“Sarnt, good show. Tell Patterson he can make some more, say, three per tank, but he must be careful with Flowers, clear?”
“Crystal, Sir.”
In fact, Flowers proved invaluable in the process, and, acting to conserve his valuable stocks of ball-bearings, found large amounts of nuts, bolts, and scrap metal, which made for a more suitable shotgun shell, the irregular shapes causing the cone to widen more.
The new shotgun shells were issued out at three per vehicle, and Ordnance held a number of spares, should they be required.
All four men saluted formally.
“Comrade Polkovnik, a pleasure as always.”
Deniken gestured his friend towards a comfy chair, as he dropped back into his own.
Yarishlov gingerly eased himself into the chair.
“Problems, Arkady?”
The tank Colonel shrugged.
“A bit of old age… although, to be honest, I did jar my back a little jumping off my tank. I’ll be fine soon enough.”
Lisov, the 1st Guards Division’s second in command, returned to study the contents of the stacks of paperwork on his desk, his ability to speak greatly limited by the bandaging around his savaged face. A British ground attack aircraft had almost done for him the previous day when he was visiting 1st Baltic’s headquarters at Lauenberg, shrapnel from its rockets opening up both his cheeks and claiming three teeth.
The smell of fine American coffee filled the room and, soon enough, some arrived for the four men.
Kriks, Yarishlov’s right-hand man, produced a small flask, freshening each man’s mug with something non-regulation.
The four drank in silence, although Lisov’s discomfort was clear as the hot liquid made itself known inside his mouth.
Deniken relaxed into his padded chair.
“So, Arkady, are you here to discuss the training programme?”
Placing his empty mug on the desk, Yarishlov looked a little wretched.
“Yes, I am.”
“Excellent. I heard that your new tanks arrived, so I anticipated this and…”
“I can’t do any training with your men, Vladimir, at least not mobile training, which sort of defeats the object.”
Kriks poured more coffee, lacing each mug again.
“Thank you. Look, it’s a total fucking balls up, simple as that.”
Yarishlov was clearly extremely angered by events.
“I have my new tanks, but I don’t have fuel. Or rather, I do have fuel, but I’m forbidden to use it for training purposes.”
Yarishlov’s unit, the recently redesignated 7th Guards Tank Assault Brigade, had been gifted sixty-four T-54 tanks, fresh from the factory, tanks with which the guardsmen of Deniken’s division needed to train.
The new tank formation had also been allocated its own constituent SPAT unit, which meant that nine of the extremely potent ISU-122’s were under Yarishlov’s direct command as well, making 7th Guards the most powerful formations of its type in the Red Army.
“Shit.”
There was no disagreement.
Deniken pondered the issue.
“Can you get fuel from somewhere?”
“Vladimir, I can most certainly scrape up some, increase my returns on natural wastage, hide some expenditure in my reports, but nothing like the amount I would need to run meaningful training with your boys.”
The infantryman shook his head in disgust.
“I can occupy my boys with more training on the SKS rifle. We’ll still do what we can with you statically, so at least the troops can see the new animals up close… but proper training is not an option for now.”
Deniken exhaled slowly.
“So, we get specific orders about how our two units must train to fight tight, and in full cooperation, but we don’t get the means to fulfil our orders. Marvellous…” he raised his coffee in salute at some unknown imbecile, “Absolutely fucking marvellous.”
“At least we won’t have the Allies to worry about, save their aircraft of course. You’ve seen the reports?”
Deniken rummaged for his copy of the latest assessments.
“Weather clearing slowly, temperatures coming up, will take time to recover, et cetera. You think that the Allies are as hampered as we are, Arkady… as our commanders say they are?”
Yarishlov belly laughed, startling Lisov.
“I don’t doubt that our comrades from the glorious Intelligence services are wholly correct in their assumptions.”
They all laughed.
“You mean, not a hope in hell eh?”
“That’s about right, Vladimir. I think intel has it badly wrong and that the Allies have been tucked up nice and warm, just waiting for this opportunity. They’ll be along shortly, don’t doubt it.”
In truth, GRU and NKVD reports were often inconclusive, sometimes claimed that the Allied Armies were crippled by the cold, but occasionally suggested that the Allies had been able to gather themselves and reinforce heavily during the cold months.
Some reports from agents spoke of previously unknown units in French ports or camped outside Italian towns.
It was the Soviet hierarchy that decided to suppress the fears of its agencies, possibly in order not to cause alarm amongst their army commanders, or possibly to mask their own shortcomings.
The small spur ran off the main line and into the woods east of Rullstorf. Shrouded by the canopies of the surrounding trees, DP 1192, a simple double spur off the main line into the woods, was ideal for smaller trains to drop their cargoes, especially as the larger stations drew constant unwelcome attention.
The contents of the two twelve wagon trains were destined for the 6th Guards Independent Breakthrough Tank Regiment, now attached directly to the 1st Baltic Front.
Three of the quickly thrown together ZSU-37-2s, self-propelled AA guns, designed to stay with moving armoured formations, and nine of the latest model IS-IIIs, sat patiently waiting their turn, whilst the first train to arrive yielded up its cargo.
Eight IS-IIs were already idling on the nearby road, waiting on two more of their number, and the two IS-III command tanks, still on board.
His own tank was one of only three survivors from the last battles of the 6th Regiment, but Senior Lieutenant Stelmakh had left it in Scharnebeck. Instead, Corporal Stepanov had procured one of the unit’s GAZ cars to drive his young officer to the disembarkation point, where he was tasked with marrying crews and new vehicles.
The men had arrived two weeks before the vehicles, so he had found time to get to know most of them, making his job easier.
Summoning each NCO by name, he was able to detail crews easily to tanks, and the whole process moved swiftly enough to please his watching commander.
The men of the 6th were all briefed on the necessity of remaining in cover, and to be especially mindful of discovery from the air.
Unfortunately for Stelmakh, the units disembarking the previous day had been less adept at keeping their presence secret, attracting the scrutiny of an RAF photo-interpreter, who decided that her instinct was enough to suggest the existence of a worthwhile target in the woods near Rullstorf.
Twelve Mitchell Mk IIIs of the newly fledged 320 Squadron, Marine Luchtvaart Dienst, the Dutch Naval Aviation Service, were sent to turn the small area in matchwood.
Flying in tight formation at twelve thousand feet, the drone of engines from the B-25s announced their arrival just before the whistling of falling bombs.
Thirty-six thousand pounds of high-explosive landed in an area of roughly one and a half square kilometres, transforming the quiet woods into a mass of flailing timber, metal and flesh.