The Free World War

by Matthew William Frend

  In the back of the car, General Vlasov looked up from his notes. On the other side of the road, a column of Red Army prisoners stretched for a mile out of the whitening gloom. A low thumping of artillery fire, muffled by the conditions, rose above the idling engine. It was hard to tell from how far away, but he knew the front line was only a few miles ahead.

  The prisoners moving away from the front were unconcerned by the barrage, or the hundreds of troop transports rumbling past them on the frozen road. Their war was over. Downcast and hollow eyed, they filed past, not seeing the architect of their predicament.

  The car started again and Vlasov returned to his notebook and maps. His RLA was now over two hundred thousand strong, bolstered by continual recruiting from the hordes of prisoners such as those across the road. They had taken the strategic town of Tula the previous week, after a month-long battle.

  Moscow lay less than fifty miles ahead. The thought of the capital being only an hour’s drive away sent a warm thrill through his heart. Taking the city would be more than just the end of the war … it would spell the end of the Bolsheviks and decades of brutal oppression.

  Away to his left, the dark line of the Tula-Moscow rail link followed the road. Black sleepers and steel contrasted starkly with the surrounding white-scape. It would soon be in service again, bringing armor and supplies to his army.

  He looked across at the prisoners again. They were from the 144th Rifle Division of the 1st Shock Army. One of the armies that had defended Moscow from the Nazis. Their commander, Field Marshal Georgy Zhukov had also been in command of the capital’s defense five years earlier. The irony of the situation struck Vlasov. The re-activation of the 1st Shock Army was no doubt a last-ditch measure taken by Stalin in the hope it would counter the Red Army’s flagging morale. That he had also reinstated Zhukov as commander of Moscow’s defense, further reinforced that logic, as the dictator had banished him to obscurity in Odessa due to him being too strong a political rival.

  Vlasov pictured the opposing commander. A highly decorated soldier and Hero of the Soviet Union. And how would you see me? As a soldier doing his duty? Or a traitor leading a band of criminals? No matter, the next few weeks will decide how history sees us both.

  A movement out the car window caught his eye. A wounded prisoner fell out of the column and collapsed. No one tried to stop and help him – they knew he was too weak to go on and would soon freeze to death. And so the relentless march into captivity continued.

  The general wished he could stop and offer some assistance, not just to the fallen soldier, but to all of them. Some words that would give them hope, and revive their spirits.

  Soon enough brothers, you will hear the truth about the evil you have been fighting for.

  Their plight may be a difficult one, but he thought how different it would be if the tables were turned. If it were he and his men who were the prisoners, they wouldn’t be marching to freedom, but to slave labor or execution.

  Half an hour later Vlasov reached the HQ of the RLA’s 2nd Division. The sounds of battle increased, and the low thump of artillery had become a rolling thunder. A meeting with the divisional staff wasn’t due to begin for another hour, so Vlasov waved the driver on to tour the front lines. A short drive along a snow-covered track found them at a regimental command post. A surprised colonel greeted Vlasov, and took him to a vantage point where he could view the current battle’s progress.

  From a low hilltop, the officers watched the progress of an RLA attack on Red Army positions that had begun early that morning. Through his field glasses and the falling snow, Vlasov saw several dark shapes lumbering toward the enemy trenches: Sherman tanks. Each was leading a column of infantry through breaches in the barbed wire.

  As they passed through the wire, the infantry with fixed bayonets, fanned out and swarmed into the Red Army trenches.

  The division commander had advised Vlasov that they were facing the 18th Guards Rifle Division. These were not the halfhearted defenders who were readily surrendering – these were the die-hard communists who were fighting to the death.

  On the plain below, one of the RLA soldiers, Corporal Sergei Gromynki, leapt into the bottom of an enemy trench and looked up. Further along he saw several Red Army soldiers raising their weapons at him. As he lifted his Garand M1 to fire, the staccato sound of an automatic rifle firing over his head nearly deafened him. The BAR gunner from his own unit standing above him scored some hits, but the enemy still fired back. As Corporal Gromynki fired his own weapon, he heard the sound of bullets cutting through the air around him, and also thumping into the BAR gunner.

  A dead weight fell on top of Gromynki and threw him off his aim. He missed his target, a big Soviet NCO with a sub-machine gun twenty yards away. A grenade exploded behind the NCO, and he turned to see that all of his comrades were dead. Screaming with rage, he charged at the RLA soldier.

  Gromynki desperately tried to free himself from under the dead BAR gunner so he could bring his gun to bear. The rushing NCO fired off his last few rounds and bullets sprayed around the RLA corporal and into the body lying on top of him. With a surge Gromynki shrugged the weight off his back and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. He got off two rounds into the charging torso, but the big man didn’t break stride and kept coming. Then Gromynki heard the “clang” of his magazine ejecting. Out of ammo.

  As the NCO closed the last few yards and leapt through the air, Gromynki lifted his rifle and jammed the stock into the ground below his shoulder. The Red Army soldier couldn’t change direction in mid-air and landed on the point of Gromynki’s bayonet. Ribs splintered, and a loud groan sounded as the blade pierced the NCO’s chest and split his heart in two.

  Corporal Gromynki got up and looked at the carnage around him. A pause for a second to acknowledge his dead comrade, then he picked up his rifle and started toward the next enemy trench.

  Watching from up on the hill, Vlasov had seen this kind of scene play out many times before. The thick snow prevented him from seeing much detail, but he knew that his men were killing and dying in desperate close-pitched combat.

  He sighed, and his head dropped, looking at the ground. Perhaps being on Russian soil so close to Moscow and seeing this slaughter – with the end so near, was taking its toll.

  The bright white snow beneath his feet was covering the earth of his homeland, but out on the battlefield he knew, it was stained bright red with the blood of his men.

  ∞

  Moscow

  January 13th, 1947

  “Do svidanya!”

  Glasses clinked, and as the vodka warmed his throat, Valentin Rhuzkoi remembered the cold of a thousand winter days kept at bay by such a toast. Outside, an afternoon snow-storm was brewing, and snow was already piling up against the wooden window sill.

  “Thank goodness we are not still out there.”

  The same thought occurred to his drinking partner, “You got that right.” said Blackett, thinking of the recent months battling across barren and frozen wastes. “We were cutting it pretty fine at the end there.”

  The last weeks of 1946 had seen some of the bitterest fighting of the war. The retreating Red Army had defended to the last around their capital, and the Allied supply lines had been stretched to their limit. But air power had been the decisive factor, the advantage that had allowed the forces of the free world to succeed where previous armies had failed. It was not just the Allied air-force’s overwhelming destructive power that reigned from above, but also its capacity to airlift the constant flow of supplies needed at the front.

  “Da, close … very close my friend.”

  “I’d never been so glad to be freezing my butt off in an M40 command car, as long as it kept those goddammed muddy roads frozen over.”

  Rhuzkoi waved at the barman to have another round sent over. “Perhaps if it had not been their own countrymen at the gates of the city, the Bolsheviks would have fought to the last man.”

  Blackett nodded, gravely aware t
hat the onset of the Russian winter had been the deadline for success. If the momentum had been stalled, and the war dragged on into another year, the risk of the Red Army building up reserves to launch counter-offensives would have greatly increased. Under the leadership of Patton and other like-minded generals, the attacking had never stopped. The first to reach Moscow, General Vlasov’s RLA forces had paused long enough to allow the Red Army to vacate the city, saving it from destruction. That the capital had been spared was due as much to the will of the Muscovites, whose rioting and calls for Vlasov had “encouraged” Stalin to leave. The dictator’s whereabouts were still unknown.

  The OSS Colonel watched the passers-by out in the worsening snow-storm.

  If only you knew. As far as you and rest of the world knew, the Bolsheviks had started the war.

  He toasted. “To General Patton!”

  “Za zdorovya! To old Blood and Guts!”

  “… and to his fifth star!” added the Colonel and they finished downing their glasses. “So, what now?”

  “For me? I have been offered a post in the temporary government.”

  “Under Vlasov?”

  “It is only until the formation of the new democratic republic is completed. We will have a new constitution … to be based on General Vlasov’s Prague Manifesto.”

  Blackett raised his glass in recognition, having heard of the document which outlined the reforms that would end Bolshevism in Russia.

  Rhuzkoi tipped glasses, and explained, “Da, my friend, your people know of the evils of collectivism, and of the millions who starved under the oppressive state that implemented it.”

  Blackett just nodded, he could tell Valentin needed to get something off his chest.

  “A move to popular government, and the return of the farms and trades to the people,” he said angrily.

  As tears welled up, the thought of years of purges, forced labor, and the use of terror by the government to control its people, brought a wave of anguish to the farmer’s son from the Ukraine. He took a swig of vodka to calm himself.

  “Boze moi … to read such a list of reforms … it makes very clear what kind of state existed for these remedies to be necessary.”

  Another round of drinks arrived as the weather worsened, and the snow blew in flurries past the window.

  The Russian brightened as he thought beyond the next few months, and continued, “After my work is done here I shall return home to the Ukraine, perhaps restore my family’s farm. We shall see. I am very tired.”

  Blackett eyed his friend closely, the lines on his face had creased noticeably in recent months. The war, and the weather had taken its toll.

  “Colonel,” Valentin said thoughtfully, “I have had much time to think over the past days, after the outcome became inevitable … but, why were your countrymen so willing to fight for our cause?”

  Where is this going? thought Blackett.

  “The Allied countries were weary of fighting after the hellish years of war against the Nazis. The same for Russia … the same problems afflicted both sides… low morale, dwindling popular support to maintain armies of any size … and yet your Allies managed to produce as numerous a force as that which you had before VE Day?”

  Blackett turned his glass around in his fingers thoughtfully. After a minute, he decided he could trust his friend with what he knew.

  “Valentin, as you know there was a lot of convincing required … a lot of, shall we say guiding the opinion of those in power.”

  “As did we my friend – as you know, there was the letter that General Vlasov provided to you.”

  “Ah yes … the letter. We referred to it as ‘The Order’ when we passed it on.”

  “So, it seems we each only know part of the story …”

  “Okay, you spill yours and I’ll spill mine.”

  “Please … you first, I insist.”

  Blackett looked around to check that no one was within earshot, “There were several significant incidents in the months leading up to the war.”

  He leveled a stony look at the Russian, and Rhuzkoi understood he would never be able to repeat what he was about to hear.

  “The V2 rocket plans stolen by the Soviets at the end of the war with the Nazis, and more importantly, the plot surrounding the Manhattan Project; they were engineered, the situations manipulated, so they would sway public opinion.”

  Rhuzkoi sighed, “Of course … no wonder. Ha! Nothing would have been more frightening than Stalin getting the Bomb!”

  Blackett added quietly, “When I say engineered, in the case of the plot to steal the plans for the A-Bomb, that was also partly due to Patton’s influence. Once Congress and the Administration were convinced of the threat posed by the Reds, certain ongoing investigations were conducted with more enthusiasm.”

  Another round was delivered.

  “So, you mentioned the letter?” Blackett asked leadingly.

  “Da, you should know how it came to be …”

  “I agree … in fact I’ve been tasked to find out more about it … it’s very convenient we’re both sitting here having this drink.”

  “Tasked? By who?”

  “Major, you know the OSS is in the business of knowing everything it can … but in this case, we need to be absolutely sure of the letter’s validity … for General Patton’s sake.”

  “I see, you need to be sure it is genuine, in case questions are asked by your government.”

  “Yes, we just need a more detailed explanation of how the Order eventuated. You see, General Patton is an officer of the highest honor – and I’m sure you understand we need to maintain that honor with respect to all of our past dealings.”

  “Yes Colonel, I understand. I also believe General Vlasov would appreciate your concerns, and would approve if I explained.”

  It was though both men had suddenly sobered up, and the air of camaraderie between them was now one of pure business.

  “I assure you the document is genuine. We obtained the letter, this Order, a written directive from Marshal Timoshenko himself, to the Commander of the 2nd Ukrainian Front, General Ivan Fedyuninsky.”

  Rhuzkoi’s chest lifted with pride as he continued, “That directive was in response to information that we engineered to fall on to Timoshenko’s desk.”

  “We?”

  “Yes Colonel, the RLA has had many friends in all sectors of Russian society. Remember, they helped your OSS with General Vlasov’s escape from captivity by the Soviets when he was being brought to Moscow in 1945.”

  Blackett was concerned. If there had been any impropriety with the Order’s creation, there could be serious ramifications later.

  Vlasov read his expression and continued. “You may describe our activities as espionage, but since we are Russian citizens, we see it as internal politics.”

  “Politics?”

  “Yes. We gave information to the NKVD. Accurate and truthful information, that your Allied armies would attack the Soviet Union in Czechoslovakia – Prague to be precise.”

  Blackett was dumbfounded. “You told them …?”

  “Da …” added Rhuzkoi with infuriating indifference, “We intercepted a drop used by British couriers passing information to the Kremlin. It was considered to be a most reliable source. We replaced the contents of the drop point with our own communique. It detailed the forthcoming attack plans … your attack plans, which were given credence by the 3rd Army maneuvers on the Austrian border.”

  Blackett took a big swig from his vodka while the Major let him digest what he’d just disclosed. It was plausible. Stalin had been paranoid about the Western allies. He’d resisted the formation of the United Nations, believing it to be a vehicle for undermining communism, and his hold on power. The negotiations at the Yalta and Potsdam conferences during the war against the Nazis had been exercises in working out who would control the post-war states. Those determinations had been implemented by the actual occupation of territories, with the bulk of Eastern Europe going to
the Soviets. Stalin had deceived the other leaders by promising to hold democratic elections in return for outcomes favorable to his country, and he knew the Allies were resentful.

  Once covertly receiving the plans of the Allied attack, Stalin would no doubt have leapt to the idea that they could actually go through with it. It would make perfect sense for the Allies to start another war – after all, they had the Bomb.

  Minutes passed while Rhuzkoi let Blackett process what he’d just heard. Feeding the Russians information on the Allied offensive may have helped conceal the preparations by the RLA before they moved on Linz or Jihlava. The Red Army would have been focused on 3rd Army, and not been monitoring the mountains of Soviet-occupied Austria. The Colonel looked up as another question sprang to mind, “Can I ask you how you came to possess a copy of the response? The directive from Timoshenko to Fedyuninsky?”

  “That, Colonel, is a story for another day … suffice it to say that Bolshevism has many opponents in all levels of the military. It was a relatively simple matter for us to obtain such a copy of the internal order and then deliver it you.”

  Blackett stood and went over to the fireplace. The embers snapped and popped as though triggered by his approach. He chuckled to himself at the enormity of the risks taken by the RLA, and that it had all come off. Rhuzkoi joined him.

  They accepted another drink from a passing waiter’s tray.

  “Here’s mud in your in your eye!” he toasted the Major, and then added, “and yes, take a break Valentin … go and do some farming, but not for too long. Get yourself a farm manager, I have some more news that might keep you interested in more covert activities.”

  Rhuzkoi laughed, “Hah! You Americans … always playing at spies.”

  “And baseball – don’t forget why we’re playing spies.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember you told me – stop all the wars so you can beat everyone at sport.”

  “You got it, brother.”

  The waiter retrieved the empty glasses from the mantle above the fireplace, then nodded to signify another round was on the way. It was now dark outside.