His plans changed in a few words.
“When?”
He looked at his watch, the only thing he was wearing at that time.
“Quickly, man… why?”
He listened as Rufin spoke of the German Army report, and what had transpired when Nazarbayeva telephoned Moscow.
“But she’s the Secretary’s favourite… why would he…”
Rufin spoke over his master.
“What?”
In Torgau, Rufin repeated his information slowly and with more detail.
“One of our own officers overheard the arrest, Comrade Leytenant General.”
Rufin was sufficiently switched on to use Kaganovich’s new rank, something that went straight over the General’s head as he waited on confirmation of what he had first heard.
“The arrest was made on the direct orders of Comrade Marshal Beria, of that I am absolutely sure, Comrade Leytenant General.”
He redigested the information, and still found it unpalatable.
“And Olofurov?”
“Strutting like a peacock, Comrade Leytenant General.”
“Keep an eye on him. Who’s replaced Poboshkin?”
“No-one as yet, Comrade Leytenant General, but I would expect that Comrade Orlov will be nominated, He’s just returned from a prolonged sickness absence, so will be considered untainted. He would be my bet.”
Kaganovich thought for a moment.
‘At least he isn’t Beria’s man.’
“You were right to ring me. Good work, Comrade Rufin. Keep it up and keep me informed.”
He replaced the receiver gingerly, unhappy that his day of cavorting was over pretty much before it began, but more unhappy that a key element in his planning was now at risk.
He lifted the telephone again and gave a clipped instruction.
“Good morning, Comrade Marshal. I need to see you urgently.”
He looked at his watch again.
“13.30 will be fine. Usual place? Thank you.”
He tapped the telephone a number of times.
“Have my driver and car report to me here for thirteen-hundred.”
Kaganovich ended the call without another word, or even waiting to hear a response.
He reflected quickly on how he would pass on the news, and tried to anticipate what the man would say.
Floundering on both points, Kaganovich busied himself making his excuses to the twin sisters, Sonia and Ludmilla Laberova, as he dressed himself informally, as best suited the intended surroundings for his meeting with VKG.
Ambassador Winant had long since finished describing how the pretty garden of the embassy had been converted back to a habitable space after the departure of the British WAAFs and the barrage balloon called ‘Romeo’ that they crewed.
The US Army senior officers had listened dutifully and, one by one, had drifted away, until Winant himself found other distractions, leaving the most senior men to their own company.
As usual, Eisenhower was smoking like a chimney, feeding his incessant craving for nicotine, something he had avoided during the formal lunch in the main residence.
Gerow and Simpson had finished their discussion on the recent rumours from home and were drinking coffee in silence.
Bedell-Smith was making a few notes in his diary, recording his thoughts on the service of celebration at Westminster Abbey, and on the unfortunate waiter who spilt a water jug over the Argentinian Ambassador’s wife.
Eisenhower had overheard some of the discussion on the stateside rioting, and ventured an opinion to Bradley who had naturally migrated to his side.
“Seattle, San Francisco, Detroit, Chicago, Boston, New York… all with curfews… Abilene and Charlotteville half burnt to the ground by reports… scores dead and wounded. What the hell is going on, Brad?”
“The war has become unpopular for sure, either for its nature or the way it’s being fought, and certainly because of the casualties we’ve sustained… well… that’s a lot for the folks back home to stomach. Not sure about Abilene, but sure as eggs is eggs, the families in Charlottesville lost a lot of their kin when the 29th Division got hammered… an awful lot of their kin.”
The 29th US Infantry had attracted an unenviable reputation as the highest casualty rated combat unit in the US Army, bar none. Its recent return to the front had resulted in the virtual destruction of its 115th Infantry Regiment and the 29th Reconnaissance Troop, and clearly the flood of telegrams back home had agitated an already unhappy civil population.
“Our casualty figures were on the way down, Brad… and now the Germans have replaced most of your boys in the line, they will continue on down.”
Ike leant forward, keeping his words for Bradley alone.
“Cutting down on infantry attacks, bumping up artillery and air work… it’s reaping benefits, of course… but we’re less effective. Let’s hope the Germans can get things moving for us… and the British…”
Both men knew that McCreery was about to launch a limited offensive, one for a more political reason than any military one.
Churchill wanted to be seen to take some of the load alongside the German Army, and so a limited operation in Northern Germany had come into creation.
“Mind you, the Brits have their own problems.”
He alluded to the recent demonstration which, whilst peaceful and respectful of the celebration, had thousands gathered outside the cathedral, complete with damning signage and loud voices, both condemning the continued war and the loss of sons, brothers, and fathers.
The previous day’s unfortunate shooting of seven demonstrators in Glasgow was not yet known to them.
Bradley took a sip of his drink and sat back in the comfortable garden chair.
“Do you think the President will ever use the bomb on the Commies?”
Eisenhower lit another cigarette from the stub of his present one.
“I think he’d secretly like to. Heck, no. Of course he would, He dropped it on the Nips, didn’t he? Use of it would ease the casualties, which in turn would ease pressure at home, of course.”
He left some of his reply out.
Bradley filled in the blanks.
“But would it work, for a start eh? Where would they target? Industrial, political, military?”
“You got that right, Brad, plus, the President seems to feel any advantage gained from using the bomb would be lost in additional political err… disharmony between the Allies, and even worse, more demonstrations at home.”
“Really, Ike? There were rallies, hasty and hot words for sure, but worse than of late… worse than Abilene and Charlottesville?”
Eisenhower accepted a sweet pastry from an immaculately turned-out waiter, waiting until the man had moved away before continuing.
“From what George told me, there’s virtually no one left undecided any more,” he spoke of Marshall, the Army’s CoS, “The anti-bomb movement is growing fast, fuelled by these damn pictures of horribly burnt children… you’ve seen the things… heard the stories… they’ve had an effect at home and it’s not getting any better. The pro-bomb lobby is growing even faster, fuelled by rhetoric from people like the Governor of New York, Edmund Dewey. He lost his boy at Fulda, and he’s taken it bad. He’s become a focus for the ‘By all available means’ movement, and he’s been doing a damn fine job of it, from what George believes. Actually, all over the States, crowds are being whipped up by politicians, either for their own beliefs, or with another agenda, George wasn’t sure which at times, but whipped up they all are. Anyway, we have our new rules of combat and the President has taken the bomb off the table… for now anyway.”
Bradley finished up his pastry and rubbed his hands to clear the last residue of crumbs from his fingertips.