by Colin Gee
The 7th and 18th each lost another aircraft to flak, although both managed to partially control their landings, permitting some of the crews to escape
Allied planning already allowed for another visit on the 4th January.
‘Sleep comes inevitably, and to sleep is to die. I tried in vain to save a number of these unfortunates. The only words they uttered were to beg me, for the love of God, to go away and permit them to sleep. To hear them, one would have thought that sleep was their salvation. Unhappily, it was a poor wretch’s last wish. But at least he ceased to suffer, without pain or agony. Gratitude, and even a smile, was imprinted on his discoloured lips. What I have related about the effects of extreme cold, and of this kind of death by freezing, is based on what I saw happen to thousands of individuals. The road was covered with their corpses.’
Armand-Augustin-Louis, Marquis de Caulaincourt, Duke of Vicenza. Personal aide to Napoleon Bonaparte, and witness to the Grand Armee’s retreat from Moscow.
Chapter 130 - THE FREEZE
January 1946, Europe.
Thousands died.
Whether they wore green, or brown, or khaki, or field grey, or white, they died as soldiers in extreme conditions had done for millenia beforehand.
Thousands upon thousands suffered as plummeting temperatures, combined with supply difficulties, brought some Allied combat units to their knees.
The Red Army was not immune to the awful effects of that terrible winter, and their own supply lines, already creaking under the strain, were made worse by Allied air attacks across the breadth and width of occupied Europe.
The civilian populations suffered equally, many communities bereft of food perished through hunger, simply melted away, unlike the snow and ice that presently gripped the continent.
Occasionally, some enthusiastic officer would suggest a raid or a reconnaissance, and a bloody fight would break out, but mostly the casualties that filled the dressing stations on both sides of the line were caused by the lowest temperatures ever recorded on mainland Europe, except for the 1932 dive to -52.6°c, registered at Grünloch in Austria.
USAAF meteorologists at the Bolzano fighter base incredulously recorded a new record Italian low temperature of -49.5°c.
At Butgenbach in Germany, -49.9°c wreaked havoc on the US Army personnel stationed there.
In Denmark, Danish and American personnel downed tools at Karup, unable to achieve anything of value in -50.1°c.
On the other side of the line, in the small Czech town of Křemže, the supply soldiers of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe didn’t know the temperature; just that it was cold enough to freeze the blood in their horses’ veins, and their own, for that matter. The cold prevented the tired and hungry men from eating any of the carcasses, and the unit just gave in to the cold.
The valuable supplies remained deep frozen in their carts.
A Czech science teacher and amateur weather forecaster later confirmed that Křemže had descended to a record temperature of -51°c.
Of course, warmer weather, or more accurately, less freezing weather, came and went, sometimes lasting as long as forty-eight hours.
Exhausted Allied engineers and pioneers labored long and hard to keep open roads that seemed to attract drifting snow in huge quantities. Bulldozers, tanks converted to snow ploughs, and plain old human muscle moved tons of snow and ice out of the way of the vital supplies of war. Many men were hospitalized, and over three hundred engineers died in the first four weeks of 1946, but their efforts kept the roads and rail lines open.
Across the front lines, a different story started to emerge, as fuel rationing, at least at first, prevented the use of non-military vehicles in most of occupied Europe.
Many local commanders saw the foolishness of the orders, and made other arrangements, often siphoning fuel from their tanks and trucks in favour of civilian snow ploughs, in order to keep the roads open and permit their supplies to get through.
The difference between the two huge armies was clear, as the Red Army, cleared roads or not, was delivering so little to the frontline troops by comparison to the Allied soldiery.
Mostly, this was the result of the Allied air campaign, but often, rear line units ‘claimed’ supplies passing through their territory, depriving the frontline troops of their rightful allocations of fuel, munitions, medical supplies, and, above all, food.
Many Soviet units went days without a delivery of rations, and foraging had very quickly taken precedence over any organized military activity.
Sometimes there were clashes between different hunting parties, and many often ended in violence, with groups of soldiers firing at each other in an effort to secure a farmer’s hidden store of grain, or a newly discovered cache of vegetables.
Men died in such encounters.
Supply officers found themselves without suitable supply units, as often horsed units delivering to starving units would not return, the carts left redundant as the frontline soldiers filled their bellies on fresh red horse meat.
That in turn created more supply problems.
Soviet troops started to cross No Man’s Land, some in organized groups, intent on stealing from their clearly better off enemy, others for the clear purpose of desertion and surrender.
Many of the latter were shot down as they ran, more often than not by their own officers, rather than a vigilant Allied soldier.
The life of the frontline Soviet soldier was truly awful, pushing their collective will to resist the cold and deprivation to the outer limits of human endurance.
But, in the main, they endured, a testament to the incredible resilience of the Red Army, as well as an endorsement of their German enemy’s respect for their incredible capacity to absorb suffering.
Behind the lines it was little better, although the hideous temperatures mostly kept the few surviving Kommando and guerrilla groups in hiding.
And then, as fuel became scarcer still, Soviet efforts at maintaining the road network did not involve mechanical effort at all; fuel was now far too precious. Instead, local populations were driven from their homes; young, old, and infirm were all set to work with shovels and brooms. That most died in the process was of no import.
German civilian casualties were extreme.
For most Soviet officers, the released Russian POWs were still considered dishonoured vermin and an insufferable burden, but now they found them new work shifting tons of snow from A to B, often with nothing more than pieces of wood or their bare hands.
And finally they added the new wave of POWs. Allied soldiers, often still in their summer uniforms, were set to work to do their share for the motherland.
So, across Europe, thousands died.
Combat.
Starvation.
Exhaustion.
Frozen to death.
German women, Austrian children, Polish grandmothers, Czech grandfathers; all died.
Indian sepoys, Canadian riflemen, US aircrew, British tankers; all died.
The NKVD were merciless, driving the clearing work forward with a flurry of blows, or organizing working parties to place the frozen corpses of the fallen beside the roads, creating piles that marked the routes for vehicles and horses to follow.
And there was cannibalism.
The Baltic Sea was frozen, or at least most of it was. The Red Navy stayed at home, its ports locked by ice, with only submarines undertaking patrol activities to the south.
The ice extended to the Danish islands, although any reasonable size vessel would have been able to move it aside, not that any tried with the Allied air superiority so marked.
Whilst the Baltic itself saw next to no action, there was a flurry of political activity from the Finns.
From September 1944, they had concluded hostilities with the Soviet Union and commenced what became known to them as ‘The Lapland War’, fighting their former allies, the German Army, in the most northern of Finnish provinces.
Rather perversely, Finland officially found
herself technically at war with Germany, the Soviet Union, and the United Kingdom.
Links forged in the battles on the Eastern Front ensured that quiet communications from German friends came to receptive Finnish ears, and they passed on high-powered assurances about Allied intentions regarding Finland
Per Törget, the head of Swedish intelligence services, again proved of great value, facilitating a number of clandestine meetings between members of the Finnish Foreign Ministry and representatives of His Majesty’s government, which resulted in a secret protocol being established between Finland and the Allied nations.
On Thursday 9th January, Finland officially declared herself as adopting a neutral stance and openly declared her national borders on land, sea, and air to be inviolable to all sides, including other neutral nations, and without exception.
In Moscow, the immediate reaction was to turn on the upstart Finns, until calmer heads prevailed, and the advantages of a neutral bastion were appreciated.
‘Calmer heads’ at first consisted solely of Zhukov, who quickly ventured to suggest that Beria’s idea of liquidating the entire Finnish state would require slightly more than the ‘three panje carts and an old musket’ that represented his uncommitted reserves.
Stalin enjoyed the moment as his man was put down by Zhukov’s sarcasm, but pursued the military option with his recently appointed Commander of Soviet Ground Forces.
Zhukov laid the matter out simply and without frills.
Reserve units were needed for the Western Front, and there were few forces available for any action against the Finns, let alone sufficient for an expedition of any kind.
The Marshal, offering Beria a proverbial olive branch, spoke plainly.
“Comrade Marshal Beria’s wish to punish the upstarts is wholly understandable, but we cannot… not now anyway. Surely we have more pressing matters to hand?”
The GKO members present grunted their understanding and agreement.
Eyeing Beria, Zhukov completed the rehabilitation of the NKVD leader.
“I share your wish, Comrade, but we must finish the job in Europe first. The Finns will keep, Comrades.”
None the less, the new stance ensured that some units, both regular army and NKVD, remained stationed to cover any signs of belligerence or treachery from the Finns.
Besides, the Red Army was clearly short of supplies and quality assets, and any Russian with a memory knew that the Finns were no pushover.
The following day, the Swedish Government announced the establishment of minefields on the borders of international waters, and assured all nations, regardless of their allegiance, that Swedish national boundaries would be rigorously policed.
Two days later, Monday 12th January illustrated the end result of the ‘new’ Swedish stance, as they attacked and sunk an unknown submarine inside their territorial waters.
Saturday 18th January saw British newspapers record the sad loss of HMS Rorqual, N74, a Grampus class mine laying submarine. Of her crew of sixty souls, only fourteen had been saved, and the dejected survivors were publically displayed by the triumphant Swedes as they were taken away to be interned for the rest of the present hostilities.
In truth, only a handful of people knew that the obsolete Rorqual had been scuttled, and that her skeleton crew of fourteen were all volunteers, selected from men declared unfit for active service.
To all intents and purposes, it looked like Sweden’s borders were not to be messed with, no matter which flag you rallied behind.
Which was the plan.
2013 hrs, Monday, 20th January 1946, 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps headquarters, Bargteheide, Germany.
Lieutenant General V.T Obukov and his deputy, Major General Viktor Klimentievich Golov, sat drinking pepper vodka as they vied for supremacy over a battlefield of sixty-four black and white squares.
After a hasty knock, the bunker curtain was dragged aside and a flustered Major stepped in, closely followed by a smaller anonymous figure.
Obukov was deep in concentration and, in any case, Golov was technically the officer of the day, so he stayed focussed on his approaching finesse.
Golov, however, had the benefit of seeing the newcomer and was already thinking about making the young Major’s life a misery in short order.
“Mayor Barodin, you have a report?”
“Comrade Mayor General Golov. This person arrived at our rear picket and asked to be brought before the commanding General.”
Obukov had half an ear cocked to the conversation, but had just spotted a possible problem with his intended strategy, so decided the board still had priority.
Golov rose to his feet, his impressive height falling millimetres short of the bunker’s wooden ceiling joists.
Major Barodin was a new arrival with 3rd Guards, and had yet to impress either of the general officers with his abilities, which made him fair game.
“So, any fucking Boris or Bogdan who turns up with a request to see the Comrade General gets your fucking personal escort here, eh?”
“No, Comrade Mayor General.”
Exaggerating his lean, he eyed the newcomer and reverted back to eye contact with the hapless Barodin.
“And yet, here we are, or rather, here you are, with some shitty civilian in tow, both of you stood in our bunker, Comrade Mayor. Now, unless you want to find yourself with a platoon command fighting those SS bastards in Alsace, I suggest you fucking sort yourself out man!”
The nondescript arrival passed Barodin the paperwork for the second time that night, and the Major passed it on like it was red-hot, which, in a sense, it was.
Golov read it.
A wide-eyed and disbelieving Golov re-read it.
He held the paper out to Obukov, obscuring his commander’s view of the board and breaking his train of thought.
“Comrade General.”
“For fuck’s sake, Viktor! I’m trying to concentr...”
Obukov’s eyes widened as his eyes took in certain words that leapt off the paper.
“For fuck’s sake!”
There was little that Golov could meaningfully add.
“You are dismissed, Mayor. And nothing is to be said about this matter, clear?”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor General.”
“Remember that, Comrade Barodin.”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor General.”
Barodin saluted and made his hasty retreat, happy to be away from something way beyond his pay grade and understanding.
The three were alone in the bunker, and the silence was oppressive.
Obukov examined the document once more and handed it to the newcomer.
“Your credentials are impeccable. How may we be of assistance, Comrade...”
He left the question hanging, although he knew exactly who was stood in front of him.
With a flick of his eyes, he encouraged Golov to an ice-breaking move.
His CoS picked up the bottle and a spare glass.
“Vodka, Comrade?”
“Thank you, but no thank you, Comrade.”
The new arrival removed the nondescript ushanka and military greatcoat in which she had travelled from Hamburg, revealing the uniform of a Major General of the GRU, and one with the Hero Award at that.
The arrival of an unfamiliar Major General was never a welcome thing for troops of any nation, as bad things tended to visit themselves on men of all ranks, but such an arrival was even less welcome when unannounced and unexpected.
Even for a Lieutenant General commanding a Mechanised Corps, such an arrival was filled with danger, especially in the Red Army, where such surprises often brought orders to report back to Moscow, and the almost inevitable unsavoury end that such returns entailed.
Gesturing the GRU officer towards a spare chair, one that was close to the small fire, Golov stuck his head out of the bunker door and growled at the young Lieutenant positioned at a small desk.
“Harruddhin. Tea… and some of that German cake. Bring it yourself. Not an orderly.”
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Obukov used the wait to discover more about the Army’s true strategic position, rather than rely on what senior officers were spoon-fed by higher command. Nazarbayeva was as candid as she could be, which reinforced Obukov’s view that the war was going to hell in a handcart, and that all he had heard about the GRU woman was true.
Lieutenant Harruddhin, unhappy at doing orderly’s work, entered the bunker with a tray containing captured English tea and liberated German stöllen.
Golov was about to give the nervous young officer a piece of his mind and some advice on rumour spreading, but Obukov beat him to it.
“Thank you, Leytenant. You may go and consider yourself off-duty now. You will do well to remember that the Mayor General is here on important secret business, business that will remain secret… and unspoken of. Am I clear, Comrade Harrudhin?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
The Lieutenant’s retreat was about as speedy as it could be, without the indignity of breaking into a run.
“Thank you for that, Comrade General.”
Obukov waved the piece of paper gently and then offered it back to Nazarbayeva.
“I am assuming that, your clandestine appearance apart, anyone with complete freedom of movement and action, authorised by the Comrade General Secretary, may wish for some… err… anonymity?”
Nazarbayeva folded the paper and slid it inside her breast pocket, extracting another which she passed to Golov, although she addressed the senior man.
“Comrade General, I find myself needing to speak to the man on that piece of paper and, rather unusually, on a matter of huge importance to the Motherland.”
The statement didn’t really make sense until Golov passed the slip of paper over.
