Winter Storm (12 page)

The
Soviet’s stripped the machinegun battalions from the outer fortifications
around Kirov and sent them north. They used service troops, bridging units,
railroad repair crews, all in a desperate attempt to stop the German drive.
Moscow sent Militia units, and then finally ordered its last reserve army, the
33rd to move down and stop the German encirclement operation.

For his
part, Hermann Hoth had turned west as ordered, but he found increasing
resistance as he did so. The Russians did have 50 divisions in the huge
cauldron that was now being formed, the remnants of five separate armies, the
11th, 13th, 24th Siberian, 28th and 32nd. Leaving the Bryansk fortified zone garrisoned
by engineers, flak units, AT regiments and service troops, they then pulled
five to seven rifle divisions from that sector, and moved them north through
the woods to put pressure on Hoth as he drove to link up with Hoepner. On Hoth’s
right, the Russians were sending anything they could scrape up in Moscow by
rail through Kaluga, and these units, anti-tank regiments, small independent
brigades, cavalry and NKVD battalions, were all building up on Hoth’s right.
Soon his two Motorized Korps were all well engaged, and he had given his
strategic reserve to Guderian.

“There
goes the 101st,” he said , watching the units roll out past his army HQ on the
road to Orel. “And the Big Cats all go with them.”

“You
were too generous, Herr General,” said his Operations Officer Oberstleutnant von
Elverfeldt. “If you want to renege on your offer to Guderian, now is the time. Once
those units get engaged, it may not be so easy to call them home.”

“True,”
said Hoth, “but given the fact that Guderian lost his entire 46th Panzer Korps
when Manstein revised the invasion plans, he will need these units more than we
will. Otherwise, with my
Panzergruppe
on this new operation, Guderian’s
entire thrust north will be a wasted effort. And in spite of the jubilant mood
at OKW, I think we will have little margin for error or waste in this war.”

It was
a very prophetic statement, for these events were all in prelude to the one
great battle that would truly decide the course of the entire war—the battle
for Moscow in 1941.

The
footsteps on the polished tile floor were hard and sharp
as Berzin walked quickly down the long hallway. Ahead, two guards stiffened,
heels clicking as each extended an arm, quickly opening the tall door. Their
movements were precise, mechanical, as though the flesh and bone of men had
become a part of the building itself. Beyond those doors lay the outer chamber
of the Red Archives. There, standing stolidly by the window, the General
Secretary was waiting, his eyes seemingly transfixed on something outside, far
off in the wide stone square. He said nothing, did not even turn to greet the
man now entering the room, and Berzin waited, saying nothing until the doors
closed quietly behind him, standing there like a carved statue.

Something
in both men knew that the moment they moved, the moment they broke the frozen
stillness of that hour, everything would change. Everything would move with
them, slipping, shifting, whirling wildly in the chaos that was all around them,
the wild spinning gyre of war. Yet for now, with Sergei Kirov standing at the
window, and Berzin by the door, all seemed to be held in breathless suspension,
as if events demanding this urgent meeting were also frozen, the whole world
motionless, static, unmoving in the stony quiet. There they stood, in the eye
of the storm, and as long as neither man moved, as long as they stood there,
each might believe that the situation on the front lines still remained as it
was just days ago, resolved by decisions made in that long lost hour, still
stable, still manageable, still bearable.

“Mister
General Secretary…”

Berzin’s
voice broke the silence with calm formality, but no matter how gracious and
restrained his tone, the words fell like broken glass on the lacquered wood
floor.

Slowly,
as if he too were some mechanical part of the massive apparatus of government
all around them in the Kremlin complex, Sergei Kirov turned. His eyes saw
Berzin, hat in hand, a map tucked neatly under his arm, and he knew by the look
on his face that he was not the bearer of any good news that morning. And he
saw one other thing, something another man might have completely overlooked,
though it was immediately apparent to Kirov’s well studied eye. The well
polished sheen on Berzin’s high leather boots was marred, a hasty moment of
oversight that spoke volumes.

“There’s
a scuff on your left boot,” said Kirov. “So it seems you were in some haste to
bring me that map.”

Berzin
smiled, the last time he would do that for a good many days, and then walked
slowly to the conference table. He set his hat quietly on the corner, laid the
map there, waiting.

“So now
it begins,” said Kirov. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Grishin. What will I see
when you unroll that map?”

“The
Kirov Line has been breached along a sixty kilometer front,” said Berzin,
knowing there was no other way but the truth.

“Where?”

“In the
woodland between Vyazma and Spas-Demensk—Hoepner’s 4th Panzer Group. The enemy
push towards Tula was stopped, but half of that force turned northwest. They
broke through and linked up with Hoepner.”

Kirov
walked slowly to the table. “Show me,” he said with the reluctance obvious in
his voice, and Berzin unrolled the map, using two of the secret books Kirov had
obtained, the material, to hold the new history in place beneath the old. Yet
what he was showing the General Secretary now was very much like that older
history, where large forces comprising nearly seven armies had been encircled
near Bryansk and southwest of Vyazma. This time the pocket was centered on the
city that bore the General Secretary’s own name—Kirov.

“How
bad is it?” he asked.

“The
entire Western front is now encircled—five armies, including Karpov’s 24th
Siberian—about 50 divisions.”

“Can
they get out?”

“Not
likely. We’ve pulled the 24th Siberian off the western edge of the pocket while
still maintaining a credible defense there. That army is in very good shape,
six good rifle divisions and a tank brigade. We can use them to attempt a
breakout if you so order, but the wisdom of this may be in doubt after what
just happened to the Smolensk Group.”

Now
Kirov looked at the map, the positions freshly drawn by staffers and delivered
to Berzin less than an hour earlier. “What’s happening east of Vyazma on the rail
line to Kaluga?”

“A small
penetration, mostly by infantry. We do not believe they have anything that can
exploit it.”

“And
this segment here?”

“A gap
has formed southwest of Kaluga. We’re trying to close it near Babyino on the
rail line, but there’s very little we can send. Between that point and Kaluga,
there are only two anti tank regiments, and the entire line from Kaluga to
Mozhaisk is manned by militias.”

“So
it’s happened again,” said Kirov sullenly.

“It was
inevitable,” said Berzin. “If we fight for the cities, the Germans will just go
around those defenses, and this is the result.”

“Then
we fight where we are,” said Kirov, mustering a measure of resolve.

“The
Vyazma pocket lasted only seven days in the material,” Berzin warned.

“This
isn’t the Vyazma catastrophe,” said Kirov.

“No
sir, it’s a brand new catastrophe, and one of our own making this time.” Berzin
would not mince words.

Kirov
nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation now. Everything would depend
on how long those troops could hold out. A force of that size could take a very
long time to reduce. The Germans had used 22 divisions in the old history, all
troops that they might have otherwise thrown at Moscow. This time, Kirov hoped
things would be different, though the shadow of the old history still lay heavily
on this hour.

“Yet we
won,” he said, taking heart. “We lost over half a million men and we still
won.”

“We had
four armies on the Mozhaisk Line,” said Berzin. “At least according to the
material. This time we have only two armies in the vicinity of Moscow. We sent
the 33rd to try and stop what just happened, but it could not get there in
time. That leaves us only the troops of the Moscow military district to defend
the capital.”

“What
about Zakharin’s 49th Army?”

“It is
still forming east of Ryazan, but should be available soon.”

“Make
it available now. Tell him to come directly to Moscow, and without delay.”

“We’ll
be a day getting rolling stock up there from the south. We just delivered the
50th Army to the Don sector, and in the nick of time. The Germans have
reinforced their SS Korps with Kleist’s 1st Panzer Group, and they are renewing
their offensive south and east.”

Sergei
Kirov had finally seen the danger Zhukov had tried to warn him of long ago, the
very operation Manstein was now conducting. He had already given Berzin
instructions to plan a phased withdrawal from the will ’o the wisp oil wells of
Maykop. Now he needed troops to stop the SS, and the only forces available were
in the Caucasus. As the drive on Armavir had been called off, he ordered all
available forces north, culled into the 4th and 9th Armies building a defense
to the south of the SS. There was one more Army he could tap, the 50th, which
had been languidly holding the long open country from Abganerovo south of
Volgograd, through Kotelnikovo and Zimovinki, following the rail all the way to
Salsk on the Manych River.

To hold
that ground required a large force, and Petrov’s 50th Army was perhaps the
largest formation in the entire Soviet State, with all of 11 Rifle Divisions,
an old style armored division, and five independent brigades, with three
Cavalry divisions. It was easily three times the size of a typical Soviet Army,
but somehow, Petrov managed it because the Army merely had to hold in fortified
positions all along its front. Now it was ordered to move, abandoning those
forts and meeting long lines of trains on that rail between Salsk and
Volgograd.

It took
three days, and virtually all the rolling stock available, but Zhukov was able
to get the army moved, up through the steel cauldron of Volgograd, and back
through the Donbass on a rail line that did not exist in Fedorov’s history
books. It had been built to support the long years of fighting with Ivan
Volkov, and now that enmity would prove a saving grace. Without that rail line,
Petrov’s troops would not have made it north in time, and Manstein’s SS would
have moved as he planned for the southern bank of the Don.

A total
of three armies were pulled from Kirov’s Caucasus operation, though he still
stubbornly clung to the Kuban District with remaining forces there. Yet now,
the Don itself would take the place of the massive armies that had once been
mustered south of its waters, intending to drive all the way to Astrakhan and
Baku. It was not to be, but instead those same armies would now move north,
bringing Georgie Zhukov 30 divisions that would save the hour in more than one
desperate situation.

“Will
the Germans cross the Don?” Kirov’s eyes were heavy on the map as he studied
the threat in the south.

“No
sir, it appears they will drive along the south bank, and use it to shield
their left as they advance.”

“That
won’t be as easy as it sounds,” said Kirov. “It’s a very long way to Volgograd,
and that will be a very vulnerable flank.”

“True,”
said Berzin, “assuming we have troops to send there to pose a credible threat.”

“What
about the Siberians?”

“Three
Shock armies are still forming, but remember, those are fresh recruits. It will
be some time before those men are fitted out and trained, and Zhukov wants them
for the winter offensive.”

“If we
survive that long,” said Kirov. “Isn’t there anything else in the Urals?”

“We
have Teryokin’s 2nd Red Banner Army there, a reinforced Corps really, and
Zhukov has moved it to STAVKA Reserve. As for the Siberians, Karpov hasn’t been
heard from for weeks since he sailed out of Murmansk. We’ve tried signaling
that ship, but we get no response. That said, there is still one more Siberian
Army on the upper Volga, the 17th. Frankly, Volkov poses no offensive threat
there. If necessary, we could move that army in a week.”

“Without
notifying Karpov?”

“I
think the news that Moscow has fallen would be worse than hearing we’ve moved
his army. I’ve already made overtures to the army commander, and the situation
looks favorable.”

“Good,”
said Kirov. “Then if they will come, we will welcome them. Anything else? What
about the Leningrad District?”

“They
just completed refitting of the 52nd Army under Klykov. It’s available if we
can find the trains to move it.”

“Then
it is not so desperate as you make it sound,” said Kirov. We have Klykov’s
52nd, the 2nd Red Banner Army from the Urals, Karpov’s 17th Siberian, and our
own 49th east of Ryazan—four armies to defend the capital. And we already have
some troops on the outer defensive line. Lelyushenko’s 5th has been fighting
well there, and we’ve been reforming the 33rd and 16th.”

“True,
but we will have nothing else in reserve, unless of course you evacuate the
Kuban and Black Sea Coastal District.”

“Not
yet,” said Kirov. “If they go, then the Donets Basin goes soon after. No. We’ll
hold the ground we now occupy, and by god, we’ll make them fight for anything
they want to take. See that message gets delivered to Zhukov. We fight now, for
the life of the nation. There is no other way.”

“I
think the General will be more than willing,” said Berzin. “It’s the messages
being delivered by the Germans that make him uncomfortable. He all but begged
you to pull back in the south.”

“I’ve
sent him thirty divisions!” Kirov’s anger flashed.

“True
sir, and now they are fighting the SS. As we have seen, those troops are more
than a cut above anything they were facing in Volkov’s army. We will have to
watch the south very carefully. If the Germans were to break out there, then
they might do just what Zhukov warned us about, and bag four more entire
fronts.”

“Cutting
them off from Moscow is one thing,” said Kirov adamantly. “Beating them is
quite another. We still have Rostov, the resources of the Donets Basin, and the
factories in Volgograd. They’re building T-34s there even as we speak. So the
Germans can come east if they choose, but we can still supply all those
southern fronts as long as we hold those cities. For that matter, this new
pocket that has just formed can be supplied from Bryansk and Kirov.”

“Yes,
we might hold out for some time, unless there is a general collapse as with the
Smolensk Group.”

“Then
we must see that does not happen. I will fly to Kirov personally if that is
what it takes. I will stand in the city they named after me, and those men will
stand with me!” Kirov’s voice echoed off the high ceiling, resounding through
the chamber.

“If you
leave Moscow now…” Berzin left that hanging, knowing the General Secretary
would not fail to perceive the danger in that.

Kirov
composed himself, realizing the situation in the capital was far from secure
now. People had seen one unit after another going off to the front, and the
reserves grew ever thinner. Rumors were piled high like kindling, and all it
would take is one false move to light the fire.