The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] Read Online Free Page A
![The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02]](/res/rof/book.jpg?1)
Author: David L. Robbins
less of a racket.”
Misha huffs. “Sure. Move Ilya Shokhin. Me and who else?”
Ilya grins. He is proud of his size, the attention it draws from the others. Two meters tall, two hundred and forty pounds, he has shoulders square and wide, an expansive chest, and arms white and big as birch trees. His thighs are the girth of bomb casings. He knows he has a merry face where blue eyes preside over a kind, upturned mouth. For a fierce countenance he shaves his head clean.
“Almost there, I think.”
Ilya halts their slither to get his bearings. Winter-naked trees rise all around. Between every trunk there is a tank, a T-34; there must be a hundred silhouettes he can make out from where he and Misha lie in the starless gloom. The tanks are silent, turrets elevated like saluting troops, all pointing west toward the German lines. Behind these tanks there are a thousand more, and behind them rows of artillery pieces by the ten thousands arranged backward by caliber. Men and machines, everywhere—two full armies, half of another—crammed into this fourteen-mile-wide bridgehead which Zhukov captured on the west bank of the Vistula in August. Another two tank armies are lined up behind them on the east bank of the river. South of Zhukov’s force, there is another, larger bridgehead on the river, where there is massed another battle group just as big under Koniev.
In days or weeks, Ilya thinks, the signal will come. This gigantic, pent-up hammer will strike west into Poland, then pulverize all the way to Berlin. Nothing will stop us.
Once this battle starts, I will get it all back. More. There are a million men around me. But I will be noticed.
I will be cleansed.
Through the trees Ilya catches a glimmer of lantern light dimmed by the thick canvas of a tent. It is a strange sallow glow, a mushroom of light on a forest floor covered by sleeping metal beasts. Officers, Ilya thinks. Only they will have a lantern lit this time of the morning. Only officers will be up this late gathered around a bottle and a deck of cards and letters scribbled for home. Ilya knows. The regular foot soldiers aren’t drinking right now; they’re resting, if they can find the comfort under a tarpaulin or in a hole to do so. When the cold sun is overhead the lowly Ivans have too many artillery pieces to camouflage, roads to grade, tons and tons of food, ammo, and fuel to lug forward, privies to empty, garbage to bury. Fortifications must be built and trenches dug in case the enemy in the dark decides to go on the offensive first. The railway tracks through eastern Poland are the wrong gauge, they have to be widened for Russian supply trains. Wreckage from the frequent German artillery barrages must be repaired or hauled away. Field trips are taken to the fetid death camp in Majdanek, liberated by the Red Army last July, where political commissars drive home even harder the point that the Germans are monsters. No, those men inside the warm tent have their feet up. Ilya begins to crawl toward them. Officers. He knows this because four months ago he was one of them.
Ilya is powerful stealing over the frozen ground, in and out among the barely visible tanks. The only breathing he hears is from skinny Misha behind him. He turns to see billows of vapor heaving out of the man’s drooping mouth. To keep his comrade from giving them away to the guards who must be posted near the command tent one hundred meters away, Ilya pauses at the treads of a tank.
He sits up to ease his back against the tank. He leans against a painted wooden crate.
Ilya suppresses a laugh. This is one of the hundreds of false tanks, part of the massive Maskirovka campaign Zhukov has put in place to fool German reconnaissance, artillery, and bombers into wasting their barrages in the wrong places. The weapon at his back is made of sacking, wire, and a pipe for the gun barrel. Very convincing. Ilya wonders how many he and Misha crept past
Misha huffs. “Sure. Move Ilya Shokhin. Me and who else?”
Ilya grins. He is proud of his size, the attention it draws from the others. Two meters tall, two hundred and forty pounds, he has shoulders square and wide, an expansive chest, and arms white and big as birch trees. His thighs are the girth of bomb casings. He knows he has a merry face where blue eyes preside over a kind, upturned mouth. For a fierce countenance he shaves his head clean.
“Almost there, I think.”
Ilya halts their slither to get his bearings. Winter-naked trees rise all around. Between every trunk there is a tank, a T-34; there must be a hundred silhouettes he can make out from where he and Misha lie in the starless gloom. The tanks are silent, turrets elevated like saluting troops, all pointing west toward the German lines. Behind these tanks there are a thousand more, and behind them rows of artillery pieces by the ten thousands arranged backward by caliber. Men and machines, everywhere—two full armies, half of another—crammed into this fourteen-mile-wide bridgehead which Zhukov captured on the west bank of the Vistula in August. Another two tank armies are lined up behind them on the east bank of the river. South of Zhukov’s force, there is another, larger bridgehead on the river, where there is massed another battle group just as big under Koniev.
In days or weeks, Ilya thinks, the signal will come. This gigantic, pent-up hammer will strike west into Poland, then pulverize all the way to Berlin. Nothing will stop us.
Once this battle starts, I will get it all back. More. There are a million men around me. But I will be noticed.
I will be cleansed.
Through the trees Ilya catches a glimmer of lantern light dimmed by the thick canvas of a tent. It is a strange sallow glow, a mushroom of light on a forest floor covered by sleeping metal beasts. Officers, Ilya thinks. Only they will have a lantern lit this time of the morning. Only officers will be up this late gathered around a bottle and a deck of cards and letters scribbled for home. Ilya knows. The regular foot soldiers aren’t drinking right now; they’re resting, if they can find the comfort under a tarpaulin or in a hole to do so. When the cold sun is overhead the lowly Ivans have too many artillery pieces to camouflage, roads to grade, tons and tons of food, ammo, and fuel to lug forward, privies to empty, garbage to bury. Fortifications must be built and trenches dug in case the enemy in the dark decides to go on the offensive first. The railway tracks through eastern Poland are the wrong gauge, they have to be widened for Russian supply trains. Wreckage from the frequent German artillery barrages must be repaired or hauled away. Field trips are taken to the fetid death camp in Majdanek, liberated by the Red Army last July, where political commissars drive home even harder the point that the Germans are monsters. No, those men inside the warm tent have their feet up. Ilya begins to crawl toward them. Officers. He knows this because four months ago he was one of them.
Ilya is powerful stealing over the frozen ground, in and out among the barely visible tanks. The only breathing he hears is from skinny Misha behind him. He turns to see billows of vapor heaving out of the man’s drooping mouth. To keep his comrade from giving them away to the guards who must be posted near the command tent one hundred meters away, Ilya pauses at the treads of a tank.
He sits up to ease his back against the tank. He leans against a painted wooden crate.
Ilya suppresses a laugh. This is one of the hundreds of false tanks, part of the massive Maskirovka campaign Zhukov has put in place to fool German reconnaissance, artillery, and bombers into wasting their barrages in the wrong places. The weapon at his back is made of sacking, wire, and a pipe for the gun barrel. Very convincing. Ilya wonders how many he and Misha crept past
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