“So far.”
Malinsky shook his head. “They think small. They’ve lost their vision, Pavel Pavlovitch. Did the Sixteenth Tank make it in?”
“The lead regiments are well beyond the counterattack sector. We’re in behind the Germans. But Trimenko had to turn the trail regiments to fight.”
Malinsky thought about that. “I don’t like to see a division split up. Can Trimenko manage the command and control?”
“The Sixteenth Tank Division staff is controlling the lead regiments. The trail regiments are temporarily under the control of Khrenov’s division.”
“Good.” Malinsky wanted a cup of tea to clear his head. He pressed the buzzer to summon an aide.
“The Germans were right on time,” Chibisov went on. “And exactly where expected. The roads dictated the tactical axes. Dudorov has them dead on. You need to see his map. The detail is amazing.”
Following a discreet knock on the door, a young officer appeared.
“Bring us tea,” Malinsky said.
The officer disappeared again.
“Well,” Malinsky told Chibisov, “it’s up to Trimenko now. What about Starukhin’s sector?”
“He’s hitting the British with everything he’s got.”
Malinsky surveyed the spotlit map. But all of the details were already inside his head. “All right,” he said, donning the voice of command. “Trimenko’s on his own. Weight the front’s support to Starukhin. It sounds like the enemy has taken the bait.”
Thirteen
Lieutenant Colonel Shilko had been waiting patiently for over an hour, but the column remained stationary. He still had two of his self-propelled batteries, his target acquisition gear, and the battalion control and fire-direction elements tucked in behind him. He had no idea where his third battery was now. All attempts at radio contact or courier linkup at former locations had resulted only in wasted breath and missing couriers. And he had been ordered to send several officers, including one battery commander, forward to fill out depleted units and to act as forward observers. It sounded as though the toll among officer cadres was very high. But Shilko accepted fate. He was pleased enough to have most of his battalion herded together and reasonably under control. He would have liked to move faster, to reach the next locations designated for his fine guns, to run them back into action. But he saw no point in joining the inevitable shouting match up ahead on the road, wherever the holdup was focused. The column would move when it was ready.
The sounds of battle were so constant that he hardly heard them anymore. The thunder of the guns had long since worn down his already-poor hearing, and he contented himself with another cigarette. The night had grown wonderfully fresh since the rain stopped, and his peasant’s sense told him there would be a fine morning in a few more hours. Pleasant weather to be out of doors.
Shilko had insured that his soldiers were fed with a bit of warm gruel from the old cooking trailers and that they had a sip or two of hot tea before pulling off of their positions. Shilko had never understood why some officers insisted on making life as miserable as possible for themselves and their men. The gaunt, baggy-pants types. Well, Shilko thought, a soldier’s life was hard enough. If you had to meet your fate, why not on a full stomach? In the end, the slight delay had made no difference that Shilko could see. The march schedules and overall organization of traffic were little more than some staff officer’s fantasies now.
An officer dashed down the line of vehicles. He hastened past Shilko’s command car, and Shilko thought nothing more of it until the officer suddenly reappeared, slapping at the side of the vehicle to get Shilko’s attention.
Shilko leaned out of the vehicle, cigarette stuck in his mouth like a stalk of straw.
“Are you the commander of this artillery?” the officer shouted. He was an agitated, ferret-faced major with all the trimmings of the commandant’s service.
“These are my boys, Major,” Shilko stated matter-of-factly, waiting to see what the other officer wanted. He had already made up his mind that he was not going to clear off the road and lose his place in the column, if that was what all the fuss was about.
But the major had another objective entirely. “Comrade Commander,” he said, almost crying out, “we’ve got to do something. The enemy are up ahead. The motorized rifle troops can’t hold them.”
“Up ahead? Where?” Shilko demanded, quickening, reaching for his map case.
The major produced a map of his own and traced over it with a hooded flashlight.
“Here. Here, I think. In this general area. Can you fire in support?”
Shilko scrutinized the map. “There, you say?”
The major nodded urgently. But, in fact, as Shilko could see now, the target area was not exactly up ahead, but several kilometers off to the south, along a road that intersected with the one on which they were standing.
“How do you know the enemy’s there?” Shilko demanded.
“Comrade Commander, I’ve seen them with my own eyes. I went forward to straighten out the traffic. The motorized rifle regiment’s trains were backing up from the south, blocking all movement to the west — an impossible situation. I’m responsible for the movement of traffic on this route. I went to see what was happening. The motorized riflemen are hanging on by their fingernails. It must be an entire German division counterattacking.”
Shilko rolled his fading cigarette in his mouth, pondering the map. It was clear to him that the local terrain would not support an enemy division in the attack. And, allowing for the commandant officer’s natural exaggeration, this was probably more a matter of a reinforced battalion, perhaps leading a brigade-sized attack. But the enemy division would be spread out over multiple routes, if, indeed, there was an enemy division. In any case, there was a road running through a forested area. Any attacker would be backed up down that road. The terrain was extremely restrictive. In greater depth, there were several small towns that would also restrict any movement.
Shilko didn’t trust the major’s precision when it came to the current locations of the enemy. But it was clear to Shilko that the enemy, in some size, was definitely out there somewhere. Shilko took a decision.
Moving with determination now, he climbed out of his vehicle and rousted Captain Romilinsky. He ordered the fire direction center prepared for hasty action. The batteries were to come to a high state of readiness and await their missions. Romilinsky snapped to the task. Meanwhile, Shilko set to work on the hood of a vehicle, plotting fires by the light of a pocket lamp. He figured that, if he shot the long, straight stretch of road through the forest just south of where the major claimed the enemy were advancing, he would range safely beyond the forward Soviet positions, except for any that were cut off — and that couldn’t be helped. The road would provide the likeliest concentration of enemy targets, and if he could strike everything behind the enemy’s leading combat troops, those troops could be forced to a standstill. At the very least, if you jammed up the road, you slowed down the enemy counterattack. Shilko was rapidly becoming an expert on the criticality of roads in modern war — especially in the northern extreme of the Germanies. Now his instincts told him he had a good target.
Shilko’s staff moved like a farmer’s family, well-accustomed to fitting their chores together, making everything come out right. Shilko ordered the guns to elevate their barrels before pivoting into firing positions in order to avoid smashing one of the long tubes into the trees that lined the roadway. The heavy barrels elevated like elephant trunks, ready to snort fire upon command. Sleepy-eyed officers shook themselves awake and leaned over their survey equipment, doing their best in the darkness. Shilko doubted that his boys had been paying very close attention to their maps during the march, since every man was weary and willing to simply follow the leader. Paternally, Shilko hinted to them where they were presently located.