章 144: Berlin
In the dimly lit room, Nikita Khrushchev sat brooding, his mood sour. The betrayal by his own countrymen was something he despised deeply, yet he found himself entangled in these distasteful dealings time and again. The contradiction between his actions and his beliefs weighed heavily on him, and he vowed that this would be the last time he would compromise his nation's interests for his personal safety.
Just as he was wrestling with his thoughts, a knock at the door interrupted him. "Who is it?" Khrushchev called out, his eyes still closed.
"Excuse me, Comrade Khrushchev, it's Voroshilov," came the soft reply from the other side.
Khrushchev stood and walked over to open the door. "Comrade Marshal Voroshilov, please come in. Would you care for some vodka? I assure you, it's quite good here," he offered, attempting to lighten the atmosphere.
"I'm here to discuss something important with you," Voroshilov said as he entered, placing a report on Khrushchev's desk. "To be honest, as a marshal of the Soviet Union, I feel somewhat outdated. Modern warfare has evolved beyond my expertise, and I struggle with the tactics used on the front lines."
Khrushchev listened quietly, pouring vodka into glasses as Voroshilov continued, "You see, I am from a different era, and these new complexities often elude me."
After a sip, Voroshilov sighed, "I've made many decisions that I regret, but I hope the people will understand that they were made in desperation."
"You are too modest, Comrade Marshal," Khrushchev reassured him, taking a sip of his own drink. "Both Comrade Stalin and I recognize your invaluable contributions and your esteemed status among our people."
Voroshilov then pointed to the report he had brought. "This was given to me by Comrade Georgy Zhukov, the commander of the operation. It mentions someone I believe could be of great use to us."
Khrushchev, intrigued, picked up the document and read through the detailed account of a recent battle, noting the commendations for the brave Ukrainian troops and the effective use of armored units. "We are indeed in dire need of genuine military talent," Voroshilov remarked. "This officer has shown exceptional skill on the front lines."
Khrushchev considered this. Keeping such a general could indeed bolster his influence in military affairs. "Is this man willing to serve his country well?" he inquired casually.
"His background is impeccable—son of a shoemaker, mother a farm worker. He's not one to form factions or seek personal gain," Voroshilov explained, knowing exactly what to highlight to catch Khrushchev's interest.
"Then it seems our motherland should not waste such a talent," Khrushchev concluded, already planning his next steps. "I'll draft a report to Comrade Stalin praising this battle and recommending this commander. I believe he will receive fair treatment."
Relieved, Voroshilov sensed that Zhukov would be spared from harsher fates. "I suggest sending him to the Far East. It's less volatile there compared to the German front," Khrushchev proposed, thinking ahead.
"The Mongolian Front Army needs a new commander. I'll arrange for that," he added, pleased with the swift decision-making.
Voroshilov nodded in agreement, impressed by Khrushchev's acumen. "He will surely be grateful for your support. I'll have him meet with you tomorrow; he has many ideas that could interest you."
Khrushchev smiled, satisfied with the arrangement. "It's good to know my efforts are appreciated. I'm looking forward to our discussion."
Indeed, even in troubled times, true talent like Zhukov's could not be overshadowed. After expressing his gratitude to Khrushchev, Zhukov was appointed commander of a group army, though his troops were initially sent to supplement the losses on the Polish front—a decision that would later cause much regret to the Soviet leadership when they realized the potential they had nearly squandered.
Meanwhile, far from the Soviet political intrigues, in a rundown former Polish army barracks now occupied by the German SS's 3rd Armored Division, Rennes lay on his bed studying a thick Russian textbook. The recent quiet after a fierce battle allowed some officers, including Rennes, a brief respite.
"Hey, Rennes!" his friend Marcus called out from the doorway, leaning against the frame. "You were incredible yesterday, taking out one more tank than I did! And capturing that KV-1, the Soviets' secret weapon!"
"That tank was already malfunctioning; I can't take credit for that," Rennes replied, sitting up.
"Weren't you supposed to be on leave? What happened?" Rennes asked, noticing Marcus's presence.
"The bad news is, the leave wasn't approved," Marcus grinned, then added teasingly, "But I can tell by your face there's a medal in our future."
"Yes, there is indeed a medal!" Marcus laughed. "Our records were sent up as exemplary, and even Admiral Reinhardt seems pleased with our performance. They're planning to send us to Berlin for the victory parade this November!"
"Berlin?" Rennes echoed, surprised.
"Yes, Berlin!" Marcus confirmed with a laugh. "The entire crew is being commended. There will be photographers, and we might even make the front page!"
The prospect of a parade in Berlin, complete with bonuses, holidays, and celebrations, lifted everyone's spirits. "Long live the holiday! Berlin, here we come!" they cheered, their earlier disappointments forgotten in the face of upcoming festivities.
Through these intertwined fates and decisions, the narrative of war continued to unfold, shaped by the ambitions, fears, and hopes of those caught in its relentless tide.
It must be acknowledged that the German railway department accomplished something akin to a miracle. In October of 1937, shortly after the Battle of Poland concluded, the railroads connecting Western Poland and Germany were swiftly restored to full operational status. Despite this efficiency, the trains designated for military use remained exceedingly crowded. The compartments, dull and metallic, were filled not only with minor casualties from the recent skirmishes but also with senior officers on leave. Additionally, the trains were laden with freight cars carrying goods looted during the conflict—goods that the Polish populace would never see again. These included food reserves and a plethora of luxury items such as famous paintings, sculptures, and rare books pilfered from museums. Predominantly, however, these trains carried rare metals and minerals, which were abundant in Poland.
Amidst the chaos on the platforms, individuals like Rennes appeared bewildered. The train that was supposed to transport them was a jumbled mess of people and cargo. Observing the army engineers loading tanks onto the train clarified that they were indeed boarding a so-called special train. However, to their dismay, their accommodations included a carriage that was an afterthought, hastily added to enhance transport efficiency and half-filled with potatoes.
This carriage, originally intended for soldiers, was connected at both ends to other carriages and featured four wire-mesh windows for ventilation. A large sliding door had been installed on one side for loading cargo, but the original doors remained, linking directly to the flatbeds carrying the tanks.
"If you need to relieve yourself, do it on the flatbed next to your tanks! And if it's more than just urine, you'll have to hold it in!" barked a railway soldier, indifferent to the fact that Rennes and his companions were celebrated tank aces. "These potatoes are headed for Berlin's citizens. Unless you fancy being lynched, I'd advise against contaminating them."
Despite their status, it was clear that the group was still considered of lower significance. However, these inconveniences paled in comparison to the prospect of returning to Berlin for a holiday. Eventually, leaning against sacks of potatoes, the group managed to fall asleep, only to be roused when the train jolted into motion. Peering out through the barbed wire, they saw the station slowly receding, along with the figures of soldiers and civilians on the platform.
"Hey, Rennes! Are we headed to Berlin now?" asked Andrea, shifting to find a more comfortable position atop the potato sacks.
Rennes turned from the window, "Yes, Berlin. I hear it's the most bustling place in Germany—full of life, with wine, women, and grand buildings."
"My specialty is destroying buildings, remember? On the first day in Poland, I took down a small two-story building with my machine gun. The bullets practically danced through the windows," Andrea boasted with a grin.
"Yeah, but now it's either a matter of one high-explosive bomb or two," Rennes replied with a smirk.
Bruce, overhearing the conversation, muttered under his breath before turning over to resume his nap, "As if you'd need to use any actual ammo."
"The buildings in Berlin are massive, built of stone and concrete," Rennes continued, his voice tinged with amusement. "The tallest ones reach up to a dozen floors. You'd need a lot of shells to take those down."
"The Führer would have my head," Andrea chuckled.
"He'd strangle you himself," Rennes agreed, nodding solemnly.
They both laughed, "But only after awarding us medals."
As the train moved past the eastern frontier, it briefly halted at a small, nondescript station. Here, several SS soldiers offloaded a few sacks of potatoes and exchanged a few words and cigarettes with Rennes and his group. The soldiers mentioned a nearby small concentration camp, which supplied the military with camouflage nets and other textiles. The conditions there were dire, guarded by second-rate SS troops with scant supplies—no tactical gear, just basic ammunition for maintaining order.
The German military strategy, as explained by these soldiers, was meticulously economized from the top down. Every ton of steel was accounted for, prioritizing precision over quantity, leaving many reserve forces under-equipped. The Führer, breaking from past military traditions, had pushed for the integration of women into the armed forces, replacing men in various non-combat roles such as secretaries, engineers, and logistics, thereby expanding the military's ranks by 50,000 without depleting the civilian labor force. The plan was to eventually enlist 150,000 women, marking a significant stride in the German women's liberation movement.
Continuing westward, the landscape transformed, showcasing sprawling farms, new power stations, and burgeoning light industrial factories—hallmarks of Germany's colonial ambitions and its burgeoning industrial hinterland, which was also home to a growing number of German settlers and hundreds of thousands of Polish laborers.
Upon re-entering Germany, the stark contrast with war-torn Poland was palpable. The train rolled through landscapes of prosperity and calm, untouched by the scars of war, despite Germany's ongoing conflict with Britain and France.
"Will my hometown ever look this beautiful?" Bruce wondered aloud, gazing out at the serene German countryside.
Before long, the train reached Frankfurt, a major hub not far from Berlin. The city's scale and modernity were breathtaking, but nothing prepared them for Berlin. The capital loomed large and formidable—a city so vast that each block could be mistaken for a city in its own right.
Upon arrival at a military-dedicated platform on the outskirts of Berlin, they were greeted by an enthusiastic young SS officer. "Welcome to Berlin! I am Colonel Kluman, in charge of reception. Long live the Führer!" he declared, shaking hands with each of them.
"Long live the Führer!" they responded, adhering to protocol. Kluman informed them that their tank would be transported to the former 1st Airborne Division station for an upcoming military parade, and they were free to explore the city for the afternoon with expenses charged to the SS headquarters.
Bruce was particularly thrilled, "I want the best steak and the finest wine!"
Kluman smiled, "That should be no problem, though during the war, the Führer has restricted wines over 500 marks for export. You'll have to settle for a 495-mark bottle at the Berlin Hotel."
They were then escorted to a luxurious 1935 Mercedes-Benz, a stark contrast to their rugged military tanks. The car, ordered by General Reinhardt himself, was a symbol of high-ranking German officials and was also exported internationally.
As they rode through Berlin, the soldiers were tense, afraid their rough attire might damage the car's pristine interior. Upon reaching their destination, they were so stiff from anxiety that Clark joked, "My God, the Mercedes isn't as comfortable as our tank."
Their arrival in Berlin marked a brief respite from the rigors of war, a moment to enjoy the spoils of their service, albeit overshadowed by the ongoing conflict and the stark realities of military life.
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