by Colin Gee
“Thank you, Inches. Do come in, Sir Stewart.”
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Prime Minister.”
Churchill chuckled.
“My butler felt that you bore exciting news, so how could I not, Sir Stewart.”
Menzies sat in the chair Churchill indicated.
“A moment, if you please.”
On cue, the door opened and Inches delivered a small tray containing the makings of a cup of tea.
“Shall I pour, Sir?”
“No, Inches, I need the exercise. Thank you.”
Churchill poured two cups and passed one to the head of MI-6.
“So, what great news has brought you here in advance of schedule?”
As Menzies spoke, there was no visible reaction from his political master.
Remaining uncharacteristically silent, Churchill almost froze in place as the incredible and most unexpected development was slowly unfolded.
Menzies fell silent, but still Winston stayed quiet, sipping his tea with great studiousness, almost as if the resolution to the turmoil taking place in his brain could only be found within the brown liquid.
“And this is all confirmed, Sir Stewart?”
“The information comes from a wholly reliable source, Sir.”
“Wholly reliable?”
“Yes, Sir. I have no doubt that the Swedish offer to mediate will be delivered to you by the Ambassador from the Court of Bernadotte this very day.”
“And the other matter that you have yet to inform me of? What is that, Sir Stewart?”
Menzies smiled, not realising that he had been quite so transparent.
“Your nose for matters has not failed you, Prime Minister. I have information, from the most reliable of sources, that changes everything but, I hasten to add, Sir, that my source has asked that his report be limited to the very highest echelons of the Allied leadership.”
“I understand. Proceed, Sir Stewart,”
“Sir, my source states that the whole move towards a peace conference is not authored by the Swedes, but by the Soviets themselves.”
“Good grief.”
“Quite. He’s asked that we do not reveal that we know it is a Soviet driven initiative, to avoid embarrassing the Swedes, who , I have no doubt, intend to secure some rather splendid agreements and concessions from the USSR for their part on the process.”
“Your contact is Swedish, of course, and is it possible that he might be the contact that has previously been of great service to the Allied cause, Sir Stewart?”
“It is indeed, Sir.”
“Then I agree, but it will have to be shared with the leaders. The President, De Gaulle, even Speer, they have to be told so they can understand the strength of our bargaining position.”
“I understand, Sir, but I must request that they are informed personally, and asked to adhere to the strictest secrecy on the matter.”
Churchill nodded by way of agreement.
Standing, the Prime Minister indicated that the meeting was over and that his drive to get moving had taken over.
“I will inform the President immediately. Thank you for bringing this to me in timely fashion, Sir Stewart.”
“My pleasure. Thank you, Sir.”
By magic, the door opened and Inches appeared.
“Sir, an urgent message has just arrived from the Foreign Minister’s office.”
Churchill and Menzies exchanged smiles.
Inches waited, expecting the head of MI-6 to leave, but Sir Stewart held his ground as Churchill tore open the envelope with undisguised anticipation.
After a moment’s silence, he looked up with a beaming smile and nodded, confirming its contents to the spymaster.
“Thank you again, Sir Stewart. Inches, please see Sir Stewart out and have my appointments for this afternoon cleared between three and four.”
As he moved into the hall beyond, Menzies caught the words, knowing they were as much for him as Inches.
Picking up the telephone, Churchill arranged for a line that connected him directly to Truman.
He calculated that the time in Washington was just after five in the morning and prepared an apology for waking up his American friend.
The apology was unnecessary.
Tørget had sent a message to his own American contact, Sam Rossiter, who, in turn, had given his boss the heads-up.
Major General William Donovan, head of the OSS, had woken Truman some thirty-two minutes before Churchill’s call disturbed the President’s train of thought.
“Mr President… apologies for the early morning call. I have some news that simply couldn’t wait.”
“I was just about to ring you, Prime Minister. You have the same news as I, I don’t doubt. It seems that our Swedish friends have pulled one out of the hat.”
“Yes, Harry. Can I assume you know the other bit?”
“You certainly can, Winston.”
“So how do you wish to proceed, Harry?”
“Well, I’m going to be on the first flight I can get organised after I’ve met with the Swedish ambassador. I assume you will be seeing the ambassador in London?”
A negative noise stopped Truman’s flow.
“No, Harry, he’s forced himself into my afternoon schedule at Chequers.”
“When is that?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock here. Coordinated delivery. So, I think we meet up in Versailles… apprise the leaders… I’m thinking De Gaulle, Franco, your Dominion leaders, as tight a group as possible.”
“Speer?”
“Don’t suppose we have a choice on that one, do we?”
“I don’t think we do, Harry.”
“So, we get them all in a small room and tell them… and tell them they can’t talk about it to anyone… and then politicians being politicians, the whole shooting-match is through their delegations within the hour, and probably in the press within the day.”
“I understand that only too well, Harry, but we have no choice in the matter. We cannot exclude our major Allies, otherwise the new alliance, for which we striven so hard, will be placed at risk.”
“You’re right, but I still have an itch about the Germans.”
“We have no choice, as I see it. After all, if we’re to take advantage of this, we need them to know the full situation, which will also encourage them to give operations their fullest commitment.”
“Operations, Winston?”
“Harry, we have to. The Soviets are weak and vulnerable… coming to the table has revealed that, as we know that they, not the Swedish, have commenced this process. Something we have done has precipitated this. We must find out what it is and exploit it fully. Clearly, General Eisenhower and his staff must be consulted and, equally clearly, some of them will be included in the circle that know the full situation, but we simply cannot pass up on the opportunity that now presents itself.”
“Attack them… yes, I do see… yes, you’re right. Where?”
Churchill took a deep puff on his cigar, something that Truman detected despite being thousands of miles away.
“Everywhere, Mr President. Everywhere.”
0912 hrs, Tuesday, 13th August 1946, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Stalin waited as the telephone connection was made, and observed his Foreign Secretary making a few annotations on the basic document that had been agreed as the basis for negotiations with the enemy.
A voice drew him back from the sight.
‘Zhukov.’
“Comrade Marshal, good morning. The Allies have agreed to attend the Swedish talks.”
He took a gentle pull on his cigarette as Zhukov asked his questions.
“As quickly as possible, Comrade Marshal. Minister Molotov intends to travel to Sweden as soon as the corridor of safe passage is arranged and confirmed.”
He nodded at the words his ears deciphered.
“Yes, you must, Comrade Marshal. If the capitalists smell weakness, then
they will place great pressure on our forces, as well as harden their negotiating position… neither must happen, we are clear on that, Comrade Zhukov?”
He waved his hand to remove the ash that had tumbled down his tunic top, and stubbed out the offender before quietly waiting for the man on the other end to stop talking.
“Yes, yes, Comrade. You and Vasilevsky have our complete confidence. I understand tha…”
An aide had slipped in unnoticed and placed a small report in front of the General Secretary. He cut across Zhukov’s request for more fuel.
“Let me stop you there. There is no more fuel. Use what you have wisely. I’ve just been informed that the safe passage is confirmed, so Comrade Minister Molotov will be in Sweden today. That should mean that formal talks could begin tomorrow morning.”
Zhukov asked the burning question.
Stalin gave him the answer that had been agreed.
“The 19th at the latest. The Red Army must maintain its fullest efforts until then. That is the absolute imperative of this situation, and you must not fail the party and the Rodina. Implement the operations as planned tonight, Comrade Marshal.”
He put the phone down without hearing the Marshal’s parting words.
Molotov sensed Stalin’s eyes on him and looked up from the document.
“So, Comrade, the Red Army stands ready to do its duty, and it’ll buy you time to negotiate from a position of strength. The 19th, Vyacheslav, you’ve ‘til the 19th.”
An honourable peace is and always was my first wish. I can take no delight in the effusion of human blood; but, if this war should continue, I wish to have the most active part in it.
John Paul Jones
Chapter 169 - THE DIALOGUE
1100 hrs, Wednesday, 14th August 1946, Camp Vár conference facility, Lungsnäs, Sweden.
Military Airfield 16 at Brattfors had been declared as the receiving airbase, with safe flying zones and fighter escorts provided by the Swedish Air Force.
As each delegation landed, the Allied transport aircraft outnumbering those of the USSR by four to one, the Swedish Army whisked the great and powerful away in an armed convoy, quickly covering the fifteen kilometres to the hastily constructed Swedish Army facility on the banks of the Lungen at Lungsnäs.
Whilst adequate, the site lacked many of the creature comforts to which the senior politicians were used, a deliberate choice on the part of the Swedes, who felt such absences would spur the delegations to quicker agreement.
The Swedish Minister for Foreign Affairs, Östen Undén, called the room to order with a gentle knocking of a gavel, the agreed sign of his authority over the powerful assembly.
“Ministers, ambassadors, generals, good morning. Sweden and the world thank you for attending this meeting place, and for your assertion that you all come here with good intentions and a wish to seek a swift, proper, and enduring peace.”
As he spoke, Undén nodded at the dignitaries as eye contact was made with each in turn, switching from one side of the huge table to the other, so as not to seem to favour either one group or the other.
“We have come together in a camp named after the Goddess Vár, the goddess of promises and agreements. For the sake of all our peoples, it is my fervent hope that she brings us her wisdom and guidance.”
Undén took a deep breath.
“Now, shall we begin? Sweden proposes an immediate ceasefire in place whilst these meetings are conducted.”
The Swedish were dumbstruck that Allies and the Soviets were in full agreement, although more dumbstruck by the vigorous and total rejection of the idea, as both sides spoke at length, refusing to be militarily constrained during the peace talks.
Molotov ceased his diatribe and resumed his seat, leaving a silence which Undén broke.
“So, gentlemen, your position is that, whilst we sit here in earnest talks to bring peace to the continent, neither of you can bring yourselves to stop fighting in any way, meaning more and more young men will die as words are thrown back and forth across this table? Minister Molotov, is there no room to accept any cessation in the fighting at this time?”
“No. That is the position of my country, Minister Undén. Until an agreement that is satisfactory to the Soviet Union is ratified by our leadership, there can and will be no truce.”
Undén turned to the Allied delegation.
US Secretary of State James Byrnes shook his head to emphasise his words.
“Absolutely not, Minister Undén. The Allied nations will not permit any truce to come about until this meeting has produced a result that brings about peace, and the start of the process of the restoration of freedoms for the people and nations of Europe.”
The Minister for Foreign Affairs’ sigh was audible.
“Very well. We will take a short break for refreshment and consultations, and return back here for midday. We will then hear your initial basic negotiating positions before we take lunch.”
He banged the gavel, ending thirty-nine wholly unsatisfactory minutes, during which the two enemies had been in complete agreement, but only that the killing should go on.
1155 hrs, Wednesday, 14th August 1946, Hofbieber, Germany.
“Well, perhaps someone ought to tell the sonsofbitches that they ain’t gotta any goddamned ammo, cos from where I’m fucking sitting, seems they got a whole goddamned lot it, and they ain’t afraid to chuck it our way, Sir.”
Major William S Towers. Acting OC 3rd battalion, 359th Infantry Regiment, was on the field telephone, apprising his regimental commander, Colonel Bell, as to events in the front line, a front line that Towers and his men had occupied that very morning, relieving the tired soldiers of the 357th US Infantry Regiment from his own division, ready for an assault on Height 444 to their immediate front.
To emphasise Towers’ point, something extremely large landed nearby, bringing screams from some unfortunate.
“That’s probably one of their two-oh-three howitzers, Sir. Lots of other stuff too.”
Fig # 213 - Hofbieber, Germany.
Towers stuck his head round the opening to the bunker and saw a pair of medics scurrying towards the growing sounds of a man in extremis.
“Well, Sir, either they’re fixing to bug out, and don’t want to carry the weight, or they’re fixing to come calling, and I don’t see the commies bugging out any time soon.”
The acting Battalion CO grimaced as a shell plunged down and tossed the two medics skywards, not whole bodies, but enough to be recognisable as once human beings.
“I’m taking casualties, Sir. They’re not slacking off at all, and it’s nearly an hour now. What are m…”
Bell interrupted with a question of his own.
“Yes, Sir. Our arty is firing back, but obviously they ain’t getting the job done, ‘cos there’s no slackening off by the commies… none at all, Sir.”
Behind Towers, the radio crackled into life, carrying an excited voice barely distinguishable over the sound of automatic fire on the airwaves.
The same sound carried across the battlefield and reached Towers’ ears, indicating that the enemy were pushing forward.
Fig # 214 - Soviet attack, north of Hofbieber, Germany.
“Sir, that’s my machine guns opening up. I’ve got a report that the enemy are pushing forward. I’ll get back to you with more information when I can… yessir…”
Towers tossed the handset onto the table and grabbed his new weapon, a M1A3 Garand, a weapon improved by some modest remodelling of the stock, and the ability of firing twenty rounds from one magazine.
3rd Battalion had turned over all their M1s whilst they were out of the line, so Towers knew that whatever it was that was coming down the ways was about to plough into a US infantry battalion with unprecedented firepower.
Whatever it was…
1207 hrs, Wednesday, 14th August 1946, Hofbieber, Germany.
The heavy .50cal Brownings were doing murderous work amongst the advancing Soviet infantry of Shtrafbat 522, and were
then joined by their .30cal smaller brothers.
Towers could not help but admire the courage of the advancing soldiers, whilst at the same time baulking at the stupidity of it all.
At least their advance had brought an end to the incoming artillery.
“Time to see what these beauties are capable of, Remington. Your call, son.”
Towers dropped into a firing position as the Captain gave the order to fire.
Love Company’s weapons spat their bullets across the shrinking divide.
Towers actually didn’t reload, instead watching as the attacking force almost melted in front of his eyes.
“Holy Mother of God!”
Captain Remington, a non-contributor to the slaughter by dint of his personal choice of a Thompson, had simply and incredulously observed the whole Soviet attack come apart before his eyes.
“Didn’t think you were a believer, Harry?”
Remington could not take his eyes off the sight.
“I’m not, Major, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me either, Harry… me either.”
A sound started rising from the US positions, one of celebration, a sound not unlike that heard on the battlefields of a civil war some eighty years beforehand, from men in blue on Cemetery Ridge, Gettysburg, or others, clad in grey, from behind the stone wall on Marye’s Heights at Fredericksburg.
Men were yelling and whooping, raising the new Garands in the air, and celebrating the rout of a large enemy force by inflicting the heaviest of casualties.
“Get ‘em back under control, Harry. The artillery’ll start back up directly. No sense in losing any of the boys, just cos they’re fired up.”
“Sir, Major…”
Remington bounded up from the firing position, shouting at his NCOs to bring about order, and for the most part, failing.
Towers, dropped his magazine out and inserted another twenty rounds worth into his beautiful new weapon of war.
