the damp air to find out why everything was taking so long.

  The scene was instantly familiar to Trimenko, and he didn’t like it. This was a souring conclusion to the elation of seeing his army on the march from the vantage point of the helicopter. He wanted Khrenov on the move, not setting himself up to hold court. But the army commander decided to hear what the division commander had to say before letting the hammer fall.

  “Comrade Army Commander,” Khrenov greeted him, smiling, clearly quite pleased with himself, “I hope you had a good flight.”

  Trimenko made a noise at the back of his throat, noncommittal. He strode beside Khrenov from the meadow that served as a helipad to the building. The rain-rinsed air felt unseasonably cold.

  “Comrade Army Commander,” Khrenov tried again, “you no doubt have been informed that we have secured our bridgehead, and that we are expanding it at this time. It’s a solid bridgehead. We already have forward detachments out.”

  Trimenko had not known. The information must have missed him in flight. What in the world was Tkachenko, his chief of engineers, doing? He was supposed to keep his army commander informed on the crossing situation. Trimenko wondered what else had happened of which he was unaware, what other events had occurred in the army’s sector of which his staff had failed to properly inform him. He had only known that a forward element had seized a good crossing site in the vicinity of Bad Bevensen almost by accident and that Khrenov’s crossing operation was underway. But this was rapid success, if Khrenov was accurately reporting his situation.

  “I need the details, not generalities, Khrenov,” Trimenko said, as though none of the division commander’s revelations had surprised him.

  Their boots slapped up the cement steps. Inside, staff maps and remote communications gear had been set up in a public dining room. The appointments were far too comfortable for Trimenko’s image of a division’s forward command post in wartime.

  “You’re carrying a lot of your staff forward with you, Khrenov,” he said.

  Khrenov looked at him in mild surprise. “The bastards hit my main command post with a fire strike. Around noon. I thought you knew. Over fifty percent destruction. I’m running everything but rear services and traffic control from here until we get the alternate running hot.”

  Trimenko was furious now, although he carefully held his temper inside the mental box he had fashioned for it over the years. He realized that so much was happening so swiftly that it was impossible to know it all. But his staff had the mission of sorting out those details that were truly vital and keeping the army commander informed. These gaps in his knowledge only convinced him more fully of the inability of average men to cope under the conditions of modern war. The machine was superior to the man.

  “I’m sorry, Khrenov. I didn’t know that.” For a moment, Trimenko framed the problem in terms of the officers lost, undoubtedly some very good men. But he quickly rejected any sentimentality. “The important thing is not to lose control now. We must keep close control of the
troops. Confusion is the enemy now. Confusion and time.”

  Khrenov nodded. “Comrade Army Commander, if you’ll have a seat at the map, I’ll brief you myself.”

  Really pleased with himself, Trimenko thought. Otherwise, he’d have one of his staff officers brief me. Trimenko took a seat beside a table, fronting on a map that had been unfolded and tacked to the wall. A staff officer slipped a packet of looted cigarettes, matches, and a cup of tea onto the table, then nimbly disappeared. Trimenko ignored the little gifts, reaching into his tunic pocket for his tobacco pouch of pistachio nuts. He scattered a few on the tabletop and told Khrenov to go ahead.

  “The overall situation in the sector of the Twenty-first Motorized Rifle Division is quite favorable at this time. We have firmly established a divisional bridgehead… here… following a successful assault crossing against the canal line. At this time, forward elements have penetrated the line of Highway 4, and the division’s right flank regiment, following a tactical turning maneuver north from the bridgehead, is fighting on the southern outskirts of Uelzen.”

  “Don’t get bogged down in a city fight,” Trimenko interrupted. “Just get the roads. Let the follow-on forces deal with any pockets. Don’t divert any more forces to deal with them than absolutely necessary to provide security.”

  “Comrade Army Commander, our only interest is in securing the Highway 71 axis. Our forces are only engaged in the Uelzen area to firmly establish control of the local road network. A forward detachment detailed from that regiment has already passed into the enemy’s rear, and its last reported location puts it in light contact eighteen kilometers west of Uelzen along the supporting network corollary to Highway 71 in the Soltau-Verden direction. The division’s mission of the day should be accomplished within one to two hours.”

  The reported locations were almost stunning to Trimenko. But he adamantly refused to show it in his facial expression. He slowly peeled another nut, slipped it between his lips, and stared at the map. Khrenov had reason to be pleased with himself. This was splendid. The enemy had lost control in the sector. Now it was time to hit them even harder.

  “Are you in contact with the Two Hundred and Seventh Division on your southern flank?”

  Khrenov’s face fell. “Yes, Comrade Army Commander. Dalyev reports that both of his initial crossing attempts have failed. The Germans… appear to be giving him a bad time.”

  Trimenko nodded. “Dalyev’s got a lot of frontage. Too much to expect real results. He’s paying the price for you to succeed in your own little area, Khrenov.”

  Khrenov bent forward, as though Trimenko had dropped a physical weight onto his shoulders. It was evident that the division commander was anxious to turn the briefing back to his own successes.

  “I don’t mind so much,” Trimenko said. “Somebody always has to pay the price. I just want Dalyev to keep the Germans so busy up front that they miss what’s happening on their flanks. I want the Germans to perceive success. But I want to keep enough pressure on them so that they worry, too. So that they stay put. Dalyev’s taken severe losses, Khrenov. While your forward detachment’s heading for Soltau, perhaps even the Weser itself, waving at the girls and singing the ‘Internationale,’ no doubt. But let me pose a problem for you. Suppose Dalyev can’t keep the Germans occupied long enough. We’ve already had reports of German antitank helicopters working the Dutch sector, trying to brace up the front. Really, it’s only a matter of time until they hit you with a brigade, maybe more. How are you going to hold the southern shoulder of the penetration?”

  “Comrade Army Commander, defensive positions are being prepared at the bridgehead itself. Otherwise, in a fluid, breakthrough situation, I must be prepared to accept open flanks… to a degree…”

  “Oh, don’t recite your academy notes to me, Khrenov. Neither do I want you to slow down. If anything, I think you’re lagging a bit just now,” Trimenko lied. “But you do need to get your antitank battalion and some mobile obstacle detachments up. And detail an armored reserve. Start your antitank defenses somewhere around that wishbone on Highway 4. Right about there, oriented to the south. And keep laying them in as fast as you can while you move west. Be generous with the antitank mines.”

  “Comrade Army Commander, I don’t have the routes. Not yet. You must have seen what the roads are like. I’ve loaded my assault forces forward, the bridgehead’s packed, and everybody’s screaming for more ammunition. In any case, one antitank battalion can’t cover even the flank we’ve got now, and I need them on the bridgehead. I can’t even get my casualties out,” Khrenov said, in his bitterest tone of the day, “and they’re heavy.”

  Trimenko dropped a flame-shaped pistachio back onto the table and waved his hand. “And you’ll have worse difficulties yet. The war has hardly begun. I’m giving you a full antitank regiment. And an additional battalion of engineers to tuck them in and lay minefields along your flank. But getting them here is your problem.”

  Khrenov caught the signal. He was doing well. He was being reinforced. The army commander counted his efforts a solid success.

  “Now tell me,” Trimenko continued, “about support issues. What are the real problems?”

  Khrenov sighed. It was almost a womanish gesture. In the background, plates rattled. Soldiers fooling around in the kitchen, eating when they needed to be working. Trimenko let it pass for the moment.

  “Comrade Army Commander,” Khrenov began. It was almost a litany, the way he said it, and it annoyed Trimenko. “I have too many reports of excessive tank main gun and artillery ammunition consumption to ignore. If it were one unit, or two, I’d assume they were overreacting, or just getting greedy, trying to stock up. But I have several reports of tanks shooting up their entire on-board units of fire in their first engagements. And the artillery is loaded down with calls for fire. It was all right as long as we were on the phased fire plan, but now, even with the battle-management computers, we can’t really tell exactly who is in firing position or who’s still on the road, who’s low on ammunition or who’s just sitting around with his elbow up his ass. My chief of missile troops and artillery is out on the ground trying to sort it out personally.”

  Trimenko thought for a moment.

  “But no fuel problems?” he asked.

  Khrenov shook his head. “Not a whisper.”

  “Of course not,” Trimenko said. “But get me better details on the ammunition problems. Not just generalities. Numbers. And burn this into your brain, Khrenov. I don’t want any unit stopping just because it runs out of ammunition. They can just go on a sightseeing ride to the Rhine. We’re on the edge of cracking those bastards now. You can feel it, Khrenov. The battlefield’s gotten away from them. And a tank with nothing but a few belts of machine-gun ammunition is still a tremendous weapon if it’s deep in the enemy’s rear.” Trimenko sat back and smiled one of his thin, rare smiles. “Think of it. If you were a fat rear-area soldier and you woke up to find enemy tanks all over your comfortable little domain, would you stop to ask yourself whether or not they had ammunition on board?” Trimenko tossed a shell toward the map. Then he locked his facial muscles once again.

  “Make sure you maintain good communications with Malyshev as he comes up. Cooperate, and no nonsense. I want his division’s tanks across the autobahn tonight. I expect you to ensure personally that all control measures for his forward passage have been worked out and fully agreed upon. There must be no pauses, no letting up. Hit them, Khrenov. Get them down on their backs, and drive your tanks and fighting vehicles right over them.” Trimenko paused at the power of his mental vision. “Let me know when the first vehicle crosses the autobahn line. That triggers the deep air assaults on the Weser crossing sites.” Trimenko stared at Khrenov, measuring this man who had already accomplished so much this day. “You have the opportunity to do great things, my little major general. Great things. But first you need to stop building yourself a headquarters palace here. I find this sort of indulgence totally inappropriate. Commanders s
hould be farther forward. I can hardly hear the guns from here,” Trimenko exaggerated. “You need to get moving, Khrenov.”

  “What’s your hurry, you little bastard? You’re going the wrong way, anyway. You think this is a retreat?”

  In response, Captain of Transport Troops Belinsky looked up fiercely at the tall major of motorized rifle troops. Around them, their vehicles — Belinsky’s cargo trucks and the major’s battalion of combat vehicles — had intermingled with smashed headlamps, shouts, curses, and confusion. No traffic controllers had been posted at the intersection. Now the combat troops were in a self-righteous rage, furious that a lowly transport unit had muddled their progress.

  “First of all, Comrade Major,” Belinsky said calmly, “you’re on a support route. This is not a combat artery.”

  “You’re the one who’s on the wrong road, you snot. Now you can get those trucks off out of my way, or I’ll drive right over them.”

  “Major, this is my road, and I’m carrying important cargo.”

  “To the rear?” The tall major laughed. He pawed his foot at the ground like a prancing stallion, head thrown back in mocking hilarity.

  Belinsky glowered up into the other man’s eyes. Bully’s eyes, beneath a dripping helmet rim. Belinsky was already unhappy with his unexpected mission, but he was determined to carry it out.

  “Come with me, Comrade Major. Just for a moment. You need to have a look at my cargo.” And he turned his back on the man, drawing the motorized rifle officer along behind him by the magnetism of his insolence.

  The major followed Belinsky down the crumbling, rain-slicked road, cursing as though the outcome of the war depended on his vulgarity. Belinsky casually slipped off his glasses and dropped them into the pocket of his tunic. He felt no need to inspect his cargo in detail yet again.

  The tall major did not even have to stretch to see into the bed of the first cargo truck. As Belinsky drew back the tarpaulin, admitting the smoky daylight, the sounds of raw human misery greeted the two officers.