by Colin Gee
“Where is the danger, Comrade Marshal? Where is the threat here? They are grinding to a halt in the North and South. The Germans are moving but will run out of steam soon enough. The Amerikanski have been bloodied on the Rhine and Mosel. So where is our biggest issue eh?”
Zhukov, head swimming, easily tapped the board, the shot like sound causing more than one to flinch.
“Here, Comrade General Secretary. Here is our biggest problem.”
Eyes focused on markings that suggested a US Army Group.
Stalin snorted.
“The Amerikanski?”
“One Amerikanski called Patton, Comrades. He was sat here, with his entire Army… a huge army… waiting for the right moment to move forward and exploit a breakthrough.”
Zhukov felt really faint but stuck to his task.
“This morning he got his breakthrough here… between Mainz and Koblenz.”
Actually, Patton had found his opening on the 27th but, perhaps unsurprisingly, Soviet intelligence was overwhelmed and such omissions were commonplace.
Zhukov collapsed, clutching his chest, his pain evident.
The doctor was called and the Marshal was taken away.
All the time, Stalin’s eyes remained fixed on the map, taking in the smallest details.
‘Mainz.’
‘Koblenz.’
His eyes moved eastwards.
‘Frankfurt.’
And further on.
‘Nuremberg.’
And further o…
Stalin shook himself out of the process.
‘Enough! You’ve defeated worse than this bunch of Amerikanski and lapdog British before, so enough! The Red Army will be victorious, so enough, enough, enough!’
Zhukov’s departure had added to the growing list of dead and incapacitated Soviet Marshals, and Stalin’s pot of reliable and competent senior officers was shrinking daily.
The briefing continued, as Nazarbayeva and Beria brought new intelligence to the attention of the GKO.
1209 hrs, Friday, 5th April 1946, Headquarters of 1st Alpine Front, Stainach, Austria.
Chuikov’s latest headquarters exceeded his, by now, limited expectations.
Located on the one thousand metre long, heavily wooded Sallaberg, a mass that rose to nine hundred metres above sea level, his latest headquarters seemed ideal and undetectable.
He reminded himself that such thoughts had sprung up in his mind when he settled into St. Ruprecht and Teufelberg, yet the Allied air forces had discovered them.
Settling into a soldier’s lunch, he recounted the morning briefing and his response to the overnight changes.
Although he was still going backwards, Chuikov was immensely proud of his soldiers and how they had responded to the Allied attacks, above all the constant air attacks, to which there seemed little answer.
His plea for more AA assets had been sent, and resent, but none arrived and, he suspected, neither would they.
The map showed further losses, but also reflected some more favourable positioning, much of it based around his ability to create a new reserve, now that Tolbukhin’s forces had come into the line between Yugoslavia and the edge of 1st Alpine’s units.
Aggressive, Chuikov had lashed out at the Allied spearheads and, on a number of occasions, bloodied them to a standstill, albeit a temporary one.
Supplies were a constant problem but he was coping.
Bogoliubov limped in, his calf injury causing him great pain, which was only to be expected given that the triangular piece of house brick had removed a significant portion of the muscle on its way through his trousers.
He rejected orders to rest, orders which Chuikov had only half-heartedly given, in full expectation of his CoS’s refusal to comply.
The map reflected a week of hard fighting that had simply not gone his way.
Innsbruck was invested and would surely soon fall, despite the additional resources he had placed under Shumilov’s command.
However, the wily general had held the line, buckling but not breaking, bending back but still hanging on to the friendly forces either side of him. He had sent 7th Guards Army a newly arrived heavy tank regiment to help firm up their defences.
4th Guards Army had lost its commander that very day, the man falling victim to nothing more sinister than a car accident.
Chuikov remembered the old veteran with fondness, recalling the Hitler-like moustache he had insisted on sporting as ‘he’d had it all his life, and long before that hound came on the scene’.
He raised his mug in a silent toast and went back to his review.
‘Bloody terrain!’
The Alps was certainly not ideal terrain, although the defence was assisted greatly. Valleys ran in all directions, in between peaks of great height, some impassable, others with small paths that determined men could traverse and use to get behind defences.
That had happened a few times, not the least of which was the damn Poles, who had got behind his boys at Panzendorf and cost him large numbers of guns and AA weapons as they ran amok in the rear echelon. Only a costly attack by nearby battalions of the 3rd Guards Airborne Division had opened the way, permitting the retreating units of 21st Guards Rifle Corps to escape.
His boys had also given the Germans a damn good thrashing at St Martin and Bruneck, where 31st Guards Rifle Corps and 1322nd Anti-Tank Artillery Regiment had held the green bastards at bay, leaving their bloodied corpses strewn across the landscape.
Chuikov still husbanded the 27th Army, hoping above hope that he would have a suitable opportunity to inflict a great defeat on the enemy. As yet, none had materialized, and, in any case, the hostile skies would always pose a problem to such an enterprise.
A call from Derevianko, the new commander of 4th Guards Army, disturbed his thought processes, but the news was welcome.
Part of the 31st Guards Rifle Corps had successfully counter-attacked at Anterselva di Sotto, forcing the German 18th Infantry Division to flee back to Rasun.
‘Good news at last!’
There was very little of it in the days to come.
1238 hrs, Friday, 12th April 1946, Headquarters of 1st Alpine Front, Stainach, Austria.
Chuikov held the boy as he died.
Although a man by definition, he had been the youngest and bravest soldier in the 3rd Guards Airborne Division, which fact had brought him here, to his commander, to receive an award for his bravery.
Now he lay legless and with his chest penetrated in a dozen places, victim of the airborne curse that plagued the Red Army incessantly.
“Easy lad, easy now.”
One cough, one spurt of crimson fluid, and life’s journey ended for the young soldier.
Chuikov’s own wound hurt like hell, and he plucked at the wooden splinter protruding from his ankle.
It refused to budge and brought excruciating pain as a reward for his attempts.
Chuikov looked up into the now empty sky and silently cursed the enemy aircraft whose engine sounds were nearly faded away to nothing.
Bogoliubov limped up, an apparition in red and black.
He coughed a reply to Chuikov’s unspoken close examination.
“Not mine, Comrade Marshal. I’ll get the doctor for you, but I think we need to move house again.”
“Help me up, man”
Assisting the unsteady Marshal to his feet brought on another bout of coughing.
“Just dust I think…”
The two limped away in unison, supporting each other, seeking to bring order to the chaos around them.
1109 hrs, Wednesday, 17th April 1946, Headquarters of 1st Alpine Front, Klaus an der Phyrnbahn, Austria.
Fortunately, the weather was warmer now, as the new headquarters to which they had just relocated, was generally bereft of cover.
Some tarpaulins had been erected, even some wooden sheds ‘stolen’ from gardens in nearby villages and placed around to serve as bedrooms for a select few. Even the Mamayev had more facilities, Chuik
ov confided in his staff.
His ankle had developed an infection, despite the close ministrations of the senior doctors, and his hobble was now as pronounced and genuine as the pain that came with each step.
Sitting on a brightly coloured chair, recently liberated from an Austrian gasthaus, Chuikov rested his foot on a lump of timber specially placed there for the purpose.
The map on his lap showed the present situation, or at least the one in place before they had set off to the new location.
It had been a hard few days, and he had lost some fine units from the order of battle.
3rd Guards Airborne Division had been slaughtered in the hopeless defence of Lienz, where heavy bombers, medium bombers, and ground attack aircraft had mercilessly cut the veteran paratroopers down in their hundreds.
28th Tank Brigade had simply vanished, one moment under concerted attack, and then simply not there.
7th Tank Corps had taken a huge hit on the Gail River at Arnoldstein, but had held together in the retreat to Villach.
40th Army was a skeleton of units, bereft of serious artillery and low on ammunition.
The presence of Tolbukhin’s forces had allowed them to pass through the front lines and head back to a recovery area where they could lick their wounds and gather what few supplies were to be had.
26th Army was on its third commander since the Allied offensive had commenced.
‘Their air power is destroying us!’
One ray of hope that morning had been the news that Zhukov would soon be back at his desk, and with his return came more hope that the Red Army could find a way to stem the Allied flow.
Although made of stern stuff, Chuikov automatically cringed as the roar of aero engines approached, although there was no point running. The slit trenches were still being dug and were now filled with the men who had been wielding the spades.
Incredibly, there was cheering, as, through the green canopy, a diagonal line of five Soviet fighters flew past. Making a rough calculation, the Marshal estimated that the friendly aircraft were heading towards the desperate affair developing at Obervellach.
‘Obervellach’.
1st Alpine’s CoS dropped onto the camping stool beside his commander.
“Message from Derevianko. Good news, Comrade Marshal. The enemy attack on Obervellach has been stopped in its tracks. He reports hundreds of enemy dead. More to follow when he has better information.”
Fishing in his pocket, Bogoliubov held out a small flask.
“Makes the water drinkable, Comrade Marshal.”
Grinning, Chiukov took a hefty swig, nearly choking on the contents.
“What in the name of the great steppes is that?”
“That is Austrian Blue Gin, and it’s as smooth a drink as you will taste, Comrade Marshal.”
“Tastes like fucking aviation spirit to me!”
The two roared with laughter, drawing attention from all quarters, as laughter was a rare thing in those heavy days.
“If I was trawling for whores, then it would be my drink of choice, Comrade. However, I’m an officer of the Red Army. Get me a fucking vodka or I’ll have you shot for trying to poison me.”
Bogoliubov raised an admonishing finger, and produced another flask, a glass one, clearly containing a darker fluid.
“Perhaps this is more to your taste?”
It took two snorts to satisfy the Marshal’s taste buds.
“Blyad! That’s more like it.”
“Stroh rum, and it is quite plentiful so I’m told.”
They clinked flasks and downed more fiery liquid.
Another group of aircraft flew overhead, but this time higher, leaving contrails in the sky, flying north-east.
Followed by another group… and yet another… until the sky was filled with dots and white lines.
“Someone’s going to cop it.”
That someone was Bratislava, its bridges, infrastructure, occupying Bulgarian units and, of course, the civilian population.
1301 hrs, Friday, 19th April 1946, headquarters of British Fifteenth Army Group.
Leese finished reading the report as Alexander poured another tea.
The Eighth Army commander read a virtual mirror of his own report, citing heavy casualties, higher than expected consumption of the stocks of war, fatigue, battle weariness, call it what you would, but it seemed that the US Twentieth Army was running out of steam, like Leese’s Eighth Army, and the German pair sat between the two.
“So Oliver, what do you think of that, eh? All in the same boat. What?”
“Seems so, Sir. But if we’re tired, they must be tired. We know they’ve less supplies and were in poorer shape at the start of this show. The evidence of that has been spread before us as we’ve advanced.”
He sipped the delicate china cup.
“Granted, they fight like the very devil. Damn good soldiers, these Russians, but surely we can give it one more go. The blighters are close to breaking, I know they are, Sir.”
Leese had been brought back from the Far East to command the Eighth, his old Army, when McCreery had been handed the 21st.
He had the advantage of being a good friend of his commander, which gave him latitude when in private.
“Personally, I think we have gone about as far as we can, Oliver.”
“Don’t think we’ve reached the boundary quite yet, Sir. My lads have got at least one more good shove in them. Give me two days and I’ll have them fully booted and spurred for another crack at the Bolshevik hordes.”
“Opinion noted, Oliver, and as ever, you’re irrepressible.”
They drank the rest of their tea in silence.
Reese understood that Alexander was coming to a decision.
“Well quite”, he announced, placing his cup and saucer on the small table, “It would be rude not to, I think.”
Reese stood.
“I will tell Eisenhower that we have one good shove left, and that we will go on the 22nd. That gives you an extra day to get the full war paint on, Oliver.”
Reese gathered himself and threw the Field Marshal the kind of salute that only a Guards Officer can deliver.
“Thank you, Sir. I will have a plan to you by tomorrow evening, if that’s acceptable?”
“Most acceptable. Thank you, Oliver. Charles, will you see the General out please.”
1101 hrs, Monday, 22nd April 1946, Headquarters of 1st Alpine Front, Klaus an der Phyrnbahn, Austria.
Chuikov listened impassively as the latest reports were translated onto the situation map.
The few days grace afforded by not being discovered had provided enough time to construct a rough shelter for the main headquarters staff, and the long map took centre place on the rear wall.
What he saw was not good, amounting to an attack virtually all along his defensive line, including a stunning developing air and ground attack against his previous lightly troubled Yugoslavian volunteer forces.
Garbled reports from one contact suggested that the 21st Serbian Division had collapsed entirely.
A good portion of his limited reserve was already en route to back up the Yugoslavians, and the Marshal was within a few minutes of finally committing the 27th Army, the formation he had preserved for a chance to strike back.
Tolbukhin’s situation was slightly different, as the Allies continued to avoid activity adjacent to the Yugoslavian border. Whereas, at the other end of his line, the 1st Southern European Front reported nothing out of the ordinary, just the steady constant attacks that had been the stuff of every day since the sun had risen on the 26th.
He did what he could, with scanty resources, ordering this movement, that spoiling attack, an adjustment here, a tactical withdrawal there, but, annoyingly for Chuikov, he had no assets with which to cause mischief.
The initiative seemed to be well and truly in the enemy’s hands.
23rd April 1946, Area of operations for the British Fifteenth Army Group, Austria and Italy.
The initia
tive appeared to be lost.
The ‘good shove’, as Alexander had put it, failed spectacularly and became the stuff of huge debate for historians in the decades after WW3 ended.
Polish III Corps had advanced down a narrow route, the 3rd Mountain Division flanking the central core of 2nd Polish Armoured Division at Kremsbrücke, had run into thick minefields in the Heitzelsbergerwald and Maisswald. Combined with a heavy Soviet infantry presence and a large deployment of rockets and artillery, both divisions had suffered heavily.
That the Soviet artillery and Katyusha units suffered badly in counter-battery fire was of scant comfort to those who had been on the receiving end of their efforts.
Despite three assaults, the Poles could make no further progress.
The post-mortems started almost immediately, the narrow pass and single road echoing dissections of the Market-Garden Operations of Horrocks’ XXX Corps; they still continue to this day.
Whoever was to blame for the debacle in which three and a half thousand Polish soldiers were killed or wounded, the result was indisputable.
Fifteenth Army Group had run out of steam.
1009 hrs, Tuesday, 23nd April 1946, Headquarters of 1st Alpine Front, Klaus an der Phyrnbahn, Austria.
“Check again.”
Chuikov took a pull on a glass of water, the uncharacteristic choice of drink symptomatic of an extremely strange morning in 1st Alpine Headquarters.
Bogoliubov directed the communications officer to the task and, as he listened to the exchanges, mentally ticked off each Senior Command contacted.
The reply was the same from each, although sometimes couched in suspicion, sometimes in surprise, but always with noticeable relief.
“Nothing, Comrade Marshal.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, I may have to take up bible bashing after all… fucking hell.”
