‘Obervellach’.
1st Alpine’s CoS dropped onto the camping stool beside his commander.
“Message from Derevianko. Good news, Comrade Marshal. The enemy attack on Obervellach has been stopped in its tracks. He reports hundreds of enemy dead. More to follow when he has better information.”
Fishing in his pocket, Bogoliubov held out a small flask.
“Makes the water drinkable, Comrade Marshal.”
Grinning, Chiukov took a hefty swig, nearly choking on the contents.
“What in the name of the great steppes is that?”
“That is Austrian Blue Gin, and it’s as smooth a drink as you will taste, Comrade Marshal.”
“Tastes like fucking aviation spirit to me!”
The two roared with laughter, drawing attention from all quarters, as laughter was a rare thing in those heavy days.
“If I was trawling for whores, then it would be my drink of choice, Comrade. However, I’m an officer of the Red Army. Get me a fucking vodka or I’ll have you shot for trying to poison me.”
Bogoliubov raised an admonishing finger, and produced another flask, a glass one, clearly containing a darker fluid.
“Perhaps this is more to your taste?”
It took two snorts to satisfy the Marshal’s taste buds.
“Blyad! That’s more like it.”
“Stroh rum, and it is quite plentiful so I’m told.”
They clinked flasks and downed more fiery liquid.
Another group of aircraft flew overhead, but this time higher, leaving contrails in the sky, flying north-east.
Followed by another group… and yet another… until the sky was filled with dots and white lines.
“Someone’s going to cop it.”
That someone was Bratislava, its bridges, infrastructure, occupying Bulgarian units and, of course, the civilian population.
Leese finished reading the report as Alexander poured another tea.
The Eighth Army commander read a virtual mirror of his own report, citing heavy casualties, higher than expected consumption of the stocks of war, fatigue, battle weariness, call it what you would, but it seemed that the US Twentieth Army was running out of steam, like Leese’s Eighth Army, and the German pair sat between the two.
“So Oliver, what do you think of that, eh? All in the same boat. What?”
“Seems so, Sir. But if we’re tired, they must be tired. We know they’ve less supplies and were in poorer shape at the start of this show. The evidence of that has been spread before us as we’ve advanced.”
He sipped the delicate china cup.
“Granted, they fight like the very devil. Damn good soldiers, these Russians, but surely we can give it one more go. The blighters are close to breaking, I know they are, Sir.”
Leese had been brought back from the Far East to command the Eighth, his old Army, when McCreery had been handed the 21st.
He had the advantage of being a good friend of his commander, which gave him latitude when in private.
“Personally, I think we have gone about as far as we can, Oliver.”
“Don’t think we’ve reached the boundary quite yet, Sir. My lads have got at least one more good shove in them. Give me two days and I’ll have them fully booted and spurred for another crack at the Bolshevik hordes.”
“Opinion noted, Oliver, and as ever, you’re irrepressible.”
They drank the rest of their tea in silence.
Reese understood that Alexander was coming to a decision.
“Well quite”, he announced, placing his cup and saucer on the small table, “It would be rude not to, I think.”
Reese stood.
“I will tell Eisenhower that we have one good shove left, and that we will go on the 22nd. That gives you an extra day to get the full war paint on, Oliver.”
Reese gathered himself and threw the Field Marshal the kind of salute that only a Guards Officer can deliver.
“Thank you, Sir. I will have a plan to you by tomorrow evening, if that’s acceptable?”
“Most acceptable. Thank you, Oliver. Charles, will you see the General out please.”
Chuikov listened impassively as the latest reports were translated onto the situation map.
The few days grace afforded by not being discovered had provided enough time to construct a rough shelter for the main headquarters staff, and the long map took centre place on the rear wall.
What he saw was not good, amounting to an attack virtually all along his defensive line, including a stunning developing air and ground attack against his previous lightly troubled Yugoslavian volunteer forces.
Garbled reports from one contact suggested that the 21st Serbian Division had collapsed entirely.
A good portion of his limited reserve was already en route to back up the Yugoslavians, and the Marshal was within a few minutes of finally committing the 27th Army, the formation he had preserved for a chance to strike back.
Tolbukhin’s situation was slightly different, as the Allies continued to avoid activity adjacent to the Yugoslavian border. Whereas, at the other end of his line, the 1st Southern European Front reported nothing out of the ordinary, just the steady constant attacks that had been the stuff of every day since the sun had risen on the 26th.
He did what he could, with scanty resources, ordering this movement, that spoiling attack, an adjustment here, a tactical withdrawal there, but, annoyingly for Chuikov, he had no assets with which to cause mischief.
The initiative seemed to be well and truly in the enemy’s hands.
The initiative appeared to be lost.
The ‘good shove’, as Alexander had put it, failed spectacularly and became the stuff of huge debate for historians in the decades after WW3 ended.
Polish III Corps had advanced down a narrow route, the 3rd Mountain Division flanking the central core of 2nd Polish Armoured Division at Kremsbrücke, had run into thick minefields in the Heitzelsbergerwald and Maisswald. Combined with a heavy Soviet infantry presence and a large deployment of rockets and artillery, both divisions had suffered heavily.
That the Soviet artillery and Katyusha units suffered badly in counter-battery fire was of scant comfort to those who had been on the receiving end of their efforts.
Despite three assaults, the Poles could make no further progress.
The post-mortems started almost immediately, the narrow pass and single road echoing dissections of the Market-Garden Operations of Horrocks’ XXX Corps; they still continue to this day.
Whoever was to blame for the debacle in which three and a half thousand Polish soldiers were killed or wounded, the result was indisputable.
Fifteenth Army Group had run out of steam.
“Check again.”
Chuikov took a pull on a glass of water, the uncharacteristic choice of drink symptomatic of an extremely strange morning in 1st Alpine Headquarters.
Bogoliubov directed the communications officer to the task and, as he listened to the exchanges, mentally ticked off each Senior Command contacted.
The reply was the same from each, although sometimes couched in suspicion, sometimes in surprise, but always with noticeable relief.
“Nothing, Comrade Marshal.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, I may have to take up bible bashing after all… fucking hell.”
Chuikov grabbed his chin and worked it, feeling the stubble under his fingertips, his piggy eyes devouring the information on the map, which was, to all intents and purposes, exactly the same as it had been the previous evening.