“To all those men who have laid down their lives so far.”
The four men drank quietly.
“Tomorrow, we will start the process of rolling them back.”
He caught the enquiring look from Rossiter, and knew what was on the man’s mind.
“Yes Sam, to the Polish border and beyond.”
The human cost of stopping the Soviet attack on the Hunte went beyond the removal of some markers from the battle map; thousands of men were dead, and thousands more were hideously injured.
Ramsey survived his evacuation, his wounds dictating that he could no longer serve with his beloved Jocks. His removal from the front probably granted him survival, and an extended life way beyond the end of hostilities.
Hall survived a very ropey landing, his aircraft virtually folding in half as it came to rest. The Flight Lieutenant never flew operationally again, his partial blindness keeping him grounded and ensuring he survived the war.
Bluebear and Hässler stayed in the water, the incessant rain masking their progress to safety, eventually reaching the forward positions of the 3rd British Division.
Unwounded but both scarred by the brutal fight, they were returned to combat within the week.
McEwan, unharmed, and as dour as ever, joined the new formation of the Highland Division. He had no chance to tell Ramsey about the Russian officer, but remembered to hand over the man’s note to an appropriate senior officer.
RSM Robertson and CSM Green were taken prisoner, and ended up in a Special Work Camp, deep in the USSR.
Flight Sergeant Wallace Gordon was badly beaten by his captors, but eventually made it to a Soviet prison camp, where he died in mysterious circumstances before the War’s end.
Pilot Officer McKenzie failed to return from his mission and nothing was known of the manner of his death for some years.
The German officers, Strecher and Dieckhoff, were both wounded during the fighting, along with most of their men. Strecher was captured by the Soviets, and summarily executed. Kommando Friedrich ceased to exist.
Aitcherson survived the battle, and went on to join McEwan in the newly forming Highland Division.
Griffiths and his tank crew also survived the battle, and went on to greater glory on the North German Plain.
Rosenberg disappeared without trace.
Lieutenant Commander Steele lived for two days more. He was crushed by a fuel bowser as he lay snoozing on a grass bank outside his Squadron’s dispersal building.
On the other side, the losses were worse and keenly felt, despite the capacity of the Soviet war machine to absorb death on a grand scale and still function.
The initial assault formations fared very badly, with both the 128th Tank Brigade and 31st Guards Rifle Division reduced to a handful of men and damaged vehicles.
Stelmakh’s 6th Guards Heavy Tanks had not fired a shot in the battle, and yet consisted of only two vehicles and eleven men by the end of the battle.
The valuable 77th Engineer’s and the 36th Guards Rifle Corps were both removed from the Soviet order of battle.
4th Guards Tank Brigade, Yarishlov’s command, ceased to exist, its handful of survivors and running vehicles moved to fill in the gaps in other parts of 2nd Guards Tank Corps.
A large portion of the 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps was badly handled, a noticeable, but lesser level of damage inflicted upon the 22nd Guards Rifle Corps. Both units remained combat effective in numerical, if not mental, terms.
No Soviet aircraft made it back to base that day, and no pilots were recovered, the only survivors swept up and into Allied POW camps for the rest of hostilities.
Major-General Obinin received a visit from the NKVD, one that ended in suicide, his body being dumped in a roadside ditch.
Colonel Yarishlov was arrested, along with Lieutenant Colonel Deniken, the two taken away to Christyakov’s headquarters to ascertain their culpability over the defeat.
Along the battle lines of the 1st Baltic Front, the red machine ground to a halt, exhausted, bloodied, and lacking many vital supplies.
The surviving formations held their collective breath.
Waiting, because experience told them that more was to come.
“Disaster, after disaster, after fucking disaster!”
Beria was away in the East, so it was Molotov and Bulganin who had to endure the tirade.
“Our Soviet people, the glorious workers, have given these bastards everything they have asked for, and still they fail!”
He stood, slamming his palms on the old desk, making both men jump.
“Our Marshals and Generals fail continuously, our intelligence services fail continuously, our soldier’s and worker’s efforts wasted by the shortcomings of a few!”
Neither man could or would disagree; the floor belonged to Stalin.
“And this! What am I to make of this?”
Stalin picked up a folder containing a recently arrived report, sent by Beria using his personal code, product of his investigations into the Production issues.
The report detailed additional information on the recent liquidation of certain undesirable elements within one major chemical facility, liquidation that encompassed family members of all ages.
The son, wife, and two grandchildren of GRU Colonel General Pekunin had fallen victim to the overzealous approach of the local NKVD office.
That would have been wholly regrettable, had it not been for the additional inclusion of an NKVD assessment of the debacle that befell 3rd Red Banner Central European Front, mainly at the hands of GRU false assurances, emanating from Pekunin himself.
That made it something else entirely.
“Heads will roll!”
He returned to his chair and grabbed the telephone, the whole mount shuddering as he nearly knocked it flying.
“Get me NKVD Leytenant General Yegerov.”
The wait was brief, but every second increased the malevolence of his thoughts.
“Comrade General Yegorov, I have orders for you. Your continued existence depends on their successful completion.”
Such statements were bound to get the full attention of the hapless listener, and even an NKVD General knew his hold on position and life could be perilous when Stalin was on the warpath.
Both Molotov and Bulganin listened to the normal arrangements for arrests and executions that tended to follow ignominious defeats.
Their collective attention peaked as Stalin included names of men beyond reproach, silent surprise turning to silent incredulity.
Although talking on the telephone, the leader’s eyes were fixed upon them, dealing with their doubts, staring them both down and into submission.
Their silent compliance was guaranteed.
“Immediately, Comrade Yegerov. Report to me when each arrest is successfully completed.”
The phone did not return to its cradle, as Stalin placed another call immediately.
The phone rang, startling both occupants of the room, still working long after they could have retired to their respective quarters.
“Nazarbayeva.”
“Good evening, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Do you recognise who this is?”
“Yes, and good evening to you, Comrade General Secretary.”
The other occupant of the room, GRU Major Poboshkin, cringed automatically, burying his face deeper into the folder he had been reading aloud to his boss.
“I am giving you a direct order, Comrade Polkovnik. You will proceed to the office of General Pekunin and arrest him as an enemy of the state. Is that clear?”
Nazarbayeva was stunned, her mind reeled, for once in her life, her mouth worked without thinking.