But it had spooked him. For the first time in years, Gordunov knew he had been caught completely off guard.
The wounded boy was praying. It didn’t surprise Gordunov. Religious or not, he had known many a dying soldier to pray in Afghanistan. Even political officers, professional atheists, were not above appealing to a hoped-for god in their final moments. Gordunov forced himself back to business.
“Vulture, this is Eagle.”
“This is Vulture.”
“What’s your status?”
“We have the southern bridge. Intermittent fighting in the town on both sides of the river. The organization you requested is on the way.”
“Casualties?”
“Heavy. The British ambushed us the first time we went for the bridge. But we cleared them out.”
“How bad?”
“I’ve got about a hundred left.”
“With your company?”
“Including everybody. Never found the antitank platoon. They must have gone down. We have about twenty prisoners. About the same number of wounded.”
“All right. Just get in the buildings and hang on. Keep the wounded with you. I’ll send a doctor down from the hospital. Get the mortars to shoot in to support Falcon. Establish a layered defense on both sides of the river.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The radioman died. Gordunov could feel the difference in the room. When the radio went silent, it felt to Gordunov as though he were in a haunted place.
“Eagle, this is Falcon.”
“Eagle.”
“We can’t find you. What’s your location?”
“Never mind,” Gordunov said. “I don’t need the help anymore. Just watch for me coming in.”
Gordunov sat in silence for a moment, marshaling his strength. There was no sound close in. Only the ebb and flow of firing up the street. In the bowl of almost-silence, the pain in his ankle seemed to amplify, as though someone were methodically turning up a volume dial wired to his limb.
Gordunov rose onto his knees. With a deep breath, he caught the radio on his shoulders. At the last moment, he remembered to go through the dead boy’s pockets for the communications technical data pads. The papers had sponged up the boy’s blood. He wiped the pads and his hands on an upholstered chair, slopping back and forth over the coarse material in the darkness. Then he climbed to his feet.
He toppled back down. His ankle would not accept the additional weight of the radio. As he fell the corner of a table jammed him in the small of his back.
Breathing deeply, trying to drown the pain in a flood of oxygen, Gordunov forced himself back onto his feet.
One step. Then another.
He stepped down into the street. No sign of Karchenko. Just as well, he thought. Up the road to the north, near what appeared to be a rail crossing, the buildings blazed, featuring the black hull of a ruptured tank in silhouette. There was firing down the first alleyway, as well.
The random bodies of the dead glistened and shone where eyes remained open or teeth caught the fluttering light. Gordunov felt no emotional response. The corpses were abstractions, possessed of no inherent meaning now. He walked upright and slowly. Each step under the weight of the radio jolted currents of pain up his leg. He pictured the pain as a green liquid fire, racing up his nerves. It was impossible to move with any tactical finesse now.
The growing fires lit the street more brightly than a full moon could have done. As Gordunov approached the network of unengaged positions by the bridgehead no one challenged him. Instead, Karchenko and another soldier rushed out to intercept him.
“Are you crazy? Get down,” Karchenko demanded. Belatedly, he added, “Comrade Battalion Commander.”
“Help me, Karchenko. I have a problem with my leg.”
Karchenko reached out, pausing only at the last moment before touching Gordunov. Then he closed in, and Gordunov put his arm around the company commander’s shoulders, easing his weight.
“It’s all right,” Gordunov said. “We have both the bridges.”
“Let me take the radio. Here. Massenikov, take the radio from the commander.”
“It’s all right,” Gordunov repeated. “Now we just hang on. I’ve been through this before.”
Eleven
Chibisov watched the front commander eat, reckoning Malinsky’s mood by his mannerisms. The old man’s table manners were normally very precise. But now he absentmindedly forked up bits of cutlet and beans, simply fueling his body, as though it was just another piece of warmaking machinery. An aura of urgency had accompanied Malinsky back from his visits to the forward army commanders. Chibisov, however, remained unsure about how much of the front commander’s anxiety was genuine worry and how much arose from the need to personally accomplish an overwhelming number of practical tasks, despite the support of his staff. The complexity of the contemporary battlefield was enough to break any commander who paused too long to think about it. Overall, the situation appeared extraordinarily favorable, especially in the north, in Trimenko’s sector. But there were also potentially enormous difficulties, more of them each hour. Some of the difficulties had been adequately forecast, and the system had been designed with substantial tolerances. Other difficulties, such as the speed with which units on both sides essentially ceased to exist, and the tempo of movement, strained the troop control system at all levels to a dangerous point. While these difficulties had been argued theoretically in peacetime, virtually no one had internalized the practical considerations. While Chibisov himself had encountered few intellectual surprises, on a visceral level he found the reports from the formations engaged in combat almost unnerving.
As usual, Malinsky had declined to receive a full staff briefing. Although the Front Commander understood the value of ceremony and personal control, he also recognized the dangers of formalism. At the moment, continuity of effort was crucial. The staff was nearly swamped with requirements and demands, and a break in the pattern of work might have been inordinately costly. Malinsky had simply asked the chief of staff to brief him on key events and items of particular interest while he himself had a meal in his office.
“Trimenko’s doing splendidly,” Chibisov said, tapping the point at the deepening red arrows on the situation map. “The Dutch were too thin, and the Germans are too slow.”
“Trimenko tells me that Dalyev’s division is in a bad way,” Malinsky interjected. “Half of the division’s combat power is either gone or so disorganized it’s unusable.” But the tone of genuine worry wasn’t there yet. Malinsky ate another trimmed-off piece of meat.
“Too much frontage,” Chibisov said. “But we expected that. Dalyev had a thankless task. And the sacrifice appears to have paid off. Dalyev’s attacks focused the Germans’ attention. Overall, the Second Guards Tank Army is ahead of its timetable. Trimenko’s got one forward detachment battering it out in Soltau, and another’s running loose in the Dutch rear. He’s ready to introduce an independent tank regiment to break for the Weser. Malyshev’s division is up, and his lead regiments should be in contact in a few hours. The situation may not be clean enough for a demonstration exercise, but the key units are making it to their appointed places. Oh, and Korbatov has Lueneburg.”
“I know,” Malinsky said, dropping into his quieter personal voice. He shook his head, wearing a frankly baffled look. “Pavel Pavlovitch… I still think that entire affair…” Then he shrugged, switching his mind back to concerns within his area of decision. “Trimenko’s crisis is coming tonight. He knows it. But knowing may not help. The Germans are going to hit him. I’m surprised they haven’t hit him already. If they just wait a little longer, until the Sixteenth Tank Division completes its march and passes into commitment, we’ll be fine. At that point, the Germans could punch all the way up to the Elbe, and they’d only be caught in a trap by follow-on forces. But the Sixteenth Tank Division must break out. Trimenko’s extremely vulnerable as long as we’re muddling through the commitment
