Chapter 15: You are millions; we are multitudes, and multitudes, and multitudes.
4 August 1940, Pecs, Hungary
Four brigades. The 4th Hungarian Rifles had four brigades to their credit. Hungary had joined with the Third Reich for two major reasons: first, there were some nationalists who still lusted after Transylvania, but second, and more importantly, collaboration was preferable to occupation or, worse still, annexation. That did not make Hungary an enthusiastic member of the Axis, and privately Admiral Horthy and his government had hoped no Hungarian troops would see action.
His hopes would be in vain. The Soviet annexation of Romania had brought Hungarians in close contact with Russians on a somewhat regular basis, and copies of
Pravda quite frequently made their way across the border. The latest edition, which was from the previous day, was very different from any other those Hungarians who spoke Russian had read before.
Hitler, the master propagandist, wasted no time in issuing his own statement, calling for a union of all the peoples of the world against the Bolshevik menace: it was the Teutonic destiny to defend the world, whether it wanted to be defended or not, against aggression from sub-humans.
The average private in the 4th Hungarian Rifles had no ideological perspective. They just wanted to finish their terms as conscripts and return home. One corporal opined that there must be something to this idea of a Nazi attack on the Soviets: his cousin, who was married to an American financier, had reported that the American President had agreed to lend old materiel to the Soviet Union in exchange for bases on Soviet soil.
The lieutenant in charge of the platoon checked his pocket watch – a family heirloom, tarnished with age.
9:00 PM. About time to post the night watch. Before he could make his way to the guard posts, however, one of the picket men ran past, screaming in terror. The lieutenant shouted a couple of times, but the poor farm boy just kept running.
The lieutenant waved to his platoon, and made for a small hill. He turned to the sergeant, asking for the binoculars. The sergeant simply stood, mouth agape. The lieutenant took the binoculars out of the sergeant’s hand. He did not need them to see the Red Army. At last, the lieutenant understood.
Four Hungarian brigades sat at the border town of Pecs. They were opposed by 11 divisions – almost three full corps – of the finest tank troops the Soviets had to offer. They were outnumbered ten to one. The lieutenant felt almost a shameful joy as he saw the General of the 4th Hungarian Rifles make his way to the Soviet command post. They would surrender without a fight, avoiding all casualties.
They were one of the only divisions that day to make any such claim.
6 August 1940, off the coast of German Pomerania
Captain Third Rank Stepan Stepanovich Novoseltsev, newly promoted with the announcement of Plokhoy Volk, had been given command of the
Communist, part of the 14th Submarine Flotilla. He was a seasoned sailor, beginning his naval career as an enlisted man on a Caspian Sea gunboat during the Russian Civil War. He joined the Communist Party before October, one of the few naval officers presently serving in the Red Fleet who could make such a claim. His political credentials were so impeccable that he’d spent most of the past 18 years as a political instructor and party agitator. He attended the Naval Academy as quickly as he could, and enjoyed steady advancement before the opening of war with Finland.
As a Captain Lieutenant, he was the Executive Officer for the
Communist when it sunk three freighters in the course of a single seven day patrol. Although naval activity had not been overly important in the subsequent military activities of the Soviet Union since that day, his reliability and skill earned him command of his own ship. From what the Officer of the Day was telling him, he could soon add another ship or two to his resume.
“Senior Lieutenant, what is the range to target?”
“4000 meters, Comrade Captain.”
“Very good. You may fire when –“
“Wait, Comrade Captain! There’s more than one! It’s…”
“It’s what, Lieutenant?”
“It’s an entire transport convoy. There are no escorts!”
Captain Novoseltsev was thunderstruck. “None?”
“No, Comrade Captain!”
The Captain mulled the decision over. 4000 meters was a difficult shot with his new torpedo crew, but doable. Yet why settle for a few torpedo shots, when they were within range of his deck gun? If there really were no escorts…
“Radio the other elements of the flotilla. We will surface and engage with the gun. Those fascist pigs will regret the day they attacked our Motherland!”
The entire transport convoy was gone in a matter of minutes. So close to shore, the Germans were able to swim to land.
13 August 1940, Szigetvar, Hungary
The Commander of 1st Shock Army, G. K. Zhukov, unrolled the map of his sector of the war.
Zhukov smiled ferociously. Budapest was within range of his advance elements, as was Debrecen and Szombathely. He’d heard rumors that when fighting the Germans, the Red Army had been in for some very tough fights – Memel was one of the most contested areas so early in the war – but his own Army had very little problems rolling over the outgunned, outmanned, and outmaneuvered Hungarians. Equally, the Mountain Divisions farther to the south saw very little oppositions in the Italian Army.
Only the Germans presented any sort of real challenge, in his view, but that wasn’t Zhukov’s worry. If Plokhoy Volk worked perfectly, the Odessa Front would take Berlin while the Western Front kept the Germans occupied. From a purely strategic perspective, it would be nice to drive the Germans out of Poland first, but as long as the Nazis surrendered, it didn’t matter.
He took a moment to savor the glory. His battle hardened warriors moved faster and faster each day, it seemed. Comrade Stalin had personally addressed the 1st Shock Army in a radio speech earlier that day, praising them for their courage and fortitude against the puppets of the Hitlerites.
Who could stop the Red Army?
16 August 1940, near Danzig, Germany
Captain Second Rank Novoseltsev went from a submarine commander to a flotilla commander in less than two weeks, thanks in large part to Vice Admiral Tributs. Tributs had actually requested permission to make Novoseltsev Captain First Rank, but Admiral of the Fleet Kuznetsov had laughed good-naturedly, saying that Novoseltsev would almost certainly have plenty of other opportunities, and if they promoted him too quickly, he would outrank Kuznetsov in two months!
Such praise from the Admiral of the Fleet made Stepan Stepanovich beam with pride. The 17th Submarine Flotilla was yet another measure of Vice Admiral Tributs’ favor, as it had the newest equipment in the Baltic Fleet. Not everything was new, though – that eagle eyed Senior Lieutenant (now a Captain Lieutenant) came along with him, and he once again was on duty.
“Comrade Captain, I just spotted something!”
“Another helpless transport convoy, I hope, Comrade Lieutenant.”
“Better.”
Now, he had the Captain Second Rank’s full attention. “What do you mean?”
“
Tirpitz.”
Novoseltsev had to act quickly. He ran to the aft of the boat as quickly as possible and picked up the radio set. In less than a minute he had Admiral Tributs.
“Comrade Admiral, my lookout spotted
Tirpitz. They can’t see us yet – there’s a bit of a fog.”
“Well done indeed, Comrade Captain! Any escorts?”
“I don’t know, Comrade Admiral.”
“Do not engage just yet, then. I will radio back in twenty minutes.”
Nineteen minutes later, a quick poll of the other submarine flotillas revealed the presence of a division of destroyers. Tributs ordered all units to dive and engage with a salvo of torpedoes; everyone who had range was to fire on
Tirpitz; the destroyers were purely secondary targets.
Novoseltsev smiled. He most certainly had the best range on
Tirpitz.
19 August 1940, Budapest, Hungary
General Ponedelin never smiled. Some of his men feared him for that; others preferred to fear him for his well-deserved reputation as a harsh taskmaster. Ponedelin brooked no disagreement from any of his inferiors, whether he was right or wrong. He carried out his orders meticulously, and expected nothing less from his subordinates.
Yet he was not a fool. He would not have been given the assignment of attacking Budapest had he been one.
He knew that his tanks would have a difficult time getting through the city streets, so he decided to try something a little unconventional; he would wait until it got dark, then very slowly and quietly approach the city. Once everything was in position, he’d order the assault.
23 August 1940, Trieste, Italy
Far away from the dramatic breakthroughs and spectacular victories in Hungary (the Battle of Budapest had fewer than 500 casualties, combined) was the Italian front. Seeing that the Red Army was a force to be reckoned with, the German High Command had sent some of their finest officers and troops to bolster Mussolini’s regime. General von Forster was one such commander, and he led the 7th Infantry Division with skill and tenacity.
Von Forster was a veteran of the Spanish Civil War, where he had worked closely with Italian commanders, making him a natural choice to lead the joint defense of Trieste. Trieste was a valuable port and one of the few airbases that could scramble fighters to help defend Hungary without risking the German machines needed for the defense of Poland and assault on France.
Opposing von Forster were the handpicked Mountain Divisions of Marshal Vatutin. They were experienced in fighting without the benefit of heavy machinery; Italy was not a priority for Plokhoy Volk, so troops that could get a lot done without support were highly prized. General Khrulev was the kind of man that often got such assignments.
There was one other factor motivating von Forster, personally. His youngest son was a Lieutenant on the
Tirpitz. The pride of the German fleet had not been sunk by the cowardly submarine attack, but the damage was severe, as were the casualties. Lieutenant von Forster was taking a nap in his bunk when the torpedo struck; there wasn’t enough of him left to bury. His father vowed revenge. He would take no prisoners.
2 September 1940, Leningrad
Marshals Tukhachevsky and Vatutin were not natives of Leningrad, yet both were fond of the Soviet Union’s “second city”. Tukhachevsky wondered if perhaps that was because the General Secretary was not. While Comrade Stalin had showered praise and glory upon the conquerors of Persia and Hungary, it had taken a Herculean effort to convince him not to make examples of the “cowards of Memel”.
The Western Front had done nothing but take casualties and retreat since the beginning of Plokhoy Volk. One particular attack by the Germans threatened to break the Soviet line; the response had been a cautious suggestion by a very junior member of the Leningrad Central Party Committee to consider relocating some of the more vulnerable industry. Nobody had seen him since he made the suggestion.
As they shared a glass of vodka in silence, both Vatutin and Tukhachevsky let their thoughts drift. For Vatutin, the conquest of Persia was a personal triumph, and had for the moment, at least, put him back above Sokolov in the Kremlin’s hierarchy.
The Soviet Union’s southern border was now completely secure, unless the Japanese somehow overran India. His Mountain Divisions in Italy were equally effective, although the casualties had been horrendous – in the battle of Trieste, for example, over 1700 Soviet troops were killed. In comparison to Debrecen, the final battle of the Hungarian campaign, that was a bloodbath.
The cautious approach of General Ponedelin won at Budapest, but it was pure aggression that defeated Hungary for the final time at Debrecen.
The next phase was to defeat Slovakia, then to concentrate in force at the southern extremity of the Third Reich, in Austria and Bavaria.
While Vatutin worked out operational patterns in his head, Tukhachevsky had his own concerns. He had staked much on “deep battle”, a variation of the Brusilov offensives from the World Imperialist War. Yet his tankists could not get any purchase against the German divisions. Tukhachevsky, more than most, had every motivation to see a Soviet victory in Poland. His public disagreements with Stalin in 1920 and 1921 had nearly cost him his neck, if not for Trotsky’s personal intervention and his own performance at Kronstadt.
Vatutin and Tukhachevsky looked at each other for a moment, smiled wryly, and finished their drinks.
11 September 1940, Moscow
Stalin sat back in his favorite chair in the Politburo chambers, alone. He refilled his pipe, lit it, and closed his eyes. The triumph he’d experienced a few short days ago would last him for quite a long while, and he wanted to let it wash over him.
He was not thinking of the Soviet defeat of Slovakia – that had hardly been a true test of arms, after all.
Nor was it the news that the Italians were running. Vatutin’s precious Mountain Divisions continued to prove their worth in battle. Well, good for him.
Nor was it even Hitler’s attempts to make political capital over their “glorious triumph” over the mighty army of Luxembourg.
The fact was, the Germans were quite close to Paris, and getting closer. No, it was an altogether more personal triumph that had Stalin in such a good mood.
Trotsky should have picked a different enemy, if he wanted to live. Pleased at his own humor, he laughed silently for about two solid minutes.
Little he did know that an aide waited just outside the Politburo chambers; the Soviet and Japanese Armies were clashing for the first time near the border with Manchukuo.
The next part will be up Monday or perhaps Tuesday. See you then!