Colin Gee - Initiative

Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy, settled back into the comfortable couch.

“Henry? This is your baby.”

“I’d have it in the air right now, Sir. Yes, the Nips might fold, but then, they might not. They’ll fold once the weapon is deployed. Also, as I’ve said before, the use may be enough to guarantee this world’s future.”

“Thank you, Henry.”

Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War, even though he had trotted out his position before, wanted to say so much more.

He wanted to say that this weapon could make war obsolete, solely by its use, so awful as its use would be, therefore demonstrating that future wars could hold no advantages for aggressors.

Actually, no advantages for anyone.

He wanted to say that its use would end the Japanese war now; not in a year’s time, but now.

He wanted to say that the forces freed up by this act would help defeat the Soviets all the quicker.

He wanted, God, how he wanted to resign and walk away from the pressures of government, his body announcing its displeasure at his continued exposure on almost a daily basis.

Most of all he wanted the whole goddamn war to be over, and that meant using more bombs; lots more.

Thus far, the notion of deploying them on the Soviet Homeland had been avoided, sidestepped, even ignored.

Military minds saw advantages in spades, and almost no problems, but the political considerations were many, from whose air space the bombers would fly over, where the bombers would be based, guarantees from scientists that there would be no repercussions to basic objections on moral grounds.

But Stimson understood that to defeat the Soviets, they would have to demonstrate to them the idiocy of further aggression, and that was best done, at least initially, by exterminating an area of the Japanese home islands.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Give me a moment.”

Truman rose and moved to the window, taking in the view across the well-kept grass, noting the gardeners hard at work.

‘Not a care in the world.’

He laughed perceptibly, but unintentionally.

He stared hard at an old man deadheading a flower stand, and sent his silent message through his eyes.

‘Care to swap?’

The work continued, his offer unheard.

‘Very wise, sir… very wise.’

“Gentlemen… I’ve made my decision. The mission is a go.”

Vasilevsky took a moment to sip the water as the men around him took in the information he had laid before them.

Normally, it would have been Stalin that led off, but today Bulganin spoke first.

“So that’s that? We’ve stopped the Fascist bastards?”

All eyes turned to the commander of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe.

“I can only repeat, Comrade. They have stopped advancing across the whole front. All their advances. There is nothing moving forward now. Our soldiers have performed magnificently… truly astounding… glorious… and yet…”

“And yet, we look at a situation where we’ve ceded much ground that was won at the cost of many, many Soviet lives.”

The attention swivelled immediately to Stalin as he interrupted Vasilevsky.

“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

Stalin resisted the urge for nicotine and pressed ahead, his voice raised in anger and frustration.

“And yet you seem to portray this as some sort of victory? Some sort of magnificent undertaking by the Army? Something we can tell our Comrades is an achievement on a parallel with Kursk? Leningrad? What…even Stalingrad?”

The sarcasm stung and the wound was deep.

Vasilevsky stood his ground.

“Comrade General Secretary… Comrades… I say to you that the Red Army and Air Force are performing miracles in the defence of our Motherland. The enemy is strong and well supported, with no shortages in any department. Our forces, whilst high on morale and fervour, are constantly short of the goods of war because of the logistical situation and the bombing.”

His hand ran down the map he had used to break to them the loss of much of the German territorial gains.

“Yes, we have lost much of what we gained, but we still have an Army… intact and capable. Our supply lines are shorter, which can only be an improvement.”

Stalin raised his hand imperiously.

“Tell me you’re not intending to retreat to the Urals to make the supply line easier, Comrade Vasilevsky?”

A number of men laughed before Stalin’s icy stare cut them short and chilled their hearts.

He had intended no humour.

“No, Comrade General Secretary.”

“No.”

A silence descended on the room, one that was oppressive and dangerous.

The Soviet leader succumbed to his craving and lit up a cigarette.

“So, Comrade Marshal. Paint this rosy picture for us. Tell us how well things are really going, eh?”

There was danger in Stalin’s sarcasm, but the increasingly resilient Vasilevsky did not step back.

“We have lost a tremendous number of men and a great deal of war materiel. Historically, our nation and army have shown themselves capable of sustaining such losses and still being able to function effectively.”

Molotov went to say something, but Stalin’s unspoken warning stopped him on the in-breath.

“The Allies are softer… not as soft as we once thought, Comrades, but definitely less resilient when it comes to hardship and national spirit.”

Vasilevsky took another moment to moisten his mouth.

“They have sustained huge losses too, spread across the range of nations arraigned against us.”

He sought a document and nodded in thanks to the person who had provided it.

“General Nazarbayeva’s department has already advised me that the Brazilians are seeking to withdraw to a support role, following public criticism of casualties at home.”

A number of minds wondered why the woman hadn’t informed members of the GKO first and were decidedly unhappy, even though Vasilevsky’s briefing had taken priority over hers.

“Similarly, I would expect public support in the main Allied countries to be wilting with every son or husband we put in the ground… or send home broken by war.”

Stalin coughed uncontrollably.

Vasilevsky pushed his water across the table, which Stalin waved away as he coughed more, and his displaced cigarette end burnt a penny-sized hole in a priceless Chinese rug.

He recovered, wiping his face with a handkerchief that had been proffered up by he knew not who.

“Comrade Marshal. Are you trying to tell us that, despite the loss of much of the Fascist lands, and a considerable portion of our army and air force, we have, in some way, gained an advantage?”

“No, Comrade General Secretary. Militarily, we have been beaten back, but with resilience of heart and Communist will, we have stopped a well-supplied enemy ahead of his planned timetable. In essence, Comrades, whilst we have lost ground, the present result is a draw.”

“A fucking draw? We do not draw… not with the Fascists… not with the Amerikanski… not with that drunken fuck Churchill…. we do not draw!”

The echoes of Stalin’s words continued long after he had closed his mouth and his eyes burned more penny-sized holes through his commander in chief.

“We did not draw against the fucking Nazis! We destroyed them!”

“Comrade General Secretary, the situation now is different. This is not a small group of countries arraigned against us, controlled by a single madman, with limited resources and manpower at their disposal.”