Chapter 30

Between the 19th and the 22nd of November the right flank of the Rumanian 3rd Army ceased to exist under the pressure of 900 Russian tanks and two cavalry corps. XXVII Tank Corps commanders of the Russian 5th Tank Army found the Rumanians had cleared out so fast they left all their documents, personal belongings and breakfast behind.

To the South two mechanised corps and the IV Cavalry rolled from the lakes area and folded up the Rumanian 4th Army. The pincer closed on the town of Sovietsky in the rear of the German 6th Army around Stalingrad.

This was the true operational debut of the Ilyushin Il-2 'Sturmavik' and the Yakovlev Yak 9D equipped with a 37mm cannon in the nose. The effect of these 'tank busting' aircraft was devastating.

On the 10th of December a relief column sent up from the Caucasus in the shape of the German LVIII Panzer Korps was smashed when it ran into the 2nd Guards Army and swarms of Sturmaviks on the river Myshkova.

Hitler's ludicrous order to von Paulus to stand firm in Stalingrad condemned the German 6th Army to destruction. Goering told the Fuehrer the Luftwaffe would supply the General by cargo planes, but Goering was criminally unaware of how things had changed.

Luftflotte IV was no longer capable of protecting the transports against masses of anti-aircraft artillery and Russian fighters. At best the 6th Army received no more than a third of their daily requirements. The effort shattered Luftflotte IV, the Red Airforce gained control of the Stalingrad battlefield.

It was the first serious defeat for German arms.

Jana had been recalled to Marshal Voroshilov's headquarters in Moscow. The rest of the squadron remained at Astrakhan awaiting orders while Russian forces trapped the Germans in the Stalingrad pocket. It was a frustrating time standing by while others crucified the Luftwaffe on the Don front.

John reflected that frustration. He was in a foul mood with not even Jana to relieve the pressure. 'Oz' Callaghan provided his only link to sanity in that month on the Caspian.

With 'Oz's' assistance, he spent the time training his pilots hard for when they would rejoin the fight. 'Oz' abandoned his worn out Hawker Hurricane for one of the new Yakovlev Yak-9Ds. After becoming accustomed to the different handling characteristics of the Soviet fighter, he came to appreciate its qualities.

In the second week of December, the 400th finally received its orders. They were to sent to a place called Abganerovo on the main railway from Stalingrad to Novorossisk. They were in time to support phase two of the relief of Stalingrad.

From Boguchar across the Don to the North, the 1st Guards Army was lining up the Italian 8th. To the South of them, on the Chir river, the 3rd Guards prepared to clean up the remnant of the Rumanian 3rd Army.

The Italians crumpled under the combined assault of 5 armoured corps. The 27th Panzer Division tried to relieve the situation but they only had 50 servicable tanks left. The breakthrough took only 48 hours, an insanely short time against the Italians' paper strength of 230,000 men in nine Divisions. But then, the Don had frozen over and the 700 or so Russian tanks merely drove over it.

To the South of Stalingrad, the 2nd Guards and the powerful armoured formations of the 51st Army drove the Panzers of Gruppe Hoth and the Rumanian 4th Army back from the line of the Myshkova and rolled them back towards Rostov. Von Manstein, in command at Novocherkassk, had to try and hold up the Russians or have the whole of his Caucasus Front cut off.

The airfield at Abganerovo had recently been wrenched from its former owners, the Luftwaffe and the Rumanian airforce. Smashed aircraft littered the field and the Russian mechanics gleefully rummaged through these for anything they could use.

The airfield's buildings had all been burnt to the ground but some temporary shelter was found in some old railway carriages. Prisoners were set to work rebuilding the damage and clearing the runway of snow.

'Oz' was shocked at the way these Germans and Rumanians were being treated by their Red Army guards. True, the guards weren't first line troops, being in the main reservists and local militia, but still, 'Oz' thought, there was no cause for the casual brutality they sometimes metred out. He took his concerns to John.

"Those prisoners are being starved," he told him, "and some of the guards kick the piss out of them for no reason."

"The guards are not under my command," John told him. His indifference astounded 'Oz.' This was not the way Aussies and Kiwis were brought up. He wondered if John was becoming too well acclimatised to Russia.

"Bullshit!"

"Look," John said, exasperated, "you don't understand what these Russian people have been through at the hands of the Fascists. So they're giving a little payback..."

"It's not fucking right and you know it!" 'Oz' shouted.

"Listen!" John stood, "you heard of the 'Sicherungdienst, ' 'Organisation Todt' and the SS? Have you heard of those bastards? Have you heard of the Rumanian 'Iron Brigade'? Do you imagine our boys would fare any better in their hands?"

"That's not the point..."

"It is the point as far as those local militia are concerned. You talk to them... get them to tell their stories, and every one of them has a story to tell, believe me?"

"I don't speak Russian," 'Oz' replied, defiantly.

"Y'know," John continued, "that Battle of Britain of yours was a pillow fight compared to here."

"You can't say that," 'Oz' blazed, "I lost half my squadron in three weeks!"

"And 17 squadrons were obliterated on the Don Front alone, 'Oz'," John retorted, "that's nearly 300 pilots and their aircraft... enough for one and a half Air Divisions. I knew dozens of them personally..."

"That still doesn't give you the right to beat up prisoners!"

"Be grateful that's all they're doing..."

"You're turning into a cunt, John! You've been corrupted!"

"I'm still the ranking officer, 'Oz' and that's insubordination. You're lucky you're not a Russian or I'll..."

"Or you'll what?"

"Just stay out of my way!"

"With pleasure, arsehole!" 'Oz' spat as he turned to leave.

Both Benin and the GRU Captain were well on the way to being drunk. The boys had captured a stock of good Spanish wine from the Blue Division and, naturally, Intelligence had managed to secure their share.

She learned the Captain had a name, Pavel Rodel, and he was born way up in the Arctic at a place near Archangel'sk called Severodvinsk.

The cold didn't seem to bother him. He told her that as kids they used to roll in the snow naked. And he told her about the taiga in the brief Summer weeks. The snow would melt into torrents and reveal a frantic bid for life from thousands of Siberian fauna. The colour, he told her, was a vision of paradise before the Spring gave way to thousands of biting insects.

They sustained themselves from the abundant fish stocks that teemed in the White and Barents sea before the ice, once again, closed over the water. Still, they could fish through the ice at the bottom of the high pressure ridges. The ice, he reminded her, expands and pushes up diminutative mountain ranges on the surface of the sea. It was like the waves had been frozen solid before they could break on the shore.

Pavel Rodel was a caricature of the Russian bear. He was tall and stocky and Benin thought he would have worn a long beard but for uniform regulations. He had the wry, self-depreciating hunour, the coping mechanism of a person inured to a hard life in a hostile climate. When drunk he became morose and reflective, like the Russia ill at ease with itself. A Russia that, once again, had been battered down with only the resilience and spirit of its people able to sustain it. And, like the Professor, one only needed scratch the surface to reveal a self-deluding chauvinistic streak.

Pavel Rodin wound up the handle of the grammaphone and played the only record he possessed. It was a suite of piano music by Ravel and it was scratched so badly it sounded like bacon was frying in the background. Nevertheless, it was the most precious thing he owned and Benin felt a strange kind of privilege to be included in this most intimate part of his simple World.

But at the same time Benin was aware Pavel Rodel would think little of taking a helpless prisoner behind the building and putting a pistol to the back of his head. That was the contradiction inherent in the man, of the many people who chose to work in the most dirtiest part of the war. Perhaps, even, a latent part of the broad Russian character? At one, displaying intense love for a dying boy, then shooting the Father in the stomach for giving a German soldier a loaf of bread.

As she sat at the table in the duty room at GRU Headquarters in Novgorod, Benin knew that Pavel wanted her body. When she rose for any reason, she could feel his eyes fixed on her arse, mentally undressing her. She knew he was married and had children. For that matter she had John and little Garcia, but their families were far away. She and John had regained some of the intimacy of the earlier times and had enjoyed their time together in Gorky. But, at the same time, she had little trust in him when he was way out of her sight. Jana Ivanova stalked their lives like some chill wind from the North. She was helpless before that force of nature.

She'd kept the copy of 'Red Star' with John and Jana's grainy photo on the front page. They were smiling and quoted as saying a load of garbage she'd never believe John would actually say. They looked like a Hollywood film star couple with great toothy grins like an oral hygiene advertisement.

They made an ideal couple, that's for sure. Jana Ivanova was taller than she, leggy, blonde and good looking. Her bust seemed designed for a man's appreciation, but they weren't overly large. Just enough to suit her height. In any case, thought Benin, they appeared to be much prettier than her modest pair.

To have another man look at her the way John did was flattering. She found herself bending a little, and lingering a little longer than she needed to in that position. She laughed at his jokes, even though some of the topicality of his humour was lost on her.

"Another drink?" he asked. Benin didn't but she said yes anyway, more to keep him engaged than for any other reason. "You're a fine woman," he told her, "much too good for this dirty work." The conversation drifted inevitably onto the topic of loneliness, of husbands separated from their wives and families, and the seeking of solace. "You've never been unfaithful?" he asked. The question touched on feelings of guilt, of inadequacy, of the stalking Northern wind.

"A little!" she replied.

"A little?" he said, bemused, "like a little fooling around? Like black bread without the caviar?"