Authors: Ben Pastor
Ashes were no longer filling the air. The scent and aftertaste of burning stubble hovered above him as Bora made his plans. Immediate communication with
Abwehr
in Zossen, some 1,200 kilometres away, could only be established by short-wave radio. Bora was familiar with a powerful TFA station set up by the 161st not far away, in the Beriozovy Yar woods north of Losukovka. Soon he was ready to accompany the general there, while Scherer, who had driven the T-34 under tree cover, would follow with his men and armoured vehicles.
The radio shack was a two-room makeshift cabin along the dirt road that parted the woods like a scar, running along the bottom of a shallow ravine that ran from south-east to north-west. A blindfolded, disgruntled Khan dismounted from Bora’s vehicle and reached the place on foot, escorted by the major. Behind them, in the Russian tank, Scherer crushed everything in his path.
Bora’s destination for army-related intelligence was Field Marshal Manstein’s headquarters at Zaporozhye, and as far as his
Abwehr
headquarters counterparts; normally he’d send coded messages through the usual channels, a relay system based on the network of intelligence listening and transmitting posts in the occupied East, first among them the
Abwehr Nebenstelle,
the branch office in Kiev.
This time he contacted the headquarters in Zossen directly, only to receive confirmation that Colonel Bentivegni was unavailable. When Bora reported it Khan grumbled about the delay, but he had little choice.
“It’s a matter of waiting until they physically track him down, Commander Tibyetsky, then they’ll call back with a secure date for the colonel coming here to meet you.”
“Yes? It had better be within the three days you said, Major.”
Generals are the same worldwide
, Bora thought, having one at home. After sending a message to Manstein’s office in Zaporozhye, there were more delays waiting for a reply from that end, too. Bora sat with Tibyetsky in the dirt-floored room that served as quarters for the communication crew. At one point the Russian asked for bottled water, which the Germans didn’t have. Bora offered his canteen, but – whether he feared being poisoned or drugged, or else didn’t like the offer – Khan demanded that the major himself bring him a sealed drink from inside the tank, along with other amenities of his, including cigars.
Bora left him under armed guard and complied. In the cramped belly of the T-34, momentarily vacated by an enthusiastic Scherer, he was less affected by the dead crewmen’s blood
than by the stacked shells and ammunition boxes. What struck him most, however, were the fresh American-made provisions Russian tankers enjoyed. A memory of Stalingrad’s misery, especially on the German side, pierced him: as if canned goods, calorie-packed D rations and powdered milk were telling him, even more directly than the massive hull they were in, that Germany couldn’t win this war. He scrupulously gathered what the general asked for, recommending his tank corps colleague set the rest aside, away from the soldiers’ understandable greed.
Soon Khan was sipping a Fanta-type fruit drink from the bottle, one such as Germany had started producing after Coca-Cola had become an enemy brand and was no longer on sale. “Where am I to wait for Bentivegni’s arrival?” he asked.
“In a safe location, Commander Tibyetsky.”
“My tank?”
“Likewise. And if you have no objections, your crew will be interred today in the closest civilian burial ground.”
“I have no objections. They had a clean death: they were lucky.”
Bora tended to agree, apart from the minor detail of friendly fire. “As matters stand, and with all respect, regarding your journey to the safe location I’m sure you’ll understand we have to take precautions, including a change of clothing. During some stretches we may have to resort to a blindfold. In all cases I’ll be at your side, regrettably with a loaded gun.”
“A
loaded gun
. Indeed! So why did you let me keep my own sidearm, Major?”
Bora stayed on this side of a smile. “I wouldn’t advise you to try to use it.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Khan said out of the blue, casually and in passable German. He gave Bora his pistol and sat back. “Let’s wait until we hear from your superiors before we decide how to travel.”
The Tokarev gun, safety catch engaged, slipped into Bora’s briefcase. His watch read 2.15 p.m. Any time now the radio
reply from Bentivegni’s office would arrive. The man draining the bottle in front of him, strawberry blond, stocky, was more the Russian general type than Platonov, and yet they said he wasn’t even Russian by birth. In his fifties, Tibyetsky looked the picture of health, without a wrinkle on his face, radiating a sort of glow. His top-quality boots, fine leather jacket over a well-sewn tunic shirt and breeches reinforced at the knee spoke of good discipline and self-care.
Bora was glad he had kept up his own warring looks, despite the season and the fortunes of war, because it wouldn’t do to look less than spruce before a Frunze Academy graduate (and instructor) such as this. Picking up the empty bottle and tossing it into the wastebasket, he said, “I’ve admired you ever since Cavalry School. Your exploits in Finland, and then in Mongolia against Sternberg’s ‘Wild Division’… Your victory against Baron Sternberg’s Whites at Urga in ’21 was exemplary, although your comrades didn’t make the best use of it. Shchetinkin stole your thunder by executing him, I think.”
With a freckled forefinger, Khan dabbed the corners of his mouth. He watched Bora for nearly a minute before observing in an amused voice, “You won’t soft-soap me into talking, you know.”
The words stung. Bora had some difficulty concealing his annoyance. “Flattering a general-rank officer from any army would never cross my mind, Commander. I was making conversation. In my youthful regard for your military skills, silly as I was, I even came up with a little theory about your beginnings, which isn’t worth reporting here.”
“My
beginnings
? I doubt it.”
“Well, you must understand that my stepfather and other members of the family fought against the Revolution in the Russian civil war: for us at home it was a frequent matter of discussion.”
“I want one of my cigars,” was all Khan said.
Bora had them ready in the briefcase; he took one out and
lit it for the general. They were Soyuzie brand, individually wrapped inside a daintily carved wooden box.
Behind the pungent smoke, Khan rounded his lips around the cigar, half-closing his eyes. Unreadable as he was, the squint might either mean he silently had agreed to listen to what Bora had to say, or else that he felt no interest in the argument. Bora would have to take his own counsel regarding the conversation.
What is he here for
, he kept wondering,
what is he, other than a tank commander
?
Why is he letting us know he’s acquainted with our names and tasks? It’s not an intelligence officer’s way of acting, but then again… I hope they do locate Colonel Bentivegni and let him know he’s here.
“So, Major, how did you learn about me?”
“Other than studying your tactics? I watched all the 8 mm reels about you: speeches at the Frunze Academy, tank manoeuvres, your testimonial at Lenin’s funeral —”
“You didn’t watch
all
my reels.”
“Well, I watched all that I could find.”
Khan seemed tickled. “Young officers: how similar the world over you are. Luckily youth makes you as dumb as you are ambitious: you’d be dangerous otherwise.”
If he weren’t who he is, I’d never let myself be talked down to this way
. Bora checked his watch to avoid betraying his irritation. By the way Khan smiled, however, it was possible that he had read Bora’s thoughts.
At 2.35 p.m., confirmation of Manstein’s keen interest in the T-34 arrived from his chief of staff at Zaporozhye. Zossen’s
Abwehr
reply followed right after. Bora left the room for the time needed to hear and decode the messages, and was soon able to announce Bentivegni’s readiness to meet personally with General Tibyetsky on Friday 7 May at the latest. Thankfully Khan seemed inclined to accept the time frame. In reality, to his surprise, Bora had also been tersely directed not to make use of a blindfold or other restrictive devices. Silently he started jotting down notes to himself, but glanced up when the Russian,
mouthing his cigar, said, “Weren’t there instructions for you as well, Major Bora?”
Bora would not answer. Khan smiled, stretching his booted legs. Without his cap, the reddish stubble on his meaty head glittered with beads of perspiration; the wooden building was very warm. “I rather thought so,” he commented when the blindfold did not make its reappearance.
There was much yet to do, and not much time to do it. Calls were placed to half a dozen command posts and offices across the Kharkov region before Bora was actually ready to go. Outside the cabin, meanwhile, Scherer had used branches and netting to disguise the T-34’s type and marking in preparation for transporting it. He was now dying to start out.
“It’s twelve kilometres from here to the Smijeff–Gottwald rail station,” Bora walked out to tell him. “Driving this thing across country it’ll take you, what – half an hour or so? Once there, you’re to load the tank onto the Kharkov-bound freight train and travel with it to the Kharkov–Lasevo station.”
“Isn’t that in the Tractor Factory district?”
“Precisely.”
“I thought it’d been razed in the fighting!”
“Not quite.” Bora handed him a scribbled notebook page. “Get the T-34 inside Building G for the time being. Here are more precise directions. I’ll meet you there as soon as possible, to ensure all is well.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I’ll need a non-commissioned officer’s Tank Corps suit, boots and a head cover that’ll fit Tibyetsky. An identification tag and a credible
Soldbuch
too, better one without a photograph. Can you help? I’ll have enough trouble as it is motoring with him from here to where I’m going.”
Soon Scherer came up with the items, minus the footwear. “If he takes off his jacket, he can wear blouse and trousers over what he’s got now. Sorry about the boots; I can’t help you there.”
“I’m thankful for what there is, Jochen.” Bora draped the reed-green canvas clothing over his arm. “I’ll return the tag and
Soldbuch
when we meet at the Tractor Works. And don’t let the tank out of your sight: the Field Marshal wants to take a look at it himself.”
Scherer smiled under the black skull-badged cap. “They’d have to kill me first, Scotsman.”
Rumbling and screeching over a bed of flattened shrubs and small trees, the T-34 headed out of the Beriozovy woods, towards the clearing where the 11th Division tank busters waited in order to accompany it.
Another hour went by. Feeling under pressure to maintain the appearance of absolute control, Bora straddled the cabin’s doorstep. As for Khan, he unhurriedly let the cigar go out in his mouth as if this weren’t a pivotal moment in his life and he hadn’t fired four shots into his crewmen’s heads.
At last a requisitioned City Soviet president’s car, a sturdy pre-war GAZ-61 sent up from Smijeff under the escort of armoured cars, came bumping along the ruts of the forest road. It was only at that point that Bora handed the Panzer uniform to the Russian. “If you don’t mind, sir.”
Khan took a contemptuous look at the clothes. Showing no sign of accepting Bora’s invitation to wear them, he uncrossed his legs without haste. “Lighter, please,” he said. “I want to finish my smoke before we head out.” A moment later, however, he changed his mind about the cigar, dropped it to the dirt floor and squashed it under the sole of his boot. Before handing over the leather jacket he conceitedly took out of its breast pocket a photo of himself emerging from the tank’s cupola with a chestful of decorations, and began to change.
From the Donets, the quickest way to Kharkov was by the highway that ran through Schubino and Bestyudovka. Bora instructed the GAZ-61 army driver and the escort cars to take that route by themselves, while he’d transport the general in his vehicle up the dirt lanes that linked hamlets and farmsteads in
long direct stretches. Keeping to the ravine road through the woods until he came to the Udy River and Papskaya Ternovka, he planned to continue north-west of Ternovoye, cross the rails north of Bestyudovka, then skirt the woods again. Straddling the sectors of the 161st and 39th Infantry Divisions, by long detours and winging it, he might avoid SD- and SS-controlled checkpoints. If all went well, he’d reach the Kharkov suburbs at Babai, and along unmarked paths his destination in Velikaya Osnova.
From
Abwehr
sources, Bora had a good idea of where Security Service units operated between the Donets and Kharkov. Partisan warfare was heaviest south of here, where the 15th ID had been bled white by guerrilla attacks, so the SS paid keen attention in that area. Still, entering the heavily manned city with a Soviet general in a Panzer outfit – and not losing him to the SS – would be the trickiest part of the journey.
Bora considered how he’d come to depend on the adjective
sonder
attached to his orders on this front: “special, particular”, paradoxically the same prefix that typified the most brutally aggressive SS mobile units. But
sonder
meant you usually got through, or could negotiate your way across sectors; as an interrogator, he needed that flexibility. Yet he never forgot that in old German
sonder
could also mean “lacking, without”.