Chapter 10: The Straits are ours!
1 November 1939, home of Anastasia Petrova, Moscow
Comrades Petrova and Sokolov beamed at their little Stanislav. As a true proletarian, Petrova elected to keep her maiden name rather than take her husband’s. The story even featured prominently in an issue of
Moskovskaya Pravda. Thus, when they heard the knock on the door of their apartment, they assumed it was yet another well-wisher.
It was a well-wisher, but no ordinary well-wisher.
Anastasia could not hide her surprise. “Comrade Stalin! How kind of you to pay us a visit?”
Stalin picked up little Stanislav and smiled with genuine warmth. “A fine young Communist you have here, Anastasia Ivanova! I remember when Yasha was that age.”
Sokolov ventured a question: “How is Major Dzhugashvili these days?”
A little of Stalin’s warmth dissipated. “Your guess is as good as mine. I fear his rank has gone to his head; he is probably holding court right now in some bar, like a Tsarevich of old!” He clucked his tongue. “Anastasia Ivanova, I must borrow Feodor Vasilievich.”
Anastasia nodded her assent, and the two men adjourned to the study. Once the door was closed, Stalin turned to Sokolov, lighting his pipe. “Feodor Vasilievich, we have a problem.”
Sokolov kept his face neutral. “What problem is that, Comrade Stalin?”
Stalin took a few puffs, and then set down the pipe. “You know that my Vasily has gone to join the Air Force, yes?”
“I do, Comrade.”
“Good. My son wishes to be a bomber pilot, to follow his brother into glory. Of course, I approve. It is good for a boy to become a man, I think, in the crucible of war. Yet I had so hoped to place him… elsewhere.”
“Where might that be?”
“On Vatutin’s staff.”
Sokolov blinked. It was common knowledge, at least among the Politburo, that Vatutin was Stalin’s favorite and a possible successor to Tukhachevsky, should anything happen to him. “Oh?”
“Indeed, Comrade Sokolov. Marshal Vatutin has ascended very quickly, attaining a great deal of prestige and popularity. I am naturally pleased to see him doing so well, but I worry that, perhaps, he might lose sight of his true place here. He does have two wars to plan, after all, and a third one still ongoing.”
Sokolov nodded. Although he was increasingly involved in his own business as People’s Commissar for Justice, he remained an active-duty officer in the army, and thus was kept apprised of military planning, particularly as part of his duties on the SGO. “Ambitious plans, Comrade Stalin.”
Stalin smiled; not one trace of mirth was visible. “I quite agree, Comrade Sokolov. First, and I apologize for the delay, but let me be the first to congratulate you on being named a Marshal of the Soviet Union. You are long overdue for this promotion, and I can only assume that Marshals Tukhachevsky and Vatutin forgot to send in the paperwork earlier.”
Sokolov had expected, perhaps, a promotion to Colonel-General, but was absolutely stunned at the news he was being promoted all the way to Marshal. It was practically unheard of. “Thank you very much, Comrade Stalin!”
“You need not thank me; you have earned it with your tireless service to the Soviet Union. Marshal Sokolov, I would like you to take a more active interest in army affairs, as befits your rank. We do not want Comrade Vatutin becoming overworked, now do we?”
“No, Comrade Stalin. He is far too valuable.”
“Precisely, Marshal. Precisely.”
9 November 1939, Sevastopol
Vatutin was a little surprised and more than a little irritated when the order came, directly from Tukhachevsky’s office, requesting him to remain in Sevastopol to deal with a supply crisis while Admiral Kuznetsov was given overall command of the Turkish operation. Vatutin respected the Admiral, and indeed, the two of them had planned the invasion of Istanbul together.
Still, he had hoped to lead his men into battle, as he had conducted the extensive training for the operation personally. He was also surprised to hear of Sokolov’s promotion. He did not doubt Sokolov’s courage, but questioned the need to create another new Marshal. Vatutin had argued that Sokolov deserved a promotion, true, but not all the way to Marshal. Tukhachevsky had actually recommended that Sokolov officially retire from the Army to devote all of his time to running his own Commissariat.
Vatutin shook his head. Something very, very strange was going on. Not, of course, that Vatutin didn’t have plenty to do. In his spare time, he was drawing up preliminary plans for the defense of the Soviet Union, should the Fascists move quickly enough.
The conquest of Denmark – a brilliant strategic maneuver – allowed Germany complete control over the access to the Baltic Sea.
The British retaliated by occupying Iceland and Greenland, as a way to prevent a surprise invasion of the British Isles.
Vatutin, personally, didn’t think such an invasion likely, but that wasn’t his concern. What was his concern was the drastic supply shortages that appeared out of nowhere.
He’d had more than one panicked phone call from Zverev about supply distribution and production. Something had to be done, and soon, or the entire offensive would collapse.
23 November 1939, Istanbul
It had been the most difficult moment of Comrade Kamensky’s life, but it simply had to be done. Comrade Petrova agreed, which only made it worse: without assistance from another country, they could not guarantee the consistent flow of supplies necessary to give the army what it needed. Factories had been shifted to supply production, but that would take time. Something needed to happen in the short term.
Trading with Germany was only slightly more palatable than trading with Japan, in her estimation, but there was no other alternative. Now, for the first time in years, she found herself personally negotiating with a “foreign” government to ensure that stream of supplies remained open.
The conquest of Romania helped, of course, but it was really the liberation of Turkey from its imperialist regime that formally ended the crisis.
The Black Sea was open. Comrade Stalin personally made the radio address, proclaiming the straits of Constantinople (and that was the name he used) as “ours, finally.” He quickly added that by “ours” he meant “international Communism”, but everybody knew what he meant.
Kamensky, a fervent patriot, wished, for a split second, that Turkey had been formally annexed instead of merely “brought in line with Marxism-Leninism.” Her grandfather would have approved, no doubt. Yet this probably looked better to the international press. That mattered, she knew. It profoundly affected her ability to make trade negotiations.
The sound of trucks startled her, briefly. What was going on? She stopped a driver in the convoy to ask for information.
“We are off to Bulgaria, Comrade Kamensky, to bring the same socialist freedom to our brother Slavs that the Turk now enjoys.”
She merely nodded, let the driver pass, and returned to one more mind-numbing page of statistics.
1 January 1940, Moscow
Vatutin was furious. He knew that he shouldn’t care about matters as “bourgeois” as personal honor, but damn it, the Bulgarian
maskirovka had been his idea, not Kuznetsov’s. Nikolai Gerasimovich had, to his credit, tried to decline the medal. Hero of the Soviet Union was something to be treasured, not handed over as part of a political game. But there it was: although it had been Vatutin that had created the plan sending the mountain troops pouring into Bulgaria, taking the enemy in the flank, it was Kuznetsov who got the reward as “field commander for Black Sea Operations.”
Vatutin’s “logistical wizardry” had been trumpeted by Stalin as well, but that was all. No acknowledgement of the weeks of careful planning that had gone into the operation. Just recognition for his supply work.
The defeat of Turkey and opening of the Black Sea only increased the number of recruits and amount of funding that the Red Navy received.
Tukhachevsky stood at rigid attention, saluting Kuznetsov, as the medal was pinned on his chest. Vatutin could not help but do the same. Their glances met, and they shared a wry smile.
At least I’m not Vlassov, the smile said. The poor General was blamed for the supply shortage (and Vatutin had to admit that Vlassov had been less than stellar at the job) and given command over an NKVD division, so that he could put down the Finnish uprising.
Vatutin then looked at Marshal Sokolov. The Marshal, too, saluted. Vatutin winced as he saw Sokolov salute with his prosthetic hand, immediately feeling remorse that he had ever doubted Sokolov. He nodded, ever so slightly, and Sokolov returned it.
The last person Vatutin looked at was Stalin. Lieutenant and Major Dzhugashvili sat next to him, both looking decidedly uncomfortable. All of a sudden, Stalin turned to look directly at Vatutin. The ceremony itself had just concluded, and everybody was applauding. As Vatutin joined in, he heard the faintest whisper at his shoulder.
“Remember, thou art mortal.”
Vatutin turned to see Molotov directly behind him.
Two bonus pics I couldn’t quite work into the story.
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Hope you enjoyed it!
