Lavrenty Beria pushed his way past the army guards posted outside the Leningrad Front HQ building. Two NKVD officers followed him their hands menacingly placed on their pistol holsters. He glared his way past two colonels of the army staff and barged into the Marshals briefing room where two naval officers, an admiral and his attaché, were addressing the elderly Marshal of the Soviet Union.
“What in the name of hell is this?” demanded the head of the NKVD slamming two aerial photographs and a map hardly onto the Marshals table.
“How can your cowardly soldiers let those fascist bastards overrun such a strong position? How can these TRAITORS allow the Germans to come so close to this city, so sacred to our cause? What in Hell’s name are you doing to rectify the situation?”
The Marshal barely lifted his gaze to the member of the politburo. Instead he apologised to his guests and dismissed them. Beria continued his rant,
“I’ll tell you what you are going to do, you shrivelled old wreck. Counter attack, counter attack, and counter attack. You are going to give me the names of the commanding Generals and they will be executed and their families arrested as traitors to the Party and the Motherland. Cowardice will not be tolerated and those yellow-bellied piss poor excuses….
“ENOUGH!!!!!!!!!” The Marshal banged his fist on the table; a canteen of coffee fell to the ground.
“Who the hell do you think you are, you jumped up policeman.? Do you dare to presume to lecture me on military matters? You will either leave my HQ or you will be arrested and those cronies of yours posted to a penal battalion with close proximity to the front!!”
Beria was apoplectic with rage. No one had ever spoken to HIM like that before! He was life and death in the Soviet Union. ‘Timoshenko, you old bastard, you’ve just signed your death warrant,’ he thought to himself. As he was about to order his guards to open fire the Marshal handed him a paper with handwriting Beria only knew too well, the Boss’s handwriting. He read the untidy Cyrillic letters authorising a defence in depth of the Leningrad region and the strategic shift of reserves and frontline units to new deeper positions. Beria began to sweat slightly as the Marshal locked his steel blue eyes on his.
“I repeat my request Lavrenty, leave because I shall not ask a third time.” The unspoken threat hung in the air as Beria turned and pushed an orderly out of his way. He felt an unfamiliar feeling, fear, creep up his spine. The Boss had gone over his head. Had the Army become more important in the eyes of the Boss than his NKVD? He got inot his car and sped North into the lights of Leningrad, the boom of distant guns audible to the south and south west.












