by Colin Gee
“Anything else you see there?”
Clearly there was something to be seen, so Hank took his time.
“Staff car at the main building?”
“Nope.”
“New construction at the top end of the camp?”
“Nope.”
“Go on then.”
“Look at the woods to the west, those either side of the river.”
Hank compared the pictures.
“It’s summer, what do you expect, Pete? Things grow, pal.”
“And this one?”
He handed the most recent picture over.
“Shit. Where’s the river gone?”
In the previous comparison, Hank had spotted the flourishing growth, by the simple fact that, from above, the river width appeared reduced.
The final picture showed no river, implying that the trees had grown so much as to cover over the water completely… or…
“Netting?”
“Look at the tones… pretty much spot on… but not quite.”
“So you’re thinking what?”
“I’m thinking they’ve camo’ed it up for a damn good reason. That’s not all. In the woods itself… there’s a difference here and in tone here… look.”
There was. An almost imperceptible one, one easily missed unless the eye was trained and keen.
“Over here… in the camp… what do you see?”
“That’s easy… logs…”
Hank’s voice trailed away.
Two minds worked the problem.
“That’s trunks from at least eighty trees right there. Would make a noticeable hole in the woods in one place. Even if they’re just thinning out, we’d see something… but in any case… if you want lumber, just take it from the edge nearest you, eh?”
“Good point, Hank. Now, try this one on for size. Where are the pipe trucks now?”
“Still by the riv… hey, hang on… why are they up there?”
“And where’s the turned ground. There isn’t any, and we’d see it for sure.”
“Damn right we’d see it so…”
Henry Childs’ eyes narrowed.
“You gotta theory, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Pull the lieutenant in, cos I think he’s gonna wanna hear it too.”
The officer sat patiently listening as his men expounded their theory, occasionally looking at the pictures and trying to see things through their words.
The arguments were there.
The theories were supportable.
The evidence was open to interpretation, but that was their job, and it could make sense.
“Hold it right there, boys. You sold me. I’m going to drop this in front of the Colonel a-sap. Give me the photos.”
He took up the offered evidence.
“Good job, both of you. Come with me in case I get anything wrong.”
The Squadron Commander listened impassively, carefully examining the photos and listening to the Lieutenant’s explanation of what the two sergeants had discovered… thought they had discovered, the devil’s advocate in his brain reminded him.
As with most things, there were alternate explanations that he could offer, but the Lieutenant Colonel held his peace and let the young man continue.
Everything was thoroughly laid out for him to understand.
He could see everything clearly, and knew where his boys were coming from, so still held himself in check.
Up to the moment the Lieutenant addressed the pipe lorries’ present location.
“Why there? That’s away from the camp.”
“Sir, it is our belief that the Russians are laying the pipes in the water itself. Laying them against the current would be tricky to say the least… laying them with it is much easier…we can get some expert opinion on that, but it makes sense to me… which is why the lorries are there, heading away from Birkenau… or should I say the woods… and downstream to Bierun Nowy… here.”
His finger pointed at a small staging area that had been interpreted as a barge landing point, built by the local population to replace the town one destroyed by a combination of fighting and bombing.
“We haven’t had time yet, Sir, but I’m willing to bet that we’ll find barges docking at this point regularly over the last week or so… maybe more… and that we don’t see anything of note move into the town.”
The Lieutenant Colonel nodded his head, took off his glasses, and pushed himself back in his chair.
Filling his pipe, he ordered his own thoughts before speaking.
“So, Lieutenant, what exactly’s your bottom line here. Reach as much as you figure you need to, but tell me what you and your boys think’s actually happening here?”
He exchanged looks with the two sergeants, who could only offer silent encouragement.
“Colonel, Sir, we think that the barges are being used to transport fuel. They’ve taken terrible hits on their fuel, even though they went to smaller dumps a while back. We’ve caned them on the roads… and on the railways when they’ve tried that… makes sense that the Commies would try water.”
“Go on. Lieutenant.”
“The pipes are not water pipes… they’re fuel pipes, and they run from that little landing stage all the way to the woods. Our guess is that the little hut there is the pump that shifts it upriver.”
The Colonel’s puffing was increasing with each word.
“My guess… sorry, our guess is that the blocks are actually weights to hold the pipe down. A quick estimate puts it at four blocks to one section of pipe.”
He produced the photos that best showed the canopy of the woods.
“See here, Sir. The river is all but gone and, even though it’s summer, the trees ain’t gonna grow like that… and here… and here, Sir… the difference in the canopy. Our bet is that is netting, clever job, but not quite clever enough.”
He pointed to the pile of lumber in the camp, emphasising the fact that a work party was pulling one immense piece of timber from the direction of the woods.
“Where’s the hole these trees came from, eh? Why not take from the edge nearest you? Remember the trick they pulled before the war, where they hollowed out forests and created railway sidings and rallying points for huge formations? Our bet is they’re doing something in those woods, and a something to do with hiding their fuel supplies, Sir.”
The Lieutenant Colonel drew heavily on the rich smoke, nodding his head gently as his eyes moved from piece of evidence to piece of evidence.
“OK, Lieutenant. You sold me. I’m gonna get this up the line. Good work, boys, damn good work.”
1005 hrs, Thursday, 8th August 1946, 8th US Air Force Headquarters, Chateau de Foulze, Bourgingnons, France.
Lieutenant General James Doolittle had been up and working since five, and had decided to take advantage of the lovely morning and take a mind-clearing walk by the River Seine, which ran through the bottom of the extensive gardens surrounding the Chateau de Foulze.
His aide hunted him down there, and produced a document set that had travelled through the night from an airbase at Bad Nauheim.
Gesturing his aide to take a seat, Doolittle examined the report and the photographs, seeing exactly the picture that the Colonel’s words were trying to paint.
“Hot damn. You read this, Sam?”
Samuel Greenberg had, and was as excited as Doolittle.
“Sam, by God but we’re gonna hit this place, but not yet. If this is a policy change by the Commies, I want another appreciation done, actually a hell of a lot of ‘em… looking at potential sites where the fuckers might’ve pulled this on us elsewhere. If this is a change, we’ll get the all we can find in one hit.”
Mind clear and focussed, Doolittle led off at high speed, keen to get the orders out.
Two days later, the Allies had identified a possible four additional locations where a similar ploy might have been used.
The five missions were all aimed at targets near large civilian life risks, or camps
such as Birkenau, calling for precision strikes, rather than brutal area bombing.
The Soviets actually only had four such sites, and were relying on maskirovka to keep them safe.
By midday on the 11th August, four fuel storage sites and a large field hospital were destroyed by Martin Marauders and Mosquitoes from the RAF, USAAF, and the Armee de L’Air.
Had the planners and crews understood the full ramifications of what they had achieved, they would have celebrated into the next month, rather than the next day.
1604 hrs, Thursday, 8th August 1946, Headquarters of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe, Schloss Hartenfels, Torgau, Germany.
The four senior officers were enjoying a lighter moment, sampling the local pastries and enjoying tea in the sunshine of an idyllic summer’s afternoon.
Malinin regaled Nazarbayeva with stories of how the Germans once kept bears in the castle’s moat, whilst Vasilevsky contented himself with humming one of his favourite folk songs, in between bites of a nameless but delicious sugar coated something.
Tarasov, the recently appointed CoS of the RBFSE, simply enjoyed the sun.
Their sojourn was disturbed by the noisy arrival of Atalin, Zhukov’s loyal Colonel, bearing a report of great significance.
“Comrade Marshal… Comrade Marshal…”
Vasilevsky broke out of his idyll.
“Polkovnik Atalin. Is it some news from Comrade Zhukov?”
Atalin enjoyed Zhukov’s complete trust, and was often used on sensitive missions, such as the one he had recently discharged by bringing Vasilevsky a private letter from the ailing Marshal.
“No, Comrade Marshal. It has come from your communications officer. I said I would deliver it to you in person.”
He handed over the sheaf of papers.
Vasilevsky’s face went white as he read each in turn, attracting the full attention of those around him.
“Thank you, Comrade Atalin. Please, prepare yourself to fly out to Moscow almost immediately. Get some food inside you. There will be little time for rest from now on.”
The Marshal stood and acknowledged Atalin’s salute.
“Comrades, with me.”
He strode off towards his office, increasing his speed with every step, his face going from white to thunderous as the implications of the latest reports bored further into his thoughts.
1614 hrs, Thursday, 8th August 1946, private office of Marshal Vasilevsky, Schloss Hartenfels, Torgau, Germany.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“Job tvoju mat!”
Vasilevsky would normally have smiled at the woman’s outburst, but there was precious little for the commander in chief of a crippled and immobilised army to laugh about.
He turned to Tarasov and rattled off some requirements.
‘Fuel state of operational armies and fronts.’
‘Fuel reserve held locally by each front.’
‘Fuel marked as ‘in transit’ and not allocated.’
‘STAVKA fuel reserve.’
‘Fuel awaiting delivery to RBFSE.’
‘Fuel consumption minimums for the army.’
‘Anticipated fuel available from the Motherland over the next two weeks.’
Nazarbayeva watched as Malinin made some rough notes, summoning figures from the deeper recesses of his mind.
Tarasov departed at speed to seek out the information his commander in chief required, save the existing fuel stocks, which Malinin relayed from his notes.
“Comrade Marshal, from memory I believe that 1st Baltic last held 0.6 stocks at local level, 1st Red Banner 0.3, 2nd 0.6, 3rd 0.7, 1st Southern 0.8, and 1st Alpine was 1.2. All front reserves were at 0.5 as of yesterday evening.”
Vasilevsky nodded, knowing that Malinin’s recollections were probably good enough, but that a military front with a stock of 0.3 refills of its vehicles was as close to unable to properly manoeuvre as it could get under present circumstances.
“And of course, Comrade Marshal, that does not account for the inevitable losses that will come from enemy activity.”
“You bring joy, as ever, Comrade Malinin. STAVKA reserve… we must have some of that released.”
Nazarbayeva, horrified that Vasilevsky did not know what she knew, had her own bad news to add.
“Comrade Marshal, I can tell you that STAVKA reserve is virtually non-existent.”
Vasilevsky closed his eyes, hoping that he had misheard the shocking news, but could not avoid asking the question.
“Explain please, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
“I’ve made an error, Comrade Marshal. I thought you would know? I am… err… aware that STAVKA fuel reserves have been denuded to enhance the supply to the front, in order to maintain reasonable supplies for your intended operations against the Amerikanski forces.”
He sensed there was more, and there was.
“I’m also informed, by a very reliable source, that projections for output from our new sources are very much at the optimistic end, and that we should expect some delays before any reasonable flow is achieved, and then it will most likely be no more than 60% of what has been claimed, at least for the foreseeable future.”
NKVD second in command Kaganovich had shared the gloomy revision with Nazarbayeva during their last meeting, amongst other snippets, confirming that a number of things were not as they seemed to be.
Vasilevsky stood up, and the room’s occupants automatically came to attention.
He walked to the situation map, a smaller version of the main operations room map, but as up to date.
The silence was broken by a cursory knock and the entrance of Tarasov.
“Comrade Marshal. These are a quick set of initial figures. I have my men working on a definite set, but these should be reasonably accurate enough for you to see the situation.”
The Marshal accepted the swiftly typed document, and consumed the information without comments on the typing errors.
No errors could hide the enormity of the problem that leapt off the page, and he expressed himself like a peasant.
“Job tvoju mat!”
He passed the paper to Malinin.
The normally calm and collected officer simply drained of colour and re-read the damming figures.
Vasilevsky stuck out his hand, seeking to look again, hoping to find some crumb of comfort.
There was none.
“I must travel to Moscow as soon as possible. Comrade Tarasov, I want firm figures within the hour. Comrade Nazarbayeva, I would ask you to accompany me with your own latest reports. Comrade Malinin, we must conserve our resources as much as possible. You know what needs to be done. I’ll leave it all in your capable hands.”
Malinin nodded, understanding the mission Vasilevsky was about to undertake.
“Comrade Marshal…”
“Mikhail Sergeyevich. The army is my responsibility. This mission is my responsibility. Your orders are to preserve the army until such time as we have the means to resume the fight properly.”
Nazarbayeva was shocked to hear the words, even though she had grasped the implications of the Allied bombing missions.
“Comrade Marshal… you mean that you will recommend abandoning our offensive against the Americans? Resorting to defence only?”
He looked at the GRU General with sad eyes.
“No, Comrade Nazarbayeva. I will recommend that, in order to preserve the Red Army, we find a political settlement at the earliest possible opportunity.”
When you have got an elephant by the hind legs and he is trying to run away, it's best to let him run.
Abraham Lincoln
Chapter 168 - THE UNTHINKABLE
1000 hrs, Friday, 9th August 1946, Andreyevsky Hall, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
The meeting had been organised for the lavish surroundings of the Andreyevsky Hall, for no reason other than the normal meeting places were either being redecorated following a small but damaging fire, or were unsuited for the larger gathering that
had been brought together for a purpose now defunct, as Vasilevsky’s arrival and insistence on a meeting with the GKO had made all other matters irrelevant.
The absence of the big metal detectors meant that each officer was subjected to the most thorough search, although the guard commander had ensured that a female officer was present to search Nazarbayeva, something she did with female reserve and genuine respect, all down to apologising for having to remove Nazarbayeva’s boots.
Inside the portion of the hall set aside for the briefing, two of the commander-in-chief’s staff, both volunteers who understood the risk, had set up the presentation, as directed by their leader.
Zhukov had been briefed within an hour of Vasilevsky’s arrival at Vnukovo airfield, but, by agreement, would remain silent.
Beria had been unable to supply Stalin with the precise nature of what had exercised Vasilevsky so much, and could only offer up the recent enemy air attacks of fuel depots, or the German penetration, as possible reasons for the hasty arrangements.
When the commander of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe gave his presentation, he quickly covered the situation at the front, painting it as it was, without frills, and without exaggeration, something that all noticed, and something that all felt augured badly for what was to come.
“Comrades, whatever the situation we face at the front, and in our echelons, and rear lines… and even into the Rodina herself… the situation that presented itself to me yesterday has brought about the most terrible harm to the Motherland’s cause.”
He turned to the elderly Colonel and nodded.
The man, one useless arm tucked in his pocket, whisked the cover away and the ensemble were confronted by a map, simple in its notations.
Vasilevsky took a sly look at Zhukov, who remained impassive, but silently wished the condemned man well.
“Acting on the decision by STAVKA, we centralised our major fuel resources in four well-disguised locations, fit to service the battle fronts in Europe.”
