Chuikov was delighted and yet, in the same breath, expressed disappointment.
The gains made by 1st Alpine were pretty much according to schedule, with the sole exception of Villach, where the British infantry and tanks had stopped his force bloodily, sending the lead formation reeling backwards.
His orders to the Corps Commander had been simple to understand.
‘Attack again and take the position immediately.’
Chuikov was an uncomplicated general.
Unlike his peers in the European sector, he was prepared for the higher than normal expenditures in the necessaries of war, a preparation that had proved more than adequate as the nature and terrain reduced ammunition and fuel use. The additional toll on his men and animals in portering the heavy loads was not factored in.
A telephone discussion with Yeremenko, recently returned from a meeting with Marshal Konev, had proved timely and fruitful, the men finding their discussion revealled a potential issue at the join between their forces, one that was addressed by swift messages to the Army commanders, requiring a tightening up of the front before the Allies exploited the small void.
Yeremenko echoed Chuikov’s experiences, in as much as 1st Southern European Front was seeing very little by way of Allied air activity.
Soviet air regiments, accepting the problems of operating in extreme conditions, seemed to be doing very well in support, although Yeremenko’s Frontal Aviation Commander had reported higher levels of losses to weather and accident than normal.
None the less, both senior men accepted the ramped up losses in air units as an offset for the close support the Red Air Force was providing.
One coup had been the capture of two usable bridges over the Drau, the first at Patemion, the second totally undamaged at Feistritz an der Drau.
The Red Air Force had savaged a half-hearted RAF attempt to destroy the crossings and decimated a counter-attack aimed at recovering Feistritz. That four of the RAF aircraft had already crashed en route to the target had lessened the enthusiasm of the Allied flyers and the appearance of the Soviet LAGG’s had easily dissuaded the Squadron commander from pressing home the attack.
For Chuikov, being able to put forces on the south-western bank of the Drau meant that his plan to capture Villach was greatly assisted. Its capture would trap a good size portion of the British Army against the Yugoslav border.
In a departure from his normal style, Chuikov had ensured that extremely specific orders had been issued and cascaded down to platoon level, stressing the importance of not violating the Yugoslavian boundaries, a brief he was given directly by Konev at each meeting and during each phone call. Yeremenko constantly received a similar instruction in regard to Swiss neutrality and its preservation.
However, Chuikov had additional and very secret orders that required him to orchestrate an attempt to bring the Yugoslavs into the war against the Allies. He was to promote circumstances where the British and Commonwealth units might be forced into some act that would drag Tito’s soldiers into the fight. When he first received the order, his eyes were drawn to Villach and he cut his cloth accordingly. The capture of Villach was seen as an excellent opportunity to bring that about, by way of Allied units violating the borders of Yugoslavia in an attempt to escape being cut off, whilst the Red Army would be able to look innocent of the charge when the Yugoslavian leader started beating his chest.
The lead units of the 1st Alpine plunged south, taking advantage of their unexpectedly intact river crossings, forces either side of the river almost racing down the Drau valley, the important junction at Villach their goal.
“It’s so cold, Corp.”
Kearney counted it off mentally.
‘That’s the feckin dozenth time, boyo.’
“That’s cos it’s fucking winter, Nipper.”
“Wasn’t ever this fierce at home, Corp, never.”
Kearney’s exasperation prompted him to mischief.
“Did yer hear that, Nipper?”
The new boy took a breath of the painful air before replying in a whisper.
“No, Corp, not a sausage, Corp.”
The NCO raised an eyebrow in judgement, accompanying the gesture with a shake of the head.
“Blimey. Bloody deaf as well’a two left feet, ya eejit.”
The boy had been with the platoon since June and seemed unable to grasp even the most basic of soldierly qualities. However, Kearney was drawn to his honesty and gullibility in equal measure, hence them pairing up on one of the platoon’s Bren guns.
“Listen harder now, boyo.”
Private Walshe screwed up his eyes and strained his ears, concentrating on imagined shadows and sounds coming from the woods to his front. He failed to see the small motion of Corporal Kearney’s left hand, flicking two stones to one side, one after the other.
“Feck me yes, Corp. Two noises, clear as day they were!”
His whispers sounded like shouts in the still night and Kearney wished he hadn’t started the game, but only for a moment.
“That were the sound of ma balls dropping off, you stupid gobshite!”
The boy’s clear confusion undermined Kearney’s pleasure at the prank.
“Oh feckin hell, nipper! Just slagging ya. Jesus.”
A third voice joined in.
“Shut yer fucking mouth, Kearney, yer fucking header. One more prank like that and I’ll have the fucking stripes off yer… one more fucking time and that’ll be an end to it, y’hear me?”
Not getting any reaction from the Corporal, Sergeant Reddan continued.
“Yer’s just throwing shapes for the lad here, trying to impress. Now tend your front, Corporal and no more of this holy show!”
“Sergeant.”
That was all Kearney managed.
Their small position, covering a modest junction on the Draubodenweg, was abruptly transformed from night into day as the first of a sextet of flares exploded and shed its light over the Inniskilling’s positions and the No Man’s land to their front, an area that was suddenly and very obviously occupied by moving figures, all closing rapidly.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary! Stand to! Stand to!”
With the light came bullets, lots of them, as the need for secrecy was gone. Soviet heavy machine guns started to bathe the British positions with lead.
Tracer bullets had more than one effect. In simple terms, the fiery tails permitted the gunner to adjust his aim more accurately, as he could see where the bullets were going. An additional benefit was that the sight of deadly glowing lead tested the nerve of the most steadfast of men, and many a bullet that was missing by a yard had the effect of making a soldier duck or miss his shot.
Vickers and Brens started to compete with Maxims and DPs, and the ducking and missing spread to both sides.
Fighting also erupted north of the Drau River, where the much-depleted London Irish Battalion suddenly found itself in a similar predicament.
The whole valley became a whirlwind of flying bullets, mortar shells, and flares; add into the mix the shouts and screams of frightened, dying men, and the Drau had become a living nightmare.
Reddan had no choice. There was no-one he would rather be with less than Kearney, but the space between positions was too deadly to traverse for him to regain his own foxhole, so the ex-battalion boxing champion moved in beside the present encumbent who had knocked out three of his teeth in the process and brought his Enfield into play.