Storymania - Russian Front by Aidan Steer

Russian Front (3)
Aidan Steer

So far, Hitler was playing into their hands. He was obstinately refusing to allow Von Paulus to withdraw from the City. But what if Sixth Army conquered the ruins before the Russians could complete their preparations for their assault? In places the Germans were only half or even one quarter of a mile from the West bank of the Volga. The resistance by the Russians was dedicated to the point of fanaticism, but even fanatics become exhausted.

‘Yuri’s death was a terrible blow. He was an inspiration. The truth is that the others simply aren’t as skilled as him, whatever we may say in the propaganda,’ said Zhukov, referring to the recent demise of the Russian Army’s most famous sniper. ‘We can’t keep it a secret forever.’

Vasilevsky paused before answering. ‘The NKVD have a plan. A plan of deception, to bolster morale. I wanted to get your approval. It would mean keeping Yuri’s death hidden for a while longer.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier? At the meeting? When we discussed the Stalingrad situation?’

‘I thought it was too detailed to worry Comrade Stalin,’ replied Vasilevsky, somewhat vaguely. ‘He has enough to worry about. As do you, Comrade General. Operation Uranus is an immense undertaking.’

‘Your concern for my workload touches me deeply, Alexander, responded Zhukov dryly. ‘Tell me about the NKVD plan. Briefly, before I drop you at your apartment.’

Vasilevsky began to outline the details. It took about five minutes.

‘Are you sure this will work?’ asked Zhukov, sounding doubtful. ‘It seems far-fetched to me. Fraught with risk.’

‘Without being glib, the whole situation is fraught with risk. We have thousands of men and tanks, trucks and supplies to gather together. The plans are complex and you and I know that we must not fail. Our heads will roll if we do, of course, but that is not important. Nothing less than the existence of the Soviet Union is at stake. Stalingrad must hold until we are ready to spring our trap. Those soldiers in the cellars must continue to fight and die and the key to that is morale, as it always is.’

‘Very well,’ said Zhukov. ‘Let this NKVD dilettante – what’s his name?’

‘Er, Romanov,’ admitted Vasilevsky. ‘He’s one of their intellectuals. He studied at Oxford University.’

‘Romanov!’ laughed Zhukov. ‘An aristocrat – you’ll be telling me he’s the Czar’s godson next.’

‘He is absolutely no relation to that lot,’ said Vasilevsky, relieved that Zhukov did not appear angry. ‘They check these things thoroughly, he’s a good communist.’

A few moments’ silence followed as the car followed the river, the ice on its banks silver in the moonlight. Then the car pulled up outside a large, modern apartment block. Vasilevsky got out.

‘You better get your head down,’ said Zhukov. ‘Be back at the War Ministry in four hours. We’ve got Divisions to shuffle and a mountain of detail to wade through. Keep an eye on this Romanov and his plan. It all sounds a bit romantic to me. Like one of those Shakespeare plays where women pretend to be men.

Vasilevsky didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, never having seen one of Shakespeare’s plays. But the important point was that he had got the military go-ahead to implement Romanov’s plan.

‘Long live Comrade Stalin and the glorious Soviet Union,’ said Vasilevsky, a bit dizzy from lack of sleep and a second nip of vodka from Zhukov’s hip flask.

‘Long live Yuri,’ muttered Zhukov, his logical mind touching the heart of the matter as always. Without another word, he slammed his hand on the back of the seat in front. Vasilevsky closed the door and the car accelerated away. Vasilevsky looked after him with something approaching adoration. Captain, oh my captain, he thought. He had heard of Walt Whitman.

He went inside and rose in the lift – this apartment block was one of the few in Moscow to have such a device in working order - and resolved to phone Romanov with the good news as soon as he had slept.

* * * * *

Later that morning, a young German staff officer stared out of the square window of a Junkers tri-motor on its way from Stalingrad to Hitler’s Eastern headquarters at Rastenburg in East Prussia. The plane had been in the air for several hours, and he felt both hypnotized and bored by the gloomy vastness of the wooded hills and mountains. The clouds were low and threatened snow, and the plane hung just beneath them.

He closed his eyes. He wasn’t looking forward to arriving at Rastenburg, but then who would?

Ehle was part of a team that had been sent to Stalingrad to more or less openly spy on Von Paulus with the object of finding out why the wretched General and his Sixth Army seemed unable to finish off the Russians and take the city. Now they were returning after being briefed on the situation.

Von Paulus had struck all of them as a deeply unhappy man who felt that he had been given an impossible task. The young staff officer, Ehle, had formed the opinion that Von Paulus had been promoted beyond his merits and was simply not temperamentally suited to a war of conquest.

But one of Paulus’ problems had impressed Ehle deeply, and he intended to do something about it. He had been taken to a casualty clearing station where he was shown a line of German corpses, all of whom had been shot in the head.

‘Suicides?’ Ehle hazarded.

‘Snipers!’ The Wehrmacht doctor spat out. ‘The casualty rate from snipers has increased dramatically. And the Ivans are picking their targets. Look at the insignia on these men. They’re mostly NCOs and officers. And all the others are specialists – a radio operator, an engineer.’ He looked at Ehle. ‘The first thing we did when we came here was to bomb the city to pieces. It was the worst move we could have made. All we’ve done is create a guerrilla fighter’s heaven.’

As Ehle’s team toured the battlefield they picked up definite evidence that morale was being sapped, that respect for the enemy was on the increase, and that some men had even asked openly why the Germans were in Russia at all. It seemed to Ehle that the Russian snipers were the key to this deterioration. By the same token, the Russians had grown immeasurably in confidence, knowing that their snipers were steadily picking off the opposition. There was a growing respect for ‘Ivan’ as the Germans called their enemies.

Trained as a psychologist, Ehle was something of a specialist in the subject of morale. His normal work was propaganda, he was responsible for the leaflets that were dropped behind enemy lines, as well as writing the ‘script’ for the demoralizing messages that were relayed by loudspeaker across no-man’s-land.

The sniping problem focused on the activities of one man, known only as Yuri, who was rapidly becoming a legend. The Russians themselves were pretty clued up when it came to propaganda and a leaflet had turned up, written in elegantly faultless German, boasting of his activities. Entitled ‘Keep Your Head Down, Fritz!’ it listed the names and ranks of some of Yuri’s victims and gave what read like friendly advice on how to avoid being shot by a Russian marksman. Ehle fished a copy out of his briefcase and read it again, admiringly. It really was very clever in an insidious kind of way.

‘Watch out for officers – ALL officers are swine and will get you killed if you give them half a chance,’ it ran. ‘If an officer orders you to reconnoiter a piece of ground, protest that snipers have got it covered. They probably have anyway – and why should you die finding out?’ There was also detailed and medically accurate advice on the best way to create a non-suspicious self-inflicted wound without ending up either crippled or court-martialled – ‘shoot through a loaf of bread to avoid close-range powder burns’, and so on. Towards the end there was the usual rubbish to the effect that all Germans who deserted would receive hot meals and warm beds, but that wasn’t important since almost nobody would be stupid enough to believe it.

The rot had to stop. Ehle believed he had found a way.

Two hours later he and his superiors waited in an anteroom to Hitler’s main map-room in the gloomy compound of wooden buildings at Rastenburg. Machine gun nests covered their staff car as it halted at each of three checkpoints. The Colonels, one Major General and Ehle, a relatively lowly Captain in this company, waited like naughty schoolboys to be summoned to the great presence of the Fuhrer himself. Nobody spoke and nobody dared to smoke, although this was permitted in the anteroom. SS bodyguards in immaculate uniforms looked on impassive and apparently unblinking.

All of a sudden, in a moment it seemed, the time was judged right and they were summoned into the main room, which was dominated by a huge map table. Ehle immediately noticed that almost all of these depicted Russian terrain. Hitler was speaking quietly to his staff about Rommel’s problems in the desert.

‘Rommel has enough beans and bullets. These Generals are always complaining, they blame everything on the supply situation. It was the same in 1918, believe me. The truth is that our equipment and morale is superior and willpower will see us through to the end of the day. Tell him - no more so-called tactical withdrawals. The German soldier will prevail if he is led properly, all he asks for is inspiring leadership, he does not need to be pampered, we didn’t need luxuries in the trenches. I sometimes wonder how well aware of the true tactical situation these upper-class Generals are. There are times, there really are times,’ - he slapped his hand on the table in frustration, his voice rising - ‘when I am heartily sick of their excuses and am convinced that I could run the battle better myself.’

‘Africa is only a side-show anyway,’ he added with a dismissive wave of his hand, ‘whatever Rommel might think, Russia is where the real battle is being fought. Stalingrad and Leningrad are where the real men are fighting and dying, and who do they have to lead them – another damned well-bred snob!’

Ehle could hardly believe his ears. The Fuhrer deriding Rommel and the Afrika Korps, who had very nearly pushed the British out of Egypt! Didn’t he care about their casualties, their sacrifices – stuck in the desert for years? Rommel was a hero to the German people!

The discussion continued on the subject of Stalingrad and Hitler listened, or appeared to listen, his glacial gray-blue eyes fastening on the Major General who reported that the situation in Stalingrad was deteriorating rather than improving. He reported the damning conclusion of the group that Von Paulus was depressed and felt unsupported, his supply lines stretched to breaking point, his men suffering from cold and beginning to feel hunger. The Russians simply refused to cede the pathetic strip of the City on the West side of the Volga.

‘Sixth Army intelligence is concerned that the enemy might have some hidden motive for clinging on to Stalingrad. Reports from prisoners and aerial observation indicate some kind of enemy build-up to the North. The Rumanian divisions there have noticed troop and tank movements -’

Hitler snorted. As far as he was concerned, all the German ‘allies’ – Hungarians, Romanians, and Croats – were all as useless as the Italians had proved themselves to be in the desert.

‘Stalin has no strategy as regards Stalingrad except to cling on to the City that bears his name,’ he said. ‘He is simple and obstinate and that will be his undoing.’

Ehle looked around. Nobody smiled, far less attempted to suggest, however diffidently, that perhaps the Fuhrer was himself displaying a little obstinacy by remorselessly grinding Sixth Army to pieces.

‘I want Stalingrad,’ Hitler stated. ‘The offensive will continue. Tell Von Paulus to roll his sleeves up and get cracking. There will be no excuses for failure.’

The Major General attempted to continue: ‘My Fuhrer, the morale problem at Stalingrad, Captain Ehle is a specialist and has devised a program-‘

‘There is no problem of morale at Stalingrad except in Paulus’ headquarters!’ Hitler exploded. ‘Now do whatever you think necessary, but give me Stalingrad, you have my complete authority, that is a Fuhrer-order!’

The team from Stalingrad saluted and left, all of them relieved to go. There was something dreadful, almost bestial in the atmosphere of the room. They gathered outside, lit cigarettes, and chattered to each other, rank forgotten for a moment.

‘Christ!’ blurted out one of the Colonels. ‘They make you feel as if you aren’t human anymore.’

‘It’s like being at school,’ said another.

‘Except that the school bully has appointed himself headmaster,’ murmured Ehle.

This was a dangerous remark, and all of a sudden his senior officers remembered who they were and the dignity of their rank. They began to walk towards the officers’ mess. The Major General spoke:

‘It looks as if you have complete authority to take whatever steps you see fit, Ehle. A Fuhrer-order! Rommel’s quartermaster would give his right arm for one of those.’

‘I know what I want to do,’ said Ehle. ‘It’s fairly straightforward. We need to match the skills of Yuri and his pals. Armed with my Fuhrer-order I am going to comb Germany for its very best sharpshooter and send him to Stalingrad to deal with Yuri personally.’

‘Surely you want more than one? There is more than one Russian sniper in Stalingrad, after all.’ Said the Major General.

‘There is only one sniper who matters. Yuri is their super-sniper. If we go in mob-handed, sending in a football team of crack-shots, we will lose both ways. Even if they get him, he will get all the glory because it took so many to kill him. We will have created a martyr, and we know how dangerous those are, don’t we?’

Ehle looked at the others before continuing:

‘And what if our notional band of sharpshooters lose? Suppose Yuri and his comrades are good enough to kill them all and Yuri is left alive – victorious. How would that look? No, sir, it has to be man against man, but we will give him all the assistance and protection we can. Our man, whoever he turns out to be, has to kill Yuri.’

‘Very well,’ said the Major General, ‘I recommend you go straight to the sniping schools. And make sure you pick the best shot.’

‘Unfortunately it’s not just a question of shooting straight’ said Ehle thoughtfully. ‘He has to be a hunter, a killer.’

‘Oh, come on, Ehle,’ scoffed one of the Colonels. ‘At the end of the day this Yuri is just another Ivan with sharp eyes.’

‘Perhaps, sir.’ Ehle saluted and left to return to the staff car and get the first plane to Berlin. He had work to do.

Chapter 3

LISBON

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