Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  A hubbub grew as great men whispered with those sat alongside them.

  It ceased as quickly as it started, as Stalin rose from his seat and walked briskly round to his small desk. Sampling the drink he had left upon it, he turned to Nazarbayeva and pounced.

  “So Comrade Polkovnik, the GRU’s official position is that we are going to lose the war because of a few difficulties with our supplies, and the loss of a handful of pilots. Is that right?”

  Many men had paled and shriveled under such an assault. They were not Nazarbayeva.

  “No, Comrade General Secretary, that is not the official position of the GRU, neither is it my own view.”

  Stalin moved closer, intimidatingly close.

  “So what is the view of GRU Polkovnik Tatiana Nazarbayeva in these testing times eh? Come on, Comrade, don’t be shy!”

  “Comrade General Secretary, we cannot lose the war militarily. Over the centuries, powerful armies have tried and failed, and the reasons they failed will stand Mother Russia in good stead, if she is tested again. But, I believe that if we do not resolve these present issues then we will not win the war, and that amounts to the same as losing it, as far as Mother Russia will be concerned.”

  The silence was thick with risk, heavy with danger.

  Stalin’s eyes bored into her own, but she stood her ground.

  His eyes dropped to the Gold Star on her chest.

  His face relaxed, a gentle nodding indicating the escape of tension.

  Switching his cigarette into his left hand, Stalin extended his right hand and tapped the bravery award with his index finger, the touch seemingly a switch that made his face split into a grin.

  The Generalissimo turned to the rest of the GKO.

  “So you can see, Comrade Nazarbayeva did not get this in the ration packs, or because of her political affiliations.”

  Inside, the GRU Colonel let the relief wash through her.

  “I agree with your assessment, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  Stalin walked round to his seat and dropped into it smoothly.

  “Continue, Comrade.”

  Nazarbayeva shifted her weight, the injured foot beginning to protest.

  “Comrades, my information is that the Allied Commanders have not yet understood the Italian position, and they continue to bleed experienced units away from their own Italian armies to send into Germany.”

  Stalin leant back in his chair and permitted others to speak, low rumbles seizing upon the positive offered to them.

  Nazarbayeva decided that she could not let them continue.

  “Comrades, if I may. The balance of forces is not as great in our favour as you may think. GRU can now confirm that twelve division of the Spanish Army, fully manned and equipped, with a mix of German and Allied weapons, have crossed the frontier into Northern Italy.”

  The silence was deafening.

  “Allied planning seems to be to permit these divisions to take over in the line from the experienced Allied divisions, which are then sent northwards.”

  The low conversations broke out again, but were quickly stopped by Beria, tapping his pen on the table, eager to demonstrate his abilities to Nazarbayeva.

  “So, Comrade Polkovnik, what did Marshal Zhukov see in this latest development?”

  Momentarily thrown by the question, Nazarbayeva realized that the NKVD chief probably knew only too well what had been said the day before, when she had briefed Zhukov and Malinin.

  “Comrade Marshal, I believe that the Commander of the Red Army in Europe sees this as a big opportunity, provided the supply situation is resolved.”

  Tatiana relayed the official position, assuming that Beria had a report on everything that had been said.

  In the deeper recesses of her mind, a voice she recognised as her own asked a simple question.

  ‘Have you just made an error, Chekist?’

  “So, Marshal Zhukov believes that these Spanish troops might, in the main, be more vulnerable, and therefore the way into Southern France could be opened more easily than planned.”

  The voice inside laughed.

  ‘Yes, you have, you arrogant little prick!’

  “Yes, Comrade Marshal, that is precisely what Marshal Zhukov believes.”

  This was the truth, as Beria had quoted the conversation word for word.

  Stalin came back into the discussion.

  “That is a matter for another time, Comrade Polkovnik. Proceed.”

  Nazarbayeva’s sharp mind suddenly sensed the danger of another part of the conversation and acted swiftly, thinking only to reduce the danger to Zhukov.

  “Comrade General Secretary, the Allies have been particularly successful in integrating their returned prisoners of war back into their combat forces, bolstering their numbers across the board, replacing losses in existing units, as well as creating whole new divisions and squadrons, all of which consist of men with skills and experience. My sources inform me, unequivocally, that these units are all well motivated and the equal of the existing formations.”

  Stalin and Beria had seen the verbatim record of the conversation, and recalled what Zhukov’s response had been to that information.

  “We have similar assets that are not taken advantage of, and the Motherland’s forces are suffering as a result.”

  The penalization of those taken prisoner was a basic tenet of the way Stalin conducted the war, and to criticize it was to commit suicide.

  More than one in the room could see a mental picture of Nazarbayeva swinging from a rope before the day’s end.

  “GRU understands the need to pursue sanctions against those who were weak and permitted themselves to be captured, depriving the Motherland of their skills at a time of great need. There can be no suggestion of permitting these ‘people’ to retain the rights of citizenship, such as those who have fought throughout, enjoy.”

  In the minds of those present, the hangman paused in his work, curious to hear more.

  “Many of these soldiers are unfit, the deprivations of German captivity too much, and yet they can be of use.”

  The hangman relaxed, and set the rope aside, just for the moment.

  “Supply officers already have placed the repatriation of these men at the lowest possible priority, which means that the majority still remain in or close to the combat zone.”

  Both Beria and Stalin knew of Zhukov’s comments on that score.

  “GRU believes that those who are unfit for combat could serve a purpose, and even release some normal troops to other duties. Those fit enough to serve could be formed into special units, established without frills or favours, and given over to the harshest tasks, such as our existing shtrafbats.”

  The hangman looked pensive.

  Stalin spoke in a very measured fashion.

  “Comrade Nazarbayeva, it is accepted that those soldiers of the Red Army that permitted themselves to be taken prisoner are not afforded the status of soldier, and are lost in the eyes of the state. This you understand?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary, this is understood.”

  “And yet, you presume to stand in front of this group and put forward a recommendation that undermines that which is wholly accepted by the people and the state?”

  The hangman was back preparing his noose.

  “Comrade General Secretary, if I may. I have lost two sons to the great patriotic enterprise on which the Motherland has presently embarked. As a mother, and as a soldier, the thought that some others, who are quite capable of serving the Motherland, are excluded from risk, because they have failed before, is curious to say the least.”

  The hangman smiled, shook his head, and advanced with the noose ready.

  There was no sound from the assembly.

  Nazarbayeva continued.

  “Comrades, as a mother and a soldier, I would welcome the possibility that these failures could be offered a chance of redemption, placing them open to the same risks faced by my remaining sons, and my husband, rather than some
warm and cosy Gulag in the heart of the Motherland.”

  Silence.

  The hangman disappeared instantly, and was replaced by silent debate, as each man looked again at the issue.

  ‘We can’t let this happen.’

  ‘She has a point.’

  ‘We need the manpower.’

  ‘Why not let the Allies shoot the bastards for us?’

  ‘This will undermine our authority.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why can we not do this?’

  Despite the result of their own thought processes, everyone took their cue from Stalin.

  “Comrade Polkovnik, you understand the effect that this reversal could have upon the credibility of the State, and the effectiveness of the Red Army?”

  “Comrade General Secretary, I understand that the Red Army, Air Force and Navy are exhibiting the highest courage and skill in beating the Western Allies. I also understand that will not continue unless solutions are found. GRU recommends this as one solution to one problem. Clearly, this is a momentous decision, and one that rightfully belongs with this present company. I can only place the information before you all, and hope that I have done enough to permit you to make a properly informed judgment.”

  Stalin considered his response carefully, sparing a look at his senior men, reading a raised eyebrow here, a furrowed brow there.

  “Quite so, Comrade Polkovnik. You have given us your briefing, and we will consider its contents. Have you concluded your briefing?”

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Polkovnik. I see no need to detain you further.”

  1203hrs, Friday, 28th September 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.

  “Read that again. Did I misunderstand?”

  Malinin, as taken aback as Zhukov, reread the passage aloud.

  It was the same second time around.

  “Mudaks!”

  Malinin grinned at his superior’s choice expression.

  “How long before we can implement this? I’m thinking immediately for integrating, say four days for stand alone units, as a minimum.”

  “I would agree up to a point, Comrade Marshal, but we must remember the poor physical state of some of these men.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.”

  The order before them removed the objections to utilizing the released prisoners of the German War, but specified their lack of privileges and status, and encouraged Zhukov to place them at the points of highest danger.

  Nonetheless, the Red Army and Air Force had just been handed a new reserve from which to cherry pick the best and most qualified men.

  More to the point, the document granted Zhukov full authority to integrate the prisoners as he saw fit, ensuring the best possible advantage to the Red Army.

  The previous evening, Nazarbayeva had relayed the content of her meeting with the GKO, and passed on the knowledge she had gained from Beria’s mistake.

  Here was evidence of that she had been able to influence the GKO on an extremely important matter, one on which even Zhukov himself had not been able to get movement.

  The Marshal looked at his CoS and laughed.

  Zhukov’s laugh was infectious, and so Malinin joined in.

  “Balls of steel, Mikhail. I swear it, that woman has balls of steel.”

  A knock on the door brought the pair back to earth, their serious side emerging, as the newly promoted Major Viktor Serebryakov strode in and sprang to the attention position in front of Zhukov’s desk.

  An immaculate salute started proceedings.

  “Comrade Marshal. Thank you for this great honour, and it has been a privilege to serve under you. With your permission, I will leave now.”

  “You may, and thank you for your service, Comrade Mayor. You deserve this. I wish you good luck.”

  The door closed behind the Major, ensuring he did not hear Malinin’s snort of derision.

  “Chekist bastard.”

  The then-Captain Serebryakov had been present during the discussion between the two senior officers and Colonel of GRU Nazarbayeva, and was the obvious source of Beria’s knowledge.

  His transfer to command a rifle battalion in one of the 1st Baltic’s rifle corps placed him in harm’s way and, more importantly, where he could do no more damage with his reports to the NKVD.

  “Now then, Comrade, let us get this windfall sorted before they change their minds!”

  Another knock on the door, timed to the second, gave each man a moment of thought that just such a thing had happened.

  The messenger left.

  The new directive from the GKO dealt with Phase Three.

  Zhukov acted decisively.

  “Get this sorted out immediately,” he indicated the order regarding the integration of POW’s, “Inform Novikov, Tolbukhin, Chuikov and Yeremenko that I wish them to present themselves here by 1300hrs tomorrow.”

  Malinin made his customary notes.

  “Ask General Pekunin to be here for 1800hrs today.”

  Removing a hand-written note from his drawer, Zhukov grinned mischievously.

  “Please ensure that this is forwarded, ‘eyes-only’, to Mayor General Kudryashev, Chief of Staff of the 4th Shock Army.”

  Unusually for Malinin, he was slow to grasp the matter.

  Sensing his CoS’s confusion, Zhukov spoke softly.

  “Just letting Comrade Kudryashev know what he is getting.”

  Malinin immediately understood.

  ‘Serebryakov, the treacherous shit.’

  “Right, Comrade, let us get to work!”

  Unfortunately, this earth is not a fairyland, but a struggle for life, perfectly natural and therefore extremely harsh.

  Martin Bormann

  Chapter 87 - THE PAST

  1147hrs, Sunday, 30th September 1945, Legion Command Group ‘Normandie’ Headquarters, Hotel Stephanie, Baden-Baden, Germany.

  General Molyneux had moved the Corps Headquarters back to Strasbourg the previous week, releasing the Hotel Stephanie to Group Normandie. With only the Group Staff, the hotel was spacious and uncrowded, more than suitable for purpose.

  The Soviet assaults had outflanked some legion units, forcing withdrawals or minor adjustments to the line, but mainly there had been little advance on the Legion front, the two larger assaults being dealt with bloodily by Camerone and 16th US Armored Group respectively.

  Despite the successes, the group present in General Lavalle’s office was subdued.

  Lavalle, Knocke and Pierce had sat impassively, listening to Bittrich, as he read aloud an official document that had been handed to him by the last occupant of the room, a French Army Major from the Military Police.

  Bittrich finished, and carefully folded the document, proffering it to Lavalle.

  A shake of the head refused the damning paperwork, and it was offered back to the Major who had presented it.

  Lavalle waited whilst the man returned it to his tunic pocket, and then addressed him directly.

  “Of course, we will comply with the requirements of that order, Commandant. If it is as stated, then he will get what he deserves. If not, then a fair trial will establish his innocence. We can do nothing now; it is out of our hands.”

  The reaction of Knocke was all-important here, and Lavalle watched him carefully.

  “I agree, Sir.”

  Clearly, Lavalle need not have been concerned.

  He shifted his gaze to the next man in line.

  Pierce was unequivocal.

  “General Lavalle, if he did this, then I will shoot him myself, Sir.”

  He had already canvassed Bittrich’s opinion, as the police Major had arrived some time beforehand.

  “Then let’s get it over with. Commandant, if you please.”

  The Military Policeman nodded, immediately opening the door.

  “Colonel Lange?”

  Karl-Gunther Lange strode in, recovered from his injuries, and recently promoted
to full Colonel.

  Lavalle sat stiffly in his chair and accepted Lange’s formal salute.

  “Colonel Lange, with regret, I am relieving you of your command, effective immediately.”

  Lange went from curious to furious in an instant.

  “What? Why? What have I done? You can’t do that!”

  Knocke silently sought, and received, permission to act.

  He sprang out of his chair.

  “Achtung! Stillgestanden!”

  Lange automatically snapped to the attention.

  “Standartenfuhrer Lange. You will surrender your pistol to me, now.”

  The hand was imperious, demanding immediate compliance.

  Lange’s Walther was handed over in an instant.

  “Stand at ease. Now, please listen to the Sturmbannfuhrer.”

  Knocke deferred to the French officer, who opened the document and read aloud in perfect German.

  “Colonel Karl-Gunther Lange, you are under arrest for your alleged part in the murder of two French citizens, Father Leblastier and Father Lebarbanchon, and the killing of nine wounded United States paratroopers of the 82nd US Airborne Division at Graignes, Normandy, France, on or about the 11th June 1944, whilst you were serving with the 17th SS Division.”

  There was more, much more, but the military policeman wished to be on his way with his prisoner.

  Lange looked at Bittrich, then Knocke, seeking their understanding and support.

  Both men had fought a fair war, without excesses, and their support was not forthcoming.

  Although, perhaps, they did both understand.

  “These things happen in war, the heat of the moment, it happens,” he appealed to Bittrich, “You know that, you know that!”

  Bittrich responded with uncharacteristic contempt.

  “No, actually, Lange, I don’t.”

  Lavalle encouraged the MP with a wave of his hand, and Lange was taken away.

  The four officers sat in uncomfortable silence, Pierce being the most uneasy, as he had come to respect the quality of his former enemy, and had suddenly been reminded that some of them may have a past for which they should be held accountable.