He turned to his confidante.
“However, the British are not as weak as we hoped. Perhaps it was a maskirova, eh?”
Malinovsky knew otherwise. So, for that matter, did Zhukov. Attlee’s attempt had been genuine, and he had paid for it. The pugnacious old enemy Churchill was now installed at the head of a refocused coalition government, the belligerent rhetoric of the anti-communist Churchill indicating no lessening of the British war effort.
“The French? Perhaps it will be 3rd Red Banner Front that rips them open,” his fingers caressed the south-west corner of Germany, focussing on the approaches to the Rhine and Switzerland.
“Many French units have been destroyed, Comrade Marshal, but the ones that are left are hard soldiers.”
Zhukov nodded, both men leaving unsaid the thoughts of the newest Foreign Legion adversaries.
“So, it must be the Americans then, Mikhail, here, in the centre.”
Zhukov took his hand away from the map, standing back to absorb the full picture.
‘Every time we break through, they plug the gap. Every time. They are resilient, this Army from a Hundred Lands.’
The name had started as an illustration of a divided house, an army of disparate nations, and one easily toppled if pushed hard enough.
Now it was the name he used for his enemy, and one used in grudging respect for their worth.
“The third phase worries me,” he digressed to the intended operations of 1st Southern European Front, 1st Alpine Front, and the forces in the Balkans, “Unless the supply situation is eased, I believe it is critical to maintain the pressure here before we open another arena and reduce the flow of supplies to us here.”
The two had undertaken this discussion many times before, the end result being one of indecision. The commitment to the third phase required full and detailed knowledge of the supply problems to resolve.
However, the third phase was due to commence on the following Wednesday, so Tuesdays meeting in Moscow would be Zhukov’s final chance to cancel the new attacks.
In the East, everything was going well according to Vassilevsky’s reports, highlighting the increasing failure of his armies to reach their objectives.
“The updated report will be ready by midday, Comrade Marshal,” Malinovsky’s return to stiff formality indicating the impending presence of another.
Nazarbayeva entered, beckoned in by the CoS, stood at attention, and saluted formally.
“Welcome Comrade Polkovnik, welcome,” Zhukov indicated the chair to one side of his desk, taking up a seated position in his own equally Spartan seat.
Whatever it was, it was wasted on neither general officer.
“Comrade Nazarbayeva, are you well?”
“I am well thank you, Comrade Polkovnik General,” turning to face the senior of the two men she continued, “My apologies for being late, Comrade Marshal.”
Zhukov liked that about the woman GRU officer. She was late, acknowledged it, apologised for it, no excuses.
However, he realised that something was not right but, again, resisted asking.
“Your report, Comrade Polkovnik?” deciding on a moment of formality.
“Yes, Sir,” the document appearing as if by magic, placed before the commander in chief. A second copy was offered to Malinin.
“The figures are a day old, Comrades. If you require GRU to constantly update this file, it will be on a two day delay to be wholly accurate.”
Most of that was lost on both men, as the true horror of the situation was laid out in black and white before them.
“Seventeen trains in one day!”
Zhukov swivelled immediately to his indignant CoS, the Colonel-General indicating the section on page two that dealt with the transport situation in the Ukraine last week.
That was the only outburst, the report consumed in a silence that grew steadily more oppressive, laden as it was with the stuff of defeat.
In a very un-Malinovsky like way, the CoS slammed his copy on the desk and paced the room.
“Are they mad? Are they totally fucking mad?”
Zhukov wanted to pace and swear too, but he simply let the enraged General do it for the both of them.
Nazarbayeva decided not to interrupt an angry senior officer in full flow.
“Fucking NKVD idiots, Chekist fools! Why did we not know this, Comrade?”
Tatiana suddenly realised that she was the focus of attention, and an answer was expected.
She cleared her throat.
“Comrades, in fairness to Marshal Beria, it appears that he was not informed of all matters. It has taken my units some time to discover what has been going on, and he would have relied upon reports and investigations from the very units and officers that were misleading him.”
‘An honest statement, Nazarbayeva, defending that sow.’
“The production figures are now all correct, the previous difficulties rectified.”
Malinin sat down, his outburst over for now.
“It is the losses in transportation and misappropriation that are above the reported levels.”
That required a comment.
“Misappropriation? Explain.”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. By example, one train load of engineering materials was sequestrated by the Party Committee in Kiev, to be used for rebuilding public bridges.”
“You have names?”
“Yes, Comrade. GRU officers have already taken the whole committee into investigative custody.”
Zhukov would take a keen interest in all of them, right up until the moment they were shot.
‘My precious bridging equipment taken by fucking civilians!’
“The some of the new wave of infantry reinforcements have been organised into new divisions, and kept as a special reserve by STAVKA, presently numbering seventeen fully equipped and manned units, numbered 501 to 517 Motorised Infantry Divisions.”
‘There are new units available in reserve, and my Commanders haven’t even told me?’
In honesty, that was less of a surprise to Zhukov than it had been to Nazarbayeva. Such was the lot of a Soviet Marshal.
“A munitions train disappeared from sidings in Rostov. It has since been found in Tbilisi, without any of its load of heavy calibre artillery shells.”
‘My own army stealing my shells!’
“A supply train with brand-new IS-III battle tanks was apparently diverted, with full and correct papers. I am awaiting confirmation that the tanks drove through Vladivostok last Thursday.”
That was simply too much for Zhukov.
“Fucking Vladivostok? That swine Vassilevsky is stealing my armour! STAVKA steals my reinforcements and the Persian camel herders are taking my ammunition! It’s no wonder we are stalling here.”
A moment’s silence enveloped the room, the previously unspoken now openly stated.
Malinin broke the awkward silence.
“GKO must be made aware of this immediately, Comrade Marshal. They and the others are sabotaging our effort, putting our victory in danger.”
Zhukov nodded savagely, his blood coursing through his arteries, hot and angry, disbelieving, but also knowing that it was all true.
“Bring my trip to Moscow forward to tomorrow morning. You will accompany me, Comrade Polkovnik. I will need you.”
Nazarbayeva had other plans, but that was of no import when the Commander in Chief gave you an order.
Theatrically, Zhukov set his folder aside, drawing a line under a document outlining some of the reasons that the Red Banner Army was running out of steam.
“Tea.”
The drink arrived and was sampled before the GRU officer continued.
“We have lost our senior Swedish contact at a bad time. It was he who supplied the details of the British delegation’s visit. The man in question was killed in an accident,” Nazarbayeva passed a photo of a Swedish Admiral to Zhukov.