Stalingrad: Death Along the Volga

By Thomas Broderick

It is the summer of 1942. With the setbacks of the previous winter behind them, a reinvigorated German army is poised along a front stretching 2,100 kilometers, ready to strike the final blow to the Soviet Union. A refitted and up-armored panzer strike force with newer, more powerful 75-mm main guns and new leadership awaits along the Ukraine for the opening phase of Operation Blau (Blue). Although not as numerous as the forces that stormed their way into Russia one year before, these experienced troops are determined as ever to put an end to a conflict that has gone on too long. Even the youngest of privates understands that if the war in the east is to be won, it must be concluded with this campaign. Hitlers overambitious goal was to sweep the Soviet army off the steppes along the giant bend in the River Don straight through to the River Volga, cutting off Stalins main oil supply artery to his northern forces. Just as he did the previous year, Hitler suddenly alters his attack plans as Operation Blau unfolds. He strips much of the needed tank and motorized forces from the Sixth Army and diverts them down into the Caucasus region to seize the critical oil production facilities in places such as Maikop, Grozny, and Baku. With the defeat of Russia almost a certainty, combined with his most recent successes in North Africa, Hitler assured himself the swift collapse of the Allied armies and capitulation of the West was not long in coming. At long last, final victory was within his grasp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504914048

Thomas Broderick

Born in New York in 1963, Thomas Broderick graduated from Patchogue-Medford High School in 1981. Shortly thereafter, he joined the navy as a Seabee. Mr. Broderick finished his enlistment as a US Navy diver attached to UCT-1 based in Little Creek, Virginia. He received his degree in business administration from St. Leo University in 1995. Thomas resides in Clearwater, Florida. He is employed by UnitedHealthcare and will be resuming the pursuit of his master’s degree in land warfare at American Military University.

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© 2015 Thomas Broderick. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/29/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1403-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1404-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015908413

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Author Note

Introduction

July 6, 1942. Allied Convoy PQ 17: Barents Sea

Mid-July 1942. East of River Don

July 1942. Dzerzhinsky Stalingrad Tractor Factory

Alexander Meets Colonel Rudenko

August 1942. General Petrenko & General Bobyshev: Moscow

August 1942. German Fourteenth Panzer Corps Sector

August 1942. Stalingrad Tractor Factory

August 1942. General Petrenko & General Bobyshev: Kremlin

Colonel Kaltenbach’s Regimental Headquarters, Fourteenth Panzer Corps Sector

Forward Soviet Airfield

August 1942. General Petrenko: Moscow

Late August 1942. Stalingrad’s Northern Suburbs

August 23, 1942. Stuka Flight over Stalingrad

August 1942. German Troop Train: The Steppes

The Escape

Late August 1942. The Steppes

Railroad line between Kalatch and Stalingrad

Stalingrad Tractor Plant

Mamayev Kurgan Stalingrad

Stalingrad

Rynok Northern Stalingrad

Early September 1942. General Petrenko: Stalingrad

September 13, 1942

Stalingrad Factory District

Colonel Suzmeyan Meets Partisans

Stalingrad Factory District Thirty-Seventh Guards Sector

Red October Plant

Factory District Stalingrad

November 1942: Stalingrad Ferry Landing

German Jump-Off Position Dolgy Ravine

November 3, 1942

German Bunker: Stalingrad

November 1942

December 18, 1942. Southern Bank of the Mishkova River

December 1942. Stalingrad Factory District

December 1942. Stalingrad Factory District

December 1942. Stalingrad Tractor Factory

December 19, 1942. Fifty-Seventh Panzer Corps Sector: Mishkova River

Second Guards Army Sector: Ten Kilometers Northeast of the Mishkova River

December 20, 1942. Fifty-Seventh Panzer Corps Headquarters

January 15, 1943. Pitomnik Airfield

January 15, 1943. Pitomnik Airfield

Soviet Guards Tank Corps Sector

January 16, 1943. Pitomnik Bunker Anti-Tank Gun

SS Panzer Regiment 2

Kaminski’s Men

January 16, 1943. The Fall of Pitomnik Airfield

Escape

January 22, 1943. Gumrak Airfield: Stalingrad Pocket

Wadowice, Poland

February 2, 1943

February 2, 1943

Late January, 1943

Key Characters

Glossary

Selected Bibliography

Selected Websites

Author Note

Stalingrad: Death along the Volga is my second work and a sequel to Typhoon over Moscow. Due to the nature of war on the Eastern Front, with its opposing cultures, ethnic backgrounds, and multiple nationalities, I did my best to boil it down for the reader. For example, in Russia every person has three names: a first name, patronymic, and surname. Each name is used in different ways and at different times. I tried to keep it as simple as possible so as not to confuse the reader.

Also, in this work I introduce a new set of characters of Eastern European Jewish decent. In the partisan camps, since there may be fighters from several different countries, language could be an issue. Knowledge of Hebrew was somewhat limited. Yiddish seemed to be more widely known, so there is some Yiddish involved.

Lastly, a word on my chapters, or as I like to call them, shorts: Since our journey bounces us back and forth rapidly from, say, the Russian army to the partisans and then over to the German side, I decided to use markers, sometimes along with a name, location, or date. With that, I sincerely hope you enjoy the work as much as I enjoyed writing and researching it. L’Chayim!

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Introduction

It is the summer of 1942; with the setbacks of the previous winter behind them, a reinvigorated German army is poised along a front stretching 2,100 kilometers, ready to strike the final blow to the Soviet Union. A refitted and up-armored panzer strike force with newer, more powerful 75-mm main guns and new leadership awaits along the Ukraine for the opening phase of Operation Blau (Blue).

Although not as numerous as the forces that stormed their way into Russia one year before, these experienced troops are determined as ever to put an end to a conflict that has gone on too long. Even the youngest of privates understands that if the war in the east is to be won, it must be concluded with this campaign.

Hitler’s overambitious goal was to sweep the Soviet army off the steppes along the giant bend in the river Don straight through to the river Volga, cutting off Stalin’s main oil supply artery to his northern forces.

Just as he had the previous year, Hitler suddenly alters his attack plans as Operation Blau unfolds. He strips much of the needed tank and motorized forces from the Sixth Army and diverts them down into the Caucasus region to seize the critical oil production facilities in places such as Maikop, Grozny, and Baku.

With the defeat of Russia almost a certainty, combined with his most recent successes in North Africa, Hitler assured himself that the swift collapse of the Allied armies and the capitulation of the West could not be long in coming. At long last, final victory was within his grasp.

Meanwhile in Moscow, in order to appease an impatient Stalin frustrated by the failure to push the Germans completely off of Russian soil, the Supreme Soviet headquarters is hard at work scraping together hastily formed reserve formations to launch its own summer offensive.

Although the Russian army had survived the previous summer’s initial onslaught, it is still far from being a highly trained, fully equipped modern force capable of matching the Germans. Giving ground as they did back in 1941, the Red Army has begun to master the art of a fighting withdrawal. The Germans were advancing but at a price and with far fewer prisoners netted than in ’41.

The complete relocation of the mighty Soviet war production machine far to the east, well out of reach of the German air force, had been completed. This herculean effort, along with a steady flow of shipments via convoys through the treacherous North Atlantic carrying everything from complete machines to raw materials, invigorates the Soviets. Their efforts are now ramping up as more and more matériel flows into the fight.

Stalin is still infuriated by the constant retreats and the lack of a serious second front from his western allies, as addressed in many of his communiqués to America and England. At his rope’s end, he issues his now-famous Not one step back! order. In Moscow the papers are full of patriotic slogans, stories, and vitriolic rebukes for the German invader.

As the German summer offensive unfolds, Hitler inexplicably becomes completely obsessed with the capture of the city that bears his foe’s name—Stalingrad, on the Volga River. He urges his field commanders to seize the city at all costs. As summer turns to fall, the German Sixth Army is hopelessly mired in costly street battles. The commander of the Sixth Army, General Paulus, makes the fatal mistake of stripping his flanks of his best troops and feeding them into the cauldron, leaving only weak, ill-equipped satellite armies manning the outer belts. Bereft of heavy guns and transport, these reluctant allies are left to fend for themselves out on the open unforgiving frozen steppes.

Once again the Red Army seizes on the opportunity and, in an audacious move, encircles the exposed Sixth Army and part of the Fourth Panzer Army, threatening to cut off the troops retreating from the Caucasus. Blunder compounded upon blunder inexorably seals the Sixth Army’s fate. The tide of the Great Patriotic War has just turned. The price was an estimated 1.5 million casualties and turned out to be Hitler’s high watermark in the East.

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July 6, 1942.

Allied Convoy PQ 17: Barents Sea

Seaman Gabriel Horowitz gave a pensive look downward, mesmerized by the churning waters astern the Liberty Ship SS John Witherspoon as it plodded along, its overtaxed engines barely making nine knots. They might as well be standing still, he mused.

He felt the ship shift slightly to port as the rudder began to correct their course. He gave a sidelong glance over at the figure standing next to him. The lanky third mate named Hawkins, who hailed from Galveston, Texas, stood meditatively looking out over the vast horizon of the Barents Sea.

The man appropriately nicknamed Tex was not much of a talker. He squinted toward a vessel off to the west and let loose with a stream of chewing tobacco spit.

"That’s the Pan Atlantic, I think," muttered Gabriel, trying to break the nervous tension every merchant marine sailor felt out in the middle of nowhere.

The Texan looked down appraisingly at the spindly seventeen-year-old. Gabe, as everybody called him, averted his eyes momentarily. After all, Tex was several years older than him, a man in his midtwenties.

It had been nearly nine days since the thirty-five-ship convoy departed its anchorage at the port of Hvalfjordur, Iceland. Their destination was at the northernmost tip of the Soviet Union: the ports of Murmansk and Arkhangelsk. Each ship was crammed to the hilt with vital supplies needed by the Russians to continue to battle the German army.

The normally stoic Hawkins seemed uneasy. Although it was midsummer, the convoy had already lost two vessels due to ice and mishaps—an inauspicious start. The superstitious Texan saw that as a harbinger of things to come.

Gabe looked up at Tex. This wasn’t Hawkins’ first voyage. He had made several cross-Atlantic trips prior to America’s entering the war in 1941 and had even survived a previous sortie to Murmansk last year.

However, this time something just wasn’t sitting right with Tex. There seemed to be an air of panic amongst the leaders and admiralty. The Germans had stepped up their attacks, giving special attention to the Northern Russian–bound convoy designations PQ, or as the sailors referred to them, the Murmansk Run: 2,500 miles of anxiousness and fear discreetly hidden behind a keen sense of duty. The lazy drone of aircraft engines in the distance, just above the horizon, caught the two men’s attention. It was a German Condor long-range patrol craft. The Germans had been shadowing them for days now.

Is it me or are we really out of formation? Horowitz broke the silence again. We aren’t nearly as tight as we were a few days ago.

Hawkins did not answer at first, ignoring the boy’s obvious attempts to strike up a conversation. He disliked northerners, especially those from New York.

What the meek, bespectacled young man did not know was that Tex had just come from the radio room in an effort to clear his head. The news coming across the wire was so overwhelming that even the seasoned sailor needed some fresh air. Conversation of any kind was the furthest thing from his mind, especially with a Yankee.

Convoy PQ 17 had already lost twelve ships to U-boats and air attacks yesterday. If that news wasn’t bad enough, the British Admiralty had just received word that the Bismarck’s sister ship, the Battleship Tirpitz, was now missing from its home port along with two heavy cruisers. The British, suspecting the worst, did the unthinkable. British Admiral Pound, knowing the smaller military escorts of the convoy were no match for the Tirpitz’s eight fifteen-inch main guns, ordered the small contingent of protecting allied warships to head west—away from the impending threat—and issued a command for the remaining cargo vessels of the convoy to scatter. They were on their own—sitting ducks.

Hawkins gestured for Gabriel to follow him as they walked in the direction of the wheelhouse located amidships.

Those fires and explosions I heard last night— Gabriel’s voice was unsteady. Those were all ships from our convoy going down, weren’t they?

Tex turned to the young seaman, uncertain of how to calm his nerves. He did not wish to worry him. However, he needed every crew member on their toes. He decided to change the subject. Do all city folk talk as fast as you?

I’m not from the city, Gabriel replied somewhat defensively. I’m from Long Island. My family owns a potato farm out in Suffolk County.

Then, giving Hawkins a dose of his own medicine, he asked, Are all southerners aloof and suspicious of everyone they meet that does not hail from south of the Mason–Dixon line?

Tex nodded and grinned. He pushed back his sweat-stained ball cap. Pretty much. He lingered, looking up toward the portside five-ton boom standing just above cargo hold four. It was not secured properly and swung to and fro, clanging noisily. He removed a small green pocket notebook from his jacket. He would need to get with one of the boatswain mates to correct the deficiency. I never met a Jewish potato farmer before.

And I’ve never run across a sailor from Texas before, retorted Gabe. When I think of Texas I only imagine cowboys, Indians, cattle, and tumbleweeds, not sailors. I guess that makes us even.

Haven’t you ever heard of the great port of Galveston?

The boy shook his head.

The stereotypical references exchanged caused Tex to chuckle. Son, beneath our feet and fastened to these here decks sits equipment ranging from modern fighter aircraft to fresh skivvies and everything else in between.

Gabriel chuckled at the underwear comment. Then he quickly regained his composure.

I won’t lie to you boy, our … he paused, searching for the perfect word, "situation is a serious one. Then he held up a hand, leaned over the side rail, and spat. But our mission is of a serious nature as well."

Gabe tilted his head. What? The Russians are out of clean underwear? A cold stare ended any further thoughts of future comedic references.

Look, son, I’m no fan of the Reds either. I think they got what they deserved. What were they thinking, making a pact with Hitler anyway?

At the mention of Hitler, Gabriel stiffened, and his features took on a more serious tone. The mere sound of that man’s name brought him to a near fit. You know what the Germans are doing to my people, don’t you?

Who, potato farmers from Long Island? Now it was Tex’s turn to poke fun and lighten the mood. He immediately held up an apologetic hand. "Let’s not forget who you’re talkin’ to. This ain’t my first rodeo, son. I’ve been overseas a time or two. And despite what you Yankees think, we southern boys can read the Times Picayune just as good as anyone up north."

Gabriel could only shake his head and grin in response to the Times Picayune comment and Hawkins’s attempt at humor; he was slathering on the southern accent a bit too heavily. "It’s well. You can read the paper as well as anyone up north."

Tex gave Gabe a friendly smack in the back of the head for the comment. In all seriousness, son. He pointed to all the boxes and machinery lashed to the decking.

Every piece of equipment we are carrying is critical to the war effort. For every German the Russians kill, that’s one less of them shootin’ at one of our boys when the time comes. The Germans have a vast majority of their troops on the Eastern Front. If the Russians toss in the towel— Hawkins shook his head.

Do you really think we will be able to invade Europe anytime soon? We can’t even get thirty-five ships across the Barents Sea. How are we ever going to be able to assemble enough ships, men, and matériel to hit France and dislodge the Germans?

Hawkins didn’t reply. He was squinting again, his head cocked off the ship’s port side. Gabriel followed Hawkins’s imaginary line of sight.

What’s the matter?

Hawkins shook his head. Nothing. I thought I saw a reflection, that’s all. It’s nothing. Just a case of the— stopping in midsentence, Tex grabbed hold of Gabriel, his eyes wide. Sound the alarm!

Confused, the wide-eyed youth looked down into the inky black waters. Two silver-tipped white streaks darted straight at them. Torpedoes! They could not have been more than a hundred yards off. There wasn’t any time.

The two men stumbled, making a beeline toward the lifeboats. Directly under their feet, deep within the confines of cargo hold four, were nearly ten thousand rounds of 20-mm ammunition and over a thousand artillery shells of various calibers.

There was a whooshing sound followed by a brilliant flash and tremendous explosion. Just before blacking out, Gabriel could distinctly make out the sounds of tearing metal as the bulkheads gave way and the ship tore itself apart.

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Mid-July 1942.

East of River Don

Comrade Deputy Commander, we are trapped like rats! The panic in the young man’s voice was evident as it crackled through Colonel Timofeev’s earpiece from the wireless set in the command bunker.

Calm down, son. Who is this speaking?

Company Commander, Lieutenant Arkadiy Chobanian.

Where is your battalion commander?

Dead. His tank was hit multiple times. His turret was blown clean off. His body was tossed in the air like a child’s toy. The boy’s voice wavered.

"Okay, lieutenant, calm down and get a hold of your situation. Timofeev fumed. He keyed the handset. Where is the commander of Second Company … he paused and looked down at the slip of paper … Lieutenant Alexander Semenov?"

There was an extended pause. Most likely, the young tank commander was popping his hatch open to have a look around. The radio sprung to life.

His tank is burning approximately two hundred meters from my position. No movement spotted.

Timofeev’s heart sank. The young lieutenant was one of their finest commanders. If it weren’t for all the bureaucratic hold-ups, the boy might have already been promoted to captain by now.

We are bogged down in a marsh. They have us pinned down with those damn 88s, and they are hitting us with air attacks. We should have stayed on our designated march route. This is all my fault!

"Never mind that now. You must calm down or your next command will be that in a penal battalion. How many tanks do you have operational that are not bogged down?"

Uh. He paused, mumbling something unintelligible. Three tanks. Yes, we have three tanks along the swale. They are not hit, but they are not moving either. The remaining four are bogged down but firing.

The entire command bunker could hear explosions in the background each time Chobanian keyed his microphone. Correction—three tanks now returning fire.

The young commander watched in horror as a German 88-mm armor-piercing round caught one of his platoon’s tanks in the rear section. At that close proximity it easily penetrated the thin armor plating, shearing off a large chunk of white-hot steel.

The shell was finally stopped after contacting the heavy engine block but not before ripping through the fuel injection tubing. The fuel continued pumping out onto the hot engine components. Although it was diesel fuel, the engine and fire were still hot enough to ignite the contents.

The resultant explosion sent the rear engine access panel and engine louvers pin wheeling skyward and blew open the tank commander’s main hatch on the top of the turret. A bright orange flame spat from the access hatch with a whoosh as the dying tank was sheathed in an envelope of angry black smoke that bubbled toward the afternoon sky. Lieutenant Chobanian had just lost another four comrades, one of whom was his cousin. What was he going to tell the boy’s mother, his aunt?

Damn it, cursed Timofeev. Only six tanks remained out of the original battalion of twenty, and all the senior commanders had been killed. This was not a good way to start off an offensive. He ran his finger across his situation map and stopped over a wooded area marked with a blue grease pencil. He had made a trip up into that area earlier in the week to reconnoiter the routes his tanks would be taking. Listen to me, Chobanian. Get over to those three tanks and mount up with your desant troops. Can you see the stand of birches off to your left?

The boy replied in the affirmative.

Make a dash straight away for the woods. There is an old cart path not marked on the maps. Use top speed to outflank the Fritz guns. The 88s are unwieldy. If you move fast enough, you will come out on their flank. Have your other tanks remain firing to provide cover. Understood?

But our scouts said the woods were impassable.

Never mind the scouts. They are not tankers! Should you have to create a path with your treads, then do so! If a tree is in your way, knock it the hell over. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, Comrade Deputy Commander! Chobanian’s voice sounded more confident.

Timofeev was stuck where he was. He could only hope the young man could restore order.

There, that should do it. Senior Sergeant Il’ya Akoian secured the splint onto the loader’s broken arm. The boy bit his lip but, despite the excruciating pain of the break, did not cry out. Senior Lieutenant Alexander Semenov crept over toward his two surviving crewmen, being careful to keep his head below the large, circular opening where the turret had once sat.

It had been a close call, a very close call. Once in the marsh, the tank’s hull had wedged itself up onto a submerged tree stump. The tracks spun but were no longer making contact with the morass. Two shells struck them nearly simultaneously. The first shot penetrated the front right quarter, killing his hull machine gunner and radio operator instantly and knocking the wireless set out. The shock and concussion from the first hit sent Alexander and his loader tumbling out of the turret, landing them into the crew’s fighting compartment below. He felt bad, as the tank was not even his; it had been borrowed, along with its crew, except for his trusty driver and mechanic, Senior Sergeant Il’ya Akoian.

At the very same moment, Alexander cursed the fact that the T-34 did not come equipped with a turret basket to keep the crew from taking such a tumble.

A second shot from one of the German 88s scored a direct hit on the turret. The shot ignited the ammunition stores in its ready racks, sending the turret cartwheeling like a fireworks display. In this case the design characteristics had saved their lives.

How any of them survived was a miracle. If there was a saving grace, it was that the badly smoking tank was so battered the enemy would not expend any more energy on a dead tank. However, they still had plenty of flammable materials, such as fuel and ammunition, stored in the hull and under the rubber matted floor of the crew compartment. If they were targeted for one more shot, it would be their last. They had to get out of the tank. Even if the enemy did not get them, the spreading fire would.

How is your arm? Alexander edged up next to the loader, a young boy from the Far East. He had only been with this crew for a short period of time.

Fair. He nodded weakly.

Alexander looked up at the two men’s anxious expressions. Acting quickly, he brushed past Akoian and scrambled toward the back. He returned with a coiled length of rope. He looped it around his waist and secured the other end to one of the tank’s giant steering levers.

Sasha, for God’s sake, what are you doing? cried Il’ya. Due to the circumstances, military bearing was forgotten.

I’m going out the escape hatch. Since we are in a swamp, I will swim out to the back of the tank. When I give three sharp tugs, you boys follow suit. We can then use the tank for cover and make a dash for it. I noticed a stand of birches not far from here.

That’s crazy. We have no time for heroics! Akoian was beside himself. What if the rear part of the hull has settled into the mud, or if you get disoriented? You aren’t going to be able to see a thing. It’s pitch-black down there.

Have you got any better ideas? If we poke our heads up for even a moment, the Fritzes are going to give us a haircut.

All right then, but you must promise me this. If you become lost or run out of air, give me two sharp tugs on the line. I will haul you back, and you can try again. Agreed?

Alexander smiled and patted Akoian’s shoulder. That’s what the rope is for, old friend.

Il’ya helped Alexander squeeze himself through the emergency hatch located on the floor of the tank in the forward section of the crew’s fighting compartment. As if to add urgency to the situation, a bullet ricocheted off the exposed turret ring. He quickly adjusted the precious driving goggles his German uncles had given him as a child, cinching them tightly to his head like swimming goggles.

Alexander winked, flashed a thumbs-up, and was gone in an instant. Black, filthy swamp water bubbled up and spilled onto the rubber matting on the floor. Il’ya nodded for the loader to accompany him on the line. If he runs into trouble, I will need the use of your good arm to pull him out.

What if his line becomes fouled around the running gear or perhaps another tree stump? We will not be able to feel his tugs. The lad’s Russian was extremely poor.

Then let’s hope that doesn’t happen.

Alexander had second thoughts about his plan the moment he submerged into the inky-black, ice-cold swamp. The suction on the bottom threatened to entomb him, and he feared he would never dig his way through. The old-fashioned and well-worn goggles were useless; the water leaked straight through them. He pointed himself toward the rear of the tank and kicked off the lip of the escape hatch.

He did his best swimmer’s stroke. Never had a couple of meters seemed so far off. He jarred his head on something and cursed. Reaching up, he felt the bottom of the tank. He thanked his lucky stars for the thick, padded tanker’s helmet. The ground shook violently, and Alexander could hear the muffled explosion nearby. His heart was racing as he urged his way forward, mindful not to leave too much slack in the line. If he became fouled on a stump or road wheel, he was as good as dead.

Inside the damaged tank, both men eyed the line anxiously, watching for any sign of movement like a pair of mother hens.

How long has he been down? asked the loader.

Akoian checked his watch. Twenty seconds.

Feels like twenty minutes.

Akoian watched as the rope jerked with each of Alexander’s kicks.

There! shouted Akoian. That was a sharp tug!

And another! cried the loader.

The two held their collective breaths.

A third! A third! shouted Akoian gleefully. He reached over and hugged the injured man, who winced. He made it!

Akoian slipped into the driver’s seat and put the tank in neutral so the recovery tractors would have an easier time extracting the stricken vehicle. No sense in wasting a good chassis, he thought.

He turned toward the wounded boy. Once we are in the water, take your good arm and grasp my belt tightly. I will pull us both out at once. Understand? He wasn’t about to leave his comrade behind, and could not risk the boy going it alone. If he lost his grip on the line, he would certainly drown.

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July 1942.

Dzerzhinsky Stalingrad Tractor Factory

Peter Semenov stood at the entrance to the cavernous Stalingrad Tractor Plant, now converted into a manufacturer for his beloved T-34 tank, the same tank his only son, Alexander, was now riding in up at the front. He stared down the length of the floor, eyeing the rows of new machines in various phases of completion. A fully assembled turret dangled overhead, suspended by a twenty-ton crane. As it inched its way toward the chassis assembly area, Peter glanced over at the crane attendant’s platform. The operator, a man of approximately seventy years of age, had his eyes glued on his task. With the war in full swing, it seemed the only ones left were the very young and … he thought for a moment on a good way to put it … the very experienced.

Up until recently they could at least count on the support from the many young tankists sent to work on the factory line as part of their training. Assembling the vehicles they were to ride into combat served the dual purpose of familiarization and supporting the war effort—not to mention quality. No one would dare shirk during the production of the very tank he or she might end up going face to face with the enemy in. Regrettably, an unfortunate turn of events during the latest German offensive had pulled even these youngsters out of production and into the war.

The plant had now become Peter’s home away from home. It was well suited for tanks and had easily been converted from its former heavy-tractor production. The place had more than adequate space. Large open bays, high ceilings, and windows ran nearly the entire length, providing good lighting. It was certainly a better setup than they had when they had first journeyed east to Chelyabinsk that previous fall. Many of the hastily erected wooden structures were poorly lit, had no ventilation, and in many cases lacked even a sturdy foundation. He wondered how any of them survived without coming down with typhus. How they managed to produce enough equipment, weapons, and ammunition to keep the Red Army afloat during those dark days was still a mystery to him.

Peter now felt quite at home as he walked through the various work areas, hearing the normal whirring and pounding of the various machines, lathes, and presses as they methodically cranked out war matériel. The melody of a modern society, he mused. The sounds were interrupted only now and then by harsh, metallic grating as a man with a grinder smoothed out a surface. That always reminded him of the dentist, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

He spotted Smil Grudzien and shot him a friendly wave as the two worked their way over toward the engineering section from opposite ends. Peter ducked beneath one of many red-and-gold–fringed patriotic banners being hoisted by some members of the local Komsomol. With so many posters, placards, and banners already up, it would be interesting to see where exactly would they find suitable space to display their latest endeavor.

Smil was one hell of a plant administrator, Peter thought. His superhuman efforts had earned him the nickname of The Resources Commissar. The man could allocate and barter anything from oxygen bottles for his cutting torches to special cigarette rations he awarded those putting in extra effort. He had fathered so many time-saving ideas that the workers had started referring to his suggestions as Smil’s Law of Hidden Capacity.

Although Peter discouraged Smil from handing out cigarettes to minors, to judge by the number of children hacking and wheezing from the effects of carbon monoxide, pneumonia, and other ailments, it was little use attempting to police him. As if to add emphasis to his point, Peter glimpsed a young boy no older than ten handing cigarettes to a fellow child as payment for a welding lead. He shook his head. The barter system was alive and well in Stalingrad.

Getting back to his original thought, if there was so much as a light bulb sitting idle on a dusty back shelf somewhere east of the Urals, Smil would not only be able to locate it but also get it shipped so that it miraculously arrived on time. His warm, grandfatherly appearance made him approachable, although he could be as disagreeable as the next person.

Peter left most of the day-to-day personnel and logistical decisions in Smil’s capable hands, allowing young Lana and him to focus on the never-ending stream of operations, design modifications, and technical decisions from Moscow. Lana had almost completed her engineering studies and was quick to pick up on the mechanical aspects of running the tank plant. There was the benefit that as a young woman she did not draw unwanted attention from those who might otherwise attempt to hide defects or sloppy craftsmanship.

Today they were inspecting a T-34 brought in from one of the mobile repair shops. The vehicle had been too damaged to repair in the field. That was not unusual by any stretch of the imagination. What was not typical was that the tank had been originally constructed at factory number 100, the Uralmash plant up at Nizhni Tagil, a facility so big it was now known as Tankograd. The giant new plant was a combination of the old Ural Rail-Car Factory and that of the relocated Kharkov Locomotive Works as well as several smaller trusts.

Rumor had it that they devised a new turret rolled from one piece of steel, as opposed to the welded turrets normally used elsewhere. The new rolled turrets were just as good if not better than the other methods and were cheaper and easier to manufacture. They were all anxious to inspect it.

He and Smil sidestepped a team retracking a tank. The machine looked odd with its metal interconnecting links laid out, as if it had inadvertently stepped out of its shoes.

The two exited a side door that opened into a courtyard. Their small administrative and engineering offices were located on the opposite end. Peter nodded, and Smil did likewise. The two old friends had known each other for so long that in many instances words were no longer necessary to convey their ideas or feelings. Together they walked across the compound, passing by several parked tanks.

A military acceptance officer wearing the collar insignia of a junior lieutenant, which bore a single red enameled cube, stood atop a fender of a new tank and argued with a stubborn technician over one imperfection or another. Smil had a mug of hot tea in his hand. Peter looked up at the bright July morning sun. It was going to be another scorcher.

A little warm for hot tea, don’t you think?

I could use the pick-me-up. The usually laconic Smil kept true to form, absently stroking his grandfatherly white beard.

There was a teenage girl waiting for them at the door. She wore a simple pair of blue overalls, and her long, wavy hair was tucked under a matching blue kerchief. She held a newspaper in her hand, and a disconcerted look creased her normally cheerful features.

Good morning, Svetlana Gennadevna. And how does today find our budding engineer? Peter’s high spirits were quickly dashed when she held out that day’s paper.

Bad news, I’m afraid. She nodded hello to Smil, who bypassed the two. He walked into the stuffy room, placing his beverage at the edge of the drafting table.

Svetlana cleared her throat loudly, and Smil removed the cup. She still had not forgotten the incident when he had spilled tea all over their only set of blueprints nearly a year ago at Chelyabinsk.

Sorry. He shrugged, making a beeline right for the latest batch of production figures. He picked up the sheaf of papers and quickly thumbed through them. He furrowed his brow and frowned.

Smil, what causes your frown so early in the day? Peter chirped.

We are behind and will not make our quota for July.

Peter looked over at his longtime friend and could see the worried look on his face. Smil’s plump, stooped, almost rotund Father Christmas figure gave the impression the man might tip over and roll away if so much as a gentle breeze wafted through. Peter walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. Smil, old friend. How long have we known each other? Going on twenty years now? Have I ever let you down before?

It’s been nearly twenty-five years, you jackass. As for the second question— He turned toward Svetlana, who stood watching the two with her arms folded, tapping her feet. I will refrain from answering, since we have a lady present.

Nevertheless, mark my words. Something always comes up at the last moment and saves the day. I am confident we shall not have any problems with our goals this month. I am so certain, you can jot it down in that little notebook you are so fond of carrying around. Peter turned toward Svetlana. Lana shall be our witness. Won’t you, dear?

Honestly, Svetlana huffed, "you two carry on like a pair of babushkas. How either of you manages to get anything done is still a mystery to me. And I, for one, haven’t been able to get the day shift crew’s production any higher. I have tried and tried. I tried reasoning. I tried Patriotic slogans—even threats. And what have I received for all of my efforts? Bubkes! She sighed, shaking her head. I cannot seem to motivate those layabouts."

Svetlana turned toward Smil, a look of despair on her face. I have even tried using some of your trade secrets.

She meant the now-famous Smil’s Laws of Hidden Capacity, as they were called.

Comrade Smil! Svetlana’s lamentations were interrupted as a boy about chest high came scurrying into the room. Good morning!

The squeaky voice of eleven-year-old welder Moisej echoed through the tiny room as he rushed through the door. How are you today?

I am no different from the last time you asked me— he looked at his watch. —exactly one half hour ago. You are stalling again.

Since relocating to Stalingrad, Moisej and his younger sister Masha, now orphaned, stayed with Smil in his tiny flat while he attempted to gain legal guardianship of the two. Since Smil never had any children of his own, he was secretly quite thrilled whenever he was around the two. Everyone, including Moisej, knew it.

Moisej struck a match and puffed a cigarette to life, causing Peter to frown. He reached out and snatched it away from the boy.

What did we tell you about smoking? Smil scowled at the lad.

One of the fitters, Markian Paskavich, traded me for an old wire brush. He said it would be okay. He’s much older, you know.

He’s only thirteen, growled Peter, flashing a look of disapproval at Smil.

You see what you’ve started, don’t you? Peter glared at Smil, who shrugged absently.

Smil bent down to look the boy in the eye. I will tell you once again. No smoking, and don’t you dare bring those nasty things within a hundred meters of your little sister. Do I make myself clear? Not that it mattered, thought Smil. These children were working fourteen- to sixteen-hour shifts in cooped-up factories exposed to every toxic chemical known to man. Top that off with the little food they were given, and it is no wonder they resorted to a smoke and cup of coffee at such a tender age. At this rate he would be amazed if half of them even reached the ripe old age of thirty.

The boy nodded solemnly. An idea struck, and his face brightened. Well, can I trade them for something else? I still have six more. He shook his head. Markian really overpaid for that old brush.

Smil stuck out his hands, and a dejected Moisej surrendered the last of his cigarettes.

After all, you don’t wish to be branded a profiteer now do you? Svetlana tried to keep a straight face.

Now, about those fittings and handrails I asked you to fabricate. I assume they are in the same state they were when I left you?

Moisej adverted eye contact and began to whistle softly.

As I thought. Well, they aren’t going to weld themselves onto the tank. He motioned for the boy to get going.

Moisej turned. Then he spun back and gave Smil a big hug before heading back out toward the factory.

Peter and Svetlana turned their attention to the set of technical drawings and field reports spread out on the drafting table. There was still a great deal of infighting about the new T-34 tank’s feasibility. Even inside the Kremlin the tank had its detractors. There was petty bickering between the various different design teams within the Central Artillery Directorate who wished to see a new design. Peter and many of those who had experienced the tank’s performance thought otherwise. Fortunately, Premier Stalin was a fan of the T-34 tank, so that was that. And retooling yet again at this point in the war was not an option.

However, the tank did need some work, and improvements would be completed. The turret design and layout were atrocious. They limited the turret crew to a maximum of two, the commander and the loader. This meant the tank commander had to serve double duty as both commander and gunner. The reports he was reading stated that the reliability of the current transmission was so poor, many of the crews were rumbling about with spare transmissions lashed to their rear decking.

The T-34’s main design team, like many others, had been relocated to factory 183, the Ural rail-car plant, and Nizhni Tagil. They were hard at work on the new three man turret designs, better air filtration systems, and upgrades to the main armament.

So what do you think? Svetlana asked.

Well, the new cast turret seems sturdy enough. They are just as good as the welded variety.

And more importantly, it’s cheaper and easier to make. Smil sipped the last of his tea, being careful not to get too close to the drawings. And right now that means everything.

I’m not speaking of the turret. She pushed the day’s copy of the Red Star Daily in front of Peter. It’s not looking too good up at the front again. Losing Voroshilovgrad and the Donbas region is not going to do a thing for morale. And what about the loss of that American shipping convoy? Do you how much we needed those materials? The Germans seem to be able to sink the ships as fast as the English and Americans can gather them. There will be no second front, and now the Tommies can’t even ship us the materials we need.

Smil lifted his head up and sighed. I heard someone in the latrine that has a family member up near Murmansk. They supposedly lost nearly twenty-five ships out of the thirty or so that departed Iceland. He shook his head.

Peter worked out some rough calculations and compared them to some manifests he had obtained from one of Svetlana’s contacts at the Party. He whistled softly. That’s about 150,000 tons of shipping in that convoy alone. The convoy before that was socked pretty good too.

I wonder how long the West will continue if these losses pile up? asked Svetlana, showing concern in her voice. There were over four hundred tanks, three thousand precious motor vehicles, and two hundred aircraft. Now? Hardly a ruble’s worth.

Peter cocked his head, wondering where Svetlana came up with her estimates. But then again, she was becoming an expert at nearly everything she tried. Most likely one of the Komsomol members had slipped her the numbers.

Let’s not forget the bigger picture here. Smil took a seat next to the two. He removed his spectacles and began to wipe them with a handkerchief. It’s not just the finished products that were lost. After all, we can assemble the damn stuff.

What then? asked Lana.

Those machines are built with steel. Although we are ramping up out east, we still require tons of steel—rolled, flat, bars, you name it. Not to mention the rolling mill, smelting, and die casting machines and parts.

We could use more grinders, welding rods, cutting tools, and pliers. It was Moisej, who had drifted back into the building.

One cold stare from Smil sent the boy scrambling back out again.

Peter looked around. We also need quality materials. We can get away with some of the lower-grade pig iron, lead, and copper stuff here, but for our aircraft we need top-notch aluminum plates, precision boring equipment, ball bearings, and good rubber for their tires.

We need the rubber for our own road wheels, especially our tanks. The all-steel wheels are shaking the boys’ fillings out. We have compensated with placing two rubber-coated road wheels on each side with the limited stocks, and that has helped. Svetlana seemed to have an absent, far way look in her eyes. She was watching a young girl struggle to drag a heavy chain across the floor, coughing as she went about her business without complaint.

The children, she muttered. They are getting sicker. They are our future. They need so much more than we can give them. We need vaccines of every kind, iodine, tea, and paper for everything from writing to wiping.

Let’s just hope our boys can hold on to Sevastopol and not fold up like the British did in Tobruk and Singapore without firing a shot. If the Germans take Alexandria, Egypt, from Churchill …

"Yes, that would not bode well for our situation. Hitler would then have a free hand in Africa and shift between five and ten crack divisions from the Afrika Corps and Italian armies. And I am uncertain the people believe these overinflated German casualty reports released by the Sovinformbureau. Smil tapped a sheet of paper with his finger. Do you really think we have inflicted nearly one million casualties in two months’ time? Have we knocked down over three thousand enemy planes and shot up nearly as many of their tanks? He shook his head cynically. All this while suffering only a third of their casualties. Nobody believes this applesauce we are being spoon fed."

Peter nodded slowly. And with all this, we continue to fall back toward the bend in the river Don, toward Stalingrad. We may end up having to ship everything toward the east like we did last year. I’m not sure if I can survive that ordeal one more time. If push comes to shove, I would prefer to stay put and take up a rifle.

Don’t be silly. Our boys have stopped them cold up in the Voronezh region. Surely that’s something to hang our hats on. I also think the English will hold in Africa. I can’t imagine them giving in so easily, while all the while we Russians are fighting and dying by the thousands each day. Svetlana sounded momentarily upbeat. I agree with Smil. Those numbers seem a bit lofty, but we shouldn’t discount the soldiers’ efforts in the field. The reports prevent the people from giving up hope.

So it is okay to lie to the good people of the Soviet Union so long as they feel good about themselves? Smil shook his head.

It’s not lying. Just look at it. She pointed to one of the stories. Large enemy forces, a grave and serious danger still exists, and down towards the bottom— She guided Smil’s eyes. The reporter writes, ‘A life and death struggle is being waged.’ She looked up. "I do not see how any of that can be construed as lying. All of those statements are true, yet they must be offset by something good. Here, look at last week’s copies of Komsomolskaya Pravda. ‘Stand firm, your cause is good!’ People must have hope. Svetlana shrugged. Besides, how do you know the published numbers are inaccurate? Maybe they include the Italians and such. The Italians are not very good fighters, you know."