Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (85 page)

They all knew the two men were not what they were presented as. Some knew exactly what they were,
some even knew what they had once been, depending on the level of confidence they enjoyed with Wilders, or his wife, for that matter.

Tonight was Christmas Eve, a time when Germans find a soulful depth not normally on display.

The cold was offset by beer, wine, and brandy, all washing down plates of steaming pork, potatoes and cabbage.

The two fires were tend
ed as the meal was cleared away, permitting tradition took over.

It fell to the master of the house to talk about the year past
, and the year ahead, thanking those who had excelled, and mapping out the course for the estate over the coming twelve months.

Wilders, without notes, went through 1945 and the joys and horrors it had brought, but only relative to the estate.

There was silence for the son of his Head Gardener, killed by a strafing Soviet fighter some months before.

His description of the year ahead could only be his hopes; the war would not stop and accommodate the needs of an agricultural community.

After seventeen minutes of hopes, fears, thanks, acknowledgements, and inspiration for the future, he finished and reached for his drink.

Raising his glass, he toasted his workers, their families
, and Germany.

The hour left, a new one came
, and with it came Christmas Day.

He then departed with tradition, as he had been asked to do.

The room fell silent as the two ‘new workers’ stood.

“
Kameraden. We thank you for helping us. You have saved our lives, and we are very grateful. One day, we will be able to repay you all. Until then, please accept this gift.”

The younger man surprised everyone by starting to sing.

“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

Alles schläft; einsam wacht...
”

His voice was a like a dream, every note precise and with the feeling required of the German
’s most favourite Christmas song.

Eyes moistened, the wonderful voice bringing every colour
and emotion ever necessary to the carol.

When the older man joine
d in, the harmony brought the song to a higher level.

Nur das traute
heilige Paar.

Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

No-one else sang until the two Legionnaires encouraged them to join in.

It was a magical time that none present would ever forget.

The whole hall reverberated with the wonderful carol, rising voices bringing it to a worthy conclusion.

Jesus der Retter ist da!

Jesus der Retter ist da!

There was silence, all save the occasional crack as heated wood spat its resin. The tears fell silently.

Caporal Fritz Zenden, until recently a driver of a Panther tank, nodded to the assembly and sat down, leaving his commander to speak.

“
Thank you all and Merry Christmas.”

He sat down and raised his glass to Wilders, both men understanding that the tears in
their eyes were for other times and other people, now long gone.

“
Thank you, Artur. Merry Christmas.”

“
And to you, Rolf, and to you.”

This was always going to be the trickiest part, and the Russian carefully surveyed the ground and positions with his damaged field glasses, the single intact lens finding the weakness he sought almost immediately.

He checked his watch, immediately understanding that his period of grace would soon be over.

Twelve minutes to get across and identify himself before some sentry took a pot shot at him.

He made his calculations.

‘Two hundred metres, possibly two-ten.”

The opposing positions were one hundred metres behind him, containing men who had been told not to fire at anything until 2345hrs precisely.

A flare rose up and he froze.

As it sank to earth, all he could think of was
the time.

In his badly weakened state, even covering the two hundred metres might prove to
o much, as his guides had now left him, their support and steadying hands having got him this far on the coldest night of the year so far.

The raggedly dressed man lu
nged forward, his initial approach masked by a drift.

On he went, his breathing seemingly loud enough to waken the dead
, but nothing; no reaction at all.

In good time
, he made the position he had spotted earlier, and nestled between the two rocks.

Checking his watch, he found that five minutes remained, five minutes in which he had to convince the soldiers in the position adjacent to him that he was a friend, not a foe.

He had decided on his method and started into the famous Simonov poem, speaking as loudly as caution permitted.

“
Wait for me and I’ll come back.

Wait with all you
’ve got.

Wait,
until the dreary yellow rains

Tell you, you should not.
”

The
rising sound of voices encouraged him and his volume rose.

“
Wait when snow is falling fast,

Wait when
the summer is hot,

Wait when
our yesterdays are past.

And o
thers are forgot.”

The duty officer had been summoned and arrived quickly but, for some reason, let the unknown voice finish the first section of the poem to Valentina Serova.

“Wait, when from that far-away place,

Letters don
’t arrive.

Wait, when they
with whom you wait

Doubt if I
’m alive.”

“
Shut the fuck up, you shithead!”

The Senior Lieutenant had been w
arm in his bed and was in no mood to play games, no matter how well the soldier recited the famous poem.

“I’m a Red Army soldier. Help me!”

“Move this way, quickly, No tricks or you’ll be shot like a fucking dog. C’mon, move your fucking ass. It’s too cold for… what the fuck is that?”

The apparition that scrambled over the top of the trench seemed like it had come from another world.

On top, the vestiges of some sort of heavy duty civilian coat, tied together with something that could have once been strips of animal skin. Whatever it was, it had an odour all of its own, even in the freezing cold of Christmas Eve 1945.

On the
‘thing’s’ head was a cap that might once have looked like a Soviet officer’s side cap.

The light of the brazier did little to aid investigation, so the officer decided to take the problem into somewhere lighter and
, for his own comfort, much warmer.

“
Yefreytor Amanin. Two men, search this… person… and then bring whatever it is to my bunker immediately. Serzhant Kremov, send a runner to Captain Arganov. Tell him what we have caught. Move.”

The party moved swiftly, the guards and prisoner also encouraged to speedier movement by the promise of warmth.

Sitting on the table, swinging a booted leg, Senior Lieutenant Chamanov wished he had just shot the man out of hand and not wasted his time.

When the bundle of rags arrived, Chamanov was surprised to find that he was not held firm, neither was he restrained in any way.

“What is the meaning of this, Amanin?”

He extracted his pistol, intent on getting rid of the
problem.

“
Comrade Starshy Leytenant.”

Amanin held out a disheveled identity card.

Chamanov read it in the candle light, a sense of foreboding spreading across his chest and into his heart.

“
Attention!”

He sprang to parade attention, along with the rest of the escort. Only the raggedy man
remained at ease.

“
Sir, my apologies but… what… how… where’ve you come from? Why are you in this state? What the…”

“
Calm yourself, Comrade Chamanov.”

Ex-Polkovnik Atalin had told
the man all he wanted to know about the penal unit officer.

“
One question at a time. Now, can I have a drink, something to eat, and some room by that fire?”

Chamanov leapt aside like a supercharged deer, opening the way for the raggedy man to gain a seat near the
warming flames.

One of the soldiers hesitantly offered up his canteen
and it was gratefully accepted. The new arrival took a deep draught.

His mind immediately leapt back to another time, when vodka had tasted really good
, and his soldiers were still alive, before this abominable war started all over again.

"Thank you, Comrade."

Chamanov had an idea.

“
Atalin, fetch my greatcoat.”

“
Sir.”

He found it easily and held it out, but Chamanov directed him to the figure by the fire.

“Sir, can I relieve you of your… coat and replace it with this one?”

The grunt was
clearly one of agreement, the new arrival standing immediately and shedding his rags.

Beneath them, tired, dirty
, and incomplete, were rank markings still identifiable as those of a Red Army Major General.

The blanket covering the door flew open and in burst an extremely irritated Captain Arganov.

“What the fuck is this all about, Comrade Chamanov. This better be fucking good or you'll… err… I… Blyad! Who the hell's that?”

“Comrade Kapitan,” Chamanov quickly checked the pass he still held in his hand, “May I introduce
Mayor General Ivan Alekseevich Makarenko, commander of the100th Guards Airborne Rifle Division ‘Svir’.”

Perhaps
this
is the end of the beginning.

Fig#1 - Comparative ranks.

Fig#72 - European locations of Impasse.

Fig#73 – Éire, Great Britain, and the Atlantic 1945.

Fig#74 - Éire and the Atlantic 1945 [Full copy]

Fig#75 - Allied forces defending and Puch, Austria, 14th November 1945.

Fig#76 - Töplitsch and Puch, Austria, 0027 hrs, 14th November 1945.

Fig#77 - Soviet and Roumania forces assaulting and Puch, Austria, 0027hrs, 14th November 1945.

Fig#78 - Töplitsch and Puch, Austria, 1500hrs, 14th November 1945.

Fig#79 - Operation Spectrum - December 1945.

Fig#80 - Gail River Valley, Austria, Overview.

Fig#81 - Ambrose Force, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.

Fig#82 - Soviet 40th Army lead units, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.

Fig#83 - Gail River Valley, Austria, dispositions as of 0930hrs, 28th November 1945.

Fig#84 - Allied defensive lines in the Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.

Fig#85 – The problem at Notsch, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.

Fig#86 – Death from the West, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.

Fig#87 - The end, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.

Fig#88 - La Legion Corps D'Assault, Spectrum-Black, 2nd December 1945.

Fig#89 - Operation Spectrum Black, Alsace, 2nd December 1945.

Fig#90 - The assault on Hattmatt, 2nd December 1945.

Fig#91 - Forces involved in the Battle of Hattmatt, 2nd December 1945.

Fig#92 - Legion Forces committed to Brumath, 4th December 1945.

Fig#93 - Brumath, 4th December 1945.

Fig#94 - The Battle of Brumath, Legion assault, 4th December 1945.

Fig#95 - Soviet Forces committed to Brumath, 4th December 1945.

Fig#96 - The Soviet surprise, Brumath, 4th December 1945.

Fig#97 - The Battle of Brumath, Third assault and Soviet counter-attack, 4th December 1945.

Fig#98 - Spectrum Blue Operational Area, The Front Line, December 1945.

Fig#99 - US forces committed to the assault on Dahlem, 6th December 1945.