Vectored into the Russian airplane stream by radar, they had chewed on the formations and then watched incredulously as transport planes disgorged hundreds, perhaps thousands of paratroopers onto the American defenses.
Galland had reviewed German airborne operations, such as the disaster on Crete, where an entire German paratroop division had virtually been destroyed, and knew that the attacks by his and American planes, however belated, meant that Russian paratroops would be landing nowhere near their intended drop zone. But was that important to them? Wherever they landed they could spread chaos. Had they misjudged the Russians once more?
Others in his squadron continued to report a lack of targets. In a little while, they would have to return to base. Despite its superiority as a weapon, the ME-262 did have one major drawback. Its maximum range was only 650 miles, and that didn’t leave much time to search for an enemy.
Galland looked at the ground below. They were almost directly above the river and he could see small, dirty clouds where explosions had already taken place as well as the flashes of new ones. Poor bastards, he thought. Who the hell would ever want to fight down there? Give me a plane and the blue sky anytime. If I have to die, let it be as a bird in flight, not a rodent in a burrow.
Bazarian smiled at his guest and offered the disgusting creature another drink of liberated schnapps. It was readily accepted. The Russian was well on his way to getting totally stinking drunk.
“This is piss” was General Vladmir Rudnev’s response. He had been making the same comment for each of the six very large drinks he had consumed. Rudnev might not particularly care for the German liquor, but he accepted it as an adequate substitute for his normal quart of vodka per day. Either that or, Bazarian thought, the pig actually liked to drink piss.
“Of course it is, dear comrade General.” Bazarian oozed warmth. Even though he slightly outranked Rudnev, he needed him, or at least what Rudnev could bring with him in the coming battle for Potsdam.
Rudnev belched and Bazarian recoiled from the stench of the man’s breath. Rudnev was a short, stocky man in his early forties. He had piggy little eyes and a small, tight mouth. His peasant background was evident in everything he did. His hands were large and coarse and he smelled of unwashed skin and old underclothing. For Bazarian, who considered himself somewhat of an aristocrat, it disgusted him that such a creature could have risen to a position of authority within the Soviet Union. Under normal circumstances, he would not have acknowledged Rudnev’s existence.
But these were not normal circumstances. Rudnev commanded a brigade of armor that was hidden and stalled on railroad tracks a few miles away. Bazarian had told him that the rail lines to the west had been destroyed in a hundred spots, and Rudnev had accepted that as fact and promptly commenced drinking.
Bazarian had not quite told the truth. In fact, it was possible for Rudnev to proceed a good deal farther west toward the climactic battle being fought on the Weser. In all probability, however, many, if not all, of Rudnev’s tanks would have been destroyed by American planes before they arrived, and that would have been a terrible waste. They were fresh, new, fully crewed, and, most important, full of diesel and ammo, although with nothing additional in reserve. Rudnev agreed that he would need more fuel when he left the trains and proceeded overland. Both men understood it was unlikely that he would find any; thus, sooner or later and well before the Weser, Rudnev’s tanks would run dry.
Bazarian smiled. “It is a stinking shame that you are being deprived of the glory that would surely be yours if you were able to reach the war.”
“It is.” Rudnev reached for the bottle and poured some more. Bazarian considered the possibility that the man had an iron stomach. “I long for the right to kill the enemies of the state,” Rudnev stated piously and belched again.
“I know. And, even when the tracks are finally repaired, the battle will doubtless be over before you arrive, if indeed you arrive at all. And, should you decide to go by road, you will not have enough fuel to make it anywhere near the Weser, and there are no reserves to draw from. I have heard that we have crossed the river and are driving on the Rhine. We shall quickly cross over that barrier as well and storm into Antwerp. With that, the Allied coalition will collapse and the war will end. A shame”-Bazarian sighed-“and you will still be here.”
Rudnev slammed down his glass, splashing both men. “I want to fight. I want to kill the fucking Germans-I mean Americans.”
When he glowered, as he was doing now, Rudnev reminded Bazarian of a picture he had once seen of an angry chimpanzee. “Comrade General, let me offer you the opportunity to fight and destroy the enemies of the state.”
Rudnev blinked. He was having difficulty thinking. “How?”
“My orders have always been to first contain and then destroy the American forces in Potsdam. Because of the needs of the other fronts, I have not been given adequate forces to fulfill the second part of my orders. Now, it is almost fate that you are here with your tanks and no means to get them to the main battle. I invite you to join me in the glory of taking the city that has been a boil or a cancer in our side.”
Incredibly, Rudnev took yet another drink. “You make a good point. Everyone is aware of the situation here and your failure to kill the Americans. Frankly, General Bazarian, there are those who laugh at you.”
Bazarian’s temper flared, but he held it in check. It was still another act of Russian arrogance in dealing with non-Russians. Rudnev might be an animal, but he was a Russian animal and, thus, part of the elite. With the greatest of efforts he controlled himself and did not draw his pistol to kill this little shit of an ape.
Rudnev continued, completely unaware of the effect his comment had had on Bazarian. “I was not aware that your failure was due to the fact that you had been deprived of weapons. Considering the circumstances we both are in, I would gladly use my forces to assist you in reducing Potsdam, but I am concerned about American planes.”
“Do not worry, comrade General. I have planned the attack for night, and I have it on good authority that the weather to the west is worsening. There will be overcast skies when we attack.” Bazarian was lying. Although he would try to attack at night, he knew absolutely nothing about the weather to the west.
“Then I am your man, comrade General Bazarian.”
“I am delighted, comrade General Rudnev.” Bazarian smiled like a salesman, and the two men shook hands. He was also aware that the little ape had said he would assist, not place himself under the command of Bazarian. It was half a loaf at best, but he would take it.
Rudnev stood to leave. He was a little unsteady but otherwise able to navigate his way out of the cottage Bazarian was using as his personal quarters.
Rudnev stopped and turned. “I want a woman.”
“I’ll send a couple over for you to choose from.” Bazarian amused himself by pretending to be surprised. He thought fucking a horse or cow might be more up Rudnev’s alley. The thought of one of his women rutting with the little ape upset him a little. It had taken him several weeks to round up enough young and attractive German women to make life interesting. It hadn’t taken much effort to get them to agree to giving him sex. All he had to do was offer the carrot of food and shelter, and the stick of being turned over to his troops to be gang-raped if they said no.
Well, he thought, let Rudnev screw his little brains out. Bazarian had seen Rudnev’s brigade. Eighty tanks, in all, and sixty of them the giant new JS model. There was nothing in Potsdam to stop Stalin tanks if they were used properly. Finally, he would take that city and still the laughter coming from the arrogant shits in Moscow.