Opening Moves

Salutes exchanged and Eisenhower was alone once more.

A cigarette dealt with his craving but his stomach still felt light, and it had nothing to do with the half-eaten meal.

‘History shows that there are no invincible armies, General.’

The two sentries stood outside Eisenhower’s door swore later that they heard uncharacteristic laughter from within.

‘Amen General, amen.’

He commenced his telephone discussions with his senior commanders making his last call to Field-Marshall Harold Alexander.

After getting a report and passing on his own situation, he discussed the possible fuel issue with his British commander in the Mediterranean.

“Yes Ike, I do understand, and wouldn’t it be absolutely marvellous if it were true?”

“Harry, you think I’m holding the wrong pig here?”

“Let me just say that my own staff have done work on this. I will get copies to you by pip-emma tomorrow. Obviously,  I was interested in knowing how far our Red friends could drive if they chose to go sightseeing.”

Ike had heard the substitution of pip-emma for p.m. before from Alexander so did not lose the meaning. However, he would never get used to the British way of talking in riddles.

“Our conclusion was they have no shortage of fuel whatsoever, unless some local depletion is achieved, such as you might have seen with this instance.”

“Others seem to think we may have something to work with here, Harry.”

“Well yes, we may, but I actually think not, certainly not on what my staff generated, Sir.”

Negative input from one of his seniors made all Eisenhower’s other positive feelings fade a little.

Sensing the moment correctly, Alexander pushed a bit harder.

“If I might offer a few words of Kipling, General. His boy was in my Regiment in the First War don’t you know; tragic loss. You are familiar with ‘If’ I trust?”

“I have read it, but familiar may be too much of a claim, Harry.”

“Understood Sir,” Alexander chuckled.

“There is more than a little that is pertinent there.”

Eisenhower tried to summon the words for himself.

Alexander recited the poem by memory. For an ex-Irish Guards officer it was an easy enough task.

Ike found himself nodding.

“Thank you for that Harry. The message there is loud and clear. Keep my feet on the ground while those about me get carried away and don’t dream something into a fact that it isn’t.”

“I think that puts it rather well General.”

“You are right of course. I will wait on more information before I start imagining the ticker tape parade through New York.”

Alexander laughed sincerely at that one. Remembering something important, he curtailed his response.

“By the way Sir, Mr Attlee was none too pleased that McCreery was popped into place without so much as a by your leave. It’s the province of His Majesty’s Government etc etc. Just so you know. He is ok with it now but I think he felt circumvented, which of course, he was. I don’t think he understood the necessity of immediate action, despite my championing the appointment. You know what I mean. Maybe a little bit of careful handling for a while, Sir?”

“As you say and thank you again Harry.”

“My pleasure Sir, Good night, and good luck.”

“And to you.”

Eisenhower went to his bed feeling less buoyant than an hour beforehand but slept reasonably well for the second time since the lead had started to fly once more.

None the less, in his initial slumber the dreams were uneasy, raising doubts and questions.

As he slipped into deeper less turbulent sleep he wrestled with one final session as Devil’s Advocate to his own mental processes.

‘Is Alexander right and there isn’t a fuel problem for the commies?’

Lots of fuel?

‘But that tank corps has stopped.’

No fuel?

‘But that could be local loss, not theatre-wide.’

Lots of fuel but just not there?

‘Wait until the morning.’

Enough fuel?

‘Why would they not have?’

How much fuel?

‘It can’t be that simple can it?’

And, of course, it wasn’t.

1422 hrs 10th August 1945, Durnbucherforst, Germany.

Having arrived at the site of the attack during the early afternoon, the 10th Tank Corps commander was being briefed on what exactly had befallen his supplies. One of his Staff Colonel’s, sent on first thing that morning, was imparting the bad news. Henceforth Major-General Sakhno was in a blue funk. His Chief-of-Staff NKVD KomBrig Davydov was even worse, having summarily executed both the trigger-happy Sergeant who brought the destruction down upon the supply train as well as the Captain who spoke in the man’s defence.