The thunder was supplemented by a growing Allied artillery barrage, fired blind at likely areas of concentration or routes of advance.
A drenched signals officer slipped under the tarpaulin.
“Comrade PodPolkovnik. Comrade General Golov on the radio, demanding a situation report on the attack’s progress.”
Lieutenant Colonel Sarkashian shared a silent look with his 2IC.
“Relay my orders to all units, Vadim. Send out more patrols… get me information that I can use to make a better plan. I’ll speak to Golov. He’ll understand.”
They shared a quick salute and went their separate ways.
As it happened, Golov was not at all understanding, but the advance had stalled for a number of reasons and, eventually, the plan was abandoned as Allied reinforcements arrived, all set against the back drop of one of the worst European storms in living memory.
By the time that night arrived, it had not yet abated, and kept many a soldier awake into the small hours.
One soldier who managed to find the solace of sleep was rudely awakened by his commanding officer, who produced a priority air transport order and documentation guaranteeing two full weeks leave in Sochi, the Soviet holiday resort on the Black Sea.
Whilst his mind was full of questions, Yuri Nazarbayev assumed it had something to do with his wife and, in any case, refused to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Within twenty minutes, he was on his way, leaving the harsh realities of war and the bloody stalemate that was Parchim-Dutschow behind him.
Nazarbayeva, her mind cloaked in a protective wrapping of vodka-induced carelessness, opened the curtains and sat watching the display.
Overhead, Allied bombers plied their trade, as they visited the Soviet capital with thousands of pounds of high-explosive and incendiaries.
Below, the anti-aircraft batteries sent shell after shell into the sky, seemingly without any reward, save that their bark boosted the resilience of the Muscovites who cowered in their cellars and shelters.
Moscow had seen the war up close before, but of late, the Allied visits had become more numerous, and more devastating.
Advances in radar technology meant that their cargoes could be laid more accurately, even in the darkest and cloudiest of nights, something that Soviet repair engineers understood only too well, as the factories, offices, and worker’s accommodations suffered heavily over the weeks.
But not the Kremlin.
The decision had been made not to target the Soviet leadership.
Nazarbayeva’s nakedness was constantly illuminated by the flash of gun or bomb, but she swiftly concealed it as she elected to dress herself and take to the balcony, the better to see what damage was being wreaked upon her Motherland’s capital city.
The attack abated markedly, and she went out into the cool air expecting the illuminations and firing to fall away.
But the second wave of bombers arrived, and the battle was joined again.
She enjoyed the cooling breeze, so took a seat and poured herself another drink.
Poboshkin’s face flashed through her mind and she raised her tumbler to his memory.
A flash, larger than most, caught her eye, and she was treated to the spectacle of a large burning bomber falling from the sky with all the grace of a dead pigeon.
Instead of toasting her dead aide, she made a small gesture, offering her drink up to the men who were dead or about to die in the fiery fuselage.
She refilled the exquisite crystal tumbler and paid tribute to Poboshkin, raising her glass to his memory before sending the fiery liquid down her throat.
And then, in turn, to each of the other members of her staff, claimed by Beria’s orders.
She quickly tired of the display and the alcohol, and the bed drew her into its embrace… and sleep came…
…a sleep with lost faces…
…a sleep with vivid memories…
…a sleep with awful demons…
…a sleep with unexpected questions…
The DC-4, an original USAAF VIP transport version that had been captured intact during the early stages of the new war, held twenty-two souls, not including the crew.
Decked out as a military hospital plane, it had plied its trade without a single incident for months, despite frequently encountering the enemy aircraft that roamed deeper and more freely into the Soviet heartlands.
Not that a single casualty had ever been carried in its comfortable interior.
The markings remained in place purely to protect the important passengers.
As the modern transport aircraft taxied out to start its take-off, Nazarbayev eased her damaged foot out of her boot, feeling the relief immediately, and looked around her, assessing her travelling companions.
She recognised the sole naval officer, but wasn’t sure from where and when.
Putting him to the back of her mind, knowing that trying to recall the man would occupy her later, she examined the others, who were mainly military men.
Some she had exchanged nods with, acquaintances from meetings in the Kremlin and elsewhere.
Some she had exchanged nods with, but was none the wiser as to their identity or role.
Nazarbayeva suddenly realised that the man in front and to her right had turned round and was looking directly at her.
“May I, Comrade Mayor General?”
He indicated the seat directly across the aisle from her.
“As you wish, Comrade Leytenant General.”
The old man repositioned himself, allowing Nazarbayeva to weigh him up… his decorations… his difficulty in moving… his shortness of breath.
He flopped into his seat and extended his hand.
“Gurundov… Vassily Gurundov… People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs.”
“Nazarbaye…”
“I know who you are, Comrade.”
The man chuckled warmly, putting Nazarbayeva strangely at ease.
“Everyone knows who you are.”
He coughed and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away something unpleasant.
Unbidden, he offered up an explanation.
“Lungs are shot… Eastern front in the first war… German gas attack… still killed my fair share of the bastards though.”
He wiped again, as he was racked with another bout of coughing.
“Think the bastards will do for me soon enough.”
The handkerchief disappeared and the conversation died as the engines ran up to take-off power.
Neither of them spoke until the ascent was complete, and the ‘hospital plane’ was set on its course to Rostov-na-Donu.
Gurundov fished in his pocket and brought out a flask of vodka, pouring two measures in the modest silver cups, and offered one to the female GRU officer.
“Let us toast to your successes and victory for the Motherland, Comrade Mayor General.”
Nazarbayeva shook her head.
“To victory, Comrade General Gurundov. My successes have not been great of late.”
“A setback… happens to all of us… but… as you wish… to Victory!”
They knocked back their measures, which amounted to hair of the dog for Nazarbayeva.
“You have done your best for the Motherland. Comrade Nazarbayeva, and Comrade Stalin understands that. Otherwise, why would he permit you and your husband to spend two weeks in his most favourite place in the whole Motherland, eh?”
Nazarbayeva’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Leytenant General, but how do you know that? I only found out myself some hours ago.”
Gurundov chuckled again, holding out his hands, palms first, in a silent admission that he knew what he knew.
He added an explanation to calm the clearly worried GRU officer.