by Colin Gee
“Hell no. First time, otherwise I’d not let the both of us stand up there watching them exercising. I ain’t that stupid! I’d have just left you standing there and hope to get a promotion.”
Barkmann threw a mock punch at his friend.
“You bastard! My report to the Colonel’ll reflect your insubordination.”
“Do your worst. Anyway, I’m gonna do the rounds, See you back at my bunker shortly. You’ll report the action?”
“Roger that, Al, and yep, I’ll get straight on the horn.”
Whilst Gesualdo went round his troops, keeping heads down, assessing the situation, Barkmann sat alone in the modest bunker, holding his hands out over the stove that kept winter at bay.
Hands that were, despite his best efforts, trembling uncontrollably.
0942 hrs, Monday, 20th January 1947, Dai Ichi Life Insurance Building, Tokyo, Japan.
The USN officer was halted in mid flow as MacArthur failed to understand a term.
“Let me stop you right there, Commander.”
“Sir?”
“What in the name of the Lord is a centrifuge?”
“Might I answer that, Sir?”
“Please do, General Groves.”
“Sir, in layman’s terms, it’s a machine that spins at incredibly high speed, permitting the separation of different grades of the same element. In my line of work, that might be uranium 235 from uranium 238, the former being used for nuclear fission, such as in the bombs.”
“Just like a spinning top, you mean?”
“Sort of, Sir, but spinning at an incredibly high rate.”
“So what makes these so special?”
“They spin at the highest possible rate, Sir.”
“Such as? Five thousand rpm? Six thousand rpm?”
“Sir, you must understand that it’s difficult to say for sure. We haven’t examined an actual machine, but the drawings and figures discovered in Nishina’s office have been analysed and… well… I’m assured that the projections are a rate of fifty-eight thousand revolutions per minute, with a factor of plus or minus three thousand.”
“Incredible. Almost a thousand revolutions a second.”
“Yes Sir, it is, and yes, almost.”
“How many of these things would they need to make material for a bomb?”
“That depends on how long they are run and how many are run at the same time.”
“OK. How many do they have?”
“None that we’ve found.”
“Then that’s good news surely? Isn’t it?”
MacArthur saw Groves’ face and decided it simply wasn’t good news at all.
“Sir, our intelligence agencies have ascertained that these centrifuges have been constructed… we’ve found some parts… evidence of delivery… we even have an engineer who assisted in installing the array.”
“Array?”
“Yes… sorry, Sir… that’s the term for a line-up of these machines.”
“How many then?”
“Sir, we found a single building, previously unknown to us. It was empty, but contained the mountings for fifty-four devices.”
“Fifty-four… which I assume is enough?”
“More than enough, Sir.”
“OK. Thank you… Commander?”
“Sir. What we know is limited, but what we suspect is grave indeed.”
MacArthur relit his pipe as he was assailed by words that meant nothing but trouble.
“Our best guess, based on the available intelligence, is that the centrifuges were loaded into one or both of the Special type submarines and removed from Japan, possibly to the Soviet Union, and if so, probably by way of Sovetskaya Gavan, or a location on the Soviet mainland as yet unknown.”
“And then they went on this huge voyage to nowhere?”
“Given the belief that the submarines made it to the Southern Atlantic, that could mean they are anywhere, but it makes sense that they were being taken to somewhere Soviet controlled, or at least, not controlled by us.”
“But if they’ve dropped the damn things off already, why the big voyage?”
“That’s the issue that’s exercising us, Sir. Maybe they haven’t dropped them off and it was purely a collection of other equipment… and of personnel… and they’re now on their way to wherever.”
“Does Naval Intelligence have any other suggestions on the identity of ‘wherever’, Commander?”
“It would be speculation only, but the FBI and other assets have turned their attention to South America, the west coast of Africa… and Sweden.”
“Sweden? Why on earth Sweden?”
“Just some noises that were apparently heard in the capital. Nothing specific. But the British are checking them out now, Sir.”
Beria would have been delighted to know that his distractions had all been noticed and were taking focus away from the actual area the Allies should have concerned themselves with.
“And this briefing is being given to Eisenhower in Europe, and to the President, yes?”
“The President already had his briefing, Sir. It was he who directed the FBI to investigate in support of the intelligence agencies.”
“One thing, General Groves. If these things have been operating since they disappeared, would they be producing the right sort of uranium by now?”
“Yes.”
“Enough for a bomb?”
“Yes, more than one.”
“Damn.”
“That’s why finding these machines is now priority, Sir.”
“And once they’re found?”
“We destroy them, no matter where they may be.”
“And risk war again?”
“I think the President might say that it’s better to risk a war now when we hold all the cards, rather than have one later where we may well face a stacked deck.”
“Damn. Keep me informed.”
1021 hrs, Monday, 20th January 1947, NATO Headquarters, Frankfurt, Germany.
Eisenhower’s briefing had just finished and he was left to contemplate the incredible news with Walter Bedell-Smith, Kenneth Strong, and Omar Bradley for company.
The four leaders sat silently drinking coffee, trying to grasp the enormity of what they had been told.
It was Bradley that broke the silence.
“So, stop me when I go wrong… even if they do develop a device they ain’t got anything to deliver it with. No rocket, no bomber of note, nothing.”
“General Bradley,” Kenneth Strong interjected, “I believe what was said was that we know of no such delivery system, not that they don’t have one.”
“Yeah, sorry. You’re right. Either way, we’ve no idea where these things are spinning or how much of this U-235 stuff they’re kicking out.”
Eisenhower stubbed out his cigarette and waved a finger at no one in particular.
“I tell you one thing. I don’t buy the South America - Africa thing. Neither do I buy Sweden. Wherever they are, the whole goddamned shebang has to be close at home, where the commies can keep it tight and protected. It has to be in Russia… somewhere in Russia. Heck, we don’t know for sure that the stuff went in the subs, do we? Could well be that they unloaded everything on the Pacific coast and it all went inland by rail.”
Strong spoke quickly, cutting Bedell-Smith off with a look of apology.
“Sir, I tend to lean towards the view, given the air raids that had pummelled the eastern seaboard of the USSR and the severe destruction of their rail network, that transport by submarine, even though it would take longer, was probably viewed as safer and more secret. We already know of five rail crashes that have occurred due to poor repair work. The Japanese were certainly and recently on the west coast of Africa. The evidence for that is quite clear on that, but I tend to agree that if these centrifuges are anywhere, they’re on mainland Russia.”
Eisenhower lit another cigarette and formulated his decision.
“Right. Sir Kenneth, you’ll head up a group that has one task
. Find out where these machines are. Hand off your normal duties to your deputy. I don’t see any need for this to be quiet, do you? There’s no orders to that effect, so be open and thorough.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Suborn anyone you need, on my authority. One mission. Find them, and damn quick.”
Strong nodded.
“Walter, get orders cut to our reconnaissance troops. I want new photos of everything, and all the old photos looked at again. I’ll speak with Sir Stewart and Sam Rossiter… have them liaise with Sir Kenneth directly… but keep me in the loop.”
Strong nodded again, spilling a drop of tea on his immaculate uniform.
“Find this equipment and find it fast, gentlemen. Spare no effort.”
The meeting dissolved quickly, leaving Eisenhower alone with Strong, who had surprisingly remained behind, something that alarmed him greatly.
“I take it you have something else of concern… something you don’t want to share at the moment?”
“Indeed, Sir.”
Strong slipped a sheet of paper out of his briefcase and placed it in front of the NATO commander in chief.
“What am I looking at exactly?”
“Bear with me please, Sir. That’s the original submission on German production of vehicles of all types, covering November last. I’ve pulled this page from the report. It deals with tank production, Sir.”
“I’ve seen our report, so these figures are not news, Sir Kenneth.”
Ike didn’t mean it to sound terse, but it did.
“Beg pardon, Sir, but you will have seen these figures, but not the actual ones.”
He produced another sheet and placed it next to the first.
Eisenhower didn’t need a translator to notice the differences.
“Schwarzpanther production is different. Administrative issue?”
“Could be, Sir. I don’t think so. The Germans keep pretty good records.”
He leant forward and pointed a finger at the two clashing figure.
“According to their submission to us, they produced sixty-five of the new Panther type, twelve with the gas-turbine engine, yet their other figures show ninety-two, of which thirty are the enhanced engine type. That’s not administrative error in my view… that’s a deliberate change, Sir.”
“Why?”
“That I don’t know, Sir.”
“Anything sinister in it, Sir Kenneth?”
“I really don’t know, Sir.”
“I’ll ask Vietinghoff. I’m seeing him later.”
“I’d strongly advise against doing that for the moment, Sir. There’s something else.”
He directed Eisenhower’s attention to items simply missing from the report submitted to NATO.
Ike absorbed the German words and numerals, an all too familiar word.
‘Panzer’.
He sought their repetition on the NATO report, but they were not to be found.
“Five Panzer VIIs… Panzer VII… refresh my mind please, Sir Kenneth.”
“Sir, as far as we’re aware the VII was an abandoned project from back in 42-43. There is no such tank.”
“And yet they have five?”
“So it would seem, and it would also seem important to conceal their existence from us… for reasons I cannot advise you on, Sir.”
“Again I must ask you, Sir Kenneth. Is there any sinister intent here? Could it simply be our ally wishing to produce a new weapon and surprise us with it at some time in the future?”
“Yes, it certainly could, Sir.”
Eisenhower narrowed his eyes.
“But?”
“But…”
“But combined with the possible tampering with the submission, and the keenness of the new relationship with the Poles, you advise caution and further investigation, Sir Kenneth?”
“Quite.”
He lit a cigarette and spent a few seconds looking at the two contradictory documents.
“Find out what this is about… let’s have a look at their reports and see if we can turn up anything else. I’d rather not be looking over my shoulder at Allies if anything goes wrong, so please get this wrapped up soon, Sir Kenneth.”
“Yes, Sir… and in the meantime… General von Vietinghoff?”
“OK, in the meantime I’ll say nothing about it to anyone, especially our German allies.”
“Thank you. I’ll get on it right away, Sir.”
Strong left the room, leaving Eisenhower more ill at ease than he had felt since pen was put to paper in Sweden all those months previously.
He sat back to consume a cigarette and order his thoughts, a process that was interrupted by an urgent knock and the entry of Colonel Hood.
‘Surely the day can’t get worse?’
The day got worse.
Civil war had erupted in Czechoslovakia.
1313 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1947, Dankerode, Germany.
The combined assault had gone like clockwork, the Polish armoured infantry sweeping in past the suppressing tanks of the newly reformed 11th Panzer Division, ‘Der Geist Division’ as it had been known in WW2.
The two units coordinated brilliantly and Guderian could barely conceal his joy at how the assault was conducted.
Right up to the moment that the exploitation force, comprising a company of re-engined Schwarzpanthers from the 1st Deutsch Legion Panzer Brigaden, accompanied by some their own integral panzer-grenadieres, ruined everything.
One by one the gas turbine engine Panthers fell out of line as faults declared themselves, leaving only three runners to accompany the tracked Kätzchen vehicles loaded with heavily armed infantrymen.
What had been a joyous experience of military expertise turned sour quickly, and the commander of the II Deutsches Mechanisierte Korps [Legion] was quickly put in the spotlight.
“What in the name of the Fatherland’s going on there, Willi?”
He gave the Generalleutnant no chance to reply.
“The whole unit’s spread across the field… not by the umpires but by clear failures in maintenance!”
Again, the commander of II DMK[L] had no opportunity to offer a view or defence, as Guderian was on a roll.
“I want that piece of piggery investigated and the report on my desk first thing in the morning!”
“Jawohl, Herr Feldmarschal.”
“If that had been a proper advance the grenadiers’d have been ripped to pieces because your tanks couldn’t move forward without breaking down. What the hell are your maintenance units playing at, man?”
“The new gas-turbines still have teething problems, Herr Feldmarschal. We thought we’d sorted the cut-out issue… clearly not.”
Guderian took another look across the exercise area, now littered with broken-down tanks and APCs unsure of what to do next.
He beckoned the general off to one side.
“Look, Willi. We simply can’t have fucks ups like this. You know… you know what we hope to achieve in the future, and we’ll need all our forces at their peak. You and your men were given the new Panthers because of your pedigree. Sort this… sort this now. Either these new engines are fit for purpose and we can look at the tactical advantages they offer, or we discard them and remain with the proven Maybachs. It’s that simple, Willi.”
“Jawohl, Herr Feldmarschal.”
“I want that report tomorrow, and I want to know if we can fix these tanks in the field, or if they have to go back. If they go back, they can go to hell for all I care. I’ll get you standard Schwarzpanthers as replacements and we’ll let the engineers and designers sort it out at leisure.”
“I’ll oversee it personally, Herr Feldmarschal.”
“Good. Now, I can’t afford for a top unit like yours to be less than fully ready, so, with or without the new Panthers, you will have your Korps combat-ready by 18th February. Klar?”
“Alles klar, Herr Feldmarschal.”
“Gut.”
The two men saluted in turn and Guderian moved off
to his vehicle and left the exercise ground in the possession of the seething commander of the II Deutsches Mechanisierte Korps [Legion].
He moved to the signals section, where the operators and overseers studiously avoided his gaze.
“Get me Maior Bauer immediately.”
The operator worked the radio and the commander of the workshop unit labouring on the plain in front of him was soon responding.
“Ringelblume-six, Sonnenblume-six. I’m coming down to the exercise area and I’ll expect a report as soon as I arrive. Over and out.”
Bittrich tossed the handset back to the waiting operator.
“Inform all units ‘exercise over’. Return all units to laager. Senior Officers meeting at 1800 hrs.”
“Jawohl, Herr Generalleut… nant?”
Bittrich was already heading for his staff car.
1602 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1947, NATO Headquarters, Frankfurt, Germany.
“Welcome back, Brigadier General.”
Eisenhower was genuinely pleased to see his USMC spymaster returned from stateside leave.
“Thank you, Sir. Pleased to be back.”
“I hate it when you lie to me, Sam.”
Rossiter conceded with a shrug.
“You got me, Sir.”
“Did you attend to the other matters?”
“I did indeed, Sir. The training schedule for Europe-bound USMC units has been adapted. Took some persuasion, but your letter helped.”
The statement concealed many hours of USMC officers refusing to change certain aspects of training and falling back on their proven record in the Pacific, countered by Rossiter’s insistence on increased attention to aspects that were more prevalent in Europe than in the Pacific theatre, namely cold weather training, anti-tank work, tank/infantry cooperation, and increased close-combat input.
Rossiter considered it indicative of the nature of the US Marine that the appeal for more hand-to-hand combat training was heeded immediately and with relish.
After all, he was a marine himself and the aggressive attitude only left a marine when he was put in the ground and, even then according to folklore, God and the Devil always trembled when worldly battle released some of the Corps upon them.