“Are you in contact with the Two Hundred and Seventh Division on your southern flank?”
Khrenov’s face fell. “Yes, Comrade Army Commander. Dalyev reports that both of his initial crossing attempts have failed. The Germans… appear to be giving him a bad time.”
Trimenko nodded. “Dalyev’s got a lot of frontage. Too much to expect real results. He’s paying the price for you to succeed in your own little area, Khrenov.”
Khrenov bent forward, as though Trimenko had dropped a physical weight onto his shoulders. It was evident that the division commander was anxious to turn the briefing back to his own successes.
“I don’t mind so much,” Trimenko said. “Somebody always has to pay the price. I just want Dalyev to keep the Germans so busy up front that they miss what’s happening on their flanks. I want the Germans to perceive success. But I want to keep enough pressure on them so that they worry, too. So that they stay put. Dalyev’s taken severe losses, Khrenov. While your forward detachment’s heading for Soltau, perhaps even the Weser itself, waving at the girls and singing the ‘Internationale,’ no doubt. But let me pose a problem for you. Suppose Dalyev can’t keep the Germans occupied long enough. We’ve already had reports of German antitank helicopters working the Dutch sector, trying to brace up the front. Really, it’s only a matter of time until they hit you with a brigade, maybe more. How are you going to hold the southern shoulder of the penetration?”
“Comrade Army Commander, defensive positions are being prepared at the bridgehead itself. Otherwise, in a fluid, breakthrough situation, I must be prepared to accept open flanks… to a degree…”
“Oh, don’t recite your academy notes to me, Khrenov. Neither do I want you to slow down. If anything, I think you’re lagging a bit just now,” Trimenko lied. “But you do need to get your antitank battalion and some mobile obstacle detachments up. And detail an armored reserve. Start your antitank defenses somewhere around that wishbone on Highway 4. Right about there, oriented to the south. And keep laying them in as fast as you can while you move west. Be generous with the antitank mines.”
“Comrade Army Commander, I don’t have the routes. Not yet. You must have seen what the roads are like. I’ve loaded my assault forces forward, the bridgehead’s packed, and everybody’s screaming for more ammunition. In any case, one antitank battalion can’t cover even the flank we’ve got now, and I need them on the bridgehead. I can’t even get my casualties out,” Khrenov said, in his bitterest tone of the day, “and they’re heavy.”
Trimenko dropped a flame-shaped pistachio back onto the table and waved his hand. “And you’ll have worse difficulties yet. The war has hardly begun. I’m giving you a full antitank regiment. And an additional battalion of engineers to tuck them in and lay minefields along your flank. But getting them here is your problem.”
Khrenov caught the signal. He was doing well. He was being reinforced. The army commander counted his efforts a solid success.
“Now tell me,” Trimenko continued, “about support issues. What are the real problems?”
Khrenov sighed. It was almost a womanish gesture. In the background, plates rattled. Soldiers fooling around in the kitchen, eating when they needed to be working. Trimenko let it pass for the moment.
“Comrade Army Commander,” Khrenov began. It was almost a litany, the way he said it, and it annoyed Trimenko. “I have too many reports of excessive tank main gun and artillery ammunition consumption to ignore. If it were one unit, or two, I’d assume they were overreacting, or just getting greedy, trying to stock up. But I have several reports of tanks shooting up their entire on-board units of fire in their first engagements. And the artillery is loaded down with calls for fire. It was all right as long as we were on the phased fire plan, but now, even with the battle-management computers, we can’t really tell exactly who is in firing position or who’s still on the road, who’s low on ammunition or who’s just sitting around with his elbow up his ass. My chief of missile troops and artillery is out on the ground trying to sort it out personally.”
Trimenko thought for a moment.
“But no fuel problems?” he asked.
Khrenov shook his head. “Not a whisper.”
“Of course not,” Trimenko said. “But get me better details on the ammunition problems. Not just generalities. Numbers. And burn this into your brain, Khrenov. I don’t want any unit stopping just because it runs out of ammunition. They can just go on a sightseeing ride to the Rhine. We’re on the edge of cracking those bastards now. You can feel it, Khrenov. The battlefield’s gotten away from them. And a tank with nothing but a few belts of machine-gun ammunition is still a tremendous weapon if it’s deep in the enemy’s rear.” Trimenko sat back and smiled one of his thin, rare smiles. “Think of it. If you were a fat rear-area soldier and you woke up to find enemy tanks all over your comfortable little domain, would you stop to ask yourself whether or not they had ammunition on board?” Trimenko tossed a shell toward the map. Then he locked his facial muscles once again.
“Make sure you maintain good communications with Malyshev as he comes up. Cooperate, and no nonsense. I want his division’s tanks across the autobahn tonight. I expect you to ensure personally that all control measures for his forward passage have been worked out and fully agreed upon. There must be no pauses, no letting up. Hit them, Khrenov. Get them down on their backs, and drive your tanks and fighting vehicles right over them.” Trimenko paused at the power of his mental vision. “Let me know when the first vehicle crosses the autobahn line. That triggers the deep air assaults on the Weser crossing sites.” Trimenko stared at Khrenov, measuring this man who had already accomplished so much this day. “You have the opportunity to do great things, my little major general. Great things. But first you need to stop building yourself a headquarters palace here. I find this sort of indulgence totally inappropriate. Commanders should be farther forward. I can hardly hear the guns from here,” Trimenko exaggerated. “You need to get moving, Khrenov.”
“What’s your hurry, you little bastard? You’re going the wrong way, anyway. You think this is a retreat?”
In response, Captain of Transport Troops Belinsky looked up fiercely at the tall major of motorized rifle troops. Around them, their vehicles — Belinsky’s cargo trucks and the major’s battalion of combat vehicles — had intermingled with smashed headlamps, shouts, curses, and confusion. No traffic controllers had been posted at the intersection. Now the combat troops were in a self-righteous rage, furious that a lowly transport unit had muddled their progress.
“First of all, Comrade Major,” Belinsky said calmly, “you’re on a support route. This is not a combat artery.”
“You’re the one who’s on the wrong road, you snot. Now you can get those trucks off out of my way, or I’ll drive right over them.”
“Major, this is my road, and I’m carrying important cargo.”
“To the rear?” The tall major laughed. He pawed his foot at the ground like a prancing stallion, head thrown back in mocking hilarity.
Belinsky glowered up into the other man’s eyes. Bully’s eyes, beneath a dripping helmet rim. Belinsky was already unhappy with his unexpected mission, but he was determined to carry it out.
“Come with me, Comrade Major. Just for a moment. You need to have a look at my cargo.” And he turned his back on the man, drawing the motorized rifle officer along behind him by the magnetism of his insolence.
The major followed Belinsky down the crumbling, rain-slicked road, cursing as though the outcome of the war depended on his vulgarity. Belinsky casually slipped off his glasses and dropped them into the pocket of his tunic. He felt no need to inspect his cargo in detail yet again.