Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  In an unlike-Beria fashion, the NKVD Marshal had not claimed the glory all for himself, conceding that there was a very real desire to sue for peace, stop using atomic weapons, and bring the soldiers home, even in the nations that had only a nominal role in the fighting.

  Stalin could only imagine the pressures mounting on the politicians.

  He chuckled.

  He laughed.

  He was unaware that the NKVD report deliberately understated the larger movement in America, the one that sought full and immediate prosecution of war with use of the bombs and everything that entailed.

  Reaching out, he picked up a written report from Vasilevsky, one that had landed on his desk that very morning, the commander in chief’s own addition to Malinin’s presentation.

  He wasn’t so stupid as to offer it to Beria, he merely showed the front cover.

  “I take it you’ve read this, Lavrentiy?”

  “Yes indeed, Comrade General Secretary. Combined with Malinin’s briefing, my own report, I think we can say that the political plan was done what we expected, can we not?”

  Stalin nodded his agreement, and substituted the folder for his tea.

  “So, now that Vasilevsky is in a position to enact his plan, I think the GKO should approve the immediate implementation of it.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Beria never even thought to offer agreement or opposition.

  A silence descended.

  Beria, wallowing in excellent work by his agitators and agents, felt smug and knew he had gained ground in the eyes of his master.

  Stalin merely imagined a face.

  A thin face with a high forehead…

  … glasses…

  …thin lips…

  …Truman’s face…

  “How he must be wriggling now, eh?”

  Beria was startled out of his silence and looked at Stalin in query.

  “I said, how that Amerikanski bastard Truman must be wriggling now, eh?”

  “They’ll sue for peace… it’s inevitable… their democracy is their weakness… always has been, Comrade General Secretary. Their nations are weak… all of them, weak… but, even if they found someone with political resolve… they could never overcome this issue in their heartland…”

  “Exactly, Lavrentiy, exactly… and that’s exactly why we will win… because we have the will!”

  Stalin checked the time, and found he had less than he thought.

  “Right, Comrade Marshal. Let us proceed to meet with the GKO, have the Vasilevsky plan initiated, press on with our efforts in their countries, and push ahead with Raduga as quickly as we can.”

  He stood and pounded the desk with his hand.

  “For the first time since those green toads stood at the gates of Moscow, and we drove them back, I know we will bring the world into a new Soviet era. It is inevitable, Comrade Marshal! Inevitable!”

  The subsequent meeting of the GKO was buoyed beyond measure, the confidence of his Party leader enthusing each man, but also making him malleable to any proposition.

  When the meeting broke up, the Soviet Union was set on a course that had the potential to divide the world for decades to come, and one that was aimed at destroying the major power bases of the United States and United Kingdom.

  None who left the meeting room felt other than a new world era was about to start.

  However, more than one had secretly thought that now was the time to seek an armistice, and secure all that had been gained, whilst the enemy was weak and confused by their inner wranglings,

  Of course, none had dared to say so.

  The tragedy of life is in what dies inside a man whilst he lives - the death of genuine feeling, the death of inspired response, the awareness that makes it possible to feel the pain, or the glory, of other men in yourself.

  Norman Cousins

  Chapter 156 – THE PAIN

  1002 hrs, Saturday, 15th June 1946, Makaryev Monastery, Lyskovsky, USSR.

  The Makaryev Monastery had been many things in its life.

  Founded in the Fifteenth century, it had been a Monastery at its inception.

  Fortified and secure, it became a centre for commerce, something that only terminated when it was burnt to the ground in 1816.

  Brought back to life as a convent in 1882, it enjoyed some peaceful years until, 1929, the Bolsheviks ousted the nuns and converted the premises to an orphanage.

  Passing through a number of interested parties, the premises were again taken over by the government, and became an important military hospital during the Patriotic War.

  Much of the premises were turned over to the Lysovko College of Veterinary Medicine, retaining one complete wing for specialist treatment of one of war’s most horrible injuries.

  Burns.

  He was still controlled by it… almost defined by it.

  It was the ever-present focus of his mind.

  No matter what wonders fell before his gaze, or what sweet sounds entered his ears, or tastes fell on his tongue, it was all-powerful.

  It could be temporarily controlled or, more accurately, displaced in his mind and body by the soporific effects of the substances they gave him.

  ‘Bless them.’

  The doctors and nurses, sometimes the latter in tears, tended to his ruined body, washed him, fed him, and injected his raw flesh with all manner of medicines and analgesics, and had, by some miracle, dragged him back into the land of the living.

  A land where living was defined by ‘it’.

  Pain.

  ‘It’ was pain.

  He had been wounded before, even burned before, but never to this extent, and never endured the unendurable pain that visited itself upon him hour by hour, day by day.

  He tried to use his mind to control it, seize hold of IT, the ruling force, subjugate IT, deal with IT, control IT…

  … but IT was in charge and refused to take a back seat.

  “Polkovnik? Polkovnik? It’s time.”

  He shifted slightly and felt his skin crackle and stretch, the burns protesting at the smallest movement.

  He groaned, his only outward concession to the agonies of existence that he endured every waking minute.

  “Polkovnik, it’s the doctor here. We’ve got to bath you today.”

  Yarishlov opened his eyes in momentary terror.

  The previous bath had been to soak the bandages and dressings away from his tortured flesh.

  In his world of pain, it ranked second to the actual moment in Pomerania, when he had started to burn inside his tank.

  He could not bring himself to speak, but rather made himself less ware of the Doctor’s presence, and focussed on the jab in his right arm, and the pulling in his other arm as the fluid bottles were changed.

  At no time did he consider ending it all, not that he could have done in any case.

  Yarishlov’s purpose, his driving force, his obsession was pure and simple… to wear his uniform again.

  The nurses cleared the way as the other occupants of the burns ward watched on, none of them as badly hurt as the much-decorated Colonel of Tank Troops.

  Yarishlov was a hero in every sense of the word, feted by the Soviet state and Communist Party, and to see him laid low by such hideous wounds, was awful to behold.

  Two of them, old soldiers who had served in the dangerous early days of WW2, threw up salutes as best they could, their own offerings of honour bringing pain to each individual, but both had heard of Yarishlov and neither would accept less.

  The warm water lay waiting for him, and Yarishlov steeled himself, as the process had no painless sections in which he could invest and recover.

  Hands gently grasped his sheets and he felt himself raised up slightly, the bed no longer taking his weight.

  Whilst there was pain, it was lessened by the analgesia he had just been given and, unbeknown to him, the start of the body’s best efforts at repair.

  The warm liquid embraced him, not too cold and not too hot, and he was lo
wered beneath the water level, until the cooling fluid reached his neck.

  The pain was lulled and calmed as one of the nurses used a piece of towelling to drizzle more liquid over his head, both over the burned area and the shaved section, bringing immediate relief to Yarishlov.

  The team worked around him, ensuring every part was immersed or drizzled with water, and Yarishlov’s sense of well-being increased.

  That feeling went in a microsecond and the extremes of pain returned to claim him.

  A scream immediately burst from his lips in response to an attempt to remove a dressing that had fused with his recovering flesh.

  “NO! Not yet, Nurse! Leave it to soak longer… much longer. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Leave it all until then.”

  Yarishlov heard the horrified apology of the young nurse, but had already decided to settle back and enjoy the ten minutes the Doctor had offered, and use it to prepare himself to endure the agony that was to come.

  1632 hrs, Saturday, 15th June 1946, Freienwalde, Pomerania.

  The prisoners were being assembled, as per the divisional commander’s orders.

  The small field was gradually filling up as the dejected soldiers arrived; shambling groups of Poles and British infantrymen, with a handful of Spaniards, all taken during the recent failed Allied attacks on the positions of 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division and her sister units of the newly reconstituted 2nd Baltic Front, the grouping tasked with halting and reducing the Polish landing incursion.

  Kriks, sipping on the ever-present flask containing something of non-regulation issue, eyed Deniken with concern. The personality change that had swept over the young Colonel since the loss of Yarishlov, and the heavy casualties infected upon his men in and around Naugard, seemed to have darkened the man irrevocably.

  What had been a close relationship between them had quickly floundered, seemingly becoming more of something to tolerate for Deniken, a situation that was unusual for Kriks after his friendship with Yarishlov.

  True to his word, he stuck as close to the 1st Guards’ commander, or as close as the man’s moods would allow.

  He moved up to Deniken’s side and offered the flask as a reminder of his presence and the good relationship they once had.

  “No.”

  Kriks stayed close as Deniken moved forward to where the burial party had just completed its digging.

  Other men moved forward to place fourteen men in the soil of Poland forever, men who were born and bred in Mother Russia.

  Today was a bitter day indeed for the man that Yarishlov had seen as the future of his country.

  As per his wish, Deniken assisted in carrying one of the bodies, that of his long-time friend, Vladimir Grabin, with whom he had shared breakfast, and now would bury, all in the same day.

  The soldiers, without distinction of rank, spoke their piece over their dead comrades, heartfelt eulogies to men with whom the trials of a life of a soldier had been shared for months, and often, years.

  More than one man shed tears as the earth was moved back into its former place, entombing the dead in its cold embrace.

  A few prisoners watched dispassionately, some with understanding, some without comprehension.

  A few, a very few, moved away from the site.

  Deniken concluded his silent tribute to his close friend and made his vow, the mirror of the one he had given as the train carrying the hideously burned Yarishlov pulled out away from the station, and the one he had repeated on a number of similar occasions, when men under his command were forever confined in enemy soil.

  He stood at attention and saluted the turned ground, holding his tribute long enough to repeat the names of those beneath his feet.

  Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the waiting Captain as was the agreement on implementing his order.

  Two DSHK machine-guns chattered into life, sweeping away those who had gathered to gawk at the internments.

  Rifles and sub-machine guns joined in.

  Kriks, horrified, shouted and screamed for a cease-fire.

  A few men heeded his calls, but were quickly encouraged back to the killing by their own officer and NCOs, or, for a few, by the shouted threats of their divisional commander, Colonel Deniken.

  Kriks rushed towards Deniken, screaming his protest.

  “What are you doing, man? For the love of the Rodina, stop this madness! Stop it!”

  Deniken turned deliberately, his eyes burning with fury and lacking any hint of reason.

  He gesticulated at the bloody field in front of him.

  “Those bastards put your friend… our friend… in a hospital or worse. They’re responsible for this whole fuck up, all of it, so don’t tell me to stop firing! I’ll kill the bastards every opportunity I get!”

  He turned and fired his PPd in the direction of the massacre, emphasising both his point and his lack of control over himself.

  Kriks grabbed him.

  “What are you doing, man? Stop this insanity! Have you gone mad?”

  Deniken brought the sub-machine gun up, crashing it into Kriks’ jaw and sending the Praporshchik flying.

  “Serzhant!”

  The nearest NCO turned and leapt to his Colonel’s side.

  “Arrest the Praporshchik, remove his weapons, and take him away.”

  Kriks mouthed a protest that was stifled in blood and broken teeth.

  Detailing two men to the duty, the sergeant had the injured Kriks dragged away, as Deniken turned back to oversee the end of the killing.

  Soviet soldiers picked their way through the littered corpses, occasionally halting to slide a bayonet home, or issue a coup-de-grace shot.

  It is often said that there are always survivors from such massacres, but Freienwalde was an exception.

  Seventy-two allied servicemen were executed on the orders of a man driven to the edge by personal loss.

  The one man who could have saved him from himself lay in a peasant hut, under guard, being treated for his facial wound, and decidedly disinclined to have anything to do with the murdering colonel ever again.

  [Modern day Chociwel was once called Freienwalde.]

  1635 hrs, Saturday, 15th June 1946, 74th Surgical Hospital, Bräunisheim, Germany.

  The newly arrived units, two reinforced MP platoons allocated from the Corps command, had been assigned to the static defence of the hospital site.

  In reality, Hanebury had recognised that the new arrivals were not up to the task of rooting out an experienced enemy unit and, for the matter, neither was the green Captain in charge.

  The officer offered no opposition to Hanebury’s continued command of the hunt, and accepted the passive role of his units with relative good grace.

  The search had commenced early in the morning, when Hanebury led a reconnaissance cum assault on the positions in which they had observed the enemy the previous day.

  With the exception of some excrement that might have been human, and traces of blood that could equally be so, the only certain indications of a recent human presence were suitable sized areas of grass that were slightly flatter than others… and a footprint.

  The tell-tale marks of the metal studs declared everything that Hanebury needed to know.

  The birds had definitely flown.

  Lucifer took the proffered HT set and contacted Stradley.

  “Execute Alpha, Execute Alpha, over.”

  “Roger.”

  Plan Alpha was the only plan they had, but it had been put together to sweep up the area around the medical facility in the first instance, and then move outwards, embracing the likely area into which the enemy had melted. Trying to put themselves in the enemy’s boots, Hanebury and Stradley had decided that the likely area was a large expanse of woodland that ran due south from Bräunisheim, extending some six kilometres, north to south, by five kilometres wide. They would move around the zone, watching out for signs and interrogating any locals they might come across, before methodically reducing the area down, although more troop
s would be needed to ensure success.

  In any case, First Sergeant Hanebury had understood that he needed more help, so the armed medical staff, plus a handful of combat soldiers from amongst the wounded, were added to his force.

  Utilising some of the new arrivals, he would be able to establish the picquets necessary for the plan.

  He also had assistance from an unexpected but most welcome source.

  Whilst not an official Kommando, a handful of German citizens had appeared, offering their services to the hunters.

  Initially, Hanebury was perturbed that such things were public knowledge, but moved on immediately; he’d take all the help he could get.

  Most of the score of Germans were ex-military, and wore their old uniforms, tactfully altered to remove certain ‘devices’ from a previous political era.

  Most wore medals that marked them as combat veterans.

  One had spent his life as a woodsman, and he was already positioned with Stradley’s force, along with five of his compatriots.

  Another six, including the two WW1 veterans, were kept within Hanebury’s force. Initially, Lucifer’s thoughts had been to reject the two ‘grandfathers’, but there was something about the older men, particularly the elder of the two, who proudly wore the ‘Pour-le-Mérite’ around the neck of a tunic that bore the insignia of the German Empire’s 13th Infanterie Regiment.

  The remainder were split between the units that would be deployed outside the perimeter of the hospital.

  Hanebury’s vehicles rallied below the height, and he got his unit mounted in record time, before they moved off, heading for their allocated line of march down Route 1229.

  Stradley’s force was already heading down the 7312, in the direction of Altheim.

  1635 hrs, Saturday, 15th June 1946, the woods, one kilometre northeast of Lonsee, Germany.

  Those that were the hunted had regrouped and concealed themselves on the side of a sharp rise that oversaw a small valley, some two hundred metres off the Ettlenscheisserweg, one kilometre north-east of Lonsee.