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Clearly the only way forward for England now would be to unit in a pact of steel with the democratic republic of Germany... and oppose all evil dictators ...First Moscow ...then with safe railway-communicationlines from the atlantic to Persia and the pacific ...onwards to Bejing and Tokyo!! 
Seems slightly odd that nobody expected it to be Winston, I could of sworn you actually told us in a previous episode. I seem to recall he was responsible for some financial disaster associated with the gold standard that ...
Yeah, that he was. I just didn't think that he was still under Fu's control; I thought it was simply for Churchill's action back in the 1920s with the gold standard. Guess not.
And Kudos for the new 007!
Oh yes. Winston.Max A said:Not Winston.
Of course it is - it's called hypnosis!lifeless said:
Or at the very least, he has a licence to kill...dublish said:
Nayland Smith knows some rudimentary hypnosis, as seen in the Hindenburg episode of "Master Plan of Fu Manchu". But he doesn't have those eyes of true cat green that seem to make all the difference.VILenin said:Aaah! The agonizing irony of Churchill being hypnotically forced to betray his country is almost to much. Once again I curse stupid hypnosis!
You might have been in denial then.Korppi said:So now James really is "double 00" agent
I would never think it would be Winston.
Thanks Guillaume! I'm delighted to have another reader onboard! Did you already read the prequel, Master Plan of Fu Manchu? Dowload link to the PDF can be found in my sig!Guillaume HJ said:
Yeah, hypnosis of this order of magnitude sure is a bitch to defend against...Darks63 said:Hypnotic update :wacko:
Unless that there IS no Democratic Republic of Germany... so Britain might have to settle for forging a pact of steel with the murderous Third Reich instead!boehm said:Clearly the only way forward for England now would be to unit in a pact of steel with the democratic republic of Germany... and oppose all evil dictators ...First Moscow ...then with safe railway-communicationlines from the atlantic to Persia and the pacific ...onwards to Bejing and Tokyo!!
Yes, I was surprised too. But if you consider how long ago that was, then it's perhaps not so strange that many have forgot. I had a similar experience with the Third Empire - but I printed it out and re-read it all, so now I know exactly who is infested by parasites from space, who is a werewolf and who has an arab walking in his shadow?Kanitatlan said:
Thanks! As for the continued control over Churchill, Fu Manchu is not one to throw away something that could come in handy one day, such as a potential prime minister!Lyon_Man said:
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Eastern Rub Al Khali
Kingdom of the Saudi
Tuesday, May 14th, 1940
Thousand-pillared Irem did not live up to his expectations, Günther Duhrn thought, as he watched it from the shade of the entrance flap to his spacious military tent. It was set up close to what was basically an enormous hole in the ground, at the edge of which the foundations of some ruined limestone walls still clung precariously. At one end, the walls of the hole dropped to put it’s bottom level with the ground, and there the waters of a small oasis nourished a few date palms; apparently Irem had been built on a hillside, presumably over a natural water reservoir. At some point, the roof of the reservoir had collapsed. Irem had literally been swallowed by the earth and vanished from history overnight, and what little was left of the underground well had now turned into an oasis.
Durhn pushed back the sand-coloured cap of his Wehrmacht tropical uniform (the Waffen-SS hadn’t gotten around to designing a tropical uniform of their own yet) and walked back into the tent where he poured himself a glass of water from a decanter and drank greedily. Work was progressing well, but it did not require his intervention and he was bored. To pass time, he switched on the radio. It was preset for radio Berlin, and it should be about time for the news.
Durhn turned off the receiver, smiling cynically. It was a bad day indeed if he was cheered up by Germany's own propaganda. According to the cold estimates of the Waffen-SS experts, Americans and Finns were largely being mauled, and these local successes were being blown out of all proportion by Goebbels propaganda ministry. Barbarossa would have to be launched very soon, if the Finns were to profit any from it. But of course, their woes were of only secondary importance to the Reich. An invasion while the Rasputitsa still smothered Russia under a blanket of mud was a bad idea.
One of the Sonderkommando Hexen officers that had accompanied him here came marching up to the open tent and saluted.
‘Sturmbannführer, we have completed the tarmac runway!’
‘You are overdue, Obersturmführer!. I was expecting it to be completed by yesterday.’
‘It’s these lazy oafs we have to work with, Sturmbannführer! No matter how much we try to motivate them, they keep dragging their stinking feet! They don’t put their backs to it even when we use the whip – I suppose they’re too used to it to bother.’
Durhn nodded. ‘Yes, the Arab will never understand the value of our Aryan discipline or of hard labour. And since we can’t spare any of the procrastinating bastards, we can’t make the usual sort of object lesson, ”pour encourager les autres” and all that.’ Durhn shook his head as in regret. ‘A pity, it could have proven interesting.’
The junior officer grinned evilly. ‘Indeed, a pity. What did you have in mind?’
‘I was thinking impalement. It originated close to here, in Persia, so I was going to go with the local flavour. Why travel at all if you want everything to be the same as at home, eh?’
‘Maybe we can spare one now that the job is done, Sturmbannführer?’ the junior officer said half in jest.
The two officers shared a laugh and Duhrn offered his henchman a cigarette from his silver etui. ‘Well, late or not, the runway is done,’ he said while lighting his cigarette. ‘Call Wevelsburg, it’s time they send down the aircraft. Once we have search flights going out from here in a radial pattern, I don’t expect it to be long before we can behold what no living man has seen save in dreams; the Nameless City!’
‘Yes, Sturmbannführer. No change to the cover story?’
‘No. We have discovered legendary Irem of The Thousand Pillars – what could be more natural after such an archaeological triumph than to bring a full team of doctors and professors to brush away the sand? I almost pity Professor Falken for missing this, but no traitor should feel safe in the Reich. He was wise to choose exile.’
The Obersturmführer nodded. ‘As you say. If I may be so bold as to make a question?’
Duhrn frowned. ‘In the SS, we speak freely and accept the consequences, Obersturmführer Backe. I’m listening.’
The young officer swallowed, but apparently decided he had said to much to retract his question now. ‘You have still not told us what it is that you’re hoping to find in this… Nameless City.’
Duhrn smiled ferociously and a mad light appeared in his large, dark eyes. ‘A piece of the puzzle, that’s all. Just a piece of the puzzle.’
‘And… when the puzzle is complete, Sturmbannführer?’
‘Ah… you’ll know when it happens, and then you can bask in the glory of having been part of bringing on ultimate victory for the Thousand Year Reich! You just wait!’
On a train in western Poland
Greater German Reich
Tuesday, May 14th, 1940
Skorzeny had not expected the Führer to receive him in person, and he hadn’t. There had just a prosaic handing over of the damaged thermobaric bomb (the receiving boffin assured him the damage was of little consequence for the task of reverse-engineering the bomb) at the airport, and he was handed an envelope with the Führer’s thanks which included a check with a substantial monetary reward. He also received his new orders; he was to join the SS-Leibstandarte, now a full motorised brigade with attached StuG and FlaK battalions, at their jump-off point near the Soviet fortress of Lvov, where they would form part of the LIV. Armeekorps in the Southern Army Group sector.
And so Otto Skorzeny found himself sitting with his sword in his lap on a troop transport train, rolling slowly through Poland, ever further east. He quickly made friends with a group of Panzer troops and by the evening of the first night had deprived them of their first batch of cigarettes in a friendly game of cards. Just to stay on their good sides, he let them buy back all their cigarettes with whatever liquor they happened to have, which was not much but of a nice variety, of which he then generously passed some around.
Thus Skorzeny sat in the gloom of the slowly rocking wagon, sipping on a small flask of French calvados and discussing the upcoming campaign with the Panzer troops.
‘As soon as the mud dries up a bit, I bet you, we’re going!’ said a young Panzer officer – they were all young, it seemed. ‘Ah, I can’t wait; this time it wont be like France, when the Franzosen were ready and waiting for us. I’ve heard that the border will be only lightly defended – Ivan has most of his troops up against the Finns, so it might be weeks before we meet any stronger resistance!’
‘You think this is good news?’ Skorzeny wondered. ‘I would have preferred to have the Russians massed on our border, where they could be surrounded and destroyed forthwith. Now we’ll have to fight on their turf, deep inside Russia.’
The others exchanged glances, not certain whether this strange SS-officer who gamed and drank with the Wehrmacht was testing their loyalty and combative spirit or if he was just shooting his mouth.
‘Look, Herr Sturmbannführer, I realise that we Panzer troops, who ride into battle behind three centimetres of steel rather than on the back of a truck like you Waffen-SS, might be more sanguine about facing the enemy anywhere, anytime. But I’m not worried – we’ll teach Ivan not to spread his Bolshevik infestation, fifty millimetres at a time!’
Skorzeny laughed theatrically. ‘Hahahaha – you panzer troops, always bragging about the length of your peckers! Well, for your information, we’re not worried either, just impatient. And I so prefer to have my battles in summer – frankly, winter is such a lousy season for campaigning, don’t you agree?’
The Panzer troops frowned, still not certain what the SS-man was trying to say. Otto shrugged and settled back in his seat to concentrate on his bottle. He would be back with his men the next morning, or at least those of them that still lived. III Abteilung had lost many men in the Dreamland but they had now been replenished with fresh recruits, all brimming over with patriotic and national socialist fervour. They would have to be taken down to earth pretty damn quick and hard if they were to live long enough to kick Ivan's butt. Otto Skorzeny looked forward to it.
Kingdom of the Saudi
Tuesday, May 14th, 1940
Thousand-pillared Irem did not live up to his expectations, Günther Duhrn thought, as he watched it from the shade of the entrance flap to his spacious military tent. It was set up close to what was basically an enormous hole in the ground, at the edge of which the foundations of some ruined limestone walls still clung precariously. At one end, the walls of the hole dropped to put it’s bottom level with the ground, and there the waters of a small oasis nourished a few date palms; apparently Irem had been built on a hillside, presumably over a natural water reservoir. At some point, the roof of the reservoir had collapsed. Irem had literally been swallowed by the earth and vanished from history overnight, and what little was left of the underground well had now turned into an oasis.
Durhn pushed back the sand-coloured cap of his Wehrmacht tropical uniform (the Waffen-SS hadn’t gotten around to designing a tropical uniform of their own yet) and walked back into the tent where he poured himself a glass of water from a decanter and drank greedily. Work was progressing well, but it did not require his intervention and he was bored. To pass time, he switched on the radio. It was preset for radio Berlin, and it should be about time for the news.
”... American counter-offensive seems to has enjoyed great success, with the recapture by United States Army forces of the locality of Redding in northern California. The offensive continues on it’s fourth day, with Pan-Asian forces caught in a kessel between Portland, Oregon and Redding, California! Our glorious expeditionary forces under the daring general Rommel continue to defy the invader in the Mojawe desert, where furious air battles rage daily and the invader suffers terrible losses!
Now over to the war in Finland; the heroic troops of the Finnish army have won great victories today, putting a halt to the Bolshevik advance of the last week. Hardly had the over-confident Russians finished celebrating the recapture of Murmansk, which followed upon a strategic Finnish withdrawal in order to straighten the front, the hardy Finns struck back, turning back the Red Army spearheads advancing towards Viipuri and annihilating a division moving on Sortavala, after capturing it in a “motti”, which is the Finnish term for a “kessel”. Generalmajor Warlimont of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht comments that while these news are cheering, Finland’s situation remains extremely difficult in the long prospect.
And now for the sports results. The Bayern Münich…”
Now over to the war in Finland; the heroic troops of the Finnish army have won great victories today, putting a halt to the Bolshevik advance of the last week. Hardly had the over-confident Russians finished celebrating the recapture of Murmansk, which followed upon a strategic Finnish withdrawal in order to straighten the front, the hardy Finns struck back, turning back the Red Army spearheads advancing towards Viipuri and annihilating a division moving on Sortavala, after capturing it in a “motti”, which is the Finnish term for a “kessel”. Generalmajor Warlimont of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht comments that while these news are cheering, Finland’s situation remains extremely difficult in the long prospect.
And now for the sports results. The Bayern Münich…”
Durhn turned off the receiver, smiling cynically. It was a bad day indeed if he was cheered up by Germany's own propaganda. According to the cold estimates of the Waffen-SS experts, Americans and Finns were largely being mauled, and these local successes were being blown out of all proportion by Goebbels propaganda ministry. Barbarossa would have to be launched very soon, if the Finns were to profit any from it. But of course, their woes were of only secondary importance to the Reich. An invasion while the Rasputitsa still smothered Russia under a blanket of mud was a bad idea.
One of the Sonderkommando Hexen officers that had accompanied him here came marching up to the open tent and saluted.
‘Sturmbannführer, we have completed the tarmac runway!’
‘You are overdue, Obersturmführer!. I was expecting it to be completed by yesterday.’
‘It’s these lazy oafs we have to work with, Sturmbannführer! No matter how much we try to motivate them, they keep dragging their stinking feet! They don’t put their backs to it even when we use the whip – I suppose they’re too used to it to bother.’
Durhn nodded. ‘Yes, the Arab will never understand the value of our Aryan discipline or of hard labour. And since we can’t spare any of the procrastinating bastards, we can’t make the usual sort of object lesson, ”pour encourager les autres” and all that.’ Durhn shook his head as in regret. ‘A pity, it could have proven interesting.’
The junior officer grinned evilly. ‘Indeed, a pity. What did you have in mind?’
‘I was thinking impalement. It originated close to here, in Persia, so I was going to go with the local flavour. Why travel at all if you want everything to be the same as at home, eh?’
‘Maybe we can spare one now that the job is done, Sturmbannführer?’ the junior officer said half in jest.
The two officers shared a laugh and Duhrn offered his henchman a cigarette from his silver etui. ‘Well, late or not, the runway is done,’ he said while lighting his cigarette. ‘Call Wevelsburg, it’s time they send down the aircraft. Once we have search flights going out from here in a radial pattern, I don’t expect it to be long before we can behold what no living man has seen save in dreams; the Nameless City!’
‘Yes, Sturmbannführer. No change to the cover story?’
‘No. We have discovered legendary Irem of The Thousand Pillars – what could be more natural after such an archaeological triumph than to bring a full team of doctors and professors to brush away the sand? I almost pity Professor Falken for missing this, but no traitor should feel safe in the Reich. He was wise to choose exile.’
The Obersturmführer nodded. ‘As you say. If I may be so bold as to make a question?’
Duhrn frowned. ‘In the SS, we speak freely and accept the consequences, Obersturmführer Backe. I’m listening.’
The young officer swallowed, but apparently decided he had said to much to retract his question now. ‘You have still not told us what it is that you’re hoping to find in this… Nameless City.’
Duhrn smiled ferociously and a mad light appeared in his large, dark eyes. ‘A piece of the puzzle, that’s all. Just a piece of the puzzle.’
‘And… when the puzzle is complete, Sturmbannführer?’
‘Ah… you’ll know when it happens, and then you can bask in the glory of having been part of bringing on ultimate victory for the Thousand Year Reich! You just wait!’
****
On a train in western Poland
Greater German Reich
Tuesday, May 14th, 1940
Skorzeny had not expected the Führer to receive him in person, and he hadn’t. There had just a prosaic handing over of the damaged thermobaric bomb (the receiving boffin assured him the damage was of little consequence for the task of reverse-engineering the bomb) at the airport, and he was handed an envelope with the Führer’s thanks which included a check with a substantial monetary reward. He also received his new orders; he was to join the SS-Leibstandarte, now a full motorised brigade with attached StuG and FlaK battalions, at their jump-off point near the Soviet fortress of Lvov, where they would form part of the LIV. Armeekorps in the Southern Army Group sector.
And so Otto Skorzeny found himself sitting with his sword in his lap on a troop transport train, rolling slowly through Poland, ever further east. He quickly made friends with a group of Panzer troops and by the evening of the first night had deprived them of their first batch of cigarettes in a friendly game of cards. Just to stay on their good sides, he let them buy back all their cigarettes with whatever liquor they happened to have, which was not much but of a nice variety, of which he then generously passed some around.
Thus Skorzeny sat in the gloom of the slowly rocking wagon, sipping on a small flask of French calvados and discussing the upcoming campaign with the Panzer troops.
‘As soon as the mud dries up a bit, I bet you, we’re going!’ said a young Panzer officer – they were all young, it seemed. ‘Ah, I can’t wait; this time it wont be like France, when the Franzosen were ready and waiting for us. I’ve heard that the border will be only lightly defended – Ivan has most of his troops up against the Finns, so it might be weeks before we meet any stronger resistance!’
‘You think this is good news?’ Skorzeny wondered. ‘I would have preferred to have the Russians massed on our border, where they could be surrounded and destroyed forthwith. Now we’ll have to fight on their turf, deep inside Russia.’
The others exchanged glances, not certain whether this strange SS-officer who gamed and drank with the Wehrmacht was testing their loyalty and combative spirit or if he was just shooting his mouth.
‘Look, Herr Sturmbannführer, I realise that we Panzer troops, who ride into battle behind three centimetres of steel rather than on the back of a truck like you Waffen-SS, might be more sanguine about facing the enemy anywhere, anytime. But I’m not worried – we’ll teach Ivan not to spread his Bolshevik infestation, fifty millimetres at a time!’
Skorzeny laughed theatrically. ‘Hahahaha – you panzer troops, always bragging about the length of your peckers! Well, for your information, we’re not worried either, just impatient. And I so prefer to have my battles in summer – frankly, winter is such a lousy season for campaigning, don’t you agree?’
The Panzer troops frowned, still not certain what the SS-man was trying to say. Otto shrugged and settled back in his seat to concentrate on his bottle. He would be back with his men the next morning, or at least those of them that still lived. III Abteilung had lost many men in the Dreamland but they had now been replenished with fresh recruits, all brimming over with patriotic and national socialist fervour. They would have to be taken down to earth pretty damn quick and hard if they were to live long enough to kick Ivan's butt. Otto Skorzeny looked forward to it.
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Excellent update, as usual I may say. Last time Durhn appeared and faced the ancient horror I felt sympathy with him, but now it's over
Indeed, two outstanding portraits of everyone's favorite SS - cynical or maniacal, twisted or battle-hardened, their common point is that you will love to hate them
EDIT: Maybe I missed your bio somewhere, but are you a professional writer of any sort ?
Indeed, two outstanding portraits of everyone's favorite SS - cynical or maniacal, twisted or battle-hardened, their common point is that you will love to hate them
EDIT: Maybe I missed your bio somewhere, but are you a professional writer of any sort ?
I hadn't forgotten that Churchill was the traitor but that doesn't make it any easier to live with. And if we can't match Fu and his progeny with hypnosis then the good guys need to find something equally formidable. I'm tired of watching our guys constantly on the defensive.
Another great update yogi.
Another great update yogi.
i'm not him, but i daresay he is.Le Ran said:
What with him being published and all.
EDIT: Oh, and neat updates too.
Tskb18 said:i'm not him, but i daresay he is.
What with him being published and all.
EDIT: Oh, and neat updates too.
I'm being published? When? Where? By Whom?
Sorry guys, the only kind of proffesional writer I am is an aspiring one. The nearest thing I've come to professional writing was when in my youth I was tasked with writing debate articles in the newspapers for a political youth organisation. I acquired a very local and ephemerous fame in Dalecarlia during the early 1990s as a "poisonous pen".
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Interesting. Kidnapping the wife of the Japanese emperor. Finding Irem.
My greatest problem with Indy has always been that he destroyed more archeology with his actions than he ever saved. Twit. Maybe I am too much of a Historian/archeologist.
Lovely updates! Thanks. DW
My greatest problem with Indy has always been that he destroyed more archeology with his actions than he ever saved. Twit. Maybe I am too much of a Historian/archeologist.
Lovely updates! Thanks. DW
D'oh. Must have confused you with another authAAR of high quality then.The Yogi said:
They're a lovely couple, that's for sure. What's there not to love? ;9Le Ran said:Excellent update, as usual I may say. Last time Durhn appeared and faced the ancient horror I felt sympathy with him, but now it's over
Indeed, two outstanding portraits of everyone's favorite SS - cynical or maniacal, twisted or battle-hardened, their common point is that you will love to hate them
Why, the good guys, they have bravery, and, and ideals and... integrity and... and... faith! Yes, that's it! What's hypnosis, and the intellect of any ten men of genius and the countless hordes of the Pan-Asian Empire against that, I ask? Nothing, nothing at all!VILenin said:I hadn't forgotten that Churchill was the traitor but that doesn't make it any easier to live with. And if we can't match Fu and his progeny with hypnosis then the good guys need to find something equally formidable. I'm tired of watching our guys constantly on the defensive.
Another great update yogi.
Right? Right?Thanks mate!Tskb18 said:Oh, and neat updates too.
Yeah, I wince inwardly too each time he brutally throws some millenarian sarcophagous lid onto the floor, shattering it for ever. That's no way to deal with archaeological finds, damn it!Dead William said:
Yep, this is still the winter war dragging on. Finland initally had great successes, capturing Murmansk and Petrozadovsk, but then the Soviets reacted and brought in most of their armies in the western military districts...Korppi said:
And now the story continues!
The Kremlin, Moscow
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Thursday, May 16th, 1940
General of the Soviet Union Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov knocked on the door to Stalin’s private apartment and waited. He had been recalled the previous days, presumably to defend himself. Zhukov found Stalin’s anxiety over the recent setbacks understandable – however temporary they might be, time was precisely what the Soviet Union lacked most. He thought he had good arguments ready for his defence, but the problem was that they revolved basically around saying to Stalin “I was right, you were wrong”, which was seldom a winning strategy with “the man of steel”.
‘Come in, Georgy Konstantinovich. We have been waiting for you.’ Stalin’s voice came through the door too muffled for the greying soldier to judge the inflexion or tone of voice to precisely, but the words themselves were heard clearly enough.
“We”? Zhukov wondered who else might be in there with the dictator of all the Russias and felt a sting of fear. Still, there wasn’t a fibre of weakness or cowardice in the tough peasant son from Strelkovka. A life of fighting had purged him of it, body and soul. He straightened, brushed off his uniform, shot forward his square jaw and pushed open the door.
The air inside was stale, and something more. Yes, the phoetid odour of old vodka exhalations. Someone had drunk long and heavily in that room. Zhukov hoped it wasn’t Stalin.
Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin sat in his sofa, behind a coffee table on which a silver tray with a bottle of fine vodka, ice and glasses stood. Standing beside him, like a bodyguard or guardian was Lavrentiy Beria, head of the NKVD. That boded ill indeed. Stalin was in his usual white uniform, but Beria wore a brownish suit.
‘Reporting as ordered, Comrade Stalin!’ Zhukov said in his best military fashion.
‘Reporting what exactly, Georgy Konstantinovich? Defeats? Or excuses? I’m dying to know!’
‘Iosif Vissarionovich, when I laid out the plans for the renewed offensive against Finland to you, I made clear my opinion that it was better to concentrate our best forces for a knock-out blow through Viipuri towards Helsinki. You overruled me, and ordered me to first recapture all lost land. I obeyed and have retaken Murmansk and Petrozavodsk. I have pushed the Finns back on a broad front from the Baltic to the White Sea. This advance has now petered out as a result of expenditure of supplies, battle fatigue, and yes, also due to the extremely tough resistance the enemy is putting up. The setback at Sortavala was the expected consequence of pushing the offensive too far, too long. I did ask permission to halt and regroup after the recapture of Murmansk, but again, I was overruled.’
‘You dare to blame Stalin for your own incompetence?!’ Beria shouted, looking furious. All show, Zhukov knew. He didn’t answer.
‘Well, Georgy Konstantinovich? Do you?’ Stalin insisted in a silken voice, leaning forward and concentrating all his attention on the standing commander.
‘I… I have not been incompetent, Iosif Vissarionovich. I have loyally carried out your orders to the best of my ability, and I daresay, to the best of anyone’s ability. We have an enormous preponderance in men and weapons over the enemy, but the terrain is difficult, the Finns are tough sons of bitches and we’re fighting in their back yard, which they know well and we don’t. Deluded or not, the Finns are also highly motivated while our men, frankly, are not. Man for man, our troops are very far from being the equals of the Finns on this field of battle.’
‘Traitor!’ Beria hissed. ‘Now you blame the brave Soviet soldier for your shortcomings? Have you no shame?!’
‘Well.’ Stalin leaned back in his sofa and smiled, his narrow eyes glittering like poisonous crystals. ‘Well, well, well… what am I to do with you, Georgy Konstantinovich? A soldier who speaks his mind and tells things as he sees them, without regard to any political connotations? Who is not afraid, even in the presence of the head of the NKVD? Is such a man a danger… or an asset, I wonder?’
‘I would like to think the latter, Iosif Vissarionovich!’
‘So would I, Georgy Konstantinovich’, Stalin said, affecting a magnanimous look.
Zhukov couldn’t help exhale in utter relief. The torture dens of Lubyanka were not awaiting, for now.
‘Still, my leniency can only be carried so far. However little you might be to blame for it, you have suffered defeat at a time the Soviet Union can not afford it. How do you plan to remedy the situation?’
Now Zhukov knew for certain he was not yet in the clear. ‘I can see only two ways, Iosif Vissarionovich; one option is to regroup for a final blow through the Carelian Isthmus. However ill we could afford the delay it entailed, our previous strategy should make things easier on us this time; the Finns will have redeployed their troops northwards, to repel our previous attacks. If we decide to follow this course of action, I expect to be ready to launch my next offensive by May 25th.’
Stalin nodded. ‘And the other?’
‘To make peace with Finland, Iosif Vissarionovich, and I urge you with all my heart to follow that path!’ Zhukov said, pleading. ‘Whatever weaknesses in us this war has disclosed are already apparent to the Germans. Their forces stand poised to invade as soon as the mud dries up, which could be any day now. If we offer Finland status quo, there’s every reason to believe they will accept – they have little love for the Germans, little to gain and much to loose. And we need every second we have left before the Germans attack to redeploy our forces and prepare our defences!’
‘Dropping our justified demands on them?’ Beria asked, scandalised. ‘That would be treason!’
‘I’m inclined to agree with Lavrentiy Pavlovich on this: there will be no shameful peace with Finland! Those little fascist lapdogs have sowed the wind and now they will reap the storm; the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will not be humbled by their ilk!’ Stalin exploded. ‘Do I make myself clear, General Zhukov?’
‘Very clear, Comrade Stalin!’ Zhukov replied, but he was crying inside. So much of his poor Rodina, left defenceless to the German fascists because of the pride and pig-headedness of one man!
‘Go and prepare your final offensive, Georgy Konstantinovich!’ Stalin said, his eyes shining madly. ‘By May 26th, I’d better hear news of victory!’
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Thursday, May 16th, 1940
General of the Soviet Union Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov knocked on the door to Stalin’s private apartment and waited. He had been recalled the previous days, presumably to defend himself. Zhukov found Stalin’s anxiety over the recent setbacks understandable – however temporary they might be, time was precisely what the Soviet Union lacked most. He thought he had good arguments ready for his defence, but the problem was that they revolved basically around saying to Stalin “I was right, you were wrong”, which was seldom a winning strategy with “the man of steel”.
‘Come in, Georgy Konstantinovich. We have been waiting for you.’ Stalin’s voice came through the door too muffled for the greying soldier to judge the inflexion or tone of voice to precisely, but the words themselves were heard clearly enough.
“We”? Zhukov wondered who else might be in there with the dictator of all the Russias and felt a sting of fear. Still, there wasn’t a fibre of weakness or cowardice in the tough peasant son from Strelkovka. A life of fighting had purged him of it, body and soul. He straightened, brushed off his uniform, shot forward his square jaw and pushed open the door.
The air inside was stale, and something more. Yes, the phoetid odour of old vodka exhalations. Someone had drunk long and heavily in that room. Zhukov hoped it wasn’t Stalin.
Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin sat in his sofa, behind a coffee table on which a silver tray with a bottle of fine vodka, ice and glasses stood. Standing beside him, like a bodyguard or guardian was Lavrentiy Beria, head of the NKVD. That boded ill indeed. Stalin was in his usual white uniform, but Beria wore a brownish suit.
‘Reporting as ordered, Comrade Stalin!’ Zhukov said in his best military fashion.
‘Reporting what exactly, Georgy Konstantinovich? Defeats? Or excuses? I’m dying to know!’
‘Iosif Vissarionovich, when I laid out the plans for the renewed offensive against Finland to you, I made clear my opinion that it was better to concentrate our best forces for a knock-out blow through Viipuri towards Helsinki. You overruled me, and ordered me to first recapture all lost land. I obeyed and have retaken Murmansk and Petrozavodsk. I have pushed the Finns back on a broad front from the Baltic to the White Sea. This advance has now petered out as a result of expenditure of supplies, battle fatigue, and yes, also due to the extremely tough resistance the enemy is putting up. The setback at Sortavala was the expected consequence of pushing the offensive too far, too long. I did ask permission to halt and regroup after the recapture of Murmansk, but again, I was overruled.’
‘You dare to blame Stalin for your own incompetence?!’ Beria shouted, looking furious. All show, Zhukov knew. He didn’t answer.
‘Well, Georgy Konstantinovich? Do you?’ Stalin insisted in a silken voice, leaning forward and concentrating all his attention on the standing commander.
‘I… I have not been incompetent, Iosif Vissarionovich. I have loyally carried out your orders to the best of my ability, and I daresay, to the best of anyone’s ability. We have an enormous preponderance in men and weapons over the enemy, but the terrain is difficult, the Finns are tough sons of bitches and we’re fighting in their back yard, which they know well and we don’t. Deluded or not, the Finns are also highly motivated while our men, frankly, are not. Man for man, our troops are very far from being the equals of the Finns on this field of battle.’
‘Traitor!’ Beria hissed. ‘Now you blame the brave Soviet soldier for your shortcomings? Have you no shame?!’
‘Well.’ Stalin leaned back in his sofa and smiled, his narrow eyes glittering like poisonous crystals. ‘Well, well, well… what am I to do with you, Georgy Konstantinovich? A soldier who speaks his mind and tells things as he sees them, without regard to any political connotations? Who is not afraid, even in the presence of the head of the NKVD? Is such a man a danger… or an asset, I wonder?’
‘I would like to think the latter, Iosif Vissarionovich!’
‘So would I, Georgy Konstantinovich’, Stalin said, affecting a magnanimous look.
Zhukov couldn’t help exhale in utter relief. The torture dens of Lubyanka were not awaiting, for now.
‘Still, my leniency can only be carried so far. However little you might be to blame for it, you have suffered defeat at a time the Soviet Union can not afford it. How do you plan to remedy the situation?’
Now Zhukov knew for certain he was not yet in the clear. ‘I can see only two ways, Iosif Vissarionovich; one option is to regroup for a final blow through the Carelian Isthmus. However ill we could afford the delay it entailed, our previous strategy should make things easier on us this time; the Finns will have redeployed their troops northwards, to repel our previous attacks. If we decide to follow this course of action, I expect to be ready to launch my next offensive by May 25th.’
Stalin nodded. ‘And the other?’
‘To make peace with Finland, Iosif Vissarionovich, and I urge you with all my heart to follow that path!’ Zhukov said, pleading. ‘Whatever weaknesses in us this war has disclosed are already apparent to the Germans. Their forces stand poised to invade as soon as the mud dries up, which could be any day now. If we offer Finland status quo, there’s every reason to believe they will accept – they have little love for the Germans, little to gain and much to loose. And we need every second we have left before the Germans attack to redeploy our forces and prepare our defences!’
‘Dropping our justified demands on them?’ Beria asked, scandalised. ‘That would be treason!’
‘I’m inclined to agree with Lavrentiy Pavlovich on this: there will be no shameful peace with Finland! Those little fascist lapdogs have sowed the wind and now they will reap the storm; the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will not be humbled by their ilk!’ Stalin exploded. ‘Do I make myself clear, General Zhukov?’
‘Very clear, Comrade Stalin!’ Zhukov replied, but he was crying inside. So much of his poor Rodina, left defenceless to the German fascists because of the pride and pig-headedness of one man!
‘Go and prepare your final offensive, Georgy Konstantinovich!’ Stalin said, his eyes shining madly. ‘By May 26th, I’d better hear news of victory!’
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guess zhukov will have to hope that the germans will be too busy in america to deal with the russians...
Few things are worse than a misguided dictator. One of them happens to be a soused misguided dictator.
(Please note I use "Misguided" in the most widely interpretable meaning of the word. Raving lunatic massmurdering dictator would be better.)
Nice update Still, if Indy gets kicked in the nadgers by a real archaologist, I wouldn't mind.
Thanks! DW
(Please note I use "Misguided" in the most widely interpretable meaning of the word. Raving lunatic massmurdering dictator would be better.)
Nice update Still, if Indy gets kicked in the nadgers by a real archaologist, I wouldn't mind.
Thanks! DW
started reading this on the 16th, and just finished. as others have said, if you wrote a book i`d buy it.
top class AAR.
top class AAR.
Ok, I can put up with a lot, but I'm warning you Yogi that if you kill Zhukov then I'll REALLY get mad.
The continuance of the Winter War certainly doesn't bode well for the USSR's prospects against Germany. I suppose a quick defeat of the Soviets, however, is probably the quickest way to turn the focus on Fu Manchu and the Pan-Asians. Though I would like to see another way I suppose the Rodina might have to be sacrificed to fight the greater evil, though it galls me to rank Hitler as anything but that.
The continuance of the Winter War certainly doesn't bode well for the USSR's prospects against Germany. I suppose a quick defeat of the Soviets, however, is probably the quickest way to turn the focus on Fu Manchu and the Pan-Asians. Though I would like to see another way I suppose the Rodina might have to be sacrificed to fight the greater evil, though it galls me to rank Hitler as anything but that.