The answer to the question also now seemed clear.
It did not mean that there definitely wasn’t, but it did raise the spectre that there were was Allied maskirovka at work, and that the whole thing had been a giant trap.
Unusually for Stalin, he had not ordered changes at the top, with the accompanying grave consequences for the former incumbents, although the reason for this might have been that he was distracted by other matters.
The Allied attacks in central Germany were still progressing, albeit slowly, in the face of some stubborn defensive work by 2nd Red Banner.
The Italian Front had been seen as causing greater problems for the Allies and yet, so it seemed, the Capitalists were coping remarkably well. Indeed, the logistic issues seemed to be posing more of a problem for his forces than the enemy.
‘Yugoslavia.’
The possibility of Tito’s hordes joining the fight would once have excited him but now, in the face of his logistical nightmares, it did little to promote positive thought.
‘So…’
He listened as the men around him argued more and more, watching more their attitude than taking in what they were saying. It was easier to understand what was in a man’s heart by watching, rather than listening. Lies were easy enough, as he well knew.
‘So…’
He rapped his pipe stem on the table, the clacking sound eventually calling everyone to a respectful and silent order.
“So… we have been dealt a defeat.”
He raised his hand to prevent the normal patriotic outpourings from the sycophants, cutting off their protests in an instant.
“We’ve had setbacks before, and we will have them again, Comrades. What is of great importance to me… and to the people… is how we now deal with this.”
He cued Beria in with a simple glance.
“Comrade General Secretary, I have Marshal Konev’s report. He recommends renewing the offensive on all fronts, keeping the pressure on the Allies.”
“Which we must expect from Konev. He’s a bull… but is it realistic, Comrades?”
Stalin already understood that it wasn’t, the logistical issues alone preventing it.
Molotov chipped in knowingly.
“Surely our logistical problems prevent that from being a possibility, Comrade General Secretary?”
“Indeed they do, Comrade, but Marshal Konev is thinking too aggressively and, perhaps, not seeing the full picture. We must ensure that our decision is what is right for the Motherland.”
More than one in the room looked at the Leader, faces expressionless, but surprised by the unusually restrained rhetoric, and the absence of shouting and threats.
Bulganin cut to the chase.
“So what is it that you propose, Comrade General Secretary?”
Stalin paused to relight his pipe, taking in the heavy smoke, his answer already prepared, as was the question he had given to Bulganin before the start of the meeting.
“I propose that we cease our attacks…”
He stopped, not because he wanted to but because the hubbub that sprung up prevented him from being heard.
There had been times, in the German War, when such talk would have earned a trip to Siberia for many, a neck shot for others. To think in such a way had been defeatist and yet, here, now, the General Secretary was making the suggestion himself.
The noise subsided and he continued.
“We can press on, as Konev suggests… and we will win victories because of the valiant efforts of our soldiers but we will waste our resources piecemeal, as we do not have the logistics to back up our men’s efforts properly.”
He placed the pipe on the table.
“Mistakes have been made,” Beria winced, “Our security forces have redoubled their efforts in securing our lines of communication, and the partisan attacks have dropped significantly.”
Novikov, the Chief of the Air Force, knew what was coming next.
“Our Air Force has tried to stem the enemy bomber attacks, but has failed. Not due to lack of effort,” the Air Marshal was no less astounded at Stalin’s conciliatory tone than the rest of the room, except Beria, Molotov and Bulganin, who knew what was to come.
“He stood up slowly and leant forward, taking his weight on his knuckles.
“No, not due to lack of effort, but because we have not given them the tools with which to fight the Fascists!”
He slammed his hand on the heavy wooden table, causing more than one man to jump. None mentioned that it was the Capitalists who were the enemy now. Perhaps he meant the few Germans in the equation?
“Our soldiers have performed courageously, and they have carried most of Germany before them. In a few months of fighting, against the best that the Allies can offer, they sit on the shores of the North Sea, and our Cossacks can water their horses in the Rhine.”
The nods were universal.
“We must accept that we do not have the initiative now, as we must accept that we will only get it back if we here give our soldiers, sailors and airmen the weapons to do the job.”
He stood and leant on his knuckles, a position he adopted only when he had serious points to put over.
“We must redouble our efforts in production, in transportation, in training,” as he stated each point he selected the face of the responsible person, his eyes giving no quarter in their intensity, “In leadership, and in planning.”
He sat down again, so quickly that some missed the move.
“Our men need more of everything… and better of everything… and we shall provide it, and provide it quickly.”
He lit a cigarette.
“We have new and improved types tanks, aircraft, and submarines. They must be of good quality, and we must give them to our troops in numbers.”
Stalin gestured to an NKVD Major stood by the huge double doors.
The man disappeared immediately.
“Comrades, I have asked someone to attend us, and give his opinion on matters. Despite some recent difficulties, he has rarely failed us, and his opinion will be useful here.”
The door clanged shut and all eyes swivelled to see who it was.
“Reporting as ordered, Comrade General Secretary.”
Georgy Zhukov looked bright and alert.
“Thank you, Comrade Zhukov.”
The Marshal moved forward, placing his notes on the table, but knowing he would not need them.
“Comrades, I have been asked to review the present situation, and make military-based suggestions as to how best to continue with the defeat of the Capitalists.”
More than one smiled at the tactful and face-saving statement.
“I see no option but to discontinue the main attacks at this time. Logistically, we cannot support them, neither in Germany, nor in Italy. Our Yugoslavian Allies have finally stirred, but the same situation exists for them, and we simply do not have the assets to keep them supplied too.”
“We are producing weapons and materiels at excellent rates, but there are serious issues with quality control, issues that Marshal Beria is addressing with vigour.”
Everyone knew what that meant.
“Much of what is produced never gets to our rear echelons, let alone the front line. For example, some types of large calibre artillery shells are in short supply. We produce 120% of the stated requirement each month. In November, 57% arrived with the Army in Europe. Over half went where? Partisans, low standards, accidents, all claimed a portion.”
“We have trained replacement pilots and shaved time off the programmes, apparently without reducing standards,” he acknowledged Novikov with a small gesture of his head, “And yet the casualties amongst these new airmen is considerably higher than it ever was in the German War. There may be other reasons for that, and I know Marshal Novikov is hard at work to find a solution.”