The second document ordering Yuri Nazarbayev to his wife’s side was even more of a shock, signed as it was by Generallissimo Joseph Stalin.
‘Oh!’
Yuri told the story as he used a damp cloth to wipe his wife’s face and neck.
Zhukov’s order had arrived first, and Yuri’s Colonel was already in a blue funk trying to cope with the thought that the great man’s attention had focussed on his unit. The order from Stalin almost unhinged him when it was hand delivered by an NKVD Major, who had treated it like it was unstable dynamite.
Starshina Nazarbayev suddenly became a man to fear, given his impeccable credentials, and the most powerful of friends.
Yuri was a humorous man, something that the young Tatiana had found hugely attractive when they were courting. His humour surfaced now, although it failed to mask his concern and worry.
He recovered the first letter, folding it and sliding it back inside his tunic pocket.
“Comrade Marshall Zhukov?”
The second received the same meticulous attention and the pocket was buttoned in place.
“Comrade General Secretary Stalin?”
He patted the pocket, almost as if checking the two messages were still there.
“So, is there something you want to tell me, my darling?”
The nurse and doctor had flitted in and out through the rest of the night, but neither Tatiana nor her husband were aware of their presence, the former still tired from her illness and the latter, being a veteran soldier, making the most of the opportunity to rest.
Yuri Nazarbayev stirred a little as the door opened, his eyelids parting to take in a shape entering the room.
They closed again, seeking to promote more sleep before his brain started to bring him round, warning him that he should now be alert.
His eyelids shot open and he was greeted by the uniform of a Colonel-General stood quietly over his wife’s bed.
His body responded instantly and he shot to his feet, assuming the attention position, automatically reporting to the Senior Officer.
The old general stopped him in mid flow.
“Stop now Yuri Romanovich, you will disturb your wife. At ease, Comrade.”
His confusion was now complete, unused to being addressed in such a way by such a senior man.
“The doctor’s tell me she has come back to us.”
As if to prove the point, Tatiana provided a gentle snore for the moment.
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik General. She regained consciousness during the night.”
The older man nodded, turning to gaze at his most valuable asset.
“I had to come to see for myself, but I will not disturb her now she is resting. Look after her well, Yuri Romanovich, and please tell her I came to see her.”
“Apologies, Comrade Polkovnik General, but who shall I say called?”
“Ah my error, Comrade. I made an assumption. I am Polkovnik General Roman Samuilovich Pekunin.”
‘The head of the GRU? Govno!’
Pekunin understood the silent processes taking place before him.
“Do understand, Comrade. Your wife is my very best intelligence officer, and extremely valuable to the Motherland.”
Pekunin turned to leave, but halted and turned back.
“As you are most certainly aware, Tatiana also has some extremely powerful friends.”
Pekunin nodded and made to leave, but he turned back yet again and grinned, adding, “I don’t normally do hospital visits, you know.”
No matter how fatherly the man presented himself as being, Yuri Nazarbayev was still in the presence of an extremely senior officer and could not unbend.
Pekunin understood.
“Comrade Nazarbayev. My sympathies for the loss of your son. Be proud of him.”
Exchanging salutes with the Starshina, he left quickly, leaving the elder Nazarbayev to return again to the question of his wife’s position in the hierarchy of the Motherland.
USAAF bombers had already struck hard at the important rail junction in Friedberg that morning, leaving behind a radically altered landscape and miles of ravaged track.
Soviet fighter regiments were caught on the hop, and few intercepted the American bombers. Those that did were heavily engaged by the accompanying Mustangs.
Reports of another approaching bomber force were examined carefully, the new enemy following the precise route of the first attack.
None the less, the Soviet air commander was not a fool, and ordered some of his interceptors into action on the line of flight, retaining the rest to protect the suddenly vital junction.
A phone call from the new Air force Commander had focussed him on the inseparable link between the preservation of the rail link and his own career.
Perhaps that was what made him retain more assets to protect Friedberg then he needed.
Air raid warnings went out, covering the line of the enemy flight, and his fighters rose into the skies for the second time that morning.
“Five miles to target, Major.”
“Roger.”
USAAF Major Ronald Sterland had recently brought his 401st Bomb Squadron back from Florida, settling the unit back into its old base at Bassingbourne, England.
This was the first combat mission they had flown since that return and, so far, it was an absolute daisy.
Be that as it may, having fought in the skies over Germany for two years already, he, along with his experienced crew, could not help but feel uneasy at the sight of the fighters flying above them.
Feeling similarly strange, Hauptmann Kreuger of the 16th Jagdstaffel, had often piloted his FW-190D to attack the aircraft he was now tasked with protecting, and with great success, having knocked out a confirmed eleven of the giants from the skies over the Fatherland.
16th Jagdstaffel consisted of fourteen FW-190D’s, of which twelve were presently riding shotgun over the Flying Fortresses of the 401st and the other squadron’s of the 94th Combat Bombardment Wing. One FW aircraft had simply refused to start, leaving its experienced pilot fuming and harrying the ground crew. The other aircraft was probably still burning, having crashed on take-off, consigning Maior Dörn, the Staffel commander, to a fiery death.
The bombers were outnumbered by fighter escorts, the Luftwaffe Focke-Wulf’s sharing the sky with scores of USAAF Thunderbolts and Mustangs.
The heavies settled into their bombing run, preparing to visit hell upon the area five miles west of Limburg.
Messages from the area, some from German civilians, one even received over the still working telephone system, and a radio message from a cut off platoon of Rangers, had established that the Soviets were using the wooded area bordered by Hambach, Hirschberg and Görgeshausen as a hidden gathering point. The reports indicated that units that crossed the River Lahn overnight hid up there during the day, before moving on when darkness again gave them some respite from the increasing number of fighter-bombers.
94th Bombardment Wing was the first of five USAAF bomber wings tasked with obliterating the area in which the enemy were hiding.
The Soviet air controller vectored some of his fighters in to attack, and they found the 401st in the van, already on its bomb run.
The cries of warning reached Kreuger’s ears. Checking the sky and locating the threats, he oriented himself before ordering his Staffel to dive to the defence.
Identifying the enemy as La-7’s, the Focke Wulf pilots knew they were facing a speedy and robust enemy.