Ralph Peters - Red Army

I'm reorganizing my East German division as a counterattack force."

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Malinsky was surprised. "They've done well, then, our little German comrades?"

"Good tools," Starukhin said. "They make very good tools, the Germans." He smiled.

"All right. But don't commit the counterattack force without my approval. I want to know exactly where the Americans are headed. We must not commit prematurely. Also, I'm going to order the release of a mechanized airborne force to you. You'll have two reinforced regiments.

I want you to employ them as light armor, working around urbanized terrain."

Starukhin bobbed his head in agreement, obviously pleased with the gift of additional forces, minor though they were. Malinsky knew that Starukhin would fight hard with every weapon put into his hand. It was only his impulsiveness that worried the front commander.

"Yes," Malinsky said. "The most desirable thing is certainly to hold them west of the Weser and south of the Rinteln-Herford-Borgholzhausen line. I don't want them interfering with the progress of the Second Guards Tank Army. And we need to hold open as many bridgeheads as possible for follow-on forces."

"How long do you think we'll need to hold on," Starukhin asked,

"before fresh divisions come up?" It was unprecedented for Starukhin to ask such a question, so totally devoid of swagger. It brought home the seriousness of the situation to Malinsky.

The front commander put down his cigarette and pushed back his sleeve. He checked his watch. To his surprise, he found that it was full morning. It would be broad daylight outside.

"Twelve hours," he guessed, wishing Chibisov was on hand, ready with his clear-cut, confident answers.

A staff officer approached the two generals. From the movement of his eyes, Malinsky could see that the officer was far more worried about Starukhin's possible reaction to his presence than about Malinsky.

Malinsky's stare caused Starukhin to turn.

"Well?" Starukhin said, in a voice of measured restraint.

"Comrade Commanders," the staffer said, looking back and forth between them. "The Third Brigade of the Forty-ninth Corps is being overrun."

The sounds of combat action reverberated in the middle distance.

When large-caliber shells struck, the roughly erected tentage sheltering the area between the vehicles of Anton's command post shivered, 310

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jouncing the maps lining the canvas walls. The radios sputtered with grim updates. The manning of the command post had been reduced so that a defensive perimeter could be established at the edge of the grove.

There was still no enemy contact in the immediate vicinity, but American forces had passed by on both flanks.

"Try to raise corps again," Anton said to the staff at large. "There are helicopters. We've been promised helicopters." He half remembered a meeting in the night with the corps commander. They had spoken of helicopters that would come to the rescue.

Anton had a budding suspicion that his staff had begun to work around him, struggling to carry out his orders to block every key intersection and to establish a hasty defense. They had been caught, and caught badly. The brigade, the entire corps, was a splendid offensive weapon, well-structured to fight meeting engagements. But they had moved too swiftly, brigades out of contact with one another, and with gaps between elements of the individual brigades. It had all been too fast, and the intelligence had been too slow, and now they were paying the price.

Yet even if all of that was true, the failure remained his, Anton realized.

He tried to blame the acid sickness in his guts and the fever and his flesh rubbed so raw it hurt to sit. And the dizziness that made it difficult to stand. He should have turned over the brigade to someone more capable.

But to whom? Where did duty end? What would his father have thought? Perhaps even that he was a coward. A Malinsky brought low by a bad digestion. In any event, it would have shamed the old man. And Anton would not do it. No matter what it cost.

He thought of Zena, of all the things he had to tell her. They often talked together. They shared everything. Yet it seemed to him now that an incredible amount had been left unspoken.

"Where are the helicopters?" Anton asked suddenly.

"Comrade Commander, we can't reach the corps."

"Try manual Morse."

"Comrade Commander, we've tried everything."

"Don't tell me that you can't do this and can't do that," Anton shouted. "Get the helicopters. Do you understand me?"

"I'll try to relay through the Fourth Brigade."

"Why didn't you tell me we have communications with the Fourth Brigade?"

There was no response. Anton looked around him. Work had almost stopped. Several officers stared at him.

"What is the situation of the Fourth Brigade?" Anton demanded.

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"They are . . . in contact. To the north of us. Comrade Commander, you listened to the report as it came in."

Anton tried to make sense of this. The north was the wrong side. He remembered that much. And the Americans were to the north of them now.

"Report on subordinate units," Anton demanded. "We must form a counterattack force." He tried desperately to remember the formulas, the rules, how the schools and manuals insisted it must be done. But he only remembered faces without names.

Then Zena returned. Zena enjoyed nakedness. She said she wanted to live where there was always sun and no one needed to wear any clothing at all, and Anton always pictured that place as Cuba, but empty of everyone but the two of them. Beaches. Sun. The sun was enormous now, blinding him.

"Report," Anton insisted. He felt his belly beginning to cramp again.

He would need to go outside soon. But he struggled to wait until the last possible moment, punishing himself. He would not abandon his post.

"Comrade Commander"—the chief of staff placed his hand on Anton's shoulder—"Comrade Commander . . . " He shook Anton slightly. Anton realized what was happening, but he found it difficult to respond.

"Colonel Malinsky," the chief shouted at him.

Anton looked up at the man. He was unshaven. Officers needed to shave, to set the example.

"Your father is on the secure radio. He wants to speak to you. Can you talk to him?"

His father. Anton rose quickly, a bit too quickly. As though he had been caught committing an indiscretion. Letting his father down.

The chief of staff helped him across the command post to the vehicle containing the secure radio sets. An operator pulled up a stool for Anton.

But Anton would not sit. Not in the presence of his father.

"Your call sign is 'Firebird,'" the operator said. "The front commander is 'Blizzard.'"

Firebird. Blizzard. Anton took the microphone, steeling himself.

"Blizzard, this is Firebird."

His father's voice came to him, instantly recognizable even through the disturbed airways. "This is Blizzard. Report your situation."

Anton sought to order his thoughts. "This is Firebird . . ." he began.

"We are in heavy combat. Enemy units have penetrated . . ." He forced his speech to behave, to conform to military standards. It required an 312

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enormous effort, the greatest of his life. "We have been penetrated by American armored forces attacking on a minimum of two axes. We have suffered heavy casualties, especially to enemy attack helicopters. Our current course of action involves the establishment of a series of local defenses, oriented on retaining control of vital intersections. We are attempting to channel and slow the enemy's attack."