Mikhail Ilyich Kazakov stroked the ends of his moustache into points which, to his staff, was a tell-tale sign that an explosion was about to occur.
Mishulin, his recently appointed deputy, had circled point twenty-seven, the nondescript number allocated to a position of prime importance, namely Wrist.
“What order was Ibiankii given exactly?”
Mishulin snapped his fingers and a folder was passed over, listing all orders issued by 10th Guards Army command since the enemy had attacked.
“Quite clear. Hold the position around dvadtsat' sem' until further orders.”
The folder crashed onto the desk, scattering pencils and unweighted papers in all directions.
“The man’s an idiot… worse than that… what, Comrade?”
Mishulin kept a straight face as he delivered his information.
“Ibiankii is uncontactable. Apparently, he went forward to personally supervise the defence of dvadtsat' sem'. His deputy suspects he may have fallen to one of the air attacks.”
Kazakov grunted and his mind moved immediately to solving the problem.
“So, we have part of 7th Guards and 17th Anti-tank trapped above, being pressed by this Allied division.”
Again, he sensed his CoS had more to say.
“It’s just been identified as the British Guards Division, Comrade Polkovnik General.”
In Kazakov’s mind, that gave it a high status as, in the Red Army, reference the Guards was synonymous with increased combat skill and efficiency.
“So, we have their Guards and 7th Tanks, all coming down one axis, it seems.”
Kazakov sat back from the map, his hands selecting a Red Star cigarette that he crimped without looking, his eyes roving the map for a solution.
He tossed the pack to Mishulin, who was less sure about the harsh cigarettes. He carefully squeezed the cardboard tube that held the tobacco wad, flattening the tube in two different places, a necessary procedure for those who wanted to keep their throats intact. Mishulin was a Chesterfield man through and through, although, since they had captured a huge stock of British supplies outside of Lubeck, his preference had been for Craven ‘A’ cigarettes.
“Cancel the orders to 3rd Guards Mechanised immediately. Tell them to stand their ground and await further instructions.”
It was the way Kazakov operated; swift, clipped instructions, delivered unequivocally, and to be instantly obeyed.
He leant over the map, beckoning Mishulin to come closer.
“9th Mechanised Brigade are the nearest. Fuel situation?”
“As of the 0300 report, 9th were fully stocked, ready to move off south-west at 0600, Comrade.”
He took a scale ruler and drew a single line, then set the ruler at right angles across it.
“45th Tanks?”
“The 0330 report had them in the process of refuelling. They are still light on ammunition,” Mishulin leant across to the stack of papers recently retrieved from the floor and swiftly found the one he needed, “…on average 80% stock per vehicle, across the range of types, Comrade.”
“They’ll do. Send them a hold order immediately.”
Mishulin turned back from the clerk who ran off with the order.
“1823rd Artillery?”
“Not so good, Comrade. 50% ammunition, and their fuel train was attacked by aircraft before they filled up. There is a shortage of 76mm at the moment, which is being worked on. The quartermasters are also trying to get spare fuel to them as soon as possible, but we are…”
Kazakov interrupted.
“We are short, as always.”
However, a decision was needed.
“Tell 1823rd to hold immediately.”
He swiftly put his thoughts onto the map.
“Right. The Marshal was quite right to order us out of this peninsular, but I’m not going to leave behind the larger part of a Guards Rifle Corps doing it. We’ll organise a joint attack, bringing the 7th Guards southwards to here, and sending 9th and 45th Guards up from the south, squeezing the life out of this enemy force, and allowing the 7th to escape.”
Mishulin nodded and quickly spoke.
“An excellent plan, Comrade General. Should we seek support from Twenty-First Army from the east?”
Kazakov laughed, seeing the unintended humour in his CoS’ words.
“I rather suspect old Gusev has too much on his hands at the moment, don’t you?”
The map showed the understrength Twenty-first Army being pushed backwards slightly quicker than Marshal Bagramyan’s plan dictated.
“Right. Put that into orders my generals can understand and have them execute the assault at 0800. Make sure they know to get in close as they can to avoid problems from their Air Force.”
Mishulin scribbled away.
“The elements of 7th Guards will continue on through, the 9th Guards will cover the withdrawal and…” he came down the map a short distance, representing some five kilometres, “…the new line will be held at Kaltenkirchen.”
The scribbling stopped and his CoS waited expectantly.
“Get it done then, and accept no excuses. They can all be on time, regardless of the weather or supply. I’m going to phone the Old Armenian fox and tell him what I’m doing.”
The staff sprang into action as Mishulin issued the orders, Kazakov moving into his office to converse with Bagramyan, 1st Baltic Front’s commander.
By the time that he had finished the call, Kazakov had the agreement of Bagramyan, and unexpected support from Buiansky, the Frontal Aviation officer.
The opportunity to give the British Guards a bloody nose was not going to be wasted.
“Maybe the buggers aren’t so short on ammunition, eh?”
Prentiss addressed the remark to no-one in particular.
Soviet artillery had been striking his positions since about 7am, and had drawn blood in both men and machines.
Prentiss Force was arraigned in a U-shape, the bowl of the U embracing Bimhölen, and with the open end towards where the British had just come from.
The northern side started at Fuhlendorf, where part of the Cheshires’ support company, plus their 6 Platoon, were situated. Spreading eastwards from there were the Cheshires’ A Company and the four tank troops of Algie Woods’ A Squadron, backed up the H Troop Achilles’ of the 75th Anti-tank’s 119th Battery.
In and around Bimhölen, I Troop of the 75th and B Company, 1st Cheshire Battalion, sat alongside the Comets of 15th/19th Hussars.
The southern edge was screened by the Staghounds of the recce squadron, and formed from Merton’s B Squadron, C Company of the Cheshires, with some of the Engineers acting as infantry until reinforcements arrived.
The end of the line terminated at Bad Brahmsted-land, where the 75th’s G troop and 23rd Hussars headquarters combined with the company of engineers.
Major Blacker’s C Squadron acted as reserve, sitting in the small woods on Bimhölenstrasse, and able to move in any direction.
The FOO positioned himself on the high ground immediately west of the junction of the autobahn and Route 111.
Here, Prentiss also positioned some of his headquarters Crusader AA tanks, using the high ground to extend cover to as much of his formation as possible, not that air attack was very likely, given the state of the enemy’s air force.
The rest of the regiment’s headquarters men and vehicles remained on the eastern outskirts of Bad Brahmstedt-land, a local farm proving ample for Prentiss’ needs, the farmer’s wife plying the liberators with the fruits of her labours, in both solid and liquid form.