“Thank you, Comrade Marshal.”
An unseen signal from Bagramyan had brought fresh tea into the meeting, a break that the wily Armenian had instigated for his own purposes.
Standing alone, he assessed each officer in turn, reading their gestures, the tone of voice, all to decide on how each man was taking his role in the operation.
Only one man drew extra attention.
Catching Yarishlov’s eye, he silently invited the Colonel of Tanks to come closer.
“You are still troubled, Comrade Polkovnik?”
Arkady Yarishlov was not known for hiding his light. Tactfully avoiding mentioning the air force losses was one thing, but lying to a direct question from his Front Commander was another.
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
Bagramyan licked his lips, removing the sweet tea residue.
“You are right to be, Comrade Yarishlov.”
Yarishlov was surprised at such candour from the senior man.
“We are old soldiers, you and I, Comrade Yarishlov. Let us enjoy some straight talking.”
“Yes Comrade Marshal.”
“The Air Force is on its last legs. The Allies have dealt very harshly with our Air Regiments, and I doubt that Comrade Buianskiy will be able to honour his promise to us, even in skies directly above our air gunners”
Wisely, Yarishlov just nodded, leaving the older man to continue.
“Despite the fact that they suffer every time they take to the air, they still go. They do their duty for the Motherland in the same way as we ground soldiers, Comrade Yarishlov.”
Turning around to the larger map pinned to the wall, Bagramyan waved his hand over the 1st Baltic Front’s area of responsibility.
“My area has grown, as we have gained our victories. All of this now lies under my responsibility, and I have less manpower than ever to protect it with.”
Lowering his voice, the Armenian Marshal spoke directly to Yarishlov.
“My air force is operating at about 30% of the strength we had when we started this war, Comrade Yarishlov, 30%.”
‘I had no idea it was that bad!’
“And yet they still go up and face terrible odds. So, how can I ask them to do that, if we mud crawlers doubt them before they even start?”
Yarishlov winced, made to feel that he had dishonoured his Air Force comrades for even thinking that they were not up to the job.
“They may well not be able to do all that Comrade Buianskiy has promised, but it will not be for lack of effort and commitment to the Motherland, Comrade Yarishlov. And if we ground soldiers have to take more risks because of their poor state then, so be it; we will do so.”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Bagramyan drew a line under the temporary intimacy by the use of Arkady’s rank and his sterner tone.
Neither man had realised that the entire room had fallen silent and the senior officers were engrossed in the exchange.
Bagramyan took the initiative.
“Comrades, unless you have further pressing business within my headquarters, you are dismissed, and I will expect your preliminary plans by 1400hrs tomorrow.”
The meeting broke up immediately, each commander heading off to develop his plans, some with the euphoria of an organised attack against weakened opposition, others burdened with the uncertainties of command in a vital operation.
Back in his own base, Yarishlov sat on his bed, studying the map.
He fell into a troubled sleep, unable to explain or justify the sense of foreboding that filled him.
‘Barnstorf.’
‘Oi vay! What a dump! Are you shure thish is for us, Shergeant?”
Hässler mimicked the wounded man’s affected speech.
“Mashter Shergeant to you. I’m important and don’t you forget it, Corporal.”
The diminutive Jew looked the Senior Non-com up and down with disdain.
“Most shertainly, it ish difficult to remember shometimes.”
Grinning from ear to ear, the tall NCO went to playfully cuff his sidekick.
Rosenberg ducked away, and formed his lips into a kiss.
“Mein liebshen.”
The two sniggered and returned to assess their surroundings.
It was certainly pretty enough, nestled on the shores of a modest sized lake, the Baggersee.
However, the accommodation looked like it had seen better days, the signs of age and swift repairs presented easily to their experienced eyes.
Men of all nations moved around, some in organised parties, off to drill or undertake work details, others strolled in a leisurely fashion, enjoying some time at rest.
The officer had travelled in the front of the lorry, and now announced his arrival at the tailgate, standing back as two soldiers opened up the rear of the Ford 6x6.
“Master Sergeant, get your men lined up to the left, two ranks. Move.”
The greenhorn pointed imperiously at a point some ten yards distant, the mud and puddles that filled the chosen spot more than obvious to everyone, except him.
Hässler cut the boy some slack, and jumped down from the lorry, helping down the Jewish corporal, both of them moving gingerly because of their wounds.
He exchanged looks with another NCO, a man the Lieutenant either failed to notice, which was unlikely, given his size, or ignored, more likely, because of the colour of his skin.
They shared a shrug.
“You heard the officer, now dismount and get fell in. Hustle up there! Raus, Raus!”
Rosenberg fell in as marker, deliberately in front of the muddy ground, and the rest of the group formed on him.
Most of the men were former hospital patients, a few were new recruits, for whom this would be the first time in a combat formation.
The squeaky clean 2nd Lieutenant fell into that category, and it showed.
Unfortunately, he did not have the sense to understand that he had good men who would help him, if he did but unwind for a moment.
“Detail, detail, atten-shun!”
The men eventually organised their bodies into the appropriate position, and then 2nd Lieutenant James R. Yorke commenced inspecting his men.
Across from the line of GI’s, Major John Ramsey of His Majesty’s Black Watch, finished his discussions with the base commander, a sour-faced American Colonel of Artillery.
Whilst the man was unpleasant, he had agreed to Ramsey’s request, and the extra blankets would be shortly be forthcoming.
Emerging from the Colonel’s office, Ramsey nodded at his waiting men, the gesture bringing smiles of relief. Passing over the signed document, he sent them off to the US camp’s supply section to obtain the blankets, for which he had just negotiated away two cases of Glenfoyle malt whisky.
Lighting a cigarette, the Englishman took in the amusing vignette across the parade ground.
The difference between combat veterans and new troops was totally obvious.
There was also something huge in the line, looking extremely out of place; wide, muscular, a foot taller than the others, looking like a grizzly bear, and just as dangerous, except for the smile that spilt the man’s face.
Ramsey was intrigued, and suddenly he found himself edging across the intervening ground, closing on the inspection.
Yorke saw the man approach, half wondering if the soldier with the red feathers in his strange hat was a circus act or a serious soldier, but erring on the side of safety and saluting in any case.
Ramsey replied in kind.
“Good day, Lieutenant. Fine group of men you have here, I must say. That fellow is particularly striking,” he gestured at the man-mountain in the centre of the rear line.