Winter Warriors

CHAPTER SIX: WHITEOUT

“So, Sir, we are operating in the standard two up one back formation. We have 7th and 8th Infantry Brigades on the line; the 9th is held in reserve. Most of it anyway. C Company of the Cameron Highlanders are parceled out to the various rear area elements of the division. Those Vickers guns are marvelous defensive tools, especially in this climate. The Nova Scotia Highlanders are in deep reserve; they’re getting much needed R&R. That means our real, accessible reserves are the Stormont, Dundas and Glengarry Highlanders and the Highland Light Infantry of Canada.

“Two battalions in reserve for the whole Division?” General John M. Rockingham wasn’t impressed. “That’s very thin.”

“I know, John.” General George Rodgers sounded defensive even though he knew he had no reason to be. Rockingham was new to the Kola Front and had little understanding of the peculiar problems inherent in trying to fight a war up here. That’s why he had come in advance of his 6th Infantry division and was doing “The Grand Tour” as it was derisively known. It was the standard practice for a newly-arriving General Officer; send him on a visit to the units in place. Save him from having to re-invent the wheel. “And the front we’re covering is much too long for the number of troops we have available. We need at least three full corps here, not two. Guess how much chance we have of getting that third corps. Look, the front is like a great L. The Russians are holding the bottom horizontal where most of the enemy forces are concentrated. We’re holding the long vertical. Too much front, too few troops.”

“Can’t the Russians help? Take over a section of the front.”

“They’re tapped out. It’s all they can do to hold the southern end. Petrograd is a hell of a force commitment and they’ve got every warm body they can find either holding the city or working the munitions factories down there. You know they’ve got women in their combat units?”

Rockingham nodded, shuddering slightly at the thought.

“There’s a political angle to this as well of course. I guess you’ve had that explained to you? Well, from this end of the spectrum, it means we don’t push too hard and the Finns don’t either. It’s ‘All Quiet On The Western Front,’ I guess. Only the Finns have the Germans pushing them as well, demanding activity. So they go in a lot for rear area raiding and attacks on service units. At first, that hurt us. Those troops weren’t too well trained for combat and I guess that meant Finnish casualties were pretty light. They’re hurting for manpower just like everybody else. Anyway, after we lost a few units to those raids, we concentrated them into cantonments, trained guard units for them and gave them some Vickers guns for security. Once our rear echelon people could shoot back, the Finnish raids dropped right off. Guarding against them is still draining our front-line strength though. We could use those machine guns on the front line. One Vickers gun in the right place is worth a company of infantry.”

“We’ll be the southernmost division of II Corps.” Rockingham spoke quietly, absorbing the data he’d been given. “Our northern flank will be your southern. That’ll compress your frontage a little. Any chance of some of your people briefing mine on what to expect and how to defend against it? I guess the Finns will see a new unit and guess we have the same lessons to learn as you did. Some advance training will save a few lives.”

“That we can arrange.” Rodgers was more than slightly relieved. Rockingham had a good reputation, but all too often ‘a good reputation’ meant an over-inflated ego that wouldn’t listen to advice from anybody else. Obviously not the case here. “John, if I might give you some advice, take advantage of the positions of the lakes and rivers. They can cut the length of front you have to cover quite drastically.

Rockingham paused. There was something wrong there but he didn’t quite know what. His train of thought was interrupted by a dull rumbling sound that reminded him of an old motorboat. The thought had only just begun to form in his mind when the air raid sirens went off.

“Doodlebugs!” The call went up from several points in the camp. Then the sirens cut off. There was an eerie silence as the troops on the ground listened to the uneven rumble as the missiles approached. Rockingham found himself willing them to keep going, to pass on to another target. Suddenly the sound cut out at the worst possible time, when the missile was almost directly overhead. “Everybody down!” The cry was universal as the entire base camp took cover. Rockingham was counting seconds until impact. One thousand and ten, one thousand and eleven, one thousand and twelve, one thousand and thirteen, one thousand and fourteen, one thousand an….

The explosion was devastating. The early Doodlebugs had used a cheap explosive that lacked shattering power but the newer ones didn’t. The missiles hit the ground in a shallow dive so that the warheads exploded above ground level. That maximized the area covered by the blast and fragments. Shattered glass from windows scythed across rooms. As always, the blast from the first explosion took strange and unpredictable paths that would leave one set untouched while the one beside it shattered into a silver rain. Even as the echoes of the first explosion faded, another took over. It rolled across the cantonment and the troops inside it. A third followed, then a fourth. Rockingham was prone on the floor of Rodger’s office, waiting for the explosions to cease. A fifth went off, then a sixth and he started to relax. Then he heard gunfire from the cantonment perimeter. Whatever was happening, the doodlebugs had been just the start. Rockingham thought grimly that he was about to get a much closer introduction to warfare on the Kola Peninsula than he had realized.

Sergeant Andrew Burns Currie shook his head to try and clear the cotton wool that seemed to have covered him. His Vickers gun was mounted in a solidly-constructed bunker made of pine logs set in an earthen embankment that was also reinforced with pine logs. Thank God, wood was one item that wasn’t in short supply on Kola, for it had been the stout pine logs, old timber as hard as iron, that had absorbed the blast from the six Doodlebug explosions. Most of it, anyway. There had been enough force in the nearest one to stun him and his gun crew. Currie blinked, shook his head, and stared out of the narrow firing slot of the bunker. Sure enough, white-clad figures had already erupted out of the treeline and covered the distance towards him with terrifying speed.

The machine gun. I have to open fire. He was tempted to sit back and debate the beauties of that idea but the rational part of his mind was recovering from the shock of the Doodlebug blasts. It overcame the sluggish, unwilling part of his mind. The twin handles of the Vickers gun felt comforting. Currie squeezed the trigger, sending the first rounds of a long, long burst in the direction of the Finnish infantry. He sensed his number two man feeding the belt into the gun while number three and four were loading belts and supplying number two. Number five was making sure the water tank was full of snow, condensing the steam from the water jacket and making sure the barrel was cool.

Currie saw his first rounds go wild, overhead, scattered into the greenery of the forests. He was still seeing slightly double but the comforting, familiar hammering of the Vickers gun was curing him faster than anything else could have done. It was a sovereign remedy for blast-shock, doing something so familiar that the brain didn’t have to think about it. He corrected his aim and walked the stream of machine gun fire into the group of skiers. They tumbled and fell, tangled in a heap as the steady burst chewed into them. The flat of his hand was beating lightly on the machine gun receiver, sending the barrel in a steady arc that raked the burst across the men who had been frantically trying to get to his position before the deadly tattoo could start. Then, he reached the end of his arc of fire and started back again, the same slow, steady, 450 rounds per minute, beat that crucified infantry in the open.

The attack wilted in front of him. There was a special art required of a medium machine gunner, a combination of skill, patience and determination. The Vickers gunners were a breed apart, recognized by a special combat badge and by the less desirable compliment of being the hated target of the enemy. A Vickers gunner had to have the fortitude to ignore what was happening in front of him, to resist the effort to concentrate his fire on threats. Instead, he had to sweep the line of bullets backwards and forwards across his beaten zone at a steady, specified rate. If he did so, then it would be impossible for an enemy to advance through that beaten zone. They would try, and they would die, cut down by the remorseless beat of the Vickers Gun. But, if the gunner was not resolute, if he started to try and fire on the advancing threats individually, tried to use his judgment in shooting down the most pressing threats first, then the deadly web of fire would be broken and the enemy could advance into the beaten zone and survive.

Sergeant Andrew Burns Currie was a very resolute man. The stream of fire from his gun swept backwards and forwards across his assigned beaten zone. In front of him, the Finnish infantry died.

The Finns, or those that had survived, had already gone to ground, trying to escape from the remorseless machine gun. They were firing rifles at the embankment, and particularly at the machine gun bunkers, Apple and Baker. There was no problem in spotting them. Each was marked by a little cloud of steam as the Vickers guns boiled off the water that kept the barrels cool. Water, in the form of snow, was another thing that was not in short supply during a winter on the Kola Peninsula. Currie saw a concentration of impacts around the biggest group of Finnish survivors and for a moment thought that Apple had broken its swing to fire on them. He quickly realized the thought was unworthy of him, Apple was raking its beaten zone just as methodically and systematically as Baker. The impacts were coming from rifle and Bren Gun fire.

The streams of .303 bullets from the two Vickers guns and Currie could only guess how many rifles and Brens were suddenly augmented by explosions around the dip where the Finns were clustered. Currie grinned at the sight, even as his methodical sweeps ignored it. Somebody had EY rifles up on the embankment. A standard No.4 fitted with a grenade launcher cup. Drop a Mills Bomb in the cup, pin out of course, load a blank round in the breech, close the bolt and let fly. The Grenade would lose its hammer as it left the cup and could be thrown a good 300 yards or more. A good man with an EY rifle could drop a grenade in a man’s lap at 200 yards, toss it through a window at 300. With proper timing, the grenade could be made to air-burst over a foxhole. Company Sergeant Major Clitheroe was a very good man indeed. His grenade burst over the Finnish survivors and lashed them with fragments. A second and third followed and that left them silent.

Time to switch targets. Currie elevated his barrel just a touch and now his stream of bullets was raking the treeline from which the Finnish skiers had debouched. Apple followed suit and now the two Vickers Guns were lacing the trees with their methodical patterns of fire. Neither gun stopped firing, anybody who knew the Vickers Gun also knew that they usually went wrong when starting a burst. Once they were working, they kept on working. The two steady, methodical 450 rounds per minute streams of fire never stopped. Now their interlocking patterns meant that nobody could get out of that treeline alive.

Rockingham lifted the wooden shoulder stock of his Capsten Gun to his shoulder and squeezed off a burst across the compound. That was an advantage the Canadian submachine gun had over the Russian and German models; its magazine loaded from the side. That made it possible for a man to fire from a fully-prone position or take cover beside a window and fire out. The Capsten had its critics, a bit of misplaced gaspipe with a magazine some called it, but it had its merits.

Unfortunately, this one was a Mark III; an older model that used the original Russian 7.62 Tokarev round. His troops had the new Mark V with longer barrel and the hot Tokarev Magnum the Yanks had developed. Rockingham squeezed off another burst in the general direction of the Finnish infiltrators that were working their way through the base.

“Watch it, John!” Rodger’s voice was urgent. Rockingham had been about to sneak a look out but the warning stopped him cold. “There’ll be snipers all over the shop. Those damned Finns can shoot the nuts off a mosquito.”

To confirm his words, there was a crack and the wood beside Rockingham’s head exploded into fragments. The sniper must have guessed where he would be and tried a shot to see if it would penetrate the wood. It hadn’t, but the splinters spalling off the inside had been bad enough. Rockingham could feel his cheek wet. He tried another quick burst and changed the magazine. Bless that side mounted feed.

“Friend!”

The voice had come from inside. Rodgers drew his Browning Hi-Power. The double-stack magazine for 7.62 Tokarev made for a bulky pistol but it was fine when one got used to it. It gave the user a lot of firepower; much more than the older single-stack designs.

“Enter!”

Rodgers was covering the door and Rockingham swung round to add his Capsten. Even so, he nearly missed seeing the young Lieutenant who crawled in. The fear of the snipers was making everybody jumpy.

“Sir, errr, Sirs.” the Lieutenant goggled slightly at the sight of two Generals in the little office. Both putting up a gallant stand if the number of expended cartridge cases was anything to go by. “We’ll have you out of here in a few minutes. We’ve got an anti-sniper team clearing the area.”

“Another lesson for you, John. Make sure you’ve got specialized anti-sniper teams trained. You’ll need them. I doubt there’s more than half a dozen of the swine out there and they’ve got the whole headquarters pinned down. What’s the damage?” The last remark was directed at the Lieutenant.

“Bad, Sir. The northern, western and eastern perimeters are all holding but the Finns ran right over us in the South. Came right on the heels of the Doodlebugs. Gutsy thing to do.”

Rodgers nodded in agreement, the Doodlebugs were so inaccurate that following them in like that took guts indeed. But then, the Finns had never lacked for courage or skill. It was just they were such a miserable bunch of paranoid lunatics. On reflection, the paranoia was justified, most of the world was out to get them. But did they have to be so gloomy about it? Five minutes talking to a Finn could drive a man to drink.

“Anyway Sir, sirs, we lost the Motor Pool for a while. We’ve got it back now; the Redcaps took it back pretty quick. Can’t move the vehicles though. The Finns were in there for at least twenty minutes. Probably booby-trapped every vehicle in the place. Radio section and comms have gone, blown up. The fuel dump held but…” The Lieutenant hesitated, “… .they got the RCAMC post.”

“How many?” Rodger’s voice was terse. “And why weren’t they evacuated?”

“A dozen patients Sir. Three more who were ambulatory escaped as the Finns came in. There were two doctors and five nurses on duty. Wouldn’t leave the wounded. Finns killed them all. Think so anyway; the men who escaped heard the gunfire. We won’t know for sure until we recapture the place but isn’t that what they always do?”

Rockingham looked shocked. Even in a war that was spiraling brutally out of control, some things just weren’t done. The Germans were as hard as nails but even they never shot medical staff, not in field hospitals anyway. They’d just put the staff to work caring for their own wounded. There was a story that did the rounds that related how they’d overrun a Canadian field hospital and done just that. When German Army pay day came around, the Canadian staff found they were included, paid at full German Army rates for their work. After the Swedes had arranged an exchange, they’d come back with their pockets full of unspendable Reichmarks.

On the floor across the office, Rodgers was weighing up the situation. With half the camp disputed, comms and radio gone, transport gone and everybody pinned down by snipers, the Divisional HQ wouldn’t be commanding anything for hours. That left the front line brigades of the division hanging in the breeze.

“Still socked in solid.”

Captain John Marosy wasn’t entirely displeased to hear that. A day snowed in meant another day not having to face German Flak. There were too many quad-twenties, too many twin-thirties and even the twin-engined, armored Grizzlies suffered. The single-engined birds were even worse off; their losses were worryingly high. Lieutenant Zelinsky settled down in a convenient chair and leaned back.

“I’ve been having a word around. The weather’s clearing but it’ll be tomorrow before we can fly again. The Russians down at Three are still grounded, they’re to the east of us and the storm’s clearing from the west. The Canuck Williwaws at Six reckon it’ll take all night to get the runways clear. Way it is out there, we couldn’t even find the fight line, let alone get anybody off it.”

“Winter’s setting in early, that’s for sure.” Marosy finished off his coffee. It was cold but coffee came in by convoy and was not to be wasted. “We never had a storm this bad this early before.” This was his second winter in Russia. He’d spent the first one flying A-20s.

“Heard a rumor about some of those big bases, you know, the ones up in Maine. Some say they’ve got tunnels underground, joining all the buildings. Why can’t we have those?”

“Keep it buttoned, Lieutenant.” Marosy’s voice was cold. “The sign up on the wall isn’t a joke. You hear a rumor and repeat it then the wrong ears pick it up. Well the rumors may be wrong, that one almost certainly is, but who knows what the Krauts will make out of it. Careless talk does cost lives.”

Zelinsky looked abashed at the rebuke. Marosy decided to take mercy on him. “Look it’s OK, here. We all hear these rumors. Just be careful who you’re talking to. The Russians paid high for their lack of operational security back in ‘41. We don’t want to do the same.”

There had been no warning, nothing. One second Zelinsky had been about to say something. Then the whole world had just fallen apart. Marosy picked himself off the floor. The mess was a complete wreck, blasted in, tilting and about to fall. Zelinsky was dead. A fragment from the wooden wall had skewered him just as efficiently as a cavalryman’s lance. The building was wrecked, a complete wreck. Marosy knew he wasn’t making sense, even to himself. That didn’t seem to matter at all. Then hands grabbed him and pulled him out.

It wasn’t just the mess. The whole base was wrecked. The hangars were down with two of them were burning. The flight line looked sick, just as if there’d been a tornado down it. The aircraft that had been on it were thrown about like toys. “What happened?” Marosy realized with a little amazement that he’d asked the question.

“A-4 rockets. Eight of them. Krauts must have brought them in during the storm and set them up. Did well too. Good tight pattern.”

“Aircraft?”

“Don’t worry. Your bird’s OK, Captain. She was over on the other dispersal area, that got away with it. We’ve lost ten, fifteen at least though. Now you stay put while we get you to the aid station.”

That was when it occurred to him. That was how the rumor about tunnels had got started. The bases back in home had air raid shelters in case of Doodlebug raids. Of course, shelters were no good against the A-4 rockets, one needed warning to get to an air raid shelter and the A-4s didn’t give any. They just exploded with no warning at all. Then, Marosy relaxed as he felt his stretcher being lifted.

Some meetings were pointless before they started and this was one of them. Technically, the discussion was the invasion of Europe and the various plans for it. Marine Corps General Holland M Smith was giving the overview and he knew it didn’t matter. All that did matter right now was the battle going on in the North Atlantic because the outcome of that would change so much. So, the thoughts of everybody were there, not here. The clocks on the wall gave the times at various locations around the world. Moscow, of course, Madrid, Rome, New Delhi, Canberra, Tokyo, Pretoria, Bangkok. One gave the time in the North Atlantic and that was the one everybody kept glancing at. Howling Mad Smith was not pleased but in the presence of the President, he restrained himself nobly.

“Gentlemen, This time last year, we were actively planning five possible scenarios for the invasion of Western Europe. In order of preference, these were as follows. The first was Plan Red which envisioned an invasion of England being mounted directly from the USA. An outgrowth of Plan Red was Plan Emerald which envisaged a landing in Ireland. In effect, the seizure of Ireland would provide us with a bridgehead for the subsequent invasion of England. Third in preference was Plan Gold which envisaged a landing along the Aquitaine coast of France. Emerald and Gold would also be mounted directly from the United States. I need hardly tell you that an invasion mounted across the North Atlantic would be a military undertaking unprecedented in history. The fourth plan that was being actively considered was Plan Olive which envisaged a landing in Spain had that country entered the war. Finally, Plan Silver looked to an invasion of North Africa.

“Over the last year, we have continued to refine these plans. Contrary to our expectations, Spain has not only refrained from entering the war against us, Generalissimo Franco has actually moved closer to us and has provided some small, discrete, but none the less valuable services. Where the practicalities of Plan Olive are concerned, while there are suitable invasion beaches, the transport infrastructure in Spain is poor and has not recovered from the Civil War. If we were to invade, we would face heavy resistance and extensive guerilla warfare. I would remind you of what happened to Napoleon in Spain. Once we had fought our way through all that, we would still face the barrier of the Pyrenees where a much smaller force could hold us almost indefinitely. For all these reasons, it has been decided that Plan Olive is no longer a viable option and it has been discarded from future planning.

“We have also evaluated Plan Silver in depth. The problem is that a Mediterranean strategy does not get us anywhere. If we invade through Italy, we face all the problems that face us in Spain, severe resistance, guerilla warfare and a final mountain barrier that the enemy can hold almost indefinitely. The same applies to an invasion through the Balkans. If we strike at Southern France, we gain nothing that we could not achieve by way of Plan Gold. The logistics of operating out of North Africa are frightening. There are few suitable ports on the Atlantic coast and we would have to supply our forces via Egypt. This would mean an Atlantic crossing, then rounding the Cape of Good Hope and sailing up the eastern coast of Africa. Once the supply lanes have been established, their capacity is such that the port congestion we would face would make the problems we suffer at this time seem minor by comparison. Plan Silver offered us nothing but grief and trouble for no gain. It is not a viable option and has been discarded. Finally, with reference to both Olive and Silver, it is not our policy to go around invading neutral countries. We do not wish to acquire more enemies; the ones we have are quite sufficient.

“Our attention has, therefore focused on refining Plans Red, Emerald and Gold. Our studies have shown that Plans Red and Emerald are very closely intertwined. We cannot undertake Emerald and then not proceed to Red, nor can we carry out Plan Red and leave Emerald in our rear. We have therefore merged Plan Red and Emerald as a new joint plan entitled Operation Downfall. This envisages two attacks. Operation Olympic is the invasion of Ireland to establish a forward base followed by Operation Coronet, the invasion of the English mainland.

“The alternative is the invasion of France. We have now named this Operation Overlord. Both Downfall and Overlord envisage the use of six Marine Corps divisions with a follow-up of nine U.S. Army divisions and allied forces. In the case of Downfall, the allied force would be two Free British divisions. In the case of Overlord, one Free French Division.

“It should be noted that Overlord and Downfall are inextricably linked. Great Britain is the mighty fortress that guards Europe against assault from the west. If we execute Downfall alone, we will have captured the fortress but left that which it guarded untouched. If we execute Overlord alone, we will have that great fortress in our rear and our hold on France will never be secure. Inevitably, either Overlord follows Downfall or Downfall follows Overlord. The operations are joined at the hip.

“One factor is decisive. There are few if any good invasion beaches along the western coast of Ireland. It is a rugged coast and the few real beaches there have unfavorable gradients. We would also require suitable invasion beaches along the western coast of England. Suitable beaches have been identified as the region around Blackpool and further south near Swansea. If we proceed with Operation Overlord, we can exploit the beaches in Aquitaine which are much better suited to our purposes. This gives us an interesting possibility. The beaches along the southern coast of England are more attractive from a landing point of view than those anywhere else in the country. It is thus easier to invade England from France rather than the other way around. This had lead us to the final decision, to execute Operation Overlord first and follow it with Operation Downfall. Under this scheme, Operation Coronet will take place before Operation Olympic.”

“You would leave Ireland in the hands of the Nazis? Will all that is going on there?” The Senator spoke passionately.

“We have no choice. Much as it hurts every one of us that can read a newspaper, we have no choice.”

“General.” President Dewey also had his eyes fastened on the North Atlantic clock as it ticked away. “We are landing six divisions with a follow up often or eleven? Is this sufficient?”

“No, Mister President, it is not. As an initial landing it will be adequate but barely so. It is simply the best we can do. Perhaps Mister Stuyvesant can enlighten us further on the industrial and economic side?”

“That would be valuable indeed. Mister Stuyvesant, could you give us the Economic Intelligence and Warfare Committee’s findings on this?”

The Seer stepped forward. Quietly, Lillith started distributing papers that provided background data. “Gentlemen, we’re tapped out. So is Germany, so is Russia. We can all barely support the forces and operations we have at the moment. Germany and Russia have run out of manpower. Their reserves are barely adequate to maintain their current force structure. On paper, we have manpower enough but we are supporting a vast war production machine. We fight a rich man’s war because by doing so we conserve our most precious possession, our young men. We can be the arsenal of democracy, or we can be the army of democracy. We can’t be both. The force General Smith has described is literally everything we can pull together for an invasion.

“Will it be enough? On its own, the issue is finely judged. The opposition in Europe is not great. Most of the German war machine is in Russia. There are, at most, ten German divisions in France, assuming that the two French SS divisions, Charlemagne and Charles Martel can be considered equivalent to a German division. There are six German Divisions, including the two English SS Divisions, Black Prince and Ironsides, in England and two German divisions in Ireland. Plus the Partisanjaegers of course. These forces in France and England comprise the bulk of German forces not on the Russian fronts.”

“English and French SS divisions! Why are these people worth fighting for?” It was the same Senator who had spoken before.

The Seer was about to speak but President Dewey held up his hand. “It is possible to find brutal, sadistic thugs in every country, in every place, in every town. It is no different here.” He produced a copy of the Boston Globe from his briefcase, with the picture of the tarred and feathered woman on its front page. “Need I remind you of this? Nor do I need to remind you that she is not the only victim of such attacks. It is our great pride that the thugs who did this are reviled and hunted, not given exotic uniforms and turned into national heroes. But let us not pretend that such beasts do not exist here. Seer, do the Germans have plans for an American SS division?”

“They do, Sir. They have tried to recruit prisoners of war. Not with any great success I am pleased to say. They call it the Robert E Lee Division.”

There was a hiss of disgust that rang around the room, none louder than from the Senators representing Southern States. The idea that the saintly Robert E Lee should have his name associated with the SS appalled them. Privately, the Seer grinned to himself. He actually had no idea what the Germans planned to call their American SS division. But the invention had had the desired effect.

“We don’t know how well the British and French SS divisions will fight. The British fought well in 1942 and in 1940 the French kept fighting despite an appalling strategic situation until Halifax stabbed them in the back. But, even allowing them German-like performance, we can take what they have in Western Europe. The problem will be if they shake loose formations from the Russian Front and bring them back. They can do that, their rail network inside Europe itself is almost untouched. We simply can’t get at most of it.

“There is one other thing though. I said Germany is tapped out and I meant it. They have just enough manpower, just enough industrial power to keep going at their present level. In a very real sense, they are running on capital. If they have a disaster, if they lose a big chunk of that capital, they can’t replace it.” The Seer’s eyes strayed to the North Atlantic clock again. “We have the German fleet in a trap now. If they lose that fleet, they can’t replace it. We’ll own the sea, unchallenged. Unchallengeable. The German tripod will have only two legs and that will mean we can redouble our blows at one of the other legs. That way, we can bring them down.”

“How long?” The talkative Senator was off again.

“18 months? About that. Perhaps two years. We can’t give our invasion force air cover from the US; we have to pound German air power into the ground first. Take out the second leg of the tripod. For that we need the big carriers now entering service. That’ll just leave the German Army. We can whipsaw that, break it between two forces.” The Seer grinned nastily. “East and West of the Mississippi?”

The allusion to the American Civil War wasn’t lost. Nor was the concept of slowly strangling an enemy to death, stripping away his means to fight, one piece at a time. The Senator nodded, with reluctance. “I doubt if I’ll see it in my lifetime.”

The Seer smiled, nastiness replaced by confidence. “With due respect Senator, I’m sure I’ll see it in mine.”

“Stuyvesant, why do I get the feeling that this whole Overlord plan has the makings of a first-class disaster?”

“Because it does have the makings of one, Mister President. It’s doomed; a catastrophe that will make Gallipoli look positively brilliant.”

“I know that, Stuyvesant. It’s not what I asked, I want to know why it’s a recipe for disaster. And why has General Smith come up with it?”

“General Smith was assigned to come up with a plan for the invasion of Western Europe using the forces we had available. That he has done and we are looking at the result now. I would venture to say that this is the best possible plan that could be made, using the forces available. The reason why it’s going to be a disaster anyway is that the forces committed to it are still grossly inadequate. What’s worse, anybody who looks at the plans, and we have to assume that the Germans will, sooner or later, will know that they are grossly inadequate. They’ll see it for what it is, a plan to land an occupation force after the war is over. And then, they’ll ask, how do we plan to end the war? That’s a question we don’t want raised.”

“So we need a bigger invasion force. You, yourself, said just a few minutes ago, that we’re tapped out. So the invasion is impossible.” It was a flat statement and Dewey’s voice was grave. He knew well the implications of what he was saying.

“We are tapped out, in the manpower department anyway. The 95 division force we have now is all we can support. Industrially, we can do a lot more. The truth is that our economy is barely half mobilized; our production can go a lot higher than present levels if we really need to. Of course, every time we crank economic mobilization up, we make the post-war demobilization crash worse. We’re heading for a pretty nasty post-war economic depression as it is. We’re walking a delicate line between the level of military mobilization needed to fight this war and the level of civilian margin needed to ameliorate that post-war crunch. So, the obvious requirement is to get more manpower.”

“Any ideas where from? Not the Russians surely?”

“No, Mr. President. The Russians really are tapped out on manpower. They can, just barely, support what they have. However, they’re not the only ally we have. There’s the Commonwealth as well. We’re using Canadian troops up in Kola but there’s a lot of the Commonwealth we haven’t started to exploit yet. There’s a lot of the British Army scattered around. We can consolidate that and make up a pretty decent force.”

“The British have got a lot more forces? How come we never knew about this?”

“Oh, we did Mister President. In fact, the British were planning a transatlantic invasion long before we were. They started their planning back in 1940 with the idea of combining a transatlantic “relief force” with a military rebellion against Halifax’s regime at home. The way they saw it, and I don’t think those plans were ever even remotely plausible, was that they were looking at a re-occupation with, at most, a few skirmishes on the side. I guess they thought that getting a suitably impressive force across the Atlantic would be enough to trump Halifax. In my opinion, doing that was the easy bit. Defending the UK once recaptured, from the German response would be hard. Our sources suggest that they had the whole operation planned for late 1942, or so they hoped. Anyway, we’ll never know. Their plans were forestalled by the German occupation. The forces in England, the RAF and the Army, shot their bolt holding the Germans off long enough for the Royal Navy to get out.

“In retrospect, I think The Great Escape was part of that plan. At the time, we saw it as a heroic gesture to keep the fleet out of the hands of the Germans. I think it’s equally likely that it was a key move in preparing for a re-invasion. The great problem the Commonwealth faced was that their invasion fleet would be very poorly escorted. If the Germans had spotted it, there would have been a massacre. So they had to get the RN out to screen the invasion convoys. The fact the Germans got in first was an unwanted complication, but it didn’t really change things. For several months after the occupation, all that was in England were the paratroopers and air landing troops who did the initial assault, some regular infantry and a few panzer and panzer-grenadier regiments who got either flown in or landed in the channel ports after they were secured. A Commonwealth-only invasion was practical even if it wasn’t likely to succeed. That still left the re-invasion threat untouched. Of course, we messed everything up by getting into the war and bringing the German submarines down on our east coast. By the time they’d been cleared, the window of opportunity had gone.

“Be that as it may, the Commonwealth did a lot of planning on how to move troops around. It all proved irrelevant. Keeping the Russians in the war, holding Kola, maintaining the Arctic convoy supply line, they’re taking up most of their effort now. They’re still planning things of course, but it’s more from force of habit than anything else. They were planning to move five corps over the Atlantic, how they’d manage it don’t ask me. Apparently, it was two Canadian Corps, two British Corps and the ANZAC. Three divisions each. Then, the two Canadian Corps went to Kola. They replaced one of those corps with a mixed formation, mostly South African with other contingents thrown in. That still leaves twelve divisions and they’ve got plans to move them as well, without bouncing off our resources. Those twelve divisions as part of the second wave following the Marines ashore would be priceless. A 21-division follow-up looks like a serious invasion.”

“How come these forces have never been mentioned before? There’s something seriously wrong going on here.” President Dewey was drumming his fingers with irritation.

“Partly it’s us, Sir. To be honest I don’t think the planners take the Commonwealth forces very seriously. Losers and all that. But it’s also a reaction to how the rest of the world sees us. We’re a nation of immigrant misfits. In the final analysis as a people, we’re made up of everybody nobody else wanted. The very fact we exist is a reproach to their ruling elites. The fact we outperform them across the board is a deadly insult to their whole belief system. So, our unofficial foreign policy with regards to the rest of the world is, ‘they see us, they insult us, we kick their ass’. As a result, we’ve got into the habit of not caring very much what they think of us. We just wander off and do what we want, or what we think we have to do. If they want to come along for the ride, fine, but we really don’t care very much.”

President Dewey was trying not to laugh. “That’s not how they teach our history in school.”

“Mister President, in my experience, history is very rarely how it gets written up in the history books.”

“I can believe that. You know there is a problem here. Governments get so set in their ways they forget they live in a narrow, self-validating clique. We could use an outside viewpoint sometimes. How advanced are these Commonwealth plans?”

“Pretty well developed although they are intensely theoretical documents. Nobody in the Commonwealth believes that they are going to stage an invasion on their own, not now. They’ve got a lot of the groundwork though. Of course, if we bring in a Commonwealth force this size, it’s going to throw the whole Overlord-Downfall question open again. The Commonwealth forces will insist on making the first strike at England, possibly with Ireland as a first step but definitely aimed at the U.K. Even if they go along with hitting France first, they’ll want a commitment to strike at the U.K. later. I’d say no more than 60 days after hitting France. That’s going to be as bad as our present plans. Another reason why we like going it alone, alliances are an entanglement.”

“No foreign entanglements rings a bell. If there are Commonwealth troops out there we can get our hands on, what about the French? They had colonial interests too.”

“Bit of a different case. They had troops, quite a few of them, in Indo-China but they got hammered during the 1941 war with Thailand and then when the Japanese occupied the rest of Indo-China. They have troops in North Africa but nothing like the resources the Commonwealth has. Anyway, the French are likely to be as demanding as the Commonwealth, they’ll demand they hit France first and go no further. They don’t like the British right now and with good reason. They were still fighting hard when Halifax folded in 1940. I’m not saying they had a chance of winning but they were still hanging on.

When Halifax signed his Armistice, they were left high and dry. If that hadn’t happened they’d probably have got better surrender terms. It was just like with the police here, the first person to fold gets the good deal.”

“Stuyvesant, I know you’re an industrialist, not a general, but I want your honest opinion. Do you think an opposed transatlantic invasion of Europe is really possible?”

Stuyvesant leaned back in his seat, appearing to calculate the balance of forces while an ironic thought passed through his mind. I must remember to tell Lillith and Naamah about the ‘industrialist, not a general’ comment. It was a good question though, was the invasion of Europe, across the Atlantic against a properly defended Europe possible? Images of the correlation of forces surged throughout his mind.

“No, Sir. It is not. We cannot transport enough troops, support them well enough or keep them fighting once they are ashore. We’ll end up with a lodgment that we are hard pushed to hold; a Russian Front in miniature. The Germans have interior lines and that’s always bad news. We can’t get at them without using the B-36. If we try to do so using that aircraft we trade away our trump card. The Big One has to succeed, Sir. It has to shatter the German ability to resist and it has to destroy their ability to move troops around. We have to deprive Germany of its interior lines of communication so that the Russian and European fronts are disconnected. Only then can we invade with a hope of success. That’s assuming Germany keeps fighting after The Big One. All I can hope for is that the Germans see sense and surrender.

“That’ll mean us just keeping order as the Europeans sort themselves out. I hope that’s all we have to do.”

Dewey looked at the huge map on the wall of the conference room. “It would be so much easier if the Germans do see sense after The Big One. Will they?”

“Sir, one of my staff has some suggestions along those lines. Could I impose upon you to listen to her ideas?”

The President grinned quietly to himself. The number of women high up in the Economic Intelligence and Warfare Committee had caused a lot of comment. Oh, sure, women were in the war effort, working in the shipyards and aircraft factories and doing office work for the armed forces. A few were even flying aircraft, delivering them to units, but the number of woman in senior management was infinitesimal. Except in the EIWC where they seemed to be everywhere. That had caused some snide comments around Washington. As EIWC had gained power and influence, they’d waned. “Certainly. Ask her to come in.” The President knew Stuyvesant well enough to guess that the ‘member of his staff was sitting outside, waiting.

Stuyvesant picked up the phone and buzzed reception. “Nell, step inside for a few minutes will you?”

Dewey looked at the red-head with pleasure and a certain element of relief. Stuyvesant had two red-heads on his staff. This was the one that didn’t terrify people.

“Mister President, may I introduce Eleanor Gwynne, she runs the section of the EIWC that is responsible for gathering economic and production data from the U.K.”

“Mister President, as part of my duties, I gather information from the British Resistance concerning the forces in the U.K. and their readiness status. Over the last few months an interesting pattern has started to emerge. It appears that the a substantial number of the troops in Britain are no longer German but British. Even units that are nominally German contain a large number of conscripted British personnel, with the German elements acting as stiffening and reinforcement. For example, in a panzer-grenadier platoon with four half-tracks and infantry, the command track and two of the infantry tracks will be German, the other one will be British. The two British SS divisions are, of course, wholly made of British troops. This pattern … “

Nell spoke quietly and in detail for almost twenty minutes, running through orders of battle, morale levels, force structures and the effects of Russian front casualties on the German units. “So, Mister President, we can only see this trend continuing. If we invade, these units will fight and probably fight hard. Their German corseting will see to that. But, it is likely that, once The Big One is launched, a well-constructed, well-broadcast radio message, sent by people the British trust, Churchill and their King, will have a very good chance of causing the “German” units in the U.K. to lay down their arms. If that happens in the U.K., it is likely that the example will be seen and adopted in other countries. Ireland is a different case of course, given what has been happening there. There’s no way the SS and Partizanjaegers there will surrender. Now would we want them to. There must be an accounting for what those people have done.”

“How would we transmit such a message? We couldn’t put it out over the BBC.” President Dewey was fascinated by the concept.

“We’re exploring that now. We would have to put it out over German radio frequencies. There are a number of options for doing so, all very low cost in terms of assets. Mister President, this option costs us but little and offers significant gains. Perhaps, at the appropriate time you could raise it with the King and Mister Churchill?”

“If it avoids civil war and reduces the fighting, yes, of course.” Dewey noticed Nell’s lips moving and though he had missed something she’d said. “I’m sorry, you hadn’t finished?”

“I was just thinking Mister President, of a previous civil war in England, between King Stephen and the Empress Maud. Neither side could win so both devastated the countryside to starve the other out. Of course, it was the common people who starved, not the nobles. People said it was a time when God and his angels slept. We could apply that description to the world today.”

President Dewey looked at the great map with its display of the fighting going on around the world. “Yes, Eleanor, I guess we could.”

It had been a long, long road from Alexander Ignatievich Shulgin’s home, at Kineshma on the Volga, to the Kola Front. It began in August 1942 when he had been at work in his office. “They” had called him, telling him the fascists were coming and all civilians were being evacuated. He’d been given a notice telling him to pack as many of his things as he could carry in a suitcase. Everything else would be destroyed. There would be nothing left for the fascists, not food, not shelter, not clothes, nothing not even a piece of paper. While fascists remained on Russian soil, they would not even be able to ease their bowels in comfort.

The message had ordered him to be at the railway station the next morning. It had confused Shulgin. Weren’t the fascists attacking in the North, towards Moscow? There was no word of fascists attacking to the south, towards Stalingrad. Moscow was under siege and the fascists had more than they could handle there. The newspapers had been full of stories of the heroism of Moscow’s defenders, each being prepared to sell his life if doing so would add to the total of fascist dead. Comrade Stalin was there too, masterminding the resistance, cheering the people with his grim determination that Moscow would not fall.

The railway station had been a sight to behold. Crowds of people being herded onto trains heading East. It wasn’t like the first evacuation, the one last year when the fascists had first struck. That had been chaos. This was well-organized, the people being pushed onto trains as they arrived and were identified.

In the background, passing the trains full of people were other lines of railway cars, loaded down with industrial machinery. It wasn’t just the people who were going east; the factories were as well. The lines of people were labeled by initials. Shulgin found the row labeled S and stood there, waiting for his turn. Eventually, an NKVD man had looked at his notice, then at Shulgin. “Infantry Academy” had been his only comment. Then he’d been herded onto the train with the rest.

As the long train ride had ground on, the packed railway cars had become progressively more foul. Water had been in short supply, food even shorter. They’d been stopped, sometimes for hours, sometimes for a day or more, as higher-priority trains took up the track. Factory machinery heading east; Army units, supplies, armored vehicles on flatcars heading west. Whichever they were, the people on the trains waited until they’d gone. Then, the long journey started again. People had wept; others raged. In some of the packed cars, babies had been born. They were given special care for they were a sign that a future still existed.

Finally they had arrived at somewhere in the depths of Siberia, far to the east. Once again, NKVD men inspected the notices and this time Shulgin had been one of the younger men sent to one side. There were trucks waiting, Studebakers, and the men from the train were loaded into them. The trucks had taken them all to the Infantry Academy where the pre-war three months course had been compressed into two weeks. Then, they were made part of the 161st Rifle Division.

What had followed was a blur. A mixture of being sent to the front, assaults on fascist positions, beating back assaults on their own, fighting seemingly without end. Shulgin had felt as if he’d lived his whole life in that blur, without any past or future The 161st Rifle Division had been ground down to a shell, pulled from the line and rebuilt, then sent back. 1943 had faded into 1944. The 161st had been one of the divisions trapped in the Kola peninsula when the fascists had broken through to besiege Archangel’sk. Ground down to a shell again, rebuilt again. Somehow, without quite remembering how or when, Shulgin had advanced in rank and was now a Sergeant.

The warning came earlier in the day. One of the ski patrols, from the 78th Siberian, had spotted the fascists moving up to attack. They’d hit during the night, probably; perhaps at dawn the next day. So the 161st was going to pre-empt them. They would hit the fascists at dusk, hopefully catch them while they were moving into their jump-off positions. The company commanders had already visited their units and given their orders. The squads were to stay together in shallow trenches, covered with branches so that the fascists would not spot them. Shulgin took a tighter grip on his rifle. It was not the three-line Mosin Nagant he had trained with an age ago, but a Canadian-made Lee-Enfield supplied under Lend-Lease.

That wasn’t the only thing that was different from the way he had trained in the Infantry Academy. Today, there would be no cries of “Forward!” There would be no shouts of “Urrah.” Shulgin heard a quiet “Let’s go, bratischka” from his company commander and saw him climb out of his foxhole. Shulgin did the same and followed him automatically. The rest of the men rose up after him. They just quietly stood up; just as quietly, they walked forward. Darkness was closing in. A mist was rising where the freshly-fallen snow steamed slightly as the temperature rose in the wake of the storm. Shulgin felt the eeriness around him, the dead silence seeming to suffocate them. Then one of the newbies in the unit started quietly rattling with his improperly carried weapons. That changed the situation instantly. The Germans picked up the sound and opened fire. First a rifle, then machine-guns. The Russian infantry hunched up and started to run forward; praying their feet wouldn’t break the crust on the snow and leave them floundering. Shulgin could see only the back-pack of the man in front.

The cries of “Forward!” were already ringing through the trees. Shulgin had no idea how long he had been running forward. It could have been a second; it could have been an hour for all he knew.

He’d reached the German foxholes scraped in the snow and dropped flat into the largest of them. A firm grip on his rifle, butt tucked firmly into his shoulder. Bolt handle held between thumb and forefinger, little finger around the trigger. Not a grip taught by the Russian Army but a trick shown to them by the Canadian Sergeant-Major who’d instructed them in the workings of the Lee-Enfield. Shulgin flipped the bolt forward and back, one smooth action and squeezed the trigger with his little finger. Almost instantly he was operating the bolt again, blessing the smooth speed of the Lee action against the sticky roughness of the Mosin-Nagant. Ten aimed shots went out, then the magazine was empty. He pushed the catch that released it and inserted a loaded magazine for another ten shots.

All along the rifle line, the other infantrymen were doing the same. The rapid rifle fire cut down the fascists as they tried to counterattack their lost positions. The squad machine guns opened up, spraying the fascists and sending them tumbling over in chaos. “Forward!” Shulgin cried out, without even realizing it. They followed up the shattered fascist counter-attack. He and his men were drove through the woods, pushing the fascists back, faster and faster. The troops that were preparing for their own attack were caught out of position and at a disadvantage. Even if they recovered from this blow, any attack they launched would be a weak and feeble thing compared with the original plan.

Smoke filled the woods. The world seemed full of explosions, shooting, the crash of grenades going off. In Shulgin’s eyes, the whole battlefield was littered with people. Some were motionless, others convulsing from pain. Then, something hit him from the side, sending him flying through the air. He tried to get up but his foot turned under him. The agonizing wrench seemed to turn his whole leg to jelly. He couldn’t even move to get back to where the medical unit was. He started to crawl back but stopped. Why go back when I can go forward? He changed direction and found a wooden stump that offered some cover. He couldn’t remember what happened next; only a blaze of pain from his ankle when somebody tugged it. Shulgin rolled over, bayonet at the ready but held the thrust. One of the aid women was staring at him, contempt in her eyes.

“What the hell are you doing here? Advance, coward. Good men are dying because you skulk behind a tree.”

“My foot; it’s wounded. I can’t walk.”

“What wound?” Her voice was scornful. Nevertheless, her fingers felt his ankle, none too gently. “Oh, I see. A dislocation. Well, I can fix that.”

The aid woman grabbed his ankle. Shulgin expecting her to bandage or splint it. Instead, she just wrenched hard and the joint snapped back into place. Shulgin screamed, then let fly with a stream of curses. He’d never guessed he knew such language, let alone use it. The aid woman shook her head and crawled away to try and find other wounded to treat.

He’d scurried forward. His ankle still felt like fire but at least the shooting pain and weakness had gone. The Russian troops were getting artillery support now that surprise had gone. The shells howling over their heads to the German positions beyond. By the time Shulgin had rejoined his company, they had been joined by several 57mm antitank guns Somehow the crews had manhandled the heavy weapons through the trees and into position. His company commander waved him over. Their company had lost so many men they had been assigned to protect the guns rather than hold a section of the line. The good news was that the gunners had brought some extra Degtyarev light machine-guns with them. That would make up for the casualties they had taken.

“Bratya! The fascists will be counter-attacking soon so we can all make sure my watch is set right!” There was a burst of laughter from the troops. Every veteran knew that the fascists took exactly 30 minutes to come to their senses and organize a counter-attack; not a second more or less. “Don’t forget what we are here for! We cannot hold without these guns. We must stop the fascist beasts from getting close to the guns. If we protect the artillerists, they will protect us from the tanks and half-tracks. Machine-gunners, cut the infantry off the tanks. The tanks will try and destroy our machine guns first. If we can get rid of the infantry, the artillerists will see to the tanks. If every man does his duty, we will hold!”

A good speech, thought Shulgin, short and to the point, stirring and just long enough to keep the men’s minds off the fact that fascist tanks were coming. Fascist propaganda always showed them pouring masses of tanks in every assault but most of the time they would have a couple of tanks if that. They would sit at a safe distance and shell the Russian infantry positions. They would try to spot the Russian guns and suppress them but they would not close, not unless they were desperate to break through. Of course the answer to that was to position the guns on a reverse slope so that the tanks had to close to short range. Then, there would be a lethal, bloody duel. The tanks would fire. The half-tracks with them would close with their panzer-grenadiers. The 57s would make short work of them. Then the machine gunners could cut down the fascists as they abandoned their vehicles.

Shulgin took his place in the trench, his rifle ready and waiting. Another change from the old days. Back in ‘42 he’d been taught to dig one- or two-man foxholes, laid out in platoon formations. The problem was that they collapsed under fire. Worse, the men in them were on their own. They were completely isolated unable to hear or see the orders. That had made leadership and command almost impossible. Every man believed the others were already dead or retreating, that he was the only person left alive. Then it seemed that enemies were all shooting just at him. So now the rule was to dig trenches, full depth if there was time, half depth if there was not. But every man could see his comrades and they could see him. A man’s spirit might fail if he was on his own, but to show cowardice when one’s comrades were watching? Impossible!

“Here they come!” Tovarish Major called out. Sure enough, it had been 30 minutes to the second. It was obvious from the strong rumble of explosions that the attack on the frontline had started. The sounds of explosions drew closer, and was joined by a massive roar of engines. That meant the enemy tanks were coming. Shulgin saw the forward security pickets appearing at the ridge and running towards the anti-tank guns. They ran to the company commander, explained something to him and the order went out. “Prepare for the tank attack!” There were no drugs in the 161st. The troops were in their half-trenches. The artillerists tried to camouflage their guns with branches, mud anything they could find.

At that moment some people in Russian khaki appeared on the ridge. They ran towards the guns as fast as their legs would carry them. To Shulgin that meant just one thing. The front line was completely broken and an avalanche of tanks and Panzergrenadiers was about to descend on them. The artillerists were waiting by their guns, the barrels were trained along the ridge, ready for the first vehicles to cross. They didn’t have to wait long. Fascist tanks, at least ten of them, crossed the ridgeline and rolled forward at high speed. They fired their machine-guns at the fleeing infantry. Shulgin identified them. 4th series tanks; they looked archaic compared with sleek Panthers and hulking Tigers but they were deadly enough. They were running down the hillside, firing their main guns non-stop. Shulgin sneered at that, it was a trick that worked against inexperienced drugs but veterans know it was almost impossible to fire accurately on the move.

Shulgin had to remind himself of that. He wanted to flee, his legs kept trying to run but he forced himself to remain still. Then two loud explosions as the fascist tanks hit some mines. An engineer platoon had hastily laid them while the infantry were digging in. Two tanks, out of ten! Shulgin cheered, the more so because one of the tanks was burning while the other had spun on its wrecked roadwheels. The rest lumbered on, bearing down on the infantry. One came up on a trench. It spun around on its tracks, driving along the length of the ditch. When it came out the other end, Shulgin could see its wheels and tracks were bright red. A 57mm cracked and the shot hit the tank square in the side. It started to burn, its crew struggled to get out but they were shot down before they had a chance.

More shots from the 57s; return fire from the 75s in the tanks. Shulgin and the infantry stayed down. They had to let the tanks pass through their positions and stop the Panzergrenadiers before they could get to the artillerists. There was one small problem with that plan. It was such a minor problem he was sure it had escaped those of higher rank who were paid to think on such things. The problem was that the tank was made of steel, and infantrymen were not. It wasn’t impossible to knock out the tanks with grenades and satchel charges, but it was even harder escape afterwards. Even if they disabled a tank, that didn’t end the matter. The crew might not abandon the immobilized tank, they might stay and continue to fight. That was why the order had come down. “You should always burn the tank.”

The remaining tanks were almost on them. The 57s fired to the end, Shulgin could see one gun, its crew slumped around it. The artillerists had fought their gun to the muzzle, until they’d been cut down by a shell from a tank. One of the fascist tanks was very close. For a moment, Shulgin thought he was dreaming because he saw two members of the dead crew come to life. Their gun had been loaded and they’d been waiting their chance. It wasn’t only fascist tankers who could stay at their post and continue to fight. The armor-piercing shot from the 57mm smacked into the side of the tank, just under the turret. There was a split second of silence then the tank erupted in an explosion. Smoke and flame poured out of every hatch, every port in the armor. Panzer grenadiers were all over one gun crew, the artillerists were fighting back with pistols, clubs, anything that came to hand. They fought their gun to the muzzle and beyond so that the fascists could not claim they’d captured a Russian gun while a member of its crew still lived.

Shulgin had been firing his rifle on remote control. His thumb and forefinger worked the bolt, his little finger squeezed the trigger. He’d run out of pre-loaded magazines and was loading from stripper clips, the same way his old three-line rifle had been loaded. Another tank was burning in front of him. The Company Commander was beside him, clapping him on the back.

“Well done Bratischka. A well thrown grenade indeed!”

Shulgin shook his head, he couldn’t remember throwing grenade at that tank. All he could remember was firing his rifle at the panzer-grenadiers surrounding the 57mm. Perhaps the man who had thrown the grenade was dead and command wanted living heroes, not dead ones.

“Men, fall back. Our work here is done. Help the artillerists with their guns.”

The words made no sense. Shulgin looked around. The fascists had fallen back. They’d nearly made it through but not quite. Six tanks knocked out, and three half tracks burned. Many figures in gray spread around the Russian position; many figures in Russian khaki as well. Shulgin went over to the gun whose crew had fought the fascists hand-to-hand around the barrel. Only three were left.

“Tovarish artillerist, let me help you with your gun.”

They nodded, dumbly, still in shock at the ferocity of the fight. In the gloom of the near-night, the survivors of the Russian force started manhandling the anti-tank guns back to their start line. Falling back before the fascist artillery could pound them in their positions.

“Tovarish Shulgin, I must inform you that Sasha has been killed. I wish you to take his place.” The Company Commander looked tired and gray. Shulgin looked around. As far as he could see, the company was reduced to 10 tol2 soldiers and only one of the lieutenants still lived. Why? What had this attack achieved, they ‘d seized the ridge, then just given it up? It didn’t make sense. His company had been chewed up again, for nothing. He shook his head sadly, they’d advanced this evening, he’d thought he was a few steps closer to his home in Kineshma on the Volga but now they were back where they’d started.

The Company Commander looked at his new Sergeant Major and knew just what was running through the man’s mind. It was so easy to explain in a classroom. A spoiling attack, one that pinned down an enemy unit, bloodied it so it wouldn’t be able to fight somewhere else. A fascist plan ruined, their units wrong-footed. So easy to say in a classroom. How to tell it to a man who was helping push an anti-tank gun because not enough of its crew were left alive to do it for themselves? The Company Commander lead the way back through the darkening woods in silence because he lacked the words to explain what they’d achieved this evening. He didn’t think the words existed, not in any book a man might want to read.

“Early for dusk?” Commander James Perdue spoke cautiously. The darkening sky seemed threatening somehow. It shouldn’t have; the snow had finally stopped and there was but a light sprinkling still coming down. It was the clouds that did it. The setting sun was between them and the ground so the light reflected off the overcast, drenching everything in a sinister yellow glow.

“It’s those clouds.” Captain Walker McKay confirmed it. “They’re bringing down the dusk a whole hour early. At least they’ll keep the warmth in.”

That was one of the lessons of the Kola Peninsula. A clear night was incredibly beautiful, the stars shone brilliantly, the moon seemed larger than it should — but the same clear, dry air sent the temperature plummeting downwards to depths that were killing cold. A clouded night was better, even if one couldn’t admire the stars.

Perdue looked around again. The Russian ASTAC work crews were already clearing the tracks of the last splattering of snow. The Allied Strategic Transport Administration Committee had been one of the first organizations founded when the Americans had started to arrive in Russia. Supplies that were desperately needed on the front had been piling up in Vladivostok instead. The Americans wanted to move them and were prepared to do whatever it took to get the supplies shifted. So were the Russians. The problem had been coordinating the two. ASTAC had grown as a result; an organization flung together out of American, Russian and Indian transport experts to make sure the railways, ports and Air Bridge worked to maximum efficiency. The Americans had been shipping in track, rolling stock and traffic management expertise. The Indians had built the Afghan and Persian railways. The Russians had put in the backbreaking labor to keep everything running.

It was something that left the Americans quietly in awe, the grim, silent determination of the Russians that they would not be beaten. Not by the weather. Not by the Germans. Not by anybody or anything. Quietly, at night, the American officers asked themselves one question about their allies. How could the Germans have thought that these people would ever give up? Even after the frightful battering they had taken in 1941 and 1942, the Russians had fought on; on the front lines, deep in their own rear areas to produce the tools their army needed, deep in the enemy rear as partisans. The work crews here had labored with that same grim determination. They were supposed to keep the tracks clear for the great guns to use, and they were going to do just that.

Captain McKay had already left Curly and was well on his way towards Moe 400 yards away when the air raid sirens went off. At first Perdue thought it was the siren warning of an outbound shoot or inbound artillery fire so rare was the air raid warning. It took a second or two for the wailing’s real identity to sink in. By then, muscle memory had taken over and he was running for the shelter of Curly’s locomotive. He’d just made it when four Focke-Wulf 190s swept over the hill, their wingtips almost touching, their noses and wings sparkled with the flashes of their cannon and machine guns.

Almost as soon as they had appeared, the twin 40mm guns that surrounded the railway artillery battalion opened up. Twelve mounts, two one each train, six on the ground surrounding the site, all with on-mount radar fire control. German fighter-bomber tactics were different from American. American pilots would have gone for the antiaircraft guns first and come back for the trains. The Germans made a straight line for their primary targets, the three railway gun trains.

Perdue heard the concussion of the aircraft bombs going off. Eleven hundred pounders? Sounded like it. Then the crash was drowned out by a rippling, tearing noise. He knew what that was. German aircraft carried a container was filled with hundreds of two-pound fragmentation bombs. They’d be released at low level and would shred anything not under cover. Perdue flinched and tried to squeeze himself deeper under the protective bulk of the locomotive. Then, the crackle of bombs and the roar of the engines was gone and there was a strange, eerie silence. At last it was broken by the wail of the “all clear.”

He got up, looking around at the sight of the artillery unit. It didn’t seem too bad. A lot of smoke and obviously some fires somewhere, but not so bad.

“Sir, Commander, Sir.” One of the young Lieutenants was gasping for breath. “Captain McKay is dead. They got him in the open. Your orders, Sir?”

Perdue looked at him. “Get me a status report now. I want to know the exact condition of each of our guns. And their trains.”

Perdue didn’t actually know whether he was in command or not. With Captain McKay dead the command devolved upon the senior gun commander. That would be Commander Dale with Larry. Somebody had to do something though, somebody had to be in charge and Dale could always take over later.

“Sir, Larry’s locomotive took a direct hit, it’s gone. Commander Dale is missing.” Well, that solved that. “The railway lines have been torn up. It looks like the 190s carried two 1,100 pounders each and one of those cluster bomb things. We can’t move any of the trains, even if the locomotives were working.”

“What’s wrong with Curly and Moe?” Perdue turned around, Curly’s locomotive was swathed in steam.”

“Both damaged sir, strafing hits.”

“Very well. Get the commander of the ASTAC unit over here.”

The Lieutenant doubled away, then came back a few minutes later with an engineer.

“Tovarish Major.” An idle thought ran through Perdue’s mind. If his father had heard me using the Russian “comrade” so familiarly when growing up, he’d probably have taken a strap to my backside. “How soon can we repair the tracks?”

The Russian pursed his lips, thinking. “By mid-day tomorrow certainly. If these were normal trains, we could do it much faster than that but these heavy guns? They are more tolerant of bad tracks than normal railway wagons but still we must take very good care to make sure the tracks are bedded down properly.”

Perdue nodded. It was too long. “How badly is the bombed locomotive wrecked? Can we use some parts from it to repair the other two?”

It was the Russian’s turn to nod. “We can. Or my men can repair the parts that are damaged. But only two locomotives. The bombed one will never move again.”

“Then we need only repair two lines then yes? How soon can we manage that?”

“By dawn. Certainly by then, if your men can help as well.”

“Very good.” Perdue looked around. The ridge to the west of them was stained by a column of black smoke where one of the Focke-Wulfs hadn’t escaped the anti-aircraft guns. “I will give orders that every available man not needed for the guns will join you.”

Perdue walked over to the command carriage and sat down with the communications lines. Ten minutes later, he had a better picture of what was going on. There were three German thrusts. One from Finland that was biting deep into the Canadians holding that front. A second between Lakes Ladoga and Onega. The Russians had pulled a fast one, a pre-emptive attack with their 161st Rifle Division. The division had been chewed up, badly, but they’d knocked the Germans off balance. That thrust was stymied. The third thrust was due south. That was reported to be moving up relatively fast. It would be at his position shortly after dawn, assuming the Germans fought through the night. They probably would. Some of their units had the new-fangled night fighting equipment.

Three thrusts, obviously aimed at encircling and destroying the troops holding the southern part of the Kola Front. Perdue had his orders. If he couldn’t get his guns out, he was to blow them up. The Germans must not be allowed to capture them.

Perdue looked at the three great railway guns. In his heart, he knew that blowing them up and exfiltrating his troops was the right way to go. The Germans would move fast, even at night. His unit couldn’t stand off the forces that were reportedly moving up on him. If he wasn’t careful, his guns could be captured in the chaos of a night action. But, although it was the sensible decision, he wrote it off. Larry was beyond saving. With its locomotive gone, it couldn’t be moved. He’d shoot with it all night if he could then blow it up. But Curly and Moe could be saved. Perdue decided that he would be damned before he’d blow them both up as well.

The lakes had been the way through. Ever since the Continuation War had started, the lakes had been barriers to an attack. In summer, they were impassible, they were large enough to need a full-scale amphibious operation to cross and that would alert the defenses the other side. In winter, they were thickly iced enough to cross but the hard sheet gave no cover and any infantry that tried would be exposed as the machine guns cut them down. That was just a way to commit suicide. Normally; not this time.

The storm had been the worst in living memory. It had blanked the moon out for days, leaving the nights pitch-black. Its subzero cold froze the ice unusually thick for the time of year and it had dumped almost three meters of snow on top of that ice. That had provided cover and turned what had been a barrier into a highway through the Canadian defenses. A highway that Lieutenant Martti Ihrasaari and his platoon had exploited. Now, they were deep behind the Canadian positions, blocking the road that the Canadian unit behind them would have to use for its retreat.

The Canadian unit had been hit in front by artillery fire and a determined infantry assault. The Canadians weren’t Germans whose orders from the top had always been to hold their ground at any cost. Nor were they Russians who held grimly on out of sheer bloody-mindedness. The Canadians believed in a flexible defense. When hit by prepared artillery barrages, they fell back, out of the line of fire. Then they regrouped and regained ground by counter-attack. A sensible tactic; one that the Finns themselves used. This time they intended to turn it against the Canadian troops.

Ihrasaari’s platoon was dug into position, covering the road when the Canadian unit appeared. Mostly infantry moving back, some Universal Carriers. Ihrasaari had already pushed the bolt on his rifle home and was taking careful aim, selecting his target with scrupulous attention. One of the Canadians was showing initiative, watching the men retreating back along the hastily plowed road. An officer, possibly, an NCO probably. One who was looking after his men and that professionalism would cost him his life. Ihrasaari took a deep breath, held it and then fired. The man spun around and fell down. First blood.

The bolt on the Moisin Nagant was sticky. They always were. Ihrasaari wrestled with it, bringing the cocking handle up to vertical with repeated blows of his hand then forcing it back. Once the adhesion in the chamber was broken, it worked smoothly enough but that initial bout of struggling took too much time. By the time he’d leveled the long rifle back to aim at the Canadians, they’d gone to ground and were firing back. Their Lee-Enfields didn’t have bolts that glued up with lacquer deposits in the chamber. Ihrasaari didn’t know what size force he was up against. Probably a point platoon for an infantry battalion, but they had more firepower than I do.

His own machine guns were hammering, spraying their bullets at the Canadian riflemen. There was a streak across the battlefield. One of the Finnish Panzerfausts had scored a direct hit on a Universal Carrier, dissolving it in a fireball. Almost instantly, the Panzerfaust gunner died. A grenade, launched from one of the many launcher rifles the Canadians had, exploded over his head. The crackle of fire from the sub-machine guns that dominated the battle. The Finnish Suomis and the Canadian Capstens exchanged bursts as the gunners tried to pin each other down. The two guns were evenly matched. There wasn’t that much difference between the 7.62 Tokarev and the 9mm Parabellum although the real nitpickers reckoned the extra penetration of the 7.62 gave it an edge. The Suomi was more controllable though.

It was the racket of the grenades going off that would decide the battle though. As always, the Canadians were throwing them around in profusion. These days every Canadian soldier seemed to have a shoulder bag fall of the evil little Mills bombs. They’d been shocked by the firepower of the German assault rifles and this had been part of their answer, hand grenades used in extra-large quantities. Every time Canadian troops moved, they did so behind a shower of Mills grenades.

Ihrasaari fired again, cursing the sticky bolt on his rifle and the long length that made it difficult to aim. Long rifles had almost gone from the Russian Army. They used either the M44 Mosin Nagant carbine, the PPS-45 or the SKS; all short, handy weapons. The Finnish riflemen still had the full length 3-line Mosin Nagant, many of which had been captured back in the glory days of the Winter War. Then it had been ‘gallant little Finland’ fighting the hulking Russian bully. Now, Finland was just another German ally, to be treated with contempt and hammered whenever the Allies had nothing better to do. He squeezed his shot off at the muzzle-flash of a Capsten. The snow bank exploded upwards as his bullet plowed into it. Then his own cover erupted as a Canadian Bren Gun zeroed in on him.

He felt the sting across his face, probably just ice thrown around by the bullet impacts. Time to leave. He slid down the bank and squirmed along to find himself a new position. He froze several times as grenades exploded near him. Those damned grenade launchers. They worked in conditions where a mortar would not, where a mortar round would bury unexploded in the snowbanks. The Finns had rifle grenade launchers as well, but not as many nor were they as effective as the Canadian weapons. By the time he got back to a firing position, the firefight was dying down. The Canadians had driven the Finns back, away from their positions on the road, and had dug in. Ihrasaari guessed they were quite pleased by that.

The Finns were pleased as well. They’d forced the Canadian units to dig in along the road. That meant they were fixed in place. Ihrasaari’s platoon was one of many that had infiltrated through the snow-covered, frozen lakes and dispersed through the rear areas of the Canadian Third Infantry Division. If the plans had worked, that division had been chopped up into a series of small packets, isolated along the communications line leading to their rear areas. That meant the real work could start, eliminating those small pockets one at a time. Just the way Soviet infantry divisions had been wiped out during the Winter War. Only one uneasy thought disturbed Ihrasaari’s mind. These weren’t Soviet infantry divisions. In fact Russian infantry divisions weren’t the same as the ones that had been wiped out in 1939. And this was the Continuation War, not the Winter War.

“Captain Still would like to see you, Sir.” Major-General Marcks stared at his aide coldly. There was a time and place for such remarks. This was neither. The aide whitened slightly and spoke again. “Captain Lang would like to see you Sir.”

“Send him in.” This, Marcks thought, might be interesting.

“Sir, thank you for seeing me, Sir.”

“Are your orders assigning you to Colonel Asbach’s command clear?”

“Very much, Sir, I thank you for giving me this chance. I know I have much to learn and my start here was not good.”

“Others have been worse. Is there anything else?”

Lang didn’t reply but rubbed his ear reflectively. It was a well-understood silent question. Was this room secure? Marcks nodded briefly.

“Sir, the attack we are to launch tomorrow, it’s part of a much bigger operation.” Marcks remained silent letting the Captain talk on. “It’s not just Army forces along the Kola front involved, or the Finns. We are one major part yes, but there is another. The fleet is out, trying to cut the supply convoys to Murmansk.”

Marcks nodded. He’d heard that as well. Lang wasn’t the only one with well-placed sources.

“Sir, I have friends in OKW. The whisper there is that the naval part has gone very badly. The American fleet was waiting in ambush and our casualties have been very heavy. Worse, the supply lines have not been cut. I thought you should know this.”

“Have you told anybody else this news?”

“No Sir. Other than you, my lips are sealed on this. But I thought you should know. You know what happens when operations turn out to be disasters.”

Marcks did. The politicians would blame the military high command. High command would deny that its marvelous operations could possibly fail and that they could only be so if they were deliberately sabotaged by the field officers. So scapegoats would be hunted down and given a quick show trial before being hanged. It hadn’t always been this way. Once it had been understood that every so often things went wrong. But those days were long gone. Now failure was treason. Those high up would hang those lower down, or be hanged themselves.

“You will continue to say nothing of this Captain. This conversation never happened. And I wish you success in your first field operation tomorrow.”

There was another roar as Larry hurled a shell south, towards the German lines. There was no specific target. The great gun was firing at random, it was enough that the shells landed inside German-held territory. Technically, it was harassment fire. In reality it was just to wear the barrel out before the gun was blown up at dawn.

The trains were being reorganized. The empty shell and charge wagons were being detached from the trains and moved to one side. They’d be left behind and blown up as well. The remaining ammunition was being concentrated into the magazine cars that were left. The surplus fire control car was being attached to one of the two remaining trains. The anti-aircraft wagons from Larry split between Curly and Moe. One of the two locomotives had already been repaired and was moving backwards and forwards, getting the consists sorted out. Come dawn, this whole area would be abandoned. The ASTAC engineers were already planting demolition charges on the lines. That was something the Russians had down to a fine art. When they pulled out, there was nothing left but scorched earth.

“What’s the word?” Moe’s gun captain spoke quietly in the silence between Larry’s roars.

“Huns are advancing all right. They’ve pushed the Russian infantry down south back and bust a hole wide open in the front. There’s tanks and armored infantry probing north, they’ll be here by mid-morning. Just to make life interesting, the Finns have caved the Canadian Third Infantry in and they’re edging east. Looks like the plan is to bag the whole of the Kola Front. Anyway, that’s the bad news.

“Good news is that the weather has cleared. There’s F-61 intruders up already. They’re hunting the German supply columns. The poor innocent lambs think they can move at night without the Black Widows finding them. Or the ones that haven’t tried it do. The rest of the Kola Air Force will be covering us come dawn. We’ll have Grizzlies trying to blast a way through if we need them. Which I rather suspect we might.”

“What are our orders? Any changes.”

“Nope. Still get the guns out if we can, blow them up if we can’t. Err on the side of caution. These guns and their fire control must not fall into German hands. Larry’s a write-off but we’ll try and get the other two out. Take a look at this.”

Perdue spread a map out on the deck of the battalion command car. “The bridge will be fixed well enough for us to cross by dawn. Then we’ll head north along this line here. It’s a straight run, no real problems except for fuel and the Mikado locomotives can burn wood if they have to. Lucky they’re not oil-fuelled. The Russians are setting up a stop line here, using the White Sea Canal as a base. Once we’re over that, we can set up again and get back to work.”

“Suppose the lines are gone? If they’ve been hit here, they may have been taken down elsewhere.”

“I thought of that, that’s why we’re taking some extra cars along. We’ll persuade the AST AC engineers to ride with us, that’s why I wanted to speak with you now. They’ll want to stay and try and hold back the Germans but we need them to help get the guns out. Anyway, it’s a waste of good railway engineers to throw them away as second-line infantry fighting panzers. So, I’ll order the commander to bring his men with us. He’ll argue, then you join in and we all stress how much we’re going to need them around to get the guns out.”

Larry crashed again, sending another of its dwindling pile of shells south.