Come into my Parlour (25 page)

Having thanked him for his kindness on parting, Gregory lunched in the Press Section Mess and afterwards retired with Kuporovitch to their office,

“You know, Stefan,” he said, tilting back his chair and putting his feet up on his desk, “we're not getting anywhere.”

The Russian raised his black eyebrows. “Did you expect to, my friend, so quickly? These matters take time.”

“Of course,” Gregory shrugged impatiently. “It's not that. The trouble is that we're not going to work the right way. That little General was nice as pie this morning, and he gave me all the information I could decently ask for about several bunches of stalwart hayseeds who were going off quite cheerfully to give their lives for old Mother Russia; but what have I got out of it? Damn all. What is more, just before I left him he said a mouthful. He told me that if he fixed up for me to visit similar depots in other cities I'd see exactly the same sort of thing, so I'd simply be wasting my time. If they let me go I wouldn't see the same sort of thing, of course. At least, not quite. The chaps I was shown were trained reservists recalled to the colours. One could see that with half an eye. Whereas out in the Provinces the intakes would be mainly raw material. But that's neither here nor there. I
want to know how many of these birds can be trained
and
equipped in the whole of Russia during the next six months, and no amount of snooping round regimental depots is going to give me that.”

“
Mon vieux,
” Kuporovitch protested, “if you visited the Headquarters of the Sussex Fusiliers in England, would you expect to find your Adjutant-General there to give you the figures of the British Army's potential for nineteen-forty-two?”

“Damn it, Stefan, no. But Alyabaiev is one of the Russian A.G.'s people, and quite a high-up. I thought it an incredibly lucky break to have got on to a man like that so quickly. Having tried him out with chicken-feed questions I went on quite smoothly to the wider problems of mobilising, training, and equipping huge numbers of men, but he didn't seem to know anything about that at all. Of course, he may have been covering up. Security is pretty good in Britain, these days, and it's probably even better here in Russia, where people who wag their tongues too much are liable to get a bullet in the mouth. But I definitely formed the impression that he had no idea at all what was going on outside Moscow, He just shrugged his shoulders and said: ‘Every man in Russia will fight and every woman too. We shall draw on them as we need them as long as there is one living enemy on Russian soil.' Well, that's fine, but it doesn't give an inkling of how many Divisions they hope to have under arms by Christmas, and if a General of Alyabaiev's standing doesn't know that how the hell are we going to find anyone who does?”

Kuporovitch smiled. “It is, as I have often told you before, that Russia is different from other countries. In Britain, France, and the United States, thousands of people have a say in the running of affairs. Every new policy is explained to the public and argued out in the Chambers of Representatives and in the Press. In peacetime everyone who desires it has ready access to a mass of information about their fighting services, and even in wartime all officers of a fair seniority can form a reasonably good appreciation of the extent to which their services are being expanded. But it is not like that here.”

He lit a cigarette and went on: “The Russian people are told nothing, except what their rulers require them to do. The Supreme Council, which is elected from all the other so-called Councils of People's Commissars, does not mean a thing. It is simply a megaphone to announce the decisions of the little Camorilla that really runs the country. This is composed of three small Committees—the Secretariat, the Polit-Bureau and the Organisational Bureau. Stalin and a few others have seats on all three of them, but the total membership numbers only sixteen. The real truth about what goes on in Russia,
the actual progress of the Five-Year Plans, her relations with foreign States, the strength and condition of her fighting services, her secret aspirations and future intentions, have, for years past, been known only to this small handful of men; so, although it may seem strange to you, it is really quite natural that a man like Alyabaiev should have very little idea of his country's military resources.”

“But surely the General Staff must know about such things.” Gregory argued. “How, if they don't, can they possibly hope to run a war successfully?”

“The Marshals would know,” Kuporovitch conceded, “and a few of their personal staff officers would get a glimpse of the big picture—but no more. You see, Russia is ninety times the size of England, Scotland and Wales together, so it is possible, and from the dictatorship point of view desirable, to run it in watertight compartments. A dozen different Generals are, no doubt, now raising and training armies each bigger than those of say, Holland or Sweden, in various parts of the Soviet Union, but this little group in the Kremlin alone knows what their efforts will all add up to. Believe me, Gregory, that is so. As a General myself I have held many commands, but never was I allowed to know a single thing about policy, plans or resources that did not concern me personally.”

Gregory grinned. “I must confess that I thought you were just being pessimistic when you've said this sort of thing before. It seems, though, that I owe you an apology.”

“Forget it,
mon ami
. I am only distressed that there is so little help that I can give you; but I have always felt that this task is one which should have been given to the head of your Military Mission, and not to a private individual.”

“That would not have filled Sir Pellinore's bill, because he wanted an entirely independent report. Still, say General Mason Mac had been charged with the job, what could he have done that he won't certainly have done already—namely, ask in the most diplomatic language for any information that his opposite numbers care to give him as to what future defence lines are now being prepared and what resources are likely to be available to man them. You know, as well as I do, that they won't tell him anything, or, if they do, it will have no relation to the truth.”

Kuporovitch's lazy blue eyes showed a slight animation as he leaned forward and tapped the table. “That may well be, but your General will at least have the chance of meeting some of the Marshals; then, just between good friends when a bottle or two of vodka has been drunk, he might get something off the record.”

“Then it all boils down to getting hold of one of these twenty-odd
top boys. You're convinced that is the only way in which we can get the information we require?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you know any of these big shots personally?”

“I have never met any of the political leaders, but I have served under most of the Marshals—Budenny, Yegerov, Blücher and, as you know, Voroshilov was my friend and protector for many years.”

“Budenny is in the field commanding the Southern group of armies, Blücher is watching the Japs in the Far East and Voroshilov is boxed up in Leningrad; so they are all ungetatable. How about Yegerov?”

“I haven't the faintest idea where he is. He may be dead now for all I know. Hundreds of high officers were executed for complicity in the Tukachevsky conspiracy years after it happened, and I had heard nothing of Yegerov for a long time before I left Russia, so he may quite well have been implicated by some belated confession, and duly eliminated.”

“Then, by hook or by crook, we must get to the headquarters of one of the others. As Voroshilov was a personal friend of yours, he is obviously far and away the best bet.”

Kuporovitch grunted. “He
was
my friend, but Clim is not the sort of man to look kindly on a deserter. If I walked into his office tomorrow the odds are that he'd shout for a firing squad to have me shot.”

“If you could stay his hand for the first five minutes you'd be all right,” Gregory replied. “He may be impetuous by nature, but he is quick to grasp a situation and very reasonable to talk to. At least, that's how he struck me when I met him in Finland.”

“You were then passing as a German, under the name of Colonel Baron von Lutz,” Kuporovitch remarked.

“That's true; so his first instinct would be to have me shot too, if I suddenly bob up again flourishing a British passport.”

For a moment they sat silent, then Kuporovitch stubbed out his cigarette and said: “You are right about Voroshilov being the best bet; not because he was once my friend, but because, Stalin apart, he could give you more accurate information than any other man in Russia. As Commissar for Defence and Supreme Commander of all the Soviet fighting forces it was he who laid down Russia's programme of re-armament and finally settled our strategy in the event of a war with Germany. Moreover, he is the only Marshal who has a seat on any of the three key Committees that control the destinies of the U.S.S.R. However, to see him we shall have to get to Leningrad, and since it is now besieged that will not be easy. If we succeed in that, the chances are that, in a besieged city, our British passports will not be the slightest protection and he will have us both shot. Even if he does
not, the odds against his talking freely to either of us about Russia's resources and strategy are simply fantastic. On the other hand, if you kick your heels here till doomsday I am convinced that you will learn nothing of the least value, so if you really feel that you should take on this outrageous gamble, I'll go to Leningrad with you.”

Gregory took his feet off the desk and leaning forward, laid a hand on the Russian's shoulder.

“You marvellous old devil,” he smiled, giving his friend an affectionate little shake. “All right. We'll both gamble our necks against British arms for Russia. Let's go to Leningrad.”

“I wonder if we shall have great difficulty in getting through to Leningrad now?” said Gregory after a moment.

Kuporovitch shrugged. “The German wedge that has curved round the city is, I should think, already too deep for parties still to be attempting to slip through it, except as an emergency measure, but Russia is holding her own in the air. Of course, the risk of running into German fighters and being shot down must be much greater than we found it when flying through the Med, because it is certain that the Nazis will have strong concentrations of the Luftwaffe in the neighbourhood of the city for their siege operations; still, that's a risk which must be accepted. The real trouble will be to persuade the authorities to give us permits for our journey and seats in an aircraft.”

“I've no doubt Alyabaiev could fix it for us, if only we could think of a sufficiently cogent reason for wanting to go there. It is a pity we are not posing as military correspondents, as then we'd be able to plead a desire to report the siege.”

“I don't agree. I think our best hope of getting there is the very fact that we are not supposed to be concerned with military affairs, except in so far as they impinge on the health and general well-being of the people. The authorities have not yet allowed your war correspondents to go anywhere near the front, so it is most unlikely that they would let them go to besieged Leningrad.”

“That's true, but I wonder why? Perhaps they think some of their Generals are mucking things up, and they don't want any foreigners to see their blunders—let alone report them. Von Rundstedt is certainly making rings round old Budenny in the South and I suppose it is only a matter of weeks before Voroshilov will be compelled to surrender.”

Kuporovitch shook his bullet head. “You are wrong there. At least, as far as Clim is concerned. Semyon Budenny, as I've told you before, was one of my sergeants in the days before the Revolution. When the trouble came he saved me from being murdered by the hotheads in the regiment, and it was owing to that I willy-nilly lined up
with the Bolsheviks. Naturally I've a great personal regard for him, but I know his limitations. He is a fine cavalry leader, popular with the men, pig-headed and courageous, but mentally he is still a Sergeant of Dragoons, and he has not the brains to conduct the operations of a great modern army. But Clim Voroshilov—
sapristi!
—Clim is very different.”

“Why? He was only a mechanic. As a young man he even evaded his military service. He became a General only because he had the gift of the gab, and at a time of crises one of the Soldiers and Workmen's Councils elected him to be their leader overnight.”

“True, true, but what a leader he became! That was in the spring of nineteen-eighteen, when the Germans held much more of the Ukraine than they do now. The Red Army had fallen to pieces. There was no command; no plan. He insisted that they must elect one man to be their General and give him implicit obedience. He was utterly amazed when they elected him. The Germans were pressing on from the north and west; to the south and east the country was held by General Krasnov's White Cossacks. The position seemed utterly hopeless, but he took the job on.

“He ordered all the scattered bands of Bolsheviks to concentrate on the great railway centre of Lugansk. There, he collected scores of trains, loaded them with munitions and the civilian population, which he refused to leave behind; and, Heaven alone knows how, managed to fight off the enemy all the time he was organising that huge convoy. Then he began to move east in an attempt to cut through the White Army to Stalingrad, or Tzaritsyn as they called it then, which was still in the hands of the Reds. After ninety days and nights of unceasing battle he reached his goal. By sheer will-power, organising ability and indomitable courage, he succeeded in conveying thirty-five thousand non-combatant refugees across seven hundred miles of enemy territory and bringing five hundred trains, with a great store of munitions, and fifteen thousand fighting men to the relief of Stalingrad.”