The jeep backed up to the wrecked tank, and men started to attach lines, preparing an effort to drag the man clear using the power of the little 4x4.
Kriks slid into the hollow, holding the ends of two lines, waiting for the word from behind him. He ordered the spare men out, leaving just the four of them to battle for the life of the unknown enemy soldier.
His lines would remain unused, as the battle was already lost.
It was hopeless, but neither officer conceded or halted their effort until the hands they held grew soft.
Feeling a gentle squeeze, Yarishlov replied in kind, providing a presence to the unknown man dying a horrible death a few unconquerable feet from where he lay.
Deniken shared the last moment’s too, the man acknowledging his grip with his own until he died, suffocated and crushed under his own tank.
Both officers were reluctant to release their hold, even when all work ceased and the other would-be rescuers stood back.
Yarishlov and Deniken sought eye-contact, and the two exchanged unspoken words. With a mutual nod, they released the lifeless hands, sliding backwards out of the digging area.
Deniken knelt down and picked up his SVT, slinging it over his shoulder, before accepting one of the numerous cigarettes being held out to him by his respectful soldiers.
A number of canteens were passing round the muddy group, none of them containing thirst-quenching water.
Yarishlov took a full swig of brandy and spoke quietly, loud enough for all to hear, but soft enough to carry his soldierly feelings and his humanity.
“Well done, Comrades. No way for a soldier to die but we, his enemies, tried to save him. I’m proud of you all.”
A few words of thanks fell almost unheard as the group broke up and returned to their business.
Deniken threw his cigarette butt into a puddle and set his peaked cap properly on his head. It was the sole piece of his personal gear that was not thickly caked in dark brown mud. Saluting his equally muddy superior officer, he said his piece.
“Comrade Polkovnik, it has been a privilege to serve with you. Good luck, Sir.”
Yarishlov’s salute quickly turned into an extended hand and Deniken reciprocated. Two hands that had held a dying man were shaken in mutual admiration of the qualities of the other.
Chapter 63 – THE MESSAGES
Betrayal is common for men with no conscience
Beria had received the message on his arrival at his office, and was immediately driven to the Kremlin to inform the General Secretary.
He sipped his tea, watching Stalin like a hungry hawk watches a wolf; respectfully, and without challenge to the latter’s predatory skills.
Holding both the message and the proposed replies, the Soviet Generallisimo seemed strangely reluctant to make a decision.
‘Assassination or maskirova?’
Stalin focussed on the NKVD chief, sensing there was something else to the matter, not knowing what it was.
‘What advantages lie here, truly? Why do we not kill him and have done with it?’
That was simple, but something ingrained in the psyche of the Soviet people always relished the opportunity for sleight of hand or, as in this case, the misdirection of a nation.
“And your recommendation is?”
Beria chose to promote his own agenda once more, whilst skilfully withholding his commitment for the benefit of the microphones.
“We can do nothing, Comrade General Secretary and all will be as we first wished it to be or,” he indicated the report and reply, “We can send that and possibly achieve better results.”
Stalin nodded gently, removing the pipe from his mouth with his free hand.
“Is ‘possibly’ enough Lavrentiy? We could have done with him once and for all if we let it run. Does the alternative offer us real advantages if it goes as we hope?”
‘Careful,’ screamed his inner voice.
“By removing the dictator, we risk a similar man in place, set against us because of our own actions, as we do not yet have suitable friendly candidates in place. By using this variation, we can possibly turn him and those who would follow him.”
Stalin puffed gently on the cigarette that had magically appeared in his hand.
“Would the new man not be grateful to us for his, err,” he searched for the right word, “His promotion?”
“These are matters you have previously reconciled, Comrade General Secretary. Your reasoning seemed sound then, and I see nothing substantial has changed to call your decision into question.”
‘Nicely done,’ the voice purred with some smugness.
“As I recall, you championed this change, Lavrentiy, did you not?”
“I represented the facts and options as I saw them, Comrade General Secretary.”
The cigarette was violently stubbed out, sending a deluge of ash across both table and reports.
Another was lit immediately.
“And you have other assets already suitably placed, if things do not go as we expect?
The ‘we’ was not wasted on Beria.
“Another team would be activated immediately you authorised it, Comrade General Secretary.”
Beria knew he had his man.
Stalin promised to discover what other issue was in the man’s mind but, none the less, committed himself.
“We do not have the luxury of time. Send your message, Comrade Marshall. If it doesn’t work we can always do what was first intended later.”
Stalin slid the papers across his desk, both being neatly caught as they slipped off the highly polished top.
The ash cloud he generated settled gently across the lap and arms of the NKVD chief.
Beria indicated the phone and received a nod from the puffing Stalin.
Requesting a connection to his communications officer in the Lyubyanka, he started to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
A distant voice came on the line.
“PodPolkovnik Lemsky.”
“Ah, Lemsky. As discussed earlier regarding file ‘Brutus’, you will present messages ‘B’ and ‘C’ to the Chief Signals Officer for immediate transmission to the stated recipients. Repeat the order.”
“File ‘Brutus’, messages ‘B’ and ‘C’ for immediate transmission to stated recipients, Comrade Marshall.”
“Proceed as ordered.”
Replacing the receiver with studied care, Beria felt nothing for those he had just condemned to die.
Stalin, studying his man, noticed the faint smile and knew he had been right.
Beria was also working to another agenda.
In the major Headquarters on both sides of the line, all was activity. At Nordhausen, the Soviet reinforcements were being realigned with the penetrations, such basic manoeuvres made all the more difficult by the increase in the tempo of allied air raids. Formations that should have been relieved were left to bear the casualties of the attack. Those who should have moved up were contained by destroyed roads and bridges or a lack of the vitals of military movement; a sign of significant ground attack success by Allied aircraft. In short, increasing damage to transport infrastructure was causing huge logistical problems to harassed Soviet staff officers.
Air Force intelligence indicated that some Allied squadrons were presently undertaking up to six sorties a day per pilot, a rate that was consuming both the physical and material reserves of the Allies, as well as grinding the pilots slowly into the ground with exhaustion.
Soviet units were still advancing, but slowly, much slower than the plans allowed for.
The differences between this war and the German War were becoming more defined each hour. The Luftwaffe had been a mighty organ, but it had been eroded by casualties over the years, as well as being constantly divided by the needs of other theatres.