Poboshkin knocked on the door of his commander’s office and, when he heard the invitation, quickly stuck his head round, his face openly painted with question after question regarding the events of the last half-hour.
Nazarbayeva beckoned him in, her own face clearly showing puzzlement.
“So, Comrade General, is everything alright?”
“Do you know, Andrey… for once in my life, I don’t know.”
That, of itself, was enough to cause Poboshkin some concern.
“Shall I order some more tea, Comrade General.”
Nazarbayeva thought for a briefest of moments.
“Perhaps you might ask Mayor Rufin for the loan of the contents of his bottom drawer.”
It was one of the office’s worst kept secrets that Rufin, a competent man whose only vice was a liking for alcohol in large quantities, had a stash of bottles in his desk drawers.
In seconds, Poboshkin returned with a bottle and two glasses.
Pouring good sized measures, he waited for his commander to speak.
She lifted the clear liquid to eye level, raising an eyebrow at the amount her aide had poured.
He shrugged.
“I thought you might need it, Comrade. Your health.”
They both sunk the raspberry schnapps in one, gasping as the fire of it assaulted mouth and throat alike.
Nazarbayeva held her glass out, smiling and trying not to choke at the same time.
The refilled glass sat in front of her as she started to openly analyse what had just happened.
“So… the deputy of the NKVD, no less, flies all the way to Germany, ostensibly to protest at my interference in an NKVD investigation into the murder of an Army nurse, which protest takes less than two minutes and was… or at least, I think it was… just going through the motions… like he wanted no part in it.”
Poboshkin sipped his schnapps in silence.
“Then I am thanked… no, personally thanked for propelling him into a favourable position during Makarenko’s failed attempt on the life of the General Secretary… which has apparently hugely increased his standing in Moscow.”
The glass in Poboshkin’s hand would remain empty until Nazarbayeva finished her own, something she seemed disinclined to do as she continued.
“And to finish up, we indulge in small talk about family, our own personal views on the war and certain members of the hierarchy.”
She sensed rather than heard Poboshkin’s sharp intake of breath.
“Calm yourself, calm yourself. I’m hardly likely to be indiscreet in front of a senior member of the NKVD, Andrey, so why was he so… open… err… so indiscreet in front of me?”
To his great relief, Nazarbayeva emptied her glass in one, giving him an opportunity to refill both.
“So, what is your first feeling, Comrade General? Was does your instinct say?”
She laughed softly.
“My instincts tell me never to trust a Chekist bastard with anything.”
He shared her amusement.
“But… for some reason… I don’t know what or why… I think we have gained a useful friend in circles that normally don’t have our best interests at heart.”
The glasses clinked together, but before the contents could be downed, a shrilling telephone brought them back to the mundane realities of intelligence matters.
The Soviet artillery had been pounding the whole front line for nearly an hour, and Haines was mighty sick of it.
Over four kilometres off to his right, a battle royal already raged for control of the important Height 352, Monte Buia.
All the bridges on the River Ledra were down, which meant that the fights for Heights 352 and 265 would be independent battles, the Ledra isolating each from the other.
B Squadron’s tanks were arranged defensively on the slopes surrounding Castello di Susans, a thirteenth century bastion set on Height 265, the mix of 17pdr and 76mm tanks there to provide cover for the infantry to their front, in the absence of defensive anti-tank guns.
More to the point, behind the frontline enemy infantry positions, air reconnaissance had spotted numerous Soviet armoured vehicles, suggesting that a large tank force was in the area.
The Ledra ran across the British position, its waters still obscured by a covering of ice. None the less, British engineers had placed a number of bridges across the river, and the preservation of these was a priority, the Rifle Brigade’s forward positions being on the far bank.
The new ‘Biffo’s Bus’ was an M4A2[76]W, all but still in its wrappers, so new was it.
Trooper Clair had spent the previous day tinkering with the General Motors’ diesels, teasing them into top performance.
Everything had been checked and double checked, fuel and ammunition topped of, and ‘The Bus’ had been moved up to the dominating heights that surrounded the Castello.
Patterson had been particularly delighted by the availability of HVAP rounds, and secured a dozen of the high penetration rounds.
Haines, now Acting Major in command of ‘B’ Squadron, 16th/5th Lancers, was fed up with being bounced around in his tank by near misses.
“If those bastards don’t stop soon, I’m off down there to bash a few fucking heads together.”
The comment was aimed at no-one in particular, except possibly the commander of the Soviet artillery lashing the hill and infantry positions.
16th/5th had received reinforcements after being hammered at Arnoldstein the previous November, and had just returned to the front as the start of a thaw seemed to be starting interest in fighting again. The presence of Soviet armour in Osoppo had meant that his Squadron was advanced to the front line positions in case Chuikov launched an attack, using the wide Tagliamento River as a secure right flank.
The thaw, combined with deliberately applied high-explosive, had reduced the integrity of the ice that had covered the wide river since the freeze began.
Even with the Soviet practice of artillery relocation, a total change thrust upon them by both the success of enemy counter-battery fire and the sovereignty of the air held by the Allied Air Forces, the barrage seemed to grow in intensity.
As if to reinforce Haines’ suspicions, the first rockets arrived, a Guards Mortar Regiment depositing hundreds of 132mm Katyusha rounds all over the area.
“That settles it. They ain’t doing this for fun. Look sharp. They’ll be coming directly.”
He keyed his mike, broadcasting on the squadron net.
“Cassino-six to all Cassino call signs. Eyes open and keep it tight. Expect to see them any time now. Call it in when you see them. Fire on my order and make every shot count. Out.”
The artillery officer from the supporting 152nd RA spotted something from his higher position in one of the square towers of Castello di Susans, and 25pdr shells screamed overhead on their way towards the Soviet positions, in response to his calls for support.
“Cassino-two, Cassino-six, contacts, two thousand five hundred yards, coming down Route 463 like a bat out of hell, over.”
“Cassino-six. Roger.”
Haines lifted himself out of the warm turret and brought his binoculars to bear. The lead Soviet element was easy to find.
‘Struth! He ain’t kidding!’
“Cassino-six, all Cassino call signs. Enemy attack in progress. Tanks and infantry on Route 463, coming in fast. Watch your front. Stand by to engage. Out.”
Through the binoculars, Haines witnessed the assault formations deploy, the tanks forming line and the infantry vehicles surging ahead, closing down on the foremost British positions.