My Dinner With Andrei
The beaten Red Army soldiers limp off, carrying their most badly injured, presumably towards the hospital. There seem to be no hard feelings on their part. In fact, the Kommando shore party seems to have earned at least a little of their respect. Apparently, for whatever reasons, the Russians were just in the mood for a good ol' fashioned mid-morning street fight. Now that it's been beaten out of their systems, they're good. Stranger things have happened.
Tucker took the worst of it, but he'll be OK. Craig checks his teeth to make sure that they're all still firmly embedded. Aside from a cut inside his bottom lip, he's whole. Ana's left breast throbs dully. Aside from Lizzie, Mariusz, and the new girl (Jelena), everyone's got a few bruises and scrapes to remind them of the morning's unplanned activity.
The shore party makes a U-turn and follows their tracks back towards the tug, new recruit in tow. They cross paths with Scully and Phillips, the duo of American special operators on its way to the town square to scout out the meeting venue.
Griet briefs the arrivals on her brief meeting with Major Lagunov, as well as the follow-up plan to lunch with General Zolnerowich in the old town. Those heading back into the city have about an hour and a half to clean up before the expected arrival of the Red Army chauffeurs.
About a block from the town square, Scully and Phillips are stopped by a lone ORMO patrolman, a middle-aged man wearing a dark blue greatcoat and carrying a slung AKM with the magazine removed. He questions them briefly and, although clearly a little suspicious, allows them to carry on about their business without searching them. He does, however, follow them into the square, trying and failing to avoid their notice.
The town square is like most in central Europe, a trapezoidal open area hemmed in by old, once colorful, multistory red tile-roofed buildings. Shops and eateries used to occupy nearly all of the surrounding buildings' ground floors. Now, only a few remain still in operation. As long as it's directly on the square, it shouldn't be too hard to pick out the general's favorite.
The square itself is mostly filled by a patchwork maze of dozens of semi-permanent stalls constructed out of all manner of materials- wood, sheet metal, cardboard, canvas, whatever provides a modicum of shelter for the sellers and their wares. Vendors sell all manner of items, from food (mostly bread, some fish, a bit of meat, and a very few vegetables), to hand tools, pots and pans, books, and assorted tchotchkes. The quantity and selection of the goods stocking the shelves and countertops is pretty patchy. Although there a quite a few people wandering the market, it appears that little business is actually taking place. What transactions Scully and Phillips witness appear to be barter, although they also notice some pink paper bills changing hands.
Straight ahead, about 50m due north up the narrow lane that Scully and Phillips are currently walking along, they spot a promising venue. It's still got all of its glass windows, one of which bears an ornate stenciled sign in red letters reading 'Andrei's'. A few wrought iron tables and chairs rest on the cobbles just outside. It's the nicest place that Scully and Phillips have seen in the whole square.
As they pass a cluttered stall remarkable only for its blue tarp roof, the two Americans are assailed by a friendly, obnoxiously loud cockney-accented English voice,
"Oy, mates! I 'aven't seen you 'ere before. What ya lookin' for? I can get ya whatever ya need. Name's Greg. Pleased ta meet ya."
The owner of the voice is a small mustachioed man with curly, jaw-length, prematurely gray hair. He's probably only in his early to mid-thirties but war ages men. He's wearing a blue windbreaker buttoned up to the throat and British DPM trousers tucked into worn combat boots. The stall with the blue tarp roof is apparently his. It's plywood counter is cluttered with all manner of items- lighters, playing cards, knives, candles, a complete set of billiard balls. His more valuable goods- soap, condoms, cigarettes, liquor, some clothing- are on a rickety metal shelf at the back of the stall. Glancing back the way they just came, Phillips spots the ORMO patrolman peeking from around a stall selling poultry. In fact, several of the nearby locals are looking the Americans' way now. In the opposite direction, a group of about 8 uniformed men has just arrived at Andrei's, leaving two armed sentries just outside the front door. This, most likely, is the Soviet general's party.
A few minutes before noon, two vehicles arrive dockside, Lagunov's UAZ and a Mercedes G-Class (known in the Bundeswehr as a 'Wolf'). The Kommandos pile aboard and the two-vehicle convoy pulls away, steadily climbing through winding cobblestone streets towards the town square.
Using side streets, the drivers skirt the main square, stopping in a narrow lane at its northern edge.
One of the drivers steps out and leads them a few steps to the café- Andrei's, if the sign on the venue's large front window is to believed. Two armed guards stand on either side of the front door. The driver open the door and ushers the Kommando representatives inside (those who do not wish to attend the lunch meeting are free to wander the marketplace). The diners enter a large room lit by a couple of candles and the diffused sunlight coming in through the large front window. Two large rectangular tables have been pushed together and a middle-aged waiter (Andrei, perhaps?) is busily finishing setting the table. There are two more armed guards by the entrance to the kitchen. Several officers, including Lagunov, sit at the long table, clustered at the dim end furthest from the entrance. They stand as the Kommando enters. Lagunov makes the introductions. The guests are seated and, after a few customary pleasantries are exchange, the first course of lunch is served- a thin, orangish broth with a few bits of pasta floating about in it, accompanied by crusty bread rolls and mugs of laager.
General Zolnernowich begins the meeting with a toast. His aide de camp translates from Russian to Polish.
"To the end of this goddamned war."
He takes a long pull at his beer and then sets the mug down with an odd sense of conviction for such a mundane act.
"It's over, you know. The Americans are going home- an evacuation fleet is mustering at Bremerhaven, as we speak. The Germans are pulling back to behind their new border. They won their Grossdeutchland in the east, now let them fight the French for whatever's left. We're not chasing them. The Poles just want to be left alone. They're no danger to anyone but themselves. It's over. There's really nothing here worth fighting for.
"My boys just want to go home too, see what's left, start rebuilding their lives. The only reason my division hasn't just melted away is General Winter. I've promised them that come spring, we will go home too. But, orders are orders, and mine are to hold this city indefinitely."
Zolnernowich smiles ruefully.
"Let me ask you this. It's a question that was posed to me first on my first day of classes at the General Staff Academy. What makes a good general? Is it winning battles? Devotion to duty? Loyalty to the Party? I used to think so. Not anymore. I've been to too many funerals, buried too many good Russian boys. They fought and died for Mother Russia, yes, but they also fought for me, because they trusted me. Because I told them that I loved them and that I would take care of them. I've done my best to do so, and I won't put another Russian boy into the dirt without damn good reason. I know the answer now. A good general is one who takes care of his soldiers, one who doesn't unquestioningly lead them to slaughter for no discernible purpose.
"Several weeks ago, the commander of the Baltic Front, Field Marshall Anton Chilikov, my superior, ordered me to detach three battalions of my troops and send them north for 'security operations' along the coast. Of course, being a good soldier, I complied with his order. Then I learned what they were really used for: to capture a fucking pile of radioactive rubble- a port city that we dropped three nuclear warheads on three two years ago! Why? It's not for me to question why, he says. Right. Only two battalions came back from Gdansk, and the goddamn city didn't fall! Chilikov is an imbecile and a madman. He has no 'front' to command. He moves little flags around on a huge map in his castle headquarters and issues commands to units that no longer exist, and he thinks that this makes him a field marshal.
"And now the son of a bitch is demanding more of my men-more cannon fodder for one of his pointless 'offensive operations'. No, I won't send them. Not again.
"At first, I made excuses. Then I stopped taking his calls. He sent couriers; I sent them right back. Then he ordered my own staff to arrest me."
The general flashes a brief smile at his chief of staff. Abruptly, it disappears, leaving no trace.
"This arrived yesterday."
He opens a manila folder and slides a glossy black-and-white photo across the table. Pictured is some sort of mechanical device- a smooth, cylindrical silver casing nestled in a web of multicolored wires . Next to it is a party propaganda rag- a single sheet of newsprint with title 'Red Star' and the dateline of the first of November, 2000. If the photo's a forgery, it's a damn good one.
"Do you know what this is?" he asks, pointing to the image in the photograph. "It's a nuclear demolition charge. A small nuclear warhead, no bigger than a piece of luggage- I think the Americans call it a 'backpack nuke'. It might be small, but it can still level several city blocks. The message is clear, no?
"If I don't send more troops, Chilikov will destroy Grudziaz- 1,200 troops and nearly 20,000 civilians. He has his hands on a most powerful trump card. It makes little sense for him to waste it on my command. I'm sure he has other plans for it. If he does nuke Grudziaz, he's sure as hell not getting the troops he wants. He's probably bluffing, but I can't take that chance. I'm going to turn myself in, and I would like you to take me to Chilikov's headquarters in Malbork, myself and a few of my men. It's on your way and, of course, you will be paid for your services.
"I can offer you papers granting you safe passage through Soviet and Lublin government-controlled territory and enough food to last you all the way to the coast. We can step outside if you need time to discuss this offer."
Your Turn.
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This message was last edited by the GM at 01:22, Sat 04 July 2015.
