However, the prime target was obliterated, including the commander of the Soviet Armies, Konev, and success also came in the killing or incapacitating three more Front commanders. It should be noted that two of those were against targets that were engaged purely to maintain the illusion of threat to Northern areas.
Had the Allies been more successful in removing the true talent of the Red Army, such as Malinovsky, Bagramyan and Yeremenko, then perhaps history would trumpet the Heracles Missions as a success.
For now, we must be content with reading the opinions and arguments of historians, and form our own opinions as best we can.
It is my opinion that Heracles did a little to change the initial resistance offered by the Red Army, but achieved little, if anything, in the long run.
The mood was sombre, despite the threatening eyes of the General Secretary rounding on anyone who seemed in the slightest bit defeated.
“We have been in situations like this before and we have triumphed each and every time, Comrades.”
More than one person in the room understood the vital differences this time around, although clearly not the man who really needed to do so.
“Now, we have a mess to deal with. Comrade Zhukov.”
Standing at a much-changed military situation map, the Marshal, white and shaky, briefed the listening GKO on the strategic situation.
“The Allied armies and air forces have launched heavy attacks that appear to be aimed at these major objectives.”
“Munich.”
“Prague.”
“Berlin.”
He paused before tapping the map for a fourth time.
“Poland.”
“In Italy and Austria, Marshal Chuikov has slowed their advance and is confident that he can stop further major incursions. Here the Allies have been clever, and have tried to avoid combat in any areas where the Yugoslav Army is drawn in on our side. We have tried to provoke such a thing but have not yet succeeded. Perhaps Comrade Molotov may be able to provide us with happier news on our Yugoslavian comrades’ future commitment?”
Eyes swivelled to the Foreign Minister, who shifted uneasily under the heavy scrutiny.
“Comrades, I can report that further attempts to persuade Comrade Tito to our side have been fruitless… in fact, my report indicates no sense of shift in his position, although we are told that another brigade of their soldiers has volunteered to fight for the cause.”
One brigade wasn’t going to make a huge difference, but it was the best thing that Molotov could offer.
Stalin spoke through puffs on his favourite pipe.
“So, the great communist… will not join the great struggle against… capitalism… not join the great cause… and sweep Europe clean of fascists forever… why not?”
Molotov eased his collar like a silent movie star.
“Because he says he will not ally himself with the losing side and risk communism’s extinction, Comrade General Secretary.”
There was a silence, broken only by the sound of an angry man sucking on a pipe.
With a calm he did not feel, Stalin pointed at Zhukov.
“When we’ve defeated the capitalists, you’ll present me with a plan to knock that treacherous piece of shit off his perch, Comrade Marshal. Now, continue.”
Still in the early stages of the heart attack that would hospitalize him for some weeks, Zhukov struggled on.
“Every front has suffered heavy casualties, every rear echelon has been savaged by their air attacks.”
He turned to the map.
“However, here, under Marshal Bagramyan, we’ve inflicted great losses on the enemy, mainly British. The incursion into Poland has been halted, their attempts to link up with the bridgehead have been stopped dead at Wismar, although the southern flank is threatened by the advance of the new German Army cutting upwards and trying to join up with a British thrust down from Denmark. Marshal Bagramyan is confident he can extricate his forces, and I have given him permission to withdraw this group,” he indicated the armies between Bremen and Bielefeld.
Stalin remained silent, unexpectedly.
“The Polish excursion has been further reinforced but it would seem unlikely that more assets will arrive. It is contained for now and we will be strong enough to reduce it very soon.”
“The Poles?”
Beria had wanted to let his NKVD divisions loose but, unusually, Stalin had stayed his hand.
“Some remained loyal. Although it is certain that some were involved in the Allied landings and airborne operations. Fortunately, we stripped a lot of their assets to bolster our own forces in Europe, so most of their units are under equipped, although the Allies may well have supplied the traitors with arms themselves.”
Zhukov steadied himself and more people started to notice his colour.
“Once the loyal Poles can be disengaged, we will reorganize them and move them to an area away from their countrymen. Comrade Marshal Beria’s force can then operate in the full knowledge that they will be dealing with only traitors.”
Zhukov took a deep breath.
“The bridgehead is contained at this time.”
Stalin relit his pipe and gesticulated at the map.
“So, Comrade Marshal, we have pretty markings that show us that the Allies have made advances. It was to be expected, of course.”
No-one would have dared voice such an expectation a week previously, but the General Secretary operated under different rules.
“Where is the danger, Comrade Marshal? Where is the threat here? They are grinding to a halt in the North and South. The Germans are moving but will run out of steam soon enough. The Amerikanski have been bloodied on the Rhine and Mosel. So where is our biggest issue eh?”
Zhukov, head swimming, easily tapped the board, the shot like sound causing more than one to flinch.
“Here, Comrade General Secretary. Here is our biggest problem.”
Eyes focused on markings that suggested a US Army Group.
Stalin snorted.
“The Amerikanski?”
“One Amerikanski called Patton, Comrades. He was sat here, with his entire Army… a huge army… waiting for the right moment to move forward and exploit a breakthrough.”
Zhukov felt really faint but stuck to his task.
“This morning he got his breakthrough here… between Mainz and Koblenz.”
Actually, Patton had found his opening on the 27th but, perhaps unsurprisingly, Soviet intelligence was overwhelmed and such omissions were commonplace.
Zhukov collapsed, clutching his chest, his pain evident.
The doctor was called and the Marshal was taken away.
All the time, Stalin’s eyes remained fixed on the map, taking in the smallest details.
‘Mainz.’
‘Koblenz.’
His eyes moved eastwards.
‘Frankfurt.’
And further on.
‘Nuremberg.’
And further o…
Stalin shook himself out of the process.
‘Enough! You’ve defeated worse than this bunch of Amerikanski and lapdog British before, so enough! The Red Army will be victorious, so enough, enough, enough!’
Zhukov’s departure had added to the growing list of dead and incapacitated Soviet Marshals, and Stalin’s pot of reliable and competent senior officers was shrinking daily.
The briefing continued, as Nazarbayeva and Beria brought new intelligence to the attention of the GKO.
Chuikov’s latest headquarters exceeded his, by now, limited expectations.
Located on the one thousand metre long, heavily wooded Sallaberg, a mass that rose to nine hundred metres above sea level, his latest headquarters seemed ideal and undetectable.