David Robbins - Last Citadel

‘Yes, sir.’ Luis was not glad to see Grimm, even with his constant affability. What did the major want? Grimm knitted flabby fingers in his lap to keep himself from tapping on his knees.

The major said, ‘I thought I owed you a visit.’

‘Thank you, Major.’

Grimm swiped his kerchief under his bullfrog neck. ‘Captain.’

‘Yes, Major.’

‘You have performed well. First you defended the Tigers against the partisans. Then you served Colonel Breit and myself capably in the situation room. And you have done splendidly in the field. You know this.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You have been put up for several medals.’

Luis said nothing. It was good to hear but this was not the point of the midnight visit.

Grimm’s eyes flagged. Some new defeat was in them, something not on the map table.

‘I understand, son.’ Grimm aimed a finger at Luis’s chest. ‘I know how important it is to you. And you’ve done well.’

Luis was impatient. He cocked his head and prodded. ‘But?’

Grimm did not hesitate anymore.

‘But the Americans invaded Sicily this morning.’

Luis was rocked more by this statement than by any shell that had hit his Tiger. The news pierced him, his chances for redemption.

Grimm continued. ‘Over three thousand ships. The American landing force consisted of eight divisions. Reports say that some of Mussolini’s troops helped the Americans unload their transports.’

And what about Citadel?’ Luis forced himself to keep his voice even. ‘Is the battle called off?’

‘Not yet. Hitler’s waiting to see the progress at Prokhorovka. There’s no more movement in the north. Model’s been completely stopped there. The same on the Oboyan road, Hoth is at a standstill dealing with attacks on his left flank. The only chance to reach Kursk is here. With you and the SS through Prokhorovka. I came to see your positions for myself. And to tell you. Privately. This is not information for anyone else. You’re the only one, Captain, who I am certain will fight harder because of it. The rest of the men will find out when they have to. You understand.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

Grimm ran a hand across his pate, the bristles of his cropped rim of hair sizzled under his palm. He looked again out at the dim battlefield. There were plenty of knocked-out Soviet tanks there. If Hitler could come and see for himself, Luis thought, he would never stop Citadel. We’re still strong, we’ll beat them. Let us fight. Let me fight.

‘Two or three days, Captain,’ Grimm said. ‘That’s all the Führer is going to wait. If there’s no breakthrough at Prokhorovka, he’ll put a stop to this. So.’

‘I will do my duty, Major.’

Grimm smiled again, insipid and still eager to please. ‘I’ll keep an eye on your block, Captain la Daga .’

Luis wanted to lean forward from his seat and snarl at the tip of Grimm’s fat nose. Climb into my Tiger with me, you tubby slab of shit, keep an eye on me there! Tell Hitler to let me fight!

Luis took one breath to calm himself, he drew in the safe stink from this officer, his sweat and resignation, the cleanliness of his game board in Belgorod. Luis knew his lips were tight, clamped against his anger at the news and the man who’d brought it, even his kindness in doing so. You’ve done well, Captain. But not well enough. I thought you’d like to know. You’ve got two days to take Prokhorovka. The Americans, you understand. Out of my hands.

The staff car started and flung on its lights. Luis watched it pull off the road and circle to return west, followed by its entourage, except for the sidecar motorcycle. He waved the rider off. The courier nodded, then followed Grimm.

Luis had hours left to him before morning. He’d walk up the long hill and count the dead Russian tanks.

Dimitri had never seen this much traffic. He moved the General at a slow walk, the pace of the thousands of men and trucks ambling east with him over the road and in the fields on all sides this morning. He hadn’t shifted past second gear in more than four hours, most of that spent jerking along in first. He’d grown impatient with the bumpy ride and the grinding transmission. He wanted to stand up and yell at the shuffling soldiers and spewing trucks, You’re in the way of a tank! A tank! With a shell or two in their tails they’d clear the road fast enough and let the General speed through.

Dimitri was simmering, warming and angry since sunup inside the empty tank. The rest of the crew rode outside on the deck in the fresh air, Valentin with his new lieutenant’s stars, admired by Pasha, and poor Sasha, a cliche of the wounded patriot soldier with white gauze lapped around his head. Dimitri felt used. Last night rolling, crawling, with the metal tide along the road, Valentin’s boots propped out of habit on his shoulders, he felt like a horse, blinkered and reined and ridden. For the first several hours he’d muttered to himself that he was a Cossack and a hetman and many things that were not a horse, but his mumblings had been shaken out of him by the long ride in first gear and by no one to listen; now he stared out his open hatch, out of grim eyes at the exhaust smoke pouring from beneath the truck bumper directly in front of him.

A major reshuffling of forces was taking place. It seemed every able-bodied man, truck, and tank was being crammed into the area around Prokhorovka. The General had picked up a dozen hitchers since sunrise. Valentin had told the crew they were headed southeast to join the defense of Prokhorovka. They were going to hook up with the 32nd Tank Brigade of the 211th Tank Corps. Dimitri had heard nothing about this unit. What had they done in the battle of Kursk? They were Steppe Front units, reserves. He had been running under enemy gun sights for a week now, he’d carted Valentin and his cannon in front of a hundred German tanks, Sasha had depleted fifty ammo belts, Pasha had reloaded his bins a dozen times. He’d got them all out safe every time. Now they were going to join a brigade of sixty tanks that didn’t even have a scuff on the paint yet. Valentin told them the 32nd Tank Brigade was arrayed directly beside the Prokhorovka road, right in the Germans’ route. Valya was proud, calling it the place of honor. Pasha nearly shit himself hearing this. Another road to defend, Dimitri thought, as if this were some specialty they’d developed. More like a curse, he thought. He swished his tongue but found no moisture, just road dust and ire.

He pulled the General out of line, off the road. He shut down the engine and stood in his hatch, pushing past a thicket of strange legs and muddy boots to shove himself out of the opening and drop to the ground. He looked up at his tank, it was scabbed with soldiers clinging to every open spot. He stomped into the field away from the road and the endless line of creeping vehicles, all of them going too slow. Behind him men called Hey and What’s he doing? Dimitri walked far enough into the field to not hear them, he stood looking north into open land where a horseman could clip along nicely. Out of the south the booms of combat lobbed over his head.

He expected his son, waiting with his back turned. If he sends Sasha he’s a coward, Dimitri thought. Come yourself.

Finally boots kicked through the crop rows, coming to him. He had swearing ready and his tired hands were balled.

‘Papa.’

Dimitri turned. Pasha and Sasha watched from the deck of the tank. Valentin was bareheaded. Dimitri pulled his own padded helmet off and dropped it on the ground. He ran both hands through his damp hair, grimacing beneath his mitts.