by Gee, Colin
“Excellent, Comrade Kapitan.”
The look on the man’s face told the security commander that was not necessarily the case.
“Go on, Comrade.”
“Even with our present arrangements in the huts… and the old tents you were able to secure, we will come up short on accommodation… by my calculations… by forty-three places, Comrade Mayor.”
Skryabin gave the matter a moment’s thought, grimacing as an icy blast hit both men full on.
“Then we must either find more places, or fewer bodies to fill them.”
Another draught of warming vodka hit the spot and his face creased in genuine mirth before becoming business-like again.
“Seeing as I cannot produce more tents out of my arse, then I shall have to whittle away at the bodies. Roll call parade, Comrade Kapitan,” Skryabin checked his watch and made a mental calculation.
He drained the last of the vodka and set the glass down hard, the rifle shot sound making more than Durets jump.
“Six minutes.”
The NKVD Captain threw up a salute and trudged back through the snow and icy water to get the guard prepared for a spot roll call.
Skryabin’s reputation had come before him; both that of the bravery, as well as that of the cruelty, and it appeared to Captain Durets that it would be the latter on display today.
“Attention!”
The tired and freezing men made a valiant effort to present themselves as a group of soldiers, but the cold cut through their rags like a knife and they soon hunched or grouped again, driven apart or upright only by the butts of rifles as the Guards counted them off.
After eleven minutes the figure came back.
‘Nine hundred and seventy.’
“Incorrect. Do it again.”
The counting resumed, hand in hand with an increase in the cut of the wind, with those on the northern edge of the assembly area worst affected.
Skryabin looked on in satisfaction as two men dropped into the slush.
‘Nine hundred and seventy-one.’
“Wrong, you fucking oaf! There’s two of the bastards lying dead there. Did you count them? Well? Did you?”
The Senior Sergeant overseeing the roll call turned to get the answer from one of his subordinates, but Skyrabin was on a roll.
“Right! Enough of this shit. Comrade Captain. Name and rank parade, left to right. No-one leaves the parade ground until it is correct. Understand?”
The NKVD officer did and the guards herded the miserable prisoners to one side of the parade area whilst the Captain and Senior Sergeant oversaw the setting up of two tables and chairs.
“Begin.”
The prisoners lined up in two separate columns, pressing closely together to reduce their exposure to the killing wind.
Skryabin, drinking from a recently filled hip flask, drew closer to the Captain.
Pencil poised over the paperwork containing the prisoner details, he looked up at the first man.
“Name and rank?”
“Schwartz. Major.”
It took a minute to find the name, on the last but one sheet.
A head gesture moved the suffering Schwartz on, the frozen man still wrapped in the summer tunic he had been wearing when taken prisoner on the 7th August.
“And you?”
“De Villiers, Flight Lieutenant.”
The South African pilot’s name was on the first sheet.
“Next.”
“Jus’ there, man.”
The Scottish soldier tapped the paper hard, causing a small tear at the side.
“See there. It says ‘Kiss ma fucking chassis, ye commie wanker’. Just there.”
McLinden laughed.
De Villiers laughed.
Collins laughed.
Skryabin certainly didn’t.
No-one laughed as the top of McLinden’s head disappeared, and those nearest got a spray of blood and brains as Skryabin’s bullet smashed a path through the NCO’s head.
Returning his pistol to the soft leather holster, Skryabin leant forward, speaking over the shoulder of his Captain, who had received an exaggerated share of the detritus from the dead McLinden.
Indicating the body, the warm blood steaming in the freezing temperature, Skryabin shouted at the next prisoner in line.
“Now. What was that’s name?”
Julius Collins looked long and hard at the sneering NKVD officer and debated his options.
‘You’ll fucking keep, you commie son of a fucking bitch. But you an’ me’ll dance soon enough.’
“Maclinden, Lance-Corporal.”
The NKVD Captain re-established himself.
“And yours?”
“Collins, Master Sergeant.”
A head gesture sent Collins limping on his way as McLinden’s body started to stiffen in the cold.
An American officer strode up to the table, pushing others aside in his anger.
“Who the fuck is in charge of this… this…,” his finger pointed at the corpse, his anger leaving him unable to speak.
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m Colonel Lee,” the ex-commanding officer of the 317th US Infantry Regiment leant over the table, using his scarred face and huge frame to try and intimidate the two enemy officers, “And who the hell are you? Shooting prisoners is murder, you sonofabitch. When this is over, there’ll be a reckoning.”
Skryabin also leant forward and encouraged Durets to find the name.
Once it was located, the pencil did its work.
The Tokarev was out of the holster and had put the first of two bullets into Lee before anyone had a chance to move.
Skryabin, his face lightened in amusement, tapped Durets on the shoulder.
“Amend your records, Comrade Kapitan. They are incorrect.”
Converting the tick into a cross, Durets steadied himself with a deep breath.
Skryabin walked down the line of waiting men, seemingly indifferent to the naked hate that emanated from each set of eyes, although those that looked saw a purposeful grip maintained on the unsheathed pistol.
Back at the desk, Dryden and Hamouda tended to Lee, trying to stem the flow of blood.
The Colonel, shock removing his capacity for coherent speech, started to moan louder and louder.
Anxious to avoid any further attention from the psychopath NKVD commander, Hamouda clamped his hand over Lee’s mouth, stifling the sounds of a man in the extremes of pain.
Skryabin, hearing the moans, turned back, but was intercepted by the arrival of one of his soldiers.
The salute was text book and extremely impressive, something all the Major’s team had found to be necessary to avoid a beating, or worse.
“Comrade Mayor. General Lunin is on the phone. Guard hut Seven.”
As Skryabin stalked off towards the nearest guard post, Dryden appealed to Durets.
“Please, Captain… if I don’t get him in the warm and work on these wounds, he will die.”
English simply wasn’t Durets strong point, but he understood what the naval doctor wanted.
However, his language skills were up to a response.
“No.”
To punctuate his response, Durets continued with the next in line.
It was twenty past eight in the evening by the time the Allied prisoners were permitted to move off the assembly ground, by which time forty-nine more men had succumbed to the effects of the Soviet winter.
By some miracle, Dryden and Hamouda had managed to keep the wounded Lee alive.
In hut two, a space was created close to the single stove, and the two men went to work.
All around them, men huddled together on solid bunks, six to a space meant for one, some watching, others drifting off into a sleep of sorts, all just thankful to be alive.
At nine o’clock the two electric lights went out, the normal routine for the camp, had they but known it.
“No! Get them back on!”
Dryden fumbled around solely by
touch, desperate to find the blood vessel that was still causing Lee problems.
“I need light!”
A movement of a finger brought some, as Julius Collins flicked his contraband lighter into life, although it was weak and flickering.
Another , then another joined, but the combined light was still less than ideal.
Dryden probed with his finger, feeling a pulsing flow.
All of a sudden that flow became a geyser, squirting Lee’s blood straight at his face.
“Shit! More light!”
Two more lighters added to the array.
The geyser subsided, but not because the blood vessel had been found.
“No! No! No! Hany!”
Standing ready with the twine, Hamouda could do nothing but check the colonel’s vital signs.
“Weak, racing.”
He laid his hand on Dryden’s, the one deep inside the main wound.
“Lieutenant Commander, there is nothing you can do now.”
Lee died, one final prolonged exhalation marking his end.
“Bastards! We could have saved him, Hany! Bastards!”
The lighters clicked out one by one, until the glow of the wood stove provided the only illumination.
Kevin Roberts, a young Canadian Major, lit two cigarettes from one of the pieces of red luminous timber and passed one to the naval man.
“You gave it your best shot, Commander. It just wasn’t enough today.”
Dryden looked at him in anger, and then he slumped in resignation.
Hamouda stayed silent, but he was also obviously feeling the loss.
Roberts slapped both men on the shoulder and spoke with conviction.
“There will be other days.”
Huts one, two, and three contained the Senior NCO’s and officers from amongst the prisoners, men whom the NKVD reasoned would be of higher intelligence, and therefore more capable of the later tasks that would be demanded of the workforce.
Until that time came, all prisoners cut wood, mixed concrete, carried stone, or dug as best they could in frozen soil, often prepared by explosives,.
Much as the Germans had brought together their most troublesome prisoners in one place, a move that concentrated the most devious minds in one camp, the Soviet focus on huts one, two and three also meant that they created a rod for their own backs, as subtle moves, planned discretely round the hut stoves, spelt delay for the project over the coming weeks and months.
It is not a field of a few acres of ground, but a cause that we are defending, and whether we defeat the enemy in one battle, or by degrees, the consequences will be the same.
Thomas Paine.
Chapter 125 – THE QUIET
December 1945, the European Front
Across Europe the major battles had all ended, and even the small ones had all but ceased, so bad were the conditions.
Rivers normally running freely in winter became nothing but solid walkways and, in a few instances, commanders launched their men across the ice.
Supply issues hounded both sides, and it almost seemed that an agreement was reached between opposing forces.
‘If you keep out of my way, I’ll leave you alone too.’
There were no recorded instances of cease-fires, no sign of a reoccurrence of the First World War camaraderie between opposition troops.
It was not the Soviet way, and the Allies seemed less inclined than had been the case in the past.
None the less, unspoken agreements reduced the fighting to a minimum, unless stirred by some interloping officer from a higher command.
In both armies, casualties caused by bullet, bomb and shell declined, whilst those caused by the extreme cold rose.
Men from sunnier climes suffered the most.
Above the frozen ground the aircraft still flew, but cold weather missions were not without risk, and accidents rose.
The Allied Bomber force continued to pound anything that could be of use to the Red Army, which found much of its new supply of men and materiel could not move forward because the infrastructure was being dismantled by Allied high-explosives.
Choke points then attracted more attention from bombers, and trauma casualties behind the lines exceeded those at the front, often by considerable distances.
Bridges meant for the Army were needed at points where men and supplies were choked up, so the vital equipment never reached the engineers who would need it when the thaw came.
The war at sea was virtually over, the occasional Mediterranean scuffle with a submarine from the Black Sea Fleet normally resulted in the Soviet craft remaining underwater permanently.
The political and military hierarchies on both sides concluded that it was in their best interests to use the big freeze to rebuild, rest, plan, and prepare for the thaw.
On each side there were individuals who counseled otherwise, stressing that the enemy would be doing likewise.
None of their voices were heard or, if they were, their argument was ignored in favour of the enticement of an extended spell of peaceful time.
Perhaps the Soviet dissenters were more correct, in that the mighty industrial power of the United States would not stop for snow, the convoys that plied the Atlantic, no longer troubled by the small but effective Elektroboote force, would go on through storm and ice, and the build-up of men, weapons, and ammunition, would continue unhindered by air attacks, the Red Air Force being spent as an offensive arm for the foreseeable future.
The GKO had other thoughts, perhaps they were blinded by the dazzling possibilities of the Atomic programme’s progress.
The Allies, perhaps also enchanted by their own programmes, almost seemed to forget the resilience and come-back capabilities of their enemy, capabilities that had drawn many plaudits when they all sat on the same side of the table.
From SHAEF’s headquarters in Versailles, to that of the Red Banner Forces of Europe under the rock of Nordhausen, the military commanders had curtailed their plans in favour of renewal and rest.
Their political masters, Churchill aside, had concurred, and supported the unofficial cease-fire. Churchill’s desire to strike hard was considered unrealistic, but he was right in some of what he said, as the advantages of Spectrum Red were slowly eaten away by the lull.
When Eisenhower went for a walk, or when Konev ventured from his underground tunnels, both found the air so cold that it hurt to breathe, and the ground covered with snow, sometimes above the height of the tallest of men.
The weather forecast predicted more of the same, without thaw, well into the New Year.
A Europe filled with armed men was relatively quiet, but the plans were being laid for when they could start killing each other again.
1051 hrs, Monday, 23rd December 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Place Hotel, Versailles, France.
Bedell-Smith settled into his chair, the one normally occupied by his commanding officer.
Eisenhower was thousands of miles away, enjoying a well-earned leave at his home.
Staff in the headquarters had been on the same flight, the situation enabling others who had been in Europe since 1943 to go home and spend Christmas with their loved ones.
Not that the Allied Armies would be repeating the errors of 1944, when the German attack had caught them badly unprepared. Once is a mistake, twice is unforgivable.
The situation map was quiet, the last reports he had seen were those detailing aircraft casualties from the night’s raids, and assessments of damage caused by their bombs. There were also personal messages from him, messages of encouragement and congratulations requiring his signature, due to the units that had carried out the missions.
The ever-present Colonel Hood broke his reverie.
“Sir, the meeting. It’s nearly eleven.”
“Thank you, Thomas.”
Bedell-Smith stood and stretched, and walked crisply to the conference room, meeting Major Goldstein en route.
“How’s your German today, Major.”
“W
ell I’ve been practicing some, General. I’ve a hunch that Speer’s briefing’s gonna get all technical on me today, so I’ve brushed up on some big words.”
He held out a book.
“Also I brought this, just in case.”
Bedell-Smith grinned.
“Very wise, Major, very wise indeed.”
1100 hrs, Monday, 23rd December 1945, the conference room, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Place Hotel, Versailles, France.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Please sit.”
The sound of chairs scraping as they responded to Bedell-Smith’s invitation echoed around the large room, eventually dying away as the last of the men made themselves comfortable.
Bradley and De Lattre sat on one side of the large table, opposite Bedell-Smith and Goldstein.
Devers had sent his apologies, but the weather had socked his area in completely.
To their left, Generals Robertson, Simpson and Horrocks, the latter acting as McCreery’s eyes and ears until the Denmark situation subsided. The two vacant seats were left for Tedder and Patton, should their respective aircraft be able to land on time.
To their right sat Von Vietinghoff, Guderian, and Speer, all for the German Republic, and it was they who had requested this extra meeting. The empty seat belonged to Von Papen, who had been taken ill that very morning.
Bedell-Smith took the lead in Tedder’s absence.
“Well, gentlemen,” he directed his comments at the German leadership contingent, “What is it that has caused such a stink?”
He omitted the word ‘panic’, despite it being used freely around SHAEF when the request had been sent in.
Von Vietinghoff took up the baton.
“Our forces have suffered heavily in the failed assault on Cologne. We can bring our units up on manpower without problem or loss of time. In fact, we will be able to increase our number of units in the field if we can resolve the equipment issue.”
“Equipment issue?”
“General Smith, our units are equipped with German tanks and weapons, most of which have been supplied from 1944/1945 stocks.”
