0213 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, NATO’s new forward headquarters, Leipzig, Germany.
Colonel Hood knocked urgently on the bedroom door and was immediate hailed to enter.
He did so and found his new commander performing graceful movements with a Model 1913 cavalry sabre, one of the famous Patton swords, named for the man who had designed it.
“General, Sir. You’re needed immediately.”
“Where’s the goddamned fire, Colonel.”
“Everywhere, General. The commies have attacked.”
Patton stopped his routine in mid-thrust and slipped the weapon back into its scabbard.
“They’ve attacked, eh?”
“Yes, Sir. From Lithuania to Vienna.”
Patton smiled.
“Good.”
“Mister President, George Patton here, Sir.”
“Good evening, George. Thank you for pulling me from the most boring of meetings.”
“Sir, I must report that, as of 0200 European time, the war restarted.”
“What?”
“Mister President, as best as we can presently work out, the Soviets started with artillery barrages on selected Polish, German, British, French, and American positions, all of which have caused casualties. I’ve ordered all forces to full alert and moved units to respond to the tactical situation.”
Truman sagged at the knees and tried to find his seat at the Oval office table.
“Is this just a terrible mistake, George?”
“No way, Mister President. Artillery barrages from Lithuania to Austria, all at the same time. Absolutely no chance. This is all by Soviet design.”
“I see. What do you need from me, George?”
“Two things, Sir.”
“Go on.”
“Firstly, send me everything you can. Secondly, I need your orders, Sir.”
Truman looked at the faces gathered around the speaker and saw a reflection of his own shock and horror, mixed with a little of something else.
He recognised it for what it was; a mixture of a sense of betrayal, sadness for what was inevitably to come, and a whole lot of anger.
He set his jaw and gave Patton his orders.
“General Patton. The American people and her Allies will provide you with all necessary means to bring this war to a speedy conclusion. Drive them back, all the way back… do not let up until they beg for mercy. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sir, Mister President, Sir. How far you want ’em back?”
“To Moscow and beyond, General Patton.”
“And… Mister President…”
Truman instinctively understood what Patton was about to ask.
“Yes is the answer to that one, General. We will use the bomb on the Communists and make them wish they’d never started this whole sorry stinking mess. Now, do what you can immediately and I’ll have General Marshal speak with you directly. Good luck and god speed, General Patton.”
“Thank you, Mister President.”
Truman looked at his closest advisors and saw only steel and resolve.
He put it immediately to the test.
“Right. Henry. I want you to contact Groves, get him up to speed, and tell him I want weapons ready to ship to Europe by next weekend at the latest. Tell him Wednesday… that’ll focus him some.”
“He’s in Europe at the moment, visiting Denmark.”
“Then his deputy… put a burr under his saddle instead.”
Truman was galvanised into action.
“I’m going to call the Prime Minister, bring him up to date on developments. Sure as heck, Winston’ll be fit to burst. Then I’ll speak to Speer. Then, I’ll address the nation and I will be frank and open. No sense in losing the opportunity to let the Soviets know that they will be visited by a hurricane of their own making.”
The laughter was forced, as befitted the seriousness of the occasion.
“Now, gentlemen. Let’s get about winning this war!”
0300 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, Europe.
Within an hour of the first shot being fired, ground and air combats were in full swing, as aggressive commanders pushed the limits of their orders and sought out the enemy and night fighters struggled to control the air above the growing battlefield.
A full-blown shooting war was gathering speed an hour after that.
By the time that dawn started to throw its light on the battlefields, thirteen thousand men from both sides had lost their lives in a rejuvenated war that each blamed the other for starting, and both equally pledged full revenge upon the other for their treachery.
In reality, less than two hundred men knew something of what had actually happened, and only forty-three knew exactly who was to blame.
Chapter 193 – THE FOUNTAIN
War would end if the dead could return.
0801 hrs Saturday, 15th March, 1947, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Stalin listened with a face like fury as the details of the enemy sneak attack were laid out before him and the rest of the GKO, as well as a number of high-up political and military personnel who had gravitated towards the meeting room.
He occasionally took a look at his comrades and understood that he would not need to provoke them to outrage this time; they were all furious, and that fury would clearly be translated into aggression.
Zhukov, plainly lacking sleep and an opportunity to make himself the normal immaculate Soviet Marshal, listed each Allied attack and incursion, complete with the latest reports of air and sea activity, culminating in the sinking of one of their submarines in the Black Sea.
The Marshal’s briefing came to an end, but there was an unexpected silence as everyone present deferred to the General Secretary.
He nodded sagely, taking on the role of the village elder listening to some great wrong that had afflicted his fellow villagers, nodding his head very gently as he marshalled his thoughts.
“Iran?”
“Absolutely nothing, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Siberia? China?”
“Again nothing, Comrade General Secretary.”
“My peasant mind wonders why they might not attack there was well, Comrade Marshal.”
“Coordination difficulties possibly? Logistics? Political will? They could simply sit there and do nothing, knowing we have to maintain units to counter the possibility of them attacking us. Pin us in place whilst the real fighting goes on around our western borders, Comrade General Secretary.”
The nods around the room demonstrated understanding of the issue.
“So, Comrade Marshal, how do you advise we proceed against the perpetrators of this despicable act of betrayal?”
“We can offer local counter-attacks, but we were simply not prepared for this sort of treachery, Comrade General Secretary. Marshal Vasilevsky and I have already talked about mounting a counter-offensive, but we wish to understand the GKO’s will in this matter.”
Numerous men exchanged looks with Stalin, looks that spoke of determination and steel.
“Stop them, roll them back, and crush them, Marshal Zhukov!”
“Of course. I must have as many units as possible from the STAVKA reserve, and time to put a proper attack together. We must remember they have unlimited resources, so we must ensure we plan for success, not half measures. That will require some time, Comrades… time which will be bought with the blood of the Russian soldier.”
“As ever, Comrade Marshal.”
Beria had made the statement, and he drew an expressionless look from Zhukov.