Reilly sat back in his chair, trying to make sense of his new life. The Russians knew he would report anything he learned about their armored forces back to America, yet they allowed him to tour his plants and see all of their carefully guarded secrets. He understood the description of Russia as an enigma wrapped in a mystery and knew the laws of reason and rationality did not function there. Spying, though was not in his blood. He had convinced himself using a Russian logic. If the country you’re spying on knows you are a spy, then you are not really a spy. The Bolsheviks were also getting something from him: his insight on suspension and drive trains with the new KV-1 utilizing a derivation of the Christie system.
For all of his professional success, his personal life was even brighter. Natasha had accompanied him to the city, and their last night in Leningrad he had used an old ruse to show off his most distinctive feature. In his room sipping the ubiquitous vodka he’d started the conversation with a question.
“Do Russian men get tattoos?”
The word puzzled Natasha, forcing him to roll up his sleeve and reveal the four nines inked into his skin.
“What is this?” She asked.
“Something from college,” he muttered. “Something dumb I did when I was drunk, really drunk.”
Natasha had brought her face close to the tattoo. “I don’t understand. What does it mean?”
Reilly hesitated, unwilling to admit his age, even though it was his status as an American, rather than age that attracted Natasha to him. “I was born on September 9, 1899. Numerically, that translates to 9-9-99. Four nines.”
“I like it, it is so rough but you are so smart.” She reached low on him “But I like this more.”
“So young,” Reilly sighed, reaching for her but Natasha avoided his grasp.
“I must go, Jimmy.”
“No, stay, no one will know, please,” pleaded Reilly.
Natasha rushed from the room, preventing Reilly from filling in the blanks that was her past. She had lived originally in Moscow, married to a low level party functionary named Boris. The marriage was brief as Boris met his end during the inspection of a tractor factory. While watching the workers he was crushed when a scaffolding collapsed on him. The scaffold had been built to impress the Moscow delegation to offer them a view of the factory’s impressive production procedures. The delegation declined to use it, preferring to walk among the heroic workers on the factory floor.
Natasha shed few tears when speaking of Boris, who had turned to alcohol when she could not produce a child. Reilly, though, was delighted Boris unselfishly surrendered his life in the tireless effort to increase production for the state. His death had opened new opportunities. Marina’s uncle, Mikhail Koshkin, was head of the Kharkov bureau. After her time in Moscow University she used her family connections and was reward with a posting to Kharkov before being assigned as Reilly’s assistant. At times she seemed more a baby sitter than a true assistant though neither minded.
Reilly’s meditation was interrupted by Natasha rushing into the small room. Her eyes were wide, hair disheveled, breaths shallow and frequent. Reilly’s stomach sank, fearing the authorities had uncovered their relationship, swift and severe punishment certain to follow.
“The Fascists have attacked the Motherland! They have crossed the border everywhere in Belorussia!”
Reilly could not hide his relief. Their love affair, as it was, could continue. He rose and grabbed her shoulders, “I haven’t heard this, I have been here all day. Are you certain? Maybe it’s just more propaganda”
Natasha shook her head, “It is not from the radio, it is from the technicians who went with the three KV-1’s sent to Smolensk.”
Smolensk was east of Minsk which was the capital of Belorussia. Three of the early production KV-1’s were shipped at the end of April for field trials along with technicians. He did not question how Natasha heard the news from them; the Russians moved in mysterious ways and she was unlikely to reveal how she had learned of the invasion
“Maybe it is a demonstration, a provocation,” Reilly said. He had been hearing official warnings for weeks the Germans would attempt to goad the Soviet Union into an attack. Reilly could not understand how the Germans would benefit from a Soviet attack. The German Blitzkreig required concentration of tanks and no country on the planet had more tanks than the Soviet Union. Reilly estimated that if the tanks of every country in the world were combined they would equal the machines produced by the Soviets. He had seen the factories and the speed at which they turned out armored forces, and knew the Germans could never match what Stalin was prepared to place on the battlefield.
Not only were the Soviet tanks more numerous, but they were better than any tank he had seen produced in Germany or the rest of Europe. Having spent time with the German’s main battle tank, a captured PzKpfw III, he had come to a devastating conclusion: the German’s weapon of choice for Blitzkrieg was a joke. Its 37 mm cannon was pathetic and over engineered; it was designed for the broad roads of Western Europe rather than the primitive terrain of the Soviet Union. He imagined the Germans being stopped as their tanks broke apart.
“I don’t think so Jimmy.”
“Natasha, listen to me,” Reilly shook her. “We don’t have to worry, the Soviets, we have thousands of tanks. I designed those tanks, they are better than anything the Fascists can use against us. Hitler’s panzers will be destroyed and the Nazis will be defeated.”
Reilly was jolted by his words, sounding more like Russian radio while using “we” in describing the Soviet’s forces. Though he believed the Soviet armor would crush the Nazis he feared his analysis was colored by years of Soviet propaganda.
“Wait until they run into the KV-1.”
II
May 11, 1940
Etienne Descoteaux did not need to read the newspapers to know the new world he faced. An entire day had passed since the Germans launched across the Soviet border. Laval had returned from an emergency cabinet meeting, informing Etienne the government was staying the course then fleeing the city for another of his forays into the countryside to burnish his image among the rural classes. Etienne knew the foreign minister wanted to avoid the inevitable conflict over the Franco-Soviet defense pact signed in 1935 to protect both countries from Germany. Laval had negotiated the agreement and knew the best method of avoiding its terms. It would be Etienne’s responsibility to share it with the Soviet ambassador.
Francois had been waiting for him raised on his toes; an international crisis allowing him to use all of his university training. He had followed the deputy foreign minister to his office; Francois shifted from foot to foot, barely able to contain his eagerness.
“What will happen?” He finally asked after Etienne had ignored him while puttering in his desk.
The deputy remained calm. “Little has changed for France, we are secure in our defensive neutrality and the Germans are moving east, far from French territory.”
“Will the Germans defeat the Soviets?” Francois asked.
“It will be a difficult war, a long and difficult war. Stalin and the communists will not quit; defeat would mean death for them and their system. The communists are evil and brutal.”
Francois eyed Etienne with newfound respect, confident in the deputy foreign minister’s predictive powers. “The Soviet Union’s ambassador is scheduled.”
“They will also want us to attack.”
“The communists?”
“Stalin is a fool. He had a chance to work out an arrangement with Hitler, to make him move west. He waited too long, he was not as farsighted as Minister Laval.” This was not just empty praise or a subordinate trying to earn points with his boss, instead it was what the entire foreign ministry believed to be true. Laval was playing a different diplomatic game than the others. He had made deals with former enemies and arrangements with the Fuhrer while, ignoring the British who had betrayed France. He had successfully prevented another long war on French soil. Laval had set the Fren
ch nation on the correct path.
Francois left the mauve room as the Soviets arrived. Etienne slipped away. It was never an effective tactic to be the one waiting for the other state’s ambassador. He had to offer the image of being busy; he accepted a brief and hurried meeting with the option to depart at any time. Returning to his office he stared out his window, a light drizzle began and slowed traffic. Parisians were enjoying the last days of summer, a far off war in a barely known country not affecting them. They had faith in Marshal Petain and Minister Laval. Etienne was heartened to serve such great men, to know they had France first and the proper view that the Bolshevik barbarians were worse than the Nazis.
After several minutes of buoying his spirits, Etienne returned to the mauve room to find the same nervous ambassador and his minder though the burly man remained at his side to inhibit unauthorized conversation.
Ambassador Stravinsky had more to say, though he never looked at Etienne, eyes focused on a spot on the wall a foot or so past his head. “The Soviet government is invoking the French-Soviet defense pact.”
Etienne expected this and offered a riposte. “The pact requires the acquiescence of Britain and Italy. In due time we will be contacting the governments of both to ensure their approval of military action against Germany.” Etienne was able to maintain his composure, knowing the Italian government, which had declared war on the Soviet Union and provided troops in the south, would hardly turn on their German ally.
Stravinsky glanced at his companion, who nodded. This gave the ambassador a second wind. “We are seeking a joint statement with the French government that the intrusion by the Germans on Soviet soil is considered an attack on both countries.”
Etienne sighed then motioned for Stravinsky to sit, his companion standing at one side, focusing hard on the ambassador.
“The French government is not prepared to mount a military adventure.”
The Soviet blinked, then murmured. “The British have expressed an interest in joining the Soviet effort against the German barbarians.”
Etienne brightened. “That will be the basis of your communiqué. The Soviet government can guarantee the British Isles, and Britain can do the same for Soviet territory.”
Ambassador Stravinsky fell silent, clearly expecting the mention of the British would draw immediate agreement from the French. Instead he was left standing as the French abandoned their old ally. The ambassador offered no response having glanced at his minder who remained silent,
Etienne filled the verbal vacuum. “The French government will offer its good offices to negotiate a cease fire between Germany and the Soviet Union.”
“The Soviet govern -,” Stravinsky was cut off by a grunt from the minder. A quick jerk of his head brought the ambassador from the settee and to a corner of the room out of earshot. Etienne understood some Russian but had little interest in the exact words offered. His rejection of the Franco-Soviet pact had unsettled the pair. Tethered to Moscow and Stalin, they lacked the flexibility of the Laval ministry, any deviation from the script shutting them down.
After nearly a minute of forceful whispering, the pair returned, the ambassador slumping on the settee looking much like a man forced to deliver bad news. Instead he was delivering no news. “The Soviet government has no comment on your proposal.”
Etienne suspected as much. The boldness of the French proposal hid its utter vagueness. The Germans were not going to pull back across the border and the Russians would not negotiate with a country that invaded them. The proposal only froze the others which protected France and allowed it to avoid a declaration of war.
The two men eyed each other. One was frightened, certain that the French refusal to issue a statement with his country had signed his death warrant. The other was confident that his nation was protected by the combination of a defensive line and nimble diplomacy. Etienne had run out of words, while Stravinsky was too terrified to speak. A quick jerk of his head was followed by his scurrying from the room, followed closely by his handler.
Etienne expelled the air that had been building up in his lungs. If the NKVD unnerved him he could imagine how it made ordinary Russians feel. Francois arrived to announce the Russians’ departure. He was disheveled again and shaking. Etienne eyed him. “Problem with the Russians?”
“They are cruel, “he murmured.
“They live in a cruel country with the weather, nature, invaders from east and west.” Etienne enjoyed offering a brief history lessons as French schools had declined in quality since the third republic began.
“The ambassador appeared frightened.
Etienne nodded. “The man with him? NKVD.”
Francois’ forehead crinkled with the thought, the letters meaning nothing to him.
“The interior police.” Etienne struggled to explain. “But instead of questioning you in a room they torture and kill those they suspect.”
“They should not be our allies,” Francois murmured.
“They will not be with Minister Laval in command. The agreement between France and the Soviet Union is no longer binding,” Etienne declared. “This government will not spill one drop of French blood for the communists.”
Francois nodded in agreement as he was personally familiar with some who would be called on to spill that blood.
22
May 14, 1940
A clear and deep blue sky greeted Rudi on his fourth morning in Belorussia. He was 80 kilometers northeast of Slutsk, his starting point. The days and nights had passed without notice; Rudi used both to snatch a few hours of sleep where possible. They had reached their location after crossing the Berezina River in the previous day’s fading light. Rumbling across the old wooden bridge located by Groesbeck’s motorcycle platoon, Rudi worried the structure would collapse under the weight of Helga.
Rudi fetched water from the river and began to shave. His hand trembling from the chill and exhaustion, he sliced his face, a stream of blood running down his neck. He stopped the bleeding and scraped the stubble from his skin. He was presentable to any commander who might appear for an inspection.
A clean shaven Schmidt watched Rudi with approval. He spread map across Helga’s bent front fender and motioned for the sergeant to join him. The lieutenant pointed to the map. “Minsk is here, northwest about 70 kilometers. This road, if you want to call it a road, runs straight to Barysaw east of the Berezina. Barysaw is on the Minsk-Moscow road, intersecting it looks like about 60 kilometers east of Minsk. Today, we will swing north and link up with Field Marshal Hoth’s pincer rolling down from the north. HQ reports they are almost to Barysaw.”
“What is this village?” Rudi pointed to a small circle on the map.
“It does not matter.”
“Herr Lieutenant, we are down to two operational panzers in our platoon.”
“Division headquarters has sent us four PzKpfw II’s from Platoon 1 and two platoons of motorized infantry. One of the infantry platoons is in SdKfz 251 halftracks. Lieutenant Groesbeck’s motorcycle platoon will lead.”
The news raised Rudi’s spirits. The halftrack was a fairly new vehicle for the panzer divisions, having entered service just before the Polish campaign. Much like the design of the artillery halftrack SdKfz 11, the Schutzenpanzerwagon 251 could keep pace with the advancing panzers while transporting infantry to the front. Its armored body offered protection from small arms fire while the two mounted machine guns cleared resistance. Rudi guessed their assignment was important, having been given the Second Panzer Division’s only battalion of motorized infantry equipped with the SdKfz 251. The remainders of division’s infantry would be forced to travel in trucks.
“What of artillery?”
“We are limited to a squad of infantry mortars,” Schmidt said. “We have a Flivo in another SdKfz 251 and a Storch spotter plane above. HQ doubts we will run into much organized resistance.”
“Groesbeck moves in 10 minutes. We go in 30.” Schmidt returned to his PzKpfw III.
The menti
on of Groesbeck irritated Rudi; the incident with the commissar fitting nicely with his dedication to the Nazi cause. The lieutenant’s rambling talks on the need to eliminate the Slav had infected some of the regiment, causing discipline in combat replaced by brutality. Rudi believed in the Party and the Fuhrer but could not understand the need to shoot the unarmed commissar after he surrendered. It was murder, his parents teaching him such acts were wrong regardless of when it was committed.
Rudi thought of home, his brother Jürgen enlisting in the Kreigsmarine, an unusual choice for the youngest of the clan who had hated the water. Months passed since his last contact with Jürgen, who was training in Kiel area, preparing for the naval war with Britain.
Adolf emerged from the denser woods having satisfied a call of nature. Rudi signaled him to Helga. “We’re moving out.”
II
Sasha’s determination to reach Barysaw had worn down Igor, who agreed to move north and east toward the Kolkhoz. They were aided in their trek by the German advance, the battlefront moving many times faster than their pace. Igor was relieved, knowing the Germans and the Red Army would shoot them if captured. They moved only at night, following the roads and covered a dozen kilometers each trip.
Food and water became their obsession. They discovered discarded rations, the woods covered with the detritus of a retreating army but even that food did not prove enough and there was little water. During the daytime, Igor kept watch while Sasha slept, sprawled on the ground as if on a Party youth camping excursion. When Sasha awoke the older man revealed his doubts.
“We cannot reach Barysaw on our own, we must find a military unit.”
Sasha shook at the thought. “I must return to my family.” He left out Marina.
Igor pursed his lips. “Your family has fled, the battle is approaching Barysaw, they will be evacuated. When we arrive we will find no one.” He waited for reality to sink into the boy’s mind. “There are soldiers all through these forests.” Their discarded rations were proof of that. “If we surrender to them, they might accept us. We are not soldiers, we are workers.” Igor tried to sound more confident than he felt.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 30
