Meanwhile the second raft was already making its way out while a third group of trucks had dumped its pontoons into the river. The bank was chewed up now and a few of the trucks had bogged down. Didn't matter, this was the last span, “Urrah” came floating across the river, the second span had locked into place and the raft to match up with it was arriving. Closer into shore the Pioneers from the first span were threading cables through their pontoons, powerful winches would put them under tension and help to take the load on the bridge.
40 minutes now, the Pioneers were linking the second raft to the central span of the bridge. Looked like it was going easier than the first one. Obviously a solution had been found to whatever had caused the problem when linking the first raft. The sounds of the infantry assault on the fortifications the other side of the river were still floating across, if only the Paratroopers and Marines could hold on for a few more minutes. Just a few. Fifty five minutes and the last span started its way out and across.
Taffkowski watched as the BMKs herded it across and spun it into alignment. It was too far away now to see details but on the third span Pioneers were surging around the connectors while more ran to the shoreside end. They were under fire from the shore now, through his binoculars, Taffkowski could see men falling as they worked on unfolding the shore ramps.
At long, long last, 62 minutes after the first trucks had started to unload, there was an “Urrah!” that echoed up and down the Volga and a red flare shot into the sky from the left bank. More cheers from both banks, from the waiting troops, from the exhausted Pioneers, from the brutally hurt Paratrooper and Marine units.
As the cheers subsided, the first of the waiting T-55s edged into the bridge and started its way across, tankriders crouched behind its turret. Behind it followed the rest of its platoon, then its company, then its regiment. The heavy tanks, the T-10s and JS-3s would follow, the SU-130 tank destroyers, the JSU-152 assault guns. The mechanized infantry in their carriers, Taffkowski felt a message being pressed into his hand, it confirmed that the unit he had been watching had beaten the next fastest division by a clear five minutes in completing its bridge.
His jeep pulled up at the bridge. Some of the Pioneers were extracting the bogged-down vehicles, others were getting the tensioning cable system into place. Others were just too exhausted to move. As Taffkowski had feared, medics were treating men with crushed hands and feet. Wounded were being brought back from the left bank; the dead were left where they had fallen. In the middle, the divisional commander was supervising the clear-up of the worksite. He saw Colonel-General Taffkowski and sprang to attention.
“Major General Vladimir Ivanovich Surov. You are no longer commander of the 254th Engineer Division.” Taffkowski saw his shock, Ok so the first bridge junction hadn't gone well, but they'd picked up the time. Surely the days when minor setbacks sent men to the Gulag had gone? “The 254th Engineer Division will now be renamed the First Guards Engineer Division with the Honorific “Volga” and, Lieutenant General Surov, you are its commander.”
There was a surge of pride in the exhausted men, and a ragged series of cheers, there would be other Guards Engineer Divisions but there would never be another First Guards Engineers. They would have bragging rights for as long as there was a Russian Army.
Taffkowski swung his finger along the line of bridging boats, watching Surov out of the corner of his eyes. When his finger reached a BMK commanded by a grizzled Sergeant, Surov nodded slightly. “You, Sergeant. I was watching you. What is your name?”
“Boris Alexandrovich Dick, Gospodin Colonel-General”
“You handled your boat with great skill. You are a Hero of the Russian People and I have that medal here for you. Remember you hold it in trust for all your crew. Bratischka, I have something else you may appreciate even more.” Taffkowski's driver handed him a bottle of vodka. Taffkowski read the label then gave the bottle to the Sergeant. “Good vodka for a good man. Russia thanks you, Boris Alexandrovich.”
Behind them, Russian armor of the 57th Mechanized Army, First Byelorussian Front, was pouring across the bridge over the Volga.
Baronial Hall, Walthersburg, New Schwabia
The fortifications had done their job, Model could see that. The Russian assault had been ferocious and three of his nine infantry divisions had been destroyed but he'd expected that. He'd positioned his weakest three divisions north of the Don and east of the Volga. The divisions north of the Don had taken the full force of the First and Second Ukrainian Fronts. The first day, some of the defenders had abandoned their bunkers and run but there had been a cure for that. Behind the German lines were the Einsatzgruppen, waiting for deserters. Those they'd caught had been hanged from the nearest convenient object. After that, the infantry in the bunkers had got the message, it was safer to stay where they were and fight.
It had taken the Russians a week to chew through the defenses north of the Don, and that was the easy part. The Don Line itself was defended by three of his better infantry divisions in heavy fortifications, ones that made the bunkers north of the Don look feeble. His three best infantry divisions were north of Walthersburg that was the one sector not protected by a serious water obstacle. Instead it was solid concrete, minefields and wire.
A messenger came in, bearing a sealed envelope. Model glanced at it, it was from the International Committee of the Red Cross. They were probably whining again about the treatment of Russian civilians in New Schwabia. Spineless old women, complaining about a few hardships on peasants while he was trying to build a country. He waved the message away, it was put in his in-tray with the rest of the mail.
So the next stage would be the assault over the Don. The Ivans would try to break through there and swing around to take Walthersburg from the south while the three fronts massed north of the city, the Second Byelorussian and the First and Second Moldovian Fronts tried to crush the defenses. He could hold them, he was sure of it. Crossing the Don would be a nightmare under the best of circumstances and he had Sarin and Tabun shells moved up to make sure it was far, far worse than that.
He'd also moved XXXXIIth Panzer Corps with the 3rd Panzer, 11th Panzer, 14th Panzer and the 10th Panzer Grenadier divisions up behind the Don to counter-attack any break-throughs. He had a second Panzer Corps behind Walthersburg, ready to counterattack there. That left him stretched very thin, he only had the SS Wiking Division left in reserve. The 2nd Fallschirmjaeger division was spread out along the hills on the left bank of the Volga. The Ivans had tried a feint there, the First Khazak Front had driven in the defenses east of the river but Model wasn't biting. The parachutists were the best infantry he had, they would contain any minor raids the Russians launched across the river. The Volga itself was the best defense.
A messenger came in, dirty, his uniform torn and stained.
Model reflected that if he'd been in a war film, he would have berated the man for his condition but this was reality not drama. Any man who came into a military headquarters in that condition had a very good reason for doing so. The man was weaving on his feet; he'd come far and fast.
“Sit down, son. Gather yourself, a few seconds more won't matter. Orderlies, get this man some coffee and schnapps. And some food. What unit are you from?”
“Fallschirmjaeger sir, from the Volga. The Russians have crossed in strength. In great strength here.” The courier pushed a dispatch bag to Model. The seal was broken and Model raised an eyebrow. “Einsatzgruppen sir. They thought I was deserting, they were going to hang me, they broke open the case to see what was inside. When they saw it was for you they let me go. It wasted half an hour sir I'm sorry.”