He reminded himself that such thoughts had sprung up in his mind when he settled into St. Ruprecht and Teufelberg, yet the Allied air forces had discovered them.
Settling into a soldier’s lunch, he recounted the morning briefing and his response to the overnight changes.
Although he was still going backwards, Chuikov was immensely proud of his soldiers and how they had responded to the Allied attacks, above all the constant air attacks, to which there seemed little answer.
His plea for more AA assets had been sent, and resent, but none arrived and, he suspected, neither would they.
The map showed further losses, but also reflected some more favourable positioning, much of it based around his ability to create a new reserve, now that Tolbukhin’s forces had come into the line between Yugoslavia and the edge of 1st Alpine’s units.
Aggressive, Chuikov had lashed out at the Allied spearheads and, on a number of occasions, bloodied them to a standstill, albeit a temporary one.
Supplies were a constant problem but he was coping.
Bogoliubov limped in, his calf injury causing him great pain, which was only to be expected given that the triangular piece of house brick had removed a significant portion of the muscle on its way through his trousers.
He rejected orders to rest, orders which Chuikov had only half-heartedly given, in full expectation of his CoS’s refusal to comply.
The map reflected a week of hard fighting that had simply not gone his way.
Innsbruck was invested and would surely soon fall, despite the additional resources he had placed under Shumilov’s command.
However, the wily general had held the line, buckling but not breaking, bending back but still hanging on to the friendly forces either side of him. He had sent 7th Guards Army a newly arrived heavy tank regiment to help firm up their defences.
4th Guards Army had lost its commander that very day, the man falling victim to nothing more sinister than a car accident.
Chuikov remembered the old veteran with fondness, recalling the Hitler-like moustache he had insisted on sporting as ‘he’d had it all his life, and long before that hound came on the scene’.
He raised his mug in a silent toast and went back to his review.
‘Bloody terrain!’
The Alps was certainly not ideal terrain, although the defence was assisted greatly. Valleys ran in all directions, in between peaks of great height, some impassable, others with small paths that determined men could traverse and use to get behind defences.
That had happened a few times, not the least of which was the damn Poles, who had got behind his boys at Panzendorf and cost him large numbers of guns and AA weapons as they ran amok in the rear echelon. Only a costly attack by nearby battalions of the 3rd Guards Airborne Division had opened the way, permitting the retreating units of 21st Guards Rifle Corps to escape.
His boys had also given the Germans a damn good thrashing at St Martin and Bruneck, where 31st Guards Rifle Corps and 1322nd Anti-Tank Artillery Regiment had held the green bastards at bay, leaving their bloodied corpses strewn across the landscape.
Chuikov still husbanded the 27th Army, hoping above hope that he would have a suitable opportunity to inflict a great defeat on the enemy. As yet, none had materialized, and, in any case, the hostile skies would always pose a problem to such an enterprise.
A call from Derevianko, the new commander of 4th Guards Army, disturbed his thought processes, but the news was welcome.
Part of the 31st Guards Rifle Corps had successfully counter-attacked at Anterselva di Sotto, forcing the German 18th Infantry Division to flee back to Rasun.
‘Good news at last!’
There was very little of it in the days to come.
Chuikov held the boy as he died.
Although a man by definition, he had been the youngest and bravest soldier in the 3rd Guards Airborne Division, which fact had brought him here, to his commander, to receive an award for his bravery.
Now he lay legless and with his chest penetrated in a dozen places, victim of the airborne curse that plagued the Red Army incessantly.
“Easy lad, easy now.”
One cough, one spurt of crimson fluid, and life’s journey ended for the young soldier.
Chuikov’s own wound hurt like hell, and he plucked at the wooden splinter protruding from his ankle.
It refused to budge and brought excruciating pain as a reward for his attempts.
Chuikov looked up into the now empty sky and silently cursed the enemy aircraft whose engine sounds were nearly faded away to nothing.
Bogoliubov limped up, an apparition in red and black.
He coughed a reply to Chuikov’s unspoken close examination.
“Not mine, Comrade Marshal. I’ll get the doctor for you, but I think we need to move house again.”
“Help me up, man”
Assisting the unsteady Marshal to his feet brought on another bout of coughing.
“Just dust I think…”
The two limped away in unison, supporting each other, seeking to bring order to the chaos around them.
Fortunately, the weather was warmer now, as the new headquarters to which they had just relocated, was generally bereft of cover.
Some tarpaulins had been erected, even some wooden sheds ‘stolen’ from gardens in nearby villages and placed around to serve as bedrooms for a select few. Even the Mamayev had more facilities, Chuikov confided in his staff.
His ankle had developed an infection, despite the close ministrations of the senior doctors, and his hobble was now as pronounced and genuine as the pain that came with each step.
Sitting on a brightly coloured chair, recently liberated from an Austrian gasthaus, Chuikov rested his foot on a lump of timber specially placed there for the purpose.
The map on his lap showed the present situation, or at least the one in place before they had set off to the new location.
It had been a hard few days, and he had lost some fine units from the order of battle.
3rd Guards Airborne Division had been slaughtered in the hopeless defence of Lienz, where heavy bombers, medium bombers, and ground attack aircraft had mercilessly cut the veteran paratroopers down in their hundreds.
28th Tank Brigade had simply vanished, one moment under concerted attack, and then simply not there.
7th Tank Corps had taken a huge hit on the Gail River at Arnoldstein, but had held together in the retreat to Villach.
40th Army was a skeleton of units, bereft of serious artillery and low on ammunition.
The presence of Tolbukhin’s forces had allowed them to pass through the front lines and head back to a recovery area where they could lick their wounds and gather what few supplies were to be had.
26th Army was on its third commander since the Allied offensive had commenced.
‘Their air power is destroying us!’
One ray of hope that morning had been the news that Zhukov would soon be back at his desk, and with his return came more hope that the Red Army could find a way to stem the Allied flow.
Although made of stern stuff, Chuikov automatically cringed as the roar of aero engines approached, although there was no point running. The slit trenches were still being dug and were now filled with the men who had been wielding the spades.
Incredibly, there was cheering, as, through the green canopy, a diagonal line of five Soviet fighters flew past. Making a rough calculation, the Marshal estimated that the friendly aircraft were heading towards the desperate affair developing at Obervellach.