Gelben had removed the silencer, and ensured that he topped up his weapon, ready to catch three casings, equal to the number of holes in the dead Hauptfeldwebel’s torso.
Quietly moving the desk to the door, Gelben readied himself.
The sound of raised voices in the main room encouraged him to act, and he pulled open the door, grabbing the grenades and pulling the cords, sending the first straight at the angry and surprised Pömmering, the second to the centre of the mass, the third to the closest edge of the nineteen assembled officers.
Ducking down, the sounds of men in panic were swiftly drowned out by the explosions, one after the other, the angry frightened shouts were quickly replaced by screams and whimpers from those torn by high explosives.
A piece of something burst through the door, spurring him to move into phase two.
He followed the three grenades with two more, each phosphorous, designed to burn as much of the evidence as possible.
High-pitched screams indicated at least one wounded man caught by the unforgiving flames.
He grabbed the dead NCO’s PPK pistol, and, without hesitation, fired into his right calf.
Anticipating pain is not quite the same as dealing with pain, and he grabbed at the desk as nausea washed over him.
Dropping the PPK by the Hauptfeldwebel’s body, he aimed his own pistol out of the window and fired three times, making sure the casings flew inside the room, the ones from the bullets he had fired earlier already picked up.
Less than thirty seconds has past and he was done with all but the last phase of his plan.
Opening the door, a steadily building fire greeted him, the dead being consumed, and taking their secret with them.
He slipped off his tunic, using it to beat at some flames, trying to damage it and get himself as sweaty and dirty as possible in the short time he anticipated exposing himself to the danger.
Would-be rescuers found the wounded Maior, pistol in hand, struggling to escape the flames, his smoking tunic obvious testament to his narrow escape at the hands of whoever had committed this atrocity.
As he was helped from the scene, he ordered that the body of ‘that traitorous bastard’ was recovered, also ensuring the preservation of his planted evidence.
As Maior Gelben had his wounds tended to, a written order, originating from the Divisional Commander, arrived for his personal attention.
As he read it, he understood the unexpected advantage that his actions now offered him.
He addressed the muddy motorcyclist formally.
“Confirm to GeneralMaior Bürcky that I have received this order, and that I acknowledge its contents. Dismissed.”
The Private returned the salute and turned on his heel, anxious to return to his billet and away from the hospital that was now starting to receive the horribly burned corpses.
The Leutnant doctor stitching Gelben’s calf finished his work with a flourish.
“Not quite as good as new, but look after it and there will be no lasting effects.”
Nodding towards the message in the blackened hand of his patient, he enquired as casually as he could, more out of nosiness than any real quest for knowledge.
“Good news from our commander, Herr Maior?”
“Very good news, Herr Leutnant, and you may address me as Oberstleutnant.”
And with that, the newly appointed commander of the 1209th Grenadiere Regiment rose to test his leg, walking out into the modest sunlight to consider the new opportunity he had been granted.
He spared no thought for the comrades he had killed, looking down only to pick his way safely through their dead bodies.
Summoned by an order from Zhukov, issued before the previous day’s meeting with the GKO, most of the Red Army’s senior European commanders were already gathered in the underground meeting room.
The Marshal sat there with his Chief of Staff, making final alterations to the presentation document, including details that had presented themselves after the overnight fighting.
The losses from a heavy bomber raid were still being assessed, but would undoubtedly illustrate one of the main points that Zhukov was about to make to his generals.
The Red Army did not have enough supplies.
The senior commanders were all engaged in their own conversations, discussing the military situation, and how their peers were coping with the extraordinary difficulties that were being experienced.
Zhukov rose and the room slowly became silent, as each group in turn realised that the meeting was about to begin.
“Comrades, the Red Army finds itself advancing, and winning battle after battle against the capitalist enemy. From the Baltic to the Alps, we are pushing them hard, and they give way before us.”
No man in the room failed to recognise the dressing for what it was; the precursor to bad news.
“Our ground and air forces have done magnificently. Our naval comrades playing the part we have asked of them to the full.”
He cleared his throat, preparing himself for the hard part.
“Comrades, it has not been enough, and we find ourselves in difficulty.”
This was not news to the men present of course.
“Attacks are failing now, for the first time, because we do not have the means to push, and push hard.”
Indicating Malinovsky, he cited an example.
“Forces of the 1st Red Banner Army were displaced by an enemy counter-attack, for no greater reason than the ammunition was not available to make a decent fight.”
Some eyes swivelled towards Malinovsky and Zhukov decided to stop any negative thoughts developing immediately.
“Marshal Malinovsky was wholly correct to withdraw his units, given the circumstances. We cannot ask our soldiers to fight without giving them the tools to do the job.”
Malinovsky inclined his head in acknowledgement of his superior’s defence. Satisfied that he had done what was needed, Zhukov pressed on.
“This is not an isolated case, as many of you will know.”
Nodding to Malinin, Zhukov consulted his papers as the CoS revealed a wall chart, laying bear the serious losses of trains and supplies, from the Motherland through to destinations in Germany.
Pointing out the most salient points, Zhukov moved on.
“The munitions, the equipment, and the vehicles are, for the most part, being produced. There were issues, but our efficient comrades in the NKVD have acted to ensure no repeats.”
Everyone present understood his glowing praise was for the benefit of any report that reached Beria’s ears.
“There are major issues with bridging, and I will come to that shortly.”
Taking a sip of water, he shuffled his paper to the next page.
“Our losses are high, but so are theirs. None the less,” he reluctantly conceded, “I have underestimated the resilience of the Capitalist forces.”
They all had.
When the predictions had been made, none of them felt that the expectations of an Allied collapse were unrealistic. Nevertheless, the responsibility lay with the Commander-in-Chief, a fact that General Secretary Stalin had forcefully pointed out the previous day.
“The Third phase will not proceed as planned. It is postponed indefinitely, pending a resolution of the supply situation.”
A message sent on the Monday had informed the commanders of 1st Alpine and 1st Southern to delay operations for 1 day, giving both men a chance to attend the meeting.
Neither of them had really believed it was anything other than that which had brought them to Nordhausen.
A chorus of disbelief rose from the room, the loudest voices easily recognisable as Chuikov and Yeremenko.