12
November 14, 1939
Reilly sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed his hand through his thinning hair. His head was pounding while his stomach was roiled. “Why do so many mornings in Russia begin like this?” he wondered.
Leningrad. The Russian cold and damp had penetrated his hotel room. “Gotta start doing things differently. Get my life under control. No more vodka” He muttered. The last two days came back to him in a rush. “Simply unbelievable.”
From his first day in the country, November 12, 1939, he was escorted by Natasha to the Kirov People’s Factory. Yermolayev was waiting in a large grey office with many of the leading tank design men in Russia. Reilly waved to the group sitting in the corner including Koshkin, Morozov and Kucherenko. Reilly knew Stalin himself had taken interest in their work to further evolve existing tank designs. Much to Reilly’s disappointment, Comrade Stalin had directed the engineers to produce a version of the new A-20 design; which included a track only propulsion system. This design, originally known as the A-30 but now referred to as the T-32, had a whopping 76mm main gun.
Reilly was not sold on the T-32 concept, not only because it ditched the Christie track and wheel system, but a single T-32 cost as much as three BT-7s. Its huge 76mm gun seemed like a waste. Reilly kept such thoughts to himself. No one had asked him his opinion and this was after all, the Soviet Union. His American citizenship had absolutely zero protective value here.
Yermolayev began cautiously, speaking of the “Deep Battle” concept developed by Lieutenant General V.K. Triandafillov long before the formation of Hitler’s Panzer divisions. Over his years in the Worker’s Paradise, Reilly’s Russian had improved. Natasha started to whisper a translation, but Reilly shooed her away.
Yermolayev droned on about the Socialist roots of the Deep Battle theory. Although the Deep Battle concept of combined arms applied to a narrow front to achieve a breakthrough had become Red Army policy in the 1936 Field Regulation, it was banned by Stalin during the subsequent purges. The tank theorists and engineers were still believers, but careful to avoid attention.
The Fascist successful use of their version of Deep Battle against Poland allowed the Red Army to reconsider its abandonment. Stalin himself was “interested” in re-examining the concept. Reilly looked about the room nervously. He wasn’t sure why he was at the meeting. As a foreigner he was already under suspicion and revealing state secrets to an outsider did not happen in Stalinist Russia.
“Comrades! Deep Battle is back!” concluded Yermolayev, “The Red Army will be its master!”
Everyone filed out of the room into a work shop. In the middle was a tank covered by a tarp. Once everyone was situated around it, Yermolayev nodded to three workmen. He waved his hand and exclaimed “Comrades, the Fascists have sent us a present.”
The tarp was lifted in a rapid swoosh. Reilly was momentarily distracted by the speed in which it was removed. The engineer in him wondered about how it was orchestrated. Then he was drawn to the tank.
The spectators stood in disbelief. Before them was a very operational German PzKpfw III. Reilly noticed the markings identifying it as belonging to the Second Panzer Division. “But how?” exclaimed Morozov. He was ignored.
For the remainder of the day, the Soviet engineers and Reilly examined the panzer. Later, the men drove the panzer, testing its cannon and machine guns.
The group’s conclusions were predictably negative. The 37mm main gun was too small and while it was beautifully machined its complexity hurt its durability. The fact it cost five times as much as a BT-7 made it economically inefficiently, a waste of man hours and materiel.
Reilly took it all in but was afraid to take notes. Photographs were out of the question; and he didn’t have a camera. His hosts had made it clear from his first day years ago that he would be immediately deported if such a device was ever found in his possession.
0
Like many nations, the Soviets had produced a number of truly monstrous heavy tanks with multiple turrets. They resembled land battleships. The T-35 had no less than 5 turrets and in Reilly’s eyes resembled a menacing dinosaur. Unfortunately, the T-35 was a huge disappointment with its slow speed, dangerously thin armor and excessive cost per machine.
The rollout of the next generation of heavy tanks was complicated when Stalin’s interest was piqued on the subject. Reilly had lost his vodka one late evening when learning the complete story of the old Russian heavy tanks and their multiple turret design. Lieutenant Colonel Kotin, Yermolayev’s boss, gambled during a meeting with Stalin and argued against multiple turrets. In the midst of it Stalin leaned over and broke a turret from one of the models. The engineers took a new direction.
Reilly knew one path led to a new heavy tank design named after Marshal Kliment Voroshilov, referred to as the KV-1. It was rumored to be massive. On November 13, 1939, Reilly received the shock when Natasha escorted him to Kirovsky Factory, where he was met by an enthusiastic Yermolayev and Lt. Colonel Kotin. This was a different factory than the one visited the day before, but the names seemed almost the same to Reilly. Russian names was something he would never get straight.
There were brief comments admiring the fine workmanship of the “lost and abandoned” PzKpfw III. Reilly did not want to know what became of the crew. Reilly was led to the finishing shop, where he stood in awe of the KV-1 prototype.
It was larger than Reilly could have imagined. The new tank weighed over 40 tons, double the PzKpfw III. Its main gun was 76mm, which more than twice the caliber of the PzKpfw III. Yermolayev admitted its maximum armor thickness was over 100mm or 4 inches thick.
Kotin and Yermolayev beamed. Reilly didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. “With this we will defeat the Fascists!” huffed Yermolayev.
Later Kotin spoke to him in confidence. “We are both engineers. We may speak directly. We brought you here because we know you should like our design, eh.”
“Of course, Comrade Kotin,” allowed Reilly. He was afraid of someone, who was so close to Stalin.
“We want you to return to America and tell your Army and your Parliament that we are ready for the Nazi menace and that we shall defeat them. They must know that Poland was weak and stupid and that it will be different here,” explained Kotin. “You Capitalists must not be afraid of Hitler…he is not invincible. Do not bend to his will. Do not make our coming war with the Fascists harder by letting them to believe you are afraid and are no threat.”
“I will, you may be certain,” replied Reilly. He fully intended to do exactly as suggested. It would be easy because he agreed with almost everything Lt. Colonel Kotin said and he didn’t correct the Parliament reference.
0
Reilly finally got off the bed. He dressed and collected his limited belongings. Natasha had already taken care of shipping his steamer trunk to America. Reilly knew the NKVD searched every inch of it. Reilly wasn’t worried. Everything he needed was filed in his head, which he was positive would eventually feel better.
Natasha took him to the dock where he boarded a steamer to Stockholm. The good bye was uncomfortable. He loved her but didn’t think it was a mutual situation. Natasha was just doing as the Party directed her. She looked around and drew him into an alcove. Reilly did not ask about her plans and was surprised when she kissed him in the style of the French. Natasha pressed a letter into his hand and was gone.
Reilly looked at the letter and thought of tossing it in the water. His words were of little importance believing he would not be returning to Russia. War was on the horizon and he would return to his life in America where he could read the letter at his leisure.
For now he was on to London then Paris. Then down to Monte Carlo, Monaco. He had a meeting there. He liked to gamble almost as much as he liked to drink. There would be other women. At least he hoped.
That night in his cabin he read Natasha’s letter. She loved him, so the attraction was mutual. “Such is life,” thought Reilly, “I have to get
better at this.”
II
November 15, 1939
The ride from Krakow to Berlin then Zossen, headquarters of the German General Staff, was an unexpected adventure for General Manstein. The trek through Poland was slow, the Storch plane intended to pick him up unable to find a field to land, which forced Manstein to take a staff car to Lvov where the plane awaited. Unfortunately, the Luftwaffe had proven too efficient at its task of destroying Polish roads and the car was swallowed up in a large crater that bent the axle. Stranded he was forced to ride on a straw covered wagon; its former Polish owner nowhere in sight to protest. Reaching the Lvov landing strip, Manstein pulled the straw from his boots and suffered through a bumpy airplane ride to a military landing strip north of Berlin.
“Herr General,” Blumentritt was waiting at the strip along with a full contingent of adjutants. Manstein offered a military salute instead of the usual Nazi greeting. Blumentritt answered with a “Heil Hitler” the large number of gawking Wehrmacht men forcing him to act the perfect Nazi. “A difficult trip, General?” Blumentritt could not hide his surprise at Manstein’s soiled uniform and the pungent smell from his pant cuff.
“War,” Manstein muttered. “I have another uniform.” His mouth twisted at one end, eyes glancing at the younger perfumed desk officers who had likely never fired a shot much less smelled the odor of diesel and death that was part of every panzer unit. He followed Blumentritt to the staff car, which was the only means of reaching Zossen. The drive was quick as a squad of motorcycle units cleared their path as the headquarters was forty kilometers south of Berlin via the autobahn, Blumentritt was full of praise
“There is much talk at OKW about your Polish campaign, three hundred kilometers in eight days.”
Manstein was listening, but knew the Red Army would be a greater challenge than the Poles.
“Generals Guderian and Hoepner are attending.”
Manstein stared out of the window. The plan required an iron will, a fearlessness that was everywhere among the panzer corps but lacking among the desk generals. Moscow would be enveloped 12 weeks into the invasion, well before the Russian winter could strike. Much of the boldness was hidden, due to men like Jodl, who lacked the nerve and imagination to approve a rapid thrust into the heart of the Red Army while ignoring flanks and supplies.
“General Marcks modified his plan, more thrust in the center, taking one panzer corps from the Baltic attack.”
“The Lats will give us no trouble, they fear the communists more than they fear us. We predict our panzers will be at Lake Peipus within three weeks.”
Blumentritt blinked. The planning staff had put German panzers near Leningrad in no less than eight weeks.
“What about the PzKpfw IIIs?”
“There are some.”
“We need at least five hundred as the lead panzers.” Manstein witnessed his PzKpfw Is knocked out by Polish mortars and a few antiaircraft guns. The Mark IIs had fared slightly better, scattering small arms fire and eating up the poorly matched Polish cavalry.
“General Marcks proposed a defense line from Archangel in the north to Astrakhan in the south.”
Manstein returned to studying the German countryside. The PzKpfw IIIs were more important than where they were supposed to halt.
“There is also a problem with the Rumanians. They want more German troops and a guarantee that we will drive the Soviets from their border. Antonescu is concerned the Red Army will attack and drive to the Ploesti oil fields.”
“What does Marcks have on the Rumanian Front?”
“One army, likely the Eleventh and a single panzer division.”
“And the rest of the Ukraine?”
“Two infantry armies and a single panzer group.”
“Luftlofte?”
“One.”
Manstein smacked the car seat. “The Soviets will never counterattack. We have worked out a week to Minsk, two more to Smolensk and six more to reach Moscow.”
Blumentritt felt the air rush from his lungs. A 12 week campaign.
“The Luftlofte can hold them off and the Rumanians and the Eleventh Army should be able to hold the Carpathian passes. What about the Hungarians?”
Blumentritt’s head throbbed. “Horthy will not allow any of their troops across the Soviet border. Two weeks ago the Hungarian Second Army fought the Rumanian Fourth Army for two days around Cluj. The Fuhrer sent Keitel to Bucharest to calm them.”
Manstein sighed. The Hungarians were still smarting from losing their empire after the Great War. They had picked off parts of Slovakia and were quick to claim Teschen in Poland without firing a shot. Their hatred of Rumanians, who had stolen Transylvania from Hungary during Versailles meant they might attack their Axis “ally” while the Rumanians were tied up fighting the Soviets.
The car and its escort reached Zossen and OKW headquarters. Its bunkers were guarded from land attack while hidden from air attack. The guards were efficient in checking identification while eyeing the papers of those in the car. Blumentritt suffered with his nerves, always concerned that confusion over identification might end with gunfire. The colonel recalled an incident prior to the Polish campaign a saboteur executed nearly in the spot where they sat. They were waved inside, the guards unimpressed with the general responsible for the Polish victory. They had seen their share of field marshals; Manstein was a mere general and one who did not exude a pleasant odor.
Blumentritt was out of the car first and held the door open for the commander: the general followed him to the bunker entrance where more guards waited. After a quick glance at identification papers they were waved inside. Blumentritt led Manstein to a changing room.
The conference room was open; the heavy wood table stretching some twenty feet, waist high and marked by scrapes and scratches, all the result of arguments when, where and how to attack the Poles. Blumentritt remembered the battles before the war and the panic during it. Fear of the French was replaced by concern at the British war declaration. The Soviet reaction sweated a few brows. Blumentritt had attended a session with the Fuhrer present, when General Oster of military intelligence revealed the Red Army was building troops along the Polish border.
“Colonel Blumentritt.”
It was General Marcks’ adjutant, a complete Prussian with stiff spine, an excess of military awards tugging at his uniform and a monocle in his right eye.
“Colonel Harpe.” Neither man offered the Nazi salute.
“General Manstein has arrived?” Harpe’s blond hair had thinned and grayed, a sign of the suffering of the German Army between the wars. Harpe had been one of the few who continued in the hundred thousand man army allowed under the armistice and battled communists during the Spartacist revolt. He served in General Mackensen’s staff during the Great War, nursing a hatred of the Russians who he fought for three long years.
“He has.”
“With his plans and staff.” Harpe began strolling around the conference table. Rapping on the wood with his fist. “Manstein has set back our decision by two months.”
“That was not his intention.”
Harpe continued his pacing, each step punctuated by a rap. “Manstein, Guderian and Hoepner are wild men. They want to send our panzers deep into the rear without infantry or air support. They will be cut off and destroyed; their plans are foolish and will only lead to disaster.”
Blumentritt was in mood to argue. Harpe was the friendliest of the OKW staff, disagreeing with Blumentritt without insulting him. They were joined by another member of Marck’s staff. Colonel General Rendulic was an Austrian. A military history professor who had returned to the Austrian Army. He joined the German army to spread the Nazi message across Europe. Rendulic stiffened, right arm shooting high in the air, in a much practiced salute. Blumentritt and Harpe responded.
Rendulic adjusted his hat, two sizes too big, face hidden by the brim. His wire rimmed glasses and square mustache centered directly below his nose signaled the fanaticism that dripped
from his every word.
“Colonel Blumentritt.” The clipped tone was contemptuous of all but the Fuhrer.
Blumentritt nodded.
“Your interference with the campaign is another attempt to undermine National Socialism.” His arm shot out again. “The generals need to believe unswervingly in National Socialist policy. When they face obstacles they need to think of the Fuhrer and beat their chest.” Rendulic drove his own arm into his chest and bellowed. “I am a National Socialist that will move mountains.” Rendulic puffed out his chest, staring hard at the conference table as if expecting it to levitate at his command.
Blumentritt turned away, raising an eyebrow at Harpe, who had endured the pep talk on numerous occasions. Rendulic did not notice them as several more members of the OKW staff entered the room, unrolling maps on the table until it was nearly covered. The room began to fill as majors, colonels and the occasional general took their place around the table or at a chair positioned along the wall.
The OKW generals did not like to wait, as their day filled with meetings and the occasional conversation with the Fuhrer. The discussion of the Russian invasion was certain to pack the room, every general wanting to be heard, bringing along their staff to answer questions and offer the reasons for their leading the attack.
Blumentritt waited for Manstein, who had stopped Guderian for a brief discussion. The colonel took his place at one end of the table, within sight of the spot reserved for the Fuhrer, which was always left open for his presence, rare as they were.
Jodl and Marcks were the last generals to arrive. They circled the table, nodding, chuckling and occasionally patting shoulders. Their good cheer did not extend to all; Blumentritt was given the cold shoulder, so practiced among the Prussian general staff, chins uplifted as they passed by him.
The low chatter in the room broke off as Wilhelm Keitel and Fritz Halder appeared with the Fuhrer, Iron Cross hung on his brown tunic, black hair folded across his head. The generals and military officers offered their best Nazi salute, even Hoepner, who was known to doubt the National Socialist creed.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 14