Malinsky shrugged to himself. He was not interested in history lessons. But he made a mental note. For the next war. The technical means of reconnaissance were sufficiently powerful. But the men behind them, who had to analyze the data and make judgments, needed further development. One good man like Dudorov could not do it all by himself.
Starukhin’s quartering party had selected a fine site for the command post, tucked into a row of West German warehouses spacious enough to hold all of the command and support vehicles. The lessons of the first two days had been assimilated very quickly. Command posts set up in the countryside could be located and targeted almost effortlessly. The cover and concealment of built-up areas at least offered a chance at survival. Increasingly, this was a war of cities and towns, and of roads.
The din of generators wrapped the command post in a cocoon of noise within the outer shell of the warehouses, and fumes clotted the atmosphere. But the opportunity to work with all of the lights turned on around the clock more than compensated for the bad air.
Starukhin suddenly raised his voice, drawing Malinsky’s eyes. The army commander quickly got his temper back under control, but it was clear that things were not going well. In the rear, the encircled German corps was attempting a breakout from the Hannover area. Malinsky believed that the inner ring of the encirclement was sufficiently powerful to hold the Germans, or, at a minimum, to channel them onto routes where they would become hopelessly vulnerable and impotent to affect the main thrusts of the front. Still, the added pressure of yet another subbattle was hardly welcome at the moment.
Starukhin dispatched a nervous staff colonel on a mission, waving his big paws in the air. Then the army commander turned toward Malinsky, wearing the look of a dog who suspects he might have a beating coming.
Starukhin came up so close that Malinsky could smell the big man’s stale sweat. The army commander looked down at his superior, clearly ill at ease.
“What is it?” Malinsky asked.
“Comrade Front Commander… the situation along your son’s route of march has become critical.”
“You mean the situation along the route of march of the Third Brigade of the Forty-ninth Corps,” Malinsky corrected, struggling to control his facial muscles.
“Yes, the Third Brigade,” Starukhin agreed. “It’s very bad, Comrade Front Commander.”
“What does the corps commander have to say? Does Anseev believe he can master the situation?”
Anton. Malinsky knew that it was not right to think of the boy now. He risked losing all perspective. Thinking of the boy who had grown into a man, yet who would always remain a boy to him. Malinsky ached to see his son. And, he realized helplessly, he wanted to protect him. To shield him from the harms of the grown-up world.
But Anton was a soldier. A guards colonel in the Malinsky tradition. In the Russian tradition. He would have to do his duty.
Anton. Malinsky could see his son’s fine, clear features before him. Surely, he would look disheveled now. Black circles. The boy would be tired. He had been on the march for a long time. Malinsky imagined the scene at the brigade command post. Anton weary, but firmly in control, a pillar of strength for his subordinates. Or perhaps he had already gone forward, to direct the combat action in person. It was, of course, a difficult question, given the temporal and spatial issues of modern war.
To what extent could a commander permit himself to be drawn into the fight? How much distance did he have to maintain to retain an adequate, objective overview? Malinsky felt confident that his son would evaluate the situation and do the right thing.
“Comrade Front Commander,” Starukhin continued, “we have temporarily lost communications with the corps-level command posts. We can talk to your son’s — I mean the Third Brigade — however.”
“You can’t have lost all means of communications.”
The buildings trembled as distant explosions walloped the earth, dusting the already bad air.
“The Americans are conducting extensive radio electronic combat operations to support their attack.”
Or they’ve hit Anseev’s command posts, Malinsky thought. Anseev was a good man. Why couldn’t he get his corps under control?
“Have you tried the corps’ rear control post?” Malinsky asked.
Starukhin nodded. “Oh, yes. We can talk to them. But they can’t reach Anseev, either. The rear is in the dark worse than anybody.”
Malinsky pondered the situation for a moment, then reached for a cigarette. Calmly, he told himself, do it calmly. Do not let him see a trace of emotion.
“And your situation? Tell me about the Third Shock Army.”
“We’ll manage. We’ll hold them. They’ll never cross the Weser River line.”
“What about the Hameln crossing site? They could be heading straight for it.”
Starukhin wiped a paw across his unshaven chin. “They’d have to break in. I have a tank regiment on the west bank. And if they broke in, they’d never get back out. The British force in Hameln is sealed off. They’re fighting like savages to keep us out, but they’ll just provide that many more prisoners in the end.”
“Any further communications from our air-assault force in Hameln?”
“Nothing further,” Starukhin said. “Not since yesterday.”
Malinsky carefully lit his cigarette. “Go on.”
“I’m moving covering troops and forward detachments across the river at multiple points. The first line of defense will be in front of the hills beyond the river. The Tenth Guards Tank Division holds the Bad Oeynhausen sector, with a grouping from the Seventh at Rinteln. The Forty-seventh Tank Division and the Twelfth are committed to the encirclement of the German operational grouping and the Hannover fight, in conjunction with elements of the Second Guards Tank Army. I’m reorganizing my East German division as a counterattack force.”
Malinsky was surprised. “They’ve done well, then, our little German comrades?”
“Good tools,” Starukhin said. “They make very good tools, the Germans.” He smiled.
“All right. But don’t commit the counterattack force without my approval. I want to know exactly where the Americans are headed. We must not commit prematurely. Also, I’m going to order the release of a mechanized airborne force to you. You’ll have two reinforced regiments. I want you to employ them as light armor, working around urbanized terrain.”
Starukhin bobbed his head in agreement, obviously pleased with the gift of additional forces, minor though they were. Malinsky knew that Starukhin would fight hard with every weapon put into his hand. It was only his impulsiveness that worried the front commander.
“Yes,” Malinsky said. “The most desirable thing is certainly to hold them west of the Weser and south of the Rinteln-Herford-Borgholzhausen line. I don’t want them interfering with the progress of the Second Guards Tank Army. And we need to hold open as many bridgeheads as possible for follow-on forces.”
“How long do you think we’ll need to hold on,” Starukhin asked, “before fresh divisions come up?” It was unprecedented for Starukhin to ask such a question, so totally devoid of swagger. It brought home the seriousness of the situation to Malinsky.
The front commander put down his cigarette and pushed back his sleeve. He checked his watch. To his surprise, he found that it was full morning. It would be broad daylight outside.
“Twelve hours,” he guessed, wishing Chibisov was on hand, ready with his clear-cut, confident answers.
A staff officer approached the two generals. From the movement of his eyes, Malinsky could see that the officer was far more worried about Starukhin’s possible reaction to his presence than about Malinsky.
Malinsky’s stare caused Starukhin to turn.