by Gee, Colin
“Concentrating supplies is an accepted practice, but not one that can now stand, given recent events.”
Zhukov nodded his agreement.
“Whilst our supply officers do not place munitions and non-munitions side by side, we clearly have a major issue with collateral damage. So, I suggest that we order Front Supply Officers to separate explosive and non-explosive stocks, to limit losses from secondary explosions, and set minimum distances between locations.”
“Agreed. Prepare that order immediately, as a priority, Comrade.”
Zhukov carefully laid the report back on the pile.
“And your report on this one?”
“Will exactly reflect that of Comrade Marshal Bagramyan in every way, Comrade.”
Zhukov laughed, short but loud.
“He may be a bastard, and a wily old fox, but he is no fool, and certainly no liar. Sometimes I wish I didn’t like him!”
Malinin smiled with his commander in chief.
Having second thoughts, Zhukov tapped the report with his fingertips.
“Have another look, Mikhail. Find me some bridging assets that I can give him as a present, eh?”
“I will do my best, Comrade Marshal.”
Zhukov remained in the office as the door closed behind his CoS, interpreting the information in his mind, seeing the disadvantages grow as every day went past, and finding less in his pocket to produce to overcome them.
‘We are still winning, and the necessary requirements will come, and they will allow us to end this stupidity within six months.’
‘Do you really believe that you fool?’
‘Of course I believe in our victory. Why else would I fight?’
‘You fight because you are a soldier and your Motherland calls you. But can you still believe in the sweeping victory you spoke of two months ago?’
‘Yes, I must!’
The other voice laughed deeply, in such a way as to show its contempt.
‘Yes, Georgy Konstantinovich, the victory Bringer, you must!’
0907hrs, Saturday, 22nd September 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.
The previous evening it had been President Truman, the clipped tones stating the position of the country, the expectations of the country, the tolerance thresholds of the country, and in the doing, made Eisenhower aware that he was not indispensable.
‘You think I care more for my career than I do for the lives of my soldiers?’
Truman has ended the call reiterating that the public appetite for the new war, and more so, the growing casualty lists caused by it, was disappearing fast.
Ike had lit a cigarette as the President had approached his verbal zenith, and then, afforded an opportunity to put over his view of the future, firmed up the military operations he had roughly outlined sometime beforehand.
Roused at 0700 precisely, abruptly awoken by a concerned voice, as the flustered orderly thrust the telephone receiver into his hand.
The voice on the end of the phone had finished the job of drawing him from his slumbers. Quite clearly, his political masters had a plan to impress upon him their displeasure at the losses suffered by the Allied Armies.
His president the last evening.
The British Prime Minister in the morning.
Churchill, starting with yet another apology for Attlee’s antics, soon turned predator, stating a national position identical to that of Truman’s, the night before.
Eisenhower found his plans sat easier with the British Leader, perhaps because of his personal military experiences. Truman had served as an artillery officer in the Great War, but never quite seemed, certainly not to Ike, to demonstrate the military understanding that Winston brought to discussions.
The Prime Minister had wholeheartedly approved of Eisenhower’s intentions, and promised that the British and Dominion forces would be fully committed when the time came.
The last part of the conversation was less comfortable for both men.
The Attlee issue was a source of great embarrassment to His Majesty’s Government, and Churchill returned to it, and spent much of his time reassuring Eisenhower as to the strength of the British commitment.
So, two hours later, Eisenhower was listening to the report from his senior intelligence officer, hearing the confirmation he needed to hear to feel secure in his relationship with the Brits.
Major General Kenneth Strong, SHAEF’s G2 Intelligence Chief, was passing on the official report from Winston’s office, detailing everything that was known about the Attlee fiasco, which report confirmed that it was simply the failed nerve of one man that had caused such problems for the Allies.
Ike was only just realising how many problems, as McCreery’s weekly report was also fresh on his desk, illustrating the heavy casualties taken by the United Kingdom and her colonies.
The policy of inserting suitably recovered POW’s was working, but still the levels of manpower had fallen noticeably.
The attritional losses of equipment were heavy, by both wear and accident, as well as combat.
Of note were the losses of Churchill tanks, far and away higher than those of the other British types.
A cough made him realise that he had become unfocussed.
The report had finished.
“I am sorry, Kenneth. Anyway, thank you, and that all seems to be a done deal now, so let’s move on. What else do you have for me?”
“I have received intelligence suggesting that the number of active armed groups behind the lines is much larger than we thought, Sir.”
Lighting another cigarette, Eisenhower looked puzzled.
“I thought you had limited assets the other side of the line, Kenneth?”
“True, but not so our German Allies. Their General Gehlen has been extremely obliging, providing us with information that his network has obtained throughout Eastern Europe, including Russia herself, Sir.”
Bedell-Smith had made his acquaintance with the shadowy Gehlen an hour beforehand, exchanging brief pleasantries before the German spymaster disappeared into the private office of Lieutenant Colonel Rossiter USMC.
His first impressions were not good.
‘Handshake like a wet fish.’
None the less, it was impossible not to give him credit for what his organisation was achieving for the Allied cause.
“Sir, according to Gehlen’s reports, the Red Army is losing upwards of a dozen train loads of supplies a day. Losses that are starting in the Ukraine, where there is considerable discontent, through to Poland and Czechoslovakia, where partisans are being extremely successful.”
This was music to Eisenhower’s ears, and the modest, savoured draw on his cigarette was a sure sign of his approval.
“Gehlen also draws attention to the Werewolf network, which is functioning so much better against the Soviets than it ever did against us.”
‘That isn’t difficult, Kenneth.’
“Preliminary indications are that it was a Werewolf unit that was responsible for the ground attack on the large supply site near Ingolstadt, an attack that we subsequently exploited to great effect, judging by the air-recon I have seen.”
Ike nodded, partially in pleasure, and partially to encourage the Brit to get on with it.
“The similar event at Lauenbruch was not Werewolves. The Soviets have reported that it was British soldiers caught behind the lines and making mischief. That’s unconfirmed Sir.”
“Bottom line, General?”
“Sir, there seems to be an awful lot more going on behind their lines than we suspected, much of it aimed at their logistical tail. I believe it may account for the changes in tactics we have been encountering.”
“Walt?”
“I concur, Sir.”
Eisenhower became pensive, his mind working the numbers.
“OK, so we may have an opportunity here, is that what you are saying?”
Both officers looked at each other, seeking support and reassurance.
“Sir, we need to work on this a hell of a lot more. But, if the situation is as we believe, well, then the Reds are having a whole lotta trouble with their supplies.”
Encouraged, Eisenhower drew his cigarette virtually down to the filter.
“Firm it all up, Generals, firm it all up.”
Business in USMC Colonel’s office had concluded some twenty minutes beforehand, and Sam Rossiter was sat waiting for his call to French First Army headquarters to come through.
He could not discuss the new knowledge he had acquired over the telephones, but he could certainly advise De Walle that he was on his way. He had no doubt that the shrewd Deuxieme Bureau man would work out why.
A handwritten message was already in the possession of a courier, whose orders took him to a sleepy little hollow called Camp 5A, on the shores of Lough Neagh, Northern Ireland.
Another such victory over the Romans, and we are undone.
Pyrrhus
Chapter 85 - THE FLAMES
2058hrs, Sunday, 23rd September 1945, Scientist’s Residential Block, Los Alamos, New Mexico, USA.
Since her arrest and interrogation, Beatrice Perlo had been watched every second of her day.
The insistence that there be no change to her normal life practices meant that even her liaisons were closely scrutinised, a fact she found strangely invigorating. Far from affecting her, it enhanced her passion, and her lovers became more and more anxious for repeats.
Da Silva, left in charge of the everyday surveillance and running of the turned agent, gathered information on the indiscretions and preferences of a number of senior members of the Manhattan project, information that would become an embarrassment should they be confronted with it in the future.
Given their obvious errors with Perlo, the FBI went through everything with a fine toothcomb, finding a few interesting facts that had previously gone unnoticed.
A lucky break brought an American citizen, one Harold Gold, to their attention.
Observing him highlighted others, and soon a list of other possible problems brought a reasoned response.
Suspected agents were placed under arm’s length scrutiny and moved to areas where they could be less effective in gathering secret information.
Klaus Fuchs, codename Gamayun, found himself back in England. His constant arguing that the secrets of the Atomic Age should not be for nation states, but should be shared across the world, had given a number of people cause to wonder, his association with Harry Gold seen as the final straw.
The FBI intended to remove all possible Soviet assets within the project, leaving Perlo as the sole supplier of information, and therefore, in Soviet eyes, both more valuable and less disputable.
In Washington, the Calderon’s surveillance was watertight, agents having carefully sown the house and surroundings with listening devices.
Teams of watchers followed both women, and anyone who came into contact with them.
Michael Green received more attention, but still he did nothing overtly to draw suspicion.
The programme was controlled from FBI Headquarters in Washington, and from there came a carefully worded instruction.
The knock on the door was not unexpected.
Da Silva always arrived just ahead of schedule, every Sunday evening being set aside for his review of her week and planning for the week ahead.
Emilia opened the door, her breasts deliberately exposed, tantalising the Colonel from Military Intelligence.
“Good evening, Emilia.”
“”Karl, do come in.”
She stood aside in such a way as to ensure he could not enter without pressing himself against her.
Karl Da Silva stood his ground, indicating that she should move into the room first.
“I do wish you would stop this game, Emilia.”
Perlo moved to the table, tying up her robe, sweeping up her Chesterfields, and lighting up, all in the same easy movement.
“I know you like to see them, Karl.”
He could not think of a suitable reply that was truthful, so he remained uncomfortably silent.
“So, I take it you have something for me to send,” she indicated the brown secure message envelope clipped to the folder, previously present when the higher controllers wished her to write to Cousin Victoria.
“Yes indeed, Emilia,” holding up his hand to refuse the offer of bourbon, “It is time for you to start earning your luxurious lifestyle.”
Perlo snorted and raised the glass to her lips, savouring the rich taste.
“Hardly luxurious, Colonel Da Silva,” dropping tetchily into using his rank, as she always did when annoyed.
“Certainly more luxurious than it would have been, had you not chosen to work for the right side, Miss Perlo.”
Da Silva caught the flash of anger in the woman’s eyes.
“And also remember that your continued presence here, working for us, ensures that your Aunt and Cousin continue their safe little existence.”
The anger burned less brightly in her eyes, as proper thought replaced her momentary indignance.
“Oh well, at least I get plenty of cock.”
Da Silva was unready for the sea change and snorted in amusement, but quickly regaining his professional poise.
He returned to the matter in hand, noting the amused triumphant look in Emilia’s eyes.
‘Did you just set me up Emilia?’
‘Gotcha Karl.’
Perlo produced her textbook noting that, as expected, Da Silva took possession of the Bourbon until she had finished composing her letter to Cousin Victoria.
The envelope became the focus of attention as it made its way into Perlo’s hands.
She read it slowly, in the manner of the brilliant mathematician she was, analysing, understanding, ensuring no misinterpretation.
‘Que? You gotta be kidding me!’
Looking up at the Intelligence Officer, she saw only serious eyes.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Word for word, Emilia.”
“Three years?”
“Three years.”
“Lavincompái!”
Da Silva was taken aback by the profanity.
“Three years, Miss Perlo. We can sell it, and they will buy it.”
“They won’t buy that at all, Karl.”
“They will, for one simple reason, Emilia.”
The spy took a last drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out theatrically.
“And that is what?”
Da Silva repeated a phrase he had heard from the lips of a three-star General, no more than forty minutes previously.
“Because they will want to.”
1107hrs, Monday, 24th September 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.
“Brad, it’s so good to see you.”
The handshake was warm, the friendly relationship between the two men genuine and tested.
Eisenhower looked up, first at the man who stood hovering with coffee, and secondly at Bedell-Smith.
The three Generals slipped into a small alcove, followed by the staff corporal with the fresh and steaming coffee.
Drinks poured, the orderly withdrew, leaving the senior officers to discuss the momentous news.
Ike ceded the moment to Bedell-Smith, who slowly went through the preliminary report on Soviet supply difficulties.
It took just under ten minutes, by which time the change in Bradley’s demeanour was noticeable.
When he had arrived, the burden of his command and the nature of his task were both obviously heavy upon his shoulders.
With the latest intelligence report, a new hope was awoken, and the fire in Omar Bradley’s eyes burned bright and fierce.
“Well I’ll be. So what’s the plan, General?”
Eisenhower smiled softly, but his eyes also reflected a new steel.
“We do what we said we were going to do. Move back to the Rhine. T
heir engineering issue has not improved.”
Bradley moved to remonstrate.
“Hold on, Brad. Hear me out here.”
It could have been an order but, between friends, it was a reasonable request.
“If the situation is how it seems they are perilously close to having a logistical breakdown. I do not want to do anything to dissuade them from sticking their necks out, understand?”
Bradley did ‘kind of’ understand, but that understanding brought visions of continued retreat, stand, retreat, all the way back to the Rhine.
“The further we move them westwards, the worse it will get for them. Our air power will only grow now. Stateside factories are now fully online. Even Boeing is back to full production despite the sabotage.”
The previous week, a number of Soviet special troops, probably six of them, had blown up part of the Boeing’s Plant 2 facility in Seattle. None of the saboteurs had survived the attack.
“Our training schools are working full-time, and new pilots are coming into play all the time, no loss of standards.”
“We have new units arriving, either from stateside or created in country, adding to our order of battle on a daily basis.”
Eisenhower understood Bradley’s silence.
“Brad, I will make sure you have the resources to conduct a proper fighting withdrawal, but I want that withdrawal, and I want the Soviets to see our weakness, and continue to exploit it.”
Eisenhower nodded at Bedell-Smith.
“This is something we have yet to firm up, but it is a start, General Bradley.”
Bedell-Smith and Bradley tended to be formal in their exchanges.
The document listed units and resources.
It did not list times or dates.
Clearly marked were names of Generals and Armies, his own being top of the pile.
There was no indication of location or direction.
The paper was relatively innocuous.
However, despite that, Bradley knew he was holding a document that, even in its infant stage, represented the planning of a major Allied counter-offensive.