“I thought it was you that should be offering your divisional commander a welcoming drink, Colonel Trusov.”
The flimsy foldable chair shot back as Trusov leapt to his feet, seeing not only his regimental commander but also Major-General Abramov, the Commander of the 10th. He saluted quickly. “My apologies, Comrade General, Comrade Colonel.”
“Sit down, sit down, Trusov.”
“Sir.” Trusov picked up his chair, pulled additional chairs from the side of the battalion command tent, and offered one each to the two senior officers.
“You are lucky, Colonel Trusov. I have brought my own vodka on this occasion,” the General responded, smiling.
“And some glasses,” added Colonel Pushkin.
Trusov looked at the two senior officers quizzically as Pushkin placed three small shot-size glasses on the map that was laid across the square table. Trusov tried reading his commander’s eyes, looking for a hint as to the purpose of this sudden interruption. But Colonel Pushkin was giving away nothing. Trusov had spoken to his divisional commander often, and had been presented with two awards by him: one for his military skill and a second one for bravery when he spent nine-months on a detachment in Afghanistan. However, today, Major-General Abramov wasn’t giving anything away either. The General, usually of good humour when briefing his officers or soldiers, could switch to a demon when berating a subordinate for incompetence. Then his humour would evaporate rapidly. On this occasion, the General’s expression showed neither humour nor tolerance; it was completely blank. What little light there was from the oil lamps didn’t help, casting dark flickering shadows across the two officers’ faces. The four-metre by four-metre tent was Trusov’s main battalion headquarters’ tent; maps suspended from hooks hanging from the tent sides; the table in the centre and another along one side strewn with maps; ammunition and supply requests ready to be transmitted to Regiment and Division. All his communications were with the MTLBs and his own personal T-80K.
Pushkin topped up the glasses, pushing one towards the General and one towards Trusov, keeping one for himself. The General picked up his glass, Pushkin his.
“Well, Colonel Trusov, I would like you to share a toast with us. So pick up your glass,” ordered the General.
Trusov did as he was ordered.
“You are no doubt aware that my Chief of Staff, Colonel Rykov, was killed by one of those damn NATO airstrikes.”
“He was a great soldier, sir.”
“True, true. Well, meet my new Chief of Staff,” the General informed Trusov, turning to look at Colonel Pushkin.
Trusov’s eyebrows shot up. He stuttered out a congratulation and raised his glass. “To Colonel Pushkin’s new position.”
“Za Vas!” they chorused.
Glasses were slammed down on the table and were quickly refilled by the General. Trusov’s mind was racing. A new regimental commander. God, he would have to train another one all over again. Although pleased for his ex-commander, there was some disappointment. Pushkin had been tolerant of Trusov’s methods and ways, and his occasional insubordination. They could almost be classed as friends. A new commander may not be so accommodating.
“Congratulations, Comrade Colonel.”
“Thank you, Comrade Trusov, but the General hasn’t finished.” Pushkin turned to the General, his cue to continue the story.
“Colonel Trusov, you are to take over command of the 62nd Guards Tank Regiment with immediate effect.”
Trusov looked stunned. “But—”
“No buts, Colonel Trusov. Colonel Pushkin assures me that you are more than up to the task. Also, your actions since the start of hostilities with the West have been exemplary, so I am inclined to agree with him.”
“When, sir?”
“You are in command of the regiment as of now, Colonel.” The General raised his glass, as did Pushkin, and they in turn congratulated the newly promoted officer.
“Za Vas!”
“Right, down to business, young Trusov.” The General pushed the glasses to one side, Pushkin gathering them up and placing them on the canvas-covered ground. Abramov peered at the map, got his bearings, spun it around and stabbed a spot with one of his slim fingers. Most senior Russian officers tended to be on the heavy size, and often dominated their men and officers by their sheer magnitude and presence. Abramov, on the other hand, looked almost underfed. Anyone who misinterpreted that for a weakness would soon find themselves on the receiving end of a guillotine tongue. He exuded enormous power and had quickly earned the respect of both his juniors and seniors.
“Nordstemmen to the south, Rossing to the north.” He dragged a finger between the two. “I intend that we push right through the centre of these two and across the Leine.”
“These two bridges,” added Pushkin. “This is where we’ll cross.”
Trusov studied the area where his ex-commander was indicating.
Pushkin continued. “The first bridge is north-east of Schulenburg, the second next to the high ground further south.”
“They’ll be primed ready to blow,” exclaimed Trusov. “They’ll be blown and down before we can get a tank near them.”
“More than likely,” added the General with a sly smile. “But there is a bigger picture, Colonel. The Tenth and Seventh Guards Tank Divisions have one major task left before we are pulled out of the line and given time to rest and refit. We have to smash the British division that is defending this sector of the River Leine into submission. Cross that river and destroy this key line of defence, giving no quarter. Our main aim: to destroy as much of their force as possible.”
Pushkin took over from the General. “The 61st Tank Regiment will target Nordstemmen and the 63rd, Rossing.”
“But they’ll defend these towns or villages and blow the damn bridges, sir.”
“Have faith, Trusov,” interposed Abramov. “We will bypass those built-up areas quickly. I don’t intend to have my tanks bogged down and my men tangled up in house-to-house fighting. We will try for those two bridges, but a key focus will be on putting our own bridge across the river right in between Schulenburg and the high ground to the south. There is also a rail bridge further south. We’ll keep an eye on that as well. Our division will conduct a battalion airborne assault to secure that high ground here, Sel Marienburg. I have also been promised some assistance from the Spetsnaz prima donnas.”
Trusov nodded, running the scenarios through his head.
“You see now, Pavel.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel. What about my battalion — uh — regiment?”
“How many tanks do you have, Colonel Pushkin?”
“Forty-nine, Comrade General.”
“Hmm, nearly fifty per cent casualties. But your men fought well to get this far.”
“Many of the tanks need maintenance, sir, and the crews are tired.”
“I understand that, Colonel Trusov,” said the General as he leant over the table. “All they have to do is make one last effort for the Motherland; then they will be off the line.” He locked eyes with Trusov for a second before sitting back up. “Anyway, the 61st and 63rd will take the brunt. Should we need your regiment, Colonel Trusov, you and your men will be ready.”
“Yes, Comrade General, my men will not let you down.”
The General stood up, followed closely by his junior officers. “I know, Comrade Colonel. That is why you have this promotion and the responsibility that goes with it.”