Free Red Shadow by Paul Dowswell Page B

hours away from H-hour. Barbarossa . The greatest invasion in history. That’s what the Division Colonel had told them earlier that evening. Why couldn’t they have posted him to Norway or the Afrika Korps ?
    Steiner finished his cigarette, coughed, spat noisily, and said, ‘I need a crap.’ He hauled himself out of the trench and disappeared into the bushes behind them. ‘Don’t step on a mine,’ whispered Grasse, half wishing he would.
    In an instant a mad idea gripped him. Let them know . Let them know the Wehrmacht was coming. Let them know millions of soldiers and thousands of tanks and aircraft were about to pour into the Soviet Union and destroy their army. Grasse weighed up his chances. It was entirely possible he would die in the morning attack. And he didn’t like to think what the odds were of him still being alive when they reached Moscow. If he went over, the Russians would treat him like a hero, and he’d get out of this whole mess. Once he told them he was a communist too, or at least his father was, then they’d sort him out a cushy job, surely?
    The worst that could happen was that he’d spend the war in a prisoner of war camp. He fumbled in his pocket for his hip flask and took a long drag of schnapps. Then he hurriedly removed his combat jacket and webbing. He took one last look around to see if Steiner was coming back, then gingerly made his way to the water’s edge. Slipping silently into the cool water he began to swim towards the other side.
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    Grasse emerged on the eastern bank of the River Bug dripping wet and shivering uncontrollably. The water had been colder than he had expected, and even as he swam he had begun to regret his decision to desert to the Soviet side.
    He was sure the noise he made as he clambered up the bank, trousers swishing against his legs, water dripping from his shirt, must have drifted back across the river, but no one on the German start line seemed to have heard. His companion, Private Steiner, had noted Grasse’s absence but hadn’t yet realised that he had gone for good.
    Grasse stumbled on into the darkness, expecting to meet Soviet troops at any moment. But there was nobody about. He carried on hurrying east, desperate to make contact with the Russian soldiers before the invasion began and he was overtaken by his own side. He hadn’t thought that through. He’d be shot for desertion, without a doubt. Maybe he’d be the first German soldier to be executed in this campaign. That would be something that would have made his father proud.
    He heard a town clock chime 1 a.m. and headed towards the sound. Within half an hour he had reached a small village where he heard Russian voices. In the moonlight he could see horses and a few motor vehicles and realised this must be a detachment of Soviet soldiers. There was a small group of them clustered around a field kitchen, and he called out as he approached, ‘Comrades! Don’t shoot.’
    A moment later he found himself staring down the muzzles of several rifles. Instinctively raising his hands above his head he spoke slowly, in German. ‘Comrades, I must talk to your officer. Very urgent.’
    The soldiers muttered rapidly to each other. Clearly no one here spoke German. Grasse noticed with alarm that one of the men was fixing a bayonet to his rifle. The soldier advanced towards him but beckoned Grasse to crouch on the ground.
    He muttered a single word to him, like a man talking to a dog, and another one of the soldiers ran off into the darkness.
    Within ten minutes the man returned with an officer. He had a smarter uniform and looked more intelligent than these peasant soldiers.
    â€˜Who are you?’ said the man in poor but comprehensible German.
    Grasse snapped to attention.
    â€˜Augustus Grasse of Generalfeldmarschall Fedor von Bock’s Army Group Centre, Fourth Army, 197th Infantry Division. I have urgent news. My division, indeed