Opening Moves

Tea, strong and sweet, was the order of the day and the men sat drinking steadily, sampling basic fare from platters spread before them. Sliced sausage, ham, boiled eggs, salted cucumbers and marvellous breads of different ilks. A soldier’s meal had been the request and a soldier’s meal it was, albeit of a higher culinary standard than the average Soviet soldier in the frontline.

Chuikov, the Colonel General commander of the unengaged 1st Alpine Front, was alone and concentrating on taking healthy bites of bread, ham, and cucumber.

Marshall’s of the Soviet Union Malinovsky and Rokossovsky, 1st and 3rd Red Banner Central European Front’s respectively, were in animated conversation regarding the upcoming planned phase two and if it was yet appropriate. Zhukov debated entering the discussion but felt it would keep.

Sokolovsky, Colonel-General of the sidelined Polish Army was in more quieter and less agitated discussion with the Armenian General Bagramyan, his de facto superior as commander of 1st Baltic Front.

Zhukov laughed inwardly as he realised that Colonel General’s Yeremenko of 1st Southern European Front and Malinin, his Chief of Staff were both cornered by Marshall Tolbukhin and his legendary rendition of the Camel Joke.

Whilst the joke itself was of average quality and had been in Tolbukhin’s armoury for more years than Zhukov cared to remember, no one who witnessed the delivery could fail to be impressed by Tolbukhin’s application and spirit in the telling.

Bringing himself back from the lighter moment, Zhukov told himself that Tolbukhin, as commander of the 1st Balkan Front, would need all his good humour to deal with the delicacies of being adjacent to an upset and sizeable Yugoslavian army.

Zhukov looked at the clock.

‘Where is the fool?’ a thought he could not give voice to.

Malinin caught sight of his commander’s unspoken question and followed his gaze to the wall clock that had ticked past 0330 hrs, the allotted time for the meeting. He shrugged almost imperceptibly and nodded, taking his leave of Tolbukhin, who was in full swing.

On exiting the room, which is what it was, walls, ceiling and floor constructed of wood sitting in a cavernous space, he almost collided with an agitated Soviet officer.

About to reprimand the man, he realised that he had nearly come into contact with Marshall Konev, the late arrival, which officer was in a state of some disrepair. Apart from being soaked, his greatcoat was torn, muddy and rent down one side.

There was more than a hint of blood on his left ear and he looked particularly unhappy.

“I hope you are not hurt Comrade Marshall?”

A very disgruntled Konev merely grunted, handing his coat and cap to an orderly. There was no need for any instruction; it would be sorted by the time the Marshall came out of the meeting.

Konev, commander of 2nd Red Banner Central European Front, strode in, nodding here and there and finally at Zhukov before apologising generally and grabbing some tea and food.

A black smudge across Konev’s bald pate and a bloody left ear made those present realise that there was more story to his delay than a missed turning or a flat tyre.

Zhukov tried hard not to be irked by the man but failed miserably. There was no love lost between the two since the race for Berlin, and in truth, there was little prior to that for more than one reason.

Stalin had assigned the capture of Berlin to Zhukov but,  and some said deliberately, had not laid out defined borders between the two Fronts. Konev being Konev had oriented his forces in such a way as to ensure his forces made it into Berlin. His forces arrived some time ahead of Zhukov’s because of the relatively successful German defence of the Seelow Heights, which slowed the advance of Zhukov’s forces.

Such things are unrepeatable milestones in a military career and Zhukov saw his milestone as permanently tarnished.

Calling the meeting to order, Zhukov beckoned to one of his aides, who removed the drapes concealing a map of the Far East.

Addressing one matter all wanted cleared up first, he directly addressed Konev.

“Comrade Marshall, are you wounded?”

Konev picked at his ear and inspected the red smear on his fingers.

“Shall I just say that a journey by air at night is not safe, even behind our lines Comrades.”

Konev, being Konev, had decided to leave as late as possible and fly to Nordhausen’s airfield, having been led to believe it was safe enough and being given the promise of fighter escort.

He witnessed the destruction of three of his escorts before being singled out for attack by whatever it was that was out there.

“Flying back will be easier in daylight I am assured, provided I can get another pilot.”

The previous airman was presently being bandaged in the headquarters aid station, silently hopeful that the loss of four toes would prevent him from flying again.

“None the less, we are glad you are relatively unscathed Comrade.”