Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (68 page)

Stalin waited as the telephone connection was made, and observed his Foreign Secretary making a few annotations on the basic document that had been agreed as the basis for negotiations with the enemy.

A voice drew him back from the sight.

‘Zhukov.’

“Comrade Marshal, good morning. The Allies have agreed to attend the Swedish talks.”

He took a gentle pull on his cigarette as Zhukov asked his questions.

“As quickly as possible, Comrade Marshal. Minister Molotov intends to travel to Sweden as soon as the corridor of safe passage is arranged and confirmed.”

He nodded at the words his ears deciphered.

“Yes, you must, Comrade Marshal. If the capitalists smell weakness, then they will place great pressure on our forces, as well as harden their negotiating position… neither must happen, we are clear on that, Comrade Zhukov?”

He waved his hand to remove the ash that had tumbled down his tunic top, and stubbed out the offender before quietly waiting for the man on the other end to stop talking.

“Yes, yes, Comrade. You and Vasilevsky have our complete confidence. I understand tha…”

An aide had slipped in unnoticed and placed a small report in front of the General Secretary. He cut across Zhukov’s request for more fuel.

“Let me stop you there. There is no more fuel. Use what you have wisely. I’ve just been informed that the safe passage is confirmed, so Comrade Minister Molotov will be in Sweden today. That should mean that formal talks could begin tomorrow morning.”

Zhukov asked the burning question.

Stalin gave him the answer that had been agreed.

“The 19th at the latest. The Red Army must maintain its fullest efforts until then. That is the absolute imperative of this situation, and you must not fail the party and the Rodina. Implement the operations as planned tonight, Comrade Marshal.”

He put the phone down without hearing the Marshal’s parting words.

Molotov sensed Stalin’s eyes on him and looked up from the document.

“So, Comrade, the Red Army stands ready to do its duty, and it’ll buy you time to negotiate from a position of strength. The 19th, Vyacheslav, you’ve ‘til the 19th.”

An honourable peace is and always was my first wish. I can take no delight in the effusion of human blood; but, if this war should continue, I wish to have the most active part in it.

John Paul Jones

Military Airfield 16 at Brattfors had been declared as the receiving airbase, with safe flying zones and fighter escorts provided by the Swedish Air Force.

As each delegation landed, the Allied transport aircraft outnumbering those of the USSR by four to one, the Swedish Army whisked the great and powerful away in an armed convoy, quickly covering the fifteen kilometres to the hastily constructed Swedish Army facility on the banks of the Lungen at Lungsnäs.

Whilst adequate, the site lacked many of the creature comforts to which the senior politicians were used, a deliberate choice on the part of the Swedes, who felt such absences would spur the delegations to quicker agreement.

The Swedish Minister for Foreign Affairs, Östen Undén, called the room to order with a gentle knocking of a gavel, the agreed sign of his authority over the powerful assembly.

“Ministers, ambassadors, generals, good morning. Sweden and the world thank you for attending this meeting place, and for your assertion that you all come here with good intentions and a wish to seek a swift, proper, and enduring peace.”

As he spoke, Undén nodded at the dignitaries as eye contact was made with each in turn, switching from one side of the huge table to the other, so as not to seem to favour either one group or the other.

“We have come together in a camp named after the Goddess Vár, the goddess of promises and agreements. For the sake of all our peoples, it is my fervent hope that she brings us her wisdom and guidance.”

Undén took a deep breath.

“Now, shall we begin? Sweden proposes an immediate ceasefire in place whilst these meetings are conducted.”

The Swedish were dumbstruck that Allies and the Soviets were in full agreement, although more dumbstruck by the vigorous and total rejection of the idea, as both sides spoke at length, refusing to be militarily constrained during the peace talks.

Molotov ceased his diatribe and resumed his seat, leaving a silence which Undén broke.

“So, gentlemen, your position is that, whilst we sit here in earnest talks to bring peace to the continent, neither of you can bring yourselves to stop fighting in any way, meaning more and more young men will die as words are thrown back and forth across this table? Minister Molotov, is there no room to accept any cessation in the fighting at this time?”

“No. That is the position of my country, Minister Undén. Until an agreement that is satisfactory to the Soviet Union is ratified by our leadership, there can and will be no truce.”

Undén turned to the Allied delegation.

US Secretary of State James Byrnes shook his head to emphasise his words.

“Absolutely not, Minister Undén. The Allied nations will not permit any truce to come about until this meeting has produced a result that brings about peace, and the start of the process of the restoration of freedoms for the people and nations of Europe.”

The Minister for Foreign Affairs’ sigh was audible.

“Very well. We will take a short break for refreshment and consultations, and return back here for midday. We will then hear your initial basic negotiating positions before we take lunch.”

He banged the gavel, ending thirty-nine wholly unsatisfactory minutes, during which the two enemies had been in complete agreement, but only that the killing should go on.

“Well, perhaps someone ought to tell the sonsofbitches that they ain’t gotta any goddamned ammo, cos from where I’m fucking sitting, seems they got a whole goddamned lot it, and they ain’t afraid to chuck it our way, Sir.”

Major William S Towers. Acting OC 3rd battalion, 359th Infantry Regiment, was on the field telephone, apprising his regimental commander, Colonel Bell, as to events in the front line, a front line that Towers and his men had occupied that very morning, relieving the tired soldiers of the 357th US Infantry Regiment from his own division, ready for an assault on Height 444 to their immediate front.

To emphasise Towers’ point, something extremely large landed nearby, bringing screams from some unfortunate.

“That’s probably one of their two-oh-three howitzers, Sir. Lots of other stuff too.”

Fig # 213 - Hofbieber, Germany.

Towers stuck his head round the opening to the bunker and saw a pair of medics scurrying towards the growing sounds of a man in extremis.

“Well, Sir, either they’re fixing to bug out, and don’t want to carry the weight, or they’re fixing to come calling, and I don’t see the commies bugging out any time soon.”

The acting Battalion CO grimaced as a shell plunged down and tossed the two medics skywards, not whole bodies, but enough to be recognisable as once human beings.

“I’m taking casualties, Sir. They’re not slacking off at all, and it’s nearly an hour now. What are m…”

Bell interrupted with a question of his own.

“Yes, Sir. Our arty is firing back, but obviously they ain’t getting the job done, ‘cos there’s no slackening off by the commies… none at all, Sir.”

Behind Towers, the radio crackled into life, carrying an excited voice barely distinguishable over the sound of automatic fire on the airwaves.

The same sound carried across the battlefield and reached Towers’ ears, indicating that the enemy were pushing forward.

Fig # 214 - Soviet attack, north of Hofbieber, Germany.

“Sir, that’s my machine guns opening up. I’ve got a report that the enemy are pushing forward. I’ll get back to you with more information when I can… yessir…”

Towers tossed the handset onto the table and grabbed his new weapon, a M1A3 Garand, a weapon improved by some modest remodelling of the stock, and the ability of firing twenty rounds from one magazine.

3rd Battalion had turned over all their M1s whilst they were out of the line, so Towers knew that whatever it was that was coming down the ways was about to plough into a US infantry battalion with unprecedented firepower.

Whatever it was…

The heavy .50cal Brownings were doing murderous work amongst the advancing Soviet infantry of Shtrafbat 522, and were then joined by their .30cal smaller brothers.

Towers could not help but admire the courage of the advancing soldiers, whilst at the same time baulking at the stupidity of it all.

At least their advance had brought an end to the incoming artillery.

“Time to see what these beauties are capable of, Remington. Your call, son.”

Towers dropped into a firing position as the Captain gave the order to fire.

Love Company’s weapons spat their bullets across the shrinking divide.

Towers actually didn’t reload, instead watching as the attacking force almost melted in front of his eyes.

“Holy Mother of God!”

Captain Remington, a non-contributor to the slaughter by dint of his personal choice of a Thompson, had simply and incredulously observed the whole Soviet attack come apart before his eyes.

“Didn’t think you were a believer, Harry?”

Remington could not take his eyes off the sight.

“I’m not, Major, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Me either, Harry… me either.”

A sound started rising from the US positions, one of celebration, a sound not unlike that heard on the battlefields of a civil war some eighty years beforehand, from men in blue on Cemetery Ridge, Gettysburg, or others, clad in grey, from behind the stone wall on Marye’s Heights at Fredericksburg.

Men were yelling and whooping, raising the new Garands in the air, and celebrating the rout of a large enemy force by inflicting the heaviest of casualties.

“Get ‘em back under control, Harry. The artillery’ll start back up directly. No sense in losing any of the boys, just cos they’re fired up.”

“Sir, Major…”

Remington bounded up from the firing position, shouting at his NCOs to bring about order, and for the most part, failing.

Towers, dropped his magazine out and inserted another twenty rounds worth into his beautiful new weapon of war.

‘Ain’t you a thing of beauty.’

“Get me the Colonel on the horn.”

Towers continued to examine the bloody field until a telephone was shoved towards him.

“Thanks. Sir? Colonel Bell, Sir, We stopped them absolutely dead in their tracks… literally… the firepower of our new rifles just hacked them apart. As good as a full company of ma deuces on heat. The attack was probably two full battalions… it just melted, Sir, just melted away.”

The artillery resumed, albeit lighter than before.

“Yes, Sir, I agree. Yessir.”

Two men looked at two wristwatches two miles apart.

‘1220.’

“Soon as, Colonel. Yessir, 1240.”

Again, he tossed the handset down.

“Tell all company commanders. We will go with our straight assault option, commencing 1240. Get the message out now.”

His staff scurried in all directions.

Towers grabbed his binoculars and quickly surveyed the carnage to the front of his battalion, before switching to view the almost bare hilltop that was Height 444.

Bell had ordered that 3rd Battalion make the assault as soon as possible, to make the most of the shock and disorientation of the failed assault.

As he watched, US artillery started to put a mix of high explosive and airburst on the positions that he intended to occupy shortly.