Turbin blew out a plume of smoke from the Belomorkanal cigarette, and it swirled around the officer standing before him. “Akim, Colonel Kharzin’s 48th Tank Regiment crossed the Leine and pushed through the enemy force almost without a pause. To give him and his tank crews a well-deserved rest, all I asked you to do was cross a thinly held line and continue the fight and get us to the big prize: the River Weser.”
The commander of the 200th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment had flinched when the cup flew past him, but still stood stiffly to attention. “We need more artillery support, Comrade General.”
“The first unit was made up of British reservists and you were supported by our airborne prima donnas!”
“Their Milan anti-tank missiles and helicopters have caused havoc with our armour, Comrade General.”
“That’s why we chose your infantry for the task, Colonel Yermakov,” the chief of staff, Colonel Pyotr Usatov, added.
“I will not fail again, Comrade General, Comrade Colonel.”
“I suggest you do not, Colonel. The consequences of failure will be far from pleasant,” eluded the Deputy Commander of the division, Colonel Yolkin.
The Bear looked across at his skinny political officer, a uniform that wore him rather than the other way round. The meaning in the divisional commander’s eyes was undisguised: I will berate my officers, not you.
“The Uman Division does not and will not fail. You will attempt a second breakthrough within the hour. I have secured two Hinds and ten Hips to support you. Allocate some men, find a place to set them down, and punch your way through their lines. Once you have broken them, release your tank battalion immediately to get as deep you can. Understood?”
“Yes, Comrade General, I will not fail you.”
The Bear took a long draw on his cigarette, the red glow eating deep into the tobacco. He blew a steady stream in the air and moved closer to his junior, leaning in close, the scent of smoke and vodka almost choking the officer.
“The 12th Guards Tank Division, my division, is one of the best in the Soviet army. We were chosen especially for this mission to lead our armies to victory. We will not fail our Motherland, Comrade Colonel. You will get your artillery support and transport to fly in an assault-company. Use them and don’t fail. Dismissed.”
The colonel stiffened his body. “Sir.” He saluted and left.
“You were too soft with him, Comrade General,” alleged Colonel Yolkin.
The general shrugged his thickset shoulders and pointed a finger in the political officer’s direction. “I have a suggestion, Comrade Colonel. Why don’t you lead the airborne element behind the enemy’s defences? You can lead the way and show us soldiers how it should really be done.”
Colonel Usatov turned away so he could hide the smile that was breaking out.
“That will be all, Comrade Colonel.”
The political officer shuffled out of the room, seething with anger inside, but not strong enough to challenge the Bear. Not yet, anyway.
“You need to step carefully with him, Comrade General.”
The Bear waved a hand dismissively. “It will take someone bigger than him to frighten me.”
“They say he has friends on high.”
“Let’s just focus on the war, shall we, Pyotr?”
“I see it has been agreed to bring elements of the 10th Division forward.”
“Yes, I know Major-General Abramov well. He has volunteered his men to continue fighting.”
“But once we’re across the Weser and push the enemy either north or south, 20th Guards Army will do the rest.”
The Bear pulled up a chair, sat down, pulled out a flask of vodka, and held it up. “Join me?”
“Of course,” Pyotr responded, smiling. “Rather use your supplies than mine.” The colonel picked up two shot glasses from one of the tables and brought them over. The Bear filled them up and they both drank the first one in silence.
“The 20th have been getting a hammering from the air. The bloody Americans have been getting in some deep strikes. The British Tornados are no better.”
“Agreed, Comrade General, but they’re easily at eighty per cent strength, if not more.”
“I think our political masters are a little worried, my friend,” the Bear whispered. “We have the East German and Polish armies playing a big role. Should they falter… having the 10th close by is just a little bit of insurance, I suspect.”
The general refilled their glasses.
“They’re also going to compete for our supplies. We’ve already had to give the Motor Rifle Regiment ammunition from the other regiments in the division.”
“If Akim had broken through their lines by now, he wouldn’t need any more!” Growled the Bear.
“Still, resupply is slowing down. The supply trucks are starting to break down in ever-greater numbers, and the spares for them just aren’t available. Bring what’s left of the 10th forward? Not only is there not enough room, making some great targets for the NATO bombers and artillery, but also they will need feeding. The distance from the Motherland gets ever longer.”
“Now it is you that needs to tread carefully, my friend. Don’t speak so openly when the rat is around. Eh?”
“Yes, yes, I know. Now, fill that up again if you please, Comrade General.”
A freshly armed Mark-7 Lynx, hovering just behind the line of troops below, dropped down, moved left for 200 metres, and then popped back up again. The pilot had been back to the FARB to rearm and refuel and was now ready to give his support during the next attack. A Gazelle was conducting a reconnaissance further forward, trying to suss out the enemy’s next intentions. As soon as the Gazelle pilot reported, he would take his Lynx further back and wait until needed.
Lieutenant Oliver Thorpe went from position to position, checking on his men. A-Company had to defend the line from Ludersfeld to the Mittellandkanal in the north. His platoon, Second-Platoon, would defend the centre of the Company’s position. The entire road they were on was an avenue of trees, scattered with houses, some of which they occupied, not as defensive positions, but for observation purposes only. He had however moved one of the GPMGs onto the second floor of one of the houses, and was glad that he did. Once the Soviet troops had dismounted from their BMP-2s, the machine gun had caused havoc. Sergeant Cohen’s suggestion that the gun-group change positions frequently, leaving stocks of ammunition in two other buildings, had also paid off. The men had been out of one particular house for only a couple of seconds when a Hind-D helicopter literally tore it apart with four of its S-5 rockets. They had held off the Soviet attack, but at a cost of one man dead and three wounded. When the Soviets attacked again, and he had been assured that they would, he was not sure they could keep the enemy at bay.