That evening, the heads of state ate a hearty dinner, satisfied that the plan they had endorsed would bring about a swift conclusion to the war, placing the USSR in a position where it would have to negotiate a peace.
Peace.
Many a glass was raised to it, and many a throat was whetted with expensive French wine in its name.
There was even talk, as ever, of bringing everyone home by Christmas.
Speer smiled his way through the toasts and conversation, his mind turning over one simple thought.
‘Scheisse verdamnt!’
The aftermath of that fateful day was quite marked.
Across the length and breadth of Allied-held Europe, orders arrived discreetly, preparing senior officers for what was to come.
Supply officers received their instructions, and the expectations of their masters started to cause them headache after headache, long before they commenced their work.
The clandestine agencies went to work with a will, exploiting the false ideas fed to the Soviets, building on the SAAG operation to distract, and preparing new subterfuges with which to confuse and distract their enemies.
Even outside Europe, ripples of new activity made themselves known, as air and naval bases throughout the Mediterranean, Persia and into Asia received quiet orders.
The air war, Spectrum-Green, was ramped up yet another notch, as day and night, the heavy bombers roamed the skies virtually unopposed.
Occasionally there were errors, when a fighter escort missed its rendezvous, leaving the big aircraft vulnerable, but they were few and far between.
Finland formally and noisily protested as RAF bombers regularly violated her airspace. Curiously, the experienced Finnish pilots, flying ME109 night fighters, never seemed to intercept the Allied intruders, so nothing was done to stop the stream of Halifax, Lincoln, and Lancaster aircraft as they flew to Murmansk, Archangelsk, and all points north of Leningrad.
Red, the naval elements of Spectrum, became more aggressive and the Soviet Baltic Fleet, such as it was after months of attrition, was reduced to a shadow by constant air and sea action, even though part of it was still frozen in by the solid ice of the north Baltic.
Every day, Group Captain Stagg appeared with the latest predictions, constantly disappointing planners by offering no definite hope for the future, no potential break in the winter conditions that so constrained both sides.
The air war intensified further, as the first standard B-29’s and B-32’s arrived in France and Holland, soon to start taking the war further into the Soviet Union itself.
Southampton saw the arrival of the new Essex class carrier Kearsarge, its decks crowded with aircraft securely wrapped up as a defence against the violence of the Atlantic weather. Curious eyes watched as the unfamiliar types were stripped of their covers and unloaded by crane. More of the same type emerged from the hangar below, until over sixty of the propeller-less aircraft were disembarked onto barges and taken up the River Itchen to HMS Raven, the RNAS shore station, where the arrival of the Shooting Stars caused little fuss, the arrival of two dozen Sea Vampires having already stolen the show.
On land, new equipment arrived in growing numbers. Many M-10’s had been withdrawn to undergo a programme of up gunning to 90mm or 17pdr, depending on what was available, as well as receiving additional armour protection.
The M-26, and a lesser number of hurriedly produced Super Pershings, arrived in Rotterdam, being immediately absorbed into the growing US forces.
Shermans, Jacksons, half-tracks and artillery pieces rolled off transport ships or were craned onto transporters in nearly every port in Allied Europe.
In the UK, production of the venerable Churchill tank gave way to an intense run of Black Prince vehicles, designed solely to consume as many Churchill parts as possible, before British factories started to produce Comets and Centurions to equip British and Commonwealth armoured divisions.
The first Panther tanks rolled off factory assembly lines, some only a few miles away from Soviet positions around the Ruhr. At the same time, French factories started to produce the ST44 and MG42, few at first, but in increasing numbers as techniques were improved and more capacity came online.
POWs, debilitated by captivity, were now, for the most part, fully recovered, providing an experienced pool from which rienforcements were drawn for both replenishment and for new units.
The Allied war machine was growing; growing in numbers, in capability, in strength, and perhaps most importantly, in confidence.
“I repeat, Comrade Marshal, I haven’t received anything like that.”
“Balls and fucking nonsense, Rokossovsky, balls and fucking nonsense.”
Konev stuck out an imperious hand and an aide slipped a report into it instantly.
Reading aloud, the bald-headed commander of the Soviet Army in Europe, alternated between the report and burning holes in Marshal Rokossovsky with his red-hot gaze.
“Since 2nd January, you have been sent, three hundred and seventy-two tanks of varying kinds, including thirty IS-IIIs.”
He slapped the paper with the back of his fingers.
“Four hundred and ninety-eight artillery pieces… one hundred and ninety-seven anti-tank guns… five hundred and forty mortars, Comrade.”
Holding the report close to the red-faced Polish officer, Konev tapped an entry with the tip of his finger.
“One and a half million artillery and mortar shells, Comrade.”
Almost apoplectic with rage, Rokossovsky waited whilst his deputy, Petrovich, passed him a piece of paper unbidden.
“Perhaps you would care to compare the two, Comrade Marshal?”
Konev snatched the list and held the two pieces of paper side by side, looking from one to the other, his brow creasing as the comparisons struck home.
“Eighty-six tanks? Only eighty-six fucking tanks?”
Trubnikov, the 3rd’s Chief of Staff, responded angrily.
“Comrade Marshal, this information was communicated to your headquarters. All of this fucking fiasco was communicated to your headquarters.”
“Comrade General Trubnikov, to lose one of the Rodina’s tanks is unforgiveable, to lose nearly three hundred makes you meat for the fucking firing squad!”
Rokossovsky leapt to his feet.
“There’ll be no need for firing squads here today!”
Konev held his tongue as Rokossovsky went face to face.
“The tanks are not lost. The artillery’s not lost. None of it’s lost. It’s out there, lying in mangled fucking heaps where the enemy have bombed it to pieces. We have no air cover worthy of the name, so it gets destroyed before it ever gets near us.”
Moving to Petrovich’s side, he held out a hand.
“Damage reports please, Comrade.”
The sheaf of papers was produced in seconds.
“Here.”
He read each in turn, passing the report to a seething Konev.
“Karlsruhe… sixty-one tanks destroyed in one raid.”
The next virtually flew from his hand to Konev.