November 18th, 1939.
General Georgi Zhukov felt sick.
As the staff car trundled towards Tukhachevsky’s new HQ at Babryusk, Zhukov’s driver Piotr, looked at him in his rear-view mirror.
“Comrade General, should I slow down some more?”
“No Piotr, if we go any slower we’ll never get there. I’ll be fine, it’s just ’the treatment’ doing this to me.”
“The Comrade Field Marshal is still as thirsty as ever?” ventured Piotr, with a smile.
At this, the queasy Zhukov managed a laugh, “Yes Piotr, Tukhachevsky could still drink the Neva dry, if it flowed with Vodka. He has the constitution of an ox!”
’The Treatment’ was a method used by Russians to line their stomach before a serious bout of drinking. It involved eating around 500g of pure butter to line the stomach.
Zhukov was looking forward to seeing his old friend Mikhael Nikolayevich Tukhachevsky. Officially the meeting had been set up for senior Red Army officers to discuss findings from the war against the Finns, and while Zhukov was sure there would be some serious discussions to be had, he knew that Mikhael would use the excuse to crack open a few bottles.
As his car pulled up to Tukhachevsky’s compound, he noted that General Tolbukhin’s staff car was also there. This was good as Zhukov was keen to hear how the T34 tanks had fared in their first action, but Tolbukhin was another drinker and Zhukov knew he would suffer for the knowledge he would glean.
“Georgi!” roared Tukhachevksky as Zhukov entered. He rose from his seat and clasped his comrade in a bear-hug. “Come, sit down, you know Comrade General Tolbukhin already, I gather.” Tukhachevsky gestured toward the seated General. “So, Georgi, tell Fedor and myself what you’ve been up to.” he said with a grin.
“Well, Mikhael, while you and Fedor have been gallivanting round the Finnish forests and chasing tarts in Helsinki, I’ve been picking mosquitos out of my food in those awful marshes (Pripet Marshes). It’s been great fun, watching the Poles eating sausages through my field glasses for the last couple of months.”
At this, Field Marshal Tukhachevsky laughed uproariously. “Oh Georgi, it’s so good to know that the defences of the Motherland from the Polish hordes are in such good hands!”
“So Mikhael, when do we start the fight against the Poles, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
General Fedor Tolbukhin interrupted at this moment. Pointing to some bottles of a golden liquid he said “No Georgi. This is what today is about.”
Zhukov looked at the bottles, he didn’t recognize the writing on the labels. “What is that, Fedor, whisky?”
“No. Even better. The Finns were allied with the French as well as the Brits, we intercepted some supplies from the people of the Third Republic, and here they are. Cognac, by all accounts damn fine Cognac too.”
“It IS good, gentlemen. Allow me to offer you a sharpener.” Tukhachevsky opened up a bottle and poured three generous measures.
After a few more ‘sharpeners’ and much joviality, the conversations meandered around to military and political matters.
“So Mikhael, why did we sign a deal with the Finns? Why didn’t we just take their damn silly country and make it Soviet? I don’t understand the reason for peace up there unless we immediately moved to attack the Poles, and we still haven’t.” asked Zhukov.
“Don’t worry, the time to deal with Pilsudski is close, our fight with the Finns is completely separate I assure you. While there’s no real fighting going on we can share knowledge about our experiences, all the better to crush the Poles nice and quick. We only needed to teach the Finns a lesson and to try out our new equipment. Fedor can tell you about the T-34, it’s a monster.”
Tolbukhin grinned sheepishly. “There’s no denying it’s a fine tank, but just because the Finns couldn’t stop it, didn’t mean they couldn’t slow it down.”
“What do you mean Fedor, I heard that it dominated the battlefield near Vyborg?”. Zhukov looked puzzled, and drunk.
“Well you could ask Comrade Cherbatov about that, if you can find him.” interjected Tukhachevsky with a wolfish smile.
Tolbukhin continued, “The tank itself is fine, it’s more how we use it that is of most importance. In the forests and lakes up towards Vyborg, the Finns could easily block the narrow trails with massively thick tree trunks. It took the engineers ages to clear them, often under fire. Those damn Finns were doing anything to block the roads, tying hand grenades to the trees to topple them, mortaring them at point-blank range. It was absolute hell up there. Our infantry casualties were terrible.”
Tukhachevsky poured yet another round of drinks. “You see Georgi, why we made peace with the swine. They are completely insane. They actually HATE us. I didn’t want to be chasing mad Finnish partisans across the forests all winter. I couldn’t think of a worse scenario at all. Plus with Mannerheim playing the fool near Murmansk, Stalin was getting shaky about the possibility of the British attempting landing in the far north. We needed to get them [the Finns] out of the way as quickly as possible and regain our freedom of movement.”
“The tank” interrupted Tolbukhin “is best used away from forests and swamps completely. The new divisions coming online with the half-tracks are an ideal accompaniment for a tank army. We could use them as spearheads to smash deep into enemy territory and disrupt their operations while the infantry deal with what’s left of the front.”
“So that’s the plan against Poland then?” asked Zhukov, growing unsteady. He could feel his head spinning and he desperately wanted to vomit.
“Yes, first Poland, then…..who knows?” laughed Tukhachevsky.
“Gentlemen, excuse me.” Zhukov got up from his seat and staggered towards the door. “I may be some time.” As the cold wintry air hit Zhukov outside Tukhachevsky’s HQ, he vomited spectacularly. As he dropped, shaking, to his knees, he was powerless to prevent himself from falling into the contents of his own stomach that he had just deposited. The last thought he had before his head hit the floor was “Oh no, another cleaning bill.”