Blumentritt‘s knees bent as his nerves made him fidget. He had met the Fuhrer before, though the first occasion was the most memorable. Hitler had greeted each soldier in the room, grasping their hands between his and fixing his cold blue eyes onto theirs. Blumentritt could not look away, feeling as if the Fuhrer could see within his soul, and at that moment knew Germany was under the control of the greatest leader in its history. Furthermore, he also knew he would surrender his life for Adolf Hitler and the German Fatherland.
General Marcks, wire rimmed glasses sliding down to the edge of his nose, began describing his updated plan for attacking Russia. There were the three main thrusts from Poland: one north into the Baltics, the second directly eastward along the Smolensk-Moscow highway and the third into the Ukraine. Blumentritt watched Manstein, who frowned at the division of the panzer forces, though he remained silent. Guderian was more expressive.
The creator of the German Panzer concept interrupted. “We need to combine our forces for a drive at Moscow.”
“Ridiculous.” This from Keitel, Chief of the German Armed Forces, who was known to support the Fuhrer, holding few ideas of his own. “We must protect our flanks. We cannot leave our panzer forces unprotected hundreds of kilometers from their railheads. The Red Army could attack from the south and cut them off before destroying them.”
Guderian thrust out his chin, as if heading the lead tank in one of his attacks. “They will be unable to assemble. We will be in Moscow by August.”
This drew a gasp from around the table. The Fuhrer leaned over the table, eyeing the map and the distances along the Russian steppes. Blumentritt knew he sought a quick end to the Russian campaign, dissatisfied by Marcks’ plan of attack. The British were threatening the Norwegian coast, pressuring the Oslo government to allow British marines to land on the northern coast and attack the Swedish iron ore mines, which were so critical to German industry.
Keitel exploited the Fuhrer’s concerns. “We must have access to the Donets basin.” He used his pointer to trace the river at the eastern edge of the Ukraine. “Only a drive through the south will allow us to capture the region’s industry and mines.” He poked at the spot eight hundred kilometers deep in Soviet territory. “From there we can advance into the Caucasus and the Baku oil fields.” The map was poked another eight hundred kilometers further east.
General Marcks, face pale and thin from the burden placed on him, was quick to agree. “We believe that the Red Army will fall back to Moscow to protect the capital. Stalin will concentrate his forces, allowing our forces to sweep through Ukraine and seize the important economic centers of western Russia. Once we have advanced to the Caspian we can take Moscow and destroy the Red Army with a single blow. It will be another Cannae.”
Blumentritt closed his eyes. Every general since Hannibal dreamed of another Cannae, a battle wiping out the enemy with a giant encirclement that left territory open for capture. The Fuhrer listened to his generals, nodding as they spoke of economic concerns, the Marcks-Halder offensive seemingly convincing them.
Blumentritt could not help himself. “Mein Fuhrer.”
Shock and chagrin circled the table. A mere colonel speaking out of turn. Halder, little eyes narrowing at the interruption, Jodl and Keitel, snarled as their exclusive access to the Fuhrer was intruded upon. The latter motioned to one of the guards as if wanting Blumentritt escorted from the room.
“Yes?” The Fuhrer tilted his head, not recognizing the voice or its owner.
“Colonel Blumentritt.”
Keitel interrupted. “The colonel is not supposed to be here. He should leave.” A low murmuring of agreement moved through the room.
But Blumentritt had not joined the OKW to stand silently and nod. “General Manstein has a different plan for a rapid move on Moscow.”
The Fuhrer’s mouth twitched and he glanced around the table for the owner of the plan. Manstein was quick to respond before Halder or Keitel could interrupt, using his own pointer to show where his panzer troops would be concentrated, and the timetable as they advanced through Minsk, Smolensk and Moscow. Manstein was unflappable as the desk generals snarled at his arguments for a single thrust and capturing the Soviet’s rail center. Without rail connections the Red Army could not counterattack, ensuring the Ukraine, Donets and Baku oil fields would fall into German hands like ripe fruit.
Halder was the first to protest. “We cannot leave our forces hundreds of kilometers from supporting infantry or supplies.”
Keitel joined him in what was possibly the first time the two men agreed on strategy. “The Rumanians want a strong German force present in Ukraine to protect them from a Red Army counteroffensive.”
“They will not attack,” Manstein said. He peered down the table. “Colonel.”
Blumentritt felt his stomach sink. “Yes, general?”
“The Rumanians?”
Blumentritt swallowed hard. “Yes, the Rumanians.”
The entire German general planning staff watched Blumentritt as if his next words would settle the issue of attacking Russia. “The Red Army’s offensive capabilities are limited. Once the Red Air Force is destroyed they will be unable to attack Rumania.”
Marcks jumped in, pale face darkening as his months of work was shredded. “The Red Army has over ten thousand tanks and five million men under arms in their western regions. They could overwhelm the forces in the south, take the Ploesti oil fields and destroy our Balkan alliances.”
Jodl piped up. “There is also the British threat to invade Greece and threaten our oil supplies.”
Manstein waved away the possibility.
Jodl turned to the Fuhrer. “Our Balkan alliances are shaky,” he warned. “If the Red Army attacks from the east and the British come up from the south.”
“That will not happen.” It was Manstein’s turn to grow red in the face.
“Salonika,” Jodl reminded him of the Great War allied attack in Greece. “The British attacked from Salonika and knocked out our Bulgarian allies.”
“After three years,” Blumentritt barked without thinking.
Silence followed, as the others waiting for Jodl to administer punishment for an uppity colonel. Instead Jodl ignored him. “We cannot allow our Balkan allies to believe we have abandoned them. We could lose our entire southern flank, and the Italians would abandon us if the British become involved, just like they did during the Great War.”
“Antonescu is shaky,” Keitel added. “We spoke a few weeks ago in Bucharest and King Michael is wary about attacking Russia. Antonescu wants two German armies in the area along with an entire Luftlofte to protect the air fields and a panzer corps for further protection. He also wants Ukrainian territory as a reward for his cooperation.”
Manstein jabbed at the map. “We can reach Moscow within three months. That will cut off Leningrad from reinforcements and supplies. The Soviet political and military leadership will be isolated or on the run and unable to mount a counterattack.”
Halder smacked the maps, trying to brush away Manstein’s pointer. “You are gambling the flower of the German army on a single shot, an assumption without any proof.”
The argument continued; Manstein, Guderian and Hoepner were countered by the Fuhrer’s closest military advisors. Blumentritt offered a single answer to a single question about the Red Army’s capabilities, and the debate raged until the generals were on the edge of blows, only the Fuhrer remained calm as he listened to both sides; he measured their plans, nodding at one side then the other.
Two hours passed. The debate had reached stalemate, the generals refusing to admit defeat. The conference ended when the Fuhrer thanked them and left the room. His entourage followed close behind, arguing their point and casting murderous glances at their opponents. The room emptied, Blumentritt remaining fixed in place. Rendulic fiddled with his hat and halted at the colonel’s side.
“You must have faith in the Fuhrer and national socialism,” he murmured. “We must work together and accept
whatever the Fuhrer says. We cannot never be defeated if we are together under the banner of National Socialism.”
Blumentritt nodded, uncertain whether he was being warned or complimented. Rendulic wandered off, hat askew, leaving the colonel with Manstein and the others. They were exhausted, their planning seemingly for naught as the Fuhrer had left without making a decision.
“Halder will convince him,” Guderian grunted, tugging at his uniform. “Typical Prussian tight ass, always worried about flanks and being attacked.”
Hoepner sank into his seat, red in the face, his usual apoplexy seemingly worsened by the confrontation. Manstein was unaffected, quiet. Blumentritt watched him, knowing he was analyzing the Fuhrer’s reaction to his plans. He tried to bolster them.
“The Fuhrer was impressed with your timetable and your arguments,” he said. “I have no doubt that if we follow your plans we will be in Moscow in ten weeks.”
Manstein remained silent, as he eyed the maps scattered across the table. He leaned over, tracing the route he would take, pausing at the rivers as if leading a tank brigade in search of a bridge or ford. Blumentritt followed his finger as they slid up the main highway toward Moscow, the two panzer prongs sweeping aside all obstacles.
“General Manstein.”
The men in the conference room looked up to see General Keitel, body shaking, hand clenching when roaring into the room. He was around the table within moments, confronting Manstein then Guderian.
“How dare you waste the Fuhrer’s time with your foolish plans and attacks on the OKW,” Keitel shut one eye. “You have disgraced your uniform and the German general staff with your ridiculous plans that are a reach for personal glory.”
Manstein said nothing. Guderian, though, was not one to avoid the offensive even when outranked. “You are a fool,” he screamed at Keitel. “You and your lackeys will lead the German army into the Russian abyss. Your offensive plan will never work because the Russians have too many men and if they are allowed to retreat into the interior we will spend the next decades chasing after them.”
Keitel backed away a step then huffed. “You do not understand the pressures on the Fuhrer. He does not need to see his generals bickering like schoolchildren. They must offer a plan for victory and the implement it.”
“We have a plan,” Guderian charged.
“The Fuhrer will never accept it.”
There was movement in the doorway. It was Colonel Harpe, monocle in his hand, eyes wide, and lips shaking. “General Manstein,”
Manstein stepped around Keitel. “Yes?”
“The Fuhrer has requested a meeting with you,” Harpe said. “To discuss your ideas.”
13
December 1, 1939
Exner Updegrove fondled the spines of his family history. Since returning from London to his country estate after voting for war against Germany, the future ninth Earl of Braxtonshire had been obsessing over his legacy and his contribution to the family book. It was only after the Commons vote that he realized his decisions would affect his legacy, his family, his country. His father, more distant to the events of the day, had consumed years in composing his history. Exner would only see the eighth lord’s legacy after his death, the family tradition demanding the current lord’s history be published only after his death.
Since the war declaration, Exner had avoided the Commons and the increasing debates over how to proceed against Germany. After casting his vote, he had spent days in London, allowing Maria to shop and Exner to speak with Kingsley Abbott, a member of the foreign ministry and an old classmate. Abbott offered Exner more detail on the European war than he could ever receive from the newspapers. The Germans were well on their way to overwhelming the Poles. Pessimists in the government said the war was over while optimists predicted the Polish army could hold out another three weeks. The French refused to move, their troops snug behind the Maginot Line. The Royal Navy was hamstrung by a lack of allies and enemies.
The House of Commons had granted a war declaration against Germany, a compromise of sorts among the more foolhardy members. Some of Exner’s colleagues wanted war with Italy or even France, as if reigniting ancient hatreds across the channel would save the empire. Others who sought peace at any price offered a motion to approve an Anglo-Teutonic alliance. Exner left London suddenly doubting the wisdom of his vote and after the Polish collapse wondered how much longer the empire could continue a feckless naval war with the Germans.
Sitting with a finished breakfast before him, Updegrove examined his pocket watch. The sound of a visitor had disturbed his usual quiet morning. Maria ate alone after her morning ride, which had grown longer after the British declaration against Germany. The wind through her hair and the speed of the horse calmed her fury at what she saw as a betrayal of her family. Maria felt England had taken the side of the Bolsheviks, allied itself with the murderers of her family and destroyers of old Russia. Exner had warned her about speaking out but Maria was not to be intimidated, even by MI6. Her denunciation of Chamberlain and the war had cast a shadow over their home life, as Maria struggled to understand Exner’s vote for war; she had even accused him of being his father’s puppet.
Fergus entered the breakfast room to announce Exner’s unexpected guest, a welcome relief from the blaring headlines and confusing political situation. “Viscount Rothermere is here,” he announced then stood aside for the entrance of a nondescript man. With a gathering paunch, a mustache that struggled to be seen and a straight hair part, Rothermere did not look the part of the press baron he was or the fascist sympathizer he was accused of being. The Viscount was the first in his title dating back to his service for the Lloyd George ministership during the Great War. Unready, one of the last non Anglo Saxon kings in the isles. Publisher of the Daily Mail he had supported all forms of right wing causes including renegotiation of Hungarian boundaries to the Fascist Union of England. His newspapers made appeasement a cause and had been unhappy with Chamberlain’s Polish guarantee and its result: war with Germany
He waited for Fergus to close the door then then Rothermere slid a chair close to Exner and sat in it. Fixing his grey eyes on Updegrove he regarded his host. “I have not seen you recently in London.” He tilted his head and tried to draw out a response from him.
Exner, who had known the Viscount socially, smiled. “The estate is so time consuming and Maria prefers I be here.” He smirked. “You have met Maria?”
Rothermere nodded. “I have met your wife,” he returned the smile. “It was a memorable event.” It was an understatement that was the hallmark of the British aristocracy. “And I understand your need to maintain your heritage.” Weariness around the eyes and mouth spoke of his battle against public opinion and the accusations thrust at his family. “That is why I am here.”
Exner worked his mouth. “Maria?”
Rothermere reached into his jacket pocket and slid out a cigarette case; he flipped it open, picking one free, nodded in appreciation as the younger man lit it and blew smoke into the air. “England is in a crisis.”
Exner could not disagree.
“I seek your aid and Maria’s aid in pulling Britain back from the precipice. “There is something we need done,” he said.
Updegrove watched the smoke dispel into the air. “I don’t know if I am the best -.”
Rothermere waved his hand cutting him off. “The Daily Mail is supporting a planned no confidence vote on Chamberlain.
Updegrove was suddenly distracted by Rothermere’s cigarette case. “May I?” He asked, reaching.
Rothermere nodded and Updegrove slid out a brown cigarette and lit it. Breathing in deeply he tried to shake off the implications of what he was being told. “It has been indicated to me that the government is displeased with Maria, MI6 has become involved.”
Rothermere held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “It is a threat directed at all who oppose the government, it is irrelevant.”
Updegrove took two more drags from his ciga
rette. “For you Viscount Rothermere, I will listen.”
“Chamberlain has shot his bolt. He embarrassed Britain with his guarantee of Poland; it is time to step back, to separate ourselves from the continent.
“You want Neville out?”
“It is time for a change,” Rothermere, stubbing out his cigarette in the crystal tray bearing the double eagle of the Russian royal family. “The war is not a war. Did you read about Hitler’s speech last week?”
Updegrove had not; the local cricket team had used his pitch to battle a neighboring team. Exner watched and offered advice to the batsman, where he had excelled, while leaving the pitcher to his craft.
“We have to end this war,” Rothermere said. “Hitler is going to attack the Russians.” He slid another cigarette from his holder, lit it and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “The Italians, French and Spanish are seeking an alliance, a Latin League. They may join the Germans, leaving us isolated.”
Updegrove crossed his legs. Geopolitics and diplomacy exceeded his grasp. He preferred the newspapers with their lurid accounts of Nazi outrages. “I have been reading stories about what the Germans have been doing with the Jews. Won’t our people demand justice for those killed?”
“The Jews,” Rothermere twirled his cigarette between his fingers. “They knew what Hitler was going to do; they should have left when they had the chance. I am not going to risk the British Empire for Jews who are interested only in another war.” He mouth set in a snarl. “The Jews have been after us since we seized the territories from the Turks. They will cause nothing but trouble. We will not make foreign policy because the Nazis are killing people.” He blew out more smoke as if expelling the irritating Hebrews from the conversation.
Updegrove could not disagree, the Viscount’s words went beyond what he had read in the newspaper. He tried to return to his main concern. “If Chamberlain is gone then who replaces him?”
“Lord Halifax.”
Updegrove could not hide his disappointment. “I know no one who will vote for Halifax for PM.”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 15