“I see no reason to limit your advance through this ‘funnel’, Comrades. Beyond it lies the open heartland of France, from where we can turn north and into Belgium, behind the bulk of the Allied forces.”
This they knew, of course, but Rokossovsky was on a mission.
“Turn to the south, and our units can open up the route into Italy.”
The 3rd Red Banner’s commander revealed himself in his next exhortation.
“Or, we can open them up totally, and we can drive on, on to the Atlantic, or the Channel, and cut the Allies in half. Stavka would give us the assets we needed to do the job, and the war would be over.”
The room fell silent, each man seeing an end to the fighting, but only after more death and destruction.
“So, when do we attack, Comrades?”
Neither General spoke, understanding that their opinion was not being sought.
“How long to organise the changes, Comrade Liapin?”
“Six hours maximum, probably less, Comrade Marshal.”
Adding a little as a safety margin to cover the unexpected, Rokossovsky announced his decision, exchanging nods with Lieutenant Generals Trubnikov and Bogolyubov, his Deputy Commander and Chief of Staff respectively.
“We go at 2100hrs, Comrades.”
The five exchanged salutes and four filed out. Rokossovsky found himself alone with the map that carried out Operation Berkut.
Unconsciously checking off some of its content, Rokossovsky picked up the telephone. He spoke a few clipped words and waited, running his fingers over the markings, before getting through to his chosen recipient.
“Ah, Comrade Malinin. I hope all is well with the higher echelons of command?”
The two men liked each other, both personally and professionally, and the CoS clearly responded warmly.
“Berkut is a go at the agreed time. I will have the changes sent to you by messenger as soon as possible…”
He waited as the voice on the other end asked a question.
“No Comrade, nothing major in the ground plan, artillery re-tasking, and some extra air, that’s all, Comrade.”
Rokossovsky laughed.
“But of course, Mikhail Sergeyevich, but of course. I will contact you beforehand if anything else comes up. Goodbye Comrade.”
The die was cast.
Chapter 95 – THE FUNNEL
My centre is giving way, my right is in retreat; situation excellent. I shall attack.
The artillery, the rockets, the air strikes, all had been merciless and unceasing, the last two hours filled with the orchestral sounds of an Army stirring itself for the advance.
The Allied front had been bathed in high explosives, rear positions carpeted with Katyusha rockets; huge quantities of munitions were expended to break the ex-SS soldiers that faced the 19th Soviet Army.
On the receiving end, the legionnaires of ‘Alma’ and ‘Camerone’ took their punishment like the veterans they were, some dying in a flash of white light, others just hugging the welcoming earth more closely, guardian angels and gods called upon in equal measure.
True to the latest policy, the Red Air Force was operating mainly above friendly soil, either protecting against Allied incursion, or standing ready to swoop to the relief support of a ground formation in difficulty. Only if conditions proved favourable, would the ground attack regiments venture outside the protective comfort of ground anti-aircraft cover.
At 2100hrs precisely, the Red Army steamroller moved forward and crashed into the front positions, bunkers and trenches, which had contained units of the Legion Corps up to three hours beforehand, when most were withdrawn to a line further south.
Soviet infantry swept through the first allied positions, some riding on tanks, others enthusiastically charging forward on foot, all arriving with the expectation of close combat, but finding only the dead.
Men, both civilians and soldiers, who had died of wounds, had been placed in the front line, relieving the living.
Finding only corpses, the Soviet forces praised the effectiveness of their artillery, and charged forward again, running into a hidden defensive line bristling with machine-guns and anti-tank weapons, unbowed by the extensive barrage.
Artillery was switched and mortars deployed, their shells descending on the defenders, killing and maiming with each passing minute.
The assault started again and, yet again, the defence melted away, both legion units moving back quickly to the next defensive position.
Three USAAF Thunderbolts arrived, intent on halting the enemy drive.
Both sides had a grandstand view as the evening turned into day. A Soviet Katyusha round struck the rearmost Thunderbolt, transforming the aircraft into ten thousand pieces of nothingness, all surrounded by a huge orange fireball that slowly burned itself out.
The ground attack was totally ineffective and the two survivors left the field, the leader smoking badly, his engine knocked about by machine-gun fire from the ground.
The two legion units continued to gradually fold back, giving ground, but staying ahead of the enemy advance. The ex-SS soldiers did not give battle, but also ensured the Soviets did not fall out of contact either. It was a skilled withdrawal, designed for a higher purpose.
By the time that midnight brought the new day, 19th Army had been able to report success, already through and beyond the Illkirch-Graffenstaden line, and fighting inside Molsheim.
Other forces were secure on the banks of the Rhine, mirroring the advance southwards, but with next to no opposition.
There was a party atmosphere in 3rd Red Banner’s Headquarters, the supposedly mighty ex-SS units so obviously badly hurt by Plan Berkut. The euphoric mood had quickly found its way to Zhukov’s own headquarters, where a map of Alsace reflected 3rd Red Banner’s breathtaking advance into Alsace.
They had heard the rumbles, instinctively knowing what was causing it. Their leader remembered the soldier’s age-old maxim.
‘Head towards the sound of the guns.’
So they had done so, all of a sudden inspired by the possibility of release from the burden of their circumstances.
The handful of men, survivors of the Zilant assault on the Chateau du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, had stopped for the night, slipping into a hollow covered with fallen tree trunks on the Holzplatz, a piece of higher ground some three hundred metres south of Route 854, and the adjacent watercourse, Le Kirnech.
A double watch had been set, as the small party had been aware of the sounds of an army on the march throughout the Vosges.
Indeed, on their journey to their present hiding place, a number of patrols had forced them to take cover, slowing their progress.
Makarenko, his uniform unrecognisable as that of a Soviet Paratrooper General, took first watch with Nikitin, their eyes enjoying the site of explosives illuminating the undersides of the clouds, and understanding how it meant that salvation was close at hand.
He stretched and yawned quietly, and then froze.
A match flared, probably over a hundred metres away, but none the less, Makarenko realised he had chosen a spot dangerously close to a concealed enemy position.
He debated for a moment, and then chose to withdraw.
Makarenko threw a small piece of wood at Nikitin, gaining the soldier’s attention, and using rapid hand movements to inform him of the threat.