“Mayor Kristian Borisovich Tarasov, Comrade Marshal.”
Konev grinned, finding the man’s resilience strangely invigorating.
“As of now, you are Polkovnik Tarasov, and attached to my personal staff.”
The Marshal turned on his heel and disappeared into his office, the slam of the door a signal for the room to relax and wonder at the survival of the sweating Major, now a bemused full Colonel.
The sirens had long since hushed themselves, the all clear now in full swing.
Here and there, casualties were taken up, and swiftly delivered to medical stations.
Other bodies, less fortunate, were removed for suitable disposal later.
The early morning raid had not gone unpunished, the Red Air Force’s Area Commander had anticipated such a move from the Allied medium bombers, and had put assets in the air to stop them.
For the first time since hostilities had begun, he was able to honestly report more losses on the Allied side than his own, a very satisfactory state of affairs for a General with one foot in the Gulag already.
Little real damage had been caused to the military targets. Yet again, the German civilians seemed to have suffered most.
Konev observed the work of the rescuers whilst he drank tea, completely oblivious to the rapidly approaching Petrov.
“Comrade Marshal.”
Despite the quiet tone, Konev, deep in thought, jumped noticeably.
“Apologies, Comrade Marshal. I knew you would want to know immediately.”
Konev licked the tea from his hand, where it had splashed when he started.
“Go on then, Petrov, and make it good.”
The sound of a man in pain gave both men pause, and they watched as the hideously wounded soldier was lifted from the ruins and spirited away.
“31st Army have taken Wanlo. General Glagolev reports his troops exhausted, but capable of holding their ground. Your orders, Comrade?”
“Contact both major units immediately, implement…” he cut off short, reflecting on the possibilities open to him.
Narrowing the choices down to two, he went for the safer option.
“Implement Plan Blue-Two at oh-seven hundred on 20th October.”
Petrov looked quizzically at the Commander.
“You disagree, Comrade?”
“No, Comrade Marshal, just surprised. I always thought you intended a quicker advance.”
Konev laughed.
“I did, of course, but the logistics do not permit me that luxury at the moment, Comrade.”
‘Soon, I hope! By Mother Russia, let it be soon!’
“Now, Comrade General, whilst our Air Force comrades are still jubilant, let us go and extract a little more help from them.”
The two senior men entered the main building, intent on pressurising the Air Force General into providing more air cover for their assault force.
The commander of the 6th Guards Tank Army checked his watch for the final time, his eyes watching as the second hand swept upwards, inexorably moving to the upright position.
And beyond?
Colonel General Andrei Kravchenko frowned, the second hand continuing on its endless journey, but without the audio backdrop he had anticipated.
It had reached eleven seconds past the allotted time when the sounds of war reached the General’s ears.
A huge artillery barrage was initiated, the artillery of the two Guards Armies, joined with extra formations taken from sister units, or released by Konev from the Front reserve, expending considerable amounts of the stocks each commander had hoarded since the supply difficulties made themselves known.
He exchanged looks with Major General Zhadov, the commander of 5th Guards Army, the other major formation in Konev’s special plan.
With additional assets, such as artillery, anti-aircraft, and engineers, Special Grouping Kravchenko was a powerful force, albeit one that had already suffered at the hands of Allied aircraft and artillery.
5th Guards Army was oriented to the north of the central point, its assets focussed on rounding Mönchen-Gladbach and taking the towns of Roermond and Venlo.
6th Guards Tank Army intended to take west and south-west routes, broaching the Maas, west of Sittard-Geleen, whilst driving to Maastricht with the intent of isolating Aachen.
Between Roermond and Maastricht, only the bridges at Stein and Berg were intact enough to permit passage for the armour of SG ‘Kravchenko’, both protected by the small Dutch towns of Sittard and Geleen.
The radio crackled in Zhadov’s ear, the static still awful, as it had been since the attack commenced.
He tried again.
“Viktor-zero-zero, Viktor-zero-zero, can you hear me, Nozh-zero-zero over?”
The voice was unrecognisable, but just understandable, Kravchenko’s distinctive tones lost in the disruption.
“Viktor-zero-zero receiving, I can just hear you, General, Viktor-zero-zero over.”
Zhadov, sat in the back of his M3 scout car, quickly checked the details before speaking.
“Viktor-zero-zero, confirm Objective Akula taken. Nozh-five forces heavily engaged at Akula-three, request more Vol…” the radio clearly failed, the message lost once more.
The operator tuned the apparatus, keen to keep his commander happy, nodding and smiling as the signal was restored.
“…ay again. Understood Akula taken. Say after, Viktor-zero-zero over.”
Desperate to get the message off before the signal let him down again, Major General Zhadov spoke quickly.
“Nozh-zero-zero, Nozh-five heavily engaged at Wegberg. Request more Volga, repeat request more Volga, over.”
At the other end of the exchange, understanding Zhadov’s need for more tanks, Colonel General Kravchenko consulted his map. He ignored the lapse in radio procedure, and assessed the situation at Akula-three before replying.
“Viktor-zero-zero to Nozh-zero-zero, I am unable to help you. Use Nozh-One, out.”
He used the codename of 31st Tank Corps, 5th Guards Army’s armoured unit, which Zhadov was clearly trying to preserve for the bigger battles to come, some of its units having already been savaged in the fighting in Wurtemburg.
The Commander of 5th Guards Army tossed the handset in the general direction of the operator, who deftly caught it, and placed it in its proper position. Her eyes then stayed fixed on the set in front of her.
Zhadov had expected nothing, and so was not disappointed, although he was annoyed with himself for his small lapse in radio procedure.
Shaking out the map that recorded his intended advance, he started to dictate orders for the commander of 31st Tanks, the now-moving scout car rocking him gently as he worked.
Happy that the conversation had now ended, Harriet Fraser-Brown completed her notes and called the supervisor.
The Naval commander, a veteran of the Atlantic convoys, moved forward in that strange ‘dirty pants’ gait that all the listening room staff secretly mocked. Or they had, until the moment that they discovered the man had left his right leg inside his last command, which escort destroyer was lying at the bottom of the Western Approaches, with half its crew still listed as missing.
“So, what do you have for me today, Harry? Comrade Zhukov’s dining arrangements by chance?”
“No Sir, but I can fill in another of the blanks on the enemy Westphalia operation.”