“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.
Chapter 185 – THE GERMANS?
I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery.
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 arraigned, 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.