by Colin Gee
Outside there was a silence of sorts.
No bombs.
No firing.
The occasional whimper of a hideously wounded man.
“So, what do we have?”
“Mess hall is still standing. Re-establish there and get ourselves sorted out quickly?”
Chuikov shook his head.
“I think not. Find me an alternate place, nothing fancy, a chair in the fucking woods’ll do, a radio and a phone,” he looked around him, “But I’ll not do business here again.”
Chuikov climbed out from under the table and dusted himself down, only then realizing that his left thumbnail was blacker than a lump of Siberian coal.
Shouts from outside seemed to indicate that the enemy attack was over.
“Right, Alex. Let’s get this fucking mess sorted.”
Things for Chuikov were much worse than he had first imagined.
The whimpering drew his attention to an awful sight.
A quadruple Maxim mount, the source of the metallic thump against the bunker wall, had pinned its mangled gunner to the blood splattered concrete.
What was moaning was not really recognizable as a human being.
Chuikov fumbled with his holster but the wreck gave up its last breath on cue.
The commander of the 1st Alpine Front looked around him.
The first thing he really noticed was the absence of trees. The Chateau was a decoy, his actual headquarters buried in the adjacent woods, camouflaged by real trees and netting and, as he thought, undetectable.
The results of the efforts of Allied photographic interpreters lay all around him.
Nearly two thirds of his headquarters staff had been obliterated in the first attack, the huge bombs taking out a large number of those off-duty as well as in the headquarters bunker.
Only two platoons of his security detail remained, shocked and stunned by the loss of so many of their comrades.
His radio equipment had all gone; nothing was salvageable, or at least, they couldn’t even try until the flames were extinguished.
Telephone communications were out, the bomb that had cut his call with Zhukov taking out the telephone exchange with an inch perfect arrival.
He suddenly had a thought.
‘Zhukov? Why Zhukov, not Konev?’
The few wounded were being spirited away, bearing injuries of the hideous nature that accompanies the application of high-explosive to the human body.
As Chuikov walked around the site, he recognized bits and pieces, lumps and slivers of things that had once been the sons and daughters of Mother Russia.
‘This is fucking worse than the Mamayev.’
Coming from the Victor of Stalingrad, who had stood and held at the Mamayev Kurgan, that was an admission indeed.
He was not alone, for every Front command, and some Army commands, had received visits from the Allied air forces and, in truth, some of them were much worse off than 1st Alpine.
Impatience was a Chuikov trait that was not always a vice, and he had travelled to the headquarters of 4th Guards Cavalry Corps, on occasion dodging the roaming Allied ground attack aircraft by the skin of his teeth.
The only vehicle he had found capable of immediate use was the trophy Zundapp motorcycle combination that had been the plaything of the now dead Front Political officer.
His arrival at the unattacked headquarters deep in the Schlieflinger Wald was greeted with no amusement, the soldiers all aware that something terrible was in progress.
Chuikov arrived in the office of the Corps commander unannounced.
Lieutenant General Fedor Kamkov sprang to his feet, still holding the telephone that had been denying all his attempts to speak to the man who was now in front of him.
“Comrade Marshal, what’s going on?”
Chuikov took a few minutes to fill him in on the details, such as he knew.
A few minutes later, 4th Guards’ headquarters started to put out contacts to other units, trying to establish a picture for Chuikov.
By the time that Chuikov had established an element of control, the Allies had ruptured his lines in at least two places.
Once Bogoliubov had got some sort of effective headquarters put together, the 1st Alpine commander issued some final instructions to Kamkov and mounted the Zundapp for the brief ride back to Klagenfurt.
1058 hrs, Friday, 29th March 1946, St Ruprecht district, Klagenfurt, Austria.
1st Alpine’s headquarters was now spread through a number of buildings in a section of St Ruprecht in the southern suburbs of Klagenfurt.
The previous day had seen the destruction of acres of woodland around Krumpendorf and Viktring, as Allied bombers sought out the command structure.
Front signal troops had worked miracles establishing a means of communications that half measured up to the one that had suffered at the opening of the Allied offensive.
Chuikov was taking advantage of his new freedom by shouting down the phone at Zhumachenko, the harassed commander of 40th Army, one of the formations that had taken the biggest hits.
“I don’t give a fuck, General. You are not authorized to withdraw, not now, not later, not tomorrow. Is that clear?”
He clicked his fingers, summoning a map.
Running his dirty fingers over the creased paper, he confirmed his thoughts.
“Now listen to me, Comrade Zhumachenko. You will hold the line from… Tolmezzo across to… what does that say?”
Bogoliubov strained his eyes.
“Moggio di Sotto…”
“Moggio di Sotto… and above all, you and the Yugoslavians will hold Tarvisio, clear? What do you have there at the moment?”
He spat to one side as an unsatisfactory answer was delivered.
“No, no, no, that’s not enough. Put more there and do it fucking quickly, man!”
Lighting a cigarette, the Marshal relaxed back into a rocking chair.
“Look, Comrade. The capitalists’ve caught us by surprise, by there’s no chance of them breaking us, provided your army sits fucking tight and holds. I’m getting 7th Tanks and 4th Cavalry to dig in hard in the Gail valley, and you’ll provide the time for that. I wish you good luck, Comrade.”
Terminating the call, Chuikov waited whilst his CoS received a written report, expecting it to be more bad news.
He was clearly right as Bogoliubov rummaged for another map.
“Comrade Marshal, 7th Guards Army has a big problem.”
He held out the written report but Chuikov declined to take it.
“Show me.”
“Here… at Vipiteno… 53rd Rifle Division is uncontactable and here… at Imst… 28th Tanks have come under direct fire… in a rear line position.”
“Get me Shumilov immediately.”
The signals officer got to work immediately whilst Bogoliubov proffered the signal again.
“Report originates from Quartermaster Mayor General Alexandrov of 7th’s rear services.”
“What have we got to spare?”
“27th Army of course, but you want to save that for counterattacking still.”
“Only if we have something else we can send, Comrade.”
Examining the unit roster, Bogoliubov married names with places, and found some assets.
“163rd Rifle Division is resting here at Telfs.”
“Good, good… more.”
“115th Guards Anti-tank Artillery Regiment is here,” he sought out the location and placed his finger on it, “At Nassereith, complete with a Shtrafbat.”
“Excellent, get them moving immediately, place them under the command of 28th Tanks. I know the man and he’ll do the job. Tell the 28th what’s coming and that he is to hold his ground at all costs.”
The signals officer held out a radio handset.
“Comrade Colonel General Shumilov, Comrade Marshal.”
Chuikov took the handset swiftly.
“Comrade General…”
Showing unusual patience, Chuikov gave the man some
licence to vent his anguish, waiting until the man had fired out his report and expected plea for air cover and reinforcements.
“Mikhail Stepanovich, you know you can whistle for air cover, but I’m working on your problem right now. 28th Tanks has reported as engaged at Imst. I’ve sent 115th Guards Anti-tank and what’s left of the 163rd Rifle to bolster that position. What you’ve just told me fits that scenario… wait.”
The map lay open in front of him and the Marshal did some swift calculations.
“I’ll authorize an adjustment to the line based on Imst to Vipiteno, which you must retake immediately. Clear?”
Chuikov’s eyes flashed in fury.
“I don’t give a fuck! You’ll damn well do it or I’ll find someone with the balls to do it and you’ll be counting fucking trees!”
Chuikov took a sip of his tea as he listened to Shumilov’s angry retort, knowing that he had wound the competent man into coiled spring with his words.
“Good, Mikhail Stepanovich. Now, above all, you will hang onto 1st Southern and 26th Army. No gaps that the bastards can slip through. Your priorities are to protect Innsbruck and the routes to the north into Germany. Do you understand your orders, Comrade General?”
“Fine. Now, put someone on who can fill my staff in on your dispositions please. Good luck, Comrade.”
Handing the phone to an aide, Chuikov stood and looked at the situation map, knowing that it was already outdated.
Author’s note - The Heracles Missions
Allied Commanders had decided that, in conjunction with the main assaults of Spectrum, precision bombing missions would be dispatched to take out the headquarters of the Soviet Fronts and other priority formations.
The limiting factors were the availability of properly trained aircrew, a similar issue with suitably modified aircraft, and limited stocks of the devices that were to be employed; namely the Tallboy and Grand Slam super bombs.
Planners decided on ten missions in total, which left some of both types of bomb in reserve for priority missions in support of the objectives of Spectrum.
Below are the now accepted results of the Heracles missions.
Heracles I - HQ, Red Banner Armies of Soviet Europe.
Smashed, rendered ineffective, heavy casualties amongst Frontal command staff, and with Marshal Konev killed. The command group needed to be completely re-established. Zhukov took command from distance in the interim.
Heracles II - HQ, 1st Polar Front.
Heavily damaged, rendered ineffective but command fully restored within three days. Alexandrovich was amongst the wounded, and he succumbed to his wounds on 2nd April.
Heracles III - HQ, 1st Karelian Front.
Smashed, rendered ineffective, with heavy casualties amongst Frontal staff. Govorov was badly wounded.
Heracles IV - HQ, 1st Baltic Front.
Missed its objective completely. Allied intelligence was misled, and an alternate command position was bombed instead. This was, perhaps, the biggest failure of the Heracles Missions.
Heracles V - HQ, 1st RB Central European Front.
Command facility totally destroyed, with heavy casualties to Frontal staff, but, due to Malinovsky’s organisation and alternate deployments, with only slight disruption to command ability.
Heracles VI - HQ, 2nd RB Central European Front.
Heavy damage and rendered ineffective for four days. Heavy casualties to Frontal command staff. Petrov, temporary commander, was amongst the dead.
Heracles VII - HQ, 3rd RB Central European Front.
Light damage inflicted overall, but severe damage specifically to communications. Restored to full working ability within four days.
Heracles VIII - HQ, 1st Southern European Front.
Smashed and rendered totally ineffective. However, 1st SEF had a mirror facility set up to train replacement personnel. This was swiftly organised to take over control, resulting in less than 24 hours disruption. Yeremenko was slightly wounded and continued without a break.
Heracles IX - HQ, 1st Alpine Front.
Severely damaged and rendered ineffective. Heavy casualties to Frontal staff. Chuikov was slightly wounded and remained in command.
Heracles X - HQ, 1st Balkan Front.
Modest damage and casualties, including Tolbukhin wounded, albeit lightly.
Six RAF and one RAAF aircraft were lost, with four of those from one mission, that being Heracles X.
Debate on the effectiveness of these missions continues to this day, and it is certain that the failure to inflict any damage on 1st Baltic counts greatly against Heracles.
However, the prime target was obliterated, including the commander of the Soviet Armies, Konev, and success also came in the killing or incapacitating three more Front commanders. It should be noted that two of those were against targets that were engaged purely to maintain the illusion of threat to Northern areas.
Had the Allies been more successful in removing the true talent of the Red Army, such as Malinovsky, Bagramyan and Yeremenko, then perhaps history would trumpet the Heracles Missions as a success.
For now, we must be content with reading the opinions and arguments of historians, and form our own opinions as best we can.
It is my opinion that Heracles did a little to change the initial resistance offered by the Red Army, but achieved little, if anything, in the long run.
1008 hrs, Monday, 1st April 1946, the Kremlin, Moscow.
The mood was sombre, despite the threatening eyes of the General Secretary rounding on anyone who seemed in the slightest bit defeated.
“We have been in situations like this before and we have triumphed each and every time, Comrades.”
More than one person in the room understood the vital differences this time around, although clearly not the man who really needed to do so.
“Now, we have a mess to deal with. Comrade Zhukov.”
Standing at a much-changed military situation map, the Marshal, white and shaky, briefed the listening GKO on the strategic situation.
“The Allied armies and air forces have launched heavy attacks that appear to be aimed at these major objectives.”
“Munich.”
“Prague.”
“Berlin.”
He paused before tapping the map for a fourth time.
“Poland.”
“In Italy and Austria, Marshal Chuikov has slowed their advance and is confident that he can stop further major incursions. Here the Allies have been clever, and have tried to avoid combat in any areas where the Yugoslav Army is drawn in on our side. We have tried to provoke such a thing but have not yet succeeded. Perhaps Comrade Molotov may be able to provide us with happier news on our Yugoslavian comrades’ future commitment?”
Eyes swivelled to the Foreign Minister, who shifted uneasily under the heavy scrutiny.
“Comrades, I can report that further attempts to persuade Comrade Tito to our side have been fruitless… in fact, my report indicates no sense of shift in his position, although we are told that another brigade of their soldiers has volunteered to fight for the cause.”
One brigade wasn’t going to make a huge difference, but it was the best thing that Molotov could offer.
Stalin spoke through puffs on his favourite pipe.
“So, the great communist… will not join the great struggle against… capitalism… not join the great cause… and sweep Europe clean of fascists forever… why not?”
Molotov eased his collar like a silent movie star.
“Because he says he will not ally himself with the losing side and risk communism’s extinction, Comrade General Secretary.”
There was a silence, broken only by the sound of an angry man sucking on a pipe.
With a calm he did not feel, Stalin pointed at Zhukov.
“When we’ve defeated the capitalists, you’ll present me with a plan to knock that treacherous piece of shit off his perch, Comrade Marshal. Now, continue.”
Still in the early stages of the heart atta
ck that would hospitalize him for some weeks, Zhukov struggled on.
“Every front has suffered heavy casualties, every rear echelon has been savaged by their air attacks.”
He turned to the map.
“However, here, under Marshal Bagramyan, we’ve inflicted great losses on the enemy, mainly British. The incursion into Poland has been halted, their attempts to link up with the bridgehead have been stopped dead at Wismar, although the southern flank is threatened by the advance of the new German Army cutting upwards and trying to join up with a British thrust down from Denmark. Marshal Bagramyan is confident he can extricate his forces, and I have given him permission to withdraw this group,” he indicated the armies between Bremen and Bielefeld.
Stalin remained silent, unexpectedly.
“The Polish excursion has been further reinforced but it would seem unlikely that more assets will arrive. It is contained for now and we will be strong enough to reduce it very soon.”
“The Poles?”
Beria had wanted to let his NKVD divisions loose but, unusually, Stalin had stayed his hand.
“Some remained loyal. Although it is certain that some were involved in the Allied landings and airborne operations. Fortunately, we stripped a lot of their assets to bolster our own forces in Europe, so most of their units are under equipped, although the Allies may well have supplied the traitors with arms themselves.”
Zhukov steadied himself and more people started to notice his colour.
“Once the loyal Poles can be disengaged, we will reorganize them and move them to an area away from their countrymen. Comrade Marshal Beria’s force can then operate in the full knowledge that they will be dealing with only traitors.”
Zhukov took a deep breath.
“The bridgehead is contained at this time.”
Stalin relit his pipe and gesticulated at the map.
“So, Comrade Marshal, we have pretty markings that show us that the Allies have made advances. It was to be expected, of course.”
No-one would have dared voice such an expectation a week previously, but the General Secretary operated under different rules.
