by Colin Gee
“Comrade Nazarbayeva, so good of you to delay your flight.”
He offered his hand, something that took Nazarbayeva aback and gave him the advantage, albeit momentarily.
She took his lead with the informality.
“Comrade Kaganovich, thank you for the invitation.”
Beckoning her towards a seat, he reseated himself and surveyed the spread.
“I know that you haven’t eaten, and won’t have the chance before you fly back to the front, so I took the liberty of organising dinner whilst we talk.”
He leaned across the table, filling her glass with a clear liquid.
“I understand that you have acquired a taste for Raspberry Schnapps, Comrade Nazarbayeva. This is the finest I could find at short notice.”
They raised their glasses and drank together.
“Za zdorovje!”
It was excellent, and seared her throat on the way down. His knowledge on her recent drinking habits was impressive; worryingly so.
He read her mind.
“Don’t worry about Poboshkin. He’s not one of mine. He’s your man through and through.”
Pouring another schnapps, he indicated the plates of food.
“Please, Comrade, help yourself. Time is wasting.”
As she filled her plate with cold cuts and salad, Nazarbayeva’s mind was working overtime.
“If you must know, Rufin is my man… and I mean, my man, not anyone else’s. He is intensely loyal to you… and always speaks of you in glowing terms.”
He slipped a pickled onion into his mouth and choked a little as the sharp vinegar bit his throat.
“I would be pleased if you didn’t reassign him… more looked on him as a less obtrusive means to communicate with me, should the need arise.”
Nazarbayeva froze.
“Comrade General, I am a loyal member of the party and committed to our leadership, and I will do nothing to compromise that!”
He held up his hands in protest.
“Tatiana Sergievna, you misunderstand. I make no such improper suggestion.”
He took a slug of the schnapps.
“The animosity between you and Marshal Beria is well known. To be honest, GRU General Kuznetsov has little working relationship with either Comrade Beria or myself, and I rather suspect that he lives on borrowed time in his position”
The former was a matter of certain knowledge to Nazarbayeva. The latter, that her boss was under threat, was unwelcome news.
“You and I have been given an opportunity to overcome a problem that has plagued the Rodina for years.”
Nazarbayeva knew he was talking about the relationship between the two agencies, and the fact that the party leadership seemed to keep the pot of mutual distrust constantly stirred.
“I believe that, between us, we can serve the Motherland far better by communicating without fear or suspicion.”
Whilst this was music to Nazarbayeva’s ears, the very suspicion that she would love to overcome raised thoughts in her head; thoughts of traps, subterfuge… and treason.
She chewed slowly on a piece of chicken, giving herself time to think before replying.
“I agree. It can only benefit the Motherland if we communicate and share our knowledge, Comrade General.”
“Please, call me Ilya Borissovich.”
“I cannot do that, Comrade General.”
He understood, as her rise to Major General’s rank had been nothing short of meteoric, and the familiarity between senior officers was something she had not yet acquired.
“Between us we can improve the Motherland’s understanding of our enemies, purely by sharing and talking, without the standard defensiveness and posturing.”
She could only agree, and found her last suspicions about Kaganovich dissolving.
Picking up her schnapps, Nazarbayeva committed herself to a new relationship with the NKVD, in the person of Kaganovich, a relationship formed for the benefit of the Motherland and the leadership.
“Za zdorovje!”
The NKVD General smiled and swallowed his pickled egg before joining Tatiana in the toast.
“Za zdorovje!”
He toasted his new relationship with the GRU General, a relationship formed for the benefit of the Motherland… and himself.
“Now, we simply must find a way to make our leadership acknowledge the new threat from the Germans.”
1737 hrs, Friday 15th March 1946, House of Madame Fleriot, La Vigie, Nogent L’Abbesse, near Reims, France.
The children were enjoying some quality time with their father in the garden room, which gave Anne-Marie the first real opportunity to discuss matters with her Aunt Armande.
The house itself was set in extensive woodland, which offered both privacy and security, the factors that had made Anne-Marie suggest it as an appropriate place to house the girls.
Aunt Armande had never experienced the pleasures of motherhood, her new husband and only love had been lost forever in the mires of the Western Front in 1918, and she was delighted to look after them.
That delight had turned to love, a love that was wholly returned, making the arrangement a total success.
That they had very quickly formed a bond with Anne-Marie, and vice-versa, was also a reason.
Ignoring the knocking that summoned the butler, both women settled to enjoy the hot chocolate, the timing and consumption of which had become a family habit, leastways in Armande Fleriot’s house.
“You seem very happy, chérie.”
“We have stopped them, and soon we will start rolling them back.”
Mme Fleriot snorted.
“That is not what I meant and you know it, Ami.”
Which Anne-Marie could only acknowledge with a smile.
A brief knock and the butler admitted himself, his face showing signs of indignant distress.
“Madame, there is an Army officer here with a message for your guests. He refuses to give it to me, stating he must hand it over in person.”
Clearly, the struggle for supremacy in the hall had been short but bitter, and the butler had been defeated.
“Then please ask him to come through, Jerome.”
“As you please, Madame.”
Within seconds, a Legion dispatch rider entered the room and came to attention in front of Mme Fleriot.
“My apologies for the interruption, Madame, but I was instructed to hand these orders over in person.”
“I understand totally, Caporal. Please do carry on.”
The Legionnaire turned to De Valois and saluted, noting how wonderful she looked out of uniform.
“They are for the Général, mon Capitan.”
He showed her the sealed envelope.
“I will take them on his behalf.”
“Non… I cannot, Mon Capitan. I was ord…”
“I understand your orders, Caporal, but the Général is with his children right now and, if these are what I think they are, then we should give him every moment we can, don’t you agree?”
Stories of De Valois’ beauty abounded in Legion circles, whereas her capacity to intimidate was a lot less well known.
Her suddenly piercing eyes carried a clear message to the Caporal.
“I will take the orders, Caporal.”
It was a statement that brooked no argument whatsoever.
“Thank you, Caporal.”
Tearing the letter open, it took Anne-Marie twenty seconds to read the contents.
“I understand these orders, Caporal.”
“And you will give them to the Général immediately, Capitan?”
“I will inform the Général as soon as I can, Caporal.”
“Thank you, Capitan.”
A swift salute, followed by another nod to Mme Fleriot, and the motorcyclist went to depart.
“Caporal, perhaps you might ask Jerome to find you some food and drink from the kitchen, before you go back out.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
“I heard a bike
outside. Have we got visitors, Ami?”
Anne-Marie passed over the orders.
“Verdamnt.”
“I agree. Tonight?”
He thought for a moment.
“Has to be. The girls and I had plans for you tomorrow too, Ami.”
He had quickly taken to using the abbreviated form of her name.
“They’ll keep, Chéri. Now, we’d best tell them… and get packed straight away.”
Greta and Magda were both heartbroken.
1011 hrs, Saturday 16th March 1946, Headquarters, Legion Corps D’Assaut, La Mairie, D’Essey les Nancy, France.
Molyneux cut St.Clair a cutting look.
“You’re late.”
He knew Molyneux well enough not to even bother speaking about the Sherman tank that ran into his staff car; the Frenchman simply kept his lips sealed.
“Now that Général de Brigade St.Clair has finally bothered to show up, we can progress.”
Receiving a small box from Plummer, Molyneux tossed it carelessly to the new arrival.
“It seems someone deems your actions in Alsace worthy of some record. De Lattre asks me to present you with that.”
St.Clair opened the box to find a Croix de Guerre with palm inside.
Molyneux intended the slight, but the rest of those present gave him no opportunity to progress, noisily congratulating the French commander of Alma on his award.
“Yes, yes, enough of that.”
Standing up, Molyneux pulled his tight jacket into position and took a position of parade ease.
“Colonel Plummer has orders for all of you.”
The CoS moved forward and handed out the sealed envelopes, pausing to noisily congratulate St.Clair as he moved through the assembled commanders of the Legion Corps.
Unperturbed, the rhino-skinned Molyneux kept talking.
“Most of you have disengaged with the enemy now, and your units are in secondary or rear-line positions recuperating, so your orders should be easy enough to discharge, even for you.”
He turned to the recently promoted Major-General Pierce.
“As for you, Général Pierce. Your unit is being returned to the US Army. As of now, you are no longer under my direct command. Bon chance.”
Whilst most in the room understood that Molyneux was an ass of the first order, his virtual dismissal of Pierce was inexplicable, given the part that his 16th Armored had played in the Legion’s battles.
“Well, open your orders then!”
Envelopes rustled, tore, and surrendered up written instructions.
“Mein Gott!”
“Mon Dieu!”
“Merde!”
“Scheisse!”
The senior French officers of the Legion Corps, and even Pierce, gravitated towards the wall map, fingers searching out the stated locations, whereas Knocke and Bittrich knew only too well.
“Stop acting like a rabble and listen to me.”
They dragged themselves away from the map and formed a semi-circle around their commander’s desk, Molyneux having taken to his comfortable chair again.
“Général Beveren, Austerlitz will be able to disengage on Monday. Colonel Haefali’s brigade will be the last to entrain, as he will not be relieved until Wednesday.”
“Sir.”
“Général Lavalle, Normandie will form the vanguard when we move forward.”
“Sir.”
Molyneux looked down his nose at the commander of Group Normandie.
“Oui, Mon Général, if you please.”
Lavalle kept silent just long enough to express his contempt.
“Of course, Sir. Oui, Mon Général.”
It was one of the pointless exchanges that they had all become used to.
Plummer coughed, drawing Molyneux’s attention to another matter.
“Yes, I know.”
Unhappy at the interruption, the Corps Commander took a studied sip of his tea before continuing.
“The latest wave of reinforcements from Sassy will be redirected to meet up with you in your new positions. Given the recent problems with spying, I hold each of your responsible for the men under your command.”
Finishing the last of his tea, he waved a dismissive hand.
“Now, get back to your units and discharge your orders, and I will not tolerate any delays,” he looked directly at St.Clair, “Or lateness.”
“What a prick.”
Knocke kept his response minimal.
“I can only agree, General.”
Others murmured their agreement with Pierce’s opinion of Molyneux.
Far from being dismissive of Pierce and his men, the veteran SS and French officers had come to understand what a fine fighting force the man had constructed out of a savaged and beaten unit. The 16th US Armored Brigade was a formation that would do its job, and do it damned well.
Knocke spoke for all of them.
“We will miss you and your men, General Pierce.”
Pierce smiled at a man who had once been his enemy.
“And we’ll miss fighting alongside you and yours, General Knocke.”
The US Officer looked at the assembly.
“We’ll miss all of you. It’s been a privilege to be part of this command.”
The group responded with similar comments.
Knocke held up his hand.
“Before our illustrious leader decides to have another fit, I suggest that we get on with the job in hand.”
They all laughed.
“General Pierce, it has been an honour, Sir.”
Pierce grasped the proffered hand.
“That it has, General Knocke.”
Each one in turn shook the American’s hand and exchanged soldier’s farewells, until only Lavalle remained.
“Whilst I remember it, General, you hang on to my boys until you’re up to speed on the vehicles and weapons, then send ‘em on back.”
Even in the heat of the moment, Pierce had remembered the training group he had sent to the Legion to help familiarise them with US equipment.
“Thank you, Général, I’ll get them back to you as soon as possible.”
Taking Pierce’s hand, Lavalle’s French emotions nearly got the better of him, for he had come to rely on and trust the gruff US General.
“It has been a privilege to command you in battle, my friend, and I hope you and your men will, someday soon, return home to the peace you deserve.”
Pierce smiled, understanding Lavalle’s difficulty.
“So do I, General, and I hope that for both of us… for all of us.”
They came to attention and snapped off immaculate salutes, Lavalle letting Pierce leave the building first.
They would never meet again, and Lavalle and Pierce would find ‘peace’ in very different ways.
The Legion Corps D’Assaut was moving north, like most of the French Army in Europe.
They were to be the left flank of de Lattre’s First French Army, directly on the right flank of the German Republican Army…
…in the Ardennes.
1521 hrs, Saturday 16th March 1946, Headquarters, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st US Airborne Division, St-Hilaire le Grand, France.
“Colonel! Skata! Will you wake up, for the love of God!”
The Airborne Division had been brought up to strength with transferees and newly qualified paratroopers, and the leadership of the 101st had reported that the unit would be at its absolute peak when called into action again. The 501st Regiment had been training all day and night, and the exhausted troopers had taken to their beds, not to be roused before the mess hall was ready to receive them for dinner.
At least, that was the order issued by Colonel Marion Crisp, which order was now well and truly broken by the insistent shaking of his Greek-American executive officer, Major Constantine Galkin.
“What the f… where’s the goddamned fire, Con?”
Taking a respectful step backwards, Galkin allowed his commander to compose himself.
“Sorry, Chief, but I couldn’t let ya sleep.”
Wiping the muck from his eyes, Crisp sat up, and gestured towards the ever-present pot.
“Coffee.”
Crisp was never a morning person, not that it was actually morning; he always valued his sleep.
Galkin poured two mugs and passed one to the slowly surfacing Crisp.
Downing the scalding liquid and willing himself into consciousness, Crisp flipped himself vertical and let his feet touch the cold floor.
“Fire away, Con.”
“General’s orders. Senior Officer’s meeting at headquarters at 1700 hours.”
Crisp groaned as he looked at his watch, now realising that he was being parted from his bed after less than three hours of sleep.
“OK, fair enough. Any clues on why?”
“We’re on.”
Crisp’s mind was suddenly alert and fully concentrated.
“Say again?”
“Orders came through. They’ve handed us a bitch and… leastways from what my spies tell me… it’s a bitch we get to ride in ten days’ time.”
Crisp did the maths quickly
‘Ten days… err… today’s the 16th… Saturday… so we’re talking Tuesday 26th March.’
“That ain’t a whole heap of time, now is it!”
Galkin finished his coffee.
“Guess that’s why the General’s getting everything sorted straight away. I’ll have your driver ready for 1600.”
Conscious that his commander had not appreciated his nakedness, Galkin beat a hasty retreat.
“I’ll leave you to it, Colonel.”
Running his fingers through matted hair, Crisp took a few deep breaths.
‘Shit!’
The 101st was going back to war again.
1526 hrs, Saturday 16th March 1946, Ward 22, US 130th Station Hospital, Chiseldon, England.
Major Jocelyn Presley was less than happy with the discovery.
A large number of personal effects had accumulated in the loft space above the sluice.
