Hell's Gate by Bill Schutt
Dedication
For our families,
and for Colonel Percy Harrison Fawcett,
who was there
PROLOGUE
Blood Bright and Bible Black
God has no power over the past
except to cover it with oblivion.
—PLINY THE ELDER
February 16, 1944
Along the banks of the Gniloy Tickich River, Ukraine
Soviet-German Front
An early thaw.
That is how it began.
The air was peculiarly humid for this place at this time of year. The hard freeze that usually set in around December and lasted until March had never arrived. The river, usually a sluggish stream, was now a freezing torrent.
A light breeze blew hair into Viktor’s eyes. Brushing it aside, the seventeen-year-old stopped momentarily to admire the view. The countryside was beautiful—even peaceful, especially if one discounted certain facts: the muddy tank tracks in the snow, the constant engine noise, and the smell of black fumes.
The gray packhorse turned his head toward the boy and chewed wetly on his metal bit.
You’re hungry, Sasha. Me too.
Viktor loosened Sasha’s bridle, then reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing half a handful of grain. Sasha took it eagerly, then nudged the boy’s shoulder.
“That’s all there is,” he said, giving the animal an exaggerated shrug.
The horse, a small Russian panje, was native to the Eurasian Steppe and not much larger than a donkey. Viktor had known the breed for most of his life. They were Russia’s answer to the knee-deep mud trails that were referred to only by mapmakers as roads. This particular horse was strong and steady, although he was pulling a sled piled more than a little too high with wooden crates. For three days, the cargo had not left young Viktor’s sight. At night, he had slept on it. The boy knew that although many of the crates his countrymen were hauling through the mud contained ammunition or even guns, this one held only shovels and pick axes. But they are as important as guns, he reminded himself. Maybe more important.
Viktor was right, although he was as ignorant as the next man when it came to the specifics of their mission. As they had been for many of his countrymen, his only orders were to “go forward” and to “kill them all.” For his part, Viktor had never actually seen a German, but more and more of late, he wondered how he would react if he did. The boy gave an involuntary shudder and focused on removing a small burr from the horse’s withers.
As he stood comforting Sasha, he had no idea that he was one of nearly half a million soldiers converging from almost every point on Russia’s compass. They were gathering along a front more than two hundred miles long, their commanders hoping to disintegrate, beyond all hope of recovery, the last German offensive capability in the East. With the help of the weather and local partisan units, the Soviet forces had driven Hitler’s armies steadily back through Russia into the Ukraine. Only the generals knew that sixty-five thousand German soldiers were now nearly surrounded in a salient that bulged deep into the Russian lines. To historians it would become known as the Cherkassy Pocket. To those trapped there, to the ones who survived, it would always be known as Hell’s Gate.
Within the salient, sleet, mud, and melting snow had combined to immobilize the once-unstoppable invading force. The Luftwaffe had finally dropped supplies and ammunition but unfortunately for the Germans, the materials landed behind the Soviet lines. Equipment and even lines of communication were breaking down—although the beleaguered Germans did learn that their “inadequately lit” drop site had been blamed for the Luftwaffe’s error. Unknown to the Axis troops was the fact that the 24th Panzer Unit, after slogging north to relieve the German forces, never even came close. Instead they had inexplicably turned back—in accordance with a direct order from Adolf Hitler. Nearly encircled at Cherkassy, the Germans knew that their only hope for survival would be a massive breakout; but now even this had been postponed.
The Russians, meanwhile, continued to strengthen their positions in what was shaping up to be a classic pincer movement. Russian historians would record that some 200,000 Soviets formed the enveloping arms of the pincer. The German high command believed that it contained twice that number—and, for a while, it did.
Viktor stroked the horse’s neck, then tightened up the bridle. If we dig in deep enough, for long enough, you’ll be food.
He tried to push the thought aside, but could not, until a strange sound distracted him. A loud rumble was not unusual in a war zone. But with this rumble the sky itself seemed to have exploded, somewhere in the distance.
Seconds later, the sound came again—louder. Overhead now, like a thunderclap . . . on a cloudless day. The boy’s ribs absorbed the shock wave and they vibrated like twelve pairs of tuning forks.