by Colin Gee
For some reason, all eyes swivelled to Von Papen.
Surprised by the attention, the elderly politician took a moment to compose himself.
Gesturing Goldstein closer, he whispered into the Major’s ear.
“Gentlemen, when Germany entered into this relationship, most of its lands were already under the Communist boot. Since then, more has been taken from us, and in that time many young men have bled and died.”
Goldstein leant close in once more.
“Germany cannot be Germany without a plan such as Spectrum, and so Germany accepts that, for it to become whole again, there is a price to pay… and don’t think for one moment that we do not understand what losses that,” he punched out the word as his finger fired out at the capital of his country, “Will represent for the fathers and mothers of Germany.”
The US President looked at both de Gaulle and Franco in turn, seeking a sign that they wanted their input, but neither man was particularly forthcoming, each looking to the other to speak first, which was, in itself, unusual for both men.
After some awkwardness, De Gaulle eventually spoke.
“France stands ready, and the French people, who have already suffered so much, will shoulder their part of the burden. We are committed.”
Eyes turned to Franco, who spoke simply, accompanying his words with typical Spanish shrugs and hand gestures.
“Communism cannot prevail. Spain was committed to that cause from the outset. We have always known the high price of opposing it. I see no reason for change here.”
Truman, lips pursed as he digested the words of the others, beckoned Eisenhower forward.
“General, please proceed with the details.”
Eisenhower moved sideways, giving the floor to Bedell-Smith and Tedder, who would impart the details to the political leadership.
[*Churchill was referring to his famous encounter with Lincoln’s ghost during a stay in the White House. He exited his bathtub and, without clothing, walked into the nearby bedroom, only to find Lincoln leaning on the mantelpiece. The encounter was much to Churchill’s embarrassment, and according to the British PM’s account, Winston only managed to say "Good evening, Mr. President. You seem to have me at a disadvantage," before Lincoln apparently vanished, probably as discomfited as his living counterpart. Source Wikipedia and an article by Esther Inglis-Arkell ‘When Churchill met Lincoln. Naked’ at http://io9.com/5852898/when-churchill-met-lincoln-naked.]
2030 hrs, Friday, 22nd February 1946, Chateau de Versailles, France.
That evening, the heads of state ate a hearty dinner, satisfied that the plan they had endorsed would bring about a swift conclusion to the war, placing the USSR in a position where it would have to negotiate a peace.
Peace.
Many a glass was raised to it, and many a throat was whetted with expensive French wine in its name.
There was even talk, as ever, of bringing everyone home by Christmas.
Speer smiled his way through the toasts and conversation, his mind turning over one simple thought.
‘Scheisse verdamnt!’
The aftermath of that fateful day was quite marked.
Across the length and breadth of Allied-held Europe, orders arrived discreetly, preparing senior officers for what was to come.
Supply officers received their instructions, and the expectations of their masters started to cause them headache after headache, long before they commenced their work.
The clandestine agencies went to work with a will, exploiting the false ideas fed to the Soviets, building on the SAAG operation to distract, and preparing new subterfuges with which to confuse and distract their enemies.
Even outside Europe, ripples of new activity made themselves known, as air and naval bases throughout the Mediterranean, Persia and into Asia received quiet orders.
The air war, Spectrum-Green, was ramped up yet another notch, as day and night, the heavy bombers roamed the skies virtually unopposed.
Occasionally there were errors, when a fighter escort missed its rendezvous, leaving the big aircraft vulnerable, but they were few and far between.
Finland formally and noisily protested as RAF bombers regularly violated her airspace. Curiously, the experienced Finnish pilots, flying ME109 night fighters, never seemed to intercept the Allied intruders, so nothing was done to stop the stream of Halifax, Lincoln, and Lancaster aircraft as they flew to Murmansk, Archangelsk, and all points north of Leningrad.
Red, the naval elements of Spectrum, became more aggressive and the Soviet Baltic Fleet, such as it was after months of attrition, was reduced to a shadow by constant air and sea action, even though part of it was still frozen in by the solid ice of the north Baltic.
Every day, Group Captain Stagg appeared with the latest predictions, constantly disappointing planners by offering no definite hope for the future, no potential break in the winter conditions that so constrained both sides.
The air war intensified further, as the first standard B-29’s and B-32’s arrived in France and Holland, soon to start taking the war further into the Soviet Union itself.
Southampton saw the arrival of the new Essex class carrier Kearsarge, its decks crowded with aircraft securely wrapped up as a defence against the violence of the Atlantic weather. Curious eyes watched as the unfamiliar types were stripped of their covers and unloaded by crane. More of the same type emerged from the hangar below, until over sixty of the propeller-less aircraft were disembarked onto barges and taken up the River Itchen to HMS Raven, the RNAS shore station, where the arrival of the Shooting Stars caused little fuss, the arrival of two dozen Sea Vampires having already stolen the show.
On land, new equipment arrived in growing numbers. Many M-10’s had been withdrawn to undergo a programme of up gunning to 90mm or 17pdr, depending on what was available, as well as receiving additional armour protection.
The M-26, and a lesser number of hurriedly produced Super Pershings, arrived in Rotterdam, being immediately absorbed into the growing US forces.
Shermans, Jacksons, half-tracks and artillery pieces rolled off transport ships or were craned onto transporters in nearly every port in Allied Europe.
In the UK, production of the venerable Churchill tank gave way to an intense run of Black Prince vehicles, designed solely to consume as many Churchill parts as possible, before British factories started to produce Comets and Centurions to equip British and Commonwealth armoured divisions.
The first Panther tanks rolled off factory assembly lines, some only a few miles away from Soviet positions around the Ruhr. At the same time, French factories started to produce the ST44 and MG42, few at first, but in increasing numbers as techniques were improved and more capacity came online.
POWs, debilitated by captivity, were now, for the most part, fully recovered, providing an experienced pool from which rienforcements were drawn for both replenishment and for new units.
The Allied war machine was growing; growing in numbers, in capability, in strength, and perhaps most importantly, in confidence.
0939 hrs, Friday 1st March 1946, Headquarters of 3rd Red Banner Central European Front, Hotel Stephanie, Baden-Baden, Germany.
“I repeat, Comrade Marshal, I haven’t received anything like that.”
“Balls and fucking nonsense, Rokossovsky, balls and fucking nonsense.”
Konev stuck out an imperious hand and an aide slipped a report into it instantly.
Reading aloud, the bald-headed commander of the Soviet Army in Europe, alternated between the report and burning holes in Marshal Rokossovsky with his red-hot gaze.
“Since 2nd January, you have been sent, three hundred and seventy-two tanks of varying kinds, including thirty IS-IIIs.”
He slapped the paper with the back of his fingers.
“Four hundred and ninety-eight artillery pieces… one hundred and ninety-seven anti-tank guns… five hundred and forty mortars, Comrade.”
Holding the report close to the red-faced Polish officer, Kon
ev tapped an entry with the tip of his finger.
“One and a half million artillery and mortar shells, Comrade.”
Almost apoplectic with rage, Rokossovsky waited whilst his deputy, Petrovich, passed him a piece of paper unbidden.
“Perhaps you would care to compare the two, Comrade Marshal?”
Konev snatched the list and held the two pieces of paper side by side, looking from one to the other, his brow creasing as the comparisons struck home.
“Eighty-six tanks? Only eighty-six fucking tanks?”
Trubnikov, the 3rd’s Chief of Staff, responded angrily.
“Comrade Marshal, this information was communicated to your headquarters. All of this fucking fiasco was communicated to your headquarters.”
“Comrade General Trubnikov, to lose one of the Rodina’s tanks is unforgiveable, to lose nearly three hundred makes you meat for the fucking firing squad!”
Rokossovsky leapt to his feet.
“There’ll be no need for firing squads here today!”
Konev held his tongue as Rokossovsky went face to face.
“The tanks are not lost. The artillery’s not lost. None of it’s lost. It’s out there, lying in mangled fucking heaps where the enemy have bombed it to pieces. We have no air cover worthy of the name, so it gets destroyed before it ever gets near us.”
Moving to Petrovich’s side, he held out a hand.
“Damage reports please, Comrade.”
The sheaf of papers was produced in seconds.
“Here.”
He read each in turn, passing the report to a seething Konev.
“Karlsruhe… sixty-one tanks destroyed in one raid.”
The next virtually flew from his hand to Konev.
“Waghäusel… two hundred and twenty thousand artillery shells in one raid.”
The Polish Marshal waited whilst Konev read the report of the huge explosion at Waghäusel, one that had also claimed nearly a thousand lives.
“Outside Leingarten… here we got lucky and shot down two of the bastards! Not before we lost eighty artillery and thirty-two anti-tank guns.”
He ruffled the paperwork noisily.
“Here… and here… and here… the same story day in, day out. They turn up, our anti-aircraft gunners fire what they have, which is sometimes enough to kill one or two of them, and then the enemy destroys our forces with impunity.”
Konev stared angrily.
“Your headquarters has been sent all this information, Comrade Marshal.”
Rokossovsky calmed down in an instant.
“My losses behind the lines have probably exceeded by combat losses by twenty to one these last few months.”
Konev took his cue from the calmer voice and reduced his aggressive tone.
“What have you done to reduce the impact of their temporary superiority, Comrade Marshal?”
The Pole could not help but smile at the word ‘temporary’.
“Ammunition has been taken from trains and reduced to much smaller loads, loads suitable for carrying by animal, or on soldier’s backs. That’s reduced munition losses to minimal levels, but it’s hard on both men and animals.”
Konev nodded.
“Losses in heavy equipment have been reduced, although not without cost in my fuel reserve, as we move large portions off transport, shifting them mainly by night when the enemy’s less effective with ground attack work.”
Konev’s mind started to think about the other forces under his command.
‘Is this scenario repeated through all my units?’
Silently, the Red Army commander sifted through the remaining papers, seeing the tragedy of 3rd Red Banner Front repeated time and time again.
As ever, in these last few months, the main problem was an absence of air cover for his units and logistics.
He handed back the sheaf of papers without further comment.
An uncomfortable silence descended on the room, Konev distracted by thoughts, the others aware that he could explode at any moment.
Trubnikov gestured at a staff captain, who immediately went to work with an incredibly large and ornate silver samovar, producing tea for all the senior officers.
Rokossovsky proferred one to Konev, which broke him from his reverie, bringing him back to his professional self in an instant.
“Comrade Marshal, I appreciate your difficulties, and I’ll do what I can. Now… show me your offensive planning for when this freeze is over.”
Taking responsibility on himself, Rokossovsky used the situation map to detail his planned offensive.
Konev’s face became thunderously dark again.
“Is that it? Is that fucking it? You have a huge war machine at your disposal and you offer me that as an offensive?”
Rokossovsky sighed the sigh of a man about to repeat himself.
“Comrade Marshal Konev, it’s true I’ve a huge force but it’s crippled by the weather… by lack of food… by low munitions,” he counted each point off on his fingers, “restricted fuel… by the absence of air cover… a hostile population…”
Konev’s mouth hung open slightly.
“As a result, the men are demoralised and have low morale. Unless I can have reinforcements, resupply, time to rest my men… and an assurance of air support for daylight combat at least, then I can see little to be gained by launching 3rd Red Banner into a pointless assault that’ll undoubtedly fail.”
“Comrade Marshal, I think you should think this through very carefully, or you may be summoned to Moscow to account for this traitorous inactivity!”
Petrovich came to attention.
“Comrade Marshal Konev, with respect, sir, Comrade Marshal Rokossovsky is correct and acting in the best interests of the Rodina.”
Konev almost turned blue.
“Acting in the best interests of the Rodina? Since when is it in the best interests of the Rodina to disobey fucking orders, Comrade General!”
Trubnikov took a step forward, and Konev’s hand automatically went to his holster.
“Comrade Marshal Konev, it is clearly in the best interests of the Rodina not to sacrifice one of her finest armies in a pointless gesture, based on dated ideas and combat against a different enemy. Better we should keep that army intact and await the time when our glorious scientists and academicians can bring forth equipment suitable for the sons and daughters of Mother Russia to use their superior skill and national fervour to win the day.”
Both Rokossovsky and Petrovich stared at their comrade, his diatribe being about four times longer than either of them had ever heard him speak before.
Plus, it was undoubtedly a load of political bollocks.
None the less, Konev, the words burning through his anger, could see the logic, although he doubted the occupants of the Kremlin would do so in a month of Sundays.
Part of him wanted to replace the entire frontal staff and stick the Polish bastard up against the wall, but he stayed his hand, or more correctly, his thoughts caused him concern and he knew he had questions to ask elsewhere first.
After the normal pep talk and encouragement to do more, Konev and his following swept off on the next leg of their tour of frontal headquarters, where he asked the questions raised by his meeting with 3rd Red Banner.
By Monday 4th March, Konev had his answer, and it was worse than the reports of the previous months had suggested, or he feared, following his conversation with Rokossovsky. On paper, he controlled the largest field force ever committed by his country. But, in reality, the army was a shadow of its former self, from the 1st Baltic to 1st Alpine, its capabilities worn down by air strikes and the severe winter, by hunger and low morale, all set against a backdrop of a shortage of pretty much everything from helmets to howitzers.
A major spring offensive, such as envisioned by Moscow, could only end in disaster.
Zhukov, appraised by telephone, could only agree.
Behind the Allied lines, units manoeuvred, rested, trained, or stood watch in the front lin
es, as planners moved their pieces around the board of war.
An increase in temperature, accompanied by brighter weather, offered the Allied Armies maximum advantage, as their ground forces went about their business with relative impunity, whilst the Red Army did what it could under a perpetual umbrella of airborne hostility.
None the less, the Soviet supply units performed heroics, often at great cost, whilst the engineers did all they could to maintain the infrastructure. Much of their work was destroyed within minutes of its erection, but some often remained long enough for something to get through.
In the Motherland, the factories and training camps churned out battle-ready weapons and trained men in impressive numbers.
Spring was coming, and with it would come combat on a scale not yet seen, and when the great devourer, the machine called War, would be insatiable.
Success depends upon previous preparation, and without such preparation there is sure to be failure.
Confucius
Chapter 135 - THE PREPARATIONS
0942 hrs, Tuesday 5th March 1946, SHAEF Headquarters, Hotel Trianon, Versailles, France.
Hodges and Eisenhower were enjoying a coffee together in relaxed circumstances.
Elsewhere in the building, staff officers were working constantly to put meat on the bones of their orders, and to jockey the Allied Armies into position for when, given the right circumstances, the order would be given and the advance begin.
The previous day, both men had been witness to a demonstration of some of the latest technology of war, from improved radar to jet fighter aircraft.
Everything seemed to be going in the right direction for them, except one thing, and that was beyond their control.
