Speer considered the toast and decided to up the ante.
“No, I think we’ll drink to something greater. To our resurgent fatherland… to Deutschland!”
“Deutschland!”
1801 hrs, Monday, 3rd February 1947, Office of the Deputy Commander of Armoured Forces Training, Moscow Military District. Moscow, USSR.
“Please sit, old friend.”
Yarishlov ushered Ramsey towards a seat by the roaring fire and moved towards the sideboard, where he poured two good measures of Dalwhinnie single malt, a case of which had been appropriated and passed on by the very man who was about to consume some.
“Na Zdorovie!”
They sampled the delights of the superb whisky in a silence broken only by the crack and spit of logs on the fire.
Yarishlov spoke first.
“So, your time here has been coming to a end, John.”
“Yes. We’re scaling down now that the main work is done. I must say I won’t miss the bloody weather here.”
“Me too.”
“Oh? So you have some news eh?”
“Yes, I have. I have been transferred… somewhere being warmer in summer.”
“Is this good or bad, Arkady?”
“Good for sure. I hating all this politics shit. I’ve new job training qualified tankers in battle practices. No more ‘this is how you being in a tank, this is how you firing the gun’… perfect for me, John.”
“Dare I ask where?”
“It’s not secret facility but you will be understand if I, with regret, say nothing, except perhaps that it is near the Volga.”
“I regret my knowledge of your country lets me down at this point. The Volga’s quite long, but I’m assuming down south if it’s warmer?”
“Another?”
Ramsey held up his glass for a freshener.
“Yes, down south. No more or I’ll have the NKVD arrest you for a spy. Let us be happy but I will get to be proper soldier again.”
The glass returned and they clinked them together.
“To your new post, Arkady. I hope it’ll bring you joy.”
“To your return home to your wife and family, John.”
They drained the scotch easily.
“Now, we must leave for the goodbye reception. We’ll talk more in my car.”
The two friends had long since agreed that their conversations would not be the subject of reports to superiors, as were the official expectations for all such encounters between the different military groups.
That both actually did was suspected, and both men understood that the other was a patriot first, a friend second.
In the car, Yarishlov explained that he expected that the new assignment to the tank training unit would be a backwater, and that his career would stagnate, but he balanced that against the joy of being with proper soldiers again, as well as being able to pass on the lessons learned in more desperate times.
His wounds meant he would never lead men again in the field, so the new post was a golden opportunity, despite the modest nature of the facility.
That was something that Ramsey could wholly understand.
Although both his new jobs offered stimulation, there was nothing like the challenge of commanding men in the field.
The reception was a jolly affair, its highlight being Horrocks’ rendition of Stanley Holloway’s ‘Battle of Hastings’ monologue in Russian, complete with a more than reasonable attempt at Holloway’s accent and style, which both confused and amused his audience.
Their hosts completed the evening with a drunken ‘Kalinka’ that extended well beyond the normal time and reduced in volume as more and more performers fell by the way side, succumbing to the excesses of the evening.
At 0800 the following morning, the new delegation took its place at the table, and the old group were in the air, nursing headaches and pleasant memories.
With the exception of Ramsey, who could think only of his friend.
Partly emotionally, as a man who has bonded with a fellow warrior and is then parted can be; parted probably forever, by circumstances beyond their control.
Partly professionally, as a man who sensed rather than knew that something was not as it seemed, and that a Major-General of Tanks with Yarishlov’s pedigree simply did not get side-lined in such a fashion, and that his friend had to be destined for something more important than command of a training camp.
He would have been surprised to learn that he was wrong on all counts, although the fortunes of war would later conspire to make him right in the most extreme and bloody way.
1329 hrs, Wednesday, 5th February 1947, Raudonė, Lithuania.
‘The Shield of St. Michael’ had relocated after the births of four healthy baby girls.
Karen Greim had borne her daughter first, almost nine months to the day that she was incarcerated.
Next had been one of the Shield’s fighters, who brought twin girls into an uncertain world.
The move had been delayed even as the group had prepared to move off, as Renata Luistikaite completed the cycle with another girl.
Now, the newborns were crèched with some of the older women and, Renata aside, their mothers were back in the fighting line.
‘The Shield’ had returned to a previous haunt, one from their time opposing the Soviet advance into their country in 1944, a spot that had remained undiscovered and offered them the advantages of fresh water and dense cover, combined with existing structures that needed little attention to make them warm and habitable.
The dense forest surrounding Raudonė, Route 141, and the Neman River offered them sanctuary, peace, and a chance to warm their bones.
Pyragius had returned to full health and Mikenas had resumed her position as his second.
Their conversation with Bottomley, through Cookson, was rudely interrupted by the appearance of Audra Karelis.
Beckoning Pyragius to one side, she softly passed on her information, accompanying it with gestures to add weight to her words.
The leader simply nodded and returned to the main discussion.
“We may have an opportunity. One of our scouts spotted some communists working on the riverbank at Pupkaimis. It would appear they are renewing a small jetty and creating moorings.”
Cookson finished translating.
“Boats?”
Pyragius grinned, understanding that the Englishman had grasped the situation.
“Barges.”
He fingered the map, indicating a place on the river that was not too far from where they presently stood.
“Two kilometres… no more, Sah.”
“Ask our friend why the Russians would use barges.”
Janina Mikenas answered the question.
Cookson smiled his way through the translation.
“A little less noticeable possibly? Easier to shift larger and heavier loads, plus, as she says, it’s more difficult for the Shield to mine a river.”
Bottomley smiled at the woman.
“So, the scouts think they’re planning to sit into the bank at Pupkaimis.”
Antanas Pyragius nodded, which reply Bottomley understood perfectly.
He also understood that Pyragius was a cautious man, and the fact that he had just moved his group to the area for recuperation and rest would probably mean that the Russian river convoy would probably go on its way unmolested.
The balance of that was the need for food and medical supplies, both of which had been reduced over recent weeks.
It took little time to decide that the convoy offered an opportunity that could not be ignored, but that caution dictated that they would steal their needs, rather than attack and destroy it.