The arguments were there.
The theories were supportable.
The evidence was open to interpretation, but that was their job, and it could make sense.
“Hold it right there, boys. You sold me. I’m going to drop this in front of the Colonel a-sap. Give me the photos.”
He took up the offered evidence.
“Good job, both of you. Come with me in case I get anything wrong.”
The Squadron Commander listened impassively, carefully examining the photos and listening to the Lieutenant’s explanation of what the two sergeants had discovered… thought they had discovered, the devil’s advocate in his brain reminded him.
As with most things, there were alternate explanations that he could offer, but the Lieutenant Colonel held his peace and let the young man continue.
Everything was thoroughly laid out for him to understand.
He could see everything clearly, and knew where his boys were coming from, so still held himself in check.
Up to the moment the Lieutenant addressed the pipe lorries’ present location.
“Why there? That’s away from the camp.”
“Sir, it is our belief that the Russians are laying the pipes in the water itself. Laying them against the current would be tricky to say the least… laying them with it is much easier…we can get some expert opinion on that, but it makes sense to me… which is why the lorries are there, heading away from Birkenau… or should I say the woods… and downstream to Bierun Nowy… here.”
His finger pointed at a small staging area that had been interpreted as a barge landing point, built by the local population to replace the town one destroyed by a combination of fighting and bombing.
“We haven’t had time yet, Sir, but I’m willing to bet that we’ll find barges docking at this point regularly over the last week or so… maybe more… and that we don’t see anything of note move into the town.”
The Lieutenant Colonel nodded his head, took off his glasses, and pushed himself back in his chair.
Filling his pipe, he ordered his own thoughts before speaking.
“So, Lieutenant, what exactly’s your bottom line here. Reach as much as you figure you need to, but tell me what you and your boys think’s actually happening here?”
He exchanged looks with the two sergeants, who could only offer silent encouragement.
“Colonel, Sir, we think that the barges are being used to transport fuel. They’ve taken terrible hits on their fuel, even though they went to smaller dumps a while back. We’ve caned them on the roads… and on the railways when they’ve tried that… makes sense that the Commies would try water.”
“Go on. Lieutenant.”
“The pipes are not water pipes… they’re fuel pipes, and they run from that little landing stage all the way to the woods. Our guess is that the little hut there is the pump that shifts it upriver.”
The Colonel’s puffing was increasing with each word.
“My guess… sorry, our guess is that the blocks are actually weights to hold the pipe down. A quick estimate puts it at four blocks to one section of pipe.”
He produced the photos that best showed the canopy of the woods.
“See here, Sir. The river is all but gone and, even though it’s summer, the trees ain’t gonna grow like that… and here… and here, Sir… the difference in the canopy. Our bet is that is netting, clever job, but not quite clever enough.”
He pointed to the pile of lumber in the camp, emphasising the fact that a work party was pulling one immense piece of timber from the direction of the woods.
“Where’s the hole these trees came from, eh? Why not take from the edge nearest you? Remember the trick they pulled before the war, where they hollowed out forests and created railway sidings and rallying points for huge formations? Our bet is they’re doing something in those woods, and a something to do with hiding their fuel supplies, Sir.”
The Lieutenant Colonel drew heavily on the rich smoke, nodding his head gently as his eyes moved from piece of evidence to piece of evidence.
“OK, Lieutenant. You sold me. I’m gonna get this up the line. Good work, boys, damn good work.”
Lieutenant General James Doolittle had been up and working since five, and had decided to take advantage of the lovely morning and take a mind-clearing walk by the River Seine, which ran through the bottom of the extensive gardens surrounding the Chateau de Foulze.
His aide hunted him down there, and produced a document set that had travelled through the night from an airbase at Bad Nauheim.
Gesturing his aide to take a seat, Doolittle examined the report and the photographs, seeing exactly the picture that the Colonel’s words were trying to paint.
“Hot damn. You read this, Sam?”
Samuel Greenberg had, and was as excited as Doolittle.
“Sam, by God but we’re gonna hit this place, but not yet. If this is a policy change by the Commies, I want another appreciation done, actually a hell of a lot of ’em… looking at potential sites where the fuckers might’ve pulled this on us elsewhere. If this is a change, we’ll get the all we can find in one hit.”
Mind clear and focussed, Doolittle led off at high speed, keen to get the orders out.
Two days later, the Allies had identified a possible four additional locations where a similar ploy might have been used.
The five missions were all aimed at targets near large civilian life risks, or camps such as Birkenau, calling for precision strikes, rather than brutal area bombing.
The Soviets actually only had four such sites, and were relying on maskirovka to keep them safe.
By midday on the 11th August, four fuel storage sites and a large field hospital were destroyed by Martin Marauders and Mosquitoes from the RAF, USAAF, and the Armee de L’Air.
Had the planners and crews understood the full ramifications of what they had achieved, they would have celebrated into the next month, rather than the next day.
The four senior officers were enjoying a lighter moment, sampling the local pastries and enjoying tea in the sunshine of an idyllic summer’s afternoon.
Malinin regaled Nazarbayeva with stories of how the Germans once kept bears in the castle’s moat, whilst Vasilevsky contented himself with humming one of his favourite folk songs, in between bites of a nameless but delicious sugar coated something.
Tarasov, the recently appointed CoS of the RBFSE, simply enjoyed the sun.
Their sojourn was disturbed by the noisy arrival of Atalin, Zhukov’s loyal Colonel, bearing a report of great significance.
“Comrade Marshal… Comrade Marshal…”
Vasilevsky broke out of his idyll.
“Polkovnik Atalin. Is it some news from Comrade Zhukov?”
Atalin enjoyed Zhukov’s complete trust, and was often used on sensitive missions, such as the one he had recently discharged by bringing Vasilevsky a private letter from the ailing Marshal.
“No, Comrade Marshal. It has come from your communications officer. I said I would deliver it to you in person.”
He handed over the sheaf of papers.
Vasilevsky’s face went white as he read each in turn, attracting the full attention of those around him.
“Thank you, Comrade Atalin. Please, prepare yourself to fly out to Moscow almost immediately. Get some food inside you. There will be little time for rest from now on.”
The Marshal stood and acknowledged Atalin’s salute.
“Comrades, with me.”
He strode off towards his office, increasing his speed with every step, his face going from white to thunderous as the implications of the latest reports bored further into his thoughts.