“Sem’ya-Two-Zero, Sem’ya-Two-Zero. Confirm koza is on target. Brat-Three-Krasnyi over.”
The exhausted Major relaxed with a cigarette as he watched the enemy anti-tank gunners destroyed by artillery fire of his making.
Technically, it was all over, although there was still more dying to be done.
The Canadians had been overrun and wiped out.
‘A’ Company had folded and surrendered, outnumbered and surrounded, Avensermoor knocked into a total ruin around them.
Admin platoon had suffered a similar fate, although in less honourable circumstances, dropping their weapons and raising their hands without a fight, much to the disgust of the tough Soviet engineers who swept in for the spoils of war.
Kommando Bucholz and the MG platoon of the Saskatoon’s had gone down fighting, inflicting hard losses on the 1195th Riflemen, and even knocking down a few of the engineers who moved tentatively down from Avensermoor.
‘D’ Company suffered few casualties, but there was no dishonour in their surrender. A ring of tanks and infantry formed round them, and artillery and mortars commenced to pound them long after day had become night.
A wounded Canadian officer was brought forward, and he agreed to negotiate with the ‘D’ Company survivors to save further loss of life.
Illuminated by a searchlight from the 1695th’s AA unit, the wounded man stumbled forward, clutching his white flag, until he reached ‘D’ Company’s positions.
As Acting Major Roberts organised the surrender of ‘D’ Company, Yarishlov busied himself with inspecting the enemy headquarters.
Arranging for the two dead bodies to be removed, he let his officers descend upon the wealth of intelligence found inside the holed tent.
As usual, Kriks appeared magically with a hot drink, and he and his colonel watched on as the Canadian headquarters was picked clean by the locusts, sharing a particularly fine Cuban cigar in silence.
Everstorfermoor was in ruins, no building untouched by the ravages of war. The civilian inhabitants had departed long before the battle commenced, so Everstorfermoor was also silent, save for the background sounds of fire consuming wood, and the occasional cacophony of brickwork crashing to the ground.
The Russians, conscious of the light of burning buildings and allied air power in the night withdrew, leaving the small village with only its garrison of dead.
Only lifeless eyes witnessed a cellar door slide cautiously open, and two shadowy figures move off into the night, their curious wooden gaits apparent in the flickering light of the flames.
Chapter 61 – THE BRIEFINGS
Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Both men sat drinking their tea in smug silence, the reports of success from the ground war almost universal. Some minor irritations of stubborn defence, but the spearheads were on the move and driving deep into the German heartland.
Success indeed, but it was being bought at high cost in men and materiel, something the reports from Zhukov stated openly and something that they patently ignored, despite the continuing number of formations permanently lost from the order of battle.
There were negatives, but neither man worried too much, such was the euphoria of the achievements to date. The Allied air forces had gained control of the night sky and, in truth, the day was a delicate balancing act of who could get what assets where and when but, in the main, the Soviet air force was holding its own during daylight hours.
Again casualties were heavy, particularly on the Shturmoviks and light bomber regiments, but the Allies were suffering equally badly as the figures illustrated only too well.
Beria and Stalin did not understand that some commanders were inflating the effectiveness of their missions, claiming more kills and more ground targets destroyed than were actually hit. The airman often exaggerates, and Beria had built in a compensation for that, but casualties amongst the Allied air fleet and ground forces were nowhere near as bad as was being suggested.
The Atlantic war was a sideshow for both men but it was delivering surprisingly excellent results, with many enemy warships and transports sent to the bottom by the Elektrobootes of the Soviet Navy. Even the Pacific fleet had a notable success, one of its diesel-electric boats having sunk HMS Unicorn, a light aircraft carrier, sailing close inshore to Honshu, Japan.
Serious dents had apparently been made in the US reinforcement stream coming into Europe, with major losses reading like a who’s who of important sea-going craft.
The submarines off America had done particularly well, with some serious successes against oil tankers as well as troopships.
A clandestine operation using a Swedish-flagged vessel was already underway, intending to visit each of the clandestine bases. The Trojan horse’s holds were stuffed full of torpedoes and the other necessary chattels of submarine warfare. More manpower too, divided into two groups. Mainly seaman, but also a few of the secretive and quiet types who served a more sinister purpose.
The junior man broke the silence.
“I believe the group in Madrid will be ready to act very soon, Comrade General Secretary. I have not yet given the preparation order. Should I give such an order?”
Stalin, filling the bowl of his pipe with rough cut tobacco, paused and looked at the NKVD Chairman.
“Is there some reason that I should not, Lavrentiy?”
“We have guaranteed Spanish neutrality and yet they send men against us. None the less, they are few in number at this time.”
Beria added a note of caution.
“What is planned could incite their nation to greater efforts, Comrade General Secretary.”
The dictator struck a match and pulled thoughtfully on the modest clay pipe. Beria continued.
“Because of our links with old comrades in Spain, we can be assured of good information at all times, and I am sure that we can undermine Spanish unity.”
The match burned down to Stalin’s fingers as he drew on his pipe, bringing a snarl as he discarded the end into the ash tray and licked his fingers gingerly, the heat of the flame still apparent on the tips.
“It must be done, Lavrentiy.”
The NKVD Chairman nodded. He had expected no other resolution, but had decided to cover himself just in case.
“It shall be done, Comrade General Secretary.”
Replacing his porcelain cup into the exquisitely decorated saucer, Beria decided to tackle a problem head on.
“Things with the Germans have not gone as we had hoped, Comrade General Secretary.”
Such a statement required clarification and Stalin’s unimpressed look drew him further.
“My own and the GRU agents have done well and disrupted the formation of these German Republican units.”
The glasses came off and the handkerchief commenced rapidly polishing.
“It seems likely that they are about to put ten divisions at the disposal of the Capitalists.”
Stalin’s eyes narrowed, and Beria understood he needed to sweeten this bitter pill as soon as possible.
“We cannot assess the effectiveness of these units, but we do know that the Allies kept their prisoners of war under suitably harsh conditions, so it is likely they will be less effective than we have previously encountered.”
Soviet Liaison officers had seen the hell holes of the Rheinweisenlager for themselves and reported back on the disgraceful conditions, conditions that met with the full approval to the Russians.