Red Army

You know, 'Getting one gun stuck may be an accident, but getting an entire battery mired begins to look like a plan.' He still hasn't calmed down completely."

Shilko stopped smiling for a moment. He truly did not like their fire positions. The terrain over which they had been deployed seemed like a German version of the Belorussian marshes. You had to go carefully, and there were areas where you absolutely could not get off the roads. The precious little islands and stretches of reasonably firm ground were absurdly overcrowded. His own guns were too close to one another, batteries well under a thousand meters apart. And still their position was not completely their own. A chemical defense unit, which, to Shilko's relief, appeared utterly unconcerned about the war, and an engineer heavy bridging battalion had both been directed to the same low ground.

There was so much steel out there in the darkness that it seemed to Shilko as though the woods and meadows should sink under the weight. He worried that they would all become hopelessly intermingled when it came time to move, and, more seriously still, that his ability to displace, due both to tramcability problems and the unavailability of alternate sites, would be dangerously restricted. The evening before, he and Romilinsky had conducted a reconnaissance, looking for alternate fire positions, but they had not found a single suitable piece of ground that was unoccupied. Now he was waiting for the division to whose divisional artillery group his battalion had been attached to designate alternate sites for his guns. In the meantime, he comforted himself with the thought that he was positioned in depth, thanks to the long range of his pieces, and that the worst initial counterfires would be directed against batteries much closer to the direct-fire battle than his own. But he still had 50

RED ARMY

difficulty maintaining an even temper when he imagined his battalion attempting to displace and sticking in the bogs and sodden byways of East Germany, unable even to make it across the border. He was certain of one thing—space on the roads was going to be at a premium.

On the other hand, the initial fire plan in support of the opening of the offensive was just fine with him. Romilinsky's concerns notwithstanding, Shilko had been pleased when he reviewed the schedule of targets, his

"gift list" to be sent to the enemy. The staff officers who had compiled it under the direction of the division commander and his chief of missile troops and artillery were clearly professionals. Shilko prided himself on the traditional professionalism of the Soviet and the earlier Russian artillery. This fire plan did it right, emphasizing concentrations of tremendous lethality at the anticipated points of decision, as well as on known and suspected enemy reserve and artillery concentrations and in support of what Shilko suspected were deception efforts. The concept for maneuvering fires in support of the attack had a good feel to it. Now it was a matter of executing a good plan.

"Anything else, then, before we all go to war?" Shilko asked. He tried his usual easy tone, but the word "war" did not come off with the intended lightness. The moment that would forever after punctuate their lives had drawn too close.

"Well, we received another delivery of the special smoke rounds,"

Romilinsky said. "I still don't see why we have to post so many guards on them. It's a waste of manpower, and we're short enough as it is."

Romilinsky was speaking of the new obscurant rounds that had been compounded to attenuate the capabilities of enemy observation and target designation equipment. The existence and purpose of the rounds were well known, but the security personnel still insisted that they be handled as though they were vital state secrets.

"Be patient," Shilko said. "We'll fire them up tomorrow, and then we won't have to guard them." He had learned long ago not to argue security issues. "Have all of the troops been fed?"

Romilinsky nodded. He had an exaggerated manner of nodding, like a trained horse determined to please his master. "I'm not certain it was the finest meal we ever served, but it was hot."

Shilko was glad. He tried to feed his battalion as though they were all his own children, although it was very hard. Now he didn't want them going to war on empty stomachs. The food in the Soviet military was of legendarily poor quality, but his battalion's garrison farm was one of the finest in the command. Shilko himself came from peasant stock, and he was proud of it. In the past year, his battalion had been able to raise so 51

Ralph Peters