History, Politics And Current Affairs

Changing the Guard – 1942

Soviet Government Train, Heading East From Moscow.

After 180 days of siege, Moscow was dying. The red glow of its funeral pyre could still be seen on the horizon to the west. Looking at it, Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria marveled that there was still enough in the ruins of the city to cause that fire. Moscow had died slowly and painfully, it was commonplace to say that, at the end the defenses crumbled or collapsed but that hadn't happened in Moscow. Beria was prepared to bet that there were defenders holding on there yet, in what had been rooms, or basements or sewers. They'd fight on until they'd died. Another commonplace saying fight to the last man and the last bullet but Moscow had gone beyond that point. When the last man had been killed, the women and children had fought on, when the last bullet had been fired, they'd fought the German infantry with iron pipes, bricks, stones, broken glass, anything that could kill or maim. And now, despite it all, Moscow was dying but in doing so it had achieved something of profoundly important significance. Once again, the great strategic decoy of Moscow had saved the Rodina, had bought the time Russia needed to survive.

STAVKA, the Soviet High Command which effectively meant Stalin himself, had known that a new German offensive would start once the mud dried in the spring of 1942. The question was, where? Would the Germans strike north, at Moscow and what they thought was the center of Soviet political power and authority? Or south, at Stalingrad and the oil fields of the Caucasus? The choice was argued backwards and forwards even as the Soviet winter offensive ground forward, painfully rewinning some of the ground lost in the dreadful months of 1941. Would the Germans strike North or South? The arguments raged on until the answers came from two strange sources, ones nobody could quite explain.

One was Lucy. Nobody knew who Lucy was, whether the name covered one person or many, a single spy or a whole network. What they did know was that Lucy supplied top-grade strategic and operational intelligence on German military and political plans. Not just what the Germans planned but why they were making those plans. In 1941, nobody had known whether Lucy was reliable or whether the information was a plant, intended to deceive and mislead. Now, there was no doubt about the messages from Lucy. Whoever he, she, it, they or whatever else applied might be, the information was genuine.

The other source was even odder. On its face, Beria knew more about it than about Lucy. The Red Orchestra was based in Geneva and was an organization of economists and bankers who used their contacts to get military and economic information on German plans and intentions. They provided details of German military developments, new aircraft, tanks, guns and ships. They provided current production numbers and totals and what future output would look like. They provided information on how the Germans planned to use those assets. But, with that data, the information on The Red Orchestra hit a dead end. In a way, Beria admired them, their security was so tight that it made the NKVD look amateurish. Agents he’d sent in to infiltrate The Red Orchestra had just vanished. The Germans had the same experience and were equally frustrated. The Red Orchestra was there, in plain sight, yet mysteriously out of reach and untouchable. Every time somebody reached out, the image shimmered slightly and just wasn’t there anymore. A mirage, easily seen but perfectly untouchable. Beria had the faint image of mocking laughter every time he grabbed at what he thought was a solid lead and it vanished from within his grip.

The information from both Lucy and the Red Orchestra had agreed, perfectly. The Germans weren't going to choose North or South, they were going to do both. Two hammer-blows in quick succession, the first during spring and early summer in the North to take Moscow, the second in late summer and fall to drive south to take Stalingrad. The news had first thrown STAVKA into deep gloom, they could defend against one or the other but not both. Then glee had slowly replaced gloom. The German plans were complex and interlocked, the two attacks were sequential and used many of the same resources. Executing the second depended absolutely on success in the first. If Moscow held longer than expected, the second offensive would be thrown back accordingly and would take place later in the year, perhaps much later. Enough to leave the Germans trapped deep in Russia for another winter. So Moscow had been reinforced, turned into a fortress, its industry and surplus population evacuated.

The hammer blows came, just as Lucy and the Red Orchestra had predicted. Moscow was under assault from the North and west, the Germans had enveloped the city, almost. Not quite, distances prevented that, a slim lifeline was left along which the STAVKA funneled just enough supplies to keep the city fighting. The fighting had raged for six months, block by block, street by street, building by building, room by room. In the open country, the fighting had been by division, in Moscow it was by battalion, then by company, then platoon and squad. That lead to a strange change, in open warfare, the kill ratio had been lopsided in the Germans favor. In Moscow, the ratio dropped to near one German for one Russian. STAVKA watched and smiled as the cream of Germany’s infantry, its hardened veterans, were ground away in the ruins of Moscow. Meanwhile, from the south, people, equipment, industry, all was evacuated eastwards. When the blow fell in the south, there would be nothing left for the Germans to seize.

There had been one problem, to make the great strategic decoy of Moscow credible, it had to be seen as the vital command center, the seat of Soviet power. That it was nothing of the sort was irrelevant, it had to be seen that way. So Stalin and the more prominent Soviet politicians had to stay in the city, at least in the early days. They had been filtered out, one here, another there, a slow transfer of the government away from Moscow. Then, as the German noose contracted, as the ruined city fell into their hands, the time had come to evacuate the few that were left. This train was the result, a train that had gone down the narrow lifeline that connected Moscow to the rest of the Soviet Union to the unoccupied countryside beyond. Now, that train was heading for Gorkii where a new administrative center was being set up.

Beria sighed and turned around from the window of the train. Then, he knocked on the wooden door behind him. "Joseph Vissarionovich, you require my presence?"

"Enter." As the door closed behind him, Beria reflected on the ironic fact that few Russians would recognize either occupant of the room. Berias official picture was deliberately distorted for security reasons as befitted the head of the NKVD but that of Stalin was more than just revised, it was changed out of all recognition. The heavy scarring from a brush with smallpox had always been airbrushed out and that alone made Stalin unrecognizable. Also, Stalin was a small man, a fact he disguised by wearing built up shoes and having photographs taken on steps where he could stand higher than his companions.

"Lavrentiy Pavlovich, We have lost Moscow."

Beria nodded, this had been a defeat but an expected one. By sacrificing Moscow, they had bought the time to save Russia. They had sacrificed a rook but trapped the enemys queen. Then Stalins next words came as an icy shock.

"This is the result of treason, the work of wreckers and saboteurs. It is time for another purge Lavrentiy Pavlovich, another cleaning out of those who scheme and plot against us. When we reach Gorkii, that work must start. We must arrest them all, Zhukov, Koniev, Rokossovski, Budenny, Timoshenko, Kurochkin, Yefremov, Belov, all of them. They must be tried before the people and executed. At once before they can conspire further with the Germans. See to it, see to it well Lavrentiy Pavlovich."

Beria looked at Stalin, appalled. To eliminate the entire high command of the Soviet Army now? It was madness, madness. They might as well surrender to the Germans. 1941 and 1942 had been terrible but they had burned the fat and incompetence out of the Soviet Army. It was now commanded by men who knew what they were doing. To throw all of that away? Suddenly, Berias appalled eyes undergo a subtle change, the eyes become larger, fixed and glaring, the nose extending in an exaggerated hook, the skin reddening. For a brief second, Stalin looked like one of the medieval paintings of the devil, then Beria blinked and the vision, the result of exhaustion and shock, vanished.

"I have the list here. Read it well Lavrentiy Pavlovich and bring these saboteurs to justice!" Stalin turned away briefly and Beria seized the chance. In his pocket was something the Americans called a sap and the British a cosh. A thin leather tube, about 15 centimeters long and filled with lead shot. A simple weapon, one few knew how to use properly, but Beria was one who did. In one smooth action he drew the tube and brought it in a long sweeping arc that ended in a very specific point below Stalins ear.

The effects of the blow were to completely disrupt the circulation in the blood vessels of the neck. The effect was that of a massive stroke that paralyzed the right side of his body. Stalin saw and understood what was happening but his body would not respond to the brains directions. Beria paused and took a second swing, striking in almost exactly the same place. The second blow finished the work the first had started. Blood already seeping from his nose, ears and eyes, Stalin slumped forward onto his bed. Beria left, quietly closing the door behind him.

The next morning, Stalins guards thought it odd that he did not rise at his usual time, but they had strict orders, he was not to be disturbed. Only at mid-day was he found, lying in a pool of blood in his compartment. The doctors were summoned and immediately diagnosed a massive stroke. One that they had been warning Stalin of for years. The doctors saw the obvious trauma and bruising to the side of the neck but they had also noted Beria arching his eyebrows and came to the obvious conclusion. "Comrade Stalin has suffered a stroke! He has but a few hours at most."

The senior doctor looked around. As he did so, Stalins eyes opened and he cast a terrible glance over everyone in the room. Stalin had never been short of willpower and what happened next was an example of that. He lifted his left hand and pointed directly at Beria, standing by the door. "You." Stalin managed to say before slumping back into a coma from which he would never awake.

Beria shook his head, overcome with grief at the death of his beloved friend. "With his last breath, he appointed me his successor," he marveled. Nobody disagreed, the train was, after all, full of Berias loyal NKVD guards.

Gorkii.

"Welcome to Gorkii, Comrade Chairman." The Soviet Army Captain was obsequious as he met Chairman Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria. "The meeting of STAVKA awaits you. We have a car here for you." The officer opened the door of the limousine and ushered Beria inside. Berias driver took the wheel with three of his bodyguards occupying the other seats. Then, the little convoy pulled off, a truck with infantry in it, a T-34 tank, Berias limousine, another T-34 and then another truck with infantry bringing up the rear.

The little convoy set off. Beria sat in the back of his car, tussling with a problem that had concerned him for two days. Should he tell the Generals of Stalins plan to kill them all and thus earn their gratitude at a cost of admitting what he had done? Or simply stick to the story of Stalin having had a massive stroke? One was safe but offered few rewards, the other risky but offered much more. What was it to be? Beria continued to puzzle over the conundrum until a terrible shock shook his mind free.

The T-34 in front had stopped and then backed into the limousine while the one behind kept going and crashed into the back. A limousine, no matter how strong, was no match for a 30 ton tank let alone a pair of them. The bodywork crumpled with the impact, causing the glass to explode from its frames. In front, the driver seemed to be dancing only it was bullets from a PPSH-41 submachine gun that were killing him. The front seat bodyguard was already dead, the victim of a second soldier with another PPSH. Even as Beria tried to take in the scene, additional short bursts killed his remaining two bodyguards. Beria was dragged from the car, his hand roughly tied behind his back and he was thrown into the back of one of the trucks. In the distance he could hear gunfire and, for a moment, he thought he was back in Moscow. Then reality struck, it was his NKVD people on the train being killed.

Beria was half-dragged, half-carried into a room at the Gorkii main hall. Thrown to the floor he saw a table with five men, Generals, sitting behind it. Zhukov was there, in the center seat with Rokossovski on his left and Koniev on his right. Chuikov was there also with Vatutin making up the fifth. Beria dragged himself up, no mean feat, and his voice was hoarse with rage. "Do you know who I am? I am Chairman Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria. You will pay for this."

Zhukovs voice was cold and even, almost robotic. "You think we would let a pustule like you rule our beloved Rodina in this, its darkest hours?"

And that told Beria all he needed to know. There was a vivid image of how the Soviet Union worked. A giant bear between two men that each had a leash around the bears neck. As long as each man held the leash tight, the bear could not harm either. But if one man let his leash slacken, the bear could turn and eat the other. Only having eaten the one, the bear would be free to kill he who had first slackened the leash. The Bear was the Soviet Army, the leash holders were the Party and the NKVD. Only, with the siege of Moscow, the Party had its hand on its leash slacken. The Army had broken free, had destroyed the NKVD and was now devouring the Party. Zhukov's next words confirmed that picture.

"Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria, you are charged with crimes against the Russian People and the Rodina. Crimes without number or parallel. Do you have anything to say before we pass sentence upon you?"

"You will never get away with this."

"How very unimaginative." Rokossovski's voice was almost droll. "You would think that after hearing so many condemned men, he would come up with something original."

Zhukov very nearly smiled at that. "Lavrentiy Pavlovich, your time has passed. Unitary Command has been restored to the Russian Army, the NKVD formations have been disarmed. Those worthy have been incorporated into the field formations, those that were not....." Zhukov waved his hand. It hadn't been bloodless but the price had been marginal compared with the rewards. A Russian Army that stood proud again, one that did not need to fear NKVD machine guns to its rear. Now those machine guns filled a nobler, almost Holy cause, killing Germans, not Russians. And officers could command again. "And now you will join those who were not. Take him away."

Russian Army. Russian People. The Rodina, not the Party. Russia, not the Soviet Union. Beria knew that his time was indeed past. Suddenly he wondered, had Stalin found out? Had he found out that the political leaders filtering out of Moscow were being intercepted and killed? Not by Germans but by Russians? Had that been the treason he had spoken of? In killing Stalin, had Beria also killed himself? He was dragged again to a courtyard filled with rows of men, a few women but mostly men. He was pushed into one of those lines, to him it appeared to be at random but he had not seen the Army officer behind him consulting a piece of paper.

"In Roman times, those groups who disgraced the name of Rome suffered a terrible fate. Decimation. This will be yours."

Watching from the window, Zhukov looked down at the men below. Some, he recognized. Mekhlis for example, who had gone to units with the specific intention of humiliating and destroying its officers. How many men had died because of his destruction of command structures? In the coup, the political officers, the Zampolits, had been treated as they deserved. Some, Zhukov had been surprised how many, had been loved by their men and respected by their officers. They had used their skills and their power to help and assist the units they were attached to, not to hinder and subvert them. Such men had been sent to officer schools and would return as unit commanders. Others had been inept, incompetent but had the sense to do nothing. Those men were now in the rifle battalions. What was left in the courtyard and others like it, were the dregs. The scum who had destroyed and defiled everything they touched.

Zhukov watched as the executioner stepped out and approached the first man. He leveled his Nagant revolver at the back of the man's head and fired. Crack!. The man pitched forward and lay on the ground, a pool of red staining the stone. The executioner walked behind the line of men. Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, Crack! two, three, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, Crack! two, three, four....

Some men were quicker on the uptake. Every tenth man was being shot and the smarter started counting for themselves. Were they the unfortunate tenth? Some sagged with relief, some with despair. Some squared their shoulders to accept death with dignity, others wept. And still the count went on as the Executioner walked down the lines shooting one man in ten. Every seventh shot he would take a new revolver from his assistant who would then empty and reload the other. Finally, the executioner was on the last line, reaching the end of the last line.

Two, three, four, five six. He reached the end of the line and stopped. Then he returned to the point where he had started, stepped over the body of his first victim and stood behind the next in the first line. Seven, eight, nine, ten. Crack! two, three, four.......

And so it went on, down the lines again, shooting one man in ten, then back to the beginning and starting afresh. Zhukov was fascinated to see that not one man tried to run, none tried to attack the executioner. They wept, they stood motionless, some fouled their pants, but none tried to fight or run. Eventually, only one of the prisoners was left standing in the courtyard. Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria for his position had not been at random at all but carefully chosen so that he would, indeed, be the last left alive. Crack! and he too joined the rest.

Zhukov turned away. A dreadful chapter of Russian history was ending. Now the Rodina had to survive so that there would be another chapter could be written. Valeri Ilyushin?

"President Zhukov. We must appoint new managers for the big armaments plants. And new Oblast adminstrations, to replace those who are unfit. Who shall we choose?"

"The best Valeri, only the best and most competent, the Rodina cannot survive with anything less. No matter who they are, pick the best. The time has gone when we could worry about what people thought or what they believe. All that matters now is the Rodina. We must do whatever we must, appoint who we must, if the Rodina is to survive. Only the best Valeri, no matter who. In all your decisions Valeri be guided by this. The Rodina deserves only the best, it is served only by those who succeed."

Zhukov turned away and picked up a message, a diplomatic telegram from Washington. He opened it, his hands trembling. Just a couple of weeks before, he had sent a message to the Americans, pleading for American troops to come to Russia, to help hold the line against the Germans. Troops to fight in Russia but under American national control and command, an offer that had never been made to foreigners before. The reply to his pleas was simple. An expeditionary force would be sent. Four divisions in three months time. Further forces to arrive throughout 1943. Target strength. Two Army Groups, a total of 72 divisions by 1945. Zhukov sagged in relief. 72 American Divisions, all fully mechanized, with more tanks than a Tank Division. The message went on. The Americans requested that they hold the center of the Russian line, with Russian Armies to the North and South. Zhukov understood the message there. With the Americans in the center of the line, they couldn't leave, couldn't sign a separate peace. With that simple request, the Americans were telling him that their armies lived or died together. With the Canadians already arriving in Murmansk and lend-lease supplies pouring in........

"Comrade President...."

Zhukov smiled sadly. "Gospodin President if you please Konstantin. Comrade is a term that has been dishonored. Let it only be used by those on the front line, by those who have shared the loss of blood and friends, until its honor has been restored. Is the train sorted out?"

"Yes Gospodin President. Our people have eliminated the NKVD guards and those of the passengers we decided were incorrigible. They have disposed of the bodies, they are being burned in a pit outside the town."

"Including that body?"

"Including him Georgy Konstantinovich. As we predicted, he was not recognized."

"Very good. Konstantin, here me now and remember this. Nobody must know what has happened. Nobody. The units we have used, put them against the Germans until they have all gone. And let not one word of what has happened pass your lips to anybody outside. We have cleared up our own foulness, there is no need for others to know of it. And let the word spread that Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin died a hero, fighting in the ruins of Moscow."