Falkenstein took in his surroundings and said, “Remarkable to find a house that still stands.”
Von Helmansdorff agreed. “I imagine the rigors of survival have ruled out exercising all the directives laid out in the withdrawal orders. At least where it doesn’t pertain strictly to strategic objectives. Fortunately for us, the Kubelwagen gave out where it did.” The kettle belched puffs of steam. “Fix that for me won’t you, Kreutzer? The captain and the lieutenant could surely use a cup of tea.”
Falkenstein waved the offer aside. “That won’t be necessary. Lieutenant Voss and I would not want to infringe on your ration allotment, meager as I’m sure it is.”
Von Helmansdorff insisted. “Nonsense. If fellow officers can’t share a cup of weak tea, then what is the point in subjecting ourselves to all this.”
Voss smiled in agreement. The lieutenant colonel appeared heartened by the company. He looked to be in his early fifties—probably a reservist, Voss figured. The officer carried a little more weight than he should have, but it was beginning to shed rapidly due to recent privations. Flesh hung loosely around his neck and cheeks, and he’d not used a razor in several days, which added to his worn appearance.
“The lieutenant mentioned you lost contact with some of the regiment,” Voss said.
“Yes. Between the Russians and this weather, it’s made a fine muddle of things. We must be further east than any regimental group in the army’s sector. The initial goal was the bridge at Dnepropetrovsk, but that’s not feasible now. Our only hope is the ferry operating south of the city, if it’s still operational.”
Falkenstein lifted the receiver of the field telephone a few centimeters off the cradle and set it down again. It seemed a bored gesture. “A direct line to the front, I gather.”
Von Helmansdorff nodded. “A cable was strung soon after our arrival, only now it’s dead. Either it was the Russians or the weather.”
“Certainly it’s the weather, sir,” Kreutzer said, setting out the cups. He then carefully poured the tea, using a folded piece of gauze as an improvised strainer. Reaching into a tunic pocket, von Helmansdorff brought out a shiny flask and let several drops fall into his cup. He held up the flask as an invitation to his guests.
“I no longer drink alcohol,” Falkenstein said, curtly.
Eyes widening, Voss said, “If I may, Colonel, I’d be most grateful.”
Von Helmansdorff obliged. “To add a bit of flavor and keep the chill at bay, you understand,” he said to Falkenstein, aware of how closely he was being scrutinized.
Snug in the warmth of the peasant farmhouse, Voss sipped at the cup of spiked tea—the taste seemed to be kirsch—and relished the moment. Falkenstein lit a cigarette and, remembering his host, offered the case to all around. The room became gray with smoke. The wind had relinquished in strength, and in the few minutes of silence that followed, Falkenstein looked at one of the maps on the table that detailed the cities and towns along the Dniepr and the villages to the east. “The ferry is out of the question. You have deviated too far south,” he said.
Von Helmansdorff leaned over to look as Falkenstein pointed to the map. The lieutenant colonel was stunned. “You mean to say that we have gravitated this far south? I knew I had fallen off-course, but to think… are you sure, Captain?”
“This is approximately where I am, Lieutenant Colonel, and where I have found you.”
“Then the regiment might as well try for Zaporozhye. Impossible. I can’t believe it.” Von Helmansdorff shook his head in disbelief.
“You should make for the defensive salient around the city and the dam,” Falkenstein advised.
“That is… what, forty kilometers? Attempting a forced march in this muck?”
“Twenty-five or thirty kilometers at most to the salient perimeter. It is your best, perhaps your only option.”
The lieutenant colonel was clearly embarrassed by his navigational blunder and wanted to avoid further discussion. “The Fuehrer really wants to hold on to that dam” he said, changing the subject, “and it only stands to reason. Since having lost the Donbas, that leaves the ore deposits and mining facilities at Nikopol. The entire industrial region of western Ukraine is at stake.”
“Not only because of the dam or the mines. It makes perfect strategic sense. The salient will thwart the Russians—” Voss attempted to explain but was interrupted.
“A proper, deeply echeloned fortification along the Dniepr should have begun months ago,” von Helmansdorff asserted. “The predicament we now find ourselves in has been foreseen by every commander in the field. I gather, Captain, you have yet to hear the latest news…” von Helmansdorff waited in a theatrical silence, obviously pleased to drop his bombshell. “The Russians have established a bridgehead, up north, near Bukrin. That’s in Eighth Army’s sector of operations. The Twenty-Fourth Panzer Corps was still on the east side of the river, fighting its way toward the Kanev bridge crossing. All available forces were ordered to detach and race to help deal with the problem.”
The comfort and sense of well-being Voss was enjoying suddenly evaporated. Von Helmansdorff then leaned across the table, gauging the effect his words had on his guests, and said quietly, “There’s more, and I have this on good authority. The Russians tried to secure the region with a massive parachute drop. A total fiasco, fortunately for us. Most were shot dead before they hit the ground. Quite a duck hunt, from what I heard. But the audacity, nonetheless. A night drop on the west bank of the river. What will they think up next? If anything good can be said about the weather, it is that it has slowed the race down and has kept the Red Air Force out of the sky and from blowing us all to hell. As difficult as it is for the Russians to maintain the speed of their own offensive, it’s proven equally difficult for us to extricate ourselves from this morass.”
Falkenstein would not let the lieutenant colonels’ words upset or deter him, but he did have to work at maintaining a cool front. “Your adjutant mentioned that the regiment you’ve become attached is several kilometers away.”
“Yes, four kilometers, to be exact. Defensive positions were established early this morning. We’re planning to resume the march tonight.”
“And the Russians?”
“Parts of a rifle division. Other than small combat patrols, they haven’t the stomach for an all-out attack. The Bolsheviks are feeling as miserable as we are.”
“What about tank support?”
“A few are probing the area; they’re the only machines capable of maneuvering through this muck with any degree of success, although nothing has been attempted. They might be conserving fuel or believe they face a stronger force than is actually the case.” Von Helmansdorff sifted through a number of papers littering the table and selected a situation map detailing the First Panzer Army sector of operations. The map had been drawn with a mass of red pencil lines and arrows jutting between, across, and around a number of blue lines. The red lines signified the Soviet forces, and the blue represented the corps and divisions of First Panzer Army. The distances between the neighboring German units had grown immense since converging on the two bridges in the Army’s sector. “Bear in mind, Captain, this depiction is a number of days old.”
“At least it will provide me with some notion as to what is taking place. It grows tiresome, traveling blind.” Opening the leather folder, Falkenstein searched within and withdrew a map of his own and gave it to Voss to transcribe the pertinent features of the lieutenant colonels’ map. Both maps were quite similar. Voss began by marking the Soviet dispositions and routes of advance. He also made notes. Von Helmansdorff poured another shot of kirsch into Voss’s cup and his own. He noticed that Falkenstein disapproved of the action but kept silent.