The pointer descended again.
“We have 266 Fusilier Battalion assigned to act as reserve for Second Batallion’s assault on the Tönsberg.”
At last, some smiles appeared amongst the leadership of 899th Grenadiere Regiment.
“That’s it for now, meine herren…moment…”
He beckoned a waiting staff officer forward.
Reading the message, he signed his name and passed the board back.
“So, we now know with whom you’re going dance tomorrow. Photos yesterday showed no tanks, and dug-in anti-tank guns are registered by our artillery and on all your maps already.”
Turning back to the map, he ran his finger over the Tönsberg and down into the town itself.
“Your old friends are here, Bremer. 1st Guards Engineer Brigade… much reduced by recent events but… still… they’re hard men, as you know. Intelligence estimates run between six and eight hundred men.”
Shifting to the other side of Route 751, he tapped the heights that guarded the north-western side of the battlefield.
“35th took a prisoner yesterday. That’s the report I just received. A new unit’s set up here. A 14th Guards Engineer Battalion. Apparently, they’ve had a hard time of late, so perhaps First and Third will have the easier task tomorrow, especially as intel believes they have only two hundred or so men.”
He turned back to his officers.
“Menschen, return to your units. Use this extra time wisely. Check your concentration and assembly points, radio call signs, artillery plans… leave nothing to chance.”
The normal chorus of voices told him that they were still worried.
The group dismissed.
The Colonel made his way up into the attic where an observation post had been established.
Hasty waterproofing had just about kept it dry and functioning.
The ageing Artillery Oberwachtmeister sprang to attention but Prinz waved him down to relax, pulling out his binoculars and joining the First World War veteran in surveying the sodden countryside, as best the rain would allow.
Prinz had once been a history teacher by calling, before the war had given him another cause.
He didn’t blame his officers for being worried; he was himself.
In another time, the rains had descended on another conquering army, an army that disappeared into history in ignominious defeat.
In 9 AD, the Roman Legions of Publius Quintilius Varus were slaughtered by the Germanic tribes in the Teutobergerwald.
On cue, the rain lessened sufficiently for an indistinct dark outline to become apparent.
Prinz felt a chill of foreboding.
“Quintili Vare, legiones redde!”
“Pardon, Herr Oberst?”
He had not realised that his mouth had given voice to his thoughts.
“Quintili Vare, legiones redde… it’s Latin, Oberwachtmeister… a quote from another age. It means…”
“Begging your pardon, Herr Oberst, but it means ‘Varus, give me back my legions’.”
Prinz looked at the old man with surprise.
“That it does, that it does.”
The Oberwachmeister smiled at the unspoken enquiry in the Colonel’s voice.
“I was a history teacher once, Herr Oberst… in another age.”
The rain increased again, masking the shadows of the Teutobergerwald hills, noisily beating down further attempts at conversation, and defeating the puny attempts to waterproof the observation post.
“So that’s that then. They’re not coming again today.”
“Seems that way, Comrade Polkovnik.”
The rain beat down on the canvas tent hidden in the woods on the edge of the small body of water called the Menkebach.
Both men were dry and warm, and the view through the open doorway was, despite the downpour, very easy on the eye, and they could almost have forgotten that there was a war going on around them.
Except for the shell holes, of course.
“Night attack?”
“I doubt it, but we’ll cater for it none the less eh, Comrade Polkovnik?”
Chekov stretched contentedly, enjoying the extended period of quiet that the rain had afforded.
“Of course, Pavel… but I don’t think they’ll come. The bastards will save everything up for tomorrow. The Guards’ Polkovnik assures me it’ll be fine weather from first light, so their aircraft will be up and there’ll be hell to pay for the bloody nose we gave the Fascists yesterday.”
Pavel Iska, now a Senior Lieutenant and commander of the First Company, had been a major contributor to repelling the German attack.
14th Guards had seen a great deal of action since their first outing at Trendleburg, and very few of the original personnel were left, providing a small hardcore around which the unit had been brought up to strength, ready for the renewed offensive, only to find itself pitchforked into defensive actions against the Fascist assaults.
Chekov, now a full colonel, commanded the survivors, a force of two hundred and two men, led by himself, two other officers, and three senior NCO’s.
The commanding Colonel of the 1st Guards Engineers had given him the forty-two surviving men of 1st Battalion’s 1st Company, under the command of a ‘Hero of the Soviet Union’ award-bearing Senior Sergeant.
Whilst small in number, the extra bodies were appreciated.
“So, Pavel, what do you think of our ‘Hero’?”
The two men had been through enough together for the junior man to speak freely.
“Personally, I think the man’s a prick and a half.”
Chekov choked loudly.
“A fine assessment, Starshy Leytenant. And on what evidence do you base this opinion?”
“Way he talks… way he walks… too full of piss and importance… plus… he’s an Armenian, isn’t he? Untrustworthy carpet-munching fuckers they are too, Comrade.”
Iska was a wonderful soldier, but some of his other qualities remained well hidden; qualities such as forbearance, understanding and the avoidance of prejudice.
“Armenian or not, he wears the star, Pavel. Who told you he’s Armenian anyway?”
“Balyan… it’s an Armenian name.”
“Old Yurakin told me the lad said he comes from Stavropol, so you may have it wrong.”
The junior man hawked and spat out of the open flap, into a noticeably lighter rain.
“Old Yurakin’s as deaf as a corpse, so who knows what he heard.”
“Set against him, aren’t you?”
“Well, Comrade Polkovnik, we’ll know soon enough, won’t we? Tomorrow, the green toads will come, and they won’t make the same mistakes. I say, watch him and his men. I don’t trust them and their swaggering ways.”
“Bit harsh, Pavel.”
Iska rose to take his leave.
“I’m off to check that our gardeners have finished the job. I’ll walk the lines and set the night’s routine in place. One in three, Comrade Polkovnik?”
One in three men awake at all times and in their defensive positions was the standard way of life since the Allied attacks had begun.
Chekov nodded.
“You mark my words, Comrade, those strutting bastards’ll let us down tomorrow. You know what day it is, eh?”
“Yes, I know, Pavel, the first day of April.”
“You mark my words, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Iska was already out into the wet evening before his Colonel could reply.
Chekov recommenced cleaning his automatic rifle, with half his mind thinking about the worth of the forty-two men led by Starshy Serzhant Ivan Alexeyevich Balyan, Hero of the Soviet Union.