by Gee, Colin
Nazarbayeva took her leave and the Chief of Staff closed the door behind her.
Turning back into the room, he found Zhukov sat at the desk once more, grinning widely, despite the bad news he had recently received.
“Well, Mikhail?”
He pursed his lips in thought, although none was necessary, his mind had already made up its mind.
“You were absolutely right, Comrade. That is one hell of a formidable woman.”
“Balls of steel.”
Zhukov laughed at his description.
“Balls of steel indeed, Comrade Marshall.”
“There is no worthy man who has not once dreamt of himself in the jaws of danger, in order to triumph in the face of insurmountable odds. We, each of us, envy the brave the opportunity fate casts before them to prove their worth; those so exposed envy us the safety of our dreams.”
Chris Coling.
Chapter 74 - THE APPROACH
0320 hrs, Saturday, 1st September 1945, aboard the ‘Swedish’ merchant vessel ‘Golden Quest’, 300 yards from shore, Glenlara, Eire.
“Your men are working well, Comrade Reynolds.”
Judas Patrick Reynolds, commander of the IRA’s Mayo Battalion, accepted the compliment, along with the glass of vodka, the second one the ship’s captain had plied him with since he came onboard to supervise his men.
“That they are, Captain Lipranski, that they are, to be sure.”
Perhaps it was the nature of the cargo that had inspired his men, or even the briefing he had given them, prior to the arrival of the darkened ship.
Whatever it was, the weapons and ammunition would soon be all landed, along with the additional Soviet personnel the ‘Swedish’ ship had brought.
Sinking the vodka in one, Reynolds moved to the other wing of the bridge, where he could look down on the starboard side. Efficient sailors were manhandling torpedoes from a cunningly concealed side hatch into the waiting shape of a partially surfaced submarine.
On shore, his second in command, Seamus Brown, was overseeing the concealment of the ammunition and weapons haul, or at least the part destined for use by the IRA units throughout the six counties, and beyond.
The munitions set aside for the Soviet Marines were organised and distributed by Senior Lieutenant Masharin, shortly to be replaced as the senior Soviet officer by a new arrival.
An experienced Starshina approached Masharin with a formal report, leading a party of forty businesslike soldiers, moving in an experienced silence born out of the experience of battle.
“Comrade Starshy Leytenant. My commander has been delayed on board. He asks that the men be directed to their quarters immediately, and then given opportunity to become aware of the position we defend.”
“Comrade Starshina, the matter is in hand.”
Masharin beckoned his own senior NCO forward, already briefed to lead the newcomers to their barracks.
The marines filed past, following the leader.
By 0512 hrs the supply ship had started to pull away, the second submarine having had its fill of the torpedo reloads.
The ‘Swedish’ vessel had refilled the ingenious fuel cell system, a set of large collapsible rubber bladders that were anchored to the seabed, their feeder hoses snaking up to the shoreline and concealed with prepared mock rough stone blocks.
Those submarines, there were now four of them, operating out of the Glenlara base, were well-provisioned for more strikes against the Allied supply routes.
1615 hrs, Saturday, 1st September 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.
Malinin and Zhukov were animated, the recent news from the front drawing them to the main operations room to consult maps.
As they took in the scenario, a further report from the Commander of 8th Guards Army arrived, confirming that a counter-attack had driven in the front of the 29th Guards Rifle Corps. The German forces had pushed them back nearly ten kilometres before the situation was retrieved, the employment of the nearby 12th Guards Tank Corps, and the profligate use of ammunition by supporting artillery, eventually halting the enemy counter-attack.
Malinin cherry-picked items from Boldin’s report, forwarded in its complete form from the 1st Red Banner Front Headquarters.
“Colonel General Boldin’s report… he believes that Major General Shemenkov… 29th Guards Rifle… can hold… despite heavy casualties… he needs more time to organise… reinforcements… before he can start to push the enemy back.”
“Hmm.”
Zhukov’s mind was working the problem.
There had been a few local counter-attacks over the weeks since the start of the offensive, and most withered with little or no gain. But this one was different, as the reports indicated that the enemy were pure German formations, part of the new Republican Army.
Combined with the appearance of German tanks and vehicles that had inflicted the Dagersheim debacle, for which the commanders of the tank units involved had paid the ultimate price, there seemed to be numerous Germans in the field.
GRU had sent over a special report that indicated the formation at Dagersheim was the French SS unit, and their performance unfortunately vindicated Zhukov’s assertion to Beria that they would fight with their old élan.
For the moment, that unit had gone quiet, so the two senior officers concentrated on the setback on the road to Amsberg.
Some waving of fingers and palm movements conveyed Zhukov’s orders, and his CoS noted them scrupulously, offering one small observation as an improvement, before moving off to get the plan in place, sending the commander of 1st Red Banner Central European Front specific instructions, as well as releasing some more assets to his control.
The Marshall took a seat at a modest desk and selected a biscuit from a plate set for his needs, a soft shortbread, sticky with raisins and honey.
A similar type had been laid out the previous day in Moscow, the only sweet taste in a sour encounter with the entire GKO.
The meeting had been planned as a full and comprehensive brief on the progress of Stage 2, and that section had gone as expected.
It was in the disputes with the dangerous Beria that the drama had developed, and the whole exchange reeked of threat and intrigue.
By the end of the meeting, Beria had created a climate of fear and distrust that obscured the initial purpose, and undermined the needs of the Motherland.
Zhukov’s presentation on the need for utilising the engineers amongst the ex-prisoners had fallen on ears already burnt by the fire of the arguments between the Army and GRU on one hand, and the NKVD security apparatus on the other.
The ears were not receptive, and he failed to get what he needed.
‘What the Rodina needed!’
He looked at the plate, making a selection.
‘Why didn’t they understand?’
Another biscuit sprang off the plate and into his mouth, the act of chewing bringing a moment of pleasure and relief.
Again he thought back to the tense meeting, and a moment when he had taken a back seat.
Fortunately, Colonel General Pekunin had taken onboard his late-night phone call, replacing Nazarbayeva, and presenting the GRU report, including the condemnation of the NKVD actions that Tatiana had listed the day before.
He had watched Beria carefully whilst Pekunin pursued the ‘Spanish’ matter, and he would tell the GRU Colonel that her intuition was correct, for the face of the NKVD chief had betrayed that all was not how it was painted.
Malinin returned and was directed to a seat by the pondering Zhukov.
“Shall I send for reinforcements, Comrade?”
Zhukov, broken from his thought process, responded brusquely.
“I think I have done all that is needed to ensure that the situation is rectified, General Malinin.”
He caught the amused look on his comrade’s face.
“Oh, the biscuits!”
Zhukov grinned in acceptance of his ‘gluttony’.
/> “Why not?”
The intended replenishment process was suspended when a Staff Major ushered Nazarbayeva into their presence, a few beads of sweat present on her forehead, indicative of her haste to get to the Army Commander.
None the less, still buoyed by Malinin’s comment, he decided to extend the good-humour.
“Ah, Comrade Polkovnik. Thank you for your report on the French SS, even if it arrived too late to be of use.”
His light toying with Nazarbayeva did not survive her first words.
“Comrade Marshall, I need to speak to you on a matter of extreme urgency and interest to the Rodina.”
Zhukov stood and moved off at speed.
“Follow me, you too Mikhail.”
The three were quickly in his private office where Tatiana took the lead.
“Comrade Marshall, I came here as quick as I could. I thought it was vital that you should have this information.”
Zhukov and Malinin could not help but exchange looks, their appetites whetted in expectation of something to balance the bad news of the day.
Nazarbayeva continued.
“This is from a GRU agent in Stockholm.”
Both men inwardly deflated as their imaginations immediately reduced the significance of what was to come.
The agent’s report was passed to the senior man, Malinin reading it over Zhukov’s shoulder.
Both read it and saw nothing of substance; certainly nothing to agitate the GRU officer.
A second report was passed.
“This report is a brief note from Foreign Minister Comrade Molotov to Comrade Marshall Beria, apparently as part payment of a promise.”
The two avidly consumed the second submission, spurred on by the identity of the writer and the recipient.
“I won’t ask how you came by this, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
It was common knowledge that the GRU and NKVD spied on each other with as much enthusiasm as they did the enemy.
“Sweden again?”
Both remained puzzled but could see the correlation.
“What am I missing, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“Comrades, you have a report from an agent indicating that Sir Richard Carruthers is presently making a weekend business trip to Stockholm on matters of modest importance. Also, that he has requested a private meeting with Östen Undén, the Swedish Minister for Foreign Affairs.”
‘Yes, I can read that Tatiana!’
“On receipt of that request, Undén cleared his schedule, confirmed his availability, and immediately took himself away to his holiday home on the Isle of Muskö.”
Zhukov and Malinin looked on without understanding.
“Comrade Molotov states that his ambassador in Sweden has been summoned to an urgent Sunday meeting by the Utrikesdepartementet.”
The two looked vacantly at her.
“Apologies Comrades, the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs.”
Zhukov’s eyes narrowed, things clicking slowly into place.
“The venue for the meeting is the Isle of Muskö.”
The link was nearly made, but they lacked a vital piece of information, one that Zhukov sought immediately.
“Who is this Carruthers?”
Nazarbayeva pulled out a dossier with a picture of the chisel-faced English politician clipped to the cover, with two more taken during a visit to Moscow before the Patriotic War.
“He is a member of their parliament, Comrades. But, more importantly, he is the personal private secretary of their Prime Minister Attlee.”
Zhukov and Malinin physically relaxed as some of the confusion was cleared away. Two minds worked hard to assimilate the intelligence, unnecessarily, as Nazarbayeva had not finished.
“Comrades, Carruthers brings with him a proposal from the British, a proposal of a negotiated ceasefire.”
“Govno!”
The two voices merged as the senior men reacted.
“Are we that close to victory? Is the whole capitalist apparatus so ready to fall Comrade?”
“No, Comrade Marshall, it is not. As I said, the proposal comes only from the British. The other Allies do not know of it.”
As bombshells went, bombshells didn’t get any bigger than the statement Tatiana laid before them.
Nazarbayeva left ten minutes later, leaving Zhukov and his staff hard at work, revising the military plan to heavily test the resolve of the forces of the British Empire.
1847 hrs, Saturday, 1st September 1945, Ottingen, Germany.
In the official orders, the 2nd Guards Tank Corps had been withdrawn to rest and refit, prior to the upcoming assaults in Northern Germany and Holland.
In reality, the survivors of the elite unit gathered themselves up and found time to lick their wounds in the area to the south-east of Visselhövede.
Yarishlov’s Brigade was in the best shape of the Corps’ major formations. Not because it had avoided the heavier combat, far from it.
They had just been lucky, far luckier than the 26th Tanks and the infantry of the 4th Motorised Brigade.
Those two veteran units, supported by a number of Army units, had been savaged in front of Zeven, enemy tanks and anti-tank guns being the least of their worries, as ground attack aircraft crucified the assault force.
The survivors of 26th Tanks would be merged into Yarsihlov’s own brigade, just as soon as they reached his position.
Kriks, his normal noisy nature curtailed by the loss of many a comrade from the old days, occupied himself with the business of finding anything and everything of worth to sell and barter at a later date, whilst his commander, tired and dusty from days of sustained combat, sought to put his unit back together.
Kriks had selected one of the few undamaged buildings on the outskirts of the village of Ottingen, a large detached house, once the impressive home of a lady of obvious means. Yarishlov had welcomed the gesture from his staff, who set aside the master suite as his own, the huge and inviting four poster bed dominating what was an extremely large room.
Yarishlov sat up to an ornate dressing table, presently serving as his personal desk, sorting his paperwork, and concentrating hard on his brigade’s needs. His aches and pains all but subdued by his overwhelming desire to sleep.
‘I am so tired it hurts.’
Kriks arrived noisily some time later, his good-humour partially restored by the liberation of an extremely large smoked salami and six bottles of Beck’s Bier.
Yarishlov woke with a start.
“Blyad!”
Kriks feigned horror, following it with the severe look that had made many a young soldier quake in his boots.
“Were you sleeping, Comrade Polkovnik? Sleeping on duty, Comrade Polkovnik? Wait until the Comrade Polkovnik hears about this. He will have your balls in a bag. A proper terror is our Polkovnik.”
Yarishlov, his mouth like the inside of a Cossack’s boot, looked mournfully at his senior NCO, resigned to the banter for the foreseeable future.
Kriks took pity on his commander, and made up for his comments with a Beck’s, tapping the top off and passing it over.
It was the best drink Yarishlov had tasted in living memory, cutting the dryness of his throat and washing away the dust, the last dregs removed by worming his tongue in the neck.
He ran the cool bottle over his forehead, enjoying the sensation as a headache started to make itself known.
In response to the question he was about to ask, Kriks anticipated and spoke first.
“Sat them in the stream for an hour. Had to hide them well or those bastards from the sappers would have sniffed them out in a moment.”
He offered another to Yarishlov, who accepted eagerly, consuming it at a slower pace to savour the full flavour.
“I thought I would wake the Comrade Polkovnik because our replacement tanks are about to arrive, hot from the train station.”
In confirmation of that, the sound of growling diesel engines accompanied by the distinctive rattle of a T34’s track pins grew unt
il it became all-pervading.
“26th?”
“No, Comrade Polkovnik, they are still some hours away. These are replacement vehicles, so the Supply Officer wishes to inform you.”
Walking to the window, Yarishlov looked down upon an approaching line of T34/85 tanks, replacements for those lost.
His professional eye approved of the tight formation.
But only for a moment.
“Job Tvoyu Mat! Kriks, are my eyes playing me up?”
Still feeling playful, the NCO feigned indignation.
“Such language from an officer. I am truly shocked.”
The lack of response from Yarishlov was noted, and Kriks fell silent.
The recently promoted Praporshchik, the Red Army’s highest Warrant Officer rank, careful to keep his bottle away from prying eyes, moved forward and sought to identify the problem.
That was easily done.
“Blyad! Your eyes are just fine, Comrade Polkovnik.”
The tanks were clearly combat veterans, not new ones from the production line.
They also carried the very visible insignia of the Polish Tank Corps.
Both men retreated into the room, silently drinking and gathering their thoughts.
Kriks got there first.
“So, Comrade Polkovnik, now we recycle armour taken from our viperous Polish allies. I wonder why that is?”
Yarishlov, suddenly very awake, drained his bottle and grabbed his cap, ready to go out and get involved in the physical work.
Slapping it hard to remove as much dust as possible, he placed it on his head.
As his Colonel gathered up his written orders, Kriks opened the door and stood back respectfully, their private friendship once more on hold in the public gaze.
“Let us hope it does not mean what we think, Comrade Praporshchik!”
1920 hrs, Saturday, 1st September 1945, near Route 304, west of Wangmucum, China.
He was 21 years old and one of the final products of the officer production line that had tried to keep up with extreme losses during the closing year of World War Two.
