by Colin Gee
In the various headquarters across the continent, the men who would have shouldered the responsibility for a renewed combat all heaved a collective sigh of relief.
Almost all anyway.
2013 hrs, Saturday, 11th January 1947, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
“Thank you for your report, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
He listened to her closing words, his mind already moved on to other matters.
“Yes, thank you, Comrade. I’m as relieved as you. Good bye.”
He replaced the receiver and picked up his pipe, lighting it thoughtfully and enjoying the first few puffs in contented silence.
“The woman confirmed everything you said, Lavrentiy. A simple error… for which we must be thankful.”
“Indeed, Comrade General Secretary. It’s too soon, far too soon.”
“However, this report from Oktyabrskiy is wonderful news, is it not?”
Beria played his cards carefully, as usual.
“It’s one exercise only, and their first attempt ended in abject failure it seems. However, the Navy’s pleased with it. I’ll be happier when they’ve repeated the exercise so we know it’s not a fluke.”
As usual, Beria’s verbal dance was not wasted on Stalin, but he was too buoyed by the avoidance of a premature return to war to be too concerned at his henchman’s lack of enthusiasm.
The pipe went out and he thought better of reloading it, instead extracting a cigarette from the pack on his desk.
“None the less, I want those responsible for this close call dealt with appropriately. Some examples made publically for the benefit of the Allies will further reduce tensions. Now we’re committed to our course, we can’t afford to fight ahead of time.”
“I agree, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Even with this good news.”
The dictator held up the report on the Black Sea tests.
“Even with that news, such as it is, Comrade General Secretary.”
Stalin smiled in seeming acceptance of Beria’s restated position.
‘One day I’ll wipe that smug look off your face, you Chekist fuck.’
Beria smiled back.
‘One day I’ll be sitting in your fucking chair, you Georgian peasant.’
Externally, there was harmony and agreement.
“So, how goes the infiltration of the German intelligence network and government?”
Beria sipped his tea before slipping his glasses off and polishing them.
Which standard behaviour meant that Stalin had his answer before Beria uttered a word.
1357 hrs, Sunday, 12th January 1947, Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse, temporary government building #1, Magdeburg, Germany.
“Well, it was worth a try, Feldmarschal.”
Guderian shrugged rather than restate the objections that had preceded the operation, objections that were still as sound now as they were then.
To him, the Republic had escaped a possible crisis, whereas to the politicians who had seized the moment, Germany had tried but failed to exploit the mistake that they alone had spotted.
The DRL Oberfeldwebel who had first noticed the overlapping air zones was now enjoying an extended leave with his fiancée, who was extremely impressed with the officer’s uniform that her husband-to-be sported, as a newly fledged Leutnant.
On return he would be assigned to a safe post on the Swiss border, with a spectacular officer’s quarter made available for the couple, courtesy of a grateful nation, which might also wish to see him tucked out of the way where no questions could be asked.
Those above him in the chain of command also found themselves moved to higher and better things.
The map issue had come to the attention of the high command on Thursday evening.
Guderian chose to ignore it, but one of his staff knew one of Diels’ staff and so the information moved even further up the chain.
The opportunity was considered too good to miss, and the DRL’s elite squadron was briefed on how to best play their part at provoking the Soviets.
The sudden exercising of a great portion of the German and Polish armies had been surprise for Eisenhower and his staff, but von Vietinghoff had assured them it was a scheduled affair and would only be run to test the ability to move forward against a Soviet strike, consuming relatively few resources.
The German and Polish commanders on the ground cursed the new and ‘most immediate’ orders, and sent their men forward from nice warm positions into the cold snowy European Friday.
They were now back in their normal positions, wondering why so many men and vehicles had moved up and back at such short notice, and without the normal monitoring from headquarters personnel, who were seemingly always eager to berate a commander for his lack of efficiency, or failure to observe a timetable.
It had been two days of holding breath for the few men in the know, and now they were breathing again, despite the failure of the effort.
“Unless another opportunity presents itself, we’ll stick to our plan.”
“Kanzler, there’ll be no repeat of this border issue, I’m sure of that. The Swedes for one won’t permit it. Their credibility has suffered, at least in their eyes.”
“Quite right too. Perhaps there may be some advantage we can gain there, considering our loss, eh?”
“Possibly, Kanzler, but I daresay the Russians are thinking the same thing.”
“Good point, Feldmarschal.”
Speer rose from behind his modest desk and moved to shake Guderian’s hand.
“Until Monday then, Feldmarschal. I’ll have the latest production projection on new armour and the gas-turbine engines then, and I suspect they’ll make good reading for you and your staff. I’ve no doubt that the Reich has provided for your needs.”
“I hope so, Kanzler. Until then.”
He came to attention, saluted Speer, turned on his heel, and was gone before Speer could muster a quip on the way Guderian had seemingly started to give a Nazi salute and moved quickly into a formal military one.
The door closed behind him.
Another opened after Speer had tapped gently on it, signalling the all-clear, allowing two men to resume their former places around his desk.
“Well, I assume you heard most of that, gentlemen?”
They nodded.
“For my part, I can understand why you did what you did, and I have no problems with your decision. The venture failed, but it was worth the effort, Albert.”
“Thank you for your gracious words, Karl.”
Karl Renner sat back having said his piece, and not having totally meant all he said, but it didn’t pay to provoke over a situation that had since passed.
Władysław Raczkiewicz, President of Poland had already discussed his discontent with Renner, but followed the same course of open acceptance.
“Is there anything else you need to know about yesterday’s events?”
“No, thank you, Herr Kanzler. You’ve made everything clear.”
“Thank you, Herr Präsident. So, we fall back on our agreed agenda. Our tracks have been covered and our loyal allies suspect nothing. We’ll continue as before then.”
He picked up the phone.
“Sperrman. We’re ready to eat. Good… good.”
He replaced the receiver and stood enthusiastically.
“Gentlemen, our lunch awaits… venison and chicken.”
The three enjoyed an excellent meal and kept their darker thoughts to themselves.
I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery.
Aeschylus
Chapter 185 - THE GERMANS?
1157 hrs, Wednesday, 15th January 1947, Army Training Ground, south of Allentsteig, Austria.
The battalion of tanks had certainly looked impressive from the start.
General Pierce, commander of the expanded 16th US Armored Division, had seen the new beasts of war close up, but this was the first time he had seen an entire battalion arraigne
d, and he confessed his excitement to his CoS, Edwin Greiner.
“Damn but if that ain’t the finest sight I’ve seen for many a while, Ed.”
Greiner could only agree, his binoculars taking in the details of the lines of brand new M-29 Chamberlains that constituted the 5th US Tank Battalion.
The Chamberlain sported a 105mm main gun, good armour protection and excellent speed for a tank of its nearly sixty-five tons.
To one side sat the light tank company, its seventeen M24 Chaffee tanks dwarfed by their larger brothers. Behind them sat the six 105mm howitzer equipped M4 Shermans, the only tanks that had been with the 16th since they first arrived in Europe, albeit two were replacements for vehicles lost in battle.
Before the two senior men in the division drove off to inspect the arraigned battalion, the plan was for them to observe a shoot designed to bring the whole of the 396th Field Artillery onto the field, deploy, and fire a concentrated barrage in support of a fictitious infantry attack.
The battalion would then redeploy, in line with the new aptly named ‘shoot and scoot’ policy, designed to keep artillery alive in the face of improvements in counter-battery fire.
The artillery officer waited patiently for his cue.
Pierce dropped his binoculars, still marvelling at the power under his command and switched his attention to Barksdale Hammlett Jnr, the Divisional Artillery commander.
“You may proceed, Colonel.”
The radio was in Hammlett’s hand and the order given before Pierce could draw a breath.
From behind the northern woods came a roar of revving engines and very quickly the SP guns of the 396th charged into view, almost competing for the front position.
The senior officers watched with experienced eyes, understanding the subtle openings in the massed group as the different fire groups altered course.
Eighteen M-41 SP 155mm guns led the way, side by side with battery commander vehicles, and leading the ammunition train.
Behind them came Hammlett’s ace; a unit of five M-40 GMCs he had managed to retain and that were over and above the normal complement for an motorised artillery battalion.
For this exercise, M19 SPAA vehicles shook out on the flanks, occupying positions to screen the assembled artillery from any possible air attack.
Pierce always had high expectations of Hammlett and his men, but the exercise exceeded them, the guns putting rounds in the air in record time.
An eight round shoot was planned and it was over in the blink of an eye, the whole battalion suddenly up and moving like a spooked herd of buffalo.
“Goddamnit if that wasn’t impressive, Barksdale. Very impressive indeed.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Greiner couldn’t help himself.
“Well, let’s just make sure you put rounds on target before we start writing weekend passes eh, Colonel?”
“Do you have doubts, Colonel?”
Greiner had the scent immediately.
“What do you suggest, Barksdale?”
“I’ve got fifty that says we put 90% in the target area. What you got, Colonel?”
“I’ll cover that. I can’t lose, can I? I’ve either got an incompetent artillery commander but I’m fifty bucks up, or we’re on the ball, and the commies will get theirs. Win, win.”
Pierce grinned.
“My money’s on the arty. You want some?”
“I’ll cover that bet, Sir.”
Ninety percent was not unheard of, but to deploy so rapidly and make an accurate shoot, even with some prior knowledge of the telemetry involved, would be extremely impressive.
When the results of the shoot were in, Greiner was extremely impressed, as well as being a hundred dollars down.
Ninety-three percent of the shells landed within the designated zone, and there were weekend passes a plenty.
Unfortunately for Pierce, or more accurately, unfortunately for Acting Lieutenant Colonel Ewing of the 5th Tank Battalion, the artillery shoot was the highlight of the day.
Whilst the battalion achieved all of its objectives during the exercise on the old Austrian army training ground, it did it with an increasingly fewer number of vehicles, as mechanical casualties rose, along with Pierce’s blood pressure.
On the final exercise, one of the Chamberlains caught fire and became a total loss when it exploded, killing two men from the battalion maintenance company.
The General showed his harder side when dealing with Ewing, who was quickly advised that the whole thing would be re-run the next day and, as Pierce so eloquently put it, ‘the whole goddamned battalion better be on the final parade or you’ll be driving the shit wagon for the rest of your career.’
The repeated exercise saw two more Chamberlain breakdowns, but the efforts of the maintenance company saw them on the final parade and Ewing was saved from any further indignities.
Pierce’s report was forward to Corps HQ, and the 16th was rated combat ready.
1103 hrs, Saturday, 18th January 1947, the Viennese enclave, Austria.
Part of the negotiations over territory had resolved that Vienna would remain within Soviet hands until the wishes of the people of Czechoslovakia were fully known.
Hungary, pressured by an increasingly angry Tito, chose to remain within the Soviet sphere of influence, which meant that a small isthmus in the Soviet line could easily be maintained, a situation that most of the Allies were content with, except for the obvious noisy objections of German and Austrian contingents.
The Soviets were still in place long after the expected handover should have occurred, mainly because of the political situation in the Czech homeland, where the country seemed to be divided on an east-west basis, the eastern segment being more inclined to remain within the Soviet lines.
One of the easiest parts of the realignment of front lines had been from Bratislava southwards, where the Hungarian army took over much of the responsibility, bolstered by a few units of Tolbukhin’s Front, until the political boundaries met and Yugoslavian forces sat defending their homeland.
From the Soviet point of view, this released many units to return to Byelorussia and the Ukraine, or even to be transferred east or to the southern borders of Iraq.
The sole exception was Vienna, which remained occupied by the Red Army’s 4th Guards Army, one of Chuikov’s old formations, which was set in place in and around the Austrian capital; a powerful force placed to send the clear message that the Red Army would leave when it was good and ready.
Speer and Renner brought as much pressure to bear as they could, but the simple truth was that nothing would happen until the Czech question was resolved.
For their part, the Czech government was caught between two waves of strongly held feelings, and failed to bring about any useful decisions.
So Vienna remained a Soviet enclave, and Renner continued to cry foul to anyone and everyone who would listen.
“All quiet then, Al.”
“You betcha, Lukas. Far too cold for any shit. They know it… we know it… anyway, here’s hoping the Czechs pull their fingers out soon so we can spend the rest of this winter in warm houses in Vienna.”
“Somehow, I doubt it’ll be over by then. The Czechs seem to be in a right SNAFU.”
“You can but hope, Lukas.”
“Guess the neighbours ain’t got any fuel, eh?”
The Soviet troops were exercising vigorously the best part of eight hundred yards away.
“Fitness or keeping warm. Gotta be keeping warm. Only a complete lunatic would be out in this cold.”
Gesualdo kept a straight face and looked square at the man by his side, who had struggled through the snowfall from the battalion CP.
“Yep. No arguments from me on that score.”
“Fuck off, Captain.”
“Rank has gone to your head I see. Used to be that you were a nice guy.”
“I’m still a nice guy… just not to you. Anyway, like I said… only a lunatic would be out in this cold if a warm
bunker was available.”
“Best we make sure we bring some along when we occupy their house then, Lukas.”
“Yep.”
They both dropped their binoculars at the same time, looking like performing artists with the precision of their movement.
Major Lukas Barkmann tapped out a cigarette and lit up.
“Yeah… well anyway… I’m here to see your updated planning, should we have to go and kick their asses along a’ways.”
“Let’s get back in the warm then, but there’s little change, except for some new fire missions based the latest aerial intel.”
“The Colonel wants it all just so, and he’s still got the hots for you after that punch up with the Brits.”
Barkmann referred to a mass brawl that involved B Company and a bunch of British soldiers from the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders that wrecked a fashionable establishment in Linz.
“You’re top of his shit list, Captain Gesualdo, and I suspect it’s as much for getting your asses whooped by men in skirts as for the brawl itself.”
Al Gesualdo bristled.
“We did not get our asses whipped. There were a goddamned sight more of the lunatics than we could handle for sure, but we stood our ground.”
“Not how he sees it, Captain.”
“Well, the Colone…”
The bullet clipped the top of Barkmann’s helmet long before the sound of the shot reached Allied ears.
Raised voices indicated that the officers and NCOs of Baker Company were rousting their men into the trenches, ready to deal with whatever threat had declared itself.
Barkmann checked his helmet and ran an enquiring finger along the new silver line.
“This a regular occurrence, Al?”
He knew it wasn’t, but fell back on understated bravado to mask his nervousness at the close call he had just experienced, which Gesualdo identified for what it was.