Marshal Ivan Konev, the commander-in-chief of the 1st Ukrainian Front, snapped to attention, but tried not to wear the same startled expression as the other men in the small operations room.
Malenkoy pretended to carry on with his work, placing the finishing touches to the charts outlining the main components of his maskirovka, but he was too excited to concentrate. The starting gun for the race to Berlin was already raised; Shaposhnikov’s sudden arrival meant that the firing hammer had just been cocked.
The Marshals seemed to measure each other up before embracing.
“Welcome to Branodz, Comrade Shaposhnikov,” Konev said. “From here you will witness the beginning of the destruction of the heart of the Third Reich.”
“I aim to have a hand in it myself,” Shaposhnikov said, loud enough for everyone to catch the remark. Malenkoy had heard of the man’s charisma. Now he could feel it.
“It would be an honour to have our efforts on the 1st Ukrainian Front guided by your hand,” Konev said.
A sudden burst of radio traffic cut through the stilted exchange. The operator, a young lieutenant, moved to silence the screech of static that accompanied the words of the field commander and listen instead to the man’s status report through the headset.
“Leave it,” Shaposhnikov ordered over the noise. “It sounds better than any symphony to an old man who has heard nothing but the snow and leaves fall in Moscow these past months. I didn’t know how much I had missed the battlefield until this moment.”
General Nerchenko took a step forward. “Get on with your work,” he barked, first at the lieutenant, then at the rest of them, sweeping the operations room with his gaze. “The Comrade Marshal will not tolerate complacency in the hour of our victory.”
Malenkoy redoubled his efforts at checking the maskirovka, even though there was nothing more to do. His part in the build-up was all but complete and now he was only left with reporting its conclusion to Nerchenko, as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
Konev bristled momentarily at the way his second in command had undermined his authority, but said nothing. He was aware that there was some personal friendship between Shaposhnikov and his number two and he did not want to suffer the ignominy of a rebuke from the Marshal in front of his men. He just wanted Shaposhnikov out of there as quickly as possible so that he could attend to running the war in the sector he regarded very much as his own. The last thing he needed was interference from Moscow.
“I am afraid we have had no time to prepare a room for you, Comrade Marshal Shaposhnikov,” Konev said.
Shaposhnikov waved him aside. “Do not concern yourself. I will share the quarters of my old friend, General Nerchenko. It is some time now since we taught together at Voroshilov. We have much to talk about.”
“Perhaps you would like to begin your tour of the front? As soon as you have settled in, that is.” Konev wanted elbow room.
“The Comrade Marshal is tired after the long journey, no doubt,” Nerchenko cut in. “I will take him and his ADC, Colonel Krilov, to my quarters immediately.”
“So be it.” Konev gave a curt nod and clicked his heels.
A cry, muffled by the crackle of static electricity, burst from the radio. The field commander’s bulletin had been interrupted by some sort of attack.
Konev shrugged it off. “It is just a probing mission by a German reconnaissance platoon; there have been several in the past week.”
As all attention was drawn towards the exchange between the radio operator and the officer in the field, punctuated by sharp, whip-like cracks of background rifle-fire, no one noticed Krilov appear at the doorway. He quickly surveyed the room, saw Shaposhnikov hunched over the radio, then beckoned Nerchenko.
“We will leave you now, Comrade Marshal,” Nerchenko said to Konev. “I will be back as soon as I have settled our distinguished guest into my quarters.”
Malenkoy sensed, rather than heard, Shaposhnikov and Nerchenko coming back towards him. When he looked up from his work, he stared straight into the General’s face.
“Report to me outside in five minutes, Major,” Nerchenko snapped. “I want to hear the status of the maskirovka.”
Once they were a hundred metres from the entrance to the wooden alpine villa that served as Konev’s headquarters, Krilov spoke quickly, trying to keep his voice down.
“It’s arrived, Comrade Marshal. The Berezniki consignment is here.”
Krilov had not expected the convoy to make such rapid progress.
Shaposhnikov scanned the clearing, an area of several hundred square metres stripped of pine forest and now bustling with military vehicles. In the queue of GAZ jeeps, trucks and motorcycles lined up behind the checkpoint he saw the convoy he had last encountered at the Ostrava rail-head.
The almost boyish excitement that had lit the Marshal’s eyes inside the HQ was gone. “A little earlier than we anticipated, but at least it is here safe and sound.”
He breathed the cold, crisp air appreciatively, a gesture that was lost on neither of the two men before him. Nerchenko, especially, had been able to think of little else in the past few hours. All it would have taken was one bullet to puncture a shell casing in one of the trucks… He realized his aggressiveness in the HQ had been a direct consequence of this nervousness, but he had been unable to control it.
“The documentation and packaging registers the consignment as sanitation equipment, but it should be stowed as quickly as possible,” Krilov said. “Konev and the NKVD are too close for my liking.”
“It is already taken care of,” Nerchenko said.
As if on cue, the door of the HQ opened and Malenkoy appeared in the bright sunshine. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the glare and then dropped it the moment he spotted Nerchenko, with Marshal Shaposhnikov and a colonel by his side, in the midst of the clearing. He broke into his best parade ground step and brought himself to attention a metre in front of Nerchenko.
“Comrade General, the maskirovka is complete.”
“Good, Major,” Nerchenko said. “All that remains is for you to start the radio transmissions and light the fires at Chrudim. First, however, I want you to assist in some administrative work here at Branodz.”
“Yes, Comrade General.” Malenkoy’s gaze remained straight, despite the desire to look towards Shaposhnikov.
“You see that line of trucks over there? Take some men and get them marshalled immediately. Colonel Krilov here will show you where to put all the crates. We don’t want Comrade Marshal Shaposhnikov to have to suffer the sight or smell of sanitation equipment on his illustrious visit to the front, do we.”
“No, Comrade General.” He snapped to attention and turned to go, a hot flush of embarrassment rising to the roots of his hair.
“Major.” Shaposhnikov’s calm voice stopped Malenkoy in his tracks.
“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”
“General Nerchenko has spoken to me of your efforts with the maskirovka at Chrudim. I myself would like to congratulate you for what you have done there.”
Malenkoy mumbled his thanks and walked with Krilov towards the trucks. His humiliation at being asked to hump crates of sanitation equipment evaporated, and there was a new spring in his step.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kruze looked at his watch. In just over an hour he would be in the Auster. The cocoon-like environment of the EAEU had often sheltered him from the real war, and sometimes he’d been grateful for it. Now, at Stabitz, its aircraft and buildings still smouldering from the fires set by the Luftwaffe as it retreated to the next bolt-hole a few miles down the road, he knew he was about to make amends.