Having found out what a horrible monster you can be recently, I fear for Germany and Britain. Good luck Discomb!
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I thought the Iranian governments will had been sufficiently crushed but apparently I was wrong. Time to show them the cost of defying the Kremlin.
Your impending control of the Middle East suggests a strategy, drown your enemies in oil! Or, that failing, build a giant trench on the border, fill it with gasoline and then set it on fire. Let the Germans try and cross a lake of fire if they want to invade the Rodina.
Your impending control of the Middle East suggests a strategy, drown your enemies in oil! Or, that failing, build a giant trench on the border, fill it with gasoline and then set it on fire. Let the Germans try and cross a lake of fire if they want to invade the Rodina.
Raze: yup, I strike! a match!
Discomb: that was an odd way of being concerned, by demanding 5,000 oil
TaylorFlame: haha
VILenin: yes, that would be awesome! one enormous molotov cocktail, stretching from the Baltic to the Black!
Erkki1: Discomb has his priorities messed up on occasion...
update coming up!
Discomb: that was an odd way of being concerned, by demanding 5,000 oil
TaylorFlame: haha
VILenin: yes, that would be awesome! one enormous molotov cocktail, stretching from the Baltic to the Black!
Erkki1: Discomb has his priorities messed up on occasion...
update coming up!
Moscow
June 19, 1936
Kuznetsov strode down the empty corridors of the Kremlin, his footsteps echoing around the myriad of corners. As he walked, his mind raced down a dozen of the corridors he was bypassing on his walk, wondering what lay down them and whether his fate down any of them would be different from his fate if he kept to the path that had been set out for him, for Kuznetsov had been summoned back to Moscow by Stalin himself to answer for the Anatolian campaign and he did not know what to expect of the imminent meeting. He continued forging ahead down the ominous corridors, his mind reliving the moments when Kulik had come for him.
Kuznetsov had just completed planning for a new move into Gazientep when the door to his headquarters was thrown open. Kuznetsov and his subordinates had spun around in surprise, and Kuznetsov had almost expected a bullet in his chest immediately, though he did not know whether to expect it to be a Turkish one or a Soviet one. In the doorframe had stood one of the most hated and despised men in the entire Soviet Union: Lieutenant General Kulik. He had no skill, at all, not tactical, not strategic, not diplomatic, not political. He was merely fervently loyal to Genrikh Yagoda, the Chief of the NKVD. To Yagoda, this was his one saving grace: Kulik was his favored police general, even above Lieutenant General Mekhlis. Kuznetsov had understand why in that moment: filling the doorframe, with his shadow from the midday sun pointing straight toward Kuznetsov in a freak coincidence that almost appeared staged, Kulik had a certain brute presence that he imagined Mekhlis lacked, never having met the other man and hoping that he never would.
Kulik had followed his shadow, striding right over to face Kuznetsov as NKVD soldiers armed with PPSh’s had filed in and took up positions around the room. Kulik had stared hard at Kuznetsov for a moment, his eyes revealing the default conclusion his brain always reached: the man in front of him was guilty, very guilty. Roughly, he had grabbed a hold of Kuznetsov’s arm and dragged him out of the headquarters room, bundling him onto a transport plane for a direct flight to Moscow. Kuznetsov had been miserable during the flight; he was sure that his subordinated would be able to implement the plans, as they had literally just been completed when Kulik had arrived, but he had the distinct impression that the dozen NKVD soldiers sitting around were quite willing to put ten dozen bullets into his body should he even sneeze. Kuznetsov had tried to be as still as possible during the flight, which was disturbingly silent; there had not been any banter between the NKVD soldiers. Kuznetsov had wondered whether they were simply drained of all aspects of humanity or whether they were simply too in awe of being in the close presence of Kulik. Nevertheless, the flight thankfully ended and thus Kuznetsov found himself at the Kremlin striding down the empty corridors.
He didn’t believe they were empty, he was quite sure that at either end of the corridor was an NKVD sniper ready to shoot him should he deviate even a miniscule amount from the path that had been ordained for him. Nevertheless, they were devoid of all human activity beyond his walking, the cause of the ringing of his footsteps. As he finally neared the door to Stalin’s office, he took a deep breath. Something, or someone rather, had scuttled into a dark alcove and hid himself away as Kuznetsov approached; he guessed that he had been right about the snipers after all. Sighing slowly, he raised his hand to knock on the door when it opened in front of him.
Unnerved, he could only gasp and widen his eyes as Iosif Stalin, who was presenting a genial face, ushered him inside, pipe in hand. Kuznetsov meekly entered, his eyes darting around to attempt to discover if there was anyone else in the room. As far as he could see, it was merely him and Stalin. Kuznetsov gulped as the heavy door closed behind him, the soft noise sounding very loud in the stillness. Stalin meandered over to his desk, sitting down on the far side, before silently offering Kuznetsov a chair, still smiling. His eyes twinkled, though they somewhat frightened Kuznetsov, perhaps because of their twinkling. Kuznetsov, feeling light-headed, eagerly accepted Stalin’s offer of a seat and did his utmost not to simply collapse into it. Blood rushed to his head.
Putting his pipe in his mouth, Stalin folded his hands together and leaned forward on the desk, smiling. Slowly, he began to speak. “Kuznetsov, it has come to my attention that Tukhachevskij and Voroshilov had expected the conquest of Turkey in three months. It has now been significantly longer than this. A fourth month has passed by, and a fifth and by now most of a sixth as well. This is terribly disappointing; STAVKA’s strategic plans have been thrown awry by this delay. The recent German acquisition of Lithuania is proof enough of this; Lithuania should have been ours. What will you say in your defense to this, Kuznetsov?”
Kuznetsov swallowed hard. “My subordinates do not have their proper staffs; divisional commands were in control of corps and my corps command was controlling an entire theater. I must also draw attention to the fact that Vladimir M. Orlov, the Chief of Naval Staff, took a long time to process my request to utilize the Black Sea Fleet, which resulted in a delay. If I had had that fleet supporting me from the beginning, Istanbul would have fallen much earlier as the Turkish fleet could have been smashed, and earlier.”
Stalin looked off to one direction with his eyes as if in thought, nodding slowly, pouting his lips. “Yes, this is true. I have not ever been satisfied with Orlov. However, STAVKA did not expect any major naval actions and still does not. Orlov will stay. Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”
“No. I oversaw the theater as to the extent my abilities and command limitations allowed. My subordinates gave the campaign their best. My men fought and died to implement their necessarily inadequate plans. They struggled against the Turks, against the terrain, against the winter’s cold in the beginning and the summer’s heat now.”
Stalin nodded again, and smiled. “All right, thank you, Kuznetsov. You may go.”
As Kuznetsov stood up, saluted and turned to leave, Stalin called out to his back. “Oh, and Kuznetsov. Congratulations.”
Turning around, he looked quizzically at Stalin. “Congratulations?”
Stalin raised his eyebrow at Kuznetsov. “Congratulations indeed. Have you not heard?”
Congratulations indeed.
June 19, 1936
Kuznetsov strode down the empty corridors of the Kremlin, his footsteps echoing around the myriad of corners. As he walked, his mind raced down a dozen of the corridors he was bypassing on his walk, wondering what lay down them and whether his fate down any of them would be different from his fate if he kept to the path that had been set out for him, for Kuznetsov had been summoned back to Moscow by Stalin himself to answer for the Anatolian campaign and he did not know what to expect of the imminent meeting. He continued forging ahead down the ominous corridors, his mind reliving the moments when Kulik had come for him.
Kuznetsov had just completed planning for a new move into Gazientep when the door to his headquarters was thrown open. Kuznetsov and his subordinates had spun around in surprise, and Kuznetsov had almost expected a bullet in his chest immediately, though he did not know whether to expect it to be a Turkish one or a Soviet one. In the doorframe had stood one of the most hated and despised men in the entire Soviet Union: Lieutenant General Kulik. He had no skill, at all, not tactical, not strategic, not diplomatic, not political. He was merely fervently loyal to Genrikh Yagoda, the Chief of the NKVD. To Yagoda, this was his one saving grace: Kulik was his favored police general, even above Lieutenant General Mekhlis. Kuznetsov had understand why in that moment: filling the doorframe, with his shadow from the midday sun pointing straight toward Kuznetsov in a freak coincidence that almost appeared staged, Kulik had a certain brute presence that he imagined Mekhlis lacked, never having met the other man and hoping that he never would.
Kulik had followed his shadow, striding right over to face Kuznetsov as NKVD soldiers armed with PPSh’s had filed in and took up positions around the room. Kulik had stared hard at Kuznetsov for a moment, his eyes revealing the default conclusion his brain always reached: the man in front of him was guilty, very guilty. Roughly, he had grabbed a hold of Kuznetsov’s arm and dragged him out of the headquarters room, bundling him onto a transport plane for a direct flight to Moscow. Kuznetsov had been miserable during the flight; he was sure that his subordinated would be able to implement the plans, as they had literally just been completed when Kulik had arrived, but he had the distinct impression that the dozen NKVD soldiers sitting around were quite willing to put ten dozen bullets into his body should he even sneeze. Kuznetsov had tried to be as still as possible during the flight, which was disturbingly silent; there had not been any banter between the NKVD soldiers. Kuznetsov had wondered whether they were simply drained of all aspects of humanity or whether they were simply too in awe of being in the close presence of Kulik. Nevertheless, the flight thankfully ended and thus Kuznetsov found himself at the Kremlin striding down the empty corridors.
He didn’t believe they were empty, he was quite sure that at either end of the corridor was an NKVD sniper ready to shoot him should he deviate even a miniscule amount from the path that had been ordained for him. Nevertheless, they were devoid of all human activity beyond his walking, the cause of the ringing of his footsteps. As he finally neared the door to Stalin’s office, he took a deep breath. Something, or someone rather, had scuttled into a dark alcove and hid himself away as Kuznetsov approached; he guessed that he had been right about the snipers after all. Sighing slowly, he raised his hand to knock on the door when it opened in front of him.
Unnerved, he could only gasp and widen his eyes as Iosif Stalin, who was presenting a genial face, ushered him inside, pipe in hand. Kuznetsov meekly entered, his eyes darting around to attempt to discover if there was anyone else in the room. As far as he could see, it was merely him and Stalin. Kuznetsov gulped as the heavy door closed behind him, the soft noise sounding very loud in the stillness. Stalin meandered over to his desk, sitting down on the far side, before silently offering Kuznetsov a chair, still smiling. His eyes twinkled, though they somewhat frightened Kuznetsov, perhaps because of their twinkling. Kuznetsov, feeling light-headed, eagerly accepted Stalin’s offer of a seat and did his utmost not to simply collapse into it. Blood rushed to his head.
Putting his pipe in his mouth, Stalin folded his hands together and leaned forward on the desk, smiling. Slowly, he began to speak. “Kuznetsov, it has come to my attention that Tukhachevskij and Voroshilov had expected the conquest of Turkey in three months. It has now been significantly longer than this. A fourth month has passed by, and a fifth and by now most of a sixth as well. This is terribly disappointing; STAVKA’s strategic plans have been thrown awry by this delay. The recent German acquisition of Lithuania is proof enough of this; Lithuania should have been ours. What will you say in your defense to this, Kuznetsov?”
Kuznetsov swallowed hard. “My subordinates do not have their proper staffs; divisional commands were in control of corps and my corps command was controlling an entire theater. I must also draw attention to the fact that Vladimir M. Orlov, the Chief of Naval Staff, took a long time to process my request to utilize the Black Sea Fleet, which resulted in a delay. If I had had that fleet supporting me from the beginning, Istanbul would have fallen much earlier as the Turkish fleet could have been smashed, and earlier.”
Stalin looked off to one direction with his eyes as if in thought, nodding slowly, pouting his lips. “Yes, this is true. I have not ever been satisfied with Orlov. However, STAVKA did not expect any major naval actions and still does not. Orlov will stay. Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”
“No. I oversaw the theater as to the extent my abilities and command limitations allowed. My subordinates gave the campaign their best. My men fought and died to implement their necessarily inadequate plans. They struggled against the Turks, against the terrain, against the winter’s cold in the beginning and the summer’s heat now.”
Stalin nodded again, and smiled. “All right, thank you, Kuznetsov. You may go.”
As Kuznetsov stood up, saluted and turned to leave, Stalin called out to his back. “Oh, and Kuznetsov. Congratulations.”
Turning around, he looked quizzically at Stalin. “Congratulations?”
Stalin raised his eyebrow at Kuznetsov. “Congratulations indeed. Have you not heard?”
Congratulations indeed.
When you enter the Stalin's lair you will either exit with a red star on your chest or a red gunshot wound on your chest.
TaylorFlame: a bit, yeah. now he can look forward to garrison duty in Turkey
Erkki1: oh yes, long awaited...
4th Dimension: yes, precisely
comment day again!
Erkki1: oh yes, long awaited...
4th Dimension: yes, precisely
comment day again!
If I didn't know Stalin, I would say that he seems the most level-headed person in the Soviet leadership. Of course, I know better. You'll notice that Stalin smiled a lot. Never trust someone who smiles too much.
Finally, the annexation of Turkey. Took long enough.
Those Persians must be permanently brain dead. You just had you ass handed to you, get annexed, and then have the gall to call yourself soveriegn when foriegn troops still dominate your country. Gah, let the Iraqi's wait and blow the Persians back into the stone age.
Those Persians must be permanently brain dead. You just had you ass handed to you, get annexed, and then have the gall to call yourself soveriegn when foriegn troops still dominate your country. Gah, let the Iraqi's wait and blow the Persians back into the stone age.
VILenin: yes, possibly very true...
grayghost: haha, it would've been nice. I didn't do it, though. oh well
update coming up!
grayghost: haha, it would've been nice. I didn't do it, though. oh well
update coming up!
12 Kilometers northwest of Konotop
June 20, 1988
Nikifor shook his head, as much in dismay as to shake the cobwebs from his mind. Seeing, sitting and speaking with Arsenij Chafirov had brought many long forgotten memories back to the forefront of his mind. They had sat there on the train for several hours already, simply speaking of the days when they had been young, and foolish. They had spoken of the early maneuvers of their division, which Tukhachevskij had commandeered to test his concept of Deep Battle on the tactical level. Neither knew what the actual impact of the maneuvers on Tukhachevskij’s ideas was, such information did not trickle down to the ears of the grunts in the Soviet army. Instead, they merely knew that they had performed maneuvers throughout the winter and spring of 1935-1936 as, elsewhere, others were fighting and killing. And dying, they had admitted to each other soberly. Yet back then, they had been full of life, of vigor and of youthful naïveté. They had been enthusiastic in their service. Nikifor and Arsenij were sitting in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
Darting his eyes to his left, Nikifor looked at Arsenij from the corners of his eyes. Licking his lips, he opened his mouth to speak, but at the same time Arsenij too began speaking. Turning to each other, there was a flurry of abashed smiles as each invited the other to talk. Finally, Nikifor accepted the invitation. “Arsenij, do you remember that one June day, fifty-two years ago?”
Arsenij tilted his head and squinted his eyes at Nikifor. “Which one? June 19th, when we celebrated the annexation of Turkey as it was announced on the all the radios in every division? Or…?”
Nikifor nodded. “Yes, that day. What if you knew then what we know now, would you still have done it?”
“I don’t know. On one hand, my home was west of Mogilev. That would have placed me right in the way of the Belarusian NKVD District forces and I would have likely been conscripted on the spot if they had found me there. I would not have particularly wanted to take place on the murderous battles that they had taken part in.”
Nikifor simply had to laugh; it rolled out of him, heavy with irony and sorrow. “And those that we fought in were any better? Our division lost more than an entire NKVD corps combined. Besides, we eventually fought side by side with them.”
“No, of course not. They were worse.” Arsenij smiled sadly. “But I was with comrades I knew and trusted. Fighting with the NKVD units would have lead to almost certain death as they would have simply used me as a human shield, most likely. I would just be another target, rather than a soldier.”
Arsenij bit his lip before continuing. “I guess that, if I had known then what I do now, yes. Yes, I would do it.”
Nikifor nodded. “I fought with this same question myself. We had lost so many comrades, friends. But I can’t imagine the alternative being much better. Living north of Moscow, I would have either been sent right to the Reserve Front immediately, or would have lingered as a civilian, never knowing how the war was going until possibly called up to fight and, as you believe, probably die alongside unknown men.” He smiled sadly in his turn. “Besides, I would have hated to disappoint my friends and comrades. The spirit was one of enthusiasm, perhaps even joy. We believed that we would win any struggle, we believed ourselves to be invincible.”
Arsenij smiled turned grim. “But that was shattered in Belarus. We had trained for war, but it had always remained a maneuver on a mock battlefield. We did not participate in the battles in eastern Poland; we were not needed and remained to the rear. That had been our one chance to learn of what war was really like, but it had slipped us by and we faced the Germans believing it was some sort of game. A deadly game, but a game nonetheless.”
“How wrong we were. The list of casualties grew and grew; friends we had known and loved quickly populated the list, before they had realized that it was more than a game. An artillery shell, a bullet and they were gone before experience could help them. They were gone before the great battles.” Nikifor furtively glanced about before continuing. “God bless them. We missed the worst of it, of course, but nonetheless we had it very bad.”
“Nikifor, let’s return to speaking of happier times. It is such a bright, sunny day outside. There is no need to mar it with talk of the war when we can remember the happy days when we were excited about the invasion of Iraq even though we had no part in it. Let us speak of the times when we were at peace, even if there were others who were not. Days such as this deserve to know only peace. Too many of them had been blighted by war forty-six years ago.”
Nikifor nodded. “So true. Very well, Arsenij, let us speak of happier times. Once we are closer to Bialystok, then we may turn to speaking of the war. Though not all was happy in this time either.”
Sighing, Arsenij’s shoulders sagged. “No, not all was happy. But it was remote, and we did not feel much pain. I cannot understand how Voroshilov managed to keep his rank and, indeed, his position at STAVKA afterwards; he licked Stalin’s muddy boots to a shine, probably.”
Nikifor chuckled bitterly. “Yes, indeed. At least we have solace in that he never held another field command again and was replaced as soon as possible.”
Arsenij nodded quietly as Nikifor looked at him. “Arsenij, you know what? Despite everything, all the friends lost and the entire trauma, I am glad that we had all decided, fifty-two years ago, to stay with the army as professional soldiers. Even in our darkest moments, as our friends were dying around us, there had been hope.”
June 20, 1988
Nikifor shook his head, as much in dismay as to shake the cobwebs from his mind. Seeing, sitting and speaking with Arsenij Chafirov had brought many long forgotten memories back to the forefront of his mind. They had sat there on the train for several hours already, simply speaking of the days when they had been young, and foolish. They had spoken of the early maneuvers of their division, which Tukhachevskij had commandeered to test his concept of Deep Battle on the tactical level. Neither knew what the actual impact of the maneuvers on Tukhachevskij’s ideas was, such information did not trickle down to the ears of the grunts in the Soviet army. Instead, they merely knew that they had performed maneuvers throughout the winter and spring of 1935-1936 as, elsewhere, others were fighting and killing. And dying, they had admitted to each other soberly. Yet back then, they had been full of life, of vigor and of youthful naïveté. They had been enthusiastic in their service. Nikifor and Arsenij were sitting in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
Darting his eyes to his left, Nikifor looked at Arsenij from the corners of his eyes. Licking his lips, he opened his mouth to speak, but at the same time Arsenij too began speaking. Turning to each other, there was a flurry of abashed smiles as each invited the other to talk. Finally, Nikifor accepted the invitation. “Arsenij, do you remember that one June day, fifty-two years ago?”
Arsenij tilted his head and squinted his eyes at Nikifor. “Which one? June 19th, when we celebrated the annexation of Turkey as it was announced on the all the radios in every division? Or…?”
Nikifor nodded. “Yes, that day. What if you knew then what we know now, would you still have done it?”
“I don’t know. On one hand, my home was west of Mogilev. That would have placed me right in the way of the Belarusian NKVD District forces and I would have likely been conscripted on the spot if they had found me there. I would not have particularly wanted to take place on the murderous battles that they had taken part in.”
Nikifor simply had to laugh; it rolled out of him, heavy with irony and sorrow. “And those that we fought in were any better? Our division lost more than an entire NKVD corps combined. Besides, we eventually fought side by side with them.”
“No, of course not. They were worse.” Arsenij smiled sadly. “But I was with comrades I knew and trusted. Fighting with the NKVD units would have lead to almost certain death as they would have simply used me as a human shield, most likely. I would just be another target, rather than a soldier.”
Arsenij bit his lip before continuing. “I guess that, if I had known then what I do now, yes. Yes, I would do it.”
Nikifor nodded. “I fought with this same question myself. We had lost so many comrades, friends. But I can’t imagine the alternative being much better. Living north of Moscow, I would have either been sent right to the Reserve Front immediately, or would have lingered as a civilian, never knowing how the war was going until possibly called up to fight and, as you believe, probably die alongside unknown men.” He smiled sadly in his turn. “Besides, I would have hated to disappoint my friends and comrades. The spirit was one of enthusiasm, perhaps even joy. We believed that we would win any struggle, we believed ourselves to be invincible.”
Arsenij smiled turned grim. “But that was shattered in Belarus. We had trained for war, but it had always remained a maneuver on a mock battlefield. We did not participate in the battles in eastern Poland; we were not needed and remained to the rear. That had been our one chance to learn of what war was really like, but it had slipped us by and we faced the Germans believing it was some sort of game. A deadly game, but a game nonetheless.”
“How wrong we were. The list of casualties grew and grew; friends we had known and loved quickly populated the list, before they had realized that it was more than a game. An artillery shell, a bullet and they were gone before experience could help them. They were gone before the great battles.” Nikifor furtively glanced about before continuing. “God bless them. We missed the worst of it, of course, but nonetheless we had it very bad.”
“Nikifor, let’s return to speaking of happier times. It is such a bright, sunny day outside. There is no need to mar it with talk of the war when we can remember the happy days when we were excited about the invasion of Iraq even though we had no part in it. Let us speak of the times when we were at peace, even if there were others who were not. Days such as this deserve to know only peace. Too many of them had been blighted by war forty-six years ago.”
Nikifor nodded. “So true. Very well, Arsenij, let us speak of happier times. Once we are closer to Bialystok, then we may turn to speaking of the war. Though not all was happy in this time either.”
Sighing, Arsenij’s shoulders sagged. “No, not all was happy. But it was remote, and we did not feel much pain. I cannot understand how Voroshilov managed to keep his rank and, indeed, his position at STAVKA afterwards; he licked Stalin’s muddy boots to a shine, probably.”
Nikifor chuckled bitterly. “Yes, indeed. At least we have solace in that he never held another field command again and was replaced as soon as possible.”
Arsenij nodded quietly as Nikifor looked at him. “Arsenij, you know what? Despite everything, all the friends lost and the entire trauma, I am glad that we had all decided, fifty-two years ago, to stay with the army as professional soldiers. Even in our darkest moments, as our friends were dying around us, there had been hope.”
Hmm, a grim yet also hopeful recollection of the war from two of its veterans. Sounds like you take some hard hits in the early war on the Eastern Front (in Poland and Byelorussia) but manage to recover. I suppose we'll find out sooner or later.
Very, very intriguing. Reminescence between to veterans that tell of dark days and victory as well but give no hint to the final outcome. That was a great bit of storytelling. Hmmmm...reminds me of something you said to me once in my AAR.
"It tells so much and yet so little."
"It tells so much and yet so little."
VILenin: yup, eventually I know I'm going at a Robert Jordanian pace now, but events are speeding up and soon the years will be flying by as they'll get emptier of events to write about, until our war begins
grayghost: perfect
comment day again!
I know I'm going at a Robert Jordanian pace now, but events are speeding up and soon the years will be flying by as they'll get emptier of events to write about, until our war begins grayghost: perfect
comment day again!
Great update. It seems that it is Poland`s turn to join Cominter. Good luck with that, Germans won`t hesitate to grab a bit.
He doesn't mention how I actually had to fight Istanbul back from the greeks. He literally just dropped me a message in game, "Mind hitting Istanbul for me?" If it wasn't for my involvement, who knows how long it would have taken him to annex the country!
Discomb said:
So you helped him? Good job Discomb
.Nice updates Myth, looking forward to more
.