Winter Storm (10 page)

Fedorov
thought back to the time they served and fought together, with Karpov his sworn
lieutenant,
Starpom
under his command, and the Japanese Navy between the
ship and any hope they ever had to get home again.

“I was
Captain here once,” he said.

“And I
served under you,” said Karpov, “willingly.”

“Yet
what did we accomplish?” Fedorov gave him a long look.

“We
fought,” said Karpov. “Yes, we killed men and ships, and saved our own. And
then, when we finally made it back home, I saved
Key West.
Believe me,
that wasn’t easy for me. You said a moment ago that you were not the same man.
That I can clearly see. Well, I’m not the same either. This war has a way of
squeezing a man dry. It’s the most desperate time we ever faced on this earth,
and I’ll admit I’ve left pieces of my soul, the man I was, on many a
battlefield over these last few years. This is what I am now… older, more
wizened, leaner, more dangerous, more calculating, smarter, able to see and do
things my younger self never could, and knowing what restraint is as well.
You’re different too, Fedorov. I killed the
Wasp
, but you killed
Graf
Zeppelin
—or are you going to say that was all Volsky’s fault?”

Fedorov
knew what Karpov was saying now, he could feel it as well. “You’re right,” he
said at last. “Remember that fight we had with
Yamato?
You told me it
would get easier, but it never has. That still hasn’t stopped me from doing
what I had to do. This war put the same question to each and every one of us.”

“Correct,”
said Karpov. “You chose sides, just as I did. You chose sides and then you
realized what you had done, because guess what—there’s a war on here, and once
you take up the sword and banner, you better damn well know how to fight.”

Part IV

The Rising Storm

“It was the
noise of ancient trees falling while all was still, Before the storm, in the
long interval between the gathering clouds and that light breeze, which Germans
call the

Wind's Bride.”

―
Charles Godfrey Leland

Yes
, there was a war on, and there were men who knew how to
fight taking up those banners and swords. Oberst Gruner was one of them, as he spied
the location on the map where he wanted to go that morning, a high hill labeled
860 to his northwest. As commander of the recon battalion of Model’s 3rd Panzer
Division, he had been ordered to look for a way around the heavy resistance
encountered at Plavsk, astride the main road and rail line to Tula. The ground
was not difficult, and the elevation change was so gradual that he could take
his armored car right up the gentle slope, making for the highest point he
could see.

When he
got there, he stepped out of the vehicle, his boots settling into the mud, and
walked up to the top of the hill. From this ground he should get a very good
view of what the division was really up against, and he slowly removed his
leather gloves, cleaning the light mist from the lens of his field glasses. His
adjutant, Leutnant Meyers, followed in his wake, buttoning his overcoat against
the morning chill, and squinting into the grey sky.

It was
the time they called the Wind’s Bride, the calm before the storm. The rain was
building on the horizon, a pallid smear of clouds gathering heavily in the low
overcast. He could smell it, and knew it would bring nothing but just a little
more misery when it came time to move the rest of his division up. From the
brow of the hill, he could dimly see the lines of 10th Motorized to his north,
which had been jogging right the last several days to make contact with
Guderian’s main force in 3rd and 4th Panzer Divisions. The land flowed off
towards Plavsk, which was now due east of his position, a patchwork of muddy
brown fields, thin green woodland, and clusters of small farms, all long since
abandoned as the tide of war had finally reached them, like the oncoming edge
of a great fire.

Lifting
his field glasses to his eyes, he peered through the thickening drizzle, seeing
the solid line of infantry positions in and around the town to the east, the
thin smoke from their morning fires coiling up to be lost in the grey. North of
the town he saw more troops along the line of a thin brown river, and he could
hear the dull mutter of machine gun fire, knowing Loeper’s 10th Motorized must
have run into something there.

So his
worst misgiving had come to roost on his shoulder that morning. The mad dash
was over. There was no longer an open flank his column could swing around to
unhinge the enemy defense, and for a cavalry man, a long time officer in the
reconnaissance battalion, finding himself looking at what could now become a
front locked battle, was most disheartening. The Russians were here in force,
and they were going to hold the line of that river, and fight.

He looked
at Meyers, tugging at his gloves to adjust the fit again. “Loeper has a battle
on his hands.”

“That’s
what he gets for treading on our turf,” said Meyers. “What’s gotten into him?
He was supposed to take Belev, and set up that depot for supplies.”

“He’s
done that, then he moved east to look for us. Didn’t like what he saw building
up out west. Word is the Russian 5th Army has moved into defensive positions
there, and they may even be pushing our way.”

“All
the more reason for 10th Motorized to be watching our left flank,” said Meyers.
“Now look at him, he’s well north of our column!”

“We got
up infantry support at Belev, so Loeper is here. Don’t complain, Lieutenant. We
may be glad for that by nightfall. The Russians are here too, and in good
numbers. They must have a full Rifle Corps along that river north of Plavsk.
Loeper has his work cut out for him—and so do we.”

Gruner trudged
back to his vehicle to radio KG Munzel, where the panzers were waiting for his
report, about six kilometers to the south.

“Bad
news this morning,” he said coolly. “There is no way around the town to the
north. 10th Motorized is already there, and I spotted what looks to be at least
two more rifle divisions all along the river north of the town. I think he’s
engaged.”

“How
is the ground?”
came Munzel’s reply.

“A lot
of mud here at the base of the hill, but still fair along the secondary road.
If you want to move, do it now, because a curtain of rain is moving in. There’s
a small copse of woodland between my position and the river. I’m going to move
forward to scout that area, and see if I can reach hill 804. That will put me
in contact with Loeper’s division.”

“Very
well, we’re coming. Leave a squad there to signal us as we approach.”

Munzel
was quick to move, sending Rhun’s III battalion over a dry stream bed that
might soon be a morass of mud if he did not take Gruner’s good advice. By mid
day he had reached the woodland Gruner had scouted, and paused to wait for KG
Wellmann’s infantry. Westhoven would follow, and then Model with the rest of the
division support units. He already knew just what the General was going to
order, an attack after dusk, right through those woods and across that river
where Gruner had spotted the fresh Russian infantry. It was going to be a very
long night.

Off to
the right, KG Seiden of 4th Panzer Division was advancing up the main road from
Gorbachevo where the fighting had been so bitter the previous day. The Soviet Guardsmen
there had fallen back on the much larger town of Plavsk, and it was now clear
that this was the main enemy line of resistance. Model met with Langermann at
mid day to explain his plan.

“If you
can put in a decent attack on the town, my division is in a good position to strike
across that river to the north—that is if the rain is not too bad this
afternoon.”

“What
about Loeper?”

“He’s
already engaged—put in a well organized attack further north that seems to be
making some progress.”

“Good,
but we should not wait for daylight. We must attack tonight, and take Ivan
while he’s settling in for supper!”

“Agreed.”
There was a glint in Model’s eye, for that was already what he had decided to
do. “We will eventually get support from the remainder of the Panzergruppe, but
it may be several days before they get here, or weeks. 17th and 18th Panzers
are still well south of Orel. In the meantime, we cannot sit on out thumbs and
let the Russians dig in. We must keep pushing.”

Loeper’s
division had run into two rifle brigades of the 1st Siberian Shock Army. They
had come in by rail that very morning, taking a thin spur that ran from the
main line up to a copper mine along the river near the small hamlet of
Chrikovo. Now they were suddenly hit by six German battalions, the infantry
dismounted and storming over the river to force the 9th Brigade back in some
disorder. But near sunset, the sound of an infantry charge rolled over the misty
fields, and the whole of the 329th Rifle Division, which had been in reserve
just behind the river, was thrown at 1/20th Grenadier Battalion.

The
attack was well supported with artillery, and the battle was hot and furious,
with the Germans forced back to the river by dusk, where they reorganized to
put in a counterattack timed with the surprise attack KG Munzel was planning.
All that afternoon, into the gloaming of sunset, the whole of 3rd Panzer
Division had moved again, grateful that the enemy was on the run, or so they
first believed. By dusk Model was up on the same hill Gruner had surveyed the
ground from that morning, listening to the sound of battle in the low, flat
valley below.

He
waited until Langermann’s attack hit Plavst head on, hoping to catch the
Russians at dinner, but he found them digging in a row of stone houses at the
edge of town, and it was clear this would be no easy fight. For a while, Model
watched the stream of tracers from machine guns and tank fire at the edge of
the town, and in the fading light, it looked as though the squat houses and
barns were chunks of charcoal, as the edge of the town slowly began to burn.

Gruner’s
report had been very accurate, even his weather forecast. It had begun to rain
more heavily in the late afternoon, and in places, pools of dirty brown water
were forming on the tracks made by the division’s passing, the sodden ground
becoming a thick, viscous mud. He saw a truck full of support troops get stuck,
the men leaping out and putting their shoulders to the back of the vehicle as
they labored to push it forward. He shook his head.

How do
the Russians do anything here, go anywhere in this endless country? There are
so few good roads, and all the rail lines are useless until our construction
battalions convert them to true European gauge. And now comes this damnable
rain and mud. I’m a panzer leader. I make my bones with shock and maneuver, and
under these conditions, we may soon find ourselves fighting the last war again,
digging trenches, sewing mines and wire, and waiting for the artillery. This
will not be as easy as OKW might think, yet the troops are still in good
spirits, and they fight hard.

With
skilled honed in a score of engagements over the long summer, the German
Panzergrenadiers put in a persistent, and effective attack. KG Seiden pushed
into the town, fighting house to house, where the withering fire of their
machineguns proved most helpful in suppressing the Russian infantry while the
assault teams rushed forward, sprinting from low stone walls, across the muddy
streets. By midnight they had pushed into the town center, with buildings
blackened and burning on every side, and a thick pall of heavy smoke overlying
the whole scene.

The
Russians were stubborn, and they fought hard, but they were not supermen. These
were the Guardsmen who had already fought at Mtsensk days earlier, and then
made the long grudging retreat up the main road through Chern and Gorbachevo to
reach this place, tired, hungry and needing rest. KG Wellmann had his two battalions
just north of the town, and in spite of their fatigue, the Guardsmen joined a
regiment of the 328th Rifle Division and launched a midnight counterattack
against Wellmann’s 2nd Battalion.

That
night there was intermittent fighting along the whole river line, extending
some 20 kilometers north of the town. At dawn the Germans found out what they
had run into, not simply the blocking force they had been chasing up the road,
thinking to hold one last time at Plavsk, but now an entire new Soviet Army.
Von Loeper had sent his grenadiers across the river only to run into the three
divisions of the 17th Siberian Rifle Corps. In the town itself, the remnants of
5th and 6th Guards Rifle Divisions were still battling for the main square, and
in the south, Kuzma Podlas was suddenly much more than he had seemed the
previous day when the Germans had routed his unprepared divisions at the
village of Ulyanovka.

Kuzma
Podlas had not come alone.

His was
the first rifle corps to arrive, tramping up the long road from Yevremov to the
southwest, as there were no trains available on the main lines to Tula. He had
boldly walked right into the teeth of the German advance earlier, and paid a
very high price, but there were two more corps behind him, Morozov’s 57th, with
a pair of fresh rifle divisions, and Dubkov’s 8th Cavalry Corps, with two cavalry
divisions and the army artillery. The 1st Red Banner Army from the Far East
Command, troops that had been slated to fight on the upper Volga, had finally
arrived where the war mattered most, and now it would join the 1st Special
Rifle Corps, and the 1st Siberian Shock Army. Sergie Kirov had bet heavily on
those numbers, and the three ones were now massing like a brooding storm on
Guderian’s front.

Model
was watching it come from the vantage point of Hill 864, even while Langermann
of the 4th Panzer Division studied the situation from his outpost to the south.
Little by little, an awareness was building that this was something much more
than a temporary check. Things had been stacking up, like bad cards from a
greedy dealer, one after another. First there was that unexpected bloody nose
for Eberbach at Mtsensk, and for a man with a rubber nose, that was saying
something. Those new Soviet T-34s were going to be a great deal of trouble if they
were ever produced in numbers.

Yet it
was more than that, more than hubris, or the sudden appearance of new enemy
hardware. There was something in the wind, something on the rain, and it was a
difference Langermann and Model could both feel. The Russians were fighting
now. They knew their backs were up against the wall, and they were fighting
with a newfound will, sharpened with the edge of desperation.

When
the Siberian Guard Corps arrived the following day, the situation would
suddenly turn from difficult to desperate for the Germans as well, prompting Model
to make his plaintive call to Guderian…

“We
have hit a brick wall south of Tula,” he had said. “These are fresh troops, a
new army, and they fight like wildcats. My men have been in active defense all
morning, and still they come. We are holding out, but many of our positions
have been swamped by these incessant attacks.”

“Tanks?”
asked Guderian.

“Not
many,” said Model, “but they do not even need them. I must be facing at least
five strong rifle divisions, and they have good artillery support. Under the
circumstances, any further advance is impossible, and I will need help—the
sooner the better.”

“Very
well,” said Guderian. “Hold on. I will see what I can do as soon as possible.”