Tall and ramrod-straight, Zagloba’s slender build had been exaggerated by more than a week of incredibly hard work and emotional stress. As an official representative of the Polish government, the officer took pains with his appearance, but a well-pressed uniform could not hide his gray, lined face or the dark circles under his eyes. Nor could it conceal an expression that mixed worry, grief, and anger.
Zagloba came to attention, then sat down when the admiral waved him to a chair. Ward sat down next to him in an antique chair old enough to have been used by Queen Anne herself.
The Pole got right down to business. “Admiral, my government has asked me to pass on to you, in the strongest terms, our distress at your decision to end all sea resupply efforts.”
Ward paused for a moment and thought carefully before replying.
Zagloba must have taken his silence as a request for an explanation, because he quickly continued, “We are aware of the great risks you have taken for us, and the losses you have suffered. We are grateful. We share your grief. Those who have died will be heroes in Poland forever.” Zagloba fought to control himself. “But how will we honor them if my country is lost?”
His voice took on a pleading tone. “We have done everything we can to protect your ships. We have also suffered losses. There is little more that we can do, but if there is anything that we have missed…”
Ward shook his head. “No, Captain, your forces have reached their limits and gone beyond them. This is not a matter of one nation’s actions or one nation’s failures. Only a trickle is reaching you now…”
“And that trickle may be what keeps us alive.”
Ward answered firmly. “No, sir, it won’t. We don’t have the resources to waste getting that trickle in. Many of the ships on the bottom of the Baltic might have been making their second trip by now. Those merchantmen were not expendable. And some of those lost cargoes cannot be replaced.”
He leaned forward, trying to use a tone that was both friendly and firm. “Pushing more convoys into the Baltic is a losing game, Captain. We’d only be sending our forces into a small sea ringed with hostile bases. That’s playing in EurCon’s backyard, where we don’t even have the firepower to hold our own.”
Ward shook his head. “It isn’t enough to kill individual French and German ships and aircraft. We have to go after those bases and pound them into the dirt. But doing that right means going in strong enough to really hurt them. Piecemeal efforts will only waste our strength without helping you in the slightest. Our forces are massing fast, Captain. When we’re ready, I plan to give EurCon a body blow it won’t forget and won’t recover from.”
Zagloba sadly shook his head. “That will not work if your attack comes too late, Admiral. If the French and the Germans keep advancing at their present rate, you may have to make an amphibious landing in Gdansk, because it will be held by the enemy.”
The admiral paused for a moment, thinking. “Let me show you something, Captain.” Ward stood up and went over to his desk. He picked up an envelope and carefully removed a single sheet of paper. Then he handed it to Zagloba.
“This came in the diplomatic pouch yesterday. It’s in the President’s own hand. As you can see, it’s a private communication, supporting my decision to stop the shipments and encouraging me to do what I think is right. More important, though, is what he says about halfway down, at the third paragraph. I think that’s as clear a statement of American policy and determination as your government could ask for.”
Zagloba read it aloud. “‘The key to saving Poland and the rest of Eastern Europe lies in your efforts to open the North Sea and the Baltic — by breaking the back of EurCon’s naval forces. Without that open door, all the armed might in the world cannot prevail. Make your plans. I know you are not wasting time. The instant you are ready to go, attack, and attack hard. Once we grab hold of the Baltic we will never let go.’”
Handing the note back to Ward, the Polish officer said softly, “Poland has never doubted the sincerity or the strength of your efforts, Admiral.” He sighed. “But I’m sure you can understand my government’s growing concern.”
“I do.”
Ward came to a decision. He’d planned to make the announcement to his own officers first, but restoring Zagloba’s confidence took precedence. “All right, Captain, you’ve made your points. Now, what I’m about to tell you can’t go any further than these four walls. Not to your own Defense Ministry. And especially not to your politicians. You’ll have to calm them down without spilling the beans. Is that clear?”
Zagloba nodded. He knew how easily crucial operational security could be shattered by flapping lips in Warsaw or in London.
“Good.” Ward stood tall, looming over the Polish naval officer. “We’re only waiting for Roosevelt’s battle group and two more submarines. And then I’m going to give EurCon hell, Captain. ‘Counterweight’ starts in forty-eight hours.”
CHAPTER 22
Storm Front
The Defense Ministry meeting room was furnished in a Baroque splendor more appropriate to Versailles or the Élysée Palace. Crystal chandeliers scattered light onto oil paintings and antique furniture. The centerpiece of the room was an almost impossibly long mahogany table, easily big enough to seat thirty people, with space at the sides of the room for their functionaries and attendants.
The room was about half-filled now, a mixture of middle-aged and older men in expensive suits and bemedaled uniforms. Weary of the spartan discomfort of the underground war headquarters at Rochonvillers, and wary of a prolonged absence from Paris, the French members of the Defense Committee had insisted on gathering here.
Now Admiral Henri Gibierge, a solid-looking, almost stout man, prepared to brief them on the naval situation. He was uncomfortable, fidgeting with his briefing book and maps. Although he was the navy’s chief of staff, many of these men wielded far more power than he did. They could make or break careers with a single word.
Some of his nervousness came from facing these exalted figures. The rest arose from the news he had to bring them. A delicate, measured chime from a Baroque clock marked the hour and the start of the meeting.
Gibierge opened briskly. “We believe that the Americans and British will move against us soon — sometime in the next few days. As our ground forces turn north toward Poznan, the Polish government must be issuing increasingly frantic appeals for immediate assistance. And with good cause. Once we take Poznan, two of their five largest cities will be in our hands. That should give the Poles ample reason to seek peace talks on our terms. That and a shortage of fuel, spare parts, and munitions. Intelligence estimates they have only two weeks’ worth of war supplies remaining.”
“We heard that same estimate three days ago, Admiral. Have the Poles found themselves some new savior who can make diesel fuel out of water and tank shells out of stones?” Nicolas Desaix spoke softly, with just enough of an edge to cut into Gibierge’s briefing. His acid tone invited, almost demanded, that the admiral respond.
Gibierge shook his head doggedly, knowing that Desaix despised servile cowardice even more than he disliked being contradicted. “No, Foreign Minister. But the bad weather moving through Poland over the past forty-eight hours has reduced the tempo of all military operations, reducing consumption of critical supplies.”
Several of the uniformed men seated at the table nodded sagely.