Simon Montefiore - Red Sky at Noon

‘Don’t leave me! Give me some water, for God’s sake!’

‘It’s Melishko.’ Benya would recognize that voice in his dreams.

‘Dear bandits, some water please! Or finish me off! I can’t reach my gun. I don’t want these bastards near me…’

‘We just can’t leave him,’ said Benya. ‘He’s our father-commander!’

‘We help him – we all die,’ Garanzha muttered.

‘He’s right,’ said Zhurko sadly. He too loved Melishko.

‘But we’ve got to help him,’ insisted Benya.

Zhurko rubbed his chin, thinking, then looked towards Panka.

Panka, showing nothing on his face, shook his head.

Zhurko sighed heavily. ‘You’re right. He’d be the first to tell us that.’

Zhurko and Panka crawled forward, and Benya watched Zhurko raise the binoculars in the direction of Melishko’s voice.

‘I see him,’ said Zhurko when they were back. ‘He’s out there. His legs are crushed under Elephant and he’s wounded in the gut. Elephant’s done for too. We’re not going to get him out of there.’

‘Finish me off, if any of you motherfucker bandits are still out there!’ came the voice again across the field. ‘Don’t forget! YOU CAN’T GET ME!’ They smiled a little at this; even Panka.

‘I can do it,’ said Panka after a while. ‘As to a wounded mare, beloved after many seasons.’

‘I’ll do it properly,’ Spider Garanzha said, taking the Simonov sniper rifle. ‘He’s not far away.’

Panka patted his shoulder but could not speak.

‘You set off,’ said Garanzha, ‘and I’ll join you when you’re away. One shot, I promise. And one for Elephant. Two shots, no more. I’ll see you at the’ – he was going to say the barn but no one could go there again – ‘at the millhouse.’

They mounted the horses amongst the high steppe grass and rode back the way they had come. When they reached the mill in the burnt village, they watered the horses in the stream and waited for Spider. In the distance, they had heard one shot, then the second for Elephant. Panka crossed himself and looked away, very still for a moment.

Now in the safety of the mill, Benya lowered his head, then he cleaned his face in the cool stream.

It was lunchtime in the Kremlin and Stalin, who had just woken up, was hearing the first reports from the fronts. He had been up until 6 a.m. trying to organize the defence of the Don River, and Russian forces were just hanging on to the western bank. If the Nazis managed to cross the Don, then they would be just sixty miles from Stalingrad, Stalin’s city on the Volga River. Meanwhile, further south, they were rifling towards the oil fields of the Caucasus.

Molotov, sitting stolidly at the table, flanked by an overweight younger comrade, Malenkov, and the rangy and dark-eyed Armenian, Mikoyan, listened to Chief of Staff Vasilevsky’s report.

‘And Operation Pluto?’ Stalin asked.

‘The Shtrafniki charged German positions,’ Vasilevsky said.

‘They were wiped out,’ stated Stalin, his voice entirely neutral.

‘Yes. They were charging heavily fortified German positions. The First Cavalry Shtrafbat has ceased to exist as a unit.’

Stalin broke a cigarette in half, took out the tobacco and stuffed it into the bowl of his Dunhill pipe (a gift from the British). ‘Totally annihilated.’ He lit the pipe, sucking the flame of the match into its bowl. ‘But did the Shtrafniki distract the Germans sufficiently to ensure the success of Operation Pluto?’

‘Operation Pluto failed to drive back the German advance though there was a slight weakening as they now regroup.’

‘So the Shtrafniki did their duty. They died. But they fought. The idea works.’

‘Yes, Comrade Stalin. Shtrafbats are being formed and trained on all fronts. These convicts fight to the last man in the hope of redemption.’

‘Were any redeemed?’

‘No. As far as we know there were few survivors. Now, moving on to Stalingrad itself, Gordov reports the Germans are bombing the city…’

‘I know about that. I was just talking to Satinov by phone.’ Stalin seemed distracted. ‘But the Shtrafniki – that Melishko is a good officer. I remember him from the thirties.’

‘Ah, yes, Comrade Stalin, I hadn’t mentioned the Second Battalion.’

‘Report.’

‘Well, this is a very minor engagement. We have a lot to get through… The Stalingrad, Southern, Don Fronts and the Leningrad Front, not to mention the Central—’

‘Report on Melishko’s Shtrafbat.’

‘They were not totally wiped out. The Germans are deploying Italians in these sectors to free up their resources for the offensives, and the Second Cavalry Shtrafbat, the one under Melishko, faced mixed Italian units of the Alpine Tridentine, Bersaglieri and Blackshirts, and two squadrons actually broke through into the Hitlerite rear.’

Stalin was silent. He tapped the pipe on the desk, relit it, and then sucked flame through once again. The general and the three civilians watched the match flare, the tobacco take light and heard the wheeze as Stalin inhaled. Then he raised his hazel eyes. ‘Where are they now?’

‘We’re not sure.’ Vasilevsky checked his notes. He was accustomed to Stalin taking an interest in small engagements and kept all the reports with him. ‘Ah yes, we believe they drove the Italians out of the village of Little Yablako where they called for backup. They were given no logistical support – but all units are ordered, during their briefings, to destroy the traitor Mandryka and his units if they break through. If they still exist as a unit, they may be pursuing this mission.’

‘Did Melishko survive?’

‘Apparently yes.’

‘If he returns, he is to be reinstated as a general.’

‘I’ll make a note of that.’

‘Did any of Melishko’s bandits win their freedom?’

‘One Shtrafnik was executed by their Special Unit before the entire regiment right before deployment according to Order 227. Another five were shot by the Blocking Unit on the battlefield. But since there was no logistical backup, it was impossible to remove the wounded. We do not know if any earned redemption by the shedding of blood. They were also told if they managed to liquidate traitor Mandryka, they would be redeemed.’

Stalin rested the pipe in the ashtray, lit a cigarette – a sign of intense focus – and smiled for a moment, or at least the muscles of his face creased like an old tiger, and the men in the room smiled grimly back at him. ‘I have a question about Melishko’s bandits. Shall we help them?’

Dr Kapto was sitting under a canopy at the priest’s house in the pretty village of Shepilovka. Beside him was a neat, red-faced man in German feldgrau uniform and boots, and with his head shaven on the sides. The glare of the sun was almost blinding even in the shade.

Kapto had crossed the lines a few hours earlier and been welcomed like the other defectors. ‘Surrender your arms, dismount and lead your horse!’ You could read the fortunes of war in the number of defectors. Nine overnight, the pickets were saying, and more coming, all signs that the Germans were winning. But this one had a child on his saddle and a nurse with him. He was different, obviously educated, a doctor, he said. And he told them he knew their commander from their schooldays. ‘Take me to Mandryka,’ he’d said. They weren’t going to fall for that one. Mandryka was protected. ‘All right,’ said the doctor. ‘Tell Mandryka this: A friend from Briansk has come to visit with Sleepy Tonya. Say that the Soviets will attack in a few hours at first light. Be ready!’

‘Why should we believe you?’

‘Tell him now, fast, or you’ll be sorry.’