“General, I think we can assume that the Russian commander is not a fool. The Russians had a number of incompetents in command at the beginning of our invasion in 1940, but the realities of warfare took care of them. While it is likely that this General Bazarian is not at the head of his class, he has several advantages and will use them effectively.”
Von Schumann looked around the headquarters. They were all looking at him as if he were a schoolmaster delivering a lecture. There might not be anything new in what he was going to say, but they wanted to hear it again.
“The Russian,” von Schumann continued, “can mass his army and his tanks wherever he wishes and without our knowledge. He will attack in overwhelming strength at a place and time of his choosing, while we have to anticipate his attack occurring anywhere along our perimeter.
“Therefore, I believe he will launch a number of probing attacks before the major attack. He will not be looking for a weak spot-he knows there aren’t any-but he will be seeking to confuse us, make us expend ammunition, and, perhaps, make us commit our reserves to a wrong location, which would hinder their redeployment.”
Von Schumann looked about for disagreement and saw none. “When he does launch his main attack, it will be with what he hopes will be overwhelming force at that particular spot. His advantage is in numbers, nothing else. He will hope to get his soldiers inside our defenses and commence a battle of mutual slaughter in which his men can inflict enough casualties on us so that we will be unable to continue as an effective force.”
Leland blinked in disbelief. “But that means he would be destroying his own army in order to do so.”
It was a statement that had been made before, and it was still a difficult concept for an American, bred to conserve life, to accept. The appalling ruthlessness of the Russian army and its almost total disregard for human life when it needed to gain an objective had appalled Germans as well.
“But Bazarian would be saving face, his career, and possibly his life if he were to eliminate what he perceives as a cancer,” von Schumann admonished gently. “He will most happily pay that price in the lives of others.”
At that moment, yelled messages interrupted them. Tanks were reported approaching the very western flank of the perimeter, where it reached the shallower lake.
“What models?” von Schumann inquired, and he was told they were older-model BT5s and not the dreaded T34s. “Your dug-in Shermans will be able to handle them.”
“Are there infantry?” Miller barked, and received an affirmative response. “Then that’s it. We get the reserves ready to move out. So much for probing attacks.”
Von Schumann was uneasy. The perimeter’s reserves consisted of the equivalent of one platoon of Shermans, a handful of M10 tank destroyers, and two battalions of infantry. Other tanks were dug in and hidden around the perimeter. Once ordered, the reserves would move out to preplanned and well-dug-in positions and be difficult to destroy, but awkward to extricate if the attack were not the main one.
“How many tanks?” von Schumann asked.
“Outposts are pulling back so they don’t get overrun, but indications are maybe twenty.”
“And they are definitely not T34s?” Miller asked.
“They don’t absolutely know, sir. They say they aren’t all that familiar with Russian tanks, but they’re reasonably certain they ain’t T34s.”
Damn, thought von Schumann. The inability of the Americans to pick out Russian tank types was something they hadn’t thought of.
“Tell them this is important,” he snapped, and the radio operator jumped. “Ask them if the Russian tanks look like the German Panther.” He could only hope the lookout was familiar with German armor.
“No, sir. They don’t.”
Von Schumann chuckled. “This isn’t the main attack, General Miller. They are not using T34s, therefore this is only a face-saving diversion by this Bazarian.”
“You’re certain?” Miller asked.
“The German Panther tank was a Nazi response to the Russian T34. The silhouettes are very similar. I believe the attacking tanks are indeed the BT5s we know he has. Their primary use nowadays is for scouting, not heavy combat.” He thought quickly. “Perhaps Bazarian doesn’t have any modern tanks? Perhaps Moscow considers this a backwater?”
“But sir,” said Leland, surprising himself by acknowledging the German’s higher rank. “The Russians do have heavier tanks than the T34. Could these be their heavies, the JS series?”
Von Schumann pondered. “But we have seen no indication that any of their JS, or Josef Stalin, heavy tanks are in the area. It is highly unlikely that they would be utilized here. I also think your scouts would recognize those monsters.”
Miller chewed his pipe. “The reserves sit tight and wait. I think von Schumann’s correct, and we’ll let our local defenses handle this. We won’t tip our hand unless we absolutely have to.”
A few hundred yards away, Jack Logan peered through the firing slit of the bunker. Russian artillery was trying to chew up the barbed wire strung about fifty yards in front of him, and where the ditches didn’t obstruct the route to the bunker. The cannonade didn’t seem to be having much effect on the interlaced strands of wire. In front of that barrier was a series of overlapping antitank ditches. The engineers who had planned Potsdam’s defenses said the Russian tanks couldn’t cross them or climb them as long as the ground was dry, so their tanks and their supporting infantry would have to maneuver around them. This would place both Russian armor and men in the barbed wire and mines.
Beyond the ditches and wire was a clear field of fire that extended a quarter mile to a road that was obscured by bushes. The Russians, if they came at him, would come from there, which was why Captain Dimitri had put outposts just beyond it.
“The captain reports tanks approaching the road,” yelled Crawford. Dennis Bailey, the new platoon sergeant, took the walkie-talkie from him and spoke quickly.
“Captain says the lookouts are coming back and we should watch for them,” Bailey added. “But he said they see a lot of Red tanks-not the big ones, thank God-and a whole horde of infantry.”
How many in a horde? Jack wondered. He thought that the lookouts could have stayed a little longer and given a more precise count, but quickly realized it really didn’t matter. They had not been ordered to commit suicide, which is what would have happened had they stayed. What was important was that a large number of Russians was headed his way. They would know the precise number soon enough.
The rumble of guns firing behind them was followed by explosions beyond the field as American guns hit the advancing Russians, who were still hidden from their view. “About time,” someone yelled. The one-sidedness of the artillery fire had been galling. Several Russian tanks were hit and exploded.
The Red artillery fired a few more salvos and slackened, then ceased. Tanks burst through the shrubs and were followed by a mob of Russians.
“Open fire,” Logan yelled, and all the machine guns, BARs, and rifles in the bunker commenced to chatter. Other bunkers in the defensive line opened fire along with his. Logan put his rifle to his shoulder and emptied an eight-shot clip, replaced it, emptied and replaced that one. He could see the infantry falling and littering the field with twitching bodies. There was the muffled bang of mines going off, killing more Russians to add to the din, but the remaining tanks kept coming and the infantry was being replaced by a second wave. Logan saw that some of them were carrying ladders just like in the Middle Ages.
The wave of humanity reached ditches and slowed, as did the tanks. Temporarily foiled, the tanks opened fire on the bunkers confronting them with cannon and machine guns while the soldiers with ladders lowered themselves into the ditches as others tried to find their way through the maze of wire. Logan fired again and again, and had the angry satisfaction of seeing more Russians fall.