Ralph Peters - Red Army

Ralph Peters

vehicles along the approach route. Tarashvili went on about a divisional feint to the north while the regiment struck the weakened British right.

Bezarin quietly gave most of his attention to the map. The traces showed British defensive positions in the vicinity of a ridge between the towns of Wallersheim and Mackendorf. Most of the terrain between his current location and the enemy was open and rolling.

"Will we have a smokescreen going in?" Bezarin asked, hardly caring now if his question seemed to interrupt.

"Absolutely," the commander of the regiment's artillery battalion said. "In any case, the fire strikes on the British positions will be of such intensity that little will remain for the maneuver forces to engage."

"Really, it's very simple," Tarashvili resumed. "A matter of drill. We'll have the opportunity to bring the entire regiment to bear. The effect will be overwhelming."

The plan called for the battalions to move into the attack unencumbered by unnecessary attachments. The artillery would remain under regimental control, and the air-defense subunit would also be centrally managed. Tarashvili talked the assembled officers through the attack, from prebattle deployments to the exploitation phase. Suddenly, Bezarin had the unexpected revelation that Tarashvili was doing his sincere best.

But the lieutenant colonel's best was appalling. The plan, the coordina-tion measures, the assumptions had the sterility and thinness of the scheme for an unimportant bit of field training. There was no imagination or even routine polish to the plan. In essence, it was nothing more than a regimental drill, with the subunits deploying at distances measured back from the estimated British positions. Bezarin realized as he listened to the staff respond to questions that no one had bothered to go forward to conduct a personal reconnaissance.

"Division stresses that no one is to stop. Just keep going, no matter what," Tarashvili said, repeating himself as he sought a firm way to close the briefing. "The intention, remember, is to reach the line of Highway 1, then to wheel left, and to advance along it to the west. Whoever first achieves the breakthrough becomes the regiment's forward detachment.

The initial mission of the forward detachment is to open Highway 1

between Hildesheim, northwest of our present location, and the Weser hill country to the west. Upon reaching this area"—Tarashvili pointed to the map—"the forward detachment then turns'" northwest for Bad Oeynhausen and the Weser River crossing site, which is the objective of the day."

Bezarin evaluated the mission. It was a long way to Bad Oeynhausen.

"The crossing site due west at Hameln is considerably closer," he 214

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observed. "Are there any provisions for seizing it, should the situation appear favorable?"

Tarashvili looked at him in annoyance, eyes nervous. "Division has specifically identified Bad Oeynhausen as being of primary importance.

We are obviously prohibited from moving on the Hameln site. Look here. You can see the control measures on the map. They're self-explanatory."

Bezarin, in a black mood, felt obliged to press the issue. Hameln was the obvious objective on their tactical direction. "Do you have any idea why we're not interested in Hameln, Comrade Commander?"

Tarashvili looked at Bezarin with a semblance of fear in his eyes.

Bezarin figured that the regimental commander had no answer and was embarrassed by the fact. But Tarashvili mastered himself. "Perhaps someone else has the Hameln mission. In any case, division has its reasons. Bad Oeynhausen is the objective of the forward detachment.

Our air assault forces are undoubtedly already on the ground there. But we're wasting time."

"How much time are we allowed to inform our subunits of the mission?" Bezarin asked.

"Until the vehicles are refueled."

That was a matter of minutes. Bezarin felt as though he needed hours to prepare his companies.

"That's barely enough time to locate all of the company commanders."

"There's no time. We're late now. We will proceed according to drill."

"Shouldn't we at least conduct a commander's reconnaissance?"

Bezarin asked.

"No time. We're wasting time now. The order has been issued."

Bezarin stared at Tarashvili.

"Go on, everyone," Tarashvili said, forcing a smile. "Comrade Major Bezarin, you may remain and address any other questions to me."

Bezarin felt the clock working against him. He turned to leave with the others. But Tarashvili surprised him by catching his sleeve.

The regimental commander waited until the others were out of earshot. Then he turned his dark brown eyes on Bezarin. In their depths, Bezarin thought he glimpsed the soul of a man who wanted to be anywhere else but here, perhaps at home with his splendid-looking wife.

"What do you expect?" Tarashvili asked. "What do you really expect, my friend?" The lieutenant colonel seemed painfully sincere, as if he valued Bezarin's approval after all.

Bezarin did not know how to respond. He wanted it all to be by the book, to match his personal visions. He wanted time to issue battle 215

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instructions to his companies in a concealed jump-off position, to prepare each last detail.

"We all want to do our best," Tarashvili continued. "I don't know what more you can reasonably expect."

Bezarin found himself at a loss. The words that came to mind seemed laughably formal and pompous now. Behind his back, he heard his tanks readying to move.

Tarashvili reached into the officer's pouch he wore slung over his shoulder. Smiling, he produced two chocolate bars.

"Here," he said. "Spoils of war. The West Germans make wonderful chocolate, you know."

The oddity of the gift and its timing startled Bezarin. He sensed that Tarashvili, for whatever reason, was trying to give everything he had.

Perhaps it was guilt over the wasted years and opportunities. But now it was evident that the regimental commander was lost and knew it.

"Take them," Tarashvili begged. "It's all right. You'll be glad for them later." The lieutenant colonel seemed almost pathetic. It struck Bezarin that he himself rarely considered other men as real human beings with complex problems of their own.

Bezarin reached out and took the chocolate bars. Trying to bribe me with chocolate. It's the only way he knows how to do business, Bezarin thought. But he found unexpected compassion in this image of the other man now. It was pitiful that Tarashvili had come to this.

Bezarin forced out a word of thanks. So this, he thought, is what war is really like.

In the winter, Lvov seemed to be the grayest city in the world. Dirty snow piled up along the streets, making trenches of the sidewalks. When fresh snow failed to come, the snowbanks slowly blackened along the shabby rows of old imperial buildings, architectural remnants of the years when Lvov had been Lemberg, the heart of Austro-Hungarian Galicia. The once-stately offices and departments resembled women aged beyond any possible dignity as they crumbled away between the cinder-block-and-concrete structures from the Stalinist twilight. In the winter, in the crowded silence of the streetcars, it seemed as though the last feeble capacity for joy had been crushed out of the people. The men and women of Lvov trudged through the short winter days like weary soldiers, marching past closed peeling doors and frayed posters announc-ing events already past. He had met Anna in the winter, in Lvov, and she had stood out from her background like a match struck at midnight.

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Bezarin remembered his route through the purple-gray of the faltering afternoons. He recalled the streetcars with their worn seats and their smell of urine, winter clothes, and chemicals. From the headquarters barracks, you took 23 to Konev Square, then 35 to the office block where the classrooms were located. In the old Austrian barracks, well-built and ill-heated, there was never quite enough space for all of the officers and men and activities. The streetcars, too, were overcrowded, but sometimes you got lucky coming in from the barracks and you found a seat before the benches had all filled up. Then you could read over your notes.