Show of Force (9 page)

“It is hard to say, Georgi. And, please . . . please call me Pietr. We are friends, now.” He paused to light his own cigarette. “I don't think they like the daylight any more than they have before. They like to attack at night when we can't see them as well.” He stood up, motioning to the other. “Let's check with our men and see for ourselves if the Nazis seem to be curious.”

As they came up onto the street, Gorenko looked for the outline of the sun through the dust and smoke that had changed it to a dull, reddish ball. It was either night and black out or a little lighter as the sun tried to penetrate the thick blanket of smoke. Few buildings existed as more than piles of masonry, an occasional wall or chimney piercing the air. Chimneys were hard to hit, so there were more of them than anything else to identify which part of town one occupied.

The rubble served as both a hindrance to movement and a boon to the foot soldiers for its excellent protection from rifle fire. The best part for the Russians was the fact that the German destruction of the city was so complete that their tanks were unable to maneuver through much of the area they wanted to capture. German soldiers had to advance without the mechanized divisions that had led them in their sweep across Russia. When they had elected to reduce the city to mortar and ashes they had not realized that they were also halting their own most effective weapon. This gave the Russians the opportunity to pound the German positions with their artillery twenty-four hours a day, firing with accuracy from the opposite bank of the Volga.

And then, Gorenko remembered, there were the
katyushas,
those immense mortars, one of the few items in the Russian arsenal that genuinely frightened the Germans. Since they were fired from a distance, there was no warning of the impending explosion until the first shell began its descent. The great whooshing sound then announced its imminent arrival, too Sate for the Germans to avoid the tremendous explosions. The Russians used them effectively against troop concentrations, knowing the psychological value was worth almost as much as its destructiveness. Its intention was antipersonnel and its effectiveness justified its use, once reducing an entire advancing battalion to bits and pieces. Perhaps, he thought to himself, that's what kept us going in those days—we knew they had no
katys.
They kept close to the remaining walls as they found their men around the next corner. Gorenko stopped to talk with one of his squad leaders for a moment, while Kupinsky moved among his own larger group.

“Georgi, has there been any movement out there?” He gestured in the general direction of the German positions.

“No, not yet. One of my scouts has just been out and has seen some ammunition carts hauling in more men. He thinks they may just be probing in the next couple of streets. They must know something's in the air.”

“It's not like them to be so still during the day. Let's get ourselves a prisoner or two for Gorishnyi. He doesn't want them pulling back far enough to use aircraft.” General Chuikov had ordered that his men would maintain close combat positions with the Germans, just a “grenade's-throw distance at most,” so that their enemy could not utilize their air superiority. Every time the Germans moved forward they met stiff resistance, and whenever they withdrew, the 62nd Army was at their heels. Attacking was thought to be the simplest way to stay alive.

As quietly as six men could move through the remains of a pulverized building, they eased their way onto a pile of stone. Kupinsky used his binoculars to check activity behind the lines, while Gorenko and his men moved to one side to protect their post from the street. Less than thirty seconds after they had taken their positions, a German reconnaissance squad inched cautiously down the street in their direction. Gorenko communicated with his men by making hand signs for an ambush.

Looking over his shoulder, Kupinsky saw what was coming. He, too, used hand signals and his men began to move silently. But before they got there, the others opened fire. Shouts and screams, combined with the fire of automatic weapons, shattered the air. The surprised Germans had little chance to return fire. It was over almost before it began, except for the second squad of Germans following the first.

Gorenko didn't see them as he and his men jumped down from their position to locate a survivor. The second German group opened fire on them immediately, hitting one of his men. He and the other ducked behind the remains of a wall that had toppled into the street. The Germans had divided their group and, while one held down the two Russians behind the rubble, the others circled, not knowing Kupinsky was easing around behind them.

And then, from his right, Gorenko saw that the Germans had trapped them almost at the same time that they opened fire. The initial bursts killed the man beside him. He turned to fire, and found his gun jammed. The closest German came at him with his bayonet, deciding quickly that he had an opportunity to save ammunition. Gorenko rose to a squatting position, slipping as he tried to get to his feet.

Then, Kupinsky, bellowing as he ran, fired at the Germans. Two behind fell, but the one with the bayonet hesitated only for a moment when he was hit. Then he continued to chase the stumbling Gorenko. As he rushed, pointing the bayonet at Gorenko's chest, Kupinsky was there, jumping over the sprawled figure of his friend and impaling the German on his own bayonet, then firing one more round to make sure the man was dead.

“Are you hit?” Kupinsky asked, bending over the now-kneeling Navy officer.

“No, I am fine,” he replied. “Only my pride is damaged, but it is better to be alive.” He stood up, looking directly into the eyes of the man who had saved him. “I owe you something that is not easy to repay. I made a mistake and you saved me.” He extended his hand in simple gratitude.

He never forgot the stark look on the other man's face. “No, my friend, you owe me nothing except perhaps to try to keep me alive also. I, too, want to return to my family after this is over.” He smiled at Gorenko and turned away, giving instructions to his men, who had salvaged a wounded German.

They returned silently to their basement hovel, leaving their prisoner with Intelligence. They found lukewarm tea left by some officers now sleeping in another corner. Leaning against the wall, legs stretched out in the dirt and dust, Gorenko stared at his hands. They were shaking, the one that held the tea less so because it had something to grasp. He put the tea down, folding his hands to still them. Unable to calm himself, he shut his eyes and said, "I have fought both at sea and on land for almost two years and have never come so close to death, that I know of. Usually, I was behind the hand-to-hand fighting, and I never saw the people I killed or those who tried to kill me. But today, I saw that man's eyes. He wanted to kill me so badly, and I had no idea why he felt that way. Perhaps it comes with command, or the fact that the Navy does not see the people we fight at sea as human beings.

He looked over at Kupinsky, who said nothing. He went OH. “I have organized and commanded a sailor's army for all of this time, when our ships were of little value to the homeland. We do not call ourselves Marines because we expect to be back to our ships so quickly. We were back to them once, after Odessa, when we were part of the Azov Flotilla. Then came Sebastopol. And I fought again with my men there, through the winter.” He paused, separating his hands to pick up the tea. “We fought their tanks in the streets. My men threw themselves under those tanks, with their last grenades, so that they would save one city block. And yet, I never came face to face with the men who wanted to kill me. And today, if you had not been behind me, I would have seen him do it.” He looked over at the other man. “When this is over, I shall go back to my ships, perhaps. But I want very much to do something for you. I feel inside that I must.”

Neither man spoke, nor did they look at each other. Finally, Kupinsky reached over, placing his hand on the other's arm. "My friend, there is almost nothing we can do for each other in this hellhole, except try to survive. If we make it, then we are indeed lucky. What you can do for me can only be done if I die, and I think I have as good a chance as anyone else to die.

“I have a family in Leninsk. Perhaps you have never heard of it?”

Gorenko shook his head.

“It's only about forty kilometers to the east of here on the railroad. I have a small house, if the Germans have not bombed it. And I have a wife and a son, if they have not been killed in the air raids. If they have tried to write me, I have no idea. Mail hardly ever Gome's to Stalingrad, and they will not risk soldiers to carry mail. I have tried to write to them whenever possible to let them know the husband and father is still alive. Perhaps they have gotten some of the letters, perhaps not. As you know, there has been no mail for two weeks, because of the planning for the offensive.”

He stopped for a second to light another evil-smelling cigarette, then continued. “My boy, Alex, is ten years old.” He looked at Gorenko and smiled. “He is a good boy. Very smart. . Perhaps he will grow up to be a sailor like you, instead of an infantryman like me. Then, he won't have to look into the eyes of the people he kills, if there are more people who invade our homeland,” he added as an afterthought. “If I am killed, will you go to Leninsk? Find my family, if they are alive? See what you can do for them. I think if we are successful in our offensive, then we won't have to worry about the Germans again. If they take this city and cross the river, then we are lost. I will then try to get to them. But, if something happens to me, will you go to them? Tell my son we fought together against the Germans and that you and his father were friends. I don't want him to forget his father. Tell him why we are ready to fight to the last man. His mother understands only that we have been invaded, but not why we have to stand together.” He smiled at Gorenko. “Would you do that for me?”

“We will stay together, my friend, the soldier and the sailor, and we will talk about this on cold nights during the winter when we are old men at our dachas. But, yes, I will go to your family if something happens to you, if that will make you happy.”

The following morning, November 19, Georgi Kupinsky was one of the first to die leading his men at Mamai Hill. Pietr Gorenko buried the body under a pile of bricks and mortar himself, so that it wouldn't be added to the growing stacks of dead, frozen in horribly grotesque positions.

Admiral Gorenko turned from the window. So long ago, he thought. I haven't seen death staring at me since then, yet now I'm sending Georgi's son, my son, in that direction. And there are no longer invaders in the homeland as we feared then. Now, they are thousands of miles away, yet only minutes from invasion if they desire.

He became aware of what had jarred his thoughts. “Come,” he called in the direction of the door, caring little how long this next intruder had been patiently waiting.

This time it was not an aide, but one of the many Captains First Rank on his staff. The man was still in his bridge coat, which carried water droplets of melted snow from the outside. He inclined his head slightly in greeting, removing his hat. “Admiral, I have just come from the American Embassy. Admiral Collier came out when he saw me. He wishes to speak with you immediately. As you know, they have no outside communications.”

“Did he say that?”

“No, sir. There was no need. Admiral Collier understands the situation.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Just that the ambassador would accompany him. They request the normal courtesies of a meeting. He asked you to name a time.”

Gorenko smiled inwardly. There was no change in his facial expression before the younger man. “Thank you for coming to me. There is no message to return. I shall contact him when I am ready.” He silently dismissed the other by turning his back and walking slowly to the window. The snow was starting again.

Gorenko had returned to Moscow before the end of the war. His first office wasn't far from the one he now occupied. After Stalingrad, he had gone back to sea and had been promoted to flotilla commander before they sent him to the staff position in the Kremlin.

He had been able to bring Alex with him. The boy's mother said anything was better than the hunger they faced in that May of 1945. The boy was then two years older than the first time they had met. He was taller at twelve but had probably not put on a pound since their first meeting.

It had been mid-January, and the icy winds sweeping down from the steppes brought unending misery to the hard-pressed peasants. Somehow Gorenko had survived the counteroffensive. Chuikov had attacked on each of the three fronts around the city and had surrounded Paulus. The Germans would not surrender, convinced that von Mannstein would come to their aid. They chose slow annihilation until Paulus could no longer accept the slaughter. When it became apparent that the worst was over, Gorenko had been released to the Navy. Medals were awarded to the leader of the sailor army and his men. There was even a celebration. Somehow the remnants of the 62nd Army had found the vodka, and they stole enough pigs from the peasants to honor the sailors in proper army style.

And then he had kept his promise to Georgi. Rather than go back toward the Black Sea with his men, he had first crossed the frozen Volga and gone east—to Leninsk. There were no trains. He had ridden partway with the army and then managed the rest of the way in the various wagons that carried what little the people still had.

Leninsk had been a poor town, but when he arrived it was a nothing town. The planes had bombed it often, for no reason he could ever determine. The major buildings were destroyed. The people lived in hovels thrown together from the remains of their homes. But he had found the Kupinsky family, still with half a house. It had suffered a near miss, and its survival justified some of the neighbors moving in with them. If it had been his home, he would have gone back to the front, he thought.