Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (3 page)

Camerone Day celebrated the lost battle of Camerone, named for a hacienda in Mexico, where sixty-five legionnaires resisted a force of nearly three thousand Mexican soldiers.

It, above all other Legion battles, had created the mystique that surrounded the unit from that day forward.

The commander on the day, a Captain Jean Danjou, was killed early on in the battle, but his false wooden hand was subsequently found, and became the subject of veneration each Camerone Day, when the icon, the symbol of the Legion’s fighting spirit against all odds, was paraded in front of ranks of legionnaires.

The honour of holding the icon and marching with it in front of assembled legion units was a singular one, an honour that had once been afforded to the long dead Vernais, tortured to death in front of Brumath.

Normally, the most precious item in the Legion’s inventory remained safely within the confines of its headquarters but, as most of the Legion was in the field in Germany, the Camerone Day parade was being held in a large open green space on the north bank of the Eder River.

Every Legion unit in the French First Army had a representative section present, the main guard being mounted by men of the 1st Régiment Étrangère D’Infanterie.

The Legion Corps D’Assaut group was led by a proud Lavalle, the mix of ex-SS and long-service Legionnaires blending seamlessly into one group, and into the parade in general.

It had been too much to expect one of the new German contingent to be included in the direct parading of Danjou’s hand, but it was a source of celebration and immense pride that Haefali had been honoured with command of the parade, and the singular honour of carrying the sacred relic had been granted to a Marseille-born Legion Caporal-chef from the Alma, and command of the honour guard given to Oscar Durand, Lieutenant in the 1st Régiment de Marche.

There was even a small honorary squad comprising members of the 16th US Armored Division, until recently a solid member of the Legion Corps, their tank being one of two on parade that day.

The other vehicle was the only noticeable singularly German contribution to proceedings.

The 16th’s Sherman M4A3E8 led the way, followed closely by the noisier and larger Tiger Ie.

Only a day beforehand, a Legion tank crew had been assembled at the repair facility and presented with their vehicle, lovingly restored by cannibalism from wrecks found across the battlefields, or by manufacturing those pieces that escaped detection.

Each of the five men wept as Walter Fiedler, the workshops officer, presented them with the repaired heavy tank...

...Lohengrin.

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Camarón]

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Danjou]

1100 hrs, Wednesday, 1st May, 1946, Red Square, Moscow, USSR, and the Oval Office, Washington DC, USA.

Stalin stood upright and proud amongst the political and military leadership of the Soviet Union, as large bodies of troops and vehicles swept past, the traditional ‘urrahs’ launched from thousands of enthusiastic throats.

It was an impressive display, that fact more appreciated by the hierarchy than the multitude of citizens gathered for the traditional International Workers’ Day parade, who saw nothing unexpected about the standard huge display of Soviet military might.

For the citizenry it was as impressive as ever but, in reality, it was an illusion.

The participants had been stripped from internal commands, soldiers on leave, those recuperating from wounds; anything that could drive, stand, or march was on parade.

The Soviet war machine was nowhere near the powerful all-conquering monster it had been the previous year.

Of course, all received rapturous receptions. T-34m46’s, with thicker armour and adapted to take the 100mm, T-44’s similarly armed, followed by a phalanx of one hundred and twenty IS-III battle tanks, decked out as a Guards formation, the assembled citizenry appreciated all as clear indicators of continued Soviet military superiority. Had they known the real truth, and not consumed their spoon-fed daily bulletins comprising specifically edited reports of fighting in the frontline, they may have felt differently.

The fly past of Red Air Force regiments was extremely impressive.

The political decision to retain the majority of new and replacement aircraft, depriving the front line units solely to ensure sufficient numbers were on display on May Day, had been heavily contested by the military contingent, but to no avail.

More importantly to the hierarchy, the large numbers of aircraft were also there to protect them from any Allied attempt to disrupt the Soviet showpiece.

None the less, the new jets were impressive, although those with experience would have noticed the gaps in formation left by the three that had failed to take off, one drastically so, smashing back into the runway and spreading its experienced regimental commander across the airfield.

The captured V2s, now in their new Soviet green, red, and white livery, were also impressive, although virtually useless for anything but fooling civilians.

Almost unnoticed, four large football-like shapes, huge bombs carried on Red Air Force vehicles, passed by, their arrival and departure overshadowed by more jets and the very latest in Soviet technological advances; the IS-IV heavy battle tank and ISU-152-45, once known as Obiekt 704, brought to fruition for the heavy tank and tank destroyer brigades in Europe.

Almost unnoticed, the four mock-up representations of the pumpkin bomb found on the crashed B-29, left the square, and were immediately surrounded by a heavily armed contingent of NKVD troops.

Almost unnoticed, but not quite...

As the Marshal climbed the steps to the top of Lenin’s Mausoleum, his heart protested, reaching and exceeding its point of toleration before he reached the top.

Zhukov, panting and eyes screwed up with pain, collapsed heavily.

“So that’s that then. We’ve batted this around for months in anticipation of this moment, and we’re still doing it now.”

Truman wasn’t scolding, just trying to draw a line under matters so they could progress.

The conversations still went on around him.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen... please.”

The four other men settled down in silence, looking at the chief executive in anticipation.

“One final word... a sentence or two, no more. George?”

The outsider, George C. Marshall, Chief of Staff of the US Army, spoke in considered fashion.

“The scientists assure us of no consequences globally. It
will
save thousands of American boy’s lives. No brainer for me, Sir.”

“Thank you. Jimmy?”

Acting Secretary of State James S. Byrnes was slightly more animated.

“Sir, I support delay. Offer them the Mikado, lessen the terms, and they will fold. Blockade and conventional bombing will stop them. Soviet support is of little consequence to them now.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. James?”

“I agree with Jimmy. We can still come back to this solution, but offer up the Mikado, and I see them collapsing. As stated, Soviet support counts for nothing now... in fact, I’ve been thinking that it might work in our favour.”

“How so?”

It was Marshall that posed the question and, surprisingly, it was Truman that answered it.

“They’ve been raised up, and now they’re back down lower than a rattler’s belly.”

Marshall nodded his understanding.

“Thank you, James.”

Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy, settled back into the comfortable couch.

“Henry? This is your baby.”

“I’d have it in the air right now, Sir. Yes, the Nips might fold, but then, they might not. They’ll fold once the weapon is deployed. Also, as I’ve said before, the use may be enough to guarantee this world’s future.”

“Thank you, Henry.”

Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War, even though he had trotted out his position before, wanted to say so much more.

He wanted to say that this weapon could make war obsolete, solely by its use, so awful as its use would be, therefore demonstrating that future wars could hold no advantages for aggressors.

Actually, no advantages for anyone.

He wanted to say that its use would end the Japanese war now; not in a year’s time, but now.

He wanted to say that the forces freed up by this act would help defeat the Soviets all the quicker.

He wanted, God, how he wanted to resign and walk away from the pressures of government, his body announcing its displeasure at his continued exposure on almost a daily basis.

Most of all he wanted the whole goddamn war to be over, and that meant using more bombs; lots more.

Thus far, the notion of deploying them on the Soviet Homeland had been avoided, sidestepped, even ignored.

Military minds saw advantages in spades, and almost no problems, but the political considerations were many, from whose air space the bombers would fly over, where the bombers would be based, guarantees from scientists that there would be no repercussions to basic objections on moral grounds.

But Stimson understood that to defeat the Soviets, they would have to demonstrate to them the idiocy of further aggression, and that was best done, at least initially, by exterminating an area of the Japanese home islands.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Give me a moment.”

Truman rose and moved to the window, taking in the view across the well-kept grass, noting the gardeners hard at work.

‘Not a care in the world.’

He laughed perceptibly, but unintentionally.

He stared hard at an old man deadheading a flower stand, and sent his silent message through his eyes.

‘Care to swap?’

The work continued, his offer unheard.

‘Very wise, sir… very wise.’

“Gentlemen...I’ve made my decision. The mission is a go.”

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