The radio had been playing quietly in the background, the sonorous strains of Tchaikovsky, his movements slowly rising, rising to the inevitable crescendo that once shook the world. The 1812 Overture commemorated that day, the day Russia stopped that other mad dog, Napoleon. Then, the music suddenly cut off, the signal tones of Radio Leningrad sounded, and a voice began speaking. There came at that same moment the sound of footsteps in the outer hall, men rushing, an urgency beat out with every footfall, and a hard knock at the door.
Berzin instinctively reached for the pistol in his side holster, but Kirov raised a hand, his head inclined, listening. The news on the radio began to make the announcement. “This morning in the predawn hours, a combined British and American armada landed troops in Lisbon and Casablanca…”
Berzin was at the door. “Who is it?” he said sternly.
“Sir,” came the voice of a trusted Lieutenant, giving him relief. “Important news. I bear a message that just came over the teletype.”
Berzin opened the door, seeing the man salute, then he handed off a plain white paper. “Is it true sir?” asked the Lieutenant. “Is this the Second Front we’ve been hoping for?” He was not supposed to read the messages he delivered. They were supposed to be placed in a secure pouch, meant only for Berzin’s eyes, and the eyes of Sergei Kirov. Under the circumstances, Berzin did not correct him.
“Thank you Lieutenant. That will be all.”
The man saluted stiffly, and withdrew. Berzin took the paper, scanning the lines of bold type there: 15 SEP, 1942. INTELLIGENCE CONFIRMS ALLIED LANDING AT BOTH LISBON AND CASABLANCA. GENERAL EISENHOWER DECLARES SECOND FRONT AGAINST GERMANY HAS NOW BEEN OPENED. MORE TO FOLLOW….
Berzin turned, seeing that Kirov had moved to the radio, turning up the volume, hanging on every word of the announcement. “At last,” he said, turning to Berzin.
“Our network confirms,” said Berzin, waving the paper he held. “The Second Front! You see, Sergei. They haven’t quit the fight. The convoys may have stopped after the disaster of PQ-17, but they haven’t abandoned us. Here they come! All we have to do now is hold on. We have to keep fighting.”
“Get me more information,” said Kirov quickly, all business now. “I want to know how big this operation is, how many divisions, how many troops and tanks, how many planes. Get it all for me.”
“You can rely on me, sir,” said Berzin. “And I hope to god the nation can now still rely on you.”
Kirov looked at him, and he smiled. “How many divisions did Zhukov pull out of Sevastopol?”
“Six, and they all made it safely to Azov and Taganrog. They are in Rostov, fighting as we speak.”
“Good,” said Kirov. “Good….”
Berzin’s arguments were closer to the mark than even he realized. Steiner’s SS, the very best the Germans had, were still in a death grip with the defenders of the Volga Front, but the line had held. All of 2nd and Third Panzer Armies had delivered terrible blows to the Central Front, but Voronezh was still in Soviet hands, and Zhukov’s second withdrawal of the three armies he had extricated from the Kursk Pocket was now providing a pool of fresh manpower to hold the line of the upper Donets. The German infantry opposite those Armies had not pushed aggressively to pin them in place. All the supplies and most of the available fuel had gone to the panzer divisions, and they had broken through, but now the river, and all the men Zhukov could find, stood between them and further advances.
The General had thrown 2nd Guards Army in to slow the advance, then struck with the three tank corps of his 1st Tank Army, the first and last that he had. They could not stop the Germans, but they surely slowed them down. Model had sent a massed armored attack over the Donets, but the 17th and 24th Siberian Armies had arrived in the nick of time. For now, at least, on that morning of much needed good news, the line had held.
The Soviet Armies had not broken. Ragged, burned out units fought on, with bravery and tenacity that defied description. The Motor Rifle Division in 19th Tank Corps had started the war with 300 rifle squads and 80 AFVs and tanks. Now there were ten squads, with a single engineer squad and a few companies of military police, with 28 AFVs, including three armored cars. But they still fought. Some divisions had to be fought to the very last man. Divisions were shattered, but the stragglers were rounded up, formed into a new regiment, and sent back to the front. They were holding. It was as if the Soviets were simply piling up sand before the seemingly unstoppable bulldozer of the Wehrmacht. Sooner or later, with enough sand, it would grind to a halt, its heavy tracks unable to gain traction, the sand all around it, smothering deep sand.
That was what the Red Army had become in late 1942. Their potential for counterattack was severely limited, but the recruitment effort had put hundreds and hundreds of divisions in the field. Each one was perhaps the equivalent of a British regiment in actual combat power, with a single Allied division being the equal of a Russian Corps at this stage. But there were hundreds and hundreds of those grains of sand on the line, and the bull dozer was slowing to a crawl.
It was early autumn, the rains thickening in the grey skies, the mud beginning. The Germans had been fighting for two months, over 60 days of ceaseless offensive operations. Manstein’s southern front had come some 350 kilometers, occupying the whole of the Don Bend and pushing over the river at Kalach. Rundstedt, Model and Hoth had gobbled up another 275 Kilometers, and more ground had been lost in the Donets Basin. Yet the Russians fought on. They had seen the enemy formations slow for lack of fuel and supply, and the casualties had mounted on the German side as well.
Steiner’s SS Korps was easily half the size it once was in raw manpower, though its equipment had suffered perhaps only 25% attrition. The Germans now had much more infantry available after the demise of the Kirov Pocket, and it had helped to get Model and Hoth moving again, but none of that infantry had reached Steiner. He got one division that had been attached to the 48th Panzer Korps. The other went on the line of the Don. His plan to force open a corridor to the city and then feed in hordes of infantry for the street fighting was well behind schedule, and now the Germans were running out of time. The Rasputista was coming again, the thick endless sea of mud and grime. The high summer of the German offensive was fading, waning, and though they continued to push, it was clear to the Generals that the offensive was beginning to stall.
But it was not clear to Hitler.
All he could see was the ground gained by each new breakthrough, the latest being the startling and unexpected dash of Hermann Balck’s 11th Panzer Division and the rest of 48th Panzer Korps to the very doorstep of Rostov. This news had come on the very day that Rommel arrived at Werewolf HQ to seek permission for his withdrawal to Buerat, and he would find Hitler a happy man instead of the snarling beast that he had been in Fedorov’s history. The Führer had been brooding over the loss of the Hindenburg, ready to sack Admiral Raeder and order all building programs to convert to U-Boats. He was eyeing Doenitz for the new Fleet Commander, but then he was pulled into the drama unfolding on the east front, and his mood brightened considerably.
“Rommel? What a surprise to find you here. Are you getting bored in the desert? I hear the British are pushing again.”