by Gee, Colin
After a swift examination, Young’s hand gestures overcame the language barrier and Emilian steeled himself for the pain.
It came and went quickly, not as much as he expected but more than he would have wished for.
He smiled and thanked the Englishman, but realised that his words were wasted.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and produced his recently acquired cigarette case, found when his unit stumbled across a hastily evacuated Allied headquarters position. Holding out the shiny object, Emilian indicated that it was a gift, one that Young accepted immediately, even though he was a non-smoker.
The guard chivvied his group back into some sort of order and Emilian was left to resume his critical assessment of the track repair work.
The cigarette case was plain and simple, all except for the prominent four-leaf clover that was mounted on its face.
As the group of prisoners made its way to the rear, the Romanian unit’s Hetzer reached the field and promptly gave up the ghost.
Its commander, exasperated and in the foulest of moods, dismounted, and commenced a violent kicking attack on it until he realised that the inert object was not even offended by the assault, whereas his foot was now aching badly.
Belligerently, he stood his ground as the prisoners descended upon him, forcing the group to split and walk around him.
Hands on hips, he inspected each in turn until he caught sight of the cigarette case, its unique clover imprinting itself on his memory, suggesting that his Commander had perished and the body had been looted by the man holding it.
“Futui gura!”
The Soviet guard started to shout but the Steyr M1912 pistol was out in an instant.
Young’s smile disappeared along with the top of his head as the enraged Romanian tank officer exacted revenge for Emilian’s death.
Slipping the case into his pocket, Lieutenant Ionescu went in search of higher authority.
He was stunned to find Emilian sat with his crew, all tucking into bread and cheese, their track mended but lacking the fuel with which to move off the field.
“But I thought...”
“You thought what, Tudor?”
The Lieutenant was confused.
“I thought you were dead, Sir.”
Emilian’s eyes sparkled.
“Well, I admit my finger hurts," he waggled the damaged appendage with care, "But I think I’ll manage to survive ‘til the morning.”
The crew appreciated the humour, but not enough to stop eating, so the rumble of amusement had no real form.
Ionescu fumbled in his pocket, produced the cigarette case and proffered it to a now puzzled Emilian.
“And where in the name of Saint Andrei did you find that?”
“An enemy soldier had it. I thought he’d killed you and looted it from you.”
Emilian was no fool but he had to ask.
“So you took it back, eh? So, where’s the man now, Tudor?”
“Dead. I shot him, Sir.”
Accepting the cigarette case, he gestured that Ionescu should join them and the whole group fell into silence again.
As he chewed on the heavy bread, the Catholic in Emilian turned to God, the persistent dull ache in his finger sharpening his memory of prayers long gone by.
‘Oh Saints of our God, come to his aid. Come to meet him, angels of the Lord. Receive his soul and present him to God, the Most High. Amen.’
And with that, Young became but a memory.
Walshe had managed to escape.
About a third of the Inniskillings managed to disengage themselves and fell back from Töplitsch to positions in Weiβenbach, over one and a half kilometres further down the Drau River line.
Whilst Walshe and the others were integrated into the positions of the 1st Battalion, Royal Irish Fusiliers, those who had been slow to rise or wounded were herded up and marched away to begin a new life as prisoners of war. Eight-one men started the journey, sixty finished it, as wounds, the cold, and poor treatment took their toll.
Across the river, the London Irish had been displaced with heavy casualties and were staging a fighting withdrawal down Route 38.
At Spittal an der Drau, the prisoners of both battalions were loaded into small trucks, along with local Austrians of military age, despite the fact that no Kommando had been present.
Kearney the 'corpse', still dazed and with the mother of all headaches, was helped aboard and the doors locked into place by guards eager to find some relaxation indoors and away from the freezing temperatures.
As the 16th November gave way to the 17th, the small train bore over six hundred souls to a fate unknown.
0921 hrs, Friday 15th November 1945, 250 metres south-east of Barembach, Alsace.
Hunger had driven him to it; sheer desperation had forced decisions upon him, decisions that he would have baulked at in different times.
Hunger also played another part, in as much as the Soviet paratrooper was still out searching for food in daylight, so weakened was he by a lack of everything the body needs, save fresh water; something in abundance in the snow-covered Alsace.
Hunger produced a telling influence, drawing the man towards the soft sounds of contented chickens, temptingly originating in a small outhouse to the rear of the buildings on the junction of Rue de Juifs and the Rue Principale.
Hunger played its final card by making the man careless, its debilitating effects blocking the inner voices of the combat soldier, voices that shouted caution and were ignored.
The building was owned by a French family, presently encumbered with the billeting of a group of US war correspondents, all guarded by a small detail of military police.
One of the MPs, a Sergeant, was now covering the would-be thief with an M1 carbine.
The two men locked eyes and the Soviet paratrooper acknowledged the warning with a resigned look and fell exhausted against the building, knowing he had neither the wit nor strength to fly.
“Hey Boys!... Hey!... Boys!... Boys!... I’ve got me a chicken rustler!”
Three more MP’s, in various stages of undress, turned out of the building, laughing at the pathetic unshaven man and his rags, closely followed by members of the Press Corps, some of whom carried cameras that immediately started to record the pitiful scene.
As was the agreement, no pictures were sent back for use until an intelligence officer had viewed and passed them as revealing nothing of use to the enemy.
It was fortunate for the Allies that the man with the photo duty that day was keen, efficient, and above all, very good at his job.
Something sparked a memory and he reached up to a shelf groaning under a ton of paperwork.
He searched a special folder for a comparison photograph, satisfied himself that he was right, and immediately rang his boss.
A phone rang on the desk of Georges De Walle, now permanently attached to French First Army.
He recognised the voice immediately, his counterpart in Dever’s Army Group headquarters.
The man was all business, and his calls either fishing for or supplying information were always brief.
De Walle listened.
“Mon Dieu! Yes...thank you... yes, we are very interested... yes... I will... as soon as possible and with written orders signed by me... Yes, today. Thank you, Colonel.”
Replacing the receiver, he made the calculations, grudgingly admiring the man in question.
‘Over three months.’
He picked up the telephone again.
‘Makarenko... at last.’
1100 hrs, Saturday 16th November 1945, Château de Fère, Fère-en-Tardenois, France.
To the second, the meeting was brought to order, the wood panelled banquet room providing a magnificent setting for the momentous event.
Eisenhower, prior to the start, had drifted around the room, noting, with no little astonishment, how the occupants seemed relaxed with each other, former enemies now united in a common cause, a cause in which they now saw a turn in fortune
, despite the events in Italy.
The men sat patiently waiting to hear his words represented the leadership of those countries brought together to oppose the spread of the Red Army.
‘A goddamn who’s goddamned who,’ as George Patton had put it when the meeting had first been suggested.
And now, here was the reality.
The Council of Germany and Austria was well represented, with Guderian, Speer, Donitz, and Von Vietinghoff all present. Ike noted that Guderian and Vietinghoff sat in their military groups, not with their national organisations, something that encouraged him greatly, for reasons he didn’t quite understand.
The Generals were there in numbers, including every Army commander, save those presently embroiled in the nasty fighting in Northern Italy.
Spanish General Agustin Grandes sat silently, his animated conversation with the Cuban Brigade commander, General Genovevo Perez, now over.
The object of discussion, a prime Havana cigar, had, in the spirit of comradeship, been offered up willingly by Perez, and now sat gently smoking in Grandes’ hand.
Its sister sat comfortably between the Cuban officer’s lips.
The Commander of the newly arrived 1st Mountain Division of the Argentinian Army had cornered the senior officers of the Paraguayan, Uruguayan, and Portuguese forces regarding South American politics, the latter only because he was in conversation with Paraguay’s senior officer in Europe when General Juan Peron had hijacked their private conversation. Peron was the most recent arrival in Europe, having flown in after his unit arrived, delayed by his 22nd October wedding.
Eisenhower had observed them all, men from the British Commonwealth and the United States mixing with a Colonel from Ethiopia through to the unusually tall Mexican General, all brought together for a common cause.
And now they sat waiting patiently for his delivery; a summation of events past, and a foretelling of events to come.
Eisenhower’s summation of events up to the hour held little surprise for most.
In basic form, the Allied forces had taken big hits up and down the front line, a few disasters had happened and a few had been avoided.
In Italy, the new Soviet offensive was progressing, albeit slowly, aided by the poor weather and the accompanying restrictions on Allied air support.
Losses on both sides were generalised, the Allies having paid a high price in stopping the Red Army’s forward momentum, the Red Army having paid a huge price in trying to maintain it.
Eisenhower finished his opening brief on a high note, showing how the major Soviet thrusts had run out of steam, and explaining the Soviet logistical problems that contributed to the obvious failures of the Soviet assault.
Ike didn’t bother to ask for questions.
He introduced Bedell-Smith and took his seat, anxious to gauge the reaction of the commanders in the room, the men who would have to see through the plan to push the Communist forces back.
‘To the Polish Border and beyond.’
The words seemed to haunt him at every turn.
Eisenhower particularly watched the Germans present, and was rewarded with looks of surprise when Bedell-Smith’s aide uncovered the huge map, upon which was set the basics of the liberation of Occupied Europe.
‘Operation Spectrum.’
Donitz’s eyes widened and he acknowledged Eisenhower with a brief nod.
‘That’s one to Vietinghoff for playing it straight.’
Clearly, the German Liaison officer had abided by the secrecy directive, something that pleased Eisenhower immensely.
He did not see Von Vietinghoff’s and Donitz’s eyes meet briefly, otherwise he might have realised that Vietinghoff was a German first and an Allied liaison officer second.
The reaction in the room was satisfying; a mixture of stunned silence and softly spoken expletives.
Before the map had been uncovered, few in the room knew what it would reveal.
McCreery, Bradley, Devers, and De Lattre de Tassigny, appointed by De Gaulle to be his eyes and ears in the matter, all knew of the minutiae of Operation Spectrum. Bedell-Smith and close SHAEF staff, such as Colonel Hood, had worked tirelessly on the logistics of the plan, and on the integration of the numerous national groups, giving each a suitable role to play within the grand scheme.
One other man present knew everything.
He sat silently, almost smugly, acknowledging the looks that swept over him. Some eyed him envy, some in relief that the burden would fall to him, and some even in dislike for the man and matters past.
Whatever the reason they looked, George Patton relished the attention, for the map made clear that the initial responsibility for driving back the Red Army was his, with the vast, new, and extremely cosmopolitan US Third Army under his direct control.
Bedell-Smith allowed a few more moments for the map to consume everyone’s attention.
All arrows pointed east, from those in Norway, Denmark and the North German plain, through Central Germany and to the Swiss border.
Eyes followed the arrows across Europe, inexorably moving eastwards, to the Polish border, and beyond.
Some officers, those with keener vision and eyes for some smaller details, now understood that the senior Naval officers were not there as window dressing, and that the USN and RN had a role to play.
Forty-seven folders were handed out, some already translated for the non-English speakers.
Bedell-Smith cleared his throat, took a sip of soda water and commenced laying out the master plan that was Operation Spectrum.
There was no pause for lunch and so one o’clock came and went as Bedell-Smith conceded the floor to the Army group commanders in turn, first Devers, then Bradley, and finally McCreery, whose 21st Army Group’s area of responsibility had been adjusted to encompass Norway and the Baltic.
Tedder was ever present, introducing the Air support element that went with each senior officer’s presentation.
Fig#79 - Operation Spectrum - December 1945.
Admirals King and Somerville worked in harness to outline the sub-operation ‘Pantomime’, projected for the Spring and with the expectation of good weather, the Navy’s big contribution to events. Whilst all could see the advantages, none failed to understand the risks of such an operation.
As Eisenhower waited his turn to sum up, he felt extremely pleased with the planning. They had been at great pains to ensure that all nations in the Alliance felt involved, but also careful to ensure that inexperienced troops were not left over burdened or exposed in what was to come.
Kenneth Strong, SHAEF’s intelligence chief, completed his briefing, partially as an overview and partially detailing the shadier aspects of ‘Pantomime’ and ceded the floor to the Supreme Commander.
“So, Gentlemen, there you have it. Operation Spectrum is an all-encompassing general plan, outlining how we’ll push the Red Army back into its own lands. We must expect difficulties along the way, so we must be flexible. The specific timings of each phase will be decided by this headquarters, and I intend to adopt a slow but sure approach, unless low-risk opportunity presents itself, in which case, we will judge it on its merits.”
Patton had been a dissenter on that score, seeking, almost insisting on, being given his head, with no limits on what he could do except the fuel in his tanks and the food in the bellies of his men. Eisenhower had given him short shrift, drawing more than one look from the inner circle at his ‘out of character’ testiness.
“Your Army Group commanders will be holding separate sessions immediately after this briefing, and they will present your input to me tomorrow.”
There were some disappointed looks amongst the ensemble, but it made good sense to reduce the group size into manageable chunks, as well as limiting the discussion to those involved with each aspect. None the less, each of the seniors knew that they would keep an ear open for anything that might be useful to pass on to another.
Hood caught Ike’s eye, the slightest of signals confirming that the orderli
es had luncheon ready.
“Gentlemen, I regret to say that the folders you possess may not leave this building and must be handed in at the document security station immediately you leave this room. Your copy will be returned to you for this afternoon’s briefings.”
He let the few murmurs of dissent pass.
“To give our Armies enough time to stockpile resources, to go over the attack plans and for Allied Second Army Group to become ‘fact’, I have set the initial diversionary attack’s time for 0300hrs on December 2nd. If the enemy responds as we anticipate, Operation Spectrum Blue, the initial main attack, will commence at 0800hrs on December 4th. We do not anticipate launching ‘Pantomime’ until early spring, probably part of Spectrum’s phase Indigo. Good luck to you all.”
The officers sprang to attention as Eisenhower turned and strode from the room, his exterior calmness beginning to crumble under the anxieties that ate at him, the responsibility weighing even more heavily than did his command of Overlord, some sixteen months previously.
Alone in his suite, it took three cigarettes and two coffees to restore any vestige of faith in himself and his ability to see the matter through to a successful end.
His mind tackled a niggling issue once more.
His men were tired, very tired, although replacements were arriving and some units were being rested in quieter areas.
The thought, as always, was balanced by the fact that the enemy had to be similarly tired and, by all intelligence reports, were not only greatly worn down numerically, but also hobbled by supply issues.
It was something that Von Vietinghoff had said that constantly troubled him.
Whilst the Generals present had all acknowledged the weariness of the Allied troops and balanced it against the state of their enemy, Vietinghoff’s response had started with the assertion that the Soviet soldier was the most resilient fighting man on the planet.
