Red Army

To Shilko, his chief of staff, standing unshaven and with dark circles ringing the moving targets of his eyes, looked exactly as an artillery officer should look. Shilko realized that he himself was far from the dashing type. But Romilinsky looked quietly heroic to him. Shilko was proud of the younger man, and he liked him. He liked all of his officers, although it was easier to feel affection for some than for others. They were good boys, his gunners. Russian gunners had outshot the cannon-eers of Frederick the Great. Why not the Bundeswehr as well?

Another volley tore into the sky, and thin smoke rose over the treeline a few hundred meters away.

"How would you like to be on the other end of that?" Shilko asked. The power of the guns continued to amaze him, even after twenty-odd years and long-ruined eardrums.

Romilinsky had positioned himself poorly, and the cascade of water from the tarpaulin caught him between the collar and his neck. He jumped as though touched by fire.

"Direct hit," Shilko said, grinning.

A lieutenant thrust his face out of the control post. "Comrade Battalion Commander. Orders. Our forces are across the Elbe-Seiten canal, and we're to prepare to displace."

"Now?" Shilko said, thinking of the rounds piled on the ground and of his trucks that had not yet returned.

"We're to be prepared for movement within two hours."

Shilko relaxed. Two hours was a long time. "Have they assigned us new fire positions?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "Division says things are moving very fast. Fire positions will be designated when we receive the order to execute movement."

107

Ralph Peters

"All right," Shilko said. According to the manuals, his batteries already should have displaced several times to avoid discovery by the enemy. But there was no place to go on the overcrowded terrain. "Good.

Vassili Rodionovitch, call down to the batteries and tell them we're going to fire everything we can't lift." He looked back at the lieutenant. "Son, get me the current gift list, and we'll see what presents we can send the enemy."

The lieutenant pulled his head back into the tentage like a turtle returning to its shell.

"Standard movement drill?" Romilinsky asked.

"No," Shilko said, suddenly adamant, thinking of the possibility of losing control of his battalion on the hectic roads. It was as bitter as the thought of abandoning his children. "The rules are off, Vassili Rodionovitch. We'll all move together. Or we won't see our batteries again until the war's over."

"But if we receive interim missions? And no one's in position to fire?"

"We can always say we ran out of ammunition," Shilko said, determined to maintain control of his unit, and delighted at the prospect of engrossing activities that would, at least temporarily, drown his self-doubts.

Another huge ripple of fire punched the sky. This time, the spillage off the tarpaulin caught Shilko. The water was cold and unwelcome. But Shilko shrugged it off.

"Direct hit," he said.

Major General Khrenov's divisional forward command post had been hastily composed around a liberated country inn. In the parking lot, communications vans hid halfheartedly under sagging camouflage nets, and command vehicles lurked under dripping trees. Windows had been smashed out of the building to admit cables, and handyman soldiers spliced and taped and carried boxes of staff clutter up the steps to the building's main entrance. Bad-tempered warrant officers supervised the physical activities, monitored, in turn, by staff officers who occasionally ventured out into the damp air to find out why everything was taking so long.

The scene was instantly familiar to Trimenko, and he didn't like it.

This was a souring conclusion to the elation of seeing his army on the march from the vantage point of the helicopter. He wanted Khrenov on the move, not setting himself up to hold court. But the army commander decided to hear what the division commander had to say before letting the hammer fall.

108

RED ARMY

"Comrade Army Commander," Khrenov greeted him, smiling, clearly quite pleased with himself, "I hope you had a good flight."

Trimenko made a noise at the back of his throat, noncommittal. He strode beside Khrenov from the meadow that served as a helipad to the building. The rain-rinsed air felt unseasonably cold.

"Comrade Army Commander," Khrenov tried again, "you no doubt have been informed that we have secured our bridgehead, and that we are expanding it at this time. It's a solid bridgehead. We already have forward detachments out."

Trimenko had not known. The information must have missed him in flight. What in the world was Tkachenko, his chief of engineers, doing?