Russia, 1944. Alternate Historical Musings

From the Stoa I again bring to you a story from the vaults. This is a musing about how things would have gone had Hitler had a clue and let his generals run the Soviet front. This is part of the 3 part story arc that goes to 1965. A world where Nazi German won WWII.

Enjoy.



Hunting in the Urals


Sturmbanfuherer Eric Jaeger watched the golden leaves on the tree behind the Russian soldier. He figured it to be about 15 knots from the North West.
Almost imperceptibly, he reached over and clicked his sights two to the right. He looked back through his scope. The red star on the soldier's garrison cap was centered in his "T" sights. Slowly, he dropped his rifle back down to the barrel support.
It wasn't this man's time yet. Patience. Patience. The job and duty of a sniper was to cultivate patience. Eric sipped on a canteen of water while he sized up his target.
In front of him was a small helipad base on the east slope of some god-forsaken mountain in the Urals. It was suspected that there was a larger complex beneath this Siberian forest. Intelligence was darn sure that Comrade Molotov was holed up in there somewhere. An entire Brigade was somewhere east of his position, both on the surface and below, mapping out the maze of caves they had discovered. It was hoped that Molotov and his advisors would attempt to escape the noose that was slowly tightening in on them. That was why Eric and his squad of snipers had been deployed along this ridgeline. They would be forced to escape this way, and then he'd have the honor of adding Molotov to his list of hits.
It was fall, 1944. Stalin had been executed just six weeks earlier. Foreign Minister Molotov assumed the First Chair of the Communist Party with barely a bump. The resiliency of the Russians surprised him. European Russia had been under the Reich's control since December of 1941. The decision that then befell Herr Hitler and the General Staff was where to draw the line? Do they stop west of the Ural Mountains or do they push on and hold the mountains and keep the Russians to the East of the range. The call had been for taking the mountains. He assumed some Industrialist who had Himmler or Goebbels' ear had really made the decision. The Urals were known to have significant resources that the Reich could exploit. So in he went with over two million other soldiers. The cost in manpower to take the mountains, or at least most of them, had been more costly than conquering European Russia. There always seemed to be a Russian behind every rock, up every tree, and under every plank of wood. It wasn't until last fall that the range was nominally safe and the hordes of Russians kept to the East.
His attention was brought back to the Helicopter that dominated the pad. A team of technicians was laboring to change out some part on the motor. At least it would not be going anywhere anytime soon. He marveled that the Russians even had spare parts, let alone helicopters. Though they were working like mad to get industry back on its pre-war footing, the Reich would never allow anything overt. To drive that point home, Novosibirsk and Yakustk had vanished in nuclear clouds of gas and dust by a Reich wonder weapon. He simply could not believe how many new gadgets the brains in the Reich were turning out, seemingly, every day. The Russians had dug into the permafrost and into the sides of mountains to hide their activities, but the new satellites the Reich had been putting out in space could detect the thermal activity. The sites never lasted long after being noticed by the eyes in space.
Eric heard a field telephone ring in the alcove leading down. It always amazed him how sound could travel. From three hundred meters away he could almost hear what was being said. The buzz of activity that followed the short conversation told him that they must be aware of the strike team in the tunnels below the countryside. The technicians began putting the part back into the engine and throwing the new part back into cabin of the 'copter. He figured it would take at least ten minutes put all the little pieces parts back together.
He felt, rather then heard some far off explosion. The rock shelf he was on conducted the shock waves well.
He flipped on the throat mike and mumbled his orders to his squad, "Target will be coming soon. Our boys are squeezing them out of the hole. Do not fire unless you positively ID your target. If it looks like we can't tag him, take out the helicopter."
Two clicks answered him back from the members of his team.
Eric began to set himself up when a long burst from a Russian submachine gun stopped him short. The location was difficult to gage, as the echoes came back at him from several rock faces. A few moments went by when he heard the sharp reports from a Lugar and a hand grenade. The sounds were from his left and higher up the cliff face. Either a Russian patrol must have come across one of his men, or his man must have been posted near a hidden egress point. Either way, it was over soon. All he heard after that was guttural, angry Russian orders being barked in every direction.
Eric continued to keep his eyes on the helicopter. He knew that the patrols would be scrounging the whole area looking the rest of his team.
A grenade dropped past him to the trail below. It detonated with a hollow thump. Shots began to pick up in tempo as furious Russians fired wildly into any nook and cranny that may house a sniper.
He heard and felt boots thumping hard over the rock shelf over his head just as soldiers began to boil out of the underground den. He brought his rifle up just as several of the Russian soldiers in the front dropped. Bullets began to tear into the mountainside. Some found their marks in their comrades who were searching the cliff face. The helicopter was not yet ready to fly, so the soldiers began to retreat back into the ground.
The unmistakable roar of a Sturmgewher preceded half a dozen Russians tumbling down the hillside. Another one of his men was fighting for his life above him. The fight did not last much longer then the last, though the Russians paid far more dearly for it.
Several explosions rocked the ground beneath him. Molotov's guards had run into the German strike team. There was confusion as they did not know where to turn. Out where the snipers were prowling, or back into the fight underground.
He caught a glimpse of Molotov through the crowd. The remainder of his team must have seen him as well. This close quarter action must have unnerved them because they began firing indiscriminately into the pack, hoping for a kill.
Sturmgewhers began going off all around him as the Russians routed out his men. His patience paid off. Just as a knot of Russians were working their way up to his position he had a clear head shot. He hardly thought of pulling the trigger. The rifle bucked under his shoulder of its own volition and Molotov's brains exploded all over the nearest guards.
A furious Russian threw a hand grenade at his hole. He swatted the grenade out of the air like an American Base Baller, letting go of the sniper rifle in mid-swing. He pulled up his assault rifle and blazed away at the mob charging his position. He wondered idly if the strike team would push its way out this far and save his team. The thought was fleeting as several more grenades came his way and his clip ran empty.



Frau Jaeger placed fresh flowers in the vase next to a color portrait of her son. An oak and glass case was on the wall above. The jewel of the case was in the center. A posthumous Knight's Cross with Swords and diamonds. It was probably the greatest military award the Reich could give. A letter signed by the Fuehrer himself was in an envelope behind the case.
Herr Jaeger was the proudest man in the block of flats. He sat in the window light, reading his newspaper. He hardly spoke much these days except to extol the virtues of their only son. She gave the vase some more attention and then turned to fix him his tea. She wanted her son back, hero or no hero. Only one soldier from her son's special unit returned. It was that soldier that relayed the story of how her son killed Molotov. It was also he that described her son's last moments. Sometimes she wished that she didn't know. She didn't want to know that he personally killed more than twelve of the enemy. She didn't want to know that when his ammunition ran out that he clubbed a Russian while pulling out his combat knife. She didn't want to know that he went down under a pile of bayonets and rifle butts. Why did that mother get her son back and she did not.
She put the right amount of sugar in her husband’s tea and stirred it silently. She knew she had grandchildren, though she would never know them. Her son was so proud when he was selected three times to sire children. He got three free trips to different places within the Reich: Norway, Egypt, and England. She wondered if they were German or just Aryan. It was hard to tell the difference these days.
She didn't like the way things were anymore. The government took their house for some reason or another and moved them into these communal flats. They were luxurious compared to where they once lived, but she didn't like the idea that they didn't own land any longer. She wasn't even sure if they owned the flat. What was to become of the family? Not just her family, but families in general? The new term these days was 'Wolf Packs' that were organized into 'dens'. No more fathers, no more mothers, just den masters and pack leaders. Who would ever lament the loss of a soldier’s life; or any life for that matter with no family to care for or about you? Life was regimented and took on the aspect of institutionalized conscription. No more grandmothers, no more grandfathers. The fool she was walking the tea out to did not seem to grasp that side-effect of the new ways.
She wanted her son back. She wanted to know her grandchildren. She wanted them to share the holidays with her. She wanted to spoil them and hug them and play with them. But it just wasn't to be. They would proceed down the Reich's human assembly line. They would either become soldiers or scientists, government prefects or government breeding stock. To what end she couldn't tell. Hopefully she wouldn't be alive long enough to see it.
"Hey, Argentina and Brazil just signed an alliance with the Reich!” her husband told her as she started to hand him the tea. Great, she thought, more meat for the machine.
"Now, if we can just pacify those damn Indians and South African darkies we'll shut the Americans out of the major shipping lanes."
She wished she would've dumped the scalding tea in his lap.

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