by Gee, Colin
Bagramyan’s voice took a sterner tone.
“I don’t need to remind you how valuable the 77th is, and its preservation is to be considered a priority over all others, Comrades.”
Simply put, there were few bridging unit left, and even fewer with the resources to actually construct a viable bridge; 77th was one such rarity, albeit one missing its 3rd Battalion, and of reduced strength across the board.
It was Galitsky who broached subject number one.
“Comrade Marshal, our supply situation seems to have eased at the moment, but are we guaranteed sufficient for our needs in this operation, and beyond?”
Galitsky had already suffered because of a lack of vital munitions and fuels, and had been bound to raise the matter. Bagramyan was ready with his reply.
“Comrade Marshal Zhukov assures me the extra resources are on their way, and will be distributed within the next two days. They will also be protected by additional assets from our brothers in the NKVD.”
“Comrade Marshal, Special Group Obinin,” Christyakov took the floor, “What is its strength? Is it enough to do the job, or will I need to reinforce it?”
Bagramyan was momentarily irritated, as that information was in the operational plan in each man’s possession.
Then a thought overtook him.
‘He’s an excellent soldier, so why hasn’t he looked at the document first?’
He looked around the ensemble, and now saw something dangerous in all their faces.
‘They are tired. Blyad, but they are all tired!’
Nonetheless, 1st Baltic had a job to do, so he continued.
“Comrade General, Group Obinin is an all-arms formation made up of sections from 2nd Guards Tanks, 36th Guards Rifles, 6th Guards Heavy Tanks, and the 77th Engineers. Assign one of your Guards Rifles Corps to be prepared to lend modest assistance, by all means, but I want you to preserve your Army to fight west of the Hunte. You will not get embroiled in the fighting at Barnstorf.”
That was clear.
For the benefit of all, but focussing on Obinin and the two Colonels flanking him, Bagramyan spoke forcefully.
“Group Obinin has the strength, and the quality, to take Barnstorf, and to permit the 77th Engineers to do their job. If they expend their last bullet and last tank,” he deliberately avoided saying ‘last man’, “In doing it, then they will have succeeded in their mission, Comrades. Is that clear?”
Undeniably, it was crystal clear.
Special Group Obinin would take Barnstorf, or be wiped out in the attempt.
“Comrade Marshal,” all eyes swivelled on the Guards Colonel of Tanks who dared to speak. His awards were impressive, and spoke volumes for his experience, as well as his experiences.
“Comrade Polkovnik Yarishlov?”
“Sir, you have outlined excellent provisions by our comrades in the Red Air Force, but how effective can they be, given the grievous losses they have sustained in beating back the Allied regiments?”
More than one listener smiled, understanding that, Colonel or not, the man understood how to speak without incriminating himself in defeatist talk. They all understood that the Red Air Force had been crucified by the capitalist squadrons, and was bordering on ineffective, unless real efforts were made to focus resources on limited operations.
“Comrade Polkovnik, I am assured by our frontal aviation commander, General Mayor Buianskiy, that all our forces involved in this operation will receive the maximum fighter cover possible, and that tactical air support will also be widely available to units on the ground.”
‘Very carefully answered Comrade Marshal.’
“Thank you, Comrade Marshal.”
An unseen signal from Bagramyan had brought fresh tea into the meeting, a break that the wily Armenian had instigated for his own purposes.
Standing alone, he assessed each officer in turn, reading their gestures, the tone of voice, all to decide on how each man was taking his role in the operation.
Only one man drew extra attention.
Catching Yarishlov’s eye, he silently invited the Colonel of Tanks to come closer.
“You are still troubled, Comrade Polkovnik?”
Arkady Yarishlov was not known for hiding his light. Tactfully avoiding mentioning the air force losses was one thing, but lying to a direct question from his Front Commander was another.
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
Bagramyan licked his lips, removing the sweet tea residue.
“You are right to be, Comrade Yarishlov.”
Yarishlov was surprised at such candour from the senior man.
“We are old soldiers, you and I, Comrade Yarishlov. Let us enjoy some straight talking.”
“Yes Comrade Marshal.”
“The Air Force is on its last legs. The Allies have dealt very harshly with our Air Regiments, and I doubt that Comrade Buianskiy will be able to honour his promise to us, even in skies directly above our air gunners”
Wisely, Yarishlov just nodded, leaving the older man to continue.
“Despite the fact that they suffer every time they take to the air, they still go. They do their duty for the Motherland in the same way as we ground soldiers, Comrade Yarishlov.”
Turning around to the larger map pinned to the wall, Bagramyan waved his hand over the 1st Baltic Front's area of responsibility.
“My area has grown, as we have gained our victories. All of this now lies under my responsibility, and I have less manpower than ever to protect it with.”
Lowering his voice, the Armenian Marshal spoke directly to Yarishlov.
“My air force is operating at about 30% of the strength we had when we started this war, Comrade Yarishlov, 30%.”
‘I had no idea it was that bad!’
“And yet they still go up and face terrible odds. So, how can I ask them to do that, if we mud crawlers doubt them before they even start?”
Yarishlov winced, made to feel that he had dishonoured his Air Force comrades for even thinking that they were not up to the job.
“They may well not be able to do all that Comrade Buianskiy has promised, but it will not be for lack of effort and commitment to the Motherland, Comrade Yarishlov. And if we ground soldiers have to take more risks because of their poor state then, so be it; we will do so.”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Bagramyan drew a line under the temporary intimacy by the use of Arkady’s rank and his sterner tone.
Neither man had realised that the entire room had fallen silent and the senior officers were engrossed in the exchange.
Bagramyan took the initiative.
“Comrades, unless you have further pressing business within my headquarters, you are dismissed, and I will expect your preliminary plans by 1400hrs tomorrow.”
The meeting broke up immediately, each commander heading off to develop his plans, some with the euphoria of an organised attack against weakened opposition, others burdened with the uncertainties of command in a vital operation.
Back in his own base, Yarishlov sat on his bed, studying the map.
He fell into a troubled sleep, unable to explain or justify the sense of foreboding that filled him.
‘Barnstorf.’
1450hrs, Sunday, 21st October 1945, Allied Holding Camp, Baggersee am Berg, south of Hagen, Germany.
‘Oi vay! What a dump! Are you shure thish is for us, Shergeant?”
Hässler mimicked the wounded man’s affected speech.
“Mashter Shergeant to you. I’m important and don’t you forget it, Corporal.”
The diminutive Jew looked the Senior Non-com up and down with disdain.
“Most shertainly, it ish difficult to remember shometimes.”
Grinning from ear to ear, the tall NCO went to playfully cuff his sidekick.
Rosenberg ducked away, and formed his lips into a kiss.
“Mein liebshen.”
The two sniggered and returne
d to assess their surroundings.
It was certainly pretty enough, nestled on the shores of a modest sized lake, the Baggersee.
However, the accommodation looked like it had seen better days, the signs of age and swift repairs presented easily to their experienced eyes.
Men of all nations moved around, some in organised parties, off to drill or undertake work details, others strolled in a leisurely fashion, enjoying some time at rest.
The officer had travelled in the front of the lorry, and now announced his arrival at the tailgate, standing back as two soldiers opened up the rear of the Ford 6x6.
“Master Sergeant, get your men lined up to the left, two ranks. Move.”
The greenhorn pointed imperiously at a point some ten yards distant, the mud and puddles that filled the chosen spot more than obvious to everyone, except him.
Hässler cut the boy some slack, and jumped down from the lorry, helping down the Jewish corporal, both of them moving gingerly because of their wounds.
He exchanged looks with another NCO, a man the Lieutenant either failed to notice, which was unlikely, given his size, or ignored, more likely, because of the colour of his skin.
They shared a shrug.
“You heard the officer, now dismount and get fell in. Hustle up there! Raus, Raus!”
Rosenberg fell in as marker, deliberately in front of the muddy ground, and the rest of the group formed on him.
Most of the men were former hospital patients, a few were new recruits, for whom this would be the first time in a combat formation.
The squeaky clean 2nd Lieutenant fell into that category, and it showed.
Unfortunately, he did not have the sense to understand that he had good men who would help him, if he did but unwind for a moment.
“Detail, detail, atten-shun!”
The men eventually organised their bodies into the appropriate position, and then 2nd Lieutenant James R. Yorke commenced inspecting his men.
Across from the line of GI’s, Major John Ramsey of His Majesty’s Black Watch, finished his discussions with the base commander, a sour-faced American Colonel of Artillery.
Whilst the man was unpleasant, he had agreed to Ramsey’s request, and the extra blankets would be shortly be forthcoming.
Emerging from the Colonel’s office, Ramsey nodded at his waiting men, the gesture bringing smiles of relief. Passing over the signed document, he sent them off to the US camp’s supply section to obtain the blankets, for which he had just negotiated away two cases of Glenfoyle malt whisky.
Lighting a cigarette, the Englishman took in the amusing vignette across the parade ground.
The difference between combat veterans and new troops was totally obvious.
There was also something huge in the line, looking extremely out of place; wide, muscular, a foot taller than the others, looking like a grizzly bear, and just as dangerous, except for the smile that spilt the man’s face.
Ramsey was intrigued, and suddenly he found himself edging across the intervening ground, closing on the inspection.
Yorke saw the man approach, half wondering if the soldier with the red feathers in his strange hat was a circus act or a serious soldier, but erring on the side of safety and saluting in any case.
Ramsey replied in kind.
“Good day, Lieutenant. Fine group of men you have here, I must say. That fellow is particularly striking,” he gestured at the man-mountain in the centre of the rear line.
“Thank you, Sir, but I can’t agree. Bunch of no-hopers and cripples, some from the repple-depple, the rest straight out of the hospital. Normally, I wouldn’t wanna go into combat with them, but the Colonel has given me no choice.”
The American spat to punctuate his disgust at being given such a worthless command.
“Leastways, I’ve got a little time to train them up.”
Ramsey had made his assessment quickly, and he was on the money as usual.
“What unit are you, Lieutenant?”
“I was assigned to Able Company, 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Division, Sir. My platoon was wiped out before I could take up my command. I have received orders from the Regimental Commander himself, and I am to organise these men into a fighting company.”
Ramsey smiled disarmingly.
“The 29th, you say? Fine unit. Fought with them around Bremen for a few days. Were you there, Lieutenant?”
Yorke coloured noticeably.
“I have not yet had the honour of combat, Sir.”
The smirks from some of the older faces on parade were not wasted on either man.
“My apologies. I suspect you will get your chance very soon, Lieutenant.”
Ramsey and Yorke exchanged salutes, the US infantry officer turning back towards his parade, and standing them at ease.
Ramsey made brief eye contact with one battered-looking NCO, enough to recognise the man’s mettle.
Sparing a final glance at the huge man, he returned to his two trucks, now boasting enough spare blankets to keep the survivors of B Company warm.
Yorke went in search of the billeting officer.
“Very pwetty, washn’t he?”
Rosenberg grinned wide enough for Hassler to see his teeth out of the corner of his eye.
“Sure was, but he’s a fighting man, and that’s a fact.”
“You think? Sheems a little too balebetishen to me.”
Hässler spared a momentary glance at the smaller man.
“Will you cut that yiddisher crap and talk properly!”
“And there wash me thinking I could enlighten you with shome more of my culture. Oi vay! I mean he sheems a little too reshpectable to be a fighting man.”
The Master Sergeant snorted in derision.
“Not every fighting soldier has to look like a bag of shit, something you would do well to remember, Corporal.”
“I choose to, sho as not to make you look bad, Yutzi.”
“Stop with the yiddisher crap, or I will find a shit shovelling detail that has your name on it.”
“Yutzi is a term of endearment for a closh friend, my Shergeant.”
Rosenberg’s grin told Hässler otherwise.
“Mein liebchen, if you were paying attention, you might have noticed the man’s salad bar.”
“Pah, we get medal ribbonsh for trapping a finger in a typewriter.”
The Master Sergeant could not argue that point.
“OK, wise guy, that may be true, but that pretty soldier had the limey equivalent of the Medal of Honor, and a whole lot of other important shit, so I rather suspect he’s our sort of people, and more than handy in a brawl.”
Rosenberg hadn’t noticed any such thing.
In any case, other matters took precedence as Yorke returned.
“Master Sergeant Hässler, take command of the detail. Get them bunked down in Hut 9,” the officer gestured to the dingiest looking of the many dingy huts, “Get them all squared away, and muster on the parade ground at 1600, full pack, for drill.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Yorke departed again, having discovered a passable Officers Mess in his travels. He had a date with a pot of fresh coffee, before he marched his men around for an hour or two.
Hässler stood at the front of the detail, sharing his gaze equally between the largest soldier and the door to hut 9.
“You gonna fit through that teeny hole, Sergeant?”
Charley Bluebear grinned widely.
“If not the first time, then surely the second, Master Sergeant.”
Bluebear was a popular comrade, and the laughter was unforced.
“Good answer, well presented, Sergeant. Ok then. Detail, detail shun. Fall out. Now, go and get that shit heap into some order before our squeaky has a fit. Move it.”
He gave extra attention to his best friend.
“And, as it isn’t the fucking Sabbath, that means you too, Corporal Rosenberg.”
As the group streamed towards the unknown delights of Hut 9, heavy drop
s of rain started to fall, a rain that threatened to be ever-present in the days to come.
One of the serious problems in planning the fight against American doctrine is that the Americans do not read their own manuals, nor do they feel any obligation to follow their own doctrine.
Entry in a Soviet Mladshy Leytenant’s Notebook
Chapter 98 - THE INTELLIGENCE
1ST BALTIC FRONT - MARSHAL BAGRAMYAN
1734hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.
“So, what’s the bottom line, Walter?”
Eisenhower had his own views, but wanted the input from his Chief of Staff. The report, thus far, had been factual, covering Soviet attacks along a wide front, some of which seemed designed as distractions, others almost bursting with energy and power.
“Our special information seems reasonably accurate, Sir.”
Bedell-Smith was referring to the intercept intelligence supplied by Station X, the latest of which had been personally handed over by Dalziel that afternoon.
“Reasonably accurate, General?”
Bradley had been a late arrival, still wet from the rain and carrying a fair share of German mud on his boots, and he was not in a mood to mince words.
“Yes Sir. We have two major attacks in progress. Here, south of the Ruhr,” something Bradley was only too aware of, “And here, in Alsace.”
Returning to the top of the map, Bedell-Smith continued.
“Here, there is supposed to be another major attack, but all we are presently experiencing is a grazing assault, moving down our front line, starting just south of Bremen.”
Again, Bedell-Smith moved his pointer around the map.
“These are all points of assault, but the intelligence is such that we are discounting them as serious threats, Sir.”
Turning to Eisenhower, Bradley aired his concerns.
“Is that wise, Sir? Can we afford not to take these other attacks seriously?”
