He need say no more, the meaning clear to every man that had the benefit of seeing his eyes and hearing the inflection in his voice. Any written report would not have the benefit of his presence or his tone, and would only serve to illustrate his clear agreement with General Secretary Stalin’s stance.
None the less, Zhukov was taking a big chance, and they all knew it.
Unseen, Konev’s eyes glinted maliciously.
None the less, assistance from qualified soldiers was most welcome to the assembled officers, and many minds had already turned to methods of employing them.
Zhukov looked to move on.
“I want complete revisions of your reinforcement and supply policies, in line with Comrade Marshal Novikov’s air plan.”
He put their fears into words.
“There will obviously be an effect upon direct support from the Red Air Force, but that cannot be helped. Our artillery and mortar losses have been murderous, but the relocation of units has been successful. Ensure your artillery forces can support your ground assaults, but follow the new doctrine to the letter.”
In many ways, the Soviets had been guilty of underestimating the Allies, and that was most certainly the case in Artillery tactics. The waning power of the German Heer and Luftwaffe might have lulled them into a sense of false security. Whatever the reason, Allied counter-battery fire was extremely effective, and the Allied ground-attack aircraft also exacted a high price on the supporting artillery and mortar units.
“Comrades, use your Air defence units wisely, and concentrate them to defend your key assets. Spread those assets out if you don’t have the protection, but we are losing too much that is valuable to their bomber and ground attack regiments.”
Uncharacteristically, he hammered his fist on the map table.
“Relocation, Comrades, we must do more of it, and do it much quicker!”
A staff officer slipped quietly into the room, bearing a message for one of the Marshals, his eyes moving from man to man until he saw the commander of the 3rd Red Banner Front.
Zhukov waited whilst the contents were consumed, the rest of the officers falling into whispered general discussion once more.
Rokossovsky finished reading the message and returned it to the Major, directing him to present it to the Commander in Chief.
Reading it for himself, Zhukov felt a moment of elation, before passing it to Malinin, and calling the room to order.
“Comrades, comrades.”
The room came to order, and Zhukov indicated that Rokossovsky should deliver the news.
The Polish officer rose to his feet.
“Comrades, at 0820hrs this morning, elements of the 10th Guards Rifle Corps reached Lindau.”
Suddenly realising that the momentousness of the news was lost on his fellows, Rokossovsky continued.
“Lindau is on the shores of Lake Constance, and looks across into Switzerland.”
For the benefit of those who still did not fully grasp the significance, he went further.
“The Allied forces are now split in two pieces.”
Whilst momentous in itself, the excursion of the 10th Guards was short-lived, a counter-attack by American tanks and armored infantry restoring a narrow corridor between Germany and Northern Italy.
The meeting of the Soviet Commanders broke up just before 1800hrs, the senior officers making their way back to their commands, heads full of orders for the coming day.
Chapter 84 – THE TRAWLER
You do not raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they will turn out to be heroes, even if it is just in your own eyes.
She was one hundred and sixty nondescript feet, rusted, and salt stained, but still a valuable part of His Majesty’s Navy, purpose-built as an armed trawler by Smith’s Dock Company Ltd of South Bank on Tees.
Launched in late 1939, HMT Sequoia had seen little of the war, other than the occasional brush with a floating mine or sight of a receding enemy Kondor reconnaissance aircraft.
Except for one horrendously stormy day, December 1st 1944, when she had risked all to rescue the crew of a crashed Catalina off Stronsay Island, plucking the crew from the water in time to save all but one life.
Today she was carrying out her orders in calmer seas, patrolling the gap between the Orkneys and Fair Isle to the north-west.
Or rather, she had been until the tortured sound of metal on metal had penetrated the whole ship, bringing on a period of enforced silence, as the engine room crew laboured to repair the damaged shaft bearing.
Even though helped by the millpond nature of the seas embracing the powerless craft, the engineers were finding the work heavy going, much to the annoyance of the ship’s captain.
The previous day, an enemy submarine had sunk a small vessel to the west of Stromness, and Captain Boothroyd had the feeling that the Russian was coming his way.
So much so that he had his depth charge crews working hard, drilling, and drilling, getting the routine perfected, ready for the inevitable appearance of the underwater killer.
The killer was already there, watching, assessing the situation, before making the kill.
Shch307 had sunk the little steamer off the west coast of Orkney, and then run hell for leather for the open sea, intent on plying her lethal trade off the coast near Grimsby, where Soviet intelligence expected fat pickings.
Defects on the starboard lower tube gave the Captain much cause for concern. The inner cap had been hit by a reload swinging unexpectedly during an underwater surge.
The door and torpedo had been checked and found to be fine. As a precaution, the tube had been vented of air and the seals checked for leaks. There were none.
The torpedo had been loaded and it was this tube that fired the second weapon at the unfortunate steamer. The problems came thick and fast from that point, with the bow cap failing to close properly, and a leak around the seal of the inner door apparent from the moment the tube was fired. The decision was taken to weld the inner door shut as water leaked through the displaced joint at a higher rate with each advancing minute. Wooden shoring was used to press the cap home, and the Engineering officer undertook the welding work.
The submarine’s commander had pronounced himself happy with the work, and added a dedicated watch on the weld, shoring, and leak, to reassure everyone onboard.
None the less, it was not just the torpedo room crew who felt uneasy that the cold sea was only kept at bay by one metal skin.
Kalinin was no longer in charge, ordered to take over the captaincy of B-29. His first officer, Senior Lieutenant Yanninin, was in command, and revelling in the new found freedom of operation.
Keen ears had detected the sounding of hammering, and Shch307 had slowly risen to periscope depth to take a look.
The most difficult decision had been whether the vessel was worth a torpedo.
Yanninin had decided it was not; neither was it worth the risk of surfacing and using the deck gun.
The fact that the enemy vessel was making no noise complicated the situation somewhat, so Yanninin decided to use minimum power on the engines, sufficient to maintain steerage, and drift slowly past the insignificant ship, before heading south to the rich pickings of Grimsby waters.
On the bridge, Boothroyd was enjoying his pipe, sucking greedily at the rich smoke, his eyes examining something indistinct off the port bow.