Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  In an early attempt to regain the initiative, a British expedition to create a front in Norway was completely defeated. The country stood in an impasse with the mighty German forces. Britain’s reputation for military defensive competence caused the Germans to pause at the moat of the English Channel. They decided, correctly, that any successful cross-water invasion required air supremacy.

  At home, politics moved just as fast. Findlay was aware that many members of the Government wanted to offer terms to Germany. Findlay’s analysis was that Germany would accept terms advantageous to itself and the British Empire would become a vassal to the Third Reich. One Winston Spencer Churchill prevailed in the executive dispute, became prime minister, dismissed any suggestion of armistice or truce and prepared his war cabinet.

  “My whole life has prepared me for this moment,” Churchill is reported to have said in his office.

  “That bellicose old sod will fight a good war but I wonder who will survive it,” said Findlay in his.

  Then things started to happen in the service. A new head, who Findlay never met, was appointed. New sections were formed, including one to implement an active network in France and the Low Countries. Several people were moved to new offices or sections and Findlay was instructed to attend the prime minister’s office.

  Findlay sat across the desk from Churchill. He could not detect the usual aristocratic arrogance that normally broadcasts from such men. On the contrary, Churchill seemed warm and friendly. A little overweight but Findlay thought this made him look cuddly rather than gluttonous. His eyes were not threatening nor were they arrogant. Findlay formed the impression that they were caring and possibly sad but also indicated a certain steeliness of character. This man could be a loyal and emotional friend or an implacable enemy, that was Findlay’s analysis.

  The prime minister glowered at him. “Why, Mr Aitchsmith, do you think I might want to see you?” The voice, soft though a little growling, revealed a slight difficulty with sibilants, but was also warm.

  “Prime minister, sir, I don’t have enough information to even guess. Something to do with the war, obviously. A new posting possibly. I’m sure you don’t speak to every civil servant so this must be something that affects you or your office directly.” Findlay decided that this man required blunt focussed responses.

  “A memo, Mr Aitchsmith, a memo about me, sir.” Spoken with an amused anger, a most unusual style of speaking.

  “Yes sir. I did submit a memo suggesting that you may be unlawfully receiving confidential documents from another section of the service for which I worked. I neither deny it nor regret it. I suspect it was true, or why else would you now speak to me? With respect to you, sir, I do not apologise and in the same circumstances would do the same thing. Frankly, sir, I would have thought you have bigger things to occupy you at this time.” Findlay merely looked the man in the eye.

  Churchill was silent for a moment, then he laughed and thumped the desk. “You are the man I need, Aitchsmith. Your damned impudence, your damned refusal to back down and your damned insistence on doing the proper thing. I commend you, sir. I have a job for you, reporting directly to me or my secretary. I wish to place you in serious danger, Mr Aitchsmith, and I think you will accept it.”

  If Findlay were to advise anybody on meeting Churchill, he would recommend they avoid historical matters, especially those being made at the moment. Churchill went on at interminable length about the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact of non-aggression. He prattled on about Bismarck and the Russian revolution before Findlay raised a hand to stop him.

  “I accept the post, sir. I will do my best.” Findlay would have accepted anything just to make the man shut up.

  The post was to reside at the British embassy in Moscow and then use this ambassadorial position to openly infiltrate the court of Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin. It was Churchill’s view that within a year or two either he or Hitler would treacherously breach the pact. When that happened, he wanted a man on the ground to influence the Russian dictator. Findlay agreed with the analysis.

  Sidney George Reilly, a British quadruple agent from the past and eventually executed by the Russians, had worked for whoever paid him enough. He had also produced excellent reports and they were still on file. Findlay collected them and spent time reading them all. This way he hoped to form the mind set he needed to operate in his new role and also gain some understanding of the Russian mind set.

  While Britain fought for its life and, with the aid of its Empire, punched it out with the unrelenting and frighteningly capable German forces, Findlay was flown to Moscow. Over the next eighteen months or so he became a common sight at the Kremlin and met Stalin several times. He was liked and free to visit the seat of Soviet power whenever he wished.

  In June he was summoned to the man himself. He found him sober, not always a certainty, and agitated.

  “Findlay William, welcome.” Stalin stood by his desk and Findlay remained standing as well.

  “Joseph Vissarionovich, a pleasure as always.” Findlay felt there was something different about this meeting. The great Stalin was a short, broad-shouldered man with the common Russian look of too much Vodka. His white suit was crumpled but clean.

  “We are not a nation of drunks, Findlay William, but it’s true, I enjoy a manly drink.” Findlay was taken aback by Stalin’s words, was this man psychic?

  “I didn’t mean…” started Findlay.

  “Ha,” Stalin’s victorious cry. “I was right. Findlay William know this, a man in my position has to guess his opponent’s mind; I have to read the person to guess at their thoughts.”

  “I’m not your opponent, sir. I am your ally as far as I can be.”

  “Humph,” said the monster man. “I’ve killed millions, did you know that? I did it deliberately and would do so again to maintain the proletariat led land I have the honour to speak for.” Findlay started to speak but Stalin raised his hand to quiet him. “You represent the relatives of the bastards we killed to free ourselves from tyranny. You represent the capitalist land of a Royal possession. You are not my natural ally, Findlay William. You are, however, my ally of convenience and you will be deployed as such.” Stalin smiled, “I like you on a personal level.”

  “Sir?” questioned Findlay. This level of personal attention from Stalin was rarely good.

  “I really do like you, Englishman. However, don’t think I forget that in 1917 your land sent troops to try to rescue the Romanovs. Don’t worry, they just marched about for a while and then went home, busy elsewhere, you think?” He laughed at his own joke. “Now though, now, things are different. You have to know that today the pig Nazis have invaded Mother Russia, a full six months before I planned to invade them, the cheating bastards.” He laughed again.

  “I didn’t know,” said Findlay. “I should contact London for instructions, sir.”

  “No.” There was no arguing with the great proletariat leader. “No, you will be deployed to a front-line unit of my army. I like you, you speak Russian well, an unusual skill in an Englishman. You will observe my troops and report back to London and tell them to send me the items I will tell you that you have decided we need.”

  “You tell me what I decide?” Asked Findlay, chuckling.

  “Yes, my friend Findlay William Aitchsmith. It is the burden of the great to think for others. Before you start to tell me that you are not a soldier, don’t bother. It is decided.”

  “Sir, I’m not sure that…” Stalin again raised his hand to quieten him.

  “Know this, loyal Findlay William,” the Russian dictator spoke softly and with reverence. “We are a pragmatic and determined people. Did you know that Lenin was financed in his revolution by the Germans?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “To maximise that benefit we exacerbated already existing anger in the shtetls, Jews are always easy targets to focus
mindless simpletons to a task. We produced propaganda to motivate our people and even passed it to the funders, the German Royal command. We are always pragmatic, see. The Germans really bought into our propaganda, so in a way we paved the way for the Nazis.”

  “I know,” said Findlay.

  “Now the penguins are coming home to nest.” Findlay tried not to laugh at the mistranslated saying. Stalin continued, “I actually feel bad about what the Germans are doing to the Jews, possibly as a result of our accidental instigation. We’ll free any we find, unless we have a use for them. You see, the Deutschepricks actually believed it. We expected the ordinary people to do that but not the leaders. At first we thought they were just being manipulative in the same way that we are pragmatic.”

  “Same thing,” ventured Findlay.

  “No,” laughed Stalin. “We are only ever pragmatic, they are manipulative and you are manipulated for pragmatic reasons.” With that the great proletariat leader strode out of the room laughing softly at his own wit.

  A tall Russian military officer replaced him. “Greetings, friend. You will come with me. I have orders to shoot you if you try to run, contact London or refuse me. I don’t want to, I want you to see our great army so that you can convince London to send us weapons. It will be a year or more before our weapons production is where it needs to be. Please be assured that we will do our best to keep you safe. You are our friend but friends do as they are told.” Findlay thought it best not to respond to that.

  The Russians supplied him with a genuine British army field uniform with captain rank on the epaulettes and it fitted him perfectly, how they got it is anybody’s guess. The battle dress had no regimental insignia on it. They explained that he should wear uniform so that everybody would recognise him as an observer and understand he was not to be used in combat.

  He was allocated a mentor, assistant, minder called Aleksandra Ivanovna Barantceva. She was about twenty six, spoke with a Cossack accent and held some kind of senior rank. She was also stunningly pretty even in the baggy Russian uniform. Her long dark hair was allowed to hang loose but she bunched it up under a cap when she wore one. At about five eight she was shorter than Findlay but showed no discomfort at her lack of clear physical strength. He became very fond of her.

  When he arrived at the front, just short of the Polish border, she informed him that Russian forces had been pushed out of the part of Poland they had occupied.

  “Our job is to delay,” she explained. “We will slow them down, pay the price in blood to prevent their usual fast advance. When that is achieved they will find that their supply lines are too long, their army too small and their resources insufficient. We slow their blitzkrieg, force them into entrenchment and then hit back. They have no idea of what a winter on the Steppe is like. We will sacrifice as many lives as we need to and we will not make the mistake of trying to rescue the civilians. We will avenge them later.”

  “I see,” said Findlay in Russian. “You blood curdling beauty,” he said in English.

  “I speak English,” she looked amused.

  “Oops,” said Findlay.

  “Oops,” she responded with an engaging smile.

  They were in continuous managed and controlled retreat. As they fell back they destroyed everything the enemy might find useful. The peasant villages were left to their fate, wells were poisoned, crops were burnt and factories blown up. Not a bean, not a vehicle, not a cup was left for the enemy to take advantage of. The Germans rushed headlong onwards into the vast empty Steppe.

  Findlay and Aleksandra Ivanovna often spent time in conversation. At first it was just explanations of what additional resources the Russians needed. After a few weeks their relationship evolved and they started to exchange personal information.

  When she wasn’t ordering suicide missions or butchering Germans she was teasingly coquettish with him. He felt the stirrings of need in her presence. She knew this and made it clear she reciprocated. To Findlay’s frustration the war was more pressing for both of them. The other Russians were amused by the Englishman and his crush.

  Findlay was beginning to think that he should return to Moscow in order to report to London. Did London even know that he was here? He wanted to ask London to arrange arms and food for the Russians. They were working military miracles with limited ordnance.

  The Germans, if reports were true, behaved appallingly. Aleksandra Ivanovna informed him they were murdering men and children, raping and torturing women and girls and destroying whole villages. Findlay had some respect for the Wehrmacht and didn’t want to believe the stories. However, he saw one captured German and he sported the insignia of the SS; Hitler’s personal regiment of psychopaths and deviants, the stories were probably true. The German was shot in the head after interrogation.

  Findlay planned to request his return to Moscow the next morning. He settled down to sleep as best he could. The tarpaulin roofed temporary dugout he and several others occupied helped keep some of the wind at bay. Each day seemed to be colder than the last and nothing could keep him warm, except possibly Aleksandra Ivanovna Barantceva but she was leading a battle.

  Just before dawn he was woken by the others shouting and scrambling outside, there was shooting and several explosions. As Findlay started to rise a massive blow to his head returned him to unconsciousness.

  When he regained some sense he realised he was still in the dugout. Rough hands pulled him to his feet and put him on a wooden chair, where did that come from? His hands were tied to the arms. He shook his head to clear it. He realised that on a chair next to him was a battered looking Aleksandra Ivanovna. He tried to talk to her but could see she was barely conscious.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Said a German voice.

  “My name is Findlay Aitchsmith,” he answered. “I am a military observer posted here by Britain to advise the Russians.”

  “You speak good German,” said the voice. The owner then identified himself as Hauptmann Johann Waldheim, Wehrmacht intelligence attached to the SS advance assault group. “I recommend that you tell me everything. Remember I have access to intelligence information and I am familiar with British intelligence. You should tell me the truth. Your next interview will be with the SS and please believe me when I say that you will like me much better than you will like them. I know who you are.”

  Findlay told the truth. He explained how he was attached to Moscow to influence Stalin, he didn’t mention Churchill. He explained how the mad Stalin sent him here and he explained how he was just looking for an opportunity to slip back to England.

  Waldheim explored his story and was eventually convinced. He had some water brought to him and told him he would now leave him to the SS. He assured him that he would advise the SS that he was best retained and did not need to be further interrogated.

  The tall strapping brown haired lunatic who replaced Waldheim looked good in his black uniform. He looked like he was attending a ceremonial event not a front-line war position.

  “Aitchsmith, you do not need my name.”

  “I didn’t ask for it,” replied Findlay.

  “You will be handed to the Wehrmacht, for some reason they want to keep you and I have no need for you. As for her,” he indicated Aleksandra Ivanovna, “I’ll think of something soon.” His grin was theatrical, like a pantomime villain.

  “She should come with me,” suggested Findlay. “She’s of no use to you, you’ve obviously overrun her position. The Wehrmacht will find her useful in assisting with German occupation. She has language and organisational skills that will be useful.”

  “You want to fuck her, yes?” The Nazi nutcase leered. “Too late, English. Half my unit already have. The whore moaned and wriggled like nothing you’ve ever seen. She serves no further purpose other than to show you that you should never seek trouble with us, ever.”

  With that he drew his pist
ol and shot Aleksandra Ivanovna in the face. She fell backwards onto the floor, the chair sliding and scrapping slightly on its rear legs as it tipped over, then he put another two rounds into her head. Findlay sat in stunned disbelief as the madman walked out showing no emotion whatsoever.

  The Wehrmacht were very apologetic to Findlay about Aleksandra Ivanovna. Waldheim took charge of him. “These monsters, what can I do? This insanity will pass. When the Nazis have built their Reich, and they will you know, the lunacy will stop. Germany has given itself to them and now we have to accept their blunt ruthless ways. They will give way to sensible and more cultured leadership in time. Once they have established their dominance and made themselves masters of everything, they will stop.”

  “That’s reassuring,” mocked Findlay. “I promise you, Johann, I will find that bastard and I will kill him. If that means you now have to shoot me, be my guest.”

  Johann was a good man in a bad situation. He had Findlay removed to several miles west of the Polish border and placed on a farm.

  “I’ve never farmed, I know nothing about it,” he protested to Johann.

  “Yes you have,” Waldheim informed him. “This farm has been stocked with some animals and some Polish women, farmers, to manage it. I have to report your location and advise my superiors that you have given your bond to remain on this farm. I have to tell them that you have the relevant skills and are an experienced farmer. If I cannot do this then I must hand you to a rear based SS unit for reassignment, do you understand me?”

  “Only too well. Yes, actually, I have farmed all of my life. I know how to milk a chicken and grow sheep and everything.”

  Waldheim chuckled at him. “Please don’t leave the farm. Keep your uniform, sew a red patch onto the arms to show that you are a prisoner. It’s about two hundred miles to the nearest town and you have no motor transport, don’t be silly.”