Chapter Twenty
Forward Observation Post Artillery Regiment 171, 71st Infantry Division, Nastasiv, Ukraine, May 22, 1941
Captain Heinrich Asbach could see the Ivan positions clearly from the shallow hill that dominated the landscape. It drove a significant tactical point home to him. No matter what the maps said, Russia, or at least this area of it, was almost completely flat. Elevations of a few meters, no more than those that could be counted on one hand, were critical areas of terrain. The problem was that they were too insignificant to be shown on the maps drawn in Germany and the ones drawn in Russia were proving stupendously unreliable. The ground in front of him was a good example. According to the Russian map, there was a small farming community with three roads forming a Y in the center of the built-up area. Only there was no such community and there was but one road.
His reflections on the shortcomings of Russian mapmakers were crudely interrupted by the howl of inbound artillery fire. He searched the countryside with his binoculars but no matter how hard he searched the farmland stretched out before him; he couldn’t see any trace of the guns that were holding up the advance. This was becoming a very familiar situation. The Soviet Army was falling back in a near-panic as the armored formations swept around them, but the artillery was covering their retreat with eerie skill. A few guns, well-positioned, would be using pre-registered fire against vital points of terrain: usually crossroads or railway crossings. They’d lob shells at them, forcing the advancing units to stop and send spotting teams out to find the gun positions and bring counter-battery fire down on them. By the time they did so, usually, the guns would have gone. Nevertheless, they'd have helped slow down the German spearheads, even if only for a few minutes. There was so far to advance that a few minutes delay once every five or six kilometers would add up quickly.
Asbach swung his binoculars across the front again, trying to see anything that might suggest a hidden battery. There was something different, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t quite decide what it was. This was another thing that just wasn't working the way it should have been doing. At the pre-invasion briefings, it had been stressed that there would be reconnaissance aircraft overhead, all the time, so that these concealed batteries could be spotted and dive-bombed. There was even going to be a specialized aircraft, the FW-189, that was dedicated to this role. Only, the aircraft had been delayed and the older Hs-126 was having to fill the gap. There weren't enough of them, most of the aircraft available were in the north and center of the front and that left the forces down here without the eye in the sky they had been promised.
Suddenly it dawned on Asbach what had changed. About two kilometers ahead of his observation point was a long, shallow ravine. On his first sweep of the ground, that ravine had been edged by some patches of bush. Now, the cover there was much thinner. He was focusing on the area when he saw a string of barely visible puffs of blue smoke from gaps that had appeared in the line of bushes. It was the masked battery he was seeking,
"Signaler, tell the guns there is a masked battery at the position ... " Asbach quickly read his position off the map, applied the range and bearing to the masked battery, and gave out the target location. Overhead, he could hear the howl as the four shells passed on their way to the target behind his position. It was drowned out by the 'outgoing' shriek of four 10 cm guns firing. A split second later, the shells exploded in front of the ravine.
"Up fifty!" Asbach heard the signaler relay the order and saw the next series of four rounds drop on the gun position. He noticed something else; the gunners there were firing back. They must have realized it was too late to disengage and retreat so now they would try and sell their lives dearly. They were also experienced gunners, maintaining a steady rate of fire despite the volleys of artillery fire that were landing around their position. Bravery and experience didn’t count for much though when those who had them were hopelessly outgunned. The shell fire from the Soviet position dropped quickly, first one gun ceasing fire, then another. Asbach could envisage what was happening in the ravine. As members of the crews dropped and guns were disabled, the survivors went to the pieces that were still working to replace the casualties there.
Eventually, as was inevitable, fire from the Soviet position ceased. All that was left was the greasy black smoke that rose skywards from the ruins and the occasional secondary explosion as ammunition cooked off. As if on a signal, a motorcycle reconnaissance group raced up and dismounted short of the silenced battery. Asbach had heard of the talk about how motorcycles were faster than four-wheel trucks and could go places where larger vehicles could not. He also knew the truth, that the Heer liked motorcycles because they burned much less gasoline. He watched as the motorcyclists pulled up and dismounted, taking the machine guns mounted in the sidecars with them.
The attack was textbook perfect. The machine gunners sprayed the artillery battery in the ravine as the riflemen ran forward to take new positions from which they could cover the machine guns as they shifted to better locations. It seemed as if this would be a bloodless victory right up to the time one of the Soviet guns fired the last shot. Asbach knew what had happened. One last surviving man in the battery had one last gun loaded with one last shell. He’d waited until the enemy was too close to miss and then fired. His shell landed in the small nest of a pair of riflemen, the machine gunner, and his assistant. They were thrown in the air and their gun was silenced. So was the Soviet weapon; the reconnaissance troops stormed the position and the brief hammering of gunfire told Asbach the unknown survivor had been killed. Then the red flare went up, telling him the position was secure.
“They were all beards!” The Lieutenant commanding the motorcycle recon platoon was shocked. “Look at them. They must be seventy or eighty if they are a day. And those guns . . .”
“42-line field guns, pattern of 1870. Roughly the same as our 10.5cm lFH-18. They should be, they were designed and made by Krupp. The beards probably trained on them before the turn of the century.”
“And they killed two of my men and wounded two more with them.” The Lieutenant looked around at the destroyed battery with what could only be described as acute shock. “Beards and guns from the time of Bismarck.”
Asbach clapped him on the shoulder as a comfort. They weren’t the first men to die; for the last five days, the casualties had been trickling in. One man was killed by a sniper, and a couple more when they fell afoul of mines. On the other hand, the 71st had advanced over 150 kilometers and was moving to encircle Lviv. Ah well, only 2000 kilometers left to go.
Behind him, he heard a sudden, very loud explosion. The motorcycle reconnaissance platoon had been starting off down the road when the lead combination had hit a mine. Designed to stop a tank, the weapon had left only fragments of the motorcycle and its sidecar. Of its three-man crew, there was no trace.
Government Code and Cypher School, Bletchley Park, Buckinghamshire
One of Geraldine Morris's most carefully kept secrets was that she was a keen science fiction reader. She was almost as reluctant to speak about that as she was to disclose the nature of her work at Bletchley Park. Since she kept silent about that, even to the point of quietly dropping a boyfriend who asked one question too many, the level of her discretion was unchallenged. In fact, her Civil Service record paid her the ultimate compliment when it referred to her as being 'sound'.
Nevertheless, it was her science fiction preferences that were causing her concern. She was reading a pulp-fiction series in which the protagonist worked in a government office and realized that the other employees there were vanishing, one by one, from the staff. Their replacements were somehow unusual. Morris had just reached the part where the protagonist had realized the vanished employees were being replaced by space aliens. Looking around her, Morris realized the same thing was happening at Bletchley Park. One by one, the staff she had worked with were disappearing and being replaced by people who were, very slightly, odd.
Some turnover in staff was inevitable of course although it was never discussed. Bletchley Park was just about the most secret place in Britain, and nobody ever spoke about what happened there. Yet, it had been noticed that every week, one or more of the long-time members of staff were disappearing and their replacements were older men who looked as if they might have worked in Room 40 during the Great War. The number of rooms that were open had decreased sharply as well and getting authorization to go into them was becoming near impossible. Morris had seen through the open door of one by accident once and she couldn’t understand why it was so secure. To her experienced eyes, it looked like something out of 1917.
"Hey, Gerri!" Morris was roused from her reverie by the call from the main gate. Her friend, Ellie Gwynne was waiting for her. Ellie wasn't allowed into Bletchley Park of course but she could wait at the gate while Morris walked down to meet her. When Ellie had heard her friend had a whole weekend off, she had invited her to visit some relatives. Morris had been surprised to find out that Ellie was a distant relative of the Duke of St. Albans and had invited her to spend the weekend at Bentwood Lodge in Nottingham. It was 65 miles due north of Bletchley Park, but Morris couldn’t resist the chance to stay in a stately home for three nights. Anyway, there was a good train service that would get them there in only a couple of hours. Even better, the railway station was only two hundred yards away, a nice, easy walk for a late spring afternoon. If they kept a sharpish pace, they could catch the express train for Nottingham.
"Got your weekend bag packed, ducks?" Ellie asked after the conventional hugs had been exchanged.
"I hope so. I haven't got any nice clothes. Not fit for a stately home."
"Don't worry ducks. Nor has Uncle Ozzie."
Bentwood Lodge, Arnold, Nottinghamshire, UK
"Ah, welcome to Bentwood Lodge, Miss Morris. I'm very pleased to see you here." Commander Alastair Denniston rose as Ellie brought her guest in. Gerri Morris's eyes opened wide as she recognized the head of the Government Code and Cypher School. She looked around and realized almost instantly that this meeting was the real reason for her invitation to Bentwood Lodge. "Commander, Sir. What is this?"
"I told you she was quick on the uptake." Nell Gwynne had dropped the "Ellie" persona. "Don't worry, ducks. There's nothing bad going on here."
"I should say not. You are a guest in the Lodge and we Dukes take our hospitality seriously." Osbourne de Vere Beauclerk, 12th Duke of St Albans gave a warm and reassuring smile. "We even have some egg sandwiches for tea."
Morris blinked at that. Egg sandwiches were her favorite but fresh eggs were getting hard to come by. She turned an accusing glance at Nell. "You've been spying on me!"
"No, ducks. Just making sure that we weren't about to make fools of ourselves. Your preference in teatime sandwiches is in your confidential file."
"Along with the fact that you are sound." Denniston put heavy emphasis on the word 'sound'. "Have a sandwich, they were made especially for you. With eggs from His Grace's own chickens no less. I need to ask you a few questions before we get to the point of this meeting."
An hour later, having carefully checked the contents of Morris's dossier, Denniston got to the point. "Miss Morris, how would you like to go to Canada?"
"Canada? But why?" Then, Morris thought carefully for a few seconds. "All the people who have been leaving. That's where they've been going, right? And the equipment that's been moved."
"That's right Miss Morris. We've been moving the whole of the Government Code and Cypher School to Canada. Equipment, people everything. Key staff and secret equipment first. We hope to get everybody out in time. The catch is we don’t know how much time we have, and the invasion of the Soviet Union has stepped the pressure up. At the same time, we're returning the existing facility to an enlarged version of Room 40. A deciphering station, larger than it was in the Great War but no more advanced. It'll be staffed by veterans familiar with the equipment they had back then so they can put on a good show. There'll be no evidence left of all the codebreaking we have done."
"Why me?"
"You heard me say Key Staff were being taken out. You are key staff. We have an escape route set up although 'escape' is too melodramatic. Bit inappropriate as well since you'll be going most of the way on a Pan-American Clipper."
"Bit like escaping from prison in a luxury limousine." Nell was eyeing the egg sandwiches hungrily.
Never one to be greedy, Morris offered her the plate. Only then did it dawn on her that her friend Ellie, despite her British accent, was an American. "That must be from Shannon then. How do I get there?"
"On Monday, there'll be a message at Bletchley Park from the Admiralty, stating that you are being temporarily assigned to the Harland and Wolf shipyard in Belfast. Apparently, they are having problems with their secure telephone line and you're up there to check it. That stands up by the way. Harland and Wolf are having trouble with their scrambled lines, That Man's Blackshirts are tapping them. They won’t find any changes, so it'll be assumed you haven’t spotted the tap. If somebody tries to find you after that, we lose them in a maze of postings and transfers."
Morris thought for a few minutes. "If things keep getting worse, Bletchley Park could be the thing that swings things against That Man, couldn't it? Shouldn't we be maintaining the capability?"
Denniston sighed. "Yes, it could. If things go as badly as we fear, Bletchley Park might be the difference between Britain putting up a successful resistance or falling and being occupied. On the other hand, getting the whole thing out to Canada means that even if Britain falls at some point in the future, the Huns will not have the slightest idea how thoroughly we had broken their codes. Also, it gives the Commonwealth of Nations a weighty bargaining chip to use in the future. If we don’t get it out and the Huns capture it intact, they'll get all that code-cracking expertise with incalculable consequences. It's an agonizing conflict of interest. In the end, we decided that our duty to the Empire exceeds our duty to this small part of it."
"All right. How do I get to Canada?"
"You, Nell, and this young man here will take you by train to the Belfast Ferry. You'll cross to Belfast there and, on Monday, go to the Harland and Wolf headquarters building. You'll sign in there and leave for the shipyard."
"Only you'll never arrive." Nell finished her sandwich and licked her fingers. "We'll catch the train for Dublin, then Limerick and Foynes. We'll get on the Clipper there, I think it’s the Clipper Dixie, and fly to New York. There, you'll be met by one of the people from Canada who will take you the rest of the way."
"So, you'll be coming with me, Ellie?"
"Sure," Nell spoke easily. "I want to go home. I've been away long enough. I used to like coming over to visit Uncle Ozzie, but this country has changed for the worse."
"Who are you, Ellie? I heard his Grace call you Nell."
"I told you, I'm a distant relative." I suppose Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandmother is distant enough for that to be true. "I'm from the American branch of the family."
"Ahh. And this young man?" Morris gestured at a very quiet young man who was sitting in a corner and saying nothing."
"Your other escort on the dangerous bit of the trip out. His name is David. You don’t need to know any more than that."
"I understand. The dangerous bit? What about crossing into Ireland?"
"That's not a problem. The risk is here and That Man's Blackshirts. Once we are clear of England, the rest of the route is easy." Denniston looked around. "That's enough business for the day I think."
"I would say so." 12th Duke of St Albans sounded relieved that the serious part of the weekend was over. It was a false impression, it wasn't. In fact, it was just beginning. "Do you play backgammon, Miss Morris? May I call you Gerri?"
"Please do, Your Grace. And I love playing backgammon."
"Then I am Osborne or Ozzie if you prefer. Funny, all you codebreakers seem to love playing backgammon."
1941 - Conflict of Interest
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-One
RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
“Welcome back, Sir. And congratulations on your kill. The press went wild when the news was released. Charles Power himself sent you a message of congratulations. By the way, there’s been a lot of changes around here, especially with the Hurry-Can program.” Works manager, Bill Soulsby leaned forward confidentially. “Elsie MacGill has been transferred. She’s now working directly with the RCAF to design solutions that will allow our aircraft to operate during the winter. It’s a big, important job, introducing de-icing controls and designing a system for fitting skis for landing on snow. We’ve been told we can expect Canadian forces to be going to the Soviet Union sooner or later. Probably within a year.”
Pilot Officer Digby Dale let out a slow whistle. He didn’t say what he had wanted to but instead moved on to something else. “That’ll mean the arctic convoys will be starting sooner than we thought.”
“That’s right, Sir. And it makes the CAM ships important. We’ve got an order to convert 144 CC&F-built Hurricanes to Seacane configuration but keeping the undercarriage. That came out of your flight as well.”
After shooting down the Arado and strafing the German armed merchant cruiser, Dale had ditched his Hurry-Can alongside the Empire Foam and been picked up without even getting his feet wet. He hadn’t been allowed to buy his own beer since. Eventually, safely out of range of the Luftwaffe long-range aircraft, he had been ordered to take the other Hurry-Can and fly it to Freetown in Sierra Leone. The idea was that CAM ships outbound from Canada would leave their Seacanes there to form a detachment of aircraft waiting for CAM ships coming back to Canada. The returning CAM-ships would pull in and load one or two aircraft to provide cover on the voyage through the danger area. For that concept to work, the Seacanes would need to keep their undercarriages.
The morning after delivering his aircraft, a seriously hung-over Dale had been carried out of the Canadian Embassy and given a ticket on a Pan-American clipper that was on route from Capetown to the Azores and then to New York. From there, he had been flown back to Canada and been extensively debriefed. Now, he was back at Debert. “So, where are we going from here?”
“New idea, Sir. Building on the idea of the CAM-ship. The Government is taking some of the larger, faster merchantmen, grain ships mostly, that are under construction and completing them with a flight deck. No hangar, just a deck park for four or six Seacanes. The big thing is, of course, the aircraft can land back on the ship when they’re done. The ships will be called Merchant Aircraft Carriers or MAC-Ships.”
Dale thought about that. “We can land aircraft from the CAM ships on them as well. In fact, the MAC could act as a sort of depot ship for the CAMs. Only four aircraft though? That’s a lot of ship for a few aircraft. We’ll be losing a lot of cargo space. Ministry of Trade won’t like that at all. Grain exports are keeping us solvent.”
Soulsby shook his head. “That’s the beauty of it, Sir. The ships will still be cargo carriers. They’ll only lose about ten percent of their capacity and that’s for the fuel and munitions to fly their aircraft. I’ve heard there’ll be some tankers converted as well and they’ll keep most of their oil capacity. The MACs aren’t like those little jeep carriers the Yanks are talking about. They’re pure warships and can carry about thirty planes. For all that, you’re right though. There’s a hell of a row going on up top about the MAC ships. The Navy wants them treated as warships and given Navy crews. Ministry of Trade wants them treated as merchant ships and given civilian crews, except for the pilots and ground crews of course. The Unions are worried about the Huns finding out and treating the crews as Franc-Tireurs if they are captured. That means executing them. The bastards will do it too. Remember how they murdered Captain Charles Fryatt in the last war? And then there was Llandovery Castle of course. Anyway, Sir, the new boss here wants to speak with you after you are settled back in.”
“Who is running things here right now?”
“Captain Brian Betham Schofield, Free Royal Navy, Sir. He reports to Sir Amos Ayre, the Director of Merchant Shipbuilding. They’re both strong supporters of the MAC ship and, by chance, it turns out our modified Hurricanes are perfect for use off them. So, they are both very strong supporters of our work here. ”
“Well, you’d better take me to him. I suspect when I’ve settled in really means right now.”
“Good guess, Sir. This place has really changed while you were away.”
4th Ground-Attack Aircraft Regiment, Airfield 7, Rovnoye, Crimea. May 23, 1941.
The combat intelligence brought back by the few surviving reconnaissance aircraft was beginning to drive home the fact that a military disaster of unthinkable dimensions was unfolding. Every pilot on the airfield knew that the pre-war plans had been for the Army to launch a massive counterattack as soon as the war started, to drive deep into enemy territory and fight the enemy’s army there. It was rapidly becoming apparent that wasn’t going to be happening. In fact, the only good thing that had come out of the pre-war plans was that, in order to stage the counterattack, the Army had been stationed some way back from the frontier. That had allowed it to escape the frontier encirclements planned by the fascists but now, the racing German tank columns were catching up with the retreating Russian forces, and the encirclements were beginning.
It had only taken the first week of the war to reveal something else. The Soviet Army had many short-range tactical reconnaissance aircraft, but they were mostly U-2 and R-Z biplanes. Slow and very short-ranged, their only chance of survival was to fly right down in the tree-tops and hope they could outmaneuver the Me-109Fs that were prowling all over the battle area. It was a forlorn hope; literally, hundreds of Soviet aircraft were being shot down every day and the nearly helpless reconnaissance biplanes were a major part of the massacre. Or had been, there were now so few left that the numbers being shot down were shrinking fast. Yet, they were doing better than the more modern R-10 monoplanes. The R-10s were much faster than the R-Zs but still much slower than the Me-109Fs. Also, the R-10 lacked the maneuverability of the biplanes. There had been 500 R-10s in service when the war started. If the 109Fs hadn’t made a clean sweep of them, it wasn’t for want of trying.
The only long-range reconnaissance aircraft that had been available was the Tupolev R-6. A twin-engined aircraft, it was the size of a medium bomber yet was armed with only a single .30 machine gun. Capable of just 150 miles per hour and barely able to reach 18,000 feet, the aircraft had been considered obsolete in 1935. Six years later, the aircraft had still been in service for the brief time it had taken to be wiped out by the Luftwaffe pilots. The few that hadn’t been destroyed on the ground had been shot out of the sky.
To Lieutenant Petr Anisimovich Ochakov and Lieutenant Alekse Ivanovich Vasilyev, the results of the complete destruction of the Soviet Army’s reconnaissance capability were painfully apparent. Even since their desperate flight to bring back the maintenance records of their regiment, they had been expecting orders to sally out and unleash their Sturmoviks on the advancing fascists. The orders had come all right, but they had also been canceled before they could be obeyed. It was slowly dawning on Ochakov and Vasilyev that they weren’t conducting raids on the enemy because nobody knew where the enemy forces were. Even more seriously, nobody knew where the Soviet ground forces were either. The air over the battlefield was simply too dangerous to fly aircraft on speculative missions and without designated targets, there was simply nothing that could be done. The Fourth Ground Attack Regiment had been lucky; situated well back from the front line, they had been spared the constant air attacks that had decimated the Soviet Air Force on the ground. That would change as fascist forces neared Crimea.
Now, though, there had been a breakthrough. One of the U-2 reconnaissance aircraft had managed to survive the incessant fighter attacks and had returned to its base after its pilot had spotted large trough-like objects lying in rows at the western bank of the Bug River. The intelligence analysts had concluded that the objects were pontoons being prepared for bridges. The Bug stretched from north to south and crossing it was essential if the fascists were to complete the encirclement of Odessa. What defense plans that had existed for the Soviet Union had envisaged using the great rivers as stop lines upon which any fascist offensive would be held. The fallacy that was represented had been made by the previous week. With the Soviet Army in full retreat, there was no resistance forming along the rivers and they were no obstacle for the fascists. Their engineers were constructing new bridges and crossing the rivers at will.
The Regimental command staff had spent almost the whole night racking their brains over what to do next. They had no communication with the senior command, they had received no orders, general or specific. Despite the reports from the Bug, they didn’t know where the crossing was being attempted; flying through the treetops and evading fighters had left the U-2 so thoroughly lost that there was only an approximate idea of where to look. Eventually, the political officers had conferred privately and concluded that in the absence of any other order, the pre-war general directives of attacking at every opportunity still held good. So, they had returned to the command staff and ordered the Regiment to try and find the bridges.
At last Colonel Kaspol Ilyich Gabiev had a firm basis on which to plan. A careful study of the map and the likely course of the Po-2 had identified the most likely area for the bridging work as being a horseshoe bend in the river. He had assigned that area to two flights of three Il-2s, one under the command of Ochakov and the other under Vasilyev. As the locations became progressively less probable, the less experienced flight leaders were assigned to them. Then, he summoned the flight leaders to the command post and issued his orders. “When the sun rises fly in small groups as far as the Bug. Find and destroy the bridges. Don’t let the enemy cross the river!”
At dawn, the first flight of three aircraft under Ochakov took off. Ten minutes later, another three planes under Vasilyev followed them. Then, flight after flight took off at equal intervals from the Rovnoye airfield. The final plan had been for the Sturmoviks to fly at tree-top height. The pilots were under orders to watch for the results of the formations ahead of them to see the smoke rising from a successful strike and fly to that. There had been some hope that fighter escort could be provided but there were so few fighters at the Rovnoye airfield that they were all committed to trying to intercept all the German reconnaissance aircraft and bombers that were swarming over the battlefield. The pre-war instructions assumed the massive Soviet Air Force would have won complete control of the air by the end of the first week and a situation where the enemy air forces had complete superiority in the air had never even been considered. Even the handful of surviving fighters was also loaded up with bombs and sent out as ground-attack planes instead of escorting the strike aircraft.
Gabiev’s guess had been right. Ochakov spotted the crossing point where the river Bug formed a deep horseshoe pointing west. The fascists were building their bridges at the westernmost end of the horseshoe so any attempts to oppose them could be fired on from three sides. He waggled his wings and pointed down at the site below. The three Il-2s were just peeling over into the long, gentle dive that would take them to their target when Ochakov saw two planes flying in the opposite direction at the same low altitude. His first thought was that somehow Vasilyev’s flight had overtaken this own and had already carried out their attack, losing an aircraft in the process. It was only the brilliant flashes from the noses of the approaching aircraft that told him how wrong he was.
The approaching planes had thin wings and narrow fuselages. When one of the planes came level with his own, Ochakov saw the black cross on the fuselage and the spidery swastika on the tail and realized they were a pair of the dreaded Messers. He saw them zoom up, bank, and disappear behind his plane’s tail. At that point, there was a loud bang just a few millimeters in front of him and a blast of cold air hit him in the face. There was no windshield left. The wind was blowing hard, and now Ochakov realized that safety goggles were not there for appearance only. At that moment he saw fiery tracks racing past his aircraft from behind. The pair of Messers had performed an Immelmann behind him and were now coming in from behind. He also realized that the 15mm cannon shell that had blown his armored windscreen out had also caused his Il-2 to slow down. As a result, his two wingmen had overtaken him and the Messers were gunning for them.
In doing so, Ochakov realized their pilots had made a bad mistake, possibly from over-confidence. They kept aiming at the two Il-2s while their targets kept flying straight ahead heading to the bridges. In doing that, the Messers had overtaken Ochakov’s Sturmovik and given him a perfect tail shot at the leading fascist aircraft. One thing the Sturmovik did not lack was forward firepower and Ochakov used every gram of it. His fingers instinctively found the triggers and pressed them. All four 7.62 machine guns and both 23mm cannon flashed bursts out of the Sturmovik’s wings. The effects on the lead Messer were instant and catastrophic. The right landing gear fell out of the wing as the fighter staggered under the impact of the shells. Then it erupted in a comet of black smoke, turned over on its back, and dived straight into the ground. Some of his Ochakov's tracer bullets raced very close to Ivan Andreyevich Nadezhin’s aircraft but they succeeded in forcing the remaining Messer to climb up and away.
In the few seconds occupied by the fighter attack, the crossing site had become much closer. Ochakov could see large numbers of German trucks and armored vehicles standing around waiting to cross. He also saw the barrage of anti-aircraft fire that was surging up from the fascist positions. The guns were already causing puffs of black smoke to appear all around the Soviet attack aircraft, bouncing the aircraft and causing a patter of fragments against the sturdy armor of the Sturmoviks. The problem facing Ochakov was a simple one that also had infinite complexities. What should we attack? The trucks? The buildings? Obviously, the bridge pontoons but what about the completed bridges? These missions need much better planning.
He elected to strike at the completed bridges, aware that his wingmen would make their own decisions. Fortunately, the angle his flight was approaching their targets meant that he was aligned with the long axis of the bridge while the brief intervention of the two fighters had allowed them to get that much closer before the anti-aircraft fire had started. Despite that, and despite releasing his four 100 kg bombs from an altitude of fewer than 50 meters, all four missed. Some came agonizingly close, the spray of water and the shower of fragments sweeping across the bridge deck, but the pontoon bridge remained undamaged.
By then, Ochakov had switched his attention to the four RS-82 rockets hanging under each wing. This time he was lined up on the pontoons waiting to be launched and he could use his gunsight to aim the rockets. He'd already set the firing switch to unleash the rockets in pairs, so he squeezed the firing button just before the crosshairs aligned with the nearest pontoon. The four pairs of explosions walked across the pontoon park, sending fragments of plywood and steel spraying into the air. The rattle as they hit the armored belly of the Sturmovik was a grim reminder to Ochakov that this attack was a perilous enterprise indeed. But, unlike his 100 kg bombs, the rockets had inflicted a grave blow on the fascists.
The next target was the trucks parked around the bridging site. He was about to turn to bring his guns to bear when suddenly he saw a large herd of horses that had been turned out to graze. It was strange; he had known that the fascist army still used largely horse-drawn transport, but the twelve days of the disaster had somehow made him see the Germans as superhumanly advanced technical geniuses. The sight of the horses had knocked him back to reality.
Somehow the horses had sensed what was coming and were already starting to gallop off in different directions. Ochakov's two wingmen were following his lead and starting their attack on the herd below. Once again, Ochakov used all his forward-firing guns to attack the panicking horses in front of his aircraft. His wingmen had used their rockets on the beached pontoons, but they still had their 100 kg bombs. They exploded in the middle of the mass of horses, sending the herd swirling out of control across the fields in a chaotic mass, rushing about and trampling down the men who were trying to control them. Ochakov kept firing, seeing his tracers carving a long straight path through the chaos. At the end of the field, a long, low building had taken a direct hit from a 100 kg bomb and was burning furiously. The roof caved in as the fire took out its supports, sending showers of sparks upwards.
The anti-aircraft guns were still firing but the shell bursts around his flight had diminished dramatically. Ochakov realized why when he looked back at the site of the completed bridge. Vasilyev’s flight must have seen the pyre of smoke from the burning building and followed the sound of the guns. The flak bursts were around them now.
It was a matter of pride with the Sturmovik pilots that they would not return to base carrying unexpended ammunition. So it was that Ochakov led his flight back in another pass at the field now covered with the scattered bodies of the horses and the men who had tried to tend to them. Some groups had escaped, and the horses were galloping along the field in a frantic attempt to get clear. The three Sturmoviks raced in different directions following them. As they cleared the field, their guns and bomb racks empty, the second flight crossed behind them to continue the assault on the truck park. In the distance, Ochakov could see the third flight closing on the scene. A perfect conveyor belt of death. He thought.
Two hours later, back at Airfield Number Seven, Ochakov was making his report and making his claim for a single fighter shot down. The flights of Il-2s were landing, some still complete, some short one aircraft, and some having lost two of the three. So far, twelve aircraft had been lost and there were still several flights yet to return. It was interesting to the pilots to note that few of the losses had been to fighters; most were due to the intense anti-aircraft fire that surrounded the targets. On the other hand, fighters had inflicted most of the non-lethal damage. The cost of the damage was easily visible when looking at the flight line. The mechanics had turned the propellers of the aircraft in a set code. A single propeller blade pointing upwards meant the aircraft was ready to go on a mission. Two propeller blades pointing upwards in a V meant the aircraft was down for repairs. Nearly all the flight-line aircraft were in the latter category. The armor plate had protected the engine, pilot, and fuel tanks but the wings on all the aircraft were riddled with holes from rifle and machine-gun bullets.
"Tell me again about the fascist you claim to have shot down." The Politruk was glowering at Ochakov, and it suddenly occurred to the pilot that his burst of gunfire could easily be interpreted as him treacherously shooting at his wingman. So, he went through the story again, choosing his words with great care.
The Politruk pulled a piece of paper from a pocket. "We have an eye-witness, bratishka. He speaks of three Sturmoviks attacking from the west, with one aircraft behind the other two. Two fascist fighters attacked them from behind and overshot the trailing aircraft. That trailing aircraft seized the chance and shot one of the fighters down. Tovarish Colonel. The kill claimed by Tovarish Petr Anisimovich is confirmed!"
The cheers that went up across the flight line were deafening and Ochakov found himself being grabbed and tossed into the air. Already, a black cross was being painted under the cockpit of his aircraft. Ochakov felt a surge of delight but was very careful not to ask who the eyewitness confirming his kill was.
RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
“Welcome back, Sir. And congratulations on your kill. The press went wild when the news was released. Charles Power himself sent you a message of congratulations. By the way, there’s been a lot of changes around here, especially with the Hurry-Can program.” Works manager, Bill Soulsby leaned forward confidentially. “Elsie MacGill has been transferred. She’s now working directly with the RCAF to design solutions that will allow our aircraft to operate during the winter. It’s a big, important job, introducing de-icing controls and designing a system for fitting skis for landing on snow. We’ve been told we can expect Canadian forces to be going to the Soviet Union sooner or later. Probably within a year.”
Pilot Officer Digby Dale let out a slow whistle. He didn’t say what he had wanted to but instead moved on to something else. “That’ll mean the arctic convoys will be starting sooner than we thought.”
“That’s right, Sir. And it makes the CAM ships important. We’ve got an order to convert 144 CC&F-built Hurricanes to Seacane configuration but keeping the undercarriage. That came out of your flight as well.”
After shooting down the Arado and strafing the German armed merchant cruiser, Dale had ditched his Hurry-Can alongside the Empire Foam and been picked up without even getting his feet wet. He hadn’t been allowed to buy his own beer since. Eventually, safely out of range of the Luftwaffe long-range aircraft, he had been ordered to take the other Hurry-Can and fly it to Freetown in Sierra Leone. The idea was that CAM ships outbound from Canada would leave their Seacanes there to form a detachment of aircraft waiting for CAM ships coming back to Canada. The returning CAM-ships would pull in and load one or two aircraft to provide cover on the voyage through the danger area. For that concept to work, the Seacanes would need to keep their undercarriages.
The morning after delivering his aircraft, a seriously hung-over Dale had been carried out of the Canadian Embassy and given a ticket on a Pan-American clipper that was on route from Capetown to the Azores and then to New York. From there, he had been flown back to Canada and been extensively debriefed. Now, he was back at Debert. “So, where are we going from here?”
“New idea, Sir. Building on the idea of the CAM-ship. The Government is taking some of the larger, faster merchantmen, grain ships mostly, that are under construction and completing them with a flight deck. No hangar, just a deck park for four or six Seacanes. The big thing is, of course, the aircraft can land back on the ship when they’re done. The ships will be called Merchant Aircraft Carriers or MAC-Ships.”
Dale thought about that. “We can land aircraft from the CAM ships on them as well. In fact, the MAC could act as a sort of depot ship for the CAMs. Only four aircraft though? That’s a lot of ship for a few aircraft. We’ll be losing a lot of cargo space. Ministry of Trade won’t like that at all. Grain exports are keeping us solvent.”
Soulsby shook his head. “That’s the beauty of it, Sir. The ships will still be cargo carriers. They’ll only lose about ten percent of their capacity and that’s for the fuel and munitions to fly their aircraft. I’ve heard there’ll be some tankers converted as well and they’ll keep most of their oil capacity. The MACs aren’t like those little jeep carriers the Yanks are talking about. They’re pure warships and can carry about thirty planes. For all that, you’re right though. There’s a hell of a row going on up top about the MAC ships. The Navy wants them treated as warships and given Navy crews. Ministry of Trade wants them treated as merchant ships and given civilian crews, except for the pilots and ground crews of course. The Unions are worried about the Huns finding out and treating the crews as Franc-Tireurs if they are captured. That means executing them. The bastards will do it too. Remember how they murdered Captain Charles Fryatt in the last war? And then there was Llandovery Castle of course. Anyway, Sir, the new boss here wants to speak with you after you are settled back in.”
“Who is running things here right now?”
“Captain Brian Betham Schofield, Free Royal Navy, Sir. He reports to Sir Amos Ayre, the Director of Merchant Shipbuilding. They’re both strong supporters of the MAC ship and, by chance, it turns out our modified Hurricanes are perfect for use off them. So, they are both very strong supporters of our work here. ”
“Well, you’d better take me to him. I suspect when I’ve settled in really means right now.”
“Good guess, Sir. This place has really changed while you were away.”
4th Ground-Attack Aircraft Regiment, Airfield 7, Rovnoye, Crimea. May 23, 1941.
The combat intelligence brought back by the few surviving reconnaissance aircraft was beginning to drive home the fact that a military disaster of unthinkable dimensions was unfolding. Every pilot on the airfield knew that the pre-war plans had been for the Army to launch a massive counterattack as soon as the war started, to drive deep into enemy territory and fight the enemy’s army there. It was rapidly becoming apparent that wasn’t going to be happening. In fact, the only good thing that had come out of the pre-war plans was that, in order to stage the counterattack, the Army had been stationed some way back from the frontier. That had allowed it to escape the frontier encirclements planned by the fascists but now, the racing German tank columns were catching up with the retreating Russian forces, and the encirclements were beginning.
It had only taken the first week of the war to reveal something else. The Soviet Army had many short-range tactical reconnaissance aircraft, but they were mostly U-2 and R-Z biplanes. Slow and very short-ranged, their only chance of survival was to fly right down in the tree-tops and hope they could outmaneuver the Me-109Fs that were prowling all over the battle area. It was a forlorn hope; literally, hundreds of Soviet aircraft were being shot down every day and the nearly helpless reconnaissance biplanes were a major part of the massacre. Or had been, there were now so few left that the numbers being shot down were shrinking fast. Yet, they were doing better than the more modern R-10 monoplanes. The R-10s were much faster than the R-Zs but still much slower than the Me-109Fs. Also, the R-10 lacked the maneuverability of the biplanes. There had been 500 R-10s in service when the war started. If the 109Fs hadn’t made a clean sweep of them, it wasn’t for want of trying.
The only long-range reconnaissance aircraft that had been available was the Tupolev R-6. A twin-engined aircraft, it was the size of a medium bomber yet was armed with only a single .30 machine gun. Capable of just 150 miles per hour and barely able to reach 18,000 feet, the aircraft had been considered obsolete in 1935. Six years later, the aircraft had still been in service for the brief time it had taken to be wiped out by the Luftwaffe pilots. The few that hadn’t been destroyed on the ground had been shot out of the sky.
To Lieutenant Petr Anisimovich Ochakov and Lieutenant Alekse Ivanovich Vasilyev, the results of the complete destruction of the Soviet Army’s reconnaissance capability were painfully apparent. Even since their desperate flight to bring back the maintenance records of their regiment, they had been expecting orders to sally out and unleash their Sturmoviks on the advancing fascists. The orders had come all right, but they had also been canceled before they could be obeyed. It was slowly dawning on Ochakov and Vasilyev that they weren’t conducting raids on the enemy because nobody knew where the enemy forces were. Even more seriously, nobody knew where the Soviet ground forces were either. The air over the battlefield was simply too dangerous to fly aircraft on speculative missions and without designated targets, there was simply nothing that could be done. The Fourth Ground Attack Regiment had been lucky; situated well back from the front line, they had been spared the constant air attacks that had decimated the Soviet Air Force on the ground. That would change as fascist forces neared Crimea.
Now, though, there had been a breakthrough. One of the U-2 reconnaissance aircraft had managed to survive the incessant fighter attacks and had returned to its base after its pilot had spotted large trough-like objects lying in rows at the western bank of the Bug River. The intelligence analysts had concluded that the objects were pontoons being prepared for bridges. The Bug stretched from north to south and crossing it was essential if the fascists were to complete the encirclement of Odessa. What defense plans that had existed for the Soviet Union had envisaged using the great rivers as stop lines upon which any fascist offensive would be held. The fallacy that was represented had been made by the previous week. With the Soviet Army in full retreat, there was no resistance forming along the rivers and they were no obstacle for the fascists. Their engineers were constructing new bridges and crossing the rivers at will.
The Regimental command staff had spent almost the whole night racking their brains over what to do next. They had no communication with the senior command, they had received no orders, general or specific. Despite the reports from the Bug, they didn’t know where the crossing was being attempted; flying through the treetops and evading fighters had left the U-2 so thoroughly lost that there was only an approximate idea of where to look. Eventually, the political officers had conferred privately and concluded that in the absence of any other order, the pre-war general directives of attacking at every opportunity still held good. So, they had returned to the command staff and ordered the Regiment to try and find the bridges.
At last Colonel Kaspol Ilyich Gabiev had a firm basis on which to plan. A careful study of the map and the likely course of the Po-2 had identified the most likely area for the bridging work as being a horseshoe bend in the river. He had assigned that area to two flights of three Il-2s, one under the command of Ochakov and the other under Vasilyev. As the locations became progressively less probable, the less experienced flight leaders were assigned to them. Then, he summoned the flight leaders to the command post and issued his orders. “When the sun rises fly in small groups as far as the Bug. Find and destroy the bridges. Don’t let the enemy cross the river!”
At dawn, the first flight of three aircraft under Ochakov took off. Ten minutes later, another three planes under Vasilyev followed them. Then, flight after flight took off at equal intervals from the Rovnoye airfield. The final plan had been for the Sturmoviks to fly at tree-top height. The pilots were under orders to watch for the results of the formations ahead of them to see the smoke rising from a successful strike and fly to that. There had been some hope that fighter escort could be provided but there were so few fighters at the Rovnoye airfield that they were all committed to trying to intercept all the German reconnaissance aircraft and bombers that were swarming over the battlefield. The pre-war instructions assumed the massive Soviet Air Force would have won complete control of the air by the end of the first week and a situation where the enemy air forces had complete superiority in the air had never even been considered. Even the handful of surviving fighters was also loaded up with bombs and sent out as ground-attack planes instead of escorting the strike aircraft.
Gabiev’s guess had been right. Ochakov spotted the crossing point where the river Bug formed a deep horseshoe pointing west. The fascists were building their bridges at the westernmost end of the horseshoe so any attempts to oppose them could be fired on from three sides. He waggled his wings and pointed down at the site below. The three Il-2s were just peeling over into the long, gentle dive that would take them to their target when Ochakov saw two planes flying in the opposite direction at the same low altitude. His first thought was that somehow Vasilyev’s flight had overtaken this own and had already carried out their attack, losing an aircraft in the process. It was only the brilliant flashes from the noses of the approaching aircraft that told him how wrong he was.
The approaching planes had thin wings and narrow fuselages. When one of the planes came level with his own, Ochakov saw the black cross on the fuselage and the spidery swastika on the tail and realized they were a pair of the dreaded Messers. He saw them zoom up, bank, and disappear behind his plane’s tail. At that point, there was a loud bang just a few millimeters in front of him and a blast of cold air hit him in the face. There was no windshield left. The wind was blowing hard, and now Ochakov realized that safety goggles were not there for appearance only. At that moment he saw fiery tracks racing past his aircraft from behind. The pair of Messers had performed an Immelmann behind him and were now coming in from behind. He also realized that the 15mm cannon shell that had blown his armored windscreen out had also caused his Il-2 to slow down. As a result, his two wingmen had overtaken him and the Messers were gunning for them.
In doing so, Ochakov realized their pilots had made a bad mistake, possibly from over-confidence. They kept aiming at the two Il-2s while their targets kept flying straight ahead heading to the bridges. In doing that, the Messers had overtaken Ochakov’s Sturmovik and given him a perfect tail shot at the leading fascist aircraft. One thing the Sturmovik did not lack was forward firepower and Ochakov used every gram of it. His fingers instinctively found the triggers and pressed them. All four 7.62 machine guns and both 23mm cannon flashed bursts out of the Sturmovik’s wings. The effects on the lead Messer were instant and catastrophic. The right landing gear fell out of the wing as the fighter staggered under the impact of the shells. Then it erupted in a comet of black smoke, turned over on its back, and dived straight into the ground. Some of his Ochakov's tracer bullets raced very close to Ivan Andreyevich Nadezhin’s aircraft but they succeeded in forcing the remaining Messer to climb up and away.
In the few seconds occupied by the fighter attack, the crossing site had become much closer. Ochakov could see large numbers of German trucks and armored vehicles standing around waiting to cross. He also saw the barrage of anti-aircraft fire that was surging up from the fascist positions. The guns were already causing puffs of black smoke to appear all around the Soviet attack aircraft, bouncing the aircraft and causing a patter of fragments against the sturdy armor of the Sturmoviks. The problem facing Ochakov was a simple one that also had infinite complexities. What should we attack? The trucks? The buildings? Obviously, the bridge pontoons but what about the completed bridges? These missions need much better planning.
He elected to strike at the completed bridges, aware that his wingmen would make their own decisions. Fortunately, the angle his flight was approaching their targets meant that he was aligned with the long axis of the bridge while the brief intervention of the two fighters had allowed them to get that much closer before the anti-aircraft fire had started. Despite that, and despite releasing his four 100 kg bombs from an altitude of fewer than 50 meters, all four missed. Some came agonizingly close, the spray of water and the shower of fragments sweeping across the bridge deck, but the pontoon bridge remained undamaged.
By then, Ochakov had switched his attention to the four RS-82 rockets hanging under each wing. This time he was lined up on the pontoons waiting to be launched and he could use his gunsight to aim the rockets. He'd already set the firing switch to unleash the rockets in pairs, so he squeezed the firing button just before the crosshairs aligned with the nearest pontoon. The four pairs of explosions walked across the pontoon park, sending fragments of plywood and steel spraying into the air. The rattle as they hit the armored belly of the Sturmovik was a grim reminder to Ochakov that this attack was a perilous enterprise indeed. But, unlike his 100 kg bombs, the rockets had inflicted a grave blow on the fascists.
The next target was the trucks parked around the bridging site. He was about to turn to bring his guns to bear when suddenly he saw a large herd of horses that had been turned out to graze. It was strange; he had known that the fascist army still used largely horse-drawn transport, but the twelve days of the disaster had somehow made him see the Germans as superhumanly advanced technical geniuses. The sight of the horses had knocked him back to reality.
Somehow the horses had sensed what was coming and were already starting to gallop off in different directions. Ochakov's two wingmen were following his lead and starting their attack on the herd below. Once again, Ochakov used all his forward-firing guns to attack the panicking horses in front of his aircraft. His wingmen had used their rockets on the beached pontoons, but they still had their 100 kg bombs. They exploded in the middle of the mass of horses, sending the herd swirling out of control across the fields in a chaotic mass, rushing about and trampling down the men who were trying to control them. Ochakov kept firing, seeing his tracers carving a long straight path through the chaos. At the end of the field, a long, low building had taken a direct hit from a 100 kg bomb and was burning furiously. The roof caved in as the fire took out its supports, sending showers of sparks upwards.
The anti-aircraft guns were still firing but the shell bursts around his flight had diminished dramatically. Ochakov realized why when he looked back at the site of the completed bridge. Vasilyev’s flight must have seen the pyre of smoke from the burning building and followed the sound of the guns. The flak bursts were around them now.
It was a matter of pride with the Sturmovik pilots that they would not return to base carrying unexpended ammunition. So it was that Ochakov led his flight back in another pass at the field now covered with the scattered bodies of the horses and the men who had tried to tend to them. Some groups had escaped, and the horses were galloping along the field in a frantic attempt to get clear. The three Sturmoviks raced in different directions following them. As they cleared the field, their guns and bomb racks empty, the second flight crossed behind them to continue the assault on the truck park. In the distance, Ochakov could see the third flight closing on the scene. A perfect conveyor belt of death. He thought.
Two hours later, back at Airfield Number Seven, Ochakov was making his report and making his claim for a single fighter shot down. The flights of Il-2s were landing, some still complete, some short one aircraft, and some having lost two of the three. So far, twelve aircraft had been lost and there were still several flights yet to return. It was interesting to the pilots to note that few of the losses had been to fighters; most were due to the intense anti-aircraft fire that surrounded the targets. On the other hand, fighters had inflicted most of the non-lethal damage. The cost of the damage was easily visible when looking at the flight line. The mechanics had turned the propellers of the aircraft in a set code. A single propeller blade pointing upwards meant the aircraft was ready to go on a mission. Two propeller blades pointing upwards in a V meant the aircraft was down for repairs. Nearly all the flight-line aircraft were in the latter category. The armor plate had protected the engine, pilot, and fuel tanks but the wings on all the aircraft were riddled with holes from rifle and machine-gun bullets.
"Tell me again about the fascist you claim to have shot down." The Politruk was glowering at Ochakov, and it suddenly occurred to the pilot that his burst of gunfire could easily be interpreted as him treacherously shooting at his wingman. So, he went through the story again, choosing his words with great care.
The Politruk pulled a piece of paper from a pocket. "We have an eye-witness, bratishka. He speaks of three Sturmoviks attacking from the west, with one aircraft behind the other two. Two fascist fighters attacked them from behind and overshot the trailing aircraft. That trailing aircraft seized the chance and shot one of the fighters down. Tovarish Colonel. The kill claimed by Tovarish Petr Anisimovich is confirmed!"
The cheers that went up across the flight line were deafening and Ochakov found himself being grabbed and tossed into the air. Already, a black cross was being painted under the cockpit of his aircraft. Ochakov felt a surge of delight but was very careful not to ask who the eyewitness confirming his kill was.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-Two
257 Squadron, Martlesham Heath, Essex, U.K.
“How’s it going, Tuckie?” Wing Commander Stanford Tuck had been expecting the appearance of Air Vice Marshal Park ever since the message had come in from RAF Aldergrove the night before. Aldergrove, just outside Belfast, was the home of the RAF’s elite night fighter force and it was well known that night fighter pilots had to eat large quantities of carrots in order to maximize their night vision. Every so often, the supplies of carrots at Aldergrove would run low and more would have to be sent. Carrots were plentiful in southern Ireland, but the Irish government had refused to supply them to ‘the forces occupying the North’. Shipment by sea was out of the question since the carrots had to be fresh for their night vision benefits to be adequate. All that meant a shortage would have been covered by flying a supply up. Quite apart from anything else, it was a good training flight combining long-distance navigation and night flying.
“Very well, Sir. The Bombay came in an hour or so and the local farmers delivered a supply of fresh carrots. This morning, the crops were still in the ground. I think the farmers are already replanting their fields."
'Carrots' was the code-name for the Enigma-deciphering Bombes previously resident at Bletchley Park. The 'farmers' were the teams of experts who were stripping Bletchley of all its secret equipment while 'replanting' was replacing that equipment with 1917-vintage systems that had been in store since the end of the Great War. By the time they finished, Bletchley Park would have gone back almost thirty years in time. If the worst came to the worst, it would be clumsily ‘blown up’ and Germans picking through the wreckage would have enough information to tell them it was hopelessly out-of-date but no idea of what had really happened there.
"Well done, Tuckie." Park looked at where the Bombay transport was parked. It was one of a new batch built by Short and Harland in Belfast after the original production batch had been isolated in the Middle East and joined the Commonwealth. The new aircraft differed from the first group in having an enlarged cargo door behind the port wing. Coincidentally, the door allowed loading of crates seven feet long, six foot six inches wide, and two feet deep, dimensions that were remarkably similar to those of a crated Bombe. The floor of the aircraft had been reinforced to take a spot load of a ton. "Who are the crew this time? Not another German I presume?"
Tuck laughed at the memory. The Luftwaffe's multi-engined crew training program had been badly disrupted by the loss of Ju-52s in the French campaign and had never recovered. The Reichsluftfahrtministerium had approached the British Air Ministry and asked if they could send pilots to the British training program, for a suitably generous fee of course. Aware that the "request" wasn't declinable, and it was better to be paid than not to be, the Air Ministry had agreed. So, Luftwaffe personnel turned up now and again on British training flights, ostensibly at least for training although ‘keeping an eye open’ was probably a better description. One of them, blissfully unaware of what the aircraft was really carrying, had been on the last flight to Aldergrove. Records had, of course, been kept and it was hoped that one day he could be blackmailed with the knowledge that he had participated in what amounted to a sabotage operation. "No, Sir. The pilot will be Gibson, navigator Hopkins. The third man will be an airman being transferred to Aldergrove after being caught stealing carrots from the cargo. He accepted administrative punishment and demotion rather than go before a court."
Park looked intensely curious. "It sounds like there's another story there."
Tuck glanced around. "His brother was killed in the Nottingham Massacre last year. When I explained what we wanted, he jumped at the chance to stick it to That Man. So, we set the whole case up. He'll desert from Aldergrove, and we'll get him to Middle East Command. Nothing like a few gruesome details of stolen property being sold on the black market to make a cover story convincing."
Park made a mental note to get the name of the airman in question and check his story. If it were true, he was a brave man and a true patriot who would, in time, be properly rewarded. If he were an infiltrator under deep cover, his proper reward would come much sooner. "Heard the latest from the Soviet Union?"
Tuck shook his head. "Only the stuff from London and that's almost a direct repeat of the Berlin news. According to that, the German Army is advancing almost unchallenged."
"There's more truth to that than we would like although Russian resistance is beginning to solidify. Their losses have been stupendous though. Thousands of aircraft, thousands of tanks. In the south, the Germans have already pushed as far as the Bug River although the Russians do seem to be holding there. It's the north that's the true disaster area. The German Army has advanced hundreds of kilometers and is starting to encircle large portions of the Soviet Army. We could be seeing millions of prisoners taken."
"How will the Germans feed them all?" Tuck had an unpleasant feeling he wasn't going to like the answer. As a child, his nanny had been Russian and had taught him to speak the language. He had a hideous feeling that some of his much-loved nanny's relatives were likely to be amongst the dead.
Park's reply was equal to his worst fears. "They won't."
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel” Indian Ocean.
“What the hell is it?” Captain von Ruckteschell on the bridge of the Michel was frustrated by the complete lack of information at his disposal. When one of his lookouts had spotted the indistinct shadow of a ship in the pre-dawn darkness, his most pressing question had been who owned it. He had extremely strict orders not to attack British-flagged ships, but Commonwealth vessels were fair game. In fact, they were his priority targets. Yet, in the uncertain light, he couldn’t even make out whether it was a merchant vessel or a warship. After some agonized indecision, von Ruckteschell concluded that the mysterious sighting had to be an enemy, mostly because he assumed that neutral ships would proceed at night with their peacetime lights on. What he wanted most was for the shadowy, indistinct shape on the horizon to be transformed into the silhouette of a freighter.
It wasn’t happening. Von Ruckteschell peered through his binoculars, realizing that the lives of his ship and his crew might depend on making the correct identification and decision. The decisions made by Langsdorff on the Graf Spree had been driven home very thoroughly to all the raider skippers as something to be avoided at all costs. Faulty identification and wanton disobedience of orders had cost Germany a valuable warship and von Ruckteschell had no intention of allowing the same to be said of him.
Beside him, his first officer, Oberleutnant Zur See Julius Benthaus, was staring with equal determination. “Sir, I think she is a freighter but how can we be sure?”
“We can stay to the west of her, Julius. That way, when dawn comes, we should be able to see her clearly against the light while we remain hidden in the darkness. Then, if she is a freighter, we can unmask our guns and stop her. All the time praying that she is not a warship and will not open with everything she has on us. Bring Michel around to two-seven-zero and we’ll shadow whatever is out there. If it’s a warship, we can still slide off into the dark.
Benthaus gave the orders that turned Michel west and concealed her in the darkness. Frustratingly, at sunrise, the suspect ship still had not been positively identified and von Ruckteschell decided to take a chance. He brought Michel around and allowed her to drift close to the potential target. Closing the range would allow him to get a better look and place his guns in a better attack position. To his intense relief, it quickly became apparent that the ship was indeed a freighter, one that was apparently maintaining her course. It was an odd thing to do when an unidentified ship was in the area, but it seemed to the German officers that she was either unaware of a threat or had decided, for whatever reason, to discount it. As visibility improved with the sun rising, it, at last, became apparent that the ship was not displaying British, or any other, neutrality markings.
“Sir, on the stern, I can see two guns. One looks like an anti-aircraft gun but the other. Looks to me like an old 12-centimeter gun.”
“You’re right, Julius. The flak gun is an old 3.7 centimeter. The other one looks like a gun off a retired destroyer. Whatever they are, they confirm her enemy status. She’s Commonwealth for certain. Hold our present course and speed. We’ll let her pass behind us and then turn to follow from her starboard quarter.”
“Put a shot across her bows, Sir?”
“On my command, yes. Use the 10.5-centimeter gun. We’ll need to settle this fast before she can get a wireless warning out. Once we are level with her bridge, we will unmask our guns, raise the Kriegsmarine flag, and only then can you fire your shot. After that, we’ll order her to heave-to.”
Tension escalated as Von Ruckteschell waited to see how the Allied captain would respond to the changing situation. The freighter was still on the same course, plodding along with almost tangible imperturbability when the 10.5 cm gun on Michel was unmasked and the German navy battle ensign broke out. Then, the response was immediate and drastic. The Commonwealth freighter quickly changed course, increased speed, and broadcast a QQQQ auxiliary cruiser warning. Despite a desperate effort by the radio room on Michel to jam the transmission, the Commonwealth radio operator increased the power on his transmission, burning through the jamming signal.
"We got her name, Sir. She's the Kanyaka, was British but now Australian-registered. 5,200 tons Last heard of ferrying scrap steel from the States to Australia. Why she's out here, I don't know."
"Probably either collecting scrap from or taking it to India." Von Ruckteschell saw the 10 cm gun on the stern fire, the shell good for line but woefully short on range. "That settles it. Open fire with the main guns."
"Message from Kanyaka, Sir. Her Master demands we strike our colors and surrender immediately. I don’t think he has any intention of surrendering." As if to confirm Benthaus's words, the Kanyaka's stern gun fired again, the shell still being good for line but much closer in range. Benthaus believed that the gun was worn out and the crew hadn't made enough allowance for that.
Von Ruckteschell was seriously annoyed that the Kanyaka had not stopped and deeply offended by the demand for him to strike his colors, watched with satisfaction when his four broadside 15.2 cm guns opened fire. That satisfaction vanished when the first salvo of 15cm shells scattered all around the freighter. Benthaus was quick to explain. "Our director, Sir. It was badly damaged when we were strafed, and we didn’t have the spares to repair it. The guns are firing on local control."
The next salvo of shells was a lot better aimed although the dispersion was still too great for von Ruckteschell's exacting standards. He knew what the problem was; the guns were dispersed down the ship's length. That made little difference when they were firing under director control but when they were individually laid, getting a tight pattern was almost impossible. It wasn't as if he could step up training for the crews; he only had the ammunition his ship carried and there was little chance of replenishment.
What was worse, this tint battle was eating that reserve of ammunition. Despite the terrible odds against surviving, the Kanyaka was making a brave effort to fight back. With her next shot, her stern gun scored a direct on the bows of the Michel. It barely caused any damage von Ruckteschell could see and in return his next salvo pounded the freighter, starting several fires that were spreading across the aft cargo deck. A shell from Michel's next broadside hit the stern gun, igniting the nearby ammunition and silencing it. Despite now being defenseless, Kanyaka refused to stop. Michel’s
radio room was still reporting that the ship was transmitting its raider warning and was obviously continuing to do so until another wireless acknowledged the message.
Eventually, Kanyaka's radio went silent after a shell struck her bridge and Von Ruckteschell ordered a ceasefire even though the freighter had not stopped. By that point, the ship was burning all along her length, eventually forcing her to stop when the flames engulfed her engine room. Her crew attempted to lower lifeboats but one caught fire and another sank after hitting the water. Von Ruckteschell sent across three boats to rescue the survivors and upon their arrival the British lowered their wounded from the stern. That was when, to the horror of the German crewmen, one of the Australian crew ran out from the wrecked aft superstructure and deliberately jumped into the still-turning propeller.
There was no hope of saving the Kanyaka or of getting anything valuable off her. Her Captain and twenty-four men became prisoners on the Orion but that was all. Von Ruckteschell decided to sink the wrecked ship since the great pyre of black smoke could be seen for miles, potentially attracting hostile attention. Benthaus fired a single torpedo that ran straight and true, striking the Kanyaka amidships. The stricken freighter broke in two, leaving her bow and stern to form a great V as she went down.
After watching his victim sink. Von Ruckteschell turned to the freighter's captain who had been brought to the bridge.
"That was a brave fight Captain, but why did you not just surrender? This was a battle you could not win."
"My orders are not to stop, to get out a radio message and to fight as long as we can. Who knows what might happen? We just needed to get one shot into your waterline or wreck one critical piece of equipment. You are a long way from home and even a little damage can be critical. So, we fought."
"And that crewman. Why did he take his own life like that?"
"That was our ship's cook and she had already told me she did not want to be taken prisoner by you. I tried to persuade her otherwise, but she was adamant. I thought she was simply going to stay below decks when the ship sank but she chose to do what she did. I think she was showing you she would rather die than fall into your hands alive." The captain paused for a second and got his voice under control. "That is what the world thinks of you, mate, and don’t you forget it. We all remember the hospital ships you people deliberately sank in the last one. Aye, and the wounded men in lifeboats you massacred."
The Captain was escorted off the bridge, to join his men in the forward hold. His reply had shocked von Ruckteschell to his core. He had taken command of Michel with a romanticized expectation of a war fought with chivalry and honor. Now, every enemy merchant ship was armed, and everyone had a radio. Even if he had wanted to obey the ancient laws of the sea, modern conditions meant he could not do so. There was an inherent conflict of interest between the man he would like to be and the man this war demanded. The master of the Kanyaka had driven that home very bluntly. It had never occurred to von Ruckteschell how much he and his fellow countrymen were hated. His reverie was interrupted by his first officer.
"Sir, that shot that hit our bows?"
"Yes, Julius?"
"It did no damage, but it made me think. We have all the aviation fuel we loaded for Annie and Gusti but were never able to use. If it had been hit, it would have left us burning like that freighter. We ought to flush it overboard."
Von Ruckteschell shook his head. "We can’t do that. We might need it if we can get a replacement aircraft. Losing Annie and Gusti really hurt us. We'll have to get something to replace them."
Isabel Jones' House, 70 Upper Debert River Road, Debert, Nova Scotia.
Dale checked the address he had been given very carefully and then compared it with the house he had found. It was a small, one-and-a-half floor building, with the top floor contained within the V-shape formed by the roof. It was painted a dark red color which contrasted oddly with the bright yellow paint on the otherwise identical house next door. Along the right-hand side of the house was a gravel track that led to an outbuilding around the back. The entrance to the house was on the left-hand side, with a small set of steps leading up to a porch and the front door.
He had managed to borrow a car from the base motor pool; a rare privilege that he owed to shooting down an enemy aircraft and strafing a raider. Less obviously, he also owed the consideration to the fact that he was very reticent about his achievements and had refused to exploit them. So it was that when word spread that he had a date, he had been told that a spare car was available if he wanted to use it.
He picked up the box of lace handkerchiefs on the front seat beside him and checked it out. He had thrown away the old, yellowed box and got a new one of the right size. He'd also persuaded one of the women on the base to embroider the initials IJ on the handkerchiefs, an act of kindness that had cost him an African wooden necklace he had brought back from Sierra Leone. What worried him slightly was that he couldn’t remember where and when he had obtained that necklace and was concerned that he had angered some tribal god in the process. He had thought of bringing a bunch of flowers as well but the same girl who had done the embroidery for him had suggested that flowers were inappropriate for a first date. If there was a second, then flowers were good.
A quick glance at his wristwatch told him that he was exactly on time, so he left the car by the side of the road and knocked on the front door. Isabel opened it almost instantly. Dale suspected she had been watching through the front windows. He had, after all, called ahead to let her know he was on his way.
"Good evening, Izzie. How are you?"
"Digby, it's good to see you again. Come on in and sit down."
They went inside. The house had two ground floor rooms, a living room at the front, and a kitchen behind it. There were stairs in the back of the living room, he guessed they led to the single bedroom upstairs. "I'm afraid the handkerchief you loaned me was completely ruined, Izzie. So, I got you these instead. I hope that's all right?"
"They're beautiful! Thank you, Digby. Now, what have you been up to since I saw you? You've been away for a while.
The conversation started slowly and awkwardly but became more relaxed as the two became more comfortable with each other. Dale found himself describing how he had shot down the Arado that had been trying to locate the convoy. When he described how the Arado had fallen apart in mid-air under the blast of his twelve machineguns, Izzie danced up and down in her seat and clapped her hands. "Tell me, Digby. How did you find a little aircraft like that?"
"Oh, that was easy. The radar on the ship carrying my aircraft spotted and tracked him. They just steered me in the right direction. They did the difficult bit. Izzie, are you hungry? We could go out for dinner somewhere. Is there anywhere around here?"
Izzie thought for a moment. "This sounds a bit odd but there's a gas station over in Glenholme that has a really good family restaurant attached. Called the Glenholme Sun. It's a sort of local secret. Everybody around here eats there when they go out. Want to try it?"
"Let's go, Izzie!"
Two hours later, they returned to Izzie's house. Dale escorted her to the door and gave her a polite peck on the cheek. "That was a great evening Izzie. May I see you again some time?"
"Of course, Digby. You have my number. And don’t wait too long."
257 Squadron, Martlesham Heath, Essex, U.K.
“How’s it going, Tuckie?” Wing Commander Stanford Tuck had been expecting the appearance of Air Vice Marshal Park ever since the message had come in from RAF Aldergrove the night before. Aldergrove, just outside Belfast, was the home of the RAF’s elite night fighter force and it was well known that night fighter pilots had to eat large quantities of carrots in order to maximize their night vision. Every so often, the supplies of carrots at Aldergrove would run low and more would have to be sent. Carrots were plentiful in southern Ireland, but the Irish government had refused to supply them to ‘the forces occupying the North’. Shipment by sea was out of the question since the carrots had to be fresh for their night vision benefits to be adequate. All that meant a shortage would have been covered by flying a supply up. Quite apart from anything else, it was a good training flight combining long-distance navigation and night flying.
“Very well, Sir. The Bombay came in an hour or so and the local farmers delivered a supply of fresh carrots. This morning, the crops were still in the ground. I think the farmers are already replanting their fields."
'Carrots' was the code-name for the Enigma-deciphering Bombes previously resident at Bletchley Park. The 'farmers' were the teams of experts who were stripping Bletchley of all its secret equipment while 'replanting' was replacing that equipment with 1917-vintage systems that had been in store since the end of the Great War. By the time they finished, Bletchley Park would have gone back almost thirty years in time. If the worst came to the worst, it would be clumsily ‘blown up’ and Germans picking through the wreckage would have enough information to tell them it was hopelessly out-of-date but no idea of what had really happened there.
"Well done, Tuckie." Park looked at where the Bombay transport was parked. It was one of a new batch built by Short and Harland in Belfast after the original production batch had been isolated in the Middle East and joined the Commonwealth. The new aircraft differed from the first group in having an enlarged cargo door behind the port wing. Coincidentally, the door allowed loading of crates seven feet long, six foot six inches wide, and two feet deep, dimensions that were remarkably similar to those of a crated Bombe. The floor of the aircraft had been reinforced to take a spot load of a ton. "Who are the crew this time? Not another German I presume?"
Tuck laughed at the memory. The Luftwaffe's multi-engined crew training program had been badly disrupted by the loss of Ju-52s in the French campaign and had never recovered. The Reichsluftfahrtministerium had approached the British Air Ministry and asked if they could send pilots to the British training program, for a suitably generous fee of course. Aware that the "request" wasn't declinable, and it was better to be paid than not to be, the Air Ministry had agreed. So, Luftwaffe personnel turned up now and again on British training flights, ostensibly at least for training although ‘keeping an eye open’ was probably a better description. One of them, blissfully unaware of what the aircraft was really carrying, had been on the last flight to Aldergrove. Records had, of course, been kept and it was hoped that one day he could be blackmailed with the knowledge that he had participated in what amounted to a sabotage operation. "No, Sir. The pilot will be Gibson, navigator Hopkins. The third man will be an airman being transferred to Aldergrove after being caught stealing carrots from the cargo. He accepted administrative punishment and demotion rather than go before a court."
Park looked intensely curious. "It sounds like there's another story there."
Tuck glanced around. "His brother was killed in the Nottingham Massacre last year. When I explained what we wanted, he jumped at the chance to stick it to That Man. So, we set the whole case up. He'll desert from Aldergrove, and we'll get him to Middle East Command. Nothing like a few gruesome details of stolen property being sold on the black market to make a cover story convincing."
Park made a mental note to get the name of the airman in question and check his story. If it were true, he was a brave man and a true patriot who would, in time, be properly rewarded. If he were an infiltrator under deep cover, his proper reward would come much sooner. "Heard the latest from the Soviet Union?"
Tuck shook his head. "Only the stuff from London and that's almost a direct repeat of the Berlin news. According to that, the German Army is advancing almost unchallenged."
"There's more truth to that than we would like although Russian resistance is beginning to solidify. Their losses have been stupendous though. Thousands of aircraft, thousands of tanks. In the south, the Germans have already pushed as far as the Bug River although the Russians do seem to be holding there. It's the north that's the true disaster area. The German Army has advanced hundreds of kilometers and is starting to encircle large portions of the Soviet Army. We could be seeing millions of prisoners taken."
"How will the Germans feed them all?" Tuck had an unpleasant feeling he wasn't going to like the answer. As a child, his nanny had been Russian and had taught him to speak the language. He had a hideous feeling that some of his much-loved nanny's relatives were likely to be amongst the dead.
Park's reply was equal to his worst fears. "They won't."
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel” Indian Ocean.
“What the hell is it?” Captain von Ruckteschell on the bridge of the Michel was frustrated by the complete lack of information at his disposal. When one of his lookouts had spotted the indistinct shadow of a ship in the pre-dawn darkness, his most pressing question had been who owned it. He had extremely strict orders not to attack British-flagged ships, but Commonwealth vessels were fair game. In fact, they were his priority targets. Yet, in the uncertain light, he couldn’t even make out whether it was a merchant vessel or a warship. After some agonized indecision, von Ruckteschell concluded that the mysterious sighting had to be an enemy, mostly because he assumed that neutral ships would proceed at night with their peacetime lights on. What he wanted most was for the shadowy, indistinct shape on the horizon to be transformed into the silhouette of a freighter.
It wasn’t happening. Von Ruckteschell peered through his binoculars, realizing that the lives of his ship and his crew might depend on making the correct identification and decision. The decisions made by Langsdorff on the Graf Spree had been driven home very thoroughly to all the raider skippers as something to be avoided at all costs. Faulty identification and wanton disobedience of orders had cost Germany a valuable warship and von Ruckteschell had no intention of allowing the same to be said of him.
Beside him, his first officer, Oberleutnant Zur See Julius Benthaus, was staring with equal determination. “Sir, I think she is a freighter but how can we be sure?”
“We can stay to the west of her, Julius. That way, when dawn comes, we should be able to see her clearly against the light while we remain hidden in the darkness. Then, if she is a freighter, we can unmask our guns and stop her. All the time praying that she is not a warship and will not open with everything she has on us. Bring Michel around to two-seven-zero and we’ll shadow whatever is out there. If it’s a warship, we can still slide off into the dark.
Benthaus gave the orders that turned Michel west and concealed her in the darkness. Frustratingly, at sunrise, the suspect ship still had not been positively identified and von Ruckteschell decided to take a chance. He brought Michel around and allowed her to drift close to the potential target. Closing the range would allow him to get a better look and place his guns in a better attack position. To his intense relief, it quickly became apparent that the ship was indeed a freighter, one that was apparently maintaining her course. It was an odd thing to do when an unidentified ship was in the area, but it seemed to the German officers that she was either unaware of a threat or had decided, for whatever reason, to discount it. As visibility improved with the sun rising, it, at last, became apparent that the ship was not displaying British, or any other, neutrality markings.
“Sir, on the stern, I can see two guns. One looks like an anti-aircraft gun but the other. Looks to me like an old 12-centimeter gun.”
“You’re right, Julius. The flak gun is an old 3.7 centimeter. The other one looks like a gun off a retired destroyer. Whatever they are, they confirm her enemy status. She’s Commonwealth for certain. Hold our present course and speed. We’ll let her pass behind us and then turn to follow from her starboard quarter.”
“Put a shot across her bows, Sir?”
“On my command, yes. Use the 10.5-centimeter gun. We’ll need to settle this fast before she can get a wireless warning out. Once we are level with her bridge, we will unmask our guns, raise the Kriegsmarine flag, and only then can you fire your shot. After that, we’ll order her to heave-to.”
Tension escalated as Von Ruckteschell waited to see how the Allied captain would respond to the changing situation. The freighter was still on the same course, plodding along with almost tangible imperturbability when the 10.5 cm gun on Michel was unmasked and the German navy battle ensign broke out. Then, the response was immediate and drastic. The Commonwealth freighter quickly changed course, increased speed, and broadcast a QQQQ auxiliary cruiser warning. Despite a desperate effort by the radio room on Michel to jam the transmission, the Commonwealth radio operator increased the power on his transmission, burning through the jamming signal.
"We got her name, Sir. She's the Kanyaka, was British but now Australian-registered. 5,200 tons Last heard of ferrying scrap steel from the States to Australia. Why she's out here, I don't know."
"Probably either collecting scrap from or taking it to India." Von Ruckteschell saw the 10 cm gun on the stern fire, the shell good for line but woefully short on range. "That settles it. Open fire with the main guns."
"Message from Kanyaka, Sir. Her Master demands we strike our colors and surrender immediately. I don’t think he has any intention of surrendering." As if to confirm Benthaus's words, the Kanyaka's stern gun fired again, the shell still being good for line but much closer in range. Benthaus believed that the gun was worn out and the crew hadn't made enough allowance for that.
Von Ruckteschell was seriously annoyed that the Kanyaka had not stopped and deeply offended by the demand for him to strike his colors, watched with satisfaction when his four broadside 15.2 cm guns opened fire. That satisfaction vanished when the first salvo of 15cm shells scattered all around the freighter. Benthaus was quick to explain. "Our director, Sir. It was badly damaged when we were strafed, and we didn’t have the spares to repair it. The guns are firing on local control."
The next salvo of shells was a lot better aimed although the dispersion was still too great for von Ruckteschell's exacting standards. He knew what the problem was; the guns were dispersed down the ship's length. That made little difference when they were firing under director control but when they were individually laid, getting a tight pattern was almost impossible. It wasn't as if he could step up training for the crews; he only had the ammunition his ship carried and there was little chance of replenishment.
What was worse, this tint battle was eating that reserve of ammunition. Despite the terrible odds against surviving, the Kanyaka was making a brave effort to fight back. With her next shot, her stern gun scored a direct on the bows of the Michel. It barely caused any damage von Ruckteschell could see and in return his next salvo pounded the freighter, starting several fires that were spreading across the aft cargo deck. A shell from Michel's next broadside hit the stern gun, igniting the nearby ammunition and silencing it. Despite now being defenseless, Kanyaka refused to stop. Michel’s
radio room was still reporting that the ship was transmitting its raider warning and was obviously continuing to do so until another wireless acknowledged the message.
Eventually, Kanyaka's radio went silent after a shell struck her bridge and Von Ruckteschell ordered a ceasefire even though the freighter had not stopped. By that point, the ship was burning all along her length, eventually forcing her to stop when the flames engulfed her engine room. Her crew attempted to lower lifeboats but one caught fire and another sank after hitting the water. Von Ruckteschell sent across three boats to rescue the survivors and upon their arrival the British lowered their wounded from the stern. That was when, to the horror of the German crewmen, one of the Australian crew ran out from the wrecked aft superstructure and deliberately jumped into the still-turning propeller.
There was no hope of saving the Kanyaka or of getting anything valuable off her. Her Captain and twenty-four men became prisoners on the Orion but that was all. Von Ruckteschell decided to sink the wrecked ship since the great pyre of black smoke could be seen for miles, potentially attracting hostile attention. Benthaus fired a single torpedo that ran straight and true, striking the Kanyaka amidships. The stricken freighter broke in two, leaving her bow and stern to form a great V as she went down.
After watching his victim sink. Von Ruckteschell turned to the freighter's captain who had been brought to the bridge.
"That was a brave fight Captain, but why did you not just surrender? This was a battle you could not win."
"My orders are not to stop, to get out a radio message and to fight as long as we can. Who knows what might happen? We just needed to get one shot into your waterline or wreck one critical piece of equipment. You are a long way from home and even a little damage can be critical. So, we fought."
"And that crewman. Why did he take his own life like that?"
"That was our ship's cook and she had already told me she did not want to be taken prisoner by you. I tried to persuade her otherwise, but she was adamant. I thought she was simply going to stay below decks when the ship sank but she chose to do what she did. I think she was showing you she would rather die than fall into your hands alive." The captain paused for a second and got his voice under control. "That is what the world thinks of you, mate, and don’t you forget it. We all remember the hospital ships you people deliberately sank in the last one. Aye, and the wounded men in lifeboats you massacred."
The Captain was escorted off the bridge, to join his men in the forward hold. His reply had shocked von Ruckteschell to his core. He had taken command of Michel with a romanticized expectation of a war fought with chivalry and honor. Now, every enemy merchant ship was armed, and everyone had a radio. Even if he had wanted to obey the ancient laws of the sea, modern conditions meant he could not do so. There was an inherent conflict of interest between the man he would like to be and the man this war demanded. The master of the Kanyaka had driven that home very bluntly. It had never occurred to von Ruckteschell how much he and his fellow countrymen were hated. His reverie was interrupted by his first officer.
"Sir, that shot that hit our bows?"
"Yes, Julius?"
"It did no damage, but it made me think. We have all the aviation fuel we loaded for Annie and Gusti but were never able to use. If it had been hit, it would have left us burning like that freighter. We ought to flush it overboard."
Von Ruckteschell shook his head. "We can’t do that. We might need it if we can get a replacement aircraft. Losing Annie and Gusti really hurt us. We'll have to get something to replace them."
Isabel Jones' House, 70 Upper Debert River Road, Debert, Nova Scotia.
Dale checked the address he had been given very carefully and then compared it with the house he had found. It was a small, one-and-a-half floor building, with the top floor contained within the V-shape formed by the roof. It was painted a dark red color which contrasted oddly with the bright yellow paint on the otherwise identical house next door. Along the right-hand side of the house was a gravel track that led to an outbuilding around the back. The entrance to the house was on the left-hand side, with a small set of steps leading up to a porch and the front door.
He had managed to borrow a car from the base motor pool; a rare privilege that he owed to shooting down an enemy aircraft and strafing a raider. Less obviously, he also owed the consideration to the fact that he was very reticent about his achievements and had refused to exploit them. So it was that when word spread that he had a date, he had been told that a spare car was available if he wanted to use it.
He picked up the box of lace handkerchiefs on the front seat beside him and checked it out. He had thrown away the old, yellowed box and got a new one of the right size. He'd also persuaded one of the women on the base to embroider the initials IJ on the handkerchiefs, an act of kindness that had cost him an African wooden necklace he had brought back from Sierra Leone. What worried him slightly was that he couldn’t remember where and when he had obtained that necklace and was concerned that he had angered some tribal god in the process. He had thought of bringing a bunch of flowers as well but the same girl who had done the embroidery for him had suggested that flowers were inappropriate for a first date. If there was a second, then flowers were good.
A quick glance at his wristwatch told him that he was exactly on time, so he left the car by the side of the road and knocked on the front door. Isabel opened it almost instantly. Dale suspected she had been watching through the front windows. He had, after all, called ahead to let her know he was on his way.
"Good evening, Izzie. How are you?"
"Digby, it's good to see you again. Come on in and sit down."
They went inside. The house had two ground floor rooms, a living room at the front, and a kitchen behind it. There were stairs in the back of the living room, he guessed they led to the single bedroom upstairs. "I'm afraid the handkerchief you loaned me was completely ruined, Izzie. So, I got you these instead. I hope that's all right?"
"They're beautiful! Thank you, Digby. Now, what have you been up to since I saw you? You've been away for a while.
The conversation started slowly and awkwardly but became more relaxed as the two became more comfortable with each other. Dale found himself describing how he had shot down the Arado that had been trying to locate the convoy. When he described how the Arado had fallen apart in mid-air under the blast of his twelve machineguns, Izzie danced up and down in her seat and clapped her hands. "Tell me, Digby. How did you find a little aircraft like that?"
"Oh, that was easy. The radar on the ship carrying my aircraft spotted and tracked him. They just steered me in the right direction. They did the difficult bit. Izzie, are you hungry? We could go out for dinner somewhere. Is there anywhere around here?"
Izzie thought for a moment. "This sounds a bit odd but there's a gas station over in Glenholme that has a really good family restaurant attached. Called the Glenholme Sun. It's a sort of local secret. Everybody around here eats there when they go out. Want to try it?"
"Let's go, Izzie!"
Two hours later, they returned to Izzie's house. Dale escorted her to the door and gave her a polite peck on the cheek. "That was a great evening Izzie. May I see you again some time?"
"Of course, Digby. You have my number. And don’t wait too long."
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-Three
Forward Observation Post Artillery Regiment 171, 71st Infantry Division, Kamyanska Buzka, Ukraine, May 22, 1941
“The Ivans are about to launch an assault on our positions. Tomorrow morning, our troops will be attacked by an enemy tank brigade, in full combat-readiness and supported by artillery. Advancing a kilometer and a half behind them will be other combat formations including a rifle regiment or possibly a full division.” Colonel Klaus Marcks shuddered in professional anguish at the attack plan. He wouldn’t have believed that any army could be so foolish as to send its tanks in unsupported with a long gap between them and the infantry following behind. He felt an insane desire to go over to the Soviet headquarters, find whoever had come up with the scheme and pound his head against a wall.
“Is that serious, Klaus?” Asbach couldn’t believe it either. It wasn’t surprising that a Soviet attack was being launched; the 71st infantry had been chasing the Ivans for days and only now were they catching up with them. All they had met were stay-behind parties and rearguards. Each ‘battle’ had been over quickly with the defenses being outflanked, overrun and obliterated. The bad news was that each had been followed by small burial details for the handful of casualties suffered by the German infantry. With two or three such engagements each day, the handfuls were mounting steadily into oversized armloads.
They were still nothing compared with the casualties the Russians were taking though. When they fought the Germans, the ground was left carpeted with their dead. Asbach had an unpleasant theory that the Ivans were harassing the Germans even in death. There had been no time for the Germans to dig common graves to bury all the dead. Yet, as May began to turn into June, the summer heat was beginning to do its work. Everywhere Asbach went, there was a pervasive stench of rotting corpses. The men were already tormented with thirst, and at every suitable opportunity they would re-fill their canteens with cold water. That was becoming more dangerous than it sounded; not only was the water itself suspect from the numbers of dead but enemy snipers were making an appearance and the best of them were very good indeed. Now, a canteen of fresh water could cost the owner his life. Another small burial detail, another letter written, another delay in the growing discrepancy between plan and achievement.
“It’s serious all right.” Marcks has asked the same question when he had been briefed by the divisional commander, Lieutenant-General Alexander von Hartmann, earlier that evening. “The Ivans hit us at the same time and in the same way every time they try to attack. Their tanks will hit our advanced positions at exactly 0830. If there is a preliminary bombardment, it’ll start 30 minutes before that. Don’t worry about it, if it happens it will be aimed at our defensive positions, and they aren’t where the Ivans think they are. Your job will be to take cover, let the tanks through and then engage the follow-up infantry with our guns and the skirmish line. The divisional anti-tank will take out the Ivan T-26s. Our Pak-38s will rip those light tanks up.”
Now, two hours later, that comforted Asbach who knew that most German divisions still had the old 3.7cm Pak-36s in their regimental anti-tank companies and usually in the divisional anti-tank battalion as well. The 71st, due to its spell as a demonstration division had 5cm guns in both. They even had SdKfz 10s to tow them. Despite that reassurance though, Asbach knew that the nerves of everyone strung out along the front-line positions of the 71st were strained to the limit. The fighting in France had removed any illusions the division had about what was happening. No matter how favorable the circumstances and no matter how the odds fell in their favor, men were still about to die, and in any battle, the casualty rate was always the same. One death per customer.
Asbach’s forward observer team was watching through binoculars and optical instruments, ready to bring down artillery fire on the infantry following the tanks. The telephone wires connecting them to the artillery regiment command post had been carefully laid. Given his own preferences, Asbach would have liked to have pre-registered his guns on the enemy choke points ahead of him. There were chokepoints, there always were, even on the flat Ukrainian plain. That was when he heard the alert coming over his earphones. ‘Kugel 595’ and a series of green flares soared into the sky. The Ivans were beginning their attack.
The attack was a little different from the standard pattern that had been established in the first days of the war. Then, the Soviet armor had charged the German positions at full speed; relying on the shock effect of their attack to cause their enemy to flee in disarray. The German infantry had found the presumption mildly insulting; they had faced down such attacks in France and sent them reeling back. So had it been in Russia; the tanks had been allowed through the front line and the defenses had been closed behind them. This time, the Soviet tanks were slowly moving towards Asbach’s positions, obviously fearing minefields. It wouldn’t make much difference, the rifle regiment advancing behind the tanks was at least a kilometer behind them. Through his binoculars, Asbach could see the men holding their rifles at the ready. Yet, nobody had opened fire yet; everybody was conserving their ammunition until the decisive ranges were reached.
The crews were anxiously anticipating action. Everyone wanted to strike the enemy more quickly, to end the agonizing uncertainty. Asbach, along with most of the veterans of the Battle for France a year before, had learned that there was nothing worse than waiting for the fighting to start. The defenders were crouched down in their foxholes and slit trenches, waiting for the tanks to pass over them. That was yet another disadvantage the Soviets faced. Their T-26 tanks were available in apparently inexhaustible numbers despite the casualties they had taken but they were too light to crush down trenches and the men in them. A few weeks earlier, when the ground had been chest-deep in mud, it would have been different but now the sun had hardened the ground and what had been glutinous mud of the Rasputitsa had dried and hardened. Originally, the Germans had cursed the hard ground but now they appreciated the protection it provided; they had learned to appreciate it.
There were 22 of the T-26s now approaching. Despite their slower and more cautious approach, they seemed to have swept up to the German defenses and were already passing over the positions. Even for the German veterans lying in a slit trench or foxhole while a tank drove over them was a terrifying experience. Oddly though, the biggest danger to any individual soldier was that they would lose their nerve and try and run for it. Those that did would, as an absolute certainty, be cut down by machinegun fire from the tanks. In the defenses held by the 71st, not a single man made that mistake. A few had even thought up jokes to crack when the tanks passed over their heads, but the crossing was so fast they didn’t get a chance to make them. There was a roar of engines, the shadows as the tanks passed overhead, a spray of grit and debris, and they were gone.
With the tanks clear (albeit behind them) the infantry took up their firing positions, setting up their machine guns on the rims of their trenches, the riflemen nestling down in the firing points and making sure their rifles had a round chambered. It was surprising how often somebody forgot to do that. The difference in advance speed between the tanks and the infantry was such that there was still only a little less than a kilometer between the German positions and the enemy. This was Asbach's signal to get to work. A quick check on the map, some hasty mental arithmetic and he had his data. "Reference 6692 plus one thousand three o’clock. Shoot."
The gunners must have had a round loaded and were ready to fire because there was time for only a slight adjustment before the shells howled overhead. The bursts were a little long although Asbach believed they may have served well by hitting the commanders and the security detachment. "Down 100."
Another series of four shells howled overhead but their sound was drowned out by the sound of the twelve Pak-38s firing. The gunners had carefully noted that the Soviet tanks were advancing towards them and had waited until they were firmly in the trap before the gunners opened with a storm of fire. The Pak-38 could penetrate the T-26 at 2,000 meters even through the front but the gunners had held fire until the range was less than 400. As a result, the German fire was extremely accurate. Glancing behind him, Asbach saw one shell hit a T-26 squarely on the front, sending the turret spinning some 20 meters into the air before the shattered remains of the tank burst into a ball of fire.
That was when he heard his men cheering and realized that the second salvo of shells had exploded about 20 meters ahead of the wave of Soviet infantry. "On target, fire for effect."
Now, the gunners on the 15cm and 10.5cm guns would use their expertise to decimate the Russian infantry. They started firing as fast as they could throw shells into the guns, but they also knew how fast the Russians would be running towards the German positions. So, the gunners were steadily dropping the range to make sure their shells landed in the packed mass of targets. In theory, they would continue firing and dropping the range until Asbach told them to stop but, they knew where their comrades were positioned and would need persuading if they were to continue firing when the safety interval looked as if it were about to be breached.
With the artillery fire mowing down the Russian advance to his front, Asbach glanced behind him to where the tanks were being cut up by the anti-tank guns. When tanks fought anti-tank guns, it was a duel to the death, everybody knew that. Whether the tanks would be wiped out by the guns, or the guns would fail to kill enough of their enemies and be overrun. He saw one of the few surviving T-26s hit by a shell that glanced off its left side; the little 9-tonne vehicle rocked and then suddenly burst into flames. Within seconds, the tank was ablaze. Asbach knew what had happened; the shock of the glancing hit had ruptured the poorly built fuel tank and caused the gasoline to spill out. Then it had ignited, and the crewmen inside had died at their posts. Asbach scanned frantically for the flash of the anti-tank gunshots but failed to spot the well-concealed guns. The Pak-38s were firing in salvo with the specific intention of preventing the muzzle flashes from being distinguished. In front of them, the surviving T-26s had accelerated and begun to rumble across the field again, making sharp maneuvers to stop the German gun layer’s fixing their sights on them. For all their efforts, the remorseless shell strikes continued hitting the tanks, sending them up in balls of fire as the AP shot ruptured their fuel tanks. Yet despite the damage, the surviving handful of T-26s kept rushing towards the anti-tank gun positions, firing their main guns and machine guns on the move and during short halts.
The blast of rifle and machinegun fire from his own position redirected Asbach's attention to his front. In the few seconds he had spent watching the methodical destruction of the Soviet tanks, their infantry had closed on his positions and was receiving the heaviest concentration of rifle and machinegun fire that the Germans could lay down. Asbach spoke quickly into his telephone. "Guns, cease fire!"
The artillery barrage had reduced the Soviet infantry to pockets of men, some trying to continue moving forward, the rest having seized pockets in the ground and were trying to support the others. The former was being engaged by the machine guns, the latter by the 5cm mortars that were entrusted with exactly that responsibility. They had their equivalent in the Russian unit of course, and the small crack of the mortar shells was sounding in the German lines as well. Yet, it was obvious that the Soviet mortarmen were getting the worst of the exchange and the accuracy of their fire dropped significantly.
Asbach's attention was caught by a movement in a patch of trees about 500 meters in front of his position. A Russian crew had manhandled one of their 7.6cm infantry gun up to a position where they could fire on the German lines. He jumped to the 8cm mortar pits and seized control of the crews. "Heini, there's a gun in the trees in front of us. To the left, just under the tree! Got it? Good. High explosive, sight mark 6! Fire!’
"Gone," the mortarman replied. The bomb exploded a bit in front of the target, so Asbach made a correction: "Sight mark 7. Fire.’ The bomb seemed to explode almost on top of the Soviet gun, silencing it before it could even fire a shot. Asbach could see no movement around it and assumed that it was out of action for good.
Asbach took the opportunity to take a good look around. The T-26 assault had gone. The last two tanks were burning to the right of the anti-tank trap the entire tank brigade had driven into. After the firing had ceased, there was nothing left although, to Asbach's suspicious eyes, one of the other remaining tanks seemed strangely undamaged. He thought it might have driven onto a mine but there hadn't been time to lay any. Then he realized that the tank commander had thrown open a hatch and tossed a smoke grenade out in front of the tank, to give the appearance that it had been killed. He picked up the telephone. "Send a message to the panzerjaegers. Third tank from the right, by the bushes. I think he's playing dead."
By the time his message had got through and a single shot had dispatched the last T-26, the firing from Asbach's front had ceased as well. The Soviet attack hadn't even come close to threatening the German positions. It was just another day in Ukraine.
RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
Dale brought the prototype Seacane into a landing, flaring perfectly to put all three wheels on the ground at the same time. The Seacane was an odd aircraft because the limits on its performance were aerodynamic rather than the result of any inadequacy in engine power, it had a lot of reserve power that made it safe and easy to fly. Of course, the Hurricane had always been known as the most docile of all the high-powered fighters of its generation. The result was an extremely pleasant aircraft to fly. It was also well-protected; since adding weight had little effect on performance the opportunity had been taken to work more armor into the design. The wing-mounted machine guns, all twelve of them, had been improved as well. The Americans had stopped equipping their fighters with .30 machine guns and standardized upon the .50. Somehow, the .30 machine guns made surplus by that decision had found their way up to Canada. Although replacing a .303-inch machine gun with a 0.3 inch didn’t sound much, the .30-06 cartridge was significantly more powerful than the British round. Spread over twelve guns, which gave the Seacane a lot more punch.
"How is she, Digger?" Bill Soulsby was anxious to get the verdict on the first of the Seacanes. A lot depended on it.
"Flies very well. No faster of course and the buzz is still there but she handles it sweetly. The extra armor doesn’t seem to have changed her handling much."
"Most of its close to the center of balance, that's why. 12mm sheet behind your seat, another one under your seat, and a thicker armored windscreen. It should be enough to deflect any defensive fire we get from the Focke-Wulfs and Junkers. If you're done, Digger, come over to the hangar. We've got something to show you.
A few minutes later Dale and Soulsby were standing in front of another prototype. This was obviously derived from the Seacane but instead of the ports for six machine guns in each wing, the leading edge was unpunctured. Instead, there was a tubular fairing under the wing that had a long barrel sticking out of it. Dale looked at the muzzle of the gun and his eyes opened. "What the hell is that thing?"
Soulsby smiled in delight at the effect his latest project had caused. "It's an American 37mm M4 cannon. Same gun as used in the P-39 Airacobra. The two guns are a total of about sixty pounds heavier than the twelve Brownings. We can give you high explosive or armor-piercing ammunition for them. The former will really tear up a bomber while the latter should be good for attacking surface ships like raiders. If you'd had these when you strafed one of them, you'd have really hurt her."
Dale pursed his lips. "What effect will those pods have on her?"
The 'hands-raised' gesture from Soulsby was expressive. "In theory, you'll need to use more power to get up to the aerodynamic limits of the aircraft but otherwise, she should be the same. We haven't flown her yet; we'd like you to take her up and find out what the real situation is. This was your idea after all."
"My idea?" Dale was surprised. He never remembered suggesting this.
"Yeah, when you first came here, you suggested using the Hurry-Can as a light bomber, but Elsie shut you down. Now she's gone, a lot of ideas that came up but were rejected have been reopened. This was one of them."
"Pilot Officer Dale?"
"That's me." Dale turned around to see a middle-aged man in a business suit waiting patiently. It occurred to Dale that this man had just walked into a hangar that contained experimental aircraft, suggesting he was more important than he looked.
"Geoffrey Gour. I should say, Detective Inspector Geoffrey Gour from "H" Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. This is a courtesy call really. About a Mr. Dirk Eisenberg."
"I'm sorry, Inspector, I don’t know the man."
"Oh yes you do, Sir. He punched you on the nose a few weeks back."
"Him. The merchant seaman. I never knew his name of course."
"Well, Sir, we're not sure we do either. When his assault with GBH case came up, he had absconded from his judicial interim release and is now a wanted fugitive. It's a matter of routine for us to alert assault victims that the person accused of the attack is on the loose. I don't think you have anything to worry about, but heightened vigilance may be in order."
"Thank you, Inspector, I'll keep my eyes opened," Dale noted that Gour was looking at the aircraft with unrequited longing in his eyes. "Have you ever flown?
"I wanted to, Sir, but I've never been up. I even tried to join the Air Force once, but my eyes are too bad. Got almost no depth perception you see. The RCMP won't even allow me out in the field, I must do desk jobs like this."
"Come on, I'll take you up. Bill is that Battle outside available?"
"It is Digger. It’s the trainer version though. Dual control. She needs test-flying if you want to."
"Good. Inspector, promise me with your hand on your heart that you will not touch the controls while we're up."
Thirty minutes later the Battle T touched down as neatly as Dale had brought the Seacane in earlier. Gour climbed out of the rear cockpit with an expression of dreamy delight on his face. Dale knew that expression; it was that of a man bitten by the flying bug. He'd had the same expression after his first flight. "Thank you, Sir. It's not often a man gets to experience a dream he'd given up for lost. Take my card, if there is anything, anything, I can ever do for you, give me a call. Just ask for Geoff Gour."
"I'm Digger. Good luck, Geoff. And thank you for the heads-up."
Forward Observation Post Artillery Regiment 171, 71st Infantry Division, Kamyanska Buzka, Ukraine, May 22, 1941
“The Ivans are about to launch an assault on our positions. Tomorrow morning, our troops will be attacked by an enemy tank brigade, in full combat-readiness and supported by artillery. Advancing a kilometer and a half behind them will be other combat formations including a rifle regiment or possibly a full division.” Colonel Klaus Marcks shuddered in professional anguish at the attack plan. He wouldn’t have believed that any army could be so foolish as to send its tanks in unsupported with a long gap between them and the infantry following behind. He felt an insane desire to go over to the Soviet headquarters, find whoever had come up with the scheme and pound his head against a wall.
“Is that serious, Klaus?” Asbach couldn’t believe it either. It wasn’t surprising that a Soviet attack was being launched; the 71st infantry had been chasing the Ivans for days and only now were they catching up with them. All they had met were stay-behind parties and rearguards. Each ‘battle’ had been over quickly with the defenses being outflanked, overrun and obliterated. The bad news was that each had been followed by small burial details for the handful of casualties suffered by the German infantry. With two or three such engagements each day, the handfuls were mounting steadily into oversized armloads.
They were still nothing compared with the casualties the Russians were taking though. When they fought the Germans, the ground was left carpeted with their dead. Asbach had an unpleasant theory that the Ivans were harassing the Germans even in death. There had been no time for the Germans to dig common graves to bury all the dead. Yet, as May began to turn into June, the summer heat was beginning to do its work. Everywhere Asbach went, there was a pervasive stench of rotting corpses. The men were already tormented with thirst, and at every suitable opportunity they would re-fill their canteens with cold water. That was becoming more dangerous than it sounded; not only was the water itself suspect from the numbers of dead but enemy snipers were making an appearance and the best of them were very good indeed. Now, a canteen of fresh water could cost the owner his life. Another small burial detail, another letter written, another delay in the growing discrepancy between plan and achievement.
“It’s serious all right.” Marcks has asked the same question when he had been briefed by the divisional commander, Lieutenant-General Alexander von Hartmann, earlier that evening. “The Ivans hit us at the same time and in the same way every time they try to attack. Their tanks will hit our advanced positions at exactly 0830. If there is a preliminary bombardment, it’ll start 30 minutes before that. Don’t worry about it, if it happens it will be aimed at our defensive positions, and they aren’t where the Ivans think they are. Your job will be to take cover, let the tanks through and then engage the follow-up infantry with our guns and the skirmish line. The divisional anti-tank will take out the Ivan T-26s. Our Pak-38s will rip those light tanks up.”
Now, two hours later, that comforted Asbach who knew that most German divisions still had the old 3.7cm Pak-36s in their regimental anti-tank companies and usually in the divisional anti-tank battalion as well. The 71st, due to its spell as a demonstration division had 5cm guns in both. They even had SdKfz 10s to tow them. Despite that reassurance though, Asbach knew that the nerves of everyone strung out along the front-line positions of the 71st were strained to the limit. The fighting in France had removed any illusions the division had about what was happening. No matter how favorable the circumstances and no matter how the odds fell in their favor, men were still about to die, and in any battle, the casualty rate was always the same. One death per customer.
Asbach’s forward observer team was watching through binoculars and optical instruments, ready to bring down artillery fire on the infantry following the tanks. The telephone wires connecting them to the artillery regiment command post had been carefully laid. Given his own preferences, Asbach would have liked to have pre-registered his guns on the enemy choke points ahead of him. There were chokepoints, there always were, even on the flat Ukrainian plain. That was when he heard the alert coming over his earphones. ‘Kugel 595’ and a series of green flares soared into the sky. The Ivans were beginning their attack.
The attack was a little different from the standard pattern that had been established in the first days of the war. Then, the Soviet armor had charged the German positions at full speed; relying on the shock effect of their attack to cause their enemy to flee in disarray. The German infantry had found the presumption mildly insulting; they had faced down such attacks in France and sent them reeling back. So had it been in Russia; the tanks had been allowed through the front line and the defenses had been closed behind them. This time, the Soviet tanks were slowly moving towards Asbach’s positions, obviously fearing minefields. It wouldn’t make much difference, the rifle regiment advancing behind the tanks was at least a kilometer behind them. Through his binoculars, Asbach could see the men holding their rifles at the ready. Yet, nobody had opened fire yet; everybody was conserving their ammunition until the decisive ranges were reached.
The crews were anxiously anticipating action. Everyone wanted to strike the enemy more quickly, to end the agonizing uncertainty. Asbach, along with most of the veterans of the Battle for France a year before, had learned that there was nothing worse than waiting for the fighting to start. The defenders were crouched down in their foxholes and slit trenches, waiting for the tanks to pass over them. That was yet another disadvantage the Soviets faced. Their T-26 tanks were available in apparently inexhaustible numbers despite the casualties they had taken but they were too light to crush down trenches and the men in them. A few weeks earlier, when the ground had been chest-deep in mud, it would have been different but now the sun had hardened the ground and what had been glutinous mud of the Rasputitsa had dried and hardened. Originally, the Germans had cursed the hard ground but now they appreciated the protection it provided; they had learned to appreciate it.
There were 22 of the T-26s now approaching. Despite their slower and more cautious approach, they seemed to have swept up to the German defenses and were already passing over the positions. Even for the German veterans lying in a slit trench or foxhole while a tank drove over them was a terrifying experience. Oddly though, the biggest danger to any individual soldier was that they would lose their nerve and try and run for it. Those that did would, as an absolute certainty, be cut down by machinegun fire from the tanks. In the defenses held by the 71st, not a single man made that mistake. A few had even thought up jokes to crack when the tanks passed over their heads, but the crossing was so fast they didn’t get a chance to make them. There was a roar of engines, the shadows as the tanks passed overhead, a spray of grit and debris, and they were gone.
With the tanks clear (albeit behind them) the infantry took up their firing positions, setting up their machine guns on the rims of their trenches, the riflemen nestling down in the firing points and making sure their rifles had a round chambered. It was surprising how often somebody forgot to do that. The difference in advance speed between the tanks and the infantry was such that there was still only a little less than a kilometer between the German positions and the enemy. This was Asbach's signal to get to work. A quick check on the map, some hasty mental arithmetic and he had his data. "Reference 6692 plus one thousand three o’clock. Shoot."
The gunners must have had a round loaded and were ready to fire because there was time for only a slight adjustment before the shells howled overhead. The bursts were a little long although Asbach believed they may have served well by hitting the commanders and the security detachment. "Down 100."
Another series of four shells howled overhead but their sound was drowned out by the sound of the twelve Pak-38s firing. The gunners had carefully noted that the Soviet tanks were advancing towards them and had waited until they were firmly in the trap before the gunners opened with a storm of fire. The Pak-38 could penetrate the T-26 at 2,000 meters even through the front but the gunners had held fire until the range was less than 400. As a result, the German fire was extremely accurate. Glancing behind him, Asbach saw one shell hit a T-26 squarely on the front, sending the turret spinning some 20 meters into the air before the shattered remains of the tank burst into a ball of fire.
That was when he heard his men cheering and realized that the second salvo of shells had exploded about 20 meters ahead of the wave of Soviet infantry. "On target, fire for effect."
Now, the gunners on the 15cm and 10.5cm guns would use their expertise to decimate the Russian infantry. They started firing as fast as they could throw shells into the guns, but they also knew how fast the Russians would be running towards the German positions. So, the gunners were steadily dropping the range to make sure their shells landed in the packed mass of targets. In theory, they would continue firing and dropping the range until Asbach told them to stop but, they knew where their comrades were positioned and would need persuading if they were to continue firing when the safety interval looked as if it were about to be breached.
With the artillery fire mowing down the Russian advance to his front, Asbach glanced behind him to where the tanks were being cut up by the anti-tank guns. When tanks fought anti-tank guns, it was a duel to the death, everybody knew that. Whether the tanks would be wiped out by the guns, or the guns would fail to kill enough of their enemies and be overrun. He saw one of the few surviving T-26s hit by a shell that glanced off its left side; the little 9-tonne vehicle rocked and then suddenly burst into flames. Within seconds, the tank was ablaze. Asbach knew what had happened; the shock of the glancing hit had ruptured the poorly built fuel tank and caused the gasoline to spill out. Then it had ignited, and the crewmen inside had died at their posts. Asbach scanned frantically for the flash of the anti-tank gunshots but failed to spot the well-concealed guns. The Pak-38s were firing in salvo with the specific intention of preventing the muzzle flashes from being distinguished. In front of them, the surviving T-26s had accelerated and begun to rumble across the field again, making sharp maneuvers to stop the German gun layer’s fixing their sights on them. For all their efforts, the remorseless shell strikes continued hitting the tanks, sending them up in balls of fire as the AP shot ruptured their fuel tanks. Yet despite the damage, the surviving handful of T-26s kept rushing towards the anti-tank gun positions, firing their main guns and machine guns on the move and during short halts.
The blast of rifle and machinegun fire from his own position redirected Asbach's attention to his front. In the few seconds he had spent watching the methodical destruction of the Soviet tanks, their infantry had closed on his positions and was receiving the heaviest concentration of rifle and machinegun fire that the Germans could lay down. Asbach spoke quickly into his telephone. "Guns, cease fire!"
The artillery barrage had reduced the Soviet infantry to pockets of men, some trying to continue moving forward, the rest having seized pockets in the ground and were trying to support the others. The former was being engaged by the machine guns, the latter by the 5cm mortars that were entrusted with exactly that responsibility. They had their equivalent in the Russian unit of course, and the small crack of the mortar shells was sounding in the German lines as well. Yet, it was obvious that the Soviet mortarmen were getting the worst of the exchange and the accuracy of their fire dropped significantly.
Asbach's attention was caught by a movement in a patch of trees about 500 meters in front of his position. A Russian crew had manhandled one of their 7.6cm infantry gun up to a position where they could fire on the German lines. He jumped to the 8cm mortar pits and seized control of the crews. "Heini, there's a gun in the trees in front of us. To the left, just under the tree! Got it? Good. High explosive, sight mark 6! Fire!’
"Gone," the mortarman replied. The bomb exploded a bit in front of the target, so Asbach made a correction: "Sight mark 7. Fire.’ The bomb seemed to explode almost on top of the Soviet gun, silencing it before it could even fire a shot. Asbach could see no movement around it and assumed that it was out of action for good.
Asbach took the opportunity to take a good look around. The T-26 assault had gone. The last two tanks were burning to the right of the anti-tank trap the entire tank brigade had driven into. After the firing had ceased, there was nothing left although, to Asbach's suspicious eyes, one of the other remaining tanks seemed strangely undamaged. He thought it might have driven onto a mine but there hadn't been time to lay any. Then he realized that the tank commander had thrown open a hatch and tossed a smoke grenade out in front of the tank, to give the appearance that it had been killed. He picked up the telephone. "Send a message to the panzerjaegers. Third tank from the right, by the bushes. I think he's playing dead."
By the time his message had got through and a single shot had dispatched the last T-26, the firing from Asbach's front had ceased as well. The Soviet attack hadn't even come close to threatening the German positions. It was just another day in Ukraine.
RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
Dale brought the prototype Seacane into a landing, flaring perfectly to put all three wheels on the ground at the same time. The Seacane was an odd aircraft because the limits on its performance were aerodynamic rather than the result of any inadequacy in engine power, it had a lot of reserve power that made it safe and easy to fly. Of course, the Hurricane had always been known as the most docile of all the high-powered fighters of its generation. The result was an extremely pleasant aircraft to fly. It was also well-protected; since adding weight had little effect on performance the opportunity had been taken to work more armor into the design. The wing-mounted machine guns, all twelve of them, had been improved as well. The Americans had stopped equipping their fighters with .30 machine guns and standardized upon the .50. Somehow, the .30 machine guns made surplus by that decision had found their way up to Canada. Although replacing a .303-inch machine gun with a 0.3 inch didn’t sound much, the .30-06 cartridge was significantly more powerful than the British round. Spread over twelve guns, which gave the Seacane a lot more punch.
"How is she, Digger?" Bill Soulsby was anxious to get the verdict on the first of the Seacanes. A lot depended on it.
"Flies very well. No faster of course and the buzz is still there but she handles it sweetly. The extra armor doesn’t seem to have changed her handling much."
"Most of its close to the center of balance, that's why. 12mm sheet behind your seat, another one under your seat, and a thicker armored windscreen. It should be enough to deflect any defensive fire we get from the Focke-Wulfs and Junkers. If you're done, Digger, come over to the hangar. We've got something to show you.
A few minutes later Dale and Soulsby were standing in front of another prototype. This was obviously derived from the Seacane but instead of the ports for six machine guns in each wing, the leading edge was unpunctured. Instead, there was a tubular fairing under the wing that had a long barrel sticking out of it. Dale looked at the muzzle of the gun and his eyes opened. "What the hell is that thing?"
Soulsby smiled in delight at the effect his latest project had caused. "It's an American 37mm M4 cannon. Same gun as used in the P-39 Airacobra. The two guns are a total of about sixty pounds heavier than the twelve Brownings. We can give you high explosive or armor-piercing ammunition for them. The former will really tear up a bomber while the latter should be good for attacking surface ships like raiders. If you'd had these when you strafed one of them, you'd have really hurt her."
Dale pursed his lips. "What effect will those pods have on her?"
The 'hands-raised' gesture from Soulsby was expressive. "In theory, you'll need to use more power to get up to the aerodynamic limits of the aircraft but otherwise, she should be the same. We haven't flown her yet; we'd like you to take her up and find out what the real situation is. This was your idea after all."
"My idea?" Dale was surprised. He never remembered suggesting this.
"Yeah, when you first came here, you suggested using the Hurry-Can as a light bomber, but Elsie shut you down. Now she's gone, a lot of ideas that came up but were rejected have been reopened. This was one of them."
"Pilot Officer Dale?"
"That's me." Dale turned around to see a middle-aged man in a business suit waiting patiently. It occurred to Dale that this man had just walked into a hangar that contained experimental aircraft, suggesting he was more important than he looked.
"Geoffrey Gour. I should say, Detective Inspector Geoffrey Gour from "H" Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. This is a courtesy call really. About a Mr. Dirk Eisenberg."
"I'm sorry, Inspector, I don’t know the man."
"Oh yes you do, Sir. He punched you on the nose a few weeks back."
"Him. The merchant seaman. I never knew his name of course."
"Well, Sir, we're not sure we do either. When his assault with GBH case came up, he had absconded from his judicial interim release and is now a wanted fugitive. It's a matter of routine for us to alert assault victims that the person accused of the attack is on the loose. I don't think you have anything to worry about, but heightened vigilance may be in order."
"Thank you, Inspector, I'll keep my eyes opened," Dale noted that Gour was looking at the aircraft with unrequited longing in his eyes. "Have you ever flown?
"I wanted to, Sir, but I've never been up. I even tried to join the Air Force once, but my eyes are too bad. Got almost no depth perception you see. The RCMP won't even allow me out in the field, I must do desk jobs like this."
"Come on, I'll take you up. Bill is that Battle outside available?"
"It is Digger. It’s the trainer version though. Dual control. She needs test-flying if you want to."
"Good. Inspector, promise me with your hand on your heart that you will not touch the controls while we're up."
Thirty minutes later the Battle T touched down as neatly as Dale had brought the Seacane in earlier. Gour climbed out of the rear cockpit with an expression of dreamy delight on his face. Dale knew that expression; it was that of a man bitten by the flying bug. He'd had the same expression after his first flight. "Thank you, Sir. It's not often a man gets to experience a dream he'd given up for lost. Take my card, if there is anything, anything, I can ever do for you, give me a call. Just ask for Geoff Gour."
"I'm Digger. Good luck, Geoff. And thank you for the heads-up."
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-Four
Governor-General’s Residence, Batavia, Dutch East Indies
“Welcome to the residence, I trust that the journey over here was pleasant?" Governor-General Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer stretched out his hand and shook his guest’s returned hand firmly.
"It was indeed, although the Pan American Clippers have always been a pleasant way to fly." Cordell Hull's amiable smile faded almost immediately. "Regrettably, the reason for my flight is far less pleasant."
"I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Secretary." Stachouwer sounded genuinely regretful which was a masterpiece of diplomatic tact. "Is this a matter upon which we can provide some assistance?"
"You can stop selling oil to the Japanese." Cordell Hull believed in getting to the point. "And please don’t give me the run-around about not doing so. You may be doing so through some carefully selected intermediaries, but we have tracked the deliveries and payments. It is the policy of the United States that oil supplies to Japan are embargoed until Japan gives up its aggressive policies towards China. There is a Japanese naval auxiliary loading oil in Balikpapan right now."
"I know the tanker is there, one of our patrol ships escorted her in yesterday. She is a civilian ship and we provided her with protection from pirates, mines, and possible German raiders. I would remind you, Mr. Secretary, that your country may be interested in the China situation but remains a neutral power. We, the Dutch East Indies are at war with Nazi Germany as a direct result of an unprovoked attack on our mother country. As combatants in this war, we are the allies of the Commonwealth of Nations. We must fund our part of that war effort and the only means for us to do so is to sell oil to those who need it. We can sell spices as well of course but the income we can derive from gourmets would hardly begin to cover the costs we are incurring. Japan needs as much of our oil as we can sell her, and she can transport it, and they pay top prices. And, of course, Japan is a neutral power in this war as well. Under international law, we are entitled to sell our oil to whoever wants to buy it."
"All Japanese tankers are naval auxiliaries no matter what their official status is. Why do you think that one has a gun installed aft? And the United States regards the territorial integrity of China as a vital national interest." Cordell Hull had gone red and the anger in his voice was tangible. Diplomatic tact was not his strong suit.
"Really? I wonder why? Perhaps the impact of the China Lobby and its influence, some might say excessive influence, on the current administration? Let me acquaint you with some basic strategic facts Mr. Secretary. Japan needs oil and your embargo has cut them off from their sources of supply. We have filled the gap for one very simple reason; if we do not, they will come here and take it. We are under no illusions about Japan, Mr. Secretary, they are an aggressive and ruthlessly expansionist power. Only two things are stopping the Japanese Army and the Japanese Navy from attacking us here and occupying our country. One is the fact that we are willing to ignore your embargo and sell them oil. The other is that, as a result of the reinforcement of our military power and our alliance with the Commonwealth of Nations and Thailand, we could make the occupation a serious, hazardous, and expensive military venture which would end with us blowing up the oil facilities the Japanese need so badly."
"A reinforcement of your military power that is dependent upon American-supplied aircraft. If these sales of oil continue, we will have to consider the possibility of embargoing the supply of spares and support for those aircraft."
"A decision which will force us to procure aircraft and other military equipment from whoever will supply us. Mr. Secretary, every month, a very nice gentleman from the Japanese Embassy, a Mr. Kobayashi, comes to this very office, sits in the very seat in which you sit now, and offers me a list of aircraft and ships that the Japanese are prepared to sell us as part-payment for the oil they need. The ships they offer are very attractive indeed and we need them badly. The Dutch-built ships we have here are very hard to maintain without support from our mother country. If you embargo us, all you will achieve is to force us into alignment with the Japanese. Just like the incredibly stupid embargo, you placed on Thailand last year came within a hair's breadth of forcing them to become Japanese allies.” Stachouwer had decided that diplomatic tact had its limitations. He took a deep breath before continuing.
"The only result of your threats, Mr. Secretary, will be to convert a trading partner of Japan into a military ally of Japan. I hardly think that serves your purposes. There is a clear conflict of interest between our countries here, Mr. Secretary and it cannot be resolved by your bullying and blustering. Now, we and our allies are blocking any route south by which the Japanese can seize the resources they need. By selling them those resources we remove any need for such an assault. Do you know what they call us? 'The Southern Resources Area'. Once again, I repeat, if we cease to sell them oil, they will come to take those resources. To protect the flank of the attack they will have to occupy the Philippines as well." Stachouwer got up and jabbed his finger onto the map that decorated the wall behind his desk. "That means war with you. The Japanese fully understand that. So, they will do whatever they must to ensure that war goes well for them. That means another flank protection assault that will take out your naval power in the Pacific. Here. The inevitable process of events means that your actions will bring about a major war in the Pacific."
Stachouwer pointed at Hawaii and the naval base at Pearl Harbor. "They will lose that war, eventually, of course, and so will we if we are forced by your 'embargoes' to become Japanese allies. But it will be a long, bloody war that should never have happened and would not have done had you thought a little more carefully about what you wish to achieve. We know that your main strategic concern is, quite rightly, Nazi Germany. Germany first I believe you called it. Here, I find myself confused. How I ask myself, does starting a major war in the Pacific that will require most of your naval assets, help you in achieving your primary objective, the destruction of Nazi Germany? Especially since we, the primary victims of your war against Japan, would have been a valuable ally in your war on Nazi Germany. Confused hardly begins to cover my bewilderment.
"I am forced to repeat myself once again. We, here, are already at war with Nazi Germany and when you finally join the campaign against that monstrous, barbaric country, we will become allies. Not enemies. But you continue with this foolish blustering about embargoing us to stop the trade that guarantees our safety, and it is quite likely that we will be enemies, not allies."
There was a long silence as Cordell Hull fought down his anger and tried to look at the matter coldly. He was not used to being given lectures on real-world politics and strategic balances. Stachouwer drank from a glass of iced water on his desk and poured another glass for Hull. "You know, Mr. Secretary, if I were the Japanese Emperor right now, I would declare war on Nazi Germany, quoting the invasion of the Soviet Union as a demonstration of the fact that being a German ally is just too dangerous to be tolerated. That will put your China policy in an impossible position. Be realistic, Mr. Secretary, sooner or later your country will be an ally of the Soviet Union. A country that is scarcely better than Nazi Germany itself. If you are going to have such relations with one unpleasant country, why not two?"
Stachouwer tilted his head to one side. "You may have little choice there anyway. Conflict of interest again. As an ally of the Soviet Union, you will need to get cargoes of military supplies, food and so onto them. Soon, the only port that will be open to you is Vladivostok. Getting merchant ships there means running them within a few tens of nautical miles from Japan. They could interdict that supply line very easily. Yes, Mr. Secretary, I think you will have to be very nice to Japan in the fullness of time."
"I will say this, Sir, you make a good case." Hull looked at the map again and saw what Stachouwer was driving at. The truth was that, in the short and medium-term, Japan held all the aces. The only thing that stopped her from playing them was that she was getting what she needed without doing so. "Let us put that to one side for a moment. With the war in western Russia endangering their food, fuel, and industrial supplies, we need to get large quantities of food and fuel to them. Can you provide them with supplies?'
"The Commonwealth is already doing so. The Soviet Union is at war with Nazi Germany and so are we. We are, therefore, de-facto allies. We stand by our allies, Mr. Secretary.” Stachouwer watched Cordell Hull bristle at the suggestion he did not. “The Commonwealth is sending an Air Commando to the Crimea to help them. They are also supplying meat; we are supplying rice. We are doing what we can for our new ally."
"Can you send them oil?"
Stachouwer carefully stopped himself grinning. He found the pretensions of this overbearing but naïve and transparent Secretary of State more than a little amusing. "Food we can donate; oil is how we earn the foreign exchange we need to survive. If somebody pays for the oil, we'll ship it wherever the customer wants."
The expression on Hull's face clearly showed what he was thinking. If we buy up all the Indonesian oil and ship it to the Soviet Union, that will make sure none goes to Japan. Stachouwer couldn't help but note that Hull was obviously unaware of how much overcapacity existed in the Indonesian oil production industry. There would be plenty available to fill both American and Japanese orders. It was something Stachouwer would have checked very carefully if he had been in Cordell Hull’s position.
Once his visitor was safely on his way out of his office and, more importantly, on his way out of the country, Stachouwer relaxed in his seat and had his personal assistant make him a very large, very strong gin and tonic. He knew Cordell Hull's history. All his life, that man has been a lawyer and then a politician. He has never done a real day's work in his life. Too many American politicians are the same and that makes them completely oblivious to the real world. Why can't I have a good practical and realistic businessman to deal with? One who understands how the world works. A real estate developer would be nice.
10th Fighter Regiment, Airfield 28, Chernyanka East, Ukraine
The 10th Fighter Regiment existed now in name only and even that was becoming precarious. Junior Lieutenants Ivan Anastasovich Balakai and Gleb Evstafievich Savinov were the only two survivors from the original formation and they were both now flying LaGG-3s rather than their original I-16s. One of their original aircraft was now parked out on the field as decoys while the few surviving serviceable machines were hidden under the trees. How long they would remain here was also a matter of guesswork. They'd had to abandon their previous base when fascist tanks got too close for them to stay longer. The base staff had stayed behind to defend the base and try and hold off the attackers. By now everybody knew how good the fascists were at fighting even if nobody dared say so openly. A scraped-together group of ground crews and base support staff would have been unable to irritate them, let alone cause them any significant delay. It was assumed that there were no survivors from the airbase personnel.
"Tovarish Lieutenants. I have good news." The base politruk, the senior political officer had seen them and hurried over. "The Party, and Comrade Stalin, have watched your efforts and decided you merit promotion. You are both now Senior Lieutenants."
Balakai and Savinov jumped to attention and made the required response. "We serve the workers and the Party."
The politruk nodded in approval. "And there is a great battle going on at Brody. Our heroic soldiers have inflicted great losses on the fascists and driven them backwards in chaos. The fascist 71st Infantry division has been destroyed! Now, we must commit every aircraft we have to support our ground forces. You will fly to Brody, search out the fascists and destroy them."
Balakai very carefully kept his thoughts to himself. At a time when the fascist fighters are shooting our bombers out of the sky and even our Sturmoviks are suffering grievous losses, the few fighters we have left are sent on these ground attack missions where they are yet more prey for the fascists. Why are we not trying to provide even a little protection for our bombers? He knew the answer of course. It is because the zampolits learned whatever it is they know about warfare during the Civil War when our fighters were of little or no account. Their minds are stuck in the 1920s and in a very narrow area of that period.
That was when he realized such thoughts were very near to ‘sabotage’ and ‘counter-revolutionary thought’ and could very easily get him executed. He resolved to try and wash them from his mind. Balakai and Savinov were joined by a Sergeant they had never met before but who had been assigned as Balakai’s second wingman. Each of the LaGG-3s had been armed with six RS-82 rockets in addition to its 20mm cannon and two 12.7mm machine guns. Most of its pilots regarded the LaGGs heavy armament as its one redeeming feature, but it probably was also why they had been ordered to cover the Soviet ground troops.
Once the three LaGG-3s had reached the battle area around Brodny, it was completely apparent that the situation on the ground had little resemblance to the briefing he had been given. Certainly, the Soviet Army was attacking fascist defensive positions, but the attacks were being mounted from the east and the fascists were in the west. That meant only one thing. The Soviet forces around Lvov had been encircled and were fighting to try and escape. Grimly, Balakai realized he was looking at a military disaster in the making. How many men are trapped down there? Two hundred thousand? Three hundred thousand? And we have just three fighters?
Below them, the Soviet infantry were trying to assault an entrenched German position. Balakai decided that the most practical thing he could do at this point was to strafe the fascist trenches that formed their front line and try to open a hole for the Infantry to breakthrough. He waggled his wings, wishing that the aircraft had radios, and led the dive down with Savinov on one side of him and the unknown Sergeant on the other. The instructions had been to use the gun sight to aim the rockets at the center of the fascist trenches. The RS-82s streaked out in front of his aircraft, followed a fraction of a second later by those from his wingmen. The pattern of explosions on the ground seemed remarkably concentrated despite the wild gyrations of the rocket trajectories. How odd, all the errors seem to have canceled themselves out.
With the fascist defenses on the ground badly disrupted by the rocket attack, Balakai led the three LaGGs into another pass although he had no orders to do so. The heavy guns in the nose of his LaGG carved through the fascists trying to resist the Soviet break-out. Below him, in the area he had been hammering, the figures of the Russian infantry were making their way through the defenses. Balakai looked on them with pride, knowing that those men at least would be able to escape encirclement. He might have had only three aircraft, but today he had made a difference.
That was when everything went wrong. His three aircraft were pulling up from their second pass when a formation of four Messers attacked them from out of the sun. Balakai had enough experience to know that his formation was already at a crippling disadvantage. They were under strict orders to fly in close formation with the two wingmen behind and on either side of the leader. The official reason was that, since the aircraft didn’t have radios, the leader had to give commands by hand-signal and that meant the wingmen had to be close enough to see them. That theory hadn't allowed for the aerodynamics of air combat. In any sharp turn, the wingman on the inside of the turn would have to slow down to stay in formation and in a dogfight, speed was life. On the outside of the turn, the pilot there would have to speed up to stay in position, assuming his aircraft had speed in hand, and that meant he would drift out of position. If the fascists didn’t know that when this war started, they certainly do now. Behind him, the four Messer's had split into two pairs and each pair was heading for one of his wingmen
The Nameless Sergeant was the first to die. Balakai had been forced to break right from the angle of the Messers' approach and the Sergeant must have had only an hour or two flying fighters. He drifted out of position and two of the Messers jumped him. Their noses lit up with the fire from their cannon and two machine guns, the streams of tracers intersecting with the LaGG and causing brilliant flashes all over it. Balakai knew that a Yak would have burst into flames almost instantly; a few hits and they burned like torches. The LaGGs were different; their resin-impregnated wood would shatter but it would not burn. That was happening to the Nameless Sergeant's aircraft; fragments and large lumps of the skin were breaking away under the fusillade of gunfire. The aircraft went out of control, started to tumble and then broke up in mid-air.
Over on Balakai's left, Savinov had also been shot down. The cannon and machine gun fire from the Messers had obviously punctured the fuel tanks because his plane was burning. As a result of the trench strafing, he was far too low to bail out with a parachute. Trailing a comet of fire and black smoke, the LaGG arched upwards in a ragged barrel roll and then dived straight into the ground. The fireball rose over the treetops but by then Balakai had problems all of his own.
He had thrown his LaGG around to defend himself, but it was too late: The Germans had soared away, using the very high climb rate of their Me-109Fs to rise above him and line up for another pass. As they did so, Balakai saw the fascist flight leader had switched positions with his wingman, presumably to give the wingman the chance of a kill. Outraged at the thought that the fascist leader considered him of no more account that to be a good start for a new pilot, Balakai fought the sluggish controls and felt the aircraft trembling on the edge of falling into a spin. The pair of Messers that had targeted him were firing short, sharp bursts that inflicted a steadily increasing level of damage on his aircraft. Desperate, he took a chance and pushed the controls hard, causing the aircraft to depart flight in what he hoped was an imitation of a crippled aircraft falling out of the sky. To his relief, the Messers, probably low on fuel, broke off the engagement and left him alone.
He levelled his LaGG off and was just congratulating himself on living through the attack when his engine stopped. That was another reason why the LaGG-3 was so unpopular; the engine was unreliable and would stop working when stressed. He knew he had to land but the flat Ukrainian fields were crossed by narrow bands of trees. Feeling the overweight LaGG-3 descending quickly, he spotted the largest open area of ground near him and headed for it.
It was the toughness of the LaGG that saved him when he plowed into the tree line. One wing was sheared off by a thickish tree, then a group of saplings got the other. Balakai saw the trees rear around him as his aircraft started to go over onto its nose. That was when he lost consciousness as his head slammed into the frame of the cockpit.
He was still in the cockpit when he regained his senses. An old man had led a group of youngsters, barely teenagers, over to the remains of the wrecked LaGG where they helped him out of the twisted fuselage: Seeing that Balakai was seriously concussed and barely able to stand, they made a stretcher out of their jackets and some conveniently straight branches. "We will take you to our Kolkhoz and put you in a barn. You must lie down while we get help for you."
Balakai agreed. He was feeling increasingly worse and by the time they reached the barn, he was hearing an awful noise and grinding ache in his head from the impact of the crash. In his confusion he decided to escape by cutting a hole in the wall of the barn, which was solid stone. He was just about to start when a Soviet NKVD officer walked in and greeted him. "Don’t hurry, bratishka, the fascists haven't reached here yet. You’re on the Russian side of the lines. We'll get you back to your base. You can travel with some refugees from the border region who have gathered here."
The NKVD officer paused for a second and then added quietly. "Take a word of advice bratishka; keep quiet about what you see out here. This is not a time when bearers of bad news are welcome. Just keep repeating the official line."
Even though only a few hours had passed by the time he got back to base, Balakai found that the Politruk had already written a letter to his family that described how he had fallen as a hero in the air battle. The doctors had taken one look at him, realized the severity of his concussion and forbidden him to fly. In any case, the 10th Fighter regiment no longer existed, and he would be reassigned. After a thoroughly horrible day, Balakai had one piece of good fortune that made it all worthwhile. The flight surgeon had sent him to a hospital, where he was to recover from his concussion. He couldn’t help thinking that one of the refugees helping to take care of the flood of casualties looked familiar to him. At first, he dismissed it as a part of his concussion. Then she turned around and he realized he had been right. "Khrystyna!"
Her face broke into a great smile of delight. "Ivan Anastasovich! I thought you were dead! Don’t you ever frighten me like that again!"
Governor-General’s Residence, Batavia, Dutch East Indies
“Welcome to the residence, I trust that the journey over here was pleasant?" Governor-General Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer stretched out his hand and shook his guest’s returned hand firmly.
"It was indeed, although the Pan American Clippers have always been a pleasant way to fly." Cordell Hull's amiable smile faded almost immediately. "Regrettably, the reason for my flight is far less pleasant."
"I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Secretary." Stachouwer sounded genuinely regretful which was a masterpiece of diplomatic tact. "Is this a matter upon which we can provide some assistance?"
"You can stop selling oil to the Japanese." Cordell Hull believed in getting to the point. "And please don’t give me the run-around about not doing so. You may be doing so through some carefully selected intermediaries, but we have tracked the deliveries and payments. It is the policy of the United States that oil supplies to Japan are embargoed until Japan gives up its aggressive policies towards China. There is a Japanese naval auxiliary loading oil in Balikpapan right now."
"I know the tanker is there, one of our patrol ships escorted her in yesterday. She is a civilian ship and we provided her with protection from pirates, mines, and possible German raiders. I would remind you, Mr. Secretary, that your country may be interested in the China situation but remains a neutral power. We, the Dutch East Indies are at war with Nazi Germany as a direct result of an unprovoked attack on our mother country. As combatants in this war, we are the allies of the Commonwealth of Nations. We must fund our part of that war effort and the only means for us to do so is to sell oil to those who need it. We can sell spices as well of course but the income we can derive from gourmets would hardly begin to cover the costs we are incurring. Japan needs as much of our oil as we can sell her, and she can transport it, and they pay top prices. And, of course, Japan is a neutral power in this war as well. Under international law, we are entitled to sell our oil to whoever wants to buy it."
"All Japanese tankers are naval auxiliaries no matter what their official status is. Why do you think that one has a gun installed aft? And the United States regards the territorial integrity of China as a vital national interest." Cordell Hull had gone red and the anger in his voice was tangible. Diplomatic tact was not his strong suit.
"Really? I wonder why? Perhaps the impact of the China Lobby and its influence, some might say excessive influence, on the current administration? Let me acquaint you with some basic strategic facts Mr. Secretary. Japan needs oil and your embargo has cut them off from their sources of supply. We have filled the gap for one very simple reason; if we do not, they will come here and take it. We are under no illusions about Japan, Mr. Secretary, they are an aggressive and ruthlessly expansionist power. Only two things are stopping the Japanese Army and the Japanese Navy from attacking us here and occupying our country. One is the fact that we are willing to ignore your embargo and sell them oil. The other is that, as a result of the reinforcement of our military power and our alliance with the Commonwealth of Nations and Thailand, we could make the occupation a serious, hazardous, and expensive military venture which would end with us blowing up the oil facilities the Japanese need so badly."
"A reinforcement of your military power that is dependent upon American-supplied aircraft. If these sales of oil continue, we will have to consider the possibility of embargoing the supply of spares and support for those aircraft."
"A decision which will force us to procure aircraft and other military equipment from whoever will supply us. Mr. Secretary, every month, a very nice gentleman from the Japanese Embassy, a Mr. Kobayashi, comes to this very office, sits in the very seat in which you sit now, and offers me a list of aircraft and ships that the Japanese are prepared to sell us as part-payment for the oil they need. The ships they offer are very attractive indeed and we need them badly. The Dutch-built ships we have here are very hard to maintain without support from our mother country. If you embargo us, all you will achieve is to force us into alignment with the Japanese. Just like the incredibly stupid embargo, you placed on Thailand last year came within a hair's breadth of forcing them to become Japanese allies.” Stachouwer had decided that diplomatic tact had its limitations. He took a deep breath before continuing.
"The only result of your threats, Mr. Secretary, will be to convert a trading partner of Japan into a military ally of Japan. I hardly think that serves your purposes. There is a clear conflict of interest between our countries here, Mr. Secretary and it cannot be resolved by your bullying and blustering. Now, we and our allies are blocking any route south by which the Japanese can seize the resources they need. By selling them those resources we remove any need for such an assault. Do you know what they call us? 'The Southern Resources Area'. Once again, I repeat, if we cease to sell them oil, they will come to take those resources. To protect the flank of the attack they will have to occupy the Philippines as well." Stachouwer got up and jabbed his finger onto the map that decorated the wall behind his desk. "That means war with you. The Japanese fully understand that. So, they will do whatever they must to ensure that war goes well for them. That means another flank protection assault that will take out your naval power in the Pacific. Here. The inevitable process of events means that your actions will bring about a major war in the Pacific."
Stachouwer pointed at Hawaii and the naval base at Pearl Harbor. "They will lose that war, eventually, of course, and so will we if we are forced by your 'embargoes' to become Japanese allies. But it will be a long, bloody war that should never have happened and would not have done had you thought a little more carefully about what you wish to achieve. We know that your main strategic concern is, quite rightly, Nazi Germany. Germany first I believe you called it. Here, I find myself confused. How I ask myself, does starting a major war in the Pacific that will require most of your naval assets, help you in achieving your primary objective, the destruction of Nazi Germany? Especially since we, the primary victims of your war against Japan, would have been a valuable ally in your war on Nazi Germany. Confused hardly begins to cover my bewilderment.
"I am forced to repeat myself once again. We, here, are already at war with Nazi Germany and when you finally join the campaign against that monstrous, barbaric country, we will become allies. Not enemies. But you continue with this foolish blustering about embargoing us to stop the trade that guarantees our safety, and it is quite likely that we will be enemies, not allies."
There was a long silence as Cordell Hull fought down his anger and tried to look at the matter coldly. He was not used to being given lectures on real-world politics and strategic balances. Stachouwer drank from a glass of iced water on his desk and poured another glass for Hull. "You know, Mr. Secretary, if I were the Japanese Emperor right now, I would declare war on Nazi Germany, quoting the invasion of the Soviet Union as a demonstration of the fact that being a German ally is just too dangerous to be tolerated. That will put your China policy in an impossible position. Be realistic, Mr. Secretary, sooner or later your country will be an ally of the Soviet Union. A country that is scarcely better than Nazi Germany itself. If you are going to have such relations with one unpleasant country, why not two?"
Stachouwer tilted his head to one side. "You may have little choice there anyway. Conflict of interest again. As an ally of the Soviet Union, you will need to get cargoes of military supplies, food and so onto them. Soon, the only port that will be open to you is Vladivostok. Getting merchant ships there means running them within a few tens of nautical miles from Japan. They could interdict that supply line very easily. Yes, Mr. Secretary, I think you will have to be very nice to Japan in the fullness of time."
"I will say this, Sir, you make a good case." Hull looked at the map again and saw what Stachouwer was driving at. The truth was that, in the short and medium-term, Japan held all the aces. The only thing that stopped her from playing them was that she was getting what she needed without doing so. "Let us put that to one side for a moment. With the war in western Russia endangering their food, fuel, and industrial supplies, we need to get large quantities of food and fuel to them. Can you provide them with supplies?'
"The Commonwealth is already doing so. The Soviet Union is at war with Nazi Germany and so are we. We are, therefore, de-facto allies. We stand by our allies, Mr. Secretary.” Stachouwer watched Cordell Hull bristle at the suggestion he did not. “The Commonwealth is sending an Air Commando to the Crimea to help them. They are also supplying meat; we are supplying rice. We are doing what we can for our new ally."
"Can you send them oil?"
Stachouwer carefully stopped himself grinning. He found the pretensions of this overbearing but naïve and transparent Secretary of State more than a little amusing. "Food we can donate; oil is how we earn the foreign exchange we need to survive. If somebody pays for the oil, we'll ship it wherever the customer wants."
The expression on Hull's face clearly showed what he was thinking. If we buy up all the Indonesian oil and ship it to the Soviet Union, that will make sure none goes to Japan. Stachouwer couldn't help but note that Hull was obviously unaware of how much overcapacity existed in the Indonesian oil production industry. There would be plenty available to fill both American and Japanese orders. It was something Stachouwer would have checked very carefully if he had been in Cordell Hull’s position.
Once his visitor was safely on his way out of his office and, more importantly, on his way out of the country, Stachouwer relaxed in his seat and had his personal assistant make him a very large, very strong gin and tonic. He knew Cordell Hull's history. All his life, that man has been a lawyer and then a politician. He has never done a real day's work in his life. Too many American politicians are the same and that makes them completely oblivious to the real world. Why can't I have a good practical and realistic businessman to deal with? One who understands how the world works. A real estate developer would be nice.
10th Fighter Regiment, Airfield 28, Chernyanka East, Ukraine
The 10th Fighter Regiment existed now in name only and even that was becoming precarious. Junior Lieutenants Ivan Anastasovich Balakai and Gleb Evstafievich Savinov were the only two survivors from the original formation and they were both now flying LaGG-3s rather than their original I-16s. One of their original aircraft was now parked out on the field as decoys while the few surviving serviceable machines were hidden under the trees. How long they would remain here was also a matter of guesswork. They'd had to abandon their previous base when fascist tanks got too close for them to stay longer. The base staff had stayed behind to defend the base and try and hold off the attackers. By now everybody knew how good the fascists were at fighting even if nobody dared say so openly. A scraped-together group of ground crews and base support staff would have been unable to irritate them, let alone cause them any significant delay. It was assumed that there were no survivors from the airbase personnel.
"Tovarish Lieutenants. I have good news." The base politruk, the senior political officer had seen them and hurried over. "The Party, and Comrade Stalin, have watched your efforts and decided you merit promotion. You are both now Senior Lieutenants."
Balakai and Savinov jumped to attention and made the required response. "We serve the workers and the Party."
The politruk nodded in approval. "And there is a great battle going on at Brody. Our heroic soldiers have inflicted great losses on the fascists and driven them backwards in chaos. The fascist 71st Infantry division has been destroyed! Now, we must commit every aircraft we have to support our ground forces. You will fly to Brody, search out the fascists and destroy them."
Balakai very carefully kept his thoughts to himself. At a time when the fascist fighters are shooting our bombers out of the sky and even our Sturmoviks are suffering grievous losses, the few fighters we have left are sent on these ground attack missions where they are yet more prey for the fascists. Why are we not trying to provide even a little protection for our bombers? He knew the answer of course. It is because the zampolits learned whatever it is they know about warfare during the Civil War when our fighters were of little or no account. Their minds are stuck in the 1920s and in a very narrow area of that period.
That was when he realized such thoughts were very near to ‘sabotage’ and ‘counter-revolutionary thought’ and could very easily get him executed. He resolved to try and wash them from his mind. Balakai and Savinov were joined by a Sergeant they had never met before but who had been assigned as Balakai’s second wingman. Each of the LaGG-3s had been armed with six RS-82 rockets in addition to its 20mm cannon and two 12.7mm machine guns. Most of its pilots regarded the LaGGs heavy armament as its one redeeming feature, but it probably was also why they had been ordered to cover the Soviet ground troops.
Once the three LaGG-3s had reached the battle area around Brodny, it was completely apparent that the situation on the ground had little resemblance to the briefing he had been given. Certainly, the Soviet Army was attacking fascist defensive positions, but the attacks were being mounted from the east and the fascists were in the west. That meant only one thing. The Soviet forces around Lvov had been encircled and were fighting to try and escape. Grimly, Balakai realized he was looking at a military disaster in the making. How many men are trapped down there? Two hundred thousand? Three hundred thousand? And we have just three fighters?
Below them, the Soviet infantry were trying to assault an entrenched German position. Balakai decided that the most practical thing he could do at this point was to strafe the fascist trenches that formed their front line and try to open a hole for the Infantry to breakthrough. He waggled his wings, wishing that the aircraft had radios, and led the dive down with Savinov on one side of him and the unknown Sergeant on the other. The instructions had been to use the gun sight to aim the rockets at the center of the fascist trenches. The RS-82s streaked out in front of his aircraft, followed a fraction of a second later by those from his wingmen. The pattern of explosions on the ground seemed remarkably concentrated despite the wild gyrations of the rocket trajectories. How odd, all the errors seem to have canceled themselves out.
With the fascist defenses on the ground badly disrupted by the rocket attack, Balakai led the three LaGGs into another pass although he had no orders to do so. The heavy guns in the nose of his LaGG carved through the fascists trying to resist the Soviet break-out. Below him, in the area he had been hammering, the figures of the Russian infantry were making their way through the defenses. Balakai looked on them with pride, knowing that those men at least would be able to escape encirclement. He might have had only three aircraft, but today he had made a difference.
That was when everything went wrong. His three aircraft were pulling up from their second pass when a formation of four Messers attacked them from out of the sun. Balakai had enough experience to know that his formation was already at a crippling disadvantage. They were under strict orders to fly in close formation with the two wingmen behind and on either side of the leader. The official reason was that, since the aircraft didn’t have radios, the leader had to give commands by hand-signal and that meant the wingmen had to be close enough to see them. That theory hadn't allowed for the aerodynamics of air combat. In any sharp turn, the wingman on the inside of the turn would have to slow down to stay in formation and in a dogfight, speed was life. On the outside of the turn, the pilot there would have to speed up to stay in position, assuming his aircraft had speed in hand, and that meant he would drift out of position. If the fascists didn’t know that when this war started, they certainly do now. Behind him, the four Messer's had split into two pairs and each pair was heading for one of his wingmen
The Nameless Sergeant was the first to die. Balakai had been forced to break right from the angle of the Messers' approach and the Sergeant must have had only an hour or two flying fighters. He drifted out of position and two of the Messers jumped him. Their noses lit up with the fire from their cannon and two machine guns, the streams of tracers intersecting with the LaGG and causing brilliant flashes all over it. Balakai knew that a Yak would have burst into flames almost instantly; a few hits and they burned like torches. The LaGGs were different; their resin-impregnated wood would shatter but it would not burn. That was happening to the Nameless Sergeant's aircraft; fragments and large lumps of the skin were breaking away under the fusillade of gunfire. The aircraft went out of control, started to tumble and then broke up in mid-air.
Over on Balakai's left, Savinov had also been shot down. The cannon and machine gun fire from the Messers had obviously punctured the fuel tanks because his plane was burning. As a result of the trench strafing, he was far too low to bail out with a parachute. Trailing a comet of fire and black smoke, the LaGG arched upwards in a ragged barrel roll and then dived straight into the ground. The fireball rose over the treetops but by then Balakai had problems all of his own.
He had thrown his LaGG around to defend himself, but it was too late: The Germans had soared away, using the very high climb rate of their Me-109Fs to rise above him and line up for another pass. As they did so, Balakai saw the fascist flight leader had switched positions with his wingman, presumably to give the wingman the chance of a kill. Outraged at the thought that the fascist leader considered him of no more account that to be a good start for a new pilot, Balakai fought the sluggish controls and felt the aircraft trembling on the edge of falling into a spin. The pair of Messers that had targeted him were firing short, sharp bursts that inflicted a steadily increasing level of damage on his aircraft. Desperate, he took a chance and pushed the controls hard, causing the aircraft to depart flight in what he hoped was an imitation of a crippled aircraft falling out of the sky. To his relief, the Messers, probably low on fuel, broke off the engagement and left him alone.
He levelled his LaGG off and was just congratulating himself on living through the attack when his engine stopped. That was another reason why the LaGG-3 was so unpopular; the engine was unreliable and would stop working when stressed. He knew he had to land but the flat Ukrainian fields were crossed by narrow bands of trees. Feeling the overweight LaGG-3 descending quickly, he spotted the largest open area of ground near him and headed for it.
It was the toughness of the LaGG that saved him when he plowed into the tree line. One wing was sheared off by a thickish tree, then a group of saplings got the other. Balakai saw the trees rear around him as his aircraft started to go over onto its nose. That was when he lost consciousness as his head slammed into the frame of the cockpit.
He was still in the cockpit when he regained his senses. An old man had led a group of youngsters, barely teenagers, over to the remains of the wrecked LaGG where they helped him out of the twisted fuselage: Seeing that Balakai was seriously concussed and barely able to stand, they made a stretcher out of their jackets and some conveniently straight branches. "We will take you to our Kolkhoz and put you in a barn. You must lie down while we get help for you."
Balakai agreed. He was feeling increasingly worse and by the time they reached the barn, he was hearing an awful noise and grinding ache in his head from the impact of the crash. In his confusion he decided to escape by cutting a hole in the wall of the barn, which was solid stone. He was just about to start when a Soviet NKVD officer walked in and greeted him. "Don’t hurry, bratishka, the fascists haven't reached here yet. You’re on the Russian side of the lines. We'll get you back to your base. You can travel with some refugees from the border region who have gathered here."
The NKVD officer paused for a second and then added quietly. "Take a word of advice bratishka; keep quiet about what you see out here. This is not a time when bearers of bad news are welcome. Just keep repeating the official line."
Even though only a few hours had passed by the time he got back to base, Balakai found that the Politruk had already written a letter to his family that described how he had fallen as a hero in the air battle. The doctors had taken one look at him, realized the severity of his concussion and forbidden him to fly. In any case, the 10th Fighter regiment no longer existed, and he would be reassigned. After a thoroughly horrible day, Balakai had one piece of good fortune that made it all worthwhile. The flight surgeon had sent him to a hospital, where he was to recover from his concussion. He couldn’t help thinking that one of the refugees helping to take care of the flood of casualties looked familiar to him. At first, he dismissed it as a part of his concussion. Then she turned around and he realized he had been right. "Khrystyna!"
Her face broke into a great smile of delight. "Ivan Anastasovich! I thought you were dead! Don’t you ever frighten me like that again!"
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty Five
Remnants of the 18th Special Artillery-Machine-Gun Battalion, Retreating from Lvov, Ukraine
Sergeant Vladimir Osaulenko had been retreating ever since the first night of the war. What was left of his Border Guard detachment had been dispersed by the relentless attacks and the constant artillery barrages. Once, there had been a group of seven or eight soldiers from his border guard detachment trying to reach a friendly unit they could join up with. One by one they had all been killed by the strafing attacks and the constant pressure from the fascists. Now, Osaulenko had only one member of his unit left. Another border guard from an adjoining area, Yefreytor Ivan Aleksandrovich Arguchinsky, was holding the other end of the stretcher carrying his officer, Border Guard Lieutenant Lev Artemovich Giyants. He had been hit during a strafing attack by twin-engined Messers and was dying. Yet Osaulenko and Arguchinsky were still walking to the rear with him, still hoping to find their battalion so their Lieutenant could at least die with his own countrymen. It was a noble objective but one that was becoming steadily less practical.
It was clear to everybody in the long column of men that they were wasting their time searching for a way through the encirclement that had engulfed them. Even if they knew where a hole in the ring existed, they did not know how to get there or whether the gap would still exist when they did. The situation was changing hourly as the fascists tightened their grip, closing in on the troops they had trapped around Lvov. Lack of information, lack of orders combined with complete and total bewilderment had forced each man to become an imitation officer, sharing his half-formed ideas on how to act and what to do. There were those who demanded that the column pick up the pace, to try and find a spot where the encirclement was weak, and they could fight their way through. Others derided the idea, pointing out they had been retreating for days and there were no weak spots. All that could be done, they insisted, was to stand firm and put up a last desperate stand.
It was the cloud of uncertainty that fogged their minds and prevented any rational thought. The very word encirclement was paralyzing. Nobody knew what lay ahead of them or how far the fascists had advanced. All that was left for them to do was to push on as fast as possible. Those that thought about the situation rationally justified the endless march by hoping that, somehow, they would break through. Reason, though, was a declining asset that every misfortune, every encounter with the enemy, every time they came under fire further eroded. In its place, panic, fatigue and hunger were leading to a single-minded drive for self-preservation almost at any cost. Discipline had gone and all that was left to bind the men together was fear of the fascists and the knowledge that they had no future except the endless retreat.
There was no better example of the collapse than the group of Opolchenie who had joined the chaotic and disorganized mass on the roads east. The Opolchenie were little more than high school students who had received some very basic military-style training and participated in a few exercises. In those days, their 'rifles' had been made from wood and their participation had been heavily scripted to make sure that they always succeeded in their assignment. This had led them to believe that their military capabilities were far greater than they actually were. That delusional belief had been reinforced when, on being mobilized, they had received real rifles, albeit old, captured Polish ones, and a few rounds of ammunition. Based on their delusions of adequacy, they had wanted to search for the fascists and attack them. Those with more experience wanted to head directly east through the forests, bypassing any settlements and hopefully avoiding any fascists who had occupied them.
Reality had made its appearance very early. Soon after the Opolchenie had joined the column, the inevitable air attacks had started. A flight of four twin-engined Messers had seen the retreating column and moved in to strafe and bomb it. The men on the ground, knowing from bitter experience what was to come had scattered to either side of the road, trying to disperse as much as possible. The youngsters in the Opolchenie had ignored them. Drawing on the lessons taught in their high school by teachers who had never been in action let alone subjected to modern air attack, they had formed three ranks in close formation and aimed their rifles at the approaching fighter-bombers, almost as if they were forming square to engage cavalry.
The scene had been horrifying as the hail of 20mm cannon shells and 7.92mm bullets had carved through their ranks. Nearly all the youngsters had been killed outright or, worse, gravely wounded by the gunfire. The few survivors were catatonic with shock, unable to mentally process the difference between the pleasant and almost-cheerful experiences of their peacetime 'exercises' and the ghastly reality of facing an enemy for whom war was a profession rather than a hobby. Surrounded by their dead or screaming school-friends, their minds had shut down completely.
"Valya, Lyov has gone."
Osaulenko was snapped out of his dazed reflections by the words of Arguchinsky. He looked down at the stretcher and immediately realized that the yefreytor was right. The yellow death-shadow was unmistakable. There was something profoundly different between the appearance of a dying man and one who had finally passed over. At least Lyov died surrounded by Russians and knew we were doing our best to save him.
"We'll have to leave his body. And the stretcher. I think we might be better off trying to make our way out through the woods. The fascists must know where all the roads are by now and have moved to block them. But, if we go through the forests, we might find a way out."
Arguchinsky looked around. "I was in the pioneers as well. I think I remember enough to find our way through the trees."
Osaulenko knew that the claim had more to do with a superstitious need to go to the forests than any realistic appreciation of the situation. For centuries, when Russians had been attacked by invaders and pillaged, they had saved their lives by going to the forests where their enemies were lost in the vast, trackless expanses. The forests provided shelter, food, even comfort. It was time to go to the forests again.
They were not the only ones. A steadily growing number of men were leaving the column and striking out. Some were in small groups, others alone. The two border guards joined one of the small groups, as they walked away from the roads, they anxiously peered at the sky, to determine east and west. That was life-or-death information, but the skies were grey with slow, soggy clouds. Arguchinsky looked at the trees, trying to remember if moss grew on the northern side or the southern. It was difficult to navigate the forest without a compass in summer. Or at any other time come to that.
Behind them, they heard the roar of engines, the hammering of cannon and machine gun followed by the crash of bombs. The Messers had returned, their gunfire and bombs scattering the column into separate little groups. Osaulenko saw that there were so many German aircraft that they would attack even the smallest party, sometimes even single people. There was no resistance to them. They had dropped leaflets as well as bombs, ones that promised if the retreating soldiers surrendered, they would be given food and then released back to their homes. The leaflets had claimed that the Germans had come to fight the communists, not the Russian people. More ominous were the leaflets addressed to the civilians. ‘If you don’t want to get bombed don’t let soldiers in!’
The column behind Osaulenko's group was under attack again, making the decision to strike out through the forests a supremely logical one. Yet, being alone in the forest had its drawbacks as well. The old habit of thinking and fighting by the rules was still alive in the retreating columns. The men still saw themselves as being part of a unit whose commanders would tell them what to do. From that, it followed very logically that, since the commanders were not around, the soldiers would have to find them and take their orders. In their absence, with the organized columns disintegrating into small groups, chaos was setting in. One small group would head in a given direction, only to be met by another who insisted that the longed-for gap in the fascist encirclement was in another area. They would then meet a third who were adamant that safety lay somewhere else. And so it was that the encircled armies disintegrated completely.
Airfield 7, Rovnoye, Crimea. May 21, 1941
"Do not open fire. Aircraft arriving are friendly. DO NOT OPEN FIRE." The message rang out from the base loudspeakers and was relayed by runners who went to every single anti-aircraft gun on the base. Each runner had been told, with great sincerity, that if the gun assigned to him fired a single shot, the next one would be through his head.
The precautions were much needed because the formations that were arriving looked very different to the normal occupants of the base. The first to arrive were fighters that, in outline, were quite like the Yak-1s and LaGG-3s that shared the base with the Il-2s. Their paint scheme was very different. Instead of the dark green and black of the Soviet fighters, they were a mixture of light and dark brown. Where the Soviet aircraft had red stars, the new arrivals had blue and white roundels with a red leaping springbok in the middle. Very few of the Russians realized it was a springbok of course, most thought it was some sort of deer. When the first aircraft was safely on the ground, the ground personnel recognized the lines of black crosses and Italian roundels under the cockpit. Everybody who came close to a fighter squadron recognized kill marks when they saw them. To see an aircraft with 32 of them, that was something they had not experienced before.
The fighters were followed in by twin-engined bombers, in the same camouflage scheme but slightly different markings. The bombers had a red spoked wheel in the center of the roundels. To the shock of the ground crews, the pilots of those aircraft were clearly Indian.
Another fighter squadron and another of bombers hand landed. With 64 aircraft on the ground, the congestion was getting intolerable and the extra men who had come running out to help push the new aircraft into their revetments were only partially easing the situation. More aircraft were coming in, another new set of roundels for the burgeoning collection. The Flamingo transports were Australian and had a kangaroo in their roundels to mark the fact. They were carrying the ground crews and an initial consignment of ammunition for the .50 caliber machine guns on the Indian and South African P-40Es. More was being shipped in by sea along with fuel and other vital supplies.
By the time the 'all-clear' had been sounded and the "weapons are free to fire" message passed, the Flamingos had unloaded and flown back to their new base near Yalta where they joined the squadron of Wellington night bombers that had also just arrived.
Group Captain Seymour Linford had arrived in one of the South African Baltimores. He was looking around as the chaotic scene slowly shook itself down into some form of order. Used to the calm, efficient operation of the Commonwealth airfields, he found the Soviet set-up amateurish and inefficient. Then he rebuked himself. These people are in the middle of a war and losing badly right now. In the same situation, we would be no better and probably a lot worse.
"Group Captain?" A Russian officer in the usual muddy brown uniform but wearing a bright blue cap had come up. "I am Politruk Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov. Welcome to the Crimea. We have accommodation prepared for your men on the other side of the airfield. Allow me to show you the way."
Linford looked around. "Group Captain Seymour Linford. Our area is a bit far away, isn’t it?"
"Closer to where your aircraft will be parked. It is essential we disperse as much as possible. The fascist bombers you see. The light ones hit from just over the treetops, the mediums pattern bomb-us from high altitude. Both can be very destructive." Napalkov didn't mention the other reason why the accommodation was so dispersed. We do not want your people speaking with ours. Our brave workers and peasants may learn of things that are not true. Much worse from the NKVD point of view, they may learn of things that are true. One of the reasons why the Commonwealth pilots had been assigned to this base was that it was devoid of Russians who spoke English, let alone Afrikaans or Hindi. "I have heard already the leader of one fighter squadron has 32 kills?"
"Squadron Leader Pim Bosede, yes. He is our top-scoring fighter pilot. Tovarish, at this early stage we cannot send you as much aid as we would wish but we can send you the best of what we have."
"I hear Commonwealth ships are already delivering food to our Far East ports to help tide us through the winter. The harvest here in the Ukraine is already lost. The wheat and rye fields here are our breadbasket and the fascists will take whatever we do not burn. That food, it may be more important than anything else you can send us."
After Napalkov had left, Linford and Bosede looked around their new quarters very carefully. They took it for granted that there would be some form of listening device there, so they carefully said nothing until they were back outside.
"Cautious people, aren't they." Bosede sounded amused more than anything.
"They're taking a hammering and it seems like the Germans have commando troops everywhere. Including some who are quite familiar." Linford had been carefully briefed on Skorzeny and his commando unit before setting out for the Soviet Union. "I think our political friend here has a lot to worry about right now."
Headquarters, Harland and Wolff Shipbuilding, Queen's Road, Belfast.
"Welcome to Belfast, Miss Morris. We have arranged accommodation for you at the Station Hotel. Once we have all your clearances sorted out, one of our drivers will take you there." Eamon O'Sullivan had the message from the Royal Navy advising him that a technician would be advising them on the installation of the latest cipher equipment aboard the warships under construction at the yard. "Or, if you prefer to take advantage of a lovely Irish evening, it's only a few minutes walk. Belfast is a grand place for an evening stroll. We can send your luggage ahead for you."
“That would be very kind. My companion has luggage here as well, could I impose upon you to send it with mine?”
Eamon O'Sullivan beamed at his guests. It was no surprise that Geraldine Morris had brought a companion with her. On one level, any sensible young woman going to a strange city would take a friend with her. On another level, Morris needed an escort for the next stage of her trip. Their luggage would be delivered to the hotel and taken up to their rooms. It would be several hours before the hotel realized that the ladies had not turned up to occupy their lodgings. By then, they would have boarded a train from the railway station that was conveniently next to the Station Hotel and be heading for Dublin. Most critically, they would be over the border and in the Republic of Ireland. There would be an investigation, of course, a discrete one because nobody wanted to cause political problems and by the time that inquiry was showing results, Morris and her companion would have completely vanished. It would be written down as ‘unsolved’ with those ‘in the know’ whispering ‘white slavery’. That was a very convenient decoy although its value could not be exploited too often.
"We should be in Dublin Connolly station by three, ducks." Eleanor settled back in her first-class seat and looked out the window, wondering how many other UK experts on various subjects were on the train. There was a good reason why the border controls at Belfast Great Victoria Street station had suddenly become so lax. The flow of people out of the UK by way of the Ireland route was increasing so much that the 12:30 Belfast to Dublin Express was already being referred to as "the brain drain." What people called the train from Dublin to Limerick was something Eleanor preferred not to think about.
"What happens if something goes wrong?" Morris had reached the point where the excitement of escape and being on the run, in theory at least, had ebbed away to be replaced by real fear at what would happen to her if she were caught. It hadn't quite dawned on her that she was in the hands of a smoothly running operation staffed by experts who had minimized the risks and uncertainties.
"You mean if the train is delayed?" Eleanor quite understood how her charge was feeling. "The Great Northern Railway Ireland is very reliable and if something does go wrong, we have backups and alternatives set up all down the line. Don't worry, ducks, we've done this before."
The conversation was interrupted by the lurch as the train started up. The light-blue steam engine up front made heavy work of pulling the train out of the station but once it was underway, the ride was surprisingly comfortable.
"But what about the Blackshirts?" Morris had dropped her voice to a whisper, but it was still fortunate that they were alone in the first-class compartment. One of the things that broke Eleanor's heart on her trips to Britain was the way British people were adapting to the possibility of informers in their midst. People now minded their words in ways that she had never experienced before.
She looked around before replying. "There aren't any, not in Ireland. We're not in London now and there aren't many Blackshirts outside the main cities. Anyway, there were a few in Belfast but the Irish didn’t like their uniforms. Too much like the Black and Tans. The survivors left town while they still could. Anyway, there's only one stop on this service and it's in the Republic. So, we're clear." And if we, aren’t we have somebody running interference for us. We'll just have to hope that will never be necessary.
As it happened, their Express was thirty minutes late on arriving in Dublin but that still left them half an hour to make their change. Since that was simply a matter of crossing the platform, there was no difficulty there. To Eleanor, the sense of freedom present in the Republic was invigorating after the slowly growing cloud of suspicion and caution that was enveloping Britain. So was the absence of the black-shirted figures that were an ever-present feature of train stations in London. Once they had boarded the train for Limerick and set off on the hour-and-a-half journey, she was breathing a lot easier. Even Morris was beginning to accept that they were going to make it. At Limerick, things got even easier. They were met by a Pan-American coach that took them to the Foynes Inn where they would spend the night. By the time they had a good sleep and a lavish Irish breakfast, the clipper had arrived from Southampton and was waiting in the sound for the passengers to be brought out by boat.
Relaxing in her seat in the "Unmarried Ladies" section, Morris asked a question that had been worrying her ever since she had heard the aircraft taking them to America had flown in from Southampton.
"Ellie, why didn’t we just pick up the plane in Southampton?"
Eleanor looked around again, reflecting that if Morris ever wanted to become part of the Resistance, she would have to learn discretion. "Some people do but the security checks are really tight there. This way goes around them."
The Clipper's engines started, and Eleanor settled back to enjoy the long flight across the Atlantic. Another run was done, and another person of importance had been brought out.
Remnants of the 18th Special Artillery-Machine-Gun Battalion, Retreating from Lvov, Ukraine
Sergeant Vladimir Osaulenko had been retreating ever since the first night of the war. What was left of his Border Guard detachment had been dispersed by the relentless attacks and the constant artillery barrages. Once, there had been a group of seven or eight soldiers from his border guard detachment trying to reach a friendly unit they could join up with. One by one they had all been killed by the strafing attacks and the constant pressure from the fascists. Now, Osaulenko had only one member of his unit left. Another border guard from an adjoining area, Yefreytor Ivan Aleksandrovich Arguchinsky, was holding the other end of the stretcher carrying his officer, Border Guard Lieutenant Lev Artemovich Giyants. He had been hit during a strafing attack by twin-engined Messers and was dying. Yet Osaulenko and Arguchinsky were still walking to the rear with him, still hoping to find their battalion so their Lieutenant could at least die with his own countrymen. It was a noble objective but one that was becoming steadily less practical.
It was clear to everybody in the long column of men that they were wasting their time searching for a way through the encirclement that had engulfed them. Even if they knew where a hole in the ring existed, they did not know how to get there or whether the gap would still exist when they did. The situation was changing hourly as the fascists tightened their grip, closing in on the troops they had trapped around Lvov. Lack of information, lack of orders combined with complete and total bewilderment had forced each man to become an imitation officer, sharing his half-formed ideas on how to act and what to do. There were those who demanded that the column pick up the pace, to try and find a spot where the encirclement was weak, and they could fight their way through. Others derided the idea, pointing out they had been retreating for days and there were no weak spots. All that could be done, they insisted, was to stand firm and put up a last desperate stand.
It was the cloud of uncertainty that fogged their minds and prevented any rational thought. The very word encirclement was paralyzing. Nobody knew what lay ahead of them or how far the fascists had advanced. All that was left for them to do was to push on as fast as possible. Those that thought about the situation rationally justified the endless march by hoping that, somehow, they would break through. Reason, though, was a declining asset that every misfortune, every encounter with the enemy, every time they came under fire further eroded. In its place, panic, fatigue and hunger were leading to a single-minded drive for self-preservation almost at any cost. Discipline had gone and all that was left to bind the men together was fear of the fascists and the knowledge that they had no future except the endless retreat.
There was no better example of the collapse than the group of Opolchenie who had joined the chaotic and disorganized mass on the roads east. The Opolchenie were little more than high school students who had received some very basic military-style training and participated in a few exercises. In those days, their 'rifles' had been made from wood and their participation had been heavily scripted to make sure that they always succeeded in their assignment. This had led them to believe that their military capabilities were far greater than they actually were. That delusional belief had been reinforced when, on being mobilized, they had received real rifles, albeit old, captured Polish ones, and a few rounds of ammunition. Based on their delusions of adequacy, they had wanted to search for the fascists and attack them. Those with more experience wanted to head directly east through the forests, bypassing any settlements and hopefully avoiding any fascists who had occupied them.
Reality had made its appearance very early. Soon after the Opolchenie had joined the column, the inevitable air attacks had started. A flight of four twin-engined Messers had seen the retreating column and moved in to strafe and bomb it. The men on the ground, knowing from bitter experience what was to come had scattered to either side of the road, trying to disperse as much as possible. The youngsters in the Opolchenie had ignored them. Drawing on the lessons taught in their high school by teachers who had never been in action let alone subjected to modern air attack, they had formed three ranks in close formation and aimed their rifles at the approaching fighter-bombers, almost as if they were forming square to engage cavalry.
The scene had been horrifying as the hail of 20mm cannon shells and 7.92mm bullets had carved through their ranks. Nearly all the youngsters had been killed outright or, worse, gravely wounded by the gunfire. The few survivors were catatonic with shock, unable to mentally process the difference between the pleasant and almost-cheerful experiences of their peacetime 'exercises' and the ghastly reality of facing an enemy for whom war was a profession rather than a hobby. Surrounded by their dead or screaming school-friends, their minds had shut down completely.
"Valya, Lyov has gone."
Osaulenko was snapped out of his dazed reflections by the words of Arguchinsky. He looked down at the stretcher and immediately realized that the yefreytor was right. The yellow death-shadow was unmistakable. There was something profoundly different between the appearance of a dying man and one who had finally passed over. At least Lyov died surrounded by Russians and knew we were doing our best to save him.
"We'll have to leave his body. And the stretcher. I think we might be better off trying to make our way out through the woods. The fascists must know where all the roads are by now and have moved to block them. But, if we go through the forests, we might find a way out."
Arguchinsky looked around. "I was in the pioneers as well. I think I remember enough to find our way through the trees."
Osaulenko knew that the claim had more to do with a superstitious need to go to the forests than any realistic appreciation of the situation. For centuries, when Russians had been attacked by invaders and pillaged, they had saved their lives by going to the forests where their enemies were lost in the vast, trackless expanses. The forests provided shelter, food, even comfort. It was time to go to the forests again.
They were not the only ones. A steadily growing number of men were leaving the column and striking out. Some were in small groups, others alone. The two border guards joined one of the small groups, as they walked away from the roads, they anxiously peered at the sky, to determine east and west. That was life-or-death information, but the skies were grey with slow, soggy clouds. Arguchinsky looked at the trees, trying to remember if moss grew on the northern side or the southern. It was difficult to navigate the forest without a compass in summer. Or at any other time come to that.
Behind them, they heard the roar of engines, the hammering of cannon and machine gun followed by the crash of bombs. The Messers had returned, their gunfire and bombs scattering the column into separate little groups. Osaulenko saw that there were so many German aircraft that they would attack even the smallest party, sometimes even single people. There was no resistance to them. They had dropped leaflets as well as bombs, ones that promised if the retreating soldiers surrendered, they would be given food and then released back to their homes. The leaflets had claimed that the Germans had come to fight the communists, not the Russian people. More ominous were the leaflets addressed to the civilians. ‘If you don’t want to get bombed don’t let soldiers in!’
The column behind Osaulenko's group was under attack again, making the decision to strike out through the forests a supremely logical one. Yet, being alone in the forest had its drawbacks as well. The old habit of thinking and fighting by the rules was still alive in the retreating columns. The men still saw themselves as being part of a unit whose commanders would tell them what to do. From that, it followed very logically that, since the commanders were not around, the soldiers would have to find them and take their orders. In their absence, with the organized columns disintegrating into small groups, chaos was setting in. One small group would head in a given direction, only to be met by another who insisted that the longed-for gap in the fascist encirclement was in another area. They would then meet a third who were adamant that safety lay somewhere else. And so it was that the encircled armies disintegrated completely.
Airfield 7, Rovnoye, Crimea. May 21, 1941
"Do not open fire. Aircraft arriving are friendly. DO NOT OPEN FIRE." The message rang out from the base loudspeakers and was relayed by runners who went to every single anti-aircraft gun on the base. Each runner had been told, with great sincerity, that if the gun assigned to him fired a single shot, the next one would be through his head.
The precautions were much needed because the formations that were arriving looked very different to the normal occupants of the base. The first to arrive were fighters that, in outline, were quite like the Yak-1s and LaGG-3s that shared the base with the Il-2s. Their paint scheme was very different. Instead of the dark green and black of the Soviet fighters, they were a mixture of light and dark brown. Where the Soviet aircraft had red stars, the new arrivals had blue and white roundels with a red leaping springbok in the middle. Very few of the Russians realized it was a springbok of course, most thought it was some sort of deer. When the first aircraft was safely on the ground, the ground personnel recognized the lines of black crosses and Italian roundels under the cockpit. Everybody who came close to a fighter squadron recognized kill marks when they saw them. To see an aircraft with 32 of them, that was something they had not experienced before.
The fighters were followed in by twin-engined bombers, in the same camouflage scheme but slightly different markings. The bombers had a red spoked wheel in the center of the roundels. To the shock of the ground crews, the pilots of those aircraft were clearly Indian.
Another fighter squadron and another of bombers hand landed. With 64 aircraft on the ground, the congestion was getting intolerable and the extra men who had come running out to help push the new aircraft into their revetments were only partially easing the situation. More aircraft were coming in, another new set of roundels for the burgeoning collection. The Flamingo transports were Australian and had a kangaroo in their roundels to mark the fact. They were carrying the ground crews and an initial consignment of ammunition for the .50 caliber machine guns on the Indian and South African P-40Es. More was being shipped in by sea along with fuel and other vital supplies.
By the time the 'all-clear' had been sounded and the "weapons are free to fire" message passed, the Flamingos had unloaded and flown back to their new base near Yalta where they joined the squadron of Wellington night bombers that had also just arrived.
Group Captain Seymour Linford had arrived in one of the South African Baltimores. He was looking around as the chaotic scene slowly shook itself down into some form of order. Used to the calm, efficient operation of the Commonwealth airfields, he found the Soviet set-up amateurish and inefficient. Then he rebuked himself. These people are in the middle of a war and losing badly right now. In the same situation, we would be no better and probably a lot worse.
"Group Captain?" A Russian officer in the usual muddy brown uniform but wearing a bright blue cap had come up. "I am Politruk Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov. Welcome to the Crimea. We have accommodation prepared for your men on the other side of the airfield. Allow me to show you the way."
Linford looked around. "Group Captain Seymour Linford. Our area is a bit far away, isn’t it?"
"Closer to where your aircraft will be parked. It is essential we disperse as much as possible. The fascist bombers you see. The light ones hit from just over the treetops, the mediums pattern bomb-us from high altitude. Both can be very destructive." Napalkov didn't mention the other reason why the accommodation was so dispersed. We do not want your people speaking with ours. Our brave workers and peasants may learn of things that are not true. Much worse from the NKVD point of view, they may learn of things that are true. One of the reasons why the Commonwealth pilots had been assigned to this base was that it was devoid of Russians who spoke English, let alone Afrikaans or Hindi. "I have heard already the leader of one fighter squadron has 32 kills?"
"Squadron Leader Pim Bosede, yes. He is our top-scoring fighter pilot. Tovarish, at this early stage we cannot send you as much aid as we would wish but we can send you the best of what we have."
"I hear Commonwealth ships are already delivering food to our Far East ports to help tide us through the winter. The harvest here in the Ukraine is already lost. The wheat and rye fields here are our breadbasket and the fascists will take whatever we do not burn. That food, it may be more important than anything else you can send us."
After Napalkov had left, Linford and Bosede looked around their new quarters very carefully. They took it for granted that there would be some form of listening device there, so they carefully said nothing until they were back outside.
"Cautious people, aren't they." Bosede sounded amused more than anything.
"They're taking a hammering and it seems like the Germans have commando troops everywhere. Including some who are quite familiar." Linford had been carefully briefed on Skorzeny and his commando unit before setting out for the Soviet Union. "I think our political friend here has a lot to worry about right now."
Headquarters, Harland and Wolff Shipbuilding, Queen's Road, Belfast.
"Welcome to Belfast, Miss Morris. We have arranged accommodation for you at the Station Hotel. Once we have all your clearances sorted out, one of our drivers will take you there." Eamon O'Sullivan had the message from the Royal Navy advising him that a technician would be advising them on the installation of the latest cipher equipment aboard the warships under construction at the yard. "Or, if you prefer to take advantage of a lovely Irish evening, it's only a few minutes walk. Belfast is a grand place for an evening stroll. We can send your luggage ahead for you."
“That would be very kind. My companion has luggage here as well, could I impose upon you to send it with mine?”
Eamon O'Sullivan beamed at his guests. It was no surprise that Geraldine Morris had brought a companion with her. On one level, any sensible young woman going to a strange city would take a friend with her. On another level, Morris needed an escort for the next stage of her trip. Their luggage would be delivered to the hotel and taken up to their rooms. It would be several hours before the hotel realized that the ladies had not turned up to occupy their lodgings. By then, they would have boarded a train from the railway station that was conveniently next to the Station Hotel and be heading for Dublin. Most critically, they would be over the border and in the Republic of Ireland. There would be an investigation, of course, a discrete one because nobody wanted to cause political problems and by the time that inquiry was showing results, Morris and her companion would have completely vanished. It would be written down as ‘unsolved’ with those ‘in the know’ whispering ‘white slavery’. That was a very convenient decoy although its value could not be exploited too often.
"We should be in Dublin Connolly station by three, ducks." Eleanor settled back in her first-class seat and looked out the window, wondering how many other UK experts on various subjects were on the train. There was a good reason why the border controls at Belfast Great Victoria Street station had suddenly become so lax. The flow of people out of the UK by way of the Ireland route was increasing so much that the 12:30 Belfast to Dublin Express was already being referred to as "the brain drain." What people called the train from Dublin to Limerick was something Eleanor preferred not to think about.
"What happens if something goes wrong?" Morris had reached the point where the excitement of escape and being on the run, in theory at least, had ebbed away to be replaced by real fear at what would happen to her if she were caught. It hadn't quite dawned on her that she was in the hands of a smoothly running operation staffed by experts who had minimized the risks and uncertainties.
"You mean if the train is delayed?" Eleanor quite understood how her charge was feeling. "The Great Northern Railway Ireland is very reliable and if something does go wrong, we have backups and alternatives set up all down the line. Don't worry, ducks, we've done this before."
The conversation was interrupted by the lurch as the train started up. The light-blue steam engine up front made heavy work of pulling the train out of the station but once it was underway, the ride was surprisingly comfortable.
"But what about the Blackshirts?" Morris had dropped her voice to a whisper, but it was still fortunate that they were alone in the first-class compartment. One of the things that broke Eleanor's heart on her trips to Britain was the way British people were adapting to the possibility of informers in their midst. People now minded their words in ways that she had never experienced before.
She looked around before replying. "There aren't any, not in Ireland. We're not in London now and there aren't many Blackshirts outside the main cities. Anyway, there were a few in Belfast but the Irish didn’t like their uniforms. Too much like the Black and Tans. The survivors left town while they still could. Anyway, there's only one stop on this service and it's in the Republic. So, we're clear." And if we, aren’t we have somebody running interference for us. We'll just have to hope that will never be necessary.
As it happened, their Express was thirty minutes late on arriving in Dublin but that still left them half an hour to make their change. Since that was simply a matter of crossing the platform, there was no difficulty there. To Eleanor, the sense of freedom present in the Republic was invigorating after the slowly growing cloud of suspicion and caution that was enveloping Britain. So was the absence of the black-shirted figures that were an ever-present feature of train stations in London. Once they had boarded the train for Limerick and set off on the hour-and-a-half journey, she was breathing a lot easier. Even Morris was beginning to accept that they were going to make it. At Limerick, things got even easier. They were met by a Pan-American coach that took them to the Foynes Inn where they would spend the night. By the time they had a good sleep and a lavish Irish breakfast, the clipper had arrived from Southampton and was waiting in the sound for the passengers to be brought out by boat.
Relaxing in her seat in the "Unmarried Ladies" section, Morris asked a question that had been worrying her ever since she had heard the aircraft taking them to America had flown in from Southampton.
"Ellie, why didn’t we just pick up the plane in Southampton?"
Eleanor looked around again, reflecting that if Morris ever wanted to become part of the Resistance, she would have to learn discretion. "Some people do but the security checks are really tight there. This way goes around them."
The Clipper's engines started, and Eleanor settled back to enjoy the long flight across the Atlantic. Another run was done, and another person of importance had been brought out.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-Six
Headquarters, SS Jägdverband 502, Zhovka, Ukraine
"This is not going well, Stephan." Otto Skorzeny was looking at the map spread out across the wall with a growing sense of unease. A pleasing proportion of the map area was now colored, marking the extent of the German invasion. Lvov was surrounded and the stranglehold of the German infantry was tightening all the time. Slowly, the trapped Soviet forces were being compressed into a smaller and smaller area. It all looked very impressive until it was understood that to get to where the German Army had to go, the map would have to stretch out of the window, across the street outside and some distance into the countryside. Skorzeny was painfully aware that the Heer was supposed to be taking huge bites out of the Ukrainian countryside. Instead, they were nibbling at it. The nibbles might be big nibbles, but they were still nibbles.
"I know we are falling behind schedule, Otto, but is the situation that critical?" Obersturmführer Stephan Bähr could see what had been achieved but he lacked Skorzeny's keen appreciation of the enormity of the task before them. "The Ivans are suffering astronomic casualties all the way along the front. Our own are but a handful in comparison."
Skorzeny gestured at the map and at the area covered with a freckle of red dots. Each one marked an operation conducted by SS Jägdverband 502. A bridge seized here, a vital intersection there, a Soviet communications point, ammunition dump, fuel store, or headquarters infiltrated and destroyed somewhere else. Others showed operations carried out by SS troops in Russian uniforms misdirecting traffic or sending columns of retreating Russian troops in the wrong directions. Reconnaissance patrols of three or four men were to penetrate deep into Soviet-held territory, passing on faked orders to any Russian they met, reversing road signs, removing minefield warnings, and cordoning off critical roads with warnings of nonexistent mines. The success rate of these operations had been surprisingly high, but their cumulative effect had been impossible to assess accurately. Skorzeny believed they had been a major contribution to the speed of the German advance; others at Potsdam were not so sure. They questioned whether the results were worth the expenditure of men who would be invaluable senior NCOs and field officers in regular units.
What hadn't been impossible to judge were the numbers of those casualties? So far, SS Jägdverband 502 had lost 116 men, all killed of course. In this kind of war, there were no prisoners taken, wounded, or otherwise. At least seven of his men had been captured in Russian uniform and summarily executed. In a unit of 600 men, all highly-trained specialists, losing 116 was a savage blow. "Stephan, all these operations are costing us men as well as time. A few here, a few there but the cumulative casualties are mounting up to a point where our units are understrength. Vehicles are breaking down and the number available for combat shrinks all the time. Now, a unit with half its vehicles operational is fortunate. We haven't even begun the serious fighting yet."
"But the fighting on the north and central fronts . . ."
"Is on the north and central fronts. There, the fighting has indeed been heavy and the process of encircling the Russian units and eliminating them is well-advanced. Now, that is causing problems all it’s own. Look at the map, Stephan, they are running ahead of us and so there is an east-west shoulder, an open flank, between their units and ours here in the south. If the Ivans get their act together and hit us with a counter-offensive there, they could turn this whole invasion into a disaster."
He was interrupted from going further by the wail of air-raid sirens. It was the first time they had been heard behind the front lines since Operation Barbarossa had started. On the front, Soviet air raids had been continuous although their effects had been very patchy. Here, well to the rear, they were unknown. As a result, men in the headquarters unit were peering skywards, trying to see what aircraft were approaching through the darkness.
"What the hell is happening, Otto? The Ivans don’t have night bombers, do they?"
The explosions, their accuracy greatly aided by the lights in the base area that nobody had thought to put out, walked across the camp area, creating panic and destruction in their wake. By good fortune, on their part at least, the building used by Skorzeny as his headquarters was outside the main base area and so missed the full power of the bombing. He was able to watch the main bomb explosions, his experienced eye sized them as at least 500 kilograms each, and then the secondaries as vital supplies of fuel and ammunition supplied went up in flames. He was all too aware of how precarious the logistics situation of the German Army was and how finely balanced the supply and demand balances were calculated. The damage he was watching was minor in the normal scale of things, but the margins were so thin that even 'minor' factors could be critical.
When he turned to Stephan Bähr, his reply was simple and succinct. "Yes, they do."
Wellington B Mark IV R Robert, Over Zhovka, Ukraine
"Give the fascists credit . . . . ."
"Nyet." Politruk Petr Alekseyevich Rassadkin was quite firm on that point. Sitting in the cockpit jump-seat and staring forward, his glare directed at the pilot and second pilot of the Wellington was tangible.
"As the commander of this aircraft was sayin', mate . . . . . " Wing Commander Alleyne sounded mightily annoyed, although in truth he was quietly laughing at the political officer. Nevertheless, he did recognize that the man had not hesitated to fly on the first bombing raid to strike at the fascist rear areas. The concept of a 'political officer' would rub any Australian the wrong way; 'leading from the front' did not. " . . . Give the fascists credit, they are trying to be helpful. Leavin' the lights on like that."
"There they go." Flight Lieutenant Charlie Greener saw the patches of light going out all over the occupied areas. "That woke them up."
"Shoulda' done mate." The twelve Wellingtons had dropped 48 1,000 pound bombs on the German base. Normally, night bombing was wildly inaccurate, but the Germans down below had left their lights on even while the bombers were making their final runs. Their target had been a nice, neat square of light, leading to the bombers creating a beautifully tight pattern on the ground. Only when the message had sunk in did the Germans shut all their base lights down.
"We won't get away with that again." Greener sounded saddened by that. As the enormity of what was happening in Russia began to sink in, the Commonwealth crews were finding that a largely political deployment was fast becoming a vocation. "They'se will be runnin' a full blackout now."
"That'll slow down their supplies though and push their night driving casualties up a bit." Alleyne was painfully aware that twelve Wellington bombers were hardly going to make a great deal of difference to a war that had millions of men and thousands of aircraft on both sides. There was another squadron of Wellingtons working up in Iraq, using aircraft supplied by Vickers in Britain to the Italian Air Force. They had been fitted with Australian-made Twin Wasps and passed through to the Indian Air Force. It would be weeks before they were ready for combat though and Alleyne had no idea where they would be based. The Russians had claimed that the Crimea was an invincible fortress that could hold out as long as its supplies lasted. Alleyne had his doubts about that.
"Being blacked out should help the Partisans a bit as well." Greener had heard how isolated Russian units were going to the forests and fighting on as Partisans rather than surrender. "Comrade Rassadkin, 'ave we any news on how the Partisans are doin'?"
"Nyet." Rassadkin's reply was stolid and final sounding.
"Boss, I've got the beacon for 'twelve'." Air Observer Samuel Lardner checked his list again to be sure. Airfield Twelve was Kacha, near Yalta. The availability of homing beacons on Russian airfields had come as a pleasant surprise; he had been expecting to have to navigate by guesswork and by sheer blind faith. He couldn't help wondering how long it would be before the fascists used those beacons to steer their bombers to an enemy base. "Boss, Kacha is right on the coast; you will remember this is a Wimpey, not a Sunderland, won’t you? Don't try and land in the sea."
"I wish I were back in me Sunderland." Alleyne sounded aggrieved. "We could use 'em as bombers; got more range and payload than these 'ere Wimpeys. Comrade Rassadkin is Sevastopol fitted to handle flying boats?"
"Nyet."
Alleyne guessed that the answer was near-automatic and hadn't needed an understanding of the question. "Sammy, how long to twelve?"
Lardner checked his charts, being careful to make sure he had the aircraft in the right position. Plotting the right course from the wrong starting point was something every trainee navigator did once. As an Air Observer, Lardner was trained as both a navigator and a bomb aimer and had only just returned to his chart table from his position in the nose. So, he rechecked the data from scratch and even took a star shot before answering. "Two hours, three minutes boss."
Then, a curious discrepancy made him recheck his data. "Boss, we got a problem. The bearing from the base beacon is off. It's leading us to a position in the middle of the Crimea. Is it possible we're getting a fascist hoax signal?"
"Could be." Alleyne was worried. They had plenty of fuel for the flight but running down a possible decoy bearing could be very bad for the health of his crew. "Have we heard of the fascists using navigation decoys."
"Nyet." Rassadkin's reply was helpful sounding. Alleyne began to realize that if he listened carefully to the word for 'no' the intonations and inflections were informative. Then the meaning of the exchange crashed home on him.
"Ang on, Comrade. You speak English!"
Rassadkin looked at him with a cunning smile. Before the war, he has spent four years living in Cambridge where he had met some very interesting, professionally speaking, people while perfecting his English accent. So it was that his reply in perfect Received-English pronunciation contrasted sharply with the thick Australian accents all around him. "Well, somebody on this aircraft has to. The beacon is good, but not the final. Fly to its location, then when the ground staff confirm your identity, the airbase will give you a brief flash from their beacon to take you the rest of the way. That way, if the fascists follow our navigation beams, they won’t find our bases."
Remnants, 18th Special Artillery-Machine-Gun Battalion, retreating from Lvov, Ukraine
The forest had swallowed up the party of refugees from the war and enfolded them within its protection. So, when the forest suddenly ended and a field opened before the retreating soldiers, it left them feeling acutely vulnerable. That this vulnerability was not imaginary was made clear when the reason for the open country was seen. It marked a major road through the forest, a road flanked by large wheat fields that turned a gap in the trees into an open prairie. The most chilling sight though wasn't the open fields but the open road with an endless stream of German vehicles were rolling along it. Tanks, half-tracks, trucks towing artillery, the profusion of vehicles never seemed to end. To all intents and purposes, it didn't because it was all too obvious that there was no way the watching soldiers could cross that road. The door was finally, irretrievably shut.
The small group dashed back to cover, where they would, once again, be lost in the trees. Once again, they faced the agonizing decision on where to go next, all mixed in with the growing hopelessness and sensation that the trap had already closed and that there was no longer a way out to find. Eventually, the way west being blocked by the crowded road, they decided to head north where the woodland at least seemed to stretch to the horizon. Yet, after a few hours, there was another clearing, another road through it and that road was again crowded with fascist vehicles all heading east.
So, the group had to change course again. By then, the forest was protecting them but its maze of trees and paths with very restricted overhead vision was making navigation difficult. Osaulenko was beginning to have a suspicion that he and them men with him were walking in circles while they slowly ran out of food and energy. He started looking out for distinctive landmarks that would confirm or deny his doubts. Eventually, after hours more walking, his party came across a semi-derelict shack amongst the trees. It wasn't a farm; there was no cleared ground around it, so Osaulenko thought that it was a forester or perhaps a game warden. What was important was that he and the men with him hadn't seen it before. That meant they were almost certainly not walking in circles as he had feared.
"What do we do, Valya?" Arguchinsky's uncertainty sounded clearly through his exhaustion.
"We need food and water. All we have left are a few flakes of cheap tobacco, enough to make one more roll-up for everyone. We must ask here for help. I will go to the door, the rest of you cover the building from back here. If this is a trap, riddle it with bullets. Remember the more we fire, the less we must carry!"
Osaulenko knocked at the door, politely but firmly, and waited. After a minute or two, it was obvious that nobody in the tiny hut was about to answer. So, he sat down on the doorstep and tried to work out what to do next. The obvious thing was to break down the door and take what he and his men needed but his upbringing rebelled against the idea. It was too much like looting and seemed like the sort of thing the fascists might do. On the other hand, he and his men were soldiers and ancient custom meant they were entitled to live off the land when they had no other supplies. Besides, everything is the property of the people, and we are people, aren't we?
He had almost convinced himself that breaking down the door and taking what his men needed was proper and correct when he noticed a fleeting shadow at the window. The hut is occupied, but the man in there refuses to answer. Well, we will see about that! Osaulenko began knocking again, this time, a loud, imperious hammering that made it very clear that if the occupant refused to answer, he and his men would indeed smash down the door. Eventually, the occupant of the hut, an old man in a traditional Russian shirt that reached down to his knees very reluctantly opened the door a crack. He peered out through the slit, his face a mask of fear and suspicion.
"What the hell do you want?" His voice was querulous and hostile.
'Can't you see we are Soviet soldiers? We need food and supplies."
"I saw you and your men wandering around. Skulking in the forest while better men fight for you! And you have the nerve to pound on my door demanding food? Well, I haven't got anything left. Your people have already taken it all. I’m sorry, but there is nothing for you here."
Osaulenko felt a hot flush of shame spreading across his cheeks. The forester was right, he and his men were retreating, and looking for a way back to safety but the civilians here would be left behind to face the uncertain rigors of a fascist occupation. He had no doubt that the man was telling the truth, that other retreating soldiers had taken everything he had and left him without stores to live on until the harvest came in. He tried to explain the situation how the fascist onslaught had left the Soviet Army with no option but to retreat until they could reach a time and place where a successful defense could be organized. Viewing his efforts objectively, Osaulenko was painfully aware that his efforts were being counterproductive. Far from being motivated into helping him and his men, the description of the early days of the war and the seemingly irresistible drive forward of the enemy forces were convincing the forester that staying out of the conflict and remaining hidden was the best solution. He did say one thing; that there was a village a few versts to the west and that, as far as he knew, it hadn't been occupied by the fascists . . . yet.
That was the only useful thing that he said and most of his comments were insults aimed at the soldiers who were retreating rather than making some sort of heroic, if futile, stand. Eventually, the conversation came to a head when he snarled "Why should I be afraid of the Fritzes? They’re people too. Nothing will really change!"
With the door slammed hard in his face, Osaulenko went dispiritedly back to his men. The discussion that followed showed how much they had been discouraged by the refusal of any material help. For the first time, the possibility of surrendering was mentioned and not immediately shouted down as treasonous. Still, after a long debate, the group decided that they still needed to find a way out. Before that, though, they needed to rest for the night and try to find some food. Even a few potatoes would be a mighty change for the better. Osaulenko felt his mouth begin to water at the prospect of fresh potatoes roasted in a campfire.
"Why don’t we head for that village and see if they will give us some food and shelter for the night? A group of people might be more willing to help than one lonely, bitter old man living in the woods. We would find out what was going on, and then move on in the morning. The truth is, we are not going to get much further without food and rest."
It was one of the times when having a plan, any plan, was better than sitting around and doing nothing. Osaulenko got his group together and they started off for the village the forester had mentioned. The journey was only a few versts, but it was a measure of the weakness his men had reached that they were exhausted by the time they got there. As they trudged down the streets, they heard some of the villagers calling out "Go away! You’re still armed. You'll cause us all trouble. Just go away."
It was obvious there was no point in stopping to speak with them. On the outskirts of the village was a single house, no better or worse than any other. Osaulenko went up the steps leading to the front door and knocked on the window. A woman's face peered out. With hunger and exhaustion overcoming despair, he called out "Do you have any food? Can we stay overnight at your place?’
The woman shook her head. "No, I can't let you do that. What if the fascists turn up? I must think of my children. I'll give you some potatoes and onions. My eldest son will take you to a vegetable cellar in the woods. It's well away from the village and well-hidden. Strong too, we use it as a bomb shelter."
The cellar was all that the woman had promised. Well-hidden with the entry concealed in a patch of tangled undergrowth. To Osaulenko's eye, it looked as if it had been a military bunker once, perhaps dating from the Civil War and had been used as a vegetable cellar once the fighting had ended. Once he had made the connection, he saw the rest of the features that marked it out. Carefully concealed firing slits and a grenade trap dug in the floor. The boy who had guided them gave them a bag of cold but cooked potatoes and raw onions.
"You must eat them as they are" he cautioned. "You cook them, and the smell will bring the Fritzes here. I have a map for you, it will show you where the roads from this village lead."
Then he was gone. Osaulenko shut the door behind him, leaving their shelter cold and dark. He knew that in theory he should post men to guard the camp but by the time he had decided to do that, everybody was asleep.
Headquarters, SS Jägdverband 502, Zhovka, Ukraine
"This is not going well, Stephan." Otto Skorzeny was looking at the map spread out across the wall with a growing sense of unease. A pleasing proportion of the map area was now colored, marking the extent of the German invasion. Lvov was surrounded and the stranglehold of the German infantry was tightening all the time. Slowly, the trapped Soviet forces were being compressed into a smaller and smaller area. It all looked very impressive until it was understood that to get to where the German Army had to go, the map would have to stretch out of the window, across the street outside and some distance into the countryside. Skorzeny was painfully aware that the Heer was supposed to be taking huge bites out of the Ukrainian countryside. Instead, they were nibbling at it. The nibbles might be big nibbles, but they were still nibbles.
"I know we are falling behind schedule, Otto, but is the situation that critical?" Obersturmführer Stephan Bähr could see what had been achieved but he lacked Skorzeny's keen appreciation of the enormity of the task before them. "The Ivans are suffering astronomic casualties all the way along the front. Our own are but a handful in comparison."
Skorzeny gestured at the map and at the area covered with a freckle of red dots. Each one marked an operation conducted by SS Jägdverband 502. A bridge seized here, a vital intersection there, a Soviet communications point, ammunition dump, fuel store, or headquarters infiltrated and destroyed somewhere else. Others showed operations carried out by SS troops in Russian uniforms misdirecting traffic or sending columns of retreating Russian troops in the wrong directions. Reconnaissance patrols of three or four men were to penetrate deep into Soviet-held territory, passing on faked orders to any Russian they met, reversing road signs, removing minefield warnings, and cordoning off critical roads with warnings of nonexistent mines. The success rate of these operations had been surprisingly high, but their cumulative effect had been impossible to assess accurately. Skorzeny believed they had been a major contribution to the speed of the German advance; others at Potsdam were not so sure. They questioned whether the results were worth the expenditure of men who would be invaluable senior NCOs and field officers in regular units.
What hadn't been impossible to judge were the numbers of those casualties? So far, SS Jägdverband 502 had lost 116 men, all killed of course. In this kind of war, there were no prisoners taken, wounded, or otherwise. At least seven of his men had been captured in Russian uniform and summarily executed. In a unit of 600 men, all highly-trained specialists, losing 116 was a savage blow. "Stephan, all these operations are costing us men as well as time. A few here, a few there but the cumulative casualties are mounting up to a point where our units are understrength. Vehicles are breaking down and the number available for combat shrinks all the time. Now, a unit with half its vehicles operational is fortunate. We haven't even begun the serious fighting yet."
"But the fighting on the north and central fronts . . ."
"Is on the north and central fronts. There, the fighting has indeed been heavy and the process of encircling the Russian units and eliminating them is well-advanced. Now, that is causing problems all it’s own. Look at the map, Stephan, they are running ahead of us and so there is an east-west shoulder, an open flank, between their units and ours here in the south. If the Ivans get their act together and hit us with a counter-offensive there, they could turn this whole invasion into a disaster."
He was interrupted from going further by the wail of air-raid sirens. It was the first time they had been heard behind the front lines since Operation Barbarossa had started. On the front, Soviet air raids had been continuous although their effects had been very patchy. Here, well to the rear, they were unknown. As a result, men in the headquarters unit were peering skywards, trying to see what aircraft were approaching through the darkness.
"What the hell is happening, Otto? The Ivans don’t have night bombers, do they?"
The explosions, their accuracy greatly aided by the lights in the base area that nobody had thought to put out, walked across the camp area, creating panic and destruction in their wake. By good fortune, on their part at least, the building used by Skorzeny as his headquarters was outside the main base area and so missed the full power of the bombing. He was able to watch the main bomb explosions, his experienced eye sized them as at least 500 kilograms each, and then the secondaries as vital supplies of fuel and ammunition supplied went up in flames. He was all too aware of how precarious the logistics situation of the German Army was and how finely balanced the supply and demand balances were calculated. The damage he was watching was minor in the normal scale of things, but the margins were so thin that even 'minor' factors could be critical.
When he turned to Stephan Bähr, his reply was simple and succinct. "Yes, they do."
Wellington B Mark IV R Robert, Over Zhovka, Ukraine
"Give the fascists credit . . . . ."
"Nyet." Politruk Petr Alekseyevich Rassadkin was quite firm on that point. Sitting in the cockpit jump-seat and staring forward, his glare directed at the pilot and second pilot of the Wellington was tangible.
"As the commander of this aircraft was sayin', mate . . . . . " Wing Commander Alleyne sounded mightily annoyed, although in truth he was quietly laughing at the political officer. Nevertheless, he did recognize that the man had not hesitated to fly on the first bombing raid to strike at the fascist rear areas. The concept of a 'political officer' would rub any Australian the wrong way; 'leading from the front' did not. " . . . Give the fascists credit, they are trying to be helpful. Leavin' the lights on like that."
"There they go." Flight Lieutenant Charlie Greener saw the patches of light going out all over the occupied areas. "That woke them up."
"Shoulda' done mate." The twelve Wellingtons had dropped 48 1,000 pound bombs on the German base. Normally, night bombing was wildly inaccurate, but the Germans down below had left their lights on even while the bombers were making their final runs. Their target had been a nice, neat square of light, leading to the bombers creating a beautifully tight pattern on the ground. Only when the message had sunk in did the Germans shut all their base lights down.
"We won't get away with that again." Greener sounded saddened by that. As the enormity of what was happening in Russia began to sink in, the Commonwealth crews were finding that a largely political deployment was fast becoming a vocation. "They'se will be runnin' a full blackout now."
"That'll slow down their supplies though and push their night driving casualties up a bit." Alleyne was painfully aware that twelve Wellington bombers were hardly going to make a great deal of difference to a war that had millions of men and thousands of aircraft on both sides. There was another squadron of Wellingtons working up in Iraq, using aircraft supplied by Vickers in Britain to the Italian Air Force. They had been fitted with Australian-made Twin Wasps and passed through to the Indian Air Force. It would be weeks before they were ready for combat though and Alleyne had no idea where they would be based. The Russians had claimed that the Crimea was an invincible fortress that could hold out as long as its supplies lasted. Alleyne had his doubts about that.
"Being blacked out should help the Partisans a bit as well." Greener had heard how isolated Russian units were going to the forests and fighting on as Partisans rather than surrender. "Comrade Rassadkin, 'ave we any news on how the Partisans are doin'?"
"Nyet." Rassadkin's reply was stolid and final sounding.
"Boss, I've got the beacon for 'twelve'." Air Observer Samuel Lardner checked his list again to be sure. Airfield Twelve was Kacha, near Yalta. The availability of homing beacons on Russian airfields had come as a pleasant surprise; he had been expecting to have to navigate by guesswork and by sheer blind faith. He couldn't help wondering how long it would be before the fascists used those beacons to steer their bombers to an enemy base. "Boss, Kacha is right on the coast; you will remember this is a Wimpey, not a Sunderland, won’t you? Don't try and land in the sea."
"I wish I were back in me Sunderland." Alleyne sounded aggrieved. "We could use 'em as bombers; got more range and payload than these 'ere Wimpeys. Comrade Rassadkin is Sevastopol fitted to handle flying boats?"
"Nyet."
Alleyne guessed that the answer was near-automatic and hadn't needed an understanding of the question. "Sammy, how long to twelve?"
Lardner checked his charts, being careful to make sure he had the aircraft in the right position. Plotting the right course from the wrong starting point was something every trainee navigator did once. As an Air Observer, Lardner was trained as both a navigator and a bomb aimer and had only just returned to his chart table from his position in the nose. So, he rechecked the data from scratch and even took a star shot before answering. "Two hours, three minutes boss."
Then, a curious discrepancy made him recheck his data. "Boss, we got a problem. The bearing from the base beacon is off. It's leading us to a position in the middle of the Crimea. Is it possible we're getting a fascist hoax signal?"
"Could be." Alleyne was worried. They had plenty of fuel for the flight but running down a possible decoy bearing could be very bad for the health of his crew. "Have we heard of the fascists using navigation decoys."
"Nyet." Rassadkin's reply was helpful sounding. Alleyne began to realize that if he listened carefully to the word for 'no' the intonations and inflections were informative. Then the meaning of the exchange crashed home on him.
"Ang on, Comrade. You speak English!"
Rassadkin looked at him with a cunning smile. Before the war, he has spent four years living in Cambridge where he had met some very interesting, professionally speaking, people while perfecting his English accent. So it was that his reply in perfect Received-English pronunciation contrasted sharply with the thick Australian accents all around him. "Well, somebody on this aircraft has to. The beacon is good, but not the final. Fly to its location, then when the ground staff confirm your identity, the airbase will give you a brief flash from their beacon to take you the rest of the way. That way, if the fascists follow our navigation beams, they won’t find our bases."
Remnants, 18th Special Artillery-Machine-Gun Battalion, retreating from Lvov, Ukraine
The forest had swallowed up the party of refugees from the war and enfolded them within its protection. So, when the forest suddenly ended and a field opened before the retreating soldiers, it left them feeling acutely vulnerable. That this vulnerability was not imaginary was made clear when the reason for the open country was seen. It marked a major road through the forest, a road flanked by large wheat fields that turned a gap in the trees into an open prairie. The most chilling sight though wasn't the open fields but the open road with an endless stream of German vehicles were rolling along it. Tanks, half-tracks, trucks towing artillery, the profusion of vehicles never seemed to end. To all intents and purposes, it didn't because it was all too obvious that there was no way the watching soldiers could cross that road. The door was finally, irretrievably shut.
The small group dashed back to cover, where they would, once again, be lost in the trees. Once again, they faced the agonizing decision on where to go next, all mixed in with the growing hopelessness and sensation that the trap had already closed and that there was no longer a way out to find. Eventually, the way west being blocked by the crowded road, they decided to head north where the woodland at least seemed to stretch to the horizon. Yet, after a few hours, there was another clearing, another road through it and that road was again crowded with fascist vehicles all heading east.
So, the group had to change course again. By then, the forest was protecting them but its maze of trees and paths with very restricted overhead vision was making navigation difficult. Osaulenko was beginning to have a suspicion that he and them men with him were walking in circles while they slowly ran out of food and energy. He started looking out for distinctive landmarks that would confirm or deny his doubts. Eventually, after hours more walking, his party came across a semi-derelict shack amongst the trees. It wasn't a farm; there was no cleared ground around it, so Osaulenko thought that it was a forester or perhaps a game warden. What was important was that he and the men with him hadn't seen it before. That meant they were almost certainly not walking in circles as he had feared.
"What do we do, Valya?" Arguchinsky's uncertainty sounded clearly through his exhaustion.
"We need food and water. All we have left are a few flakes of cheap tobacco, enough to make one more roll-up for everyone. We must ask here for help. I will go to the door, the rest of you cover the building from back here. If this is a trap, riddle it with bullets. Remember the more we fire, the less we must carry!"
Osaulenko knocked at the door, politely but firmly, and waited. After a minute or two, it was obvious that nobody in the tiny hut was about to answer. So, he sat down on the doorstep and tried to work out what to do next. The obvious thing was to break down the door and take what he and his men needed but his upbringing rebelled against the idea. It was too much like looting and seemed like the sort of thing the fascists might do. On the other hand, he and his men were soldiers and ancient custom meant they were entitled to live off the land when they had no other supplies. Besides, everything is the property of the people, and we are people, aren't we?
He had almost convinced himself that breaking down the door and taking what his men needed was proper and correct when he noticed a fleeting shadow at the window. The hut is occupied, but the man in there refuses to answer. Well, we will see about that! Osaulenko began knocking again, this time, a loud, imperious hammering that made it very clear that if the occupant refused to answer, he and his men would indeed smash down the door. Eventually, the occupant of the hut, an old man in a traditional Russian shirt that reached down to his knees very reluctantly opened the door a crack. He peered out through the slit, his face a mask of fear and suspicion.
"What the hell do you want?" His voice was querulous and hostile.
'Can't you see we are Soviet soldiers? We need food and supplies."
"I saw you and your men wandering around. Skulking in the forest while better men fight for you! And you have the nerve to pound on my door demanding food? Well, I haven't got anything left. Your people have already taken it all. I’m sorry, but there is nothing for you here."
Osaulenko felt a hot flush of shame spreading across his cheeks. The forester was right, he and his men were retreating, and looking for a way back to safety but the civilians here would be left behind to face the uncertain rigors of a fascist occupation. He had no doubt that the man was telling the truth, that other retreating soldiers had taken everything he had and left him without stores to live on until the harvest came in. He tried to explain the situation how the fascist onslaught had left the Soviet Army with no option but to retreat until they could reach a time and place where a successful defense could be organized. Viewing his efforts objectively, Osaulenko was painfully aware that his efforts were being counterproductive. Far from being motivated into helping him and his men, the description of the early days of the war and the seemingly irresistible drive forward of the enemy forces were convincing the forester that staying out of the conflict and remaining hidden was the best solution. He did say one thing; that there was a village a few versts to the west and that, as far as he knew, it hadn't been occupied by the fascists . . . yet.
That was the only useful thing that he said and most of his comments were insults aimed at the soldiers who were retreating rather than making some sort of heroic, if futile, stand. Eventually, the conversation came to a head when he snarled "Why should I be afraid of the Fritzes? They’re people too. Nothing will really change!"
With the door slammed hard in his face, Osaulenko went dispiritedly back to his men. The discussion that followed showed how much they had been discouraged by the refusal of any material help. For the first time, the possibility of surrendering was mentioned and not immediately shouted down as treasonous. Still, after a long debate, the group decided that they still needed to find a way out. Before that, though, they needed to rest for the night and try to find some food. Even a few potatoes would be a mighty change for the better. Osaulenko felt his mouth begin to water at the prospect of fresh potatoes roasted in a campfire.
"Why don’t we head for that village and see if they will give us some food and shelter for the night? A group of people might be more willing to help than one lonely, bitter old man living in the woods. We would find out what was going on, and then move on in the morning. The truth is, we are not going to get much further without food and rest."
It was one of the times when having a plan, any plan, was better than sitting around and doing nothing. Osaulenko got his group together and they started off for the village the forester had mentioned. The journey was only a few versts, but it was a measure of the weakness his men had reached that they were exhausted by the time they got there. As they trudged down the streets, they heard some of the villagers calling out "Go away! You’re still armed. You'll cause us all trouble. Just go away."
It was obvious there was no point in stopping to speak with them. On the outskirts of the village was a single house, no better or worse than any other. Osaulenko went up the steps leading to the front door and knocked on the window. A woman's face peered out. With hunger and exhaustion overcoming despair, he called out "Do you have any food? Can we stay overnight at your place?’
The woman shook her head. "No, I can't let you do that. What if the fascists turn up? I must think of my children. I'll give you some potatoes and onions. My eldest son will take you to a vegetable cellar in the woods. It's well away from the village and well-hidden. Strong too, we use it as a bomb shelter."
The cellar was all that the woman had promised. Well-hidden with the entry concealed in a patch of tangled undergrowth. To Osaulenko's eye, it looked as if it had been a military bunker once, perhaps dating from the Civil War and had been used as a vegetable cellar once the fighting had ended. Once he had made the connection, he saw the rest of the features that marked it out. Carefully concealed firing slits and a grenade trap dug in the floor. The boy who had guided them gave them a bag of cold but cooked potatoes and raw onions.
"You must eat them as they are" he cautioned. "You cook them, and the smell will bring the Fritzes here. I have a map for you, it will show you where the roads from this village lead."
Then he was gone. Osaulenko shut the door behind him, leaving their shelter cold and dark. He knew that in theory he should post men to guard the camp but by the time he had decided to do that, everybody was asleep.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Headquarters, 3rd Battalion 7th Rajput Infantry, Garry Barracks, Bombay, India
"Is your team ready, Roger?" General Auchinleck was looking at the display map on the wall. It was mounted in a beautifully crafted wooden display case that was guarded by a very sophisticated lock to which only a handful of people had the keys. The contents were that secret.
"Yes, Sir." Captain Moore was also studying the display although he knew every detail on it. He also knew quite a few that were not. "I picked the best men we have. Three sub-teams, each of twelve men."
"All British of course." Auchinleck made the statement artlessly, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
"All Indian, Sir." It was well known in the Indian army that Captain Moore had only three facial expressions. Right eyebrow raised, left eyebrow raised and both eyebrows raised. It made him a natural for covert operations. This time it was right eyebrow raised. "Two of the three officers are of British descent, naturally, but three quarters of the other ranks including all the NCOs and the other officer are Rajputs. As I said, Sir, we picked the best men we have."
"Good man." Auchinleck dropped the act and clapped Moore soundly on the shoulder. "I knew you'd do it right. It's what we expect from the 7th Rajputs. Three sub-teams?"
"One each for Ehrenfels, Drachenfels and Braunfels. As for the Italian ship trapped in Goa harbor, we're leaving her strictly alone as per orders."
"That's essential. The Italians are being painfully honest where the neutrality of that ship is concerned. They even invited a couple of men from the Navy Intelligence Department on board and gave them the run of the ship. Under the pretext of celebrating Il Duce's birthday of all things.”
“That’s not for another two months.” Captain Moore now had the other eyebrow raised.
“Precisely. As I said, painfully honest. Are twelve men per ship going to be enough?"
"We have reports saying that there are 21 men on each ship." Moore was careful not to say where the reports were coming from. The Portuguese authorities in Goa might be oblivious to the fact their Indian employees owed their allegiance to India, not Portugal, but there was nothing to be gained by disillusioning them. The detailed information on the three German ships that had been delivered to Moore had vindicated the Indian government's faith in their fellow-countrymen. He had exact plans of the internal layouts of the ships and where the critical areas were. "The average watch is six men, eight when there is a new moon. Twelve will do it. The more men we bring in, the harder it will be to cover up what is happening before the event."
Auchinleck quietly added another tick against the name on his mental dossier. Captain Moore has the makings of a first-class covert missions officer. "Your schedule?"
"We are 270 nautical miles north of Vasco de Gama. The ship we are using as a base does 12 knots; she is a bit faster than that, but we'll keep the extra in hand in case something goes wrong. The timing is near-perfect. We'll leave here about oh-two-hundred and that will put us off the harbor at midnight. We'll be going in as a Brazilian freighter. Once we're in the roadstead, we'll launch the cutters and board all three ships at oh-oh-thirty. We will kill the deck guards and try and detain the rest of the crew. If they try and fight, they'll be killed. Our primary objectives are the bridge, the radio room, and the crypto vault. We must get her reception and transmission records. Once we have them, we will plant scuttling charges and pull off the ships by oh one-thirty. Back to our transport and we try and get the hell out of there. That is going to be the tricky bit. We'll have lit up the harbor by then and the Portuguese will be as mad as hell."
"I don't doubt it, Roger. Obviously, you'll have to use your own judgment if the way out is blocked but don’t get men killed unnecessarily. The Portuguese Viceroy is a hot-tempered and bombastic man and I have no doubt he will be pounding on our collective desks in New Delhi by morning. If he goes the way we hope, it could solve a lot of problems. Going the way, we hope means starting a war, Auchinleck thought. Viceroy, José Ricardo Pereira Cabral is indeed a hot-tempered and bombastic man. He will storm into the Marquis of Linlithgow’s office, shout at him, pound on his desk and demand the surrender of the party who stormed those ships. The Marquis will politely refuse because politeness and courtesy always annoy the bombastic and point out that the three ships were engaging in sending shipping information to German submarines and raiders. This was a major breach of neutrality; a contravention of international law and we were entitled to mitigate the severity of the breach. The Portuguese failure to do so was also a breach of international law and we are entitled to claim compensation from them for the harm we have suffered as a result. José Ricardo Pereira Cabral will be further infuriated, and he will threaten us with war unless we comply with his demands. He will be expecting, of course, for us to be cowed and tremble before him. Instead, we will ‘misunderstand’ his bluster and take the statement as a real declaration of war. By the time everything is straightened out, we will have occupied Goa and that will be that. Even if the plan goes badly wrong, we will still have got rid of those wretched spy ships.
“All right, Roger. Launch the operation when it’s convenient to you. When can you start?”
Captain Moore smiled politely. “How about tonight, if the invasion forces are in position?”
Auchinleck grinned happily at the obvious implication Moore knew exactly what was going on. “They are, Roger, they are. Time for us to blood our new armored cars.”
Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, London
“Are you still of the opinion that the mighty Soviet Army will defeat the German juggernaut, Sir John?” Butler had put every ounce of sneering condescension he could manage into the question and every drop of belittling contempt he could summon up into the word ‘sir’.
General Sir John Dill looked at him with equal contempt. “I would say that unlikely as it looks at this time, they are at the very least laying the bedrock for a firm defense. In the north and center, where they have less space to exploit, they are committing enough forces to slow the Germans down and make them fight hard for their advances. Even the Germans are admitting they are suffering heavy casualties in the fighting. In the south, the Ukraine, where there is an abundance of room to maneuver, the Russian is drawing the Germans further in. It is an old story, as the attack proceeds ever deeper into enemy territory, the attacker’s supply lines lengthen and those of the defender shorten. This weakens the former and strengthens the latter. Napoleon would doubtless find the current situation familiar.”
“Have you even troubled yourself to see the losses the Soviets have taken?” Butler was furiously at Sir John’s measured reply.
“I have, although I suspect that the Germans are seriously over claiming the losses they are inflicting and understating their own. We know from our own experience in France that they do this. If the Russians are playing true to form, they are holding their best forces back and will only commit them when the decisive moment arrives. The Germans have certainly destroyed hundreds, probably thousands of Soviet tanks but they are the old models, poorly armed and thinly armored. The Russians have lost large numbers of men, again I repeat, the Germans over claims his victories, but they have many to lose and only a small proportion of their main army has been committed.”
“My God, there is no reasoning with this man!” Butler exploded and the words sent a chill through the room. Everybody knew what had happened to Leo Amery when he had defied Halifax and Butler.
Lord Halifax coughed, silencing the room. “This is all very interesting, but I fear we do not know enough about what is happening in the Soviet Union to be sure of the situation there. Either or both of my Honorable friends may be right. We cannot say anything with more certainty than that. So let us postpone the conversation until we know more. In its place, I would like to raise an issue that is of direct concern to us. Sir Edward, how will this war affect the food situation here? Is there scope to relax food rationing still further?”
Sir Edward Bridges made a great play of thinking carefully. What nobody else in this room knew was that there was a continuous back-door contact with the Commonwealth of Nations taking place under the genial patronage of Benito Mussolini in Rome. The subject of food supplies had figured strongly in those contacts and Sir Edward had been both cheered and depressed by the news. The problem he now faced was presenting the information to Cabinet without admitting that he had organized a massive trading operation that was placing Commonwealth food in British larders and the gold Germany had pillaged from its conquests in Commonwealth treasuries. The price was that the same deals had also placed British-built weapons in the German arsenals. In the inevitable conflict of interests, which was the weightier, feeding the British civilian population or enhancing German fighting power, Sir Edward had opted for the former and accepted the price of the latter.
“My Right Honorable friends, in the short term the fighting in the Soviet Union will not affect us greatly. The German economic system is to pillage the countries of Western Europe, especially France and the Netherlands, and use their food supplies to feed the German civilian population. At the same time, they loot their conquests in the east to provide sustenance for their armies in the Soviet Union. However, as I pointed out at our previous meetings, the British taste in foodstuffs differs markedly from the rest of Europe. We relish what they despise and vice versa. So, our agreements with our new trading partners still survive intact. Butter and cheese will continue to flow to us, albeit at a slightly higher cost. That we can absorb. Supplies of pork, that great favorite of the German people will be severely hit though. I was hoping that we might ease the ration on bacon, but this would not now be prudent. We can increase imports of beef from South America to compensate. I am hopeful that we can even secure an additional supply of onions.”
The cheer that went around the Cabinet Room was whole-hearted and genuine. The truth was the British people missed a ready supply of onions and Cabinet Ministers were no different from common laborers in that respect. Sir Edward smiled at the sound, once again feeling the temptation of cheap popularity tugging at him. Then the weight of the conflict between building up food reserves for the inevitable complete end to outside food supplies and keeping the Prime Minister happy by easing rationing crashed in on him again.
“On the subject of pork, there is something upon which I would ask the advice of you all. There is an American product, spiced pork and ham or Spam I believe it is called. It is luncheon meat, tinned, and with a long shelf life. It is ideal for storage against emergencies, and we can import it without problems while our freedom of shipping remains. But it means doing business with the Americans and they are ardent supporters of the Commonwealth of Nations. Should we buy Spam, and its equivalents, from them, knowing that the revenue from those sales may well find its way to Canada, Australia, and India? Yes, and even to the Soviet Union for who here doubts that the United States will support them as well.”
“An alliance made in hell between the devil and his disciples.” Lord Halifax shook his head. “Yet, the attractions of an additional supply of meat, even an adulterated product such as you describe, are tempting indeed. I would counsel against answering now; let us postpone a decision until our next meeting while we reflect carefully on the issues at stake. Now, Sir Edward, I note you have spoken about the short term. What of the medium and long term?”
“Here, Prime Minister, the situation is not so hopeful. It may well be that Germany’s victory over the Soviet Union will be as rapid and complete as my right Honorable friend, the Home Secretary believes. But General Sir John Dill makes a cogent and expert case to the contrary. Whatever we wish may be the case, we cannot afford to plan on anything but the worst-case scenario. If the war in the Soviet Union drags on, German will pillage more and more food from Europe and even those materials that are not currently to their taste will be eagerly eaten. There will be fewer and fewer supplies available for us to import. If, no when, America enters the war on the side of Russia and the Commonwealth, any hope of food supplies from that source will cease completely. In fact, in such an environment, merchant shipping in general may be severely impeded. We shall need to guard against that day.”
What had happened in Rome was that the representatives of the Commonwealth had said quite clearly that in the future, Britain must share its food imports with Russia. All the Commonwealth countries faced the same conflict of interest between the absolute necessity of sending food to their Russian ally as a replacement for that lost in the German-occupied territories and the sentimental necessity of helping the old mother country. Dairy products would not be affected in the short term, nor would fresh meat. Tinned and other preserved foods would, as a matter of priority go to Russia to establish a reserve against the coming winter. Sir Edward believed he had managed to cover up that change reasonably well. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
“And that will mean continuing to build up our food stocks while maintaining rationing.” Lord Halifax shook his head. “You have proved that you are doing what you can to remove the necessity of food rationing, Sir Edward, and I have complete confidence you will continue to do so. Now, let us move on to the next item on the agenda. Home Secretary has there been any progress in finding the killers of our Right Honorable Friend, Mr. Amery?”
Butler shook his head sadly. “I fear not, Prime Minister. Other than establishing he was a victim of a Resistance Death Squad; we have no idea who killed him or why he was selected for assassination. This leads me to fear that any one of us could be next. If we are to prevent this ugly possibility, we must move against the resistance movement.”
“What do you suggest, Home Secretary?” Lord Halifax suddenly seemed very interested.
“There is a simple solution to this problem, Prime Minister. We know that the Resistance is centrally organized and directed. Their operations are authorized and planned at the highest level. It, therefore, follows that the Home Officer should issue guidance to the Regular and Auxiliary Police, reminding them that conspiracy charges could and should be brought against any members of the resistance regarding crimes committed by resistance members as a whole.”
It took every ounce of willpower Sir Edward had to prevent him from shouting out in protest at the proposal. To his intense relief, the Solicitor-General, Sir David Maxwell Fyfe, jumped in first and seized what Sir Edward was certain would become a poisoned chalice. “There is no way that, under the present or any other circumstances I can imagine, that Parliament would pass legislation allowing such measures. Prime Minister, this proposal is asking for a backbench revolt and a vote of no-confidence. Which we would lose.”
“There will be no need for any legislation. When the Firearms Act of 1937 was passed, it was supplemented by a series of classified Home Office directives that defined, for the benefit of chief constables, what constituted good reason to grant a certificate. They originally included self-defense. However, later that year, the Home Office issued an equally classified memorandum that made it clear that self-defense was not a valid reason to issue a firearms certificate. Because these directives are classified, Chief Constables cannot, under penalty of law divulge their contents or their substance. Thus, even their existence remains unknown to the population at large and they have not been authorized by legislation. We can adopt the same principle here. We can simply issue a classified directive to all relevant authorities that in the event of a Resistance-originated crime taking place in their jurisdiction, known members of the Resistance should be considered as co-conspirators to that crime.” Butler looked around the room, gauging the reaction of the Cabinet. “It will, of course, be necessary if such a such a prosecution is to be successful, for the authorities to prove that the accused persons are indeed members of the so-called Resistance.”
“Proving that will be a difficult issue. I do not believe that the Resistance keeps lists of its members anywhere.” Sir David was acutely aware he was treading a thin line. Nobody in the Cabinet believed that Leo Amery had been killed by the Resistance, most were doubtful that the Resistance even existed and those that did knew that it was a code-name Halifax and Butler used for their political enemies.
“This is indeed so.” Lord Halifax seized the opportunity. “And it is one the regular police are too over-committed to undertake. Therefore, we will be placing the task of identifying members of the Resistance in the hands of the Auxiliary Police.”
Headquarters, "H" Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Churchill, Nova Scotia.
Detective Inspector Geoffrey Gour rubbed his eyes wearily and started to read another one of the voluminous reports on possible German sabotage, subversion and espionage within Canada. The problem was there were so many reports of suspicious activity and most of them turned out to be nothing. It was a bad time for a careless neighbor to be showing lights along the coast or looking for a missing pet with a flashlight. In search of inspiration, he looked at the photograph that was alongside those of his wife and children. It was of him sitting in the back seat of a Battle T Mark 1.
The telephone rang, jerking him out of the happy half hour he has spent amongst the clouds. “Inspector Gour here.”
“Inspector, sorry to trouble you so late. I am Agent Aaron Foster, from the FBI regional office in Boston. We got a little bit of a puzzle down here and I wondered if the Mounties could help?”
“We’ll do our best, Agent Foster. What’s the problem?”
“Do you know a man called Dieter Ehrhardt? Big guy, about five-eleven, fair hair, blue eyes?”
“Dieter Ehrhardt? Let me see.” It took Gour a couple of minutes to search through his card index. “No, I’m sorry, that name is unknown to us.”
“How about Dirk Eisenberg?”
Gour didn’t need his card index for that name. “Oh yes. He punched one of our pilots in the face a month or two back, nearer three now. We arrested him, but he was granted limited license until his trial date came up but absconded. What’s happening?”
“Well, there was a bar brawl down here last night. Before you ask, no the Bureau is not handling bar brawls yet. What happened was that somebody made a remark about helping the Soviets now they were putting up a fight and this Ehrhardt blew up. Started screaming in anger about Bolsheviks and Jews, then took a swing at the speaker. A couple of bystanders grabbed him to pull him off, they were all lickered up and the fight was on. The locals turned up and arrested everybody – except the initial speaker of course. They fingerprinted Ehrhardt, sent us a copy of the prints and that’s when it got interesting. We’ve been looking for him for some time. Years in fact. He was a really active member of the German American Bund before that caved in and vanished afterward. Now he’s turned up again.”
“So how’s he connected to our Eisenberg?” Light dawned on Gour. “Unless they are the same person?”
“Looks like it. You see our Mr. Ehrhardt tried to resist arrest so our cops roughed him up. I’d like to say a little, but actually quite a lot. When they searched him, they found another, different set of documents, Canadian identification papers, and a seaman’s union card. So, given the fact that he was a hardcore member of the Bund and you’re at war with Germany, we thought we had better tell you all about it. If you want him, you can have him. Professional courtesy and all that.”
Gour raised his eyebrows expressively. What this FBI Agent had really said was the RCMP would now owe the FBI a favor, payable on demand. Still, this was getting interesting. “That’s good of you. We’ll owe you one.” And so it was that the deal was signed, sealed and, as soon Ehrhardt/Eisenberg, or whoever he was arrived in Ottawa, delivered. Gour just hoped the price wouldn’t be too high.
Headquarters, 3rd Battalion 7th Rajput Infantry, Garry Barracks, Bombay, India
"Is your team ready, Roger?" General Auchinleck was looking at the display map on the wall. It was mounted in a beautifully crafted wooden display case that was guarded by a very sophisticated lock to which only a handful of people had the keys. The contents were that secret.
"Yes, Sir." Captain Moore was also studying the display although he knew every detail on it. He also knew quite a few that were not. "I picked the best men we have. Three sub-teams, each of twelve men."
"All British of course." Auchinleck made the statement artlessly, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
"All Indian, Sir." It was well known in the Indian army that Captain Moore had only three facial expressions. Right eyebrow raised, left eyebrow raised and both eyebrows raised. It made him a natural for covert operations. This time it was right eyebrow raised. "Two of the three officers are of British descent, naturally, but three quarters of the other ranks including all the NCOs and the other officer are Rajputs. As I said, Sir, we picked the best men we have."
"Good man." Auchinleck dropped the act and clapped Moore soundly on the shoulder. "I knew you'd do it right. It's what we expect from the 7th Rajputs. Three sub-teams?"
"One each for Ehrenfels, Drachenfels and Braunfels. As for the Italian ship trapped in Goa harbor, we're leaving her strictly alone as per orders."
"That's essential. The Italians are being painfully honest where the neutrality of that ship is concerned. They even invited a couple of men from the Navy Intelligence Department on board and gave them the run of the ship. Under the pretext of celebrating Il Duce's birthday of all things.”
“That’s not for another two months.” Captain Moore now had the other eyebrow raised.
“Precisely. As I said, painfully honest. Are twelve men per ship going to be enough?"
"We have reports saying that there are 21 men on each ship." Moore was careful not to say where the reports were coming from. The Portuguese authorities in Goa might be oblivious to the fact their Indian employees owed their allegiance to India, not Portugal, but there was nothing to be gained by disillusioning them. The detailed information on the three German ships that had been delivered to Moore had vindicated the Indian government's faith in their fellow-countrymen. He had exact plans of the internal layouts of the ships and where the critical areas were. "The average watch is six men, eight when there is a new moon. Twelve will do it. The more men we bring in, the harder it will be to cover up what is happening before the event."
Auchinleck quietly added another tick against the name on his mental dossier. Captain Moore has the makings of a first-class covert missions officer. "Your schedule?"
"We are 270 nautical miles north of Vasco de Gama. The ship we are using as a base does 12 knots; she is a bit faster than that, but we'll keep the extra in hand in case something goes wrong. The timing is near-perfect. We'll leave here about oh-two-hundred and that will put us off the harbor at midnight. We'll be going in as a Brazilian freighter. Once we're in the roadstead, we'll launch the cutters and board all three ships at oh-oh-thirty. We will kill the deck guards and try and detain the rest of the crew. If they try and fight, they'll be killed. Our primary objectives are the bridge, the radio room, and the crypto vault. We must get her reception and transmission records. Once we have them, we will plant scuttling charges and pull off the ships by oh one-thirty. Back to our transport and we try and get the hell out of there. That is going to be the tricky bit. We'll have lit up the harbor by then and the Portuguese will be as mad as hell."
"I don't doubt it, Roger. Obviously, you'll have to use your own judgment if the way out is blocked but don’t get men killed unnecessarily. The Portuguese Viceroy is a hot-tempered and bombastic man and I have no doubt he will be pounding on our collective desks in New Delhi by morning. If he goes the way we hope, it could solve a lot of problems. Going the way, we hope means starting a war, Auchinleck thought. Viceroy, José Ricardo Pereira Cabral is indeed a hot-tempered and bombastic man. He will storm into the Marquis of Linlithgow’s office, shout at him, pound on his desk and demand the surrender of the party who stormed those ships. The Marquis will politely refuse because politeness and courtesy always annoy the bombastic and point out that the three ships were engaging in sending shipping information to German submarines and raiders. This was a major breach of neutrality; a contravention of international law and we were entitled to mitigate the severity of the breach. The Portuguese failure to do so was also a breach of international law and we are entitled to claim compensation from them for the harm we have suffered as a result. José Ricardo Pereira Cabral will be further infuriated, and he will threaten us with war unless we comply with his demands. He will be expecting, of course, for us to be cowed and tremble before him. Instead, we will ‘misunderstand’ his bluster and take the statement as a real declaration of war. By the time everything is straightened out, we will have occupied Goa and that will be that. Even if the plan goes badly wrong, we will still have got rid of those wretched spy ships.
“All right, Roger. Launch the operation when it’s convenient to you. When can you start?”
Captain Moore smiled politely. “How about tonight, if the invasion forces are in position?”
Auchinleck grinned happily at the obvious implication Moore knew exactly what was going on. “They are, Roger, they are. Time for us to blood our new armored cars.”
Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, London
“Are you still of the opinion that the mighty Soviet Army will defeat the German juggernaut, Sir John?” Butler had put every ounce of sneering condescension he could manage into the question and every drop of belittling contempt he could summon up into the word ‘sir’.
General Sir John Dill looked at him with equal contempt. “I would say that unlikely as it looks at this time, they are at the very least laying the bedrock for a firm defense. In the north and center, where they have less space to exploit, they are committing enough forces to slow the Germans down and make them fight hard for their advances. Even the Germans are admitting they are suffering heavy casualties in the fighting. In the south, the Ukraine, where there is an abundance of room to maneuver, the Russian is drawing the Germans further in. It is an old story, as the attack proceeds ever deeper into enemy territory, the attacker’s supply lines lengthen and those of the defender shorten. This weakens the former and strengthens the latter. Napoleon would doubtless find the current situation familiar.”
“Have you even troubled yourself to see the losses the Soviets have taken?” Butler was furiously at Sir John’s measured reply.
“I have, although I suspect that the Germans are seriously over claiming the losses they are inflicting and understating their own. We know from our own experience in France that they do this. If the Russians are playing true to form, they are holding their best forces back and will only commit them when the decisive moment arrives. The Germans have certainly destroyed hundreds, probably thousands of Soviet tanks but they are the old models, poorly armed and thinly armored. The Russians have lost large numbers of men, again I repeat, the Germans over claims his victories, but they have many to lose and only a small proportion of their main army has been committed.”
“My God, there is no reasoning with this man!” Butler exploded and the words sent a chill through the room. Everybody knew what had happened to Leo Amery when he had defied Halifax and Butler.
Lord Halifax coughed, silencing the room. “This is all very interesting, but I fear we do not know enough about what is happening in the Soviet Union to be sure of the situation there. Either or both of my Honorable friends may be right. We cannot say anything with more certainty than that. So let us postpone the conversation until we know more. In its place, I would like to raise an issue that is of direct concern to us. Sir Edward, how will this war affect the food situation here? Is there scope to relax food rationing still further?”
Sir Edward Bridges made a great play of thinking carefully. What nobody else in this room knew was that there was a continuous back-door contact with the Commonwealth of Nations taking place under the genial patronage of Benito Mussolini in Rome. The subject of food supplies had figured strongly in those contacts and Sir Edward had been both cheered and depressed by the news. The problem he now faced was presenting the information to Cabinet without admitting that he had organized a massive trading operation that was placing Commonwealth food in British larders and the gold Germany had pillaged from its conquests in Commonwealth treasuries. The price was that the same deals had also placed British-built weapons in the German arsenals. In the inevitable conflict of interests, which was the weightier, feeding the British civilian population or enhancing German fighting power, Sir Edward had opted for the former and accepted the price of the latter.
“My Right Honorable friends, in the short term the fighting in the Soviet Union will not affect us greatly. The German economic system is to pillage the countries of Western Europe, especially France and the Netherlands, and use their food supplies to feed the German civilian population. At the same time, they loot their conquests in the east to provide sustenance for their armies in the Soviet Union. However, as I pointed out at our previous meetings, the British taste in foodstuffs differs markedly from the rest of Europe. We relish what they despise and vice versa. So, our agreements with our new trading partners still survive intact. Butter and cheese will continue to flow to us, albeit at a slightly higher cost. That we can absorb. Supplies of pork, that great favorite of the German people will be severely hit though. I was hoping that we might ease the ration on bacon, but this would not now be prudent. We can increase imports of beef from South America to compensate. I am hopeful that we can even secure an additional supply of onions.”
The cheer that went around the Cabinet Room was whole-hearted and genuine. The truth was the British people missed a ready supply of onions and Cabinet Ministers were no different from common laborers in that respect. Sir Edward smiled at the sound, once again feeling the temptation of cheap popularity tugging at him. Then the weight of the conflict between building up food reserves for the inevitable complete end to outside food supplies and keeping the Prime Minister happy by easing rationing crashed in on him again.
“On the subject of pork, there is something upon which I would ask the advice of you all. There is an American product, spiced pork and ham or Spam I believe it is called. It is luncheon meat, tinned, and with a long shelf life. It is ideal for storage against emergencies, and we can import it without problems while our freedom of shipping remains. But it means doing business with the Americans and they are ardent supporters of the Commonwealth of Nations. Should we buy Spam, and its equivalents, from them, knowing that the revenue from those sales may well find its way to Canada, Australia, and India? Yes, and even to the Soviet Union for who here doubts that the United States will support them as well.”
“An alliance made in hell between the devil and his disciples.” Lord Halifax shook his head. “Yet, the attractions of an additional supply of meat, even an adulterated product such as you describe, are tempting indeed. I would counsel against answering now; let us postpone a decision until our next meeting while we reflect carefully on the issues at stake. Now, Sir Edward, I note you have spoken about the short term. What of the medium and long term?”
“Here, Prime Minister, the situation is not so hopeful. It may well be that Germany’s victory over the Soviet Union will be as rapid and complete as my right Honorable friend, the Home Secretary believes. But General Sir John Dill makes a cogent and expert case to the contrary. Whatever we wish may be the case, we cannot afford to plan on anything but the worst-case scenario. If the war in the Soviet Union drags on, German will pillage more and more food from Europe and even those materials that are not currently to their taste will be eagerly eaten. There will be fewer and fewer supplies available for us to import. If, no when, America enters the war on the side of Russia and the Commonwealth, any hope of food supplies from that source will cease completely. In fact, in such an environment, merchant shipping in general may be severely impeded. We shall need to guard against that day.”
What had happened in Rome was that the representatives of the Commonwealth had said quite clearly that in the future, Britain must share its food imports with Russia. All the Commonwealth countries faced the same conflict of interest between the absolute necessity of sending food to their Russian ally as a replacement for that lost in the German-occupied territories and the sentimental necessity of helping the old mother country. Dairy products would not be affected in the short term, nor would fresh meat. Tinned and other preserved foods would, as a matter of priority go to Russia to establish a reserve against the coming winter. Sir Edward believed he had managed to cover up that change reasonably well. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
“And that will mean continuing to build up our food stocks while maintaining rationing.” Lord Halifax shook his head. “You have proved that you are doing what you can to remove the necessity of food rationing, Sir Edward, and I have complete confidence you will continue to do so. Now, let us move on to the next item on the agenda. Home Secretary has there been any progress in finding the killers of our Right Honorable Friend, Mr. Amery?”
Butler shook his head sadly. “I fear not, Prime Minister. Other than establishing he was a victim of a Resistance Death Squad; we have no idea who killed him or why he was selected for assassination. This leads me to fear that any one of us could be next. If we are to prevent this ugly possibility, we must move against the resistance movement.”
“What do you suggest, Home Secretary?” Lord Halifax suddenly seemed very interested.
“There is a simple solution to this problem, Prime Minister. We know that the Resistance is centrally organized and directed. Their operations are authorized and planned at the highest level. It, therefore, follows that the Home Officer should issue guidance to the Regular and Auxiliary Police, reminding them that conspiracy charges could and should be brought against any members of the resistance regarding crimes committed by resistance members as a whole.”
It took every ounce of willpower Sir Edward had to prevent him from shouting out in protest at the proposal. To his intense relief, the Solicitor-General, Sir David Maxwell Fyfe, jumped in first and seized what Sir Edward was certain would become a poisoned chalice. “There is no way that, under the present or any other circumstances I can imagine, that Parliament would pass legislation allowing such measures. Prime Minister, this proposal is asking for a backbench revolt and a vote of no-confidence. Which we would lose.”
“There will be no need for any legislation. When the Firearms Act of 1937 was passed, it was supplemented by a series of classified Home Office directives that defined, for the benefit of chief constables, what constituted good reason to grant a certificate. They originally included self-defense. However, later that year, the Home Office issued an equally classified memorandum that made it clear that self-defense was not a valid reason to issue a firearms certificate. Because these directives are classified, Chief Constables cannot, under penalty of law divulge their contents or their substance. Thus, even their existence remains unknown to the population at large and they have not been authorized by legislation. We can adopt the same principle here. We can simply issue a classified directive to all relevant authorities that in the event of a Resistance-originated crime taking place in their jurisdiction, known members of the Resistance should be considered as co-conspirators to that crime.” Butler looked around the room, gauging the reaction of the Cabinet. “It will, of course, be necessary if such a such a prosecution is to be successful, for the authorities to prove that the accused persons are indeed members of the so-called Resistance.”
“Proving that will be a difficult issue. I do not believe that the Resistance keeps lists of its members anywhere.” Sir David was acutely aware he was treading a thin line. Nobody in the Cabinet believed that Leo Amery had been killed by the Resistance, most were doubtful that the Resistance even existed and those that did knew that it was a code-name Halifax and Butler used for their political enemies.
“This is indeed so.” Lord Halifax seized the opportunity. “And it is one the regular police are too over-committed to undertake. Therefore, we will be placing the task of identifying members of the Resistance in the hands of the Auxiliary Police.”
Headquarters, "H" Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Churchill, Nova Scotia.
Detective Inspector Geoffrey Gour rubbed his eyes wearily and started to read another one of the voluminous reports on possible German sabotage, subversion and espionage within Canada. The problem was there were so many reports of suspicious activity and most of them turned out to be nothing. It was a bad time for a careless neighbor to be showing lights along the coast or looking for a missing pet with a flashlight. In search of inspiration, he looked at the photograph that was alongside those of his wife and children. It was of him sitting in the back seat of a Battle T Mark 1.
The telephone rang, jerking him out of the happy half hour he has spent amongst the clouds. “Inspector Gour here.”
“Inspector, sorry to trouble you so late. I am Agent Aaron Foster, from the FBI regional office in Boston. We got a little bit of a puzzle down here and I wondered if the Mounties could help?”
“We’ll do our best, Agent Foster. What’s the problem?”
“Do you know a man called Dieter Ehrhardt? Big guy, about five-eleven, fair hair, blue eyes?”
“Dieter Ehrhardt? Let me see.” It took Gour a couple of minutes to search through his card index. “No, I’m sorry, that name is unknown to us.”
“How about Dirk Eisenberg?”
Gour didn’t need his card index for that name. “Oh yes. He punched one of our pilots in the face a month or two back, nearer three now. We arrested him, but he was granted limited license until his trial date came up but absconded. What’s happening?”
“Well, there was a bar brawl down here last night. Before you ask, no the Bureau is not handling bar brawls yet. What happened was that somebody made a remark about helping the Soviets now they were putting up a fight and this Ehrhardt blew up. Started screaming in anger about Bolsheviks and Jews, then took a swing at the speaker. A couple of bystanders grabbed him to pull him off, they were all lickered up and the fight was on. The locals turned up and arrested everybody – except the initial speaker of course. They fingerprinted Ehrhardt, sent us a copy of the prints and that’s when it got interesting. We’ve been looking for him for some time. Years in fact. He was a really active member of the German American Bund before that caved in and vanished afterward. Now he’s turned up again.”
“So how’s he connected to our Eisenberg?” Light dawned on Gour. “Unless they are the same person?”
“Looks like it. You see our Mr. Ehrhardt tried to resist arrest so our cops roughed him up. I’d like to say a little, but actually quite a lot. When they searched him, they found another, different set of documents, Canadian identification papers, and a seaman’s union card. So, given the fact that he was a hardcore member of the Bund and you’re at war with Germany, we thought we had better tell you all about it. If you want him, you can have him. Professional courtesy and all that.”
Gour raised his eyebrows expressively. What this FBI Agent had really said was the RCMP would now owe the FBI a favor, payable on demand. Still, this was getting interesting. “That’s good of you. We’ll owe you one.” And so it was that the deal was signed, sealed and, as soon Ehrhardt/Eisenberg, or whoever he was arrived in Ottawa, delivered. Gour just hoped the price wouldn’t be too high.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Remnants, 18th Special Artillery-Machine-Gun Battalion, Retreating from Lvov, Ukraine
Osaulenko awoke with serious reluctance even when the sun, shining in through one of the camouflaged firing ports, hit him full in his face. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was and half-believed he was still with the columns of Soviet troops retreating to the east. Then, as the sleep-fog in his mind dispersed, he remembered everything that had happened, ending with he and his comrades being hidden in this bunker tucked away behind the fields. That was when he realized that their position was completely unguarded and had been all night. By the position of the sun, he guessed it was already mid-morning. That meant he and his comrades had been dangerously exposed for many hours and could have been captured or killed at any time. They had been extremely lucky, and he knew it. It was also criminal negligence on his part for which he could easily end up facing a Tribunal.
The sounds of him waking up and his first movements had also started the process of waking his men. He went around, shaking the ones who were still asleep and making sure nobody said anything or made noises that could bring the fascists down upon them. By the time everybody had woken, and the group was ready to move out, the sun's rays through the firing slit had moved perceptibly across the floor.
"What do we do now, Valya? Head east again?" Arguchinsky sounded much more alert and energetic than he had done the previous day. A share of the cold boiled potatoes and raw onions had obviously done some good, but a sound night's sleep had done much more. Osaulenko consoled himself with the thought that he could use that as a defense when he faced a Tribunal on charges of negligence.
"We will go back to the village first; perhaps another dawn may have made the people there more helpful."
"I doubt it." One of the handful of survivors from the Opolchenie sounded very guarded. "A lot of the Ukrainians, especially in the countryside, remember the famine of the 1930s."
"Do they now. And who are you?" Osaulenko put a lot of menace into his words. It was acting but he had been presented with a teachable moment and was not going to waste it. The lesson here being 'watch what you say and guard each word.'
"I am Petr Aleksandrovich Gladky, a senior of the Maksim Gorkii School at Lyuban. Some Ukrainians, undoubtedly counter-revolutionaries, blame us for the great famine of the early 1930s. Very foolish of them of course, we all know that they brought the famine on themselves by failing to adopt properly-scientific principles of farming." Gladky looked nervously around, wondering if he had said the right thing this time.
Osaulenko let the matter drop but the information was useful. It explains why we got the reactions we did yesterday. It also warns us that the locals may not be well-disposed to us and may even show a preference for the invaders. Counterrevolutionaries are everywhere. We must tread carefully.
"Nevertheless, we will return in the direction of that village. Only, based on Petya's advice, we will remain outside and watch before doing anything positive. Caution must be our watchword from now on."
"Should we not be rejoining our Army as quickly as possible?" Arguchinsky sounded doubtful and very cautious.
"Yes, and we will. But we are now well behind enemy lines. Every step is now another risk taken. If we are to rejoin our comrades, then we must move carefully." Osaulenko knew he had repeated himself, but he was beginning to realize just how precarious was the position he and the men with him had found themselves occupying. There was no doubt in his mind that the battle lines were moving eastwards faster than he and his men could march. That meant them being caught was a matter of ‘when’ not ‘if’.
Once they had started to move, the wisdom of Osaulenko’s words became all too apparent. The kolkhoz was tucked away from the main roads through the Ukrainian countryside and largely enveloped by the forest, but the constant sound of heavy vehicle engines was always there; not close but also near enough to be menacing. There was a more intermittent sound as well, that of aircraft engines. The constant noise of a war machine at work was so omnipresent that it became ignored. That was why the group of soldiers nearly failed to realize that it had changed. They did so only just in time to avoid walking into a large fascist patrol that had taken control of the village at the heart of the kolkhoz.
“Rus aus! Rus aus!” The German soldiers were going from hut to hut, forcing the occupants out and herding them towards the center of the settlement. As they did, they were separating the women and children away from the men. Osaulenko looked carefully around, counting the German soldiers. There was a truckload blocking each of the exit roads from the village and at least three more surrounding the center of the village where the population was being assembled. At least sixty men; possibly more. That’s an odd number, more than a platoon, far less than a company. A platoon reinforced with specialists. Some of those men down there are wearing different uniforms from the rest. What is going on here?
More of the fascist troops were coming back from the surrounding woods, herding civilians from the outlying huts. Once again, the men were separated away from the women and children. Osaulenko revised his count upwards. He now estimated there were about eighty men occupying the village. No matter what happens, and I have a very bad feeling about this, there is nothing we can do. There are seven of us with five rifles and two Nagant revolvers. And three hand grenades. Then, Osaulenko paused and surprised himself with a random thought. I have a very bad feeling about this. That sounds like a line from a dreadful film. He noted something else; this was not a case of rounding up people sympathetic to the Soviet regime. He recognized the man who had turned his men away, who had said that the fascists were people too. He also saw the women who had given food and shelter to him and his men. She had two children with her, a son and a daughter. The other boy, the one who had escorted them to the shelter for the night was nowhere to be seen.
The fascists in the settlement had started something new; they were herding the women and children into a large barn in the center of the buildings. Some of the men started protesting but they were beaten down with rifle butts. There was a start of a surge forward, but it was quickly beaten back. Then, the last of the women and children were inside and the doors were closed behind them. One of the soldiers produced a length of chain and used it to secure those doors. Once again, there was the start of a surge forward by the men, but it was quickly beaten back. Osaulenko now knew with grim certainty why there were so many men assigned to occupy a comparatively unimportant village.
He watched with growing horror as some of the men went to one of the trucks and started taking out the large cans the German Army used for carrying their fuel supplies. They walked backwards and forward along the wooden walls of the barn, throwing the gasoline all over it. It took a few seconds for reality to sink in, then there was a crescendo of screaming from inside the barn as the women realized what the smell of gasoline meant. Osaulenko couldn’t make most of the sounds out, there were screams of terror, of panic, of protest. Some of the women were just begging the Germans to let their children out.
It didn’t do any good. A German officer who had been leaning against the door of one of the trucks had picked up a flare and walked towards the barn. In doing so, he exposed the unit marking painted on the door. A black shield with a stylized white key on it. Osaulenko memorized it, swearing to himself that one day he would exact revenge for this. The officer lit the flare and tossed it at the barn.
The building exploded into flame and the screaming from inside redoubled. To his amazement, he saw the barn doors bulge outward as the women inside tried to force them open, but the locks and chain held fast. As the flames roared, engulfing the entire barn, the screaming from inside went on and on, for much longer than Osaulenko could ever believe possible. Some of the men being forced to watch their families being burned alive had tried to break through the cordon of German troops but they had, like all those who had tried to resist, been clubbed down and beaten almost senseless. Almost but not quite; the fascists had not wanted them to miss anything.
By the time the barn had been burned to ashes and the screaming had finally stopped, the Germans were forming the men up into a column and starting to march them off. A few of them though were elderly and not able to make the march required. These were separated out and shot by the side of the road. While that was being done, the remaining troops spread through the village and set the huts on fire. There was no attempt to loot them or to take any needed supplies.
Once they had gone, Osaulenko looked at his men. “You saw that. We must never forget it. Never, never, never. When a German begs for mercy, remember it and spurn his pleas.”
“Why? Why did they do it?” Arguchinsky was a broken man, stunned by the horror.
It was the lad from the Opolchenie who answered. The day before he had seen nearly everybody, he had grown up with killed or maimed in a hopeless effort to fight the Messers. Today, he had seen an entire village burned. “It was what the Tartars did in the time of the Golden Horde. They would make the men slaves, but they would kill all the women and all the children. That way, in one generation, no more Rus.”
“You see bratishka?” Osaulenko felt rage swelling within him, replacing the heartbreaking grief he had felt before. “They do not want to rule us or have us serve them. They want us dead. They want no more Rus. They want us all dead. Every last Rus. They start with the small, unimportant kolkhoz and villages, ones that will be overlooked in the chaos of war. Tovarish Petr Aleksandrovich, you and your comrades were right, and we were wrong. We must fight. We cannot get back to our own lines so we must fight where we are. We are but seven strong, but we can show the fascists that we will never submit to them!"
"Eight." A child's voice, horse and broken with grief came from one side. "In the name of my murdered mother, brother and sister, eight!"
It was the boy who had taken them to the shelter the night before. Having done so, or possibly having been sent to send them on their way was why he had survived the massacre. Osaulenko nodded. "What is your name, bratishka?"
"Iohannes Andriychuk."
"Very well. I put it to the vote of the company. Do we admit Iohannes Andriychuk to our company, to fight alongside us until we drive out the fascists or die in the attempt?" Seven men raised their hands as one. "Very well, Iohannes, welcome to our number. Have you a weapon?"
Andriychuk reached behind him and drew out a woodsman's knife. "It is all I have."
"It will do, and it has value all of its own. It is silent while our rifles are noisy. We will capture weapons soon enough."
"I will need one also, Comrade Leader." Gladky sounded almost bashful, and his voice was shaking. Osaulenko wasn't quite sure whether it was rage or grief that made it so. "My rifle is Polish and it does not use Russian ammunition."
Osaulenko took it and looked. Then he smiled. "This is the most valuable rifle we have bratishka. It is a Kb wz.98a chambered for German 7.9mm ammunition. When we capture some, you will be the first to use it back at the fascists. We will have to fight with weapons we capture from now on. Your rifle will lead the way!"
For the next four hours, while the burning embers of the destroyed village cooled, the group watched. Osaulenko had thought the fascists might leave behind an ambush detachment in case any other stragglers returned but it became obvious they had not done so. In his opinion, that had been a bad mistake. While his unit watched for the fascists return, he had taken out a pencil and a piece of paper. On it, he wrote a few lines for his men to repeat.
Eventually, he judged it was safe to enter the ruins. The smell inside what had been a small but relatively prosperous forest settlement was awful, the acrid stench of burned timber mixed in with the vile, sweet stench of roasted people. The charred corpses of the women and children in the barn were still visible, mostly piled around the chained door where they had died trying to break out. Trying not to weep at the sight, he stood before the pile of burned bodies and took out his piece of paper.
"Bratishka, I have written an oath for us all to swear, here before the murdered bodies of our countrywomen. Let us swear it so, in times of need or desperation, we can remember why it is that we fight on. I will start by swearing this most solemn of oaths.
“I, a citizen of the Soviet Union, a loyal son of the heroic Soviet people, swear to not release my weapons until the last fascist bastard on earth has been destroyed. For the burned towns and villages, for the deaths of our children, for the torture, violence, and murder of my people, I swear to retaliate brutally, ruthlessly and relentlessly. In the name of liberty and justice for my people, I swear that I shall be disciplined, persevering and fearless, that I shall spare neither blood nor life in fighting the fascist invaders and all traitors to the people until they are completely annihilated. I swear this in the name of my mother, my sisters, my wife and my children, those already born and those yet to come. May the spirits of our martyred dead, now before us, stand witness to my oath and drag my soul to everlasting hell if I renege upon it!"
He handed the paper to Arguchinsky who read the oath out loud to the men. It seemed to restore him, to put some strength back into his body. When he had finished, he handed the paper to the next man and rejoined the ranks. By the time, all eight members of the group had read out their oath, all had tears running down their faces.
Once again, Osaulenko stood in front of them. "Bratishka, we are now Partisans. Let us go and find some ammunition for we will surely have much need of it."
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel” Off Sumatra, Dutch East Indies.
“Herr Kapitan, we have the news broadcast in.” Benthaus did not mean the world news. Instead, he meant a very specific and very private news service run by three disguised merchant ships anchored at Vasco da Gama in Portuguese Goa. This “news” reported ship movements and any other information of use to the German raiders and submarines operating in the Far East. In the absence of aerial reconnaissance, it was the best they could do.
“Very good. Anything that is of interest to us?” Captain von Ruckteschell felt blind without the Kondors and Ju-90s to provide airborne support.
“Some ships leaving port, mostly heading west. There has been a significant shift in shipping patterns though. Australian ships are reported to be heading north. It is thought they are carrying supplies to the Soviet Union.”
“More fool them. May be some business for us though.”
“There is also a message that tankers believed to be heading north are sailing through the Makassar Strait. Intelligence estimates are that they are picking up oil in Balikpapan and taking it to the Soviets as well.”
Von Ruckteschell glanced at his charts and grunted. “That suits us. We can lay our mines in the Strait and try and ambush some of those tankers. They would be a rich prize.”
All the crew on Michel were aware that their cruise to date had hardly been a successful epic of the raider’s role. They had claimed one single small freighter. In exchange they had lost both their reconnaissance aircraft, been strafed where no hostile aircraft should have been and taken casualties amongst the crew. The strafing had done negligible damage, more irritating than anything else. Yet, it all added up to a cruise that was failing.
“Indeed Herr Kapitan. A few nice fat tankers, heavily loaded with oil for the Ivans. That would be a good score.”
"It would indeed. Let us hope our hunt will be successful. Now, were there any confidential messages?"
"A few, Herr Kapitan. I have them here."
"Good, take the bridge while I decode them." von Ruckteschell took the coded messages to the signals room and sat down with the Enigma machine. The first and second messages were simply shipping movement information, differing only from the uncoded versions in that they made it clear that the ships in Goa were the center of a spy ring operating in Indian ports. The third and fourth were news of the progress of Operation Barbarossa, again very similar to the uncoded versions except for the admission that the casualties were significantly heavier than anticipated, especially in the northern and central regions. The casualties in the southern region were in line with expectations but the advances being achieved were less than planned.
Von Ruckteschell looked at the map pinned to the wall of the signals room. Clearly his signalmen had been listening to the news and trying to plot the status of the front line from the news bulletins. There was a huge wedge developing between Army Group Center around Gomel and approaching Smolensk and Army Group South approaching Vinnitsa. A closer inspection showed that the wedge coincided with where the Pripet Marshes divided the German front. He hoped that the General Staff had spotted the weakness and remedied it before the Ivans launched a counterattack there.
Then he returned to the decoding machine and read the last message. It was comparatively short and simple. It warned him, and the other raider captains, that Canadian merchant ships were now equipped with radar and a covert approach was unlikely to be successful. He carefully added it to the file although he didn’t believe that encountering a Canadian merchantman was likely this far out.
Remnants, 18th Special Artillery-Machine-Gun Battalion, Retreating from Lvov, Ukraine
Osaulenko awoke with serious reluctance even when the sun, shining in through one of the camouflaged firing ports, hit him full in his face. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was and half-believed he was still with the columns of Soviet troops retreating to the east. Then, as the sleep-fog in his mind dispersed, he remembered everything that had happened, ending with he and his comrades being hidden in this bunker tucked away behind the fields. That was when he realized that their position was completely unguarded and had been all night. By the position of the sun, he guessed it was already mid-morning. That meant he and his comrades had been dangerously exposed for many hours and could have been captured or killed at any time. They had been extremely lucky, and he knew it. It was also criminal negligence on his part for which he could easily end up facing a Tribunal.
The sounds of him waking up and his first movements had also started the process of waking his men. He went around, shaking the ones who were still asleep and making sure nobody said anything or made noises that could bring the fascists down upon them. By the time everybody had woken, and the group was ready to move out, the sun's rays through the firing slit had moved perceptibly across the floor.
"What do we do now, Valya? Head east again?" Arguchinsky sounded much more alert and energetic than he had done the previous day. A share of the cold boiled potatoes and raw onions had obviously done some good, but a sound night's sleep had done much more. Osaulenko consoled himself with the thought that he could use that as a defense when he faced a Tribunal on charges of negligence.
"We will go back to the village first; perhaps another dawn may have made the people there more helpful."
"I doubt it." One of the handful of survivors from the Opolchenie sounded very guarded. "A lot of the Ukrainians, especially in the countryside, remember the famine of the 1930s."
"Do they now. And who are you?" Osaulenko put a lot of menace into his words. It was acting but he had been presented with a teachable moment and was not going to waste it. The lesson here being 'watch what you say and guard each word.'
"I am Petr Aleksandrovich Gladky, a senior of the Maksim Gorkii School at Lyuban. Some Ukrainians, undoubtedly counter-revolutionaries, blame us for the great famine of the early 1930s. Very foolish of them of course, we all know that they brought the famine on themselves by failing to adopt properly-scientific principles of farming." Gladky looked nervously around, wondering if he had said the right thing this time.
Osaulenko let the matter drop but the information was useful. It explains why we got the reactions we did yesterday. It also warns us that the locals may not be well-disposed to us and may even show a preference for the invaders. Counterrevolutionaries are everywhere. We must tread carefully.
"Nevertheless, we will return in the direction of that village. Only, based on Petya's advice, we will remain outside and watch before doing anything positive. Caution must be our watchword from now on."
"Should we not be rejoining our Army as quickly as possible?" Arguchinsky sounded doubtful and very cautious.
"Yes, and we will. But we are now well behind enemy lines. Every step is now another risk taken. If we are to rejoin our comrades, then we must move carefully." Osaulenko knew he had repeated himself, but he was beginning to realize just how precarious was the position he and the men with him had found themselves occupying. There was no doubt in his mind that the battle lines were moving eastwards faster than he and his men could march. That meant them being caught was a matter of ‘when’ not ‘if’.
Once they had started to move, the wisdom of Osaulenko’s words became all too apparent. The kolkhoz was tucked away from the main roads through the Ukrainian countryside and largely enveloped by the forest, but the constant sound of heavy vehicle engines was always there; not close but also near enough to be menacing. There was a more intermittent sound as well, that of aircraft engines. The constant noise of a war machine at work was so omnipresent that it became ignored. That was why the group of soldiers nearly failed to realize that it had changed. They did so only just in time to avoid walking into a large fascist patrol that had taken control of the village at the heart of the kolkhoz.
“Rus aus! Rus aus!” The German soldiers were going from hut to hut, forcing the occupants out and herding them towards the center of the settlement. As they did, they were separating the women and children away from the men. Osaulenko looked carefully around, counting the German soldiers. There was a truckload blocking each of the exit roads from the village and at least three more surrounding the center of the village where the population was being assembled. At least sixty men; possibly more. That’s an odd number, more than a platoon, far less than a company. A platoon reinforced with specialists. Some of those men down there are wearing different uniforms from the rest. What is going on here?
More of the fascist troops were coming back from the surrounding woods, herding civilians from the outlying huts. Once again, the men were separated away from the women and children. Osaulenko revised his count upwards. He now estimated there were about eighty men occupying the village. No matter what happens, and I have a very bad feeling about this, there is nothing we can do. There are seven of us with five rifles and two Nagant revolvers. And three hand grenades. Then, Osaulenko paused and surprised himself with a random thought. I have a very bad feeling about this. That sounds like a line from a dreadful film. He noted something else; this was not a case of rounding up people sympathetic to the Soviet regime. He recognized the man who had turned his men away, who had said that the fascists were people too. He also saw the women who had given food and shelter to him and his men. She had two children with her, a son and a daughter. The other boy, the one who had escorted them to the shelter for the night was nowhere to be seen.
The fascists in the settlement had started something new; they were herding the women and children into a large barn in the center of the buildings. Some of the men started protesting but they were beaten down with rifle butts. There was a start of a surge forward, but it was quickly beaten back. Then, the last of the women and children were inside and the doors were closed behind them. One of the soldiers produced a length of chain and used it to secure those doors. Once again, there was the start of a surge forward by the men, but it was quickly beaten back. Osaulenko now knew with grim certainty why there were so many men assigned to occupy a comparatively unimportant village.
He watched with growing horror as some of the men went to one of the trucks and started taking out the large cans the German Army used for carrying their fuel supplies. They walked backwards and forward along the wooden walls of the barn, throwing the gasoline all over it. It took a few seconds for reality to sink in, then there was a crescendo of screaming from inside the barn as the women realized what the smell of gasoline meant. Osaulenko couldn’t make most of the sounds out, there were screams of terror, of panic, of protest. Some of the women were just begging the Germans to let their children out.
It didn’t do any good. A German officer who had been leaning against the door of one of the trucks had picked up a flare and walked towards the barn. In doing so, he exposed the unit marking painted on the door. A black shield with a stylized white key on it. Osaulenko memorized it, swearing to himself that one day he would exact revenge for this. The officer lit the flare and tossed it at the barn.
The building exploded into flame and the screaming from inside redoubled. To his amazement, he saw the barn doors bulge outward as the women inside tried to force them open, but the locks and chain held fast. As the flames roared, engulfing the entire barn, the screaming from inside went on and on, for much longer than Osaulenko could ever believe possible. Some of the men being forced to watch their families being burned alive had tried to break through the cordon of German troops but they had, like all those who had tried to resist, been clubbed down and beaten almost senseless. Almost but not quite; the fascists had not wanted them to miss anything.
By the time the barn had been burned to ashes and the screaming had finally stopped, the Germans were forming the men up into a column and starting to march them off. A few of them though were elderly and not able to make the march required. These were separated out and shot by the side of the road. While that was being done, the remaining troops spread through the village and set the huts on fire. There was no attempt to loot them or to take any needed supplies.
Once they had gone, Osaulenko looked at his men. “You saw that. We must never forget it. Never, never, never. When a German begs for mercy, remember it and spurn his pleas.”
“Why? Why did they do it?” Arguchinsky was a broken man, stunned by the horror.
It was the lad from the Opolchenie who answered. The day before he had seen nearly everybody, he had grown up with killed or maimed in a hopeless effort to fight the Messers. Today, he had seen an entire village burned. “It was what the Tartars did in the time of the Golden Horde. They would make the men slaves, but they would kill all the women and all the children. That way, in one generation, no more Rus.”
“You see bratishka?” Osaulenko felt rage swelling within him, replacing the heartbreaking grief he had felt before. “They do not want to rule us or have us serve them. They want us dead. They want no more Rus. They want us all dead. Every last Rus. They start with the small, unimportant kolkhoz and villages, ones that will be overlooked in the chaos of war. Tovarish Petr Aleksandrovich, you and your comrades were right, and we were wrong. We must fight. We cannot get back to our own lines so we must fight where we are. We are but seven strong, but we can show the fascists that we will never submit to them!"
"Eight." A child's voice, horse and broken with grief came from one side. "In the name of my murdered mother, brother and sister, eight!"
It was the boy who had taken them to the shelter the night before. Having done so, or possibly having been sent to send them on their way was why he had survived the massacre. Osaulenko nodded. "What is your name, bratishka?"
"Iohannes Andriychuk."
"Very well. I put it to the vote of the company. Do we admit Iohannes Andriychuk to our company, to fight alongside us until we drive out the fascists or die in the attempt?" Seven men raised their hands as one. "Very well, Iohannes, welcome to our number. Have you a weapon?"
Andriychuk reached behind him and drew out a woodsman's knife. "It is all I have."
"It will do, and it has value all of its own. It is silent while our rifles are noisy. We will capture weapons soon enough."
"I will need one also, Comrade Leader." Gladky sounded almost bashful, and his voice was shaking. Osaulenko wasn't quite sure whether it was rage or grief that made it so. "My rifle is Polish and it does not use Russian ammunition."
Osaulenko took it and looked. Then he smiled. "This is the most valuable rifle we have bratishka. It is a Kb wz.98a chambered for German 7.9mm ammunition. When we capture some, you will be the first to use it back at the fascists. We will have to fight with weapons we capture from now on. Your rifle will lead the way!"
For the next four hours, while the burning embers of the destroyed village cooled, the group watched. Osaulenko had thought the fascists might leave behind an ambush detachment in case any other stragglers returned but it became obvious they had not done so. In his opinion, that had been a bad mistake. While his unit watched for the fascists return, he had taken out a pencil and a piece of paper. On it, he wrote a few lines for his men to repeat.
Eventually, he judged it was safe to enter the ruins. The smell inside what had been a small but relatively prosperous forest settlement was awful, the acrid stench of burned timber mixed in with the vile, sweet stench of roasted people. The charred corpses of the women and children in the barn were still visible, mostly piled around the chained door where they had died trying to break out. Trying not to weep at the sight, he stood before the pile of burned bodies and took out his piece of paper.
"Bratishka, I have written an oath for us all to swear, here before the murdered bodies of our countrywomen. Let us swear it so, in times of need or desperation, we can remember why it is that we fight on. I will start by swearing this most solemn of oaths.
“I, a citizen of the Soviet Union, a loyal son of the heroic Soviet people, swear to not release my weapons until the last fascist bastard on earth has been destroyed. For the burned towns and villages, for the deaths of our children, for the torture, violence, and murder of my people, I swear to retaliate brutally, ruthlessly and relentlessly. In the name of liberty and justice for my people, I swear that I shall be disciplined, persevering and fearless, that I shall spare neither blood nor life in fighting the fascist invaders and all traitors to the people until they are completely annihilated. I swear this in the name of my mother, my sisters, my wife and my children, those already born and those yet to come. May the spirits of our martyred dead, now before us, stand witness to my oath and drag my soul to everlasting hell if I renege upon it!"
He handed the paper to Arguchinsky who read the oath out loud to the men. It seemed to restore him, to put some strength back into his body. When he had finished, he handed the paper to the next man and rejoined the ranks. By the time, all eight members of the group had read out their oath, all had tears running down their faces.
Once again, Osaulenko stood in front of them. "Bratishka, we are now Partisans. Let us go and find some ammunition for we will surely have much need of it."
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel” Off Sumatra, Dutch East Indies.
“Herr Kapitan, we have the news broadcast in.” Benthaus did not mean the world news. Instead, he meant a very specific and very private news service run by three disguised merchant ships anchored at Vasco da Gama in Portuguese Goa. This “news” reported ship movements and any other information of use to the German raiders and submarines operating in the Far East. In the absence of aerial reconnaissance, it was the best they could do.
“Very good. Anything that is of interest to us?” Captain von Ruckteschell felt blind without the Kondors and Ju-90s to provide airborne support.
“Some ships leaving port, mostly heading west. There has been a significant shift in shipping patterns though. Australian ships are reported to be heading north. It is thought they are carrying supplies to the Soviet Union.”
“More fool them. May be some business for us though.”
“There is also a message that tankers believed to be heading north are sailing through the Makassar Strait. Intelligence estimates are that they are picking up oil in Balikpapan and taking it to the Soviets as well.”
Von Ruckteschell glanced at his charts and grunted. “That suits us. We can lay our mines in the Strait and try and ambush some of those tankers. They would be a rich prize.”
All the crew on Michel were aware that their cruise to date had hardly been a successful epic of the raider’s role. They had claimed one single small freighter. In exchange they had lost both their reconnaissance aircraft, been strafed where no hostile aircraft should have been and taken casualties amongst the crew. The strafing had done negligible damage, more irritating than anything else. Yet, it all added up to a cruise that was failing.
“Indeed Herr Kapitan. A few nice fat tankers, heavily loaded with oil for the Ivans. That would be a good score.”
"It would indeed. Let us hope our hunt will be successful. Now, were there any confidential messages?"
"A few, Herr Kapitan. I have them here."
"Good, take the bridge while I decode them." von Ruckteschell took the coded messages to the signals room and sat down with the Enigma machine. The first and second messages were simply shipping movement information, differing only from the uncoded versions in that they made it clear that the ships in Goa were the center of a spy ring operating in Indian ports. The third and fourth were news of the progress of Operation Barbarossa, again very similar to the uncoded versions except for the admission that the casualties were significantly heavier than anticipated, especially in the northern and central regions. The casualties in the southern region were in line with expectations but the advances being achieved were less than planned.
Von Ruckteschell looked at the map pinned to the wall of the signals room. Clearly his signalmen had been listening to the news and trying to plot the status of the front line from the news bulletins. There was a huge wedge developing between Army Group Center around Gomel and approaching Smolensk and Army Group South approaching Vinnitsa. A closer inspection showed that the wedge coincided with where the Pripet Marshes divided the German front. He hoped that the General Staff had spotted the weakness and remedied it before the Ivans launched a counterattack there.
Then he returned to the decoding machine and read the last message. It was comparatively short and simple. It warned him, and the other raider captains, that Canadian merchant ships were now equipped with radar and a covert approach was unlikely to be successful. He carefully added it to the file although he didn’t believe that encountering a Canadian merchantman was likely this far out.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Isabel Jones' House, 70 Upper Debert River Road, Debert, Nova Scotia.
"That was marvelous, Digby! The lobster was so fresh, I could almost see it still swimming." Isabel Jones almost danced up the steps leading to the front door of her house. "Why don’t you come in? I can make us a cup of tea."
"Tea sounds just right, Izzie." Dale followed her up the steps and 'accidentally' put his hand on top of hers when he held the railing by the door.
To his delight, she didn’t pull her hand away but did glance around. "Careful, Digby, nosy neighbors. Let's get inside."
Once through the front door, she checked that the curtains were closed before bustling round getting the tea service out and putting the kettle on the stove. Once she was waiting for the water to boil, she attended to the next set of priorities, getting the bunch of red roses Dale had brought her into water so that they would form the centerpiece of her living room. She had noticed that he had bought the most expensive flowers currently on the market and that their evening dinner had featured the $2.50 lobster special, the costliest dish on the menu at the Fisherman's Cove restaurant in Glenholme. Clearly, he was making a considerable financial investment on their fifth date, and she amused herself by wondering what else he had bought but wasn't telling her about yet. She could see the faint outline of a small box in his uniform jacket pocket. Now should I be angry on the grounds that buying them shows he thinks I am 'that kind of girl' or appreciative that he is careful, forward-thinking and considerate? I think I'll go with appreciative.
Dale had picked up a copy of Life magazine and was looking at the picture of the fighting in Russia on the front page. It showed a column of Soviet tanks 'moving up to the front line' although he guessed it had been taken in a rear area. Quite apart from anything else, the tanks were old and obsolete, the two-turret, machine-gun armed version of the T-26. The pictures inside were all, to his experienced eye, staged but they were interesting, nevertheless. One thing he saw right away was that the German Messerschmitts were a new and quite radically changed version over the E-models he had learned about. Then Isabel arrived with the tray carrying a teapot, milk and sugar.
"Are you milk-in-first or tea-in-first Digby?" She looked up earnestly from the table where she had put the tray.
"My mother always used to say that putting the milk in first gave the best flavor but only if the exact amount of milk required by each guest was known. So, milk-in-first for family and tea-in-first for guests."
Isabel nodded and carefully poured the milk into their cups and added the tea. She had noted how much milk Dale took in his tea on previous dates and now the observation paid off. Dale nodded appreciatively. "Perfect."
"Just like your mother made?" Isabel was teasing him, and they both knew it.
"Lord no, much better. Mum used to make the tea weak, she said that strong tea upset her stomach. Dad used to complain about that until the day I told him not to complain about the tea because he would be old and weak himself one day. He boxed my ears and sent me up to bed, but I noticed he never complained about the tea in front of me again. This is perfect though. Have you noticed the tea tastes a bit better these days?"
Isabel tasted hers thoughtfully. "You know, I think you are right. The scent is a little bit better as well. I wonder if the Indians are selling us the better-quality tea they used to send to the old country?"
"That's a good thought. I know the Indians are desperate to sell us everything they can to pay for the military equipment they buy from us. It might be that the ships bring it directly here as well, so it’s a bit fresher when it arrives."
"Would it really make much of a difference? It still comes through the Mediterranean, doesn't it?"
Dale shook his head. "Around the Cape. Commonwealth ships are legitimate targets, so sending them through the Suez Canal and across the Med is too dangerous. So, we route them across the Indian Ocean and around the Cape. Before though, I think the tea went to Britain first and then was transshipped to us. So, the time saving would be warehousing in Britain."
"What if we used neutral ships?"
"That would be mostly the Japanese. Technically they could be attacked if they are heading for Canadian ports but the Germans are desperate not to offend them, so they let it slide. They won't attack Japanese ships. That's why those ships are everywhere now. The smartest thing the Japanese have ever done is stay out of this mess."
Isabel looked at him oddly. "Just like That Man?"
Dale shook his head vigorously. "The Japanese are on the other side of the world and haven't got any stake in this fight. Staying out is the smart move for them. Britain is in the front line and deserted her allies when That Man took the country out. Including us by the way. We stood by the Old Country and look what happened. Now we must stand up for ourselves."
"Are you going away soon Digby?" Isabel asked the question very softly.
He shook his head. "Too much work to do here. We're trying to piece together everything we've got so we can create our own forces and supply them ourselves. That includes a lot of aircraft prototypes and Debert will be the main testing area for all of them. So, I'll be here for a couple of years at least. I may be away for a month or so now and then, at sea, testing planes for the new carriers, but that's it."
That made up Isabel's mind. "That's wonderful, I was afraid you'd be going away soon. I'm so happy you're staying. You are staying here aren’t you."
The emphasis on the word 'here' had made her meaning quite clear. Dale felt relief flood through him; he'd been afraid of making the first move in case she was offended enough to throw him out. "I'd love that . . . but nosy neighbors? My car will be parked outside all night."
Isabel managed to keep the tremor out of her voice; she had been afraid her guest would turn her down. "No problem; it’s tucked into the trees behind the house. Nobody will see it. Now, let me show you around my house. You've never been upstairs yet, have you?"
Strike Team From 3rd Battalion 7th Rajput Infantry, Aboard Merchant Ship Jamnagar, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
"We are most fortunate, Sir. Perhaps God is an Indian rather than an Englishman."
Lieutenant Chanda Banahatti looked with appreciation at the sight of the three German freighters moored in the lee of Sao Jacinto Island. They were blacked out, but their dark shapes were clearly visible against the lights of oil storage tanks on the eastern side of the island. Those tanks had been built in the last few months, as an insurance policy against a shortage of fuel limiting the operations of the single sloop and four patrol ships currently based at Vasco da Gama. "We are one thousand yards from the enemy ships, and we have only had the usual challenge from the harbor authority at New Vaddem. Should we launch the boats, Sir?"
Captain Roger Moore checked the distance carefully. Almost incredibly, the Jamnagar had closed to within half a mile of the Ehrenfels, Drachenfels and Braunfels without being challenged. The Indian freighter was a 576-ton coaster built in 1924 for Maharaja Jam Sahib of Nawanagar. Earlier in the year she had been commandeered for service with the Royal Indian Navy as a transport and modified especially for this kind of operation. Her simple lines, single bridge block and prominent funnel made her appearance common to dozens of small coastal freighters that operated along India's West Coast. The only real difference between her and them was that she had been re-engined and was fast by coastal freighter standards.
The deckhouses fore and aft of the bridge were also a familiar sight although the Jamnagar had not originally carried them. The cross-hull structures were originally intended to provide passenger accommodation without reducing cargo capacity. The ones fitted to Jamnagar by the Indian Navy had a different role. They each contained two raiding craft with the teams of men who would be delivered by them. The doors in the sides of those deckhouses had opened, the davits extended and now three of the four raiding craft were being lowered into the water fully loaded. Captain Moore detached himself from the bridge of Jamnagar and took his position in the lead raiding craft. His target was the Drachenfels, identified by the signals people as the senior of the three ships. Invisible in the night, especially to eyes whose night vision had been degraded by the shore lighting, the raiding craft slipped through the waves towards their targets. Underwater exhausts for their engines made them near silent as well as invisible but Moore was still profoundly unimpressed by the standards of watch-keeping that left the German ships unaware of the simple fact that they were already under attack.
The raiding craft slipped under the bows of the Drachenfels, where it was in the shadows cast by the bow sheer. A single throw put a grapnel into the side railings. Moore jerked it to make sure it was secure and then led the way up the line. He knew this was the critical point. Skilled guards on the upper deck with weapons waiting would cut him and his men to pieces as they crossed the rails. The ship was silent though with no sign of the deck guards that had to be somewhere. Moore began to understand how pirates found it easy to board and seize unwary merchant ships, even those in harbor. The thought made him uneasy since what he and his men were doing bore a close similarity to piracy.
He was distracted from that line of thought by a small red light glowing from behind the bridge. Although the night was warm, there was a crisp breeze blowing in from the sea and it had, apparently caused one of the deck guards to seek shelter so he could light his cigarette in comfort. Moore used the interval to quietly move to the bridge structure where he was hidden from the man. Now contentedly smoking his cigarette, the seaman stepped out of the shelter and Moore shot him in the back of the head with his pistol.
The heavy crack of the Webley revolver echoed around the decks and signaled the start of a well-planned, coordinated attack. The boarding party had split into three teams of four people, one heading for the engine rooms to plant demolition charges, a second to the bridge to seize control of the ship and the third to the radio room to seize the transcripts of messages arriving and departing. Moore was heading that team since there were vital instructions, he had to make sure were absolutely obeyed. Lieutenant Banahatti commanded the team assigned to take the bridge. All three teams had clear orders to create as much chaos as possible but also to make sure they left at least one survivor alive. Of course, as Banahatti had pointed out, orders did not say how much alive.
Living Quarters, Superstructure, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
The record player in the corner of the compartment was playing a selection of popular music while off-duty members of the crew sang along. Despite the noise, the sound of the pistol shot from the deck below echoed around the compartment and stopped the party cold. "Who fired that shot? Some fool must have dropped his pistol."
The Captain's words made everybody start looking at each other. The truth was that the peaceful existence in Vasco da Gama, far from the war, made the sound of gunfire strange and exotic. Besides, the Captain's words made sense; the P.08 Lugers that armed the deck watch did tend to fire when dropped. The sound of a burst of machinegun fire quickly dispelled that possibility. There were only two submachine guns on the Drachenfels and they were both held in the arms locker on the bridge.
The conclusion was obvious. "Scheisse, we are under attack. Emil, take four men, get the Bergmanns from the arms locker and deal with it."
Emil Galishoff never got a chance to obey. The hatchway burst open, and three grenades rolled inside. He had just enough time to realize this couldn’t possibly be a pirate attack before they exploded, sending a cloud of fragments bouncing around the canteen.
Outside, Banahatti heard the screams and the explosions. As the chaos faded, he and his men burst into the compartment, Lanchester machine guns at the ready. The area was, of course, devastated with most of the occupants dead. Banahatti quickly counted the bodies, nine in all with two still showing signs of life. Proper procedure for an assault like this was to spray the room with gunfire to make sure there were no wounded to report on what had happened. This was not one of those times. It was essential that word of what had happened did get out. The four Rajputs backed out of the compartment and continued on their way to the bridge.
Signals Room, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
The compartment was much larger than Moore had been expecting and was painfully obviously the center of a large operation. Standing up against the bulkhead, their hands pressed high against the metal over their heads, the two occupants who had been on radio watch were shaking with fear as they awaited the blast of gunfire that would kill them. They had heard the grenades and machinegun fire and knew that whatever else was happening, this was a planned, highly professional attack. Such attacks rarely left survivors. Meanwhile, the four invaders were stuffing pads of messages, both incoming and outgoing and any code books they could find laying around. Watching the efforts, the two signals officers couldn’t help glancing at the elaborate safe against the bulkhead. It contained the critical Enigma machine and it was essential the system wasn't captured.
One of the Rajputs was fiddling with the lock on the safe. After a couple of minutes, he turned around, his voice the epitome of frustration. "So sorry, sir. Cannot get in. Lock is too good."
Moore shrugged. "No matter, we got what we came for. Put a couple of demo charges on it and we'll blow it to fragments. Put a ten-minute fuse on the charges, we want them to go before the rest of the ship goes up. You two Huns, you got ten minutes to get out of here. Make it eight because if you stick your noses through that hatch, we'll blow them off with these."
Moore lifted his Lanchester as he and his three men backed out. Once the signals room was empty, the two operators looked at each other with incredulous relief. "They missed the Enigma!"
His companion looked at him cynically. "To hell with that. We're alive. So now we get the hell out of here before they decide to shoot us anyway."
Machinery Compartment, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
Three of the four seamen in the machinery compartment were dead, riddled with bullets from the Lanchesters. One of them had tried to attack the invaders with a wrench and had been instantly shot down. The other two had been collateral damage, the inevitable result of firing inaccurate automatic weapons in a confined space. The Rajputs didn’t feel any sympathy for the men who had been killed, they were too glad that none of the storm of ricochets had hit them.
"Sorry about that." Their officer looked around at the machinery space. "Nice diesels you got in here."
The Chief Stoker shrugged. "I told the damned fool to put his hands up. Now he got two other men killed. Wasn't your men's fault, Lieutenant. You're going to blow us up aren't you."
"I am, but I'll give you time to get clear. 15 minutes?"
The German Chief Stoker nodded and looked around. "A shame, she was a nice old girl. No nasty habits you know."
The Rajputs quickly set the scuttling charges along the hull sides so they would blow the machinery space open.
"Right. 15 minutes as promised. Give me two minutes to get my men out of here then abandon ship." Moore clanked at their work, made sure the timers were properly set, and locked them in place. Now, nobody would be able to stop the explosions. Then, he and his men were gone.
The Chief Stoker ran over to the charges, but one look told him that defusing them was far beyond his level of competence. He had the humility to realize that trying to do so would almost certainly cause them to go off immediately "Sorry, old girl, there's nothing I can do. Sleep well." Then he took off for the upper decks, running like hell.
Upper Deck, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
"Catch!" Moore yelled the order to the men in the raiding craft, tossed the bag of captured signals down to them, and then followed his men down the boarding line. As soon as he was on board, the raiding craft broke clear and started the quick trip back to the Jamnagar. Behind them, Moore could see the survivors of the enemy crew putting their wounded into a life-raft before using it to abandon ship. From when he could see, there were seven survivors of a crew of 21.
The retrieval was fast and professional. The lines from the davits were already hanging down, making it easy for the crew of the raiding craft to seize them and snap the catches onto the lifting eyelets. By the time, the third raiding craft had arrived, the first two were already being hoisted on board.
Jamnagar already had her boats on board and was moving down the shipping channel when the charges on board the Drachenfels exploded, sending balls of flame high into the air over the harbor. The immediate response was a barrage of flares over the harbor. If that hadn't woken everybody up, the following blasts that destroyed the other two ships certainly did. The wave of lights as the entire city came to life to watch the fireworks show showed that.
One of the small patrol craft in harbor saw the Jamnagar moving away without lights and decided to give chase. It gave up very quickly when one of the Rajputs threw a hand-grenade at it. It was far short of course and couldn’t have done any damage but it convinced the crew not to risk their craft against an unknown ship that was willing to fight. Anyway, Jamnagar was already picking up speed as she made her way down the shipping lane, and they would never have caught her. The sloop Afono de Albuquerque was trying to get up steam so she could pursue the fleeing transport, but her machinery was cold iron and getting her underway was hopeless. For all that, her crew did manage to get off two shots from one of her bow 4.7-inch guns. Neither came close but they reminded Moore of what might have happened if things had gone but a little differently.
"Any casualties?" Moore looked around his men as soon as the Jamnagar was clear of the harbor mouth.
"Two wounded, Sir. None serious. And we got everything we came for."
Isabel Jones' House, 70 Upper Debert River Road, Debert, Nova Scotia.
"That was marvelous, Digby! The lobster was so fresh, I could almost see it still swimming." Isabel Jones almost danced up the steps leading to the front door of her house. "Why don’t you come in? I can make us a cup of tea."
"Tea sounds just right, Izzie." Dale followed her up the steps and 'accidentally' put his hand on top of hers when he held the railing by the door.
To his delight, she didn’t pull her hand away but did glance around. "Careful, Digby, nosy neighbors. Let's get inside."
Once through the front door, she checked that the curtains were closed before bustling round getting the tea service out and putting the kettle on the stove. Once she was waiting for the water to boil, she attended to the next set of priorities, getting the bunch of red roses Dale had brought her into water so that they would form the centerpiece of her living room. She had noticed that he had bought the most expensive flowers currently on the market and that their evening dinner had featured the $2.50 lobster special, the costliest dish on the menu at the Fisherman's Cove restaurant in Glenholme. Clearly, he was making a considerable financial investment on their fifth date, and she amused herself by wondering what else he had bought but wasn't telling her about yet. She could see the faint outline of a small box in his uniform jacket pocket. Now should I be angry on the grounds that buying them shows he thinks I am 'that kind of girl' or appreciative that he is careful, forward-thinking and considerate? I think I'll go with appreciative.
Dale had picked up a copy of Life magazine and was looking at the picture of the fighting in Russia on the front page. It showed a column of Soviet tanks 'moving up to the front line' although he guessed it had been taken in a rear area. Quite apart from anything else, the tanks were old and obsolete, the two-turret, machine-gun armed version of the T-26. The pictures inside were all, to his experienced eye, staged but they were interesting, nevertheless. One thing he saw right away was that the German Messerschmitts were a new and quite radically changed version over the E-models he had learned about. Then Isabel arrived with the tray carrying a teapot, milk and sugar.
"Are you milk-in-first or tea-in-first Digby?" She looked up earnestly from the table where she had put the tray.
"My mother always used to say that putting the milk in first gave the best flavor but only if the exact amount of milk required by each guest was known. So, milk-in-first for family and tea-in-first for guests."
Isabel nodded and carefully poured the milk into their cups and added the tea. She had noted how much milk Dale took in his tea on previous dates and now the observation paid off. Dale nodded appreciatively. "Perfect."
"Just like your mother made?" Isabel was teasing him, and they both knew it.
"Lord no, much better. Mum used to make the tea weak, she said that strong tea upset her stomach. Dad used to complain about that until the day I told him not to complain about the tea because he would be old and weak himself one day. He boxed my ears and sent me up to bed, but I noticed he never complained about the tea in front of me again. This is perfect though. Have you noticed the tea tastes a bit better these days?"
Isabel tasted hers thoughtfully. "You know, I think you are right. The scent is a little bit better as well. I wonder if the Indians are selling us the better-quality tea they used to send to the old country?"
"That's a good thought. I know the Indians are desperate to sell us everything they can to pay for the military equipment they buy from us. It might be that the ships bring it directly here as well, so it’s a bit fresher when it arrives."
"Would it really make much of a difference? It still comes through the Mediterranean, doesn't it?"
Dale shook his head. "Around the Cape. Commonwealth ships are legitimate targets, so sending them through the Suez Canal and across the Med is too dangerous. So, we route them across the Indian Ocean and around the Cape. Before though, I think the tea went to Britain first and then was transshipped to us. So, the time saving would be warehousing in Britain."
"What if we used neutral ships?"
"That would be mostly the Japanese. Technically they could be attacked if they are heading for Canadian ports but the Germans are desperate not to offend them, so they let it slide. They won't attack Japanese ships. That's why those ships are everywhere now. The smartest thing the Japanese have ever done is stay out of this mess."
Isabel looked at him oddly. "Just like That Man?"
Dale shook his head vigorously. "The Japanese are on the other side of the world and haven't got any stake in this fight. Staying out is the smart move for them. Britain is in the front line and deserted her allies when That Man took the country out. Including us by the way. We stood by the Old Country and look what happened. Now we must stand up for ourselves."
"Are you going away soon Digby?" Isabel asked the question very softly.
He shook his head. "Too much work to do here. We're trying to piece together everything we've got so we can create our own forces and supply them ourselves. That includes a lot of aircraft prototypes and Debert will be the main testing area for all of them. So, I'll be here for a couple of years at least. I may be away for a month or so now and then, at sea, testing planes for the new carriers, but that's it."
That made up Isabel's mind. "That's wonderful, I was afraid you'd be going away soon. I'm so happy you're staying. You are staying here aren’t you."
The emphasis on the word 'here' had made her meaning quite clear. Dale felt relief flood through him; he'd been afraid of making the first move in case she was offended enough to throw him out. "I'd love that . . . but nosy neighbors? My car will be parked outside all night."
Isabel managed to keep the tremor out of her voice; she had been afraid her guest would turn her down. "No problem; it’s tucked into the trees behind the house. Nobody will see it. Now, let me show you around my house. You've never been upstairs yet, have you?"
Strike Team From 3rd Battalion 7th Rajput Infantry, Aboard Merchant Ship Jamnagar, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
"We are most fortunate, Sir. Perhaps God is an Indian rather than an Englishman."
Lieutenant Chanda Banahatti looked with appreciation at the sight of the three German freighters moored in the lee of Sao Jacinto Island. They were blacked out, but their dark shapes were clearly visible against the lights of oil storage tanks on the eastern side of the island. Those tanks had been built in the last few months, as an insurance policy against a shortage of fuel limiting the operations of the single sloop and four patrol ships currently based at Vasco da Gama. "We are one thousand yards from the enemy ships, and we have only had the usual challenge from the harbor authority at New Vaddem. Should we launch the boats, Sir?"
Captain Roger Moore checked the distance carefully. Almost incredibly, the Jamnagar had closed to within half a mile of the Ehrenfels, Drachenfels and Braunfels without being challenged. The Indian freighter was a 576-ton coaster built in 1924 for Maharaja Jam Sahib of Nawanagar. Earlier in the year she had been commandeered for service with the Royal Indian Navy as a transport and modified especially for this kind of operation. Her simple lines, single bridge block and prominent funnel made her appearance common to dozens of small coastal freighters that operated along India's West Coast. The only real difference between her and them was that she had been re-engined and was fast by coastal freighter standards.
The deckhouses fore and aft of the bridge were also a familiar sight although the Jamnagar had not originally carried them. The cross-hull structures were originally intended to provide passenger accommodation without reducing cargo capacity. The ones fitted to Jamnagar by the Indian Navy had a different role. They each contained two raiding craft with the teams of men who would be delivered by them. The doors in the sides of those deckhouses had opened, the davits extended and now three of the four raiding craft were being lowered into the water fully loaded. Captain Moore detached himself from the bridge of Jamnagar and took his position in the lead raiding craft. His target was the Drachenfels, identified by the signals people as the senior of the three ships. Invisible in the night, especially to eyes whose night vision had been degraded by the shore lighting, the raiding craft slipped through the waves towards their targets. Underwater exhausts for their engines made them near silent as well as invisible but Moore was still profoundly unimpressed by the standards of watch-keeping that left the German ships unaware of the simple fact that they were already under attack.
The raiding craft slipped under the bows of the Drachenfels, where it was in the shadows cast by the bow sheer. A single throw put a grapnel into the side railings. Moore jerked it to make sure it was secure and then led the way up the line. He knew this was the critical point. Skilled guards on the upper deck with weapons waiting would cut him and his men to pieces as they crossed the rails. The ship was silent though with no sign of the deck guards that had to be somewhere. Moore began to understand how pirates found it easy to board and seize unwary merchant ships, even those in harbor. The thought made him uneasy since what he and his men were doing bore a close similarity to piracy.
He was distracted from that line of thought by a small red light glowing from behind the bridge. Although the night was warm, there was a crisp breeze blowing in from the sea and it had, apparently caused one of the deck guards to seek shelter so he could light his cigarette in comfort. Moore used the interval to quietly move to the bridge structure where he was hidden from the man. Now contentedly smoking his cigarette, the seaman stepped out of the shelter and Moore shot him in the back of the head with his pistol.
The heavy crack of the Webley revolver echoed around the decks and signaled the start of a well-planned, coordinated attack. The boarding party had split into three teams of four people, one heading for the engine rooms to plant demolition charges, a second to the bridge to seize control of the ship and the third to the radio room to seize the transcripts of messages arriving and departing. Moore was heading that team since there were vital instructions, he had to make sure were absolutely obeyed. Lieutenant Banahatti commanded the team assigned to take the bridge. All three teams had clear orders to create as much chaos as possible but also to make sure they left at least one survivor alive. Of course, as Banahatti had pointed out, orders did not say how much alive.
Living Quarters, Superstructure, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
The record player in the corner of the compartment was playing a selection of popular music while off-duty members of the crew sang along. Despite the noise, the sound of the pistol shot from the deck below echoed around the compartment and stopped the party cold. "Who fired that shot? Some fool must have dropped his pistol."
The Captain's words made everybody start looking at each other. The truth was that the peaceful existence in Vasco da Gama, far from the war, made the sound of gunfire strange and exotic. Besides, the Captain's words made sense; the P.08 Lugers that armed the deck watch did tend to fire when dropped. The sound of a burst of machinegun fire quickly dispelled that possibility. There were only two submachine guns on the Drachenfels and they were both held in the arms locker on the bridge.
The conclusion was obvious. "Scheisse, we are under attack. Emil, take four men, get the Bergmanns from the arms locker and deal with it."
Emil Galishoff never got a chance to obey. The hatchway burst open, and three grenades rolled inside. He had just enough time to realize this couldn’t possibly be a pirate attack before they exploded, sending a cloud of fragments bouncing around the canteen.
Outside, Banahatti heard the screams and the explosions. As the chaos faded, he and his men burst into the compartment, Lanchester machine guns at the ready. The area was, of course, devastated with most of the occupants dead. Banahatti quickly counted the bodies, nine in all with two still showing signs of life. Proper procedure for an assault like this was to spray the room with gunfire to make sure there were no wounded to report on what had happened. This was not one of those times. It was essential that word of what had happened did get out. The four Rajputs backed out of the compartment and continued on their way to the bridge.
Signals Room, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
The compartment was much larger than Moore had been expecting and was painfully obviously the center of a large operation. Standing up against the bulkhead, their hands pressed high against the metal over their heads, the two occupants who had been on radio watch were shaking with fear as they awaited the blast of gunfire that would kill them. They had heard the grenades and machinegun fire and knew that whatever else was happening, this was a planned, highly professional attack. Such attacks rarely left survivors. Meanwhile, the four invaders were stuffing pads of messages, both incoming and outgoing and any code books they could find laying around. Watching the efforts, the two signals officers couldn’t help glancing at the elaborate safe against the bulkhead. It contained the critical Enigma machine and it was essential the system wasn't captured.
One of the Rajputs was fiddling with the lock on the safe. After a couple of minutes, he turned around, his voice the epitome of frustration. "So sorry, sir. Cannot get in. Lock is too good."
Moore shrugged. "No matter, we got what we came for. Put a couple of demo charges on it and we'll blow it to fragments. Put a ten-minute fuse on the charges, we want them to go before the rest of the ship goes up. You two Huns, you got ten minutes to get out of here. Make it eight because if you stick your noses through that hatch, we'll blow them off with these."
Moore lifted his Lanchester as he and his three men backed out. Once the signals room was empty, the two operators looked at each other with incredulous relief. "They missed the Enigma!"
His companion looked at him cynically. "To hell with that. We're alive. So now we get the hell out of here before they decide to shoot us anyway."
Machinery Compartment, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
Three of the four seamen in the machinery compartment were dead, riddled with bullets from the Lanchesters. One of them had tried to attack the invaders with a wrench and had been instantly shot down. The other two had been collateral damage, the inevitable result of firing inaccurate automatic weapons in a confined space. The Rajputs didn’t feel any sympathy for the men who had been killed, they were too glad that none of the storm of ricochets had hit them.
"Sorry about that." Their officer looked around at the machinery space. "Nice diesels you got in here."
The Chief Stoker shrugged. "I told the damned fool to put his hands up. Now he got two other men killed. Wasn't your men's fault, Lieutenant. You're going to blow us up aren't you."
"I am, but I'll give you time to get clear. 15 minutes?"
The German Chief Stoker nodded and looked around. "A shame, she was a nice old girl. No nasty habits you know."
The Rajputs quickly set the scuttling charges along the hull sides so they would blow the machinery space open.
"Right. 15 minutes as promised. Give me two minutes to get my men out of here then abandon ship." Moore clanked at their work, made sure the timers were properly set, and locked them in place. Now, nobody would be able to stop the explosions. Then, he and his men were gone.
The Chief Stoker ran over to the charges, but one look told him that defusing them was far beyond his level of competence. He had the humility to realize that trying to do so would almost certainly cause them to go off immediately "Sorry, old girl, there's nothing I can do. Sleep well." Then he took off for the upper decks, running like hell.
Upper Deck, SS Drachenfels, Off Sao Jacinto, Vasco da Gama, Portuguese Goa
"Catch!" Moore yelled the order to the men in the raiding craft, tossed the bag of captured signals down to them, and then followed his men down the boarding line. As soon as he was on board, the raiding craft broke clear and started the quick trip back to the Jamnagar. Behind them, Moore could see the survivors of the enemy crew putting their wounded into a life-raft before using it to abandon ship. From when he could see, there were seven survivors of a crew of 21.
The retrieval was fast and professional. The lines from the davits were already hanging down, making it easy for the crew of the raiding craft to seize them and snap the catches onto the lifting eyelets. By the time, the third raiding craft had arrived, the first two were already being hoisted on board.
Jamnagar already had her boats on board and was moving down the shipping channel when the charges on board the Drachenfels exploded, sending balls of flame high into the air over the harbor. The immediate response was a barrage of flares over the harbor. If that hadn't woken everybody up, the following blasts that destroyed the other two ships certainly did. The wave of lights as the entire city came to life to watch the fireworks show showed that.
One of the small patrol craft in harbor saw the Jamnagar moving away without lights and decided to give chase. It gave up very quickly when one of the Rajputs threw a hand-grenade at it. It was far short of course and couldn’t have done any damage but it convinced the crew not to risk their craft against an unknown ship that was willing to fight. Anyway, Jamnagar was already picking up speed as she made her way down the shipping lane, and they would never have caught her. The sloop Afono de Albuquerque was trying to get up steam so she could pursue the fleeing transport, but her machinery was cold iron and getting her underway was hopeless. For all that, her crew did manage to get off two shots from one of her bow 4.7-inch guns. Neither came close but they reminded Moore of what might have happened if things had gone but a little differently.
"Any casualties?" Moore looked around his men as soon as the Jamnagar was clear of the harbor mouth.
"Two wounded, Sir. None serious. And we got everything we came for."
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty
SAAF Number 4 Squadron, approaching Odessa. May 31, 1941
"Damn it, they're like lambs to the slaughter." Pim Bosede looked down on the squadron of MiG-3 aircraft well below him. There were nine aircraft, in three groups of three. Each group was flying in very tight formation, the two wingmen with their wingtips tucked between the wing and tail of their flight leader. It was a formation that the South African pilots had abandoned well over a year earlier as almost the first result of the air battles over Kenya. Quite apart from its inherent clumsiness and the way it restricted maneuver, the pilots were so busy holding station on each other they were unable to watch the skies properly. In contrast, the South African Kittyhawks were flying in a spread-out finger four formation. Not coincidentally, it was the same basic disposition as the Luftwaffe used.
"They've no radios. They have to stay close like that so the commander can give hand signals." Flight Lieutenant Thys Koekemoer was the lead pilot of the second section in the flight. The problems the Russians were having pronouncing his name was a source of endless private enjoyment to the Afrikaaners. "And they're as under armed as hell. Have you seen those Migs up close? One .50 and one .30 each."
"They probably can't hit anything anyway. We've got kids still doing elementary who have more flying time than these guys. It's no wonder they've been cut to pieces."
"They keep flying though, Thys, never forget that. They've taken brutal casualties but each day they go back up. They're short of guns, experience and skill but not courage. My God, they've got more than their fair share of that."
"All pilots, we're approaching target now. Tighten up the cover. And cut the chatter." Group Captain Seymour Linford was commanding the formation from one of the No. 21 Squadron SAAF Baltimores. Unlike the South African fighters, the bombers were holding a tight formation to maximize their already-impressive firepower. Ahead of them the coastline and the port of Odessa was approaching quickly. Despite being besieged and under heavy attack from German and Romanian forces, Odessa was holding out and its garrison had even taken the offensive, pushing the siege lines back in places. Despite those successes, the troops defending Odessa were in a critical situation and needed all the support they could get. Much of that work had been assigned to the two Commonwealth Baltimore squadrons based in the Crimea.
The Baltimores had become specialists in a very specific form of attack. While the Soviet ground-attack aircraft, even the large medium bombers, flew in at very low altitude and suffered brutally from the German flak guns, the Baltimores flew in at medium altitude and pattern-bombed their target from around 12,000 feet. Although their bombload of one ton each was too small for a truly devastating effect, the 16 aircraft from 21 Squadron could drop enough to disrupt an attack or to knock a hole in the enemy defenses. The calls for their services from the troops fighting on the Odessa Perimeter were enough to see the bombers flying two missions a day. That meant the Kittyhawks of 4 Squadron were tied down escorting them, just as the Baltimores of 15 Squadron were monopolizing the services of the Indian Kittyhawks. That was the problem the Commonwealth Air Commando was facing; too much to do, too few aircraft to do it all.
The formation was a classic Russian three-tiered group. The 16 Baltimores in their tight box with the MiG-3s in close escort above and around them. Above the MiGs were the Kittyhawks. The remarkable thing was that the Soviets used the MiGs for these missions because they were considered high-altitude fighters yet by British and American, and German come to that, standards, their operational ceiling and handling at altitude was lack-luster.
"Bandits, coming in fast, Angels 18, four o'clock." The warning came over the radio, making Bosede almost snarl with anger. The Baltimores and Kittyhawks had got the message but the MiGs flying close escort had not. Then, he saw red flares being fired from the Baltimores to warn the Russian pilots. Meanwhile, Bosede had led his Kitthawks into a tight climbing turn that put them on an intercept course with the attacking aircraft.
That was when he felt something kick in his stomach. The attacking Axis fighters were Romanian Spitfire Mark IVs, built for the Romanian Air Force by the Supermarine factory in Southampton. Bosede had always known, intellectually, that the Armistice had put Britain into the column of German collaborators but the sight of an aircraft he had always regarded as being quintessentially British as an enemy drove the issue home with a level of realism nothing else could have managed. His hand was actually shaking with the tension as he reached for the firing button that would unleash his six .50 machine guns.
His mind did the calculations almost on autopilot; Spitfires diving at full speed, his own aircraft climbing as fast as it could, which wasn't very great. The angle of approach between the two formations was around twenty degrees. He instinctively applied the right course correction so he could lead his selected target, then squeezed the trigger. He could feel the shock as the recoil of the guns shook his Kittyhawk but saw nothing streaking out from his wings. Like most aces, Bosede never used tracer ammunition since he saw no point in warning his opponents and was confident enough in his marksmanship to discount the need for tracers to correct his aim. What he did see was the graceful, elegant fuselage of the Spitfire being torn open by the buzz-saw of the .50 calibers. Finely machined metal was being shredded from the fuselage as his burst struck the nose and walked along the fuselage. The Spitfire burst into flames and crumpled in mid-air before spinning downwards. The sight left Bosede feeling like a traitor.
It wasn't the only kill. The Spitfires were armed with the eight wing .30 machine guns they had been designed with and when they had been re-engined with the DB-603 power egg, they had gained two more in the nose cowling. All the guns were German MG-17s, guns that Bosede knew fired a powerful round for a .30 machine gun. Ten of them put out a withering blast of fire. One of the Kittyhawks was caught in the stream of tracers and staggered under the raking blow. It flew for a few seconds as the machine guns flayed it, then it too erupted into flame and started the long spin downwards.
The Spitfire responsible didn’t last long. It had got in the burst that had killed the section leader, but he had done so by leaving him exposed to the wingman. Again, a stream of tracers bridged the gap between the two aircraft. The blast of .50 blew a wing clean off the Spitfire, sending it tumbling out of the sky. Bosede saw a figure detach from the cockpit and cartwheel clear of the aircraft. By the time the pilot had fallen clear, and his parachute opened, the surviving Spitfires had dived through the Kittyhawk formation and were closing in on the bombers below.
The massacre of the MiGs was sickening for any experienced combat pilot to watch. The flights of MiG-3s had tried to hold their tight formations while turning to engage the Spitfires. The tightness of their turn was restricted by the maneuverability of the innermost aircraft, the speed at which they turned by the performance of the outermost. The formation was thus bound by the lowest common denominators of its aircraft. In contrast, the Romanian Spitfires were in loose pairs and their maneuverability was unhindered. The rearmost flight of MiGs never stood a chance. All three aircraft were sawed apart in mid-air while they tried to turn into the attack, the hail of machinegun fire tearing them up. Just to add to the MiGs deficiencies, they were very poorly protected, as bad as the old Tomahawk Is and IIs had been. No armor for the pilots, no self-sealing fuel tanks. Faced with the massed fire of ten machine guns per attacking aircraft, they just exploded. The remaining aircraft did not do any better. It was truly a massacre of the innocents.
They did achieve one thing though. Killing the near-helpless MiGs had enabled the Baltimore crews to get ready for the attack that was coming. The first group of Spitfires made the mistake of coming at the Baltimores from above and behind. The bombers had been equipped with the same design of quadruple machine gun turret as the Defiant fighters and the effect on unsuspecting attackers was the same. An interlocking web of machinegun fire was waiting for them. A year earlier, when Messerschmitt 109s had met Defiants for the first time, the result had been a disaster for the Germans. They had obviously warned their allies because the Romanians broke away quickly as soon as they realized the trap that had been set for them. One of the Spitfires didn't make it; pinned by the intersecting streams of bullets, its fuel tanks exploded into a great black ball of fire.
The two survivors of the flight Bosede's aircraft had intercepted saw the fate of the Spitfire and changed their attack pattern. They came up from below and behind the Baltimores only to find that arc was covered as well. There were twin .30 calibers in a belly position there and the bombers concentrated their fire on the attackers. The Romanian Spitfires peeled away and dived to get clear of the gunfire. Bosede watched sympathetically; he'd been in the same position a few months earlier and the defensive fire had cost him his beloved Marijke. The Spitfires tried to dive away, a bad mistake because the overweight Kittyhawks dived faster than they did. The Romanian pilots realized their error as the Kittyhawks closed in on them, pulled out of their dive and turned to fight.
The resulting dogfight was surprisingly even. The Romanian pilots were well-trained but inexperienced, the South Africans battle-hardened and deadly. The Spitfire was faster than a Kittyhawk, could climb better, accelerated faster and transitioned between maneuvers more quickly. The Kittyhawk was a lot tougher, better armed, and could dive faster and turn tighter. In the end it came down to which pilots could get the best out of their aircraft and there, the South Africans had the upper hand. When they finally got back to base, the two Romanian pilots counted themselves lucky to have survived the long but fruitless dogfight that followed.
The remaining flight of Spitfires had come in from directly aft of the Baltimores and learned another painful lesson. The Baltimore had four fixed .303 tail gun, fired by a foot-pedal in the pilot’s cockpit. Even if it wasn’t very effective, the display of tracers was awe-inspiring when combined with that from the Kittyhawks closing rapidly from behind. The Spitfires broke off the attack and ran. They had already seen that trying to dive away from the Kittyhawks was futile, so one Romanian tried to climb away from Bosede’s pursuing Kittyhawk. It was another bad mistake. As the Spitfire started to climb away, Boseda simply lifted the nose of Jozette and sawed the Spitfire’s wings off with his battery of .50s. The Spitfire broke up in mid-air, tumbled end-over-end and broke apart.
With the fighters beaten off, the Baltimores continued their run. They had been assigned to bomb a Romanian position that was protecting their occupation of a pumping station on the great inland reservoir. It was vital that the defenders recapture the station before the city’s water supply was depleted. Their target was easily recognized by a peculiar snake-like inlet in the reservoir shore. As the formation of bombers approached its dropping point, a light smattering of anti-aircraft fire erupted around it. The Baltimores were too high for 20mm and 37mm fire to be effective, leaving just a handful of Vickers 75mm guns to contest the raid. Bosede’s Kittyhawks, watching from a safe distance, saw that the Romanian gunners were reasonably skilled, but their guns were obsolete and there were simply too few of them to lay down an effective barrage.
One of the bombers was damaged, an engine leaving a thin black trail across the sky, but the formation box held tight as the 100-pound bombs streamed out of their bellies. An area some 400 feet wide and 1,200 yards long was enveloped in a great cloud of dust after the impact bursts formed a perfectly square devil's garden on the ground. The blasts of the bombs were followed by s scattering of secondary bursts and one major explosion that sent a black pillar of smoke skywards. With the MiG-3 group gravely reduced in strength, the Kittyhawks had to try and spread themselves as best they could to cover the approaches to the formation of bombers and to break up any fighter attacks that materialized. Bosede found himself sighing with relief when the formation was safely back over the sea and on its way home.
Airfield 7, Rovnoye, Crimea. May 31, 1941
"They were Romanian Spitfires. Both of them." For the first time in his life, Bosede was ashamed of claiming the two aircraft he had shot down.
"Are you sure?" Flight Lieutenant Christopher Lee, the squadron intelligence officer, asked the question softly. He'd seen how all the South African pilots were disturbed by the knowledge they'd shot down British-built aircraft. "They could be Heinkel 112s. They have the same wing shape and look a bit like the Spit. Guns in the nose and wings as well."
"I'm sure. I used to have pictures of the Spitfire up on my bedroom wall when I was a kid." Dear God, was that only three years ago? "It was a Mark IV, eight guns on the wings, two in the nose. "
"We'll have the camera gun film ready any minute." The base had its own photographic and film processing unit although the Russians were very unhappy about having it on one of their bases. "If it confirms what you've told us, we can claim four Spitfires for the loss of seven MiG-3s and a Kittyhawk.
"It does." One of the aircraftmen from the lab had arrived with several small spools of film in his arms. "I'll get the projector set up. Less than five minutes later Bosede was watching the scene as his bullets cut into a Spitfire and tore its fuselage apart. Then the camera blinked, and he saw his other kill rearing in front of him, straight into the streams of bullets.
"Not a doubt about that. Two kills." Van Heerden looked over to where Napalkov was sitting quietly in the background. He watched the Russian think and then nod fractionally. "Confirmed. Well done, Pim. We'll paint two more crosses on Jozette. Gold ones instead of black."
The remaining reel saw another Spitfire being shot down. The fourth kill was scored by the Baltimore gunners and that was a problem. Each of the gunners had claimed the kill and that meant of twelve Romanian Spitfires had been shot down twice each. Napalkov coughed politely. "Bratishka, in cases like this, where no one pilot can claim exclusivity, we award the kill to the squadron. Perhaps you should do the same?"
While that proposal was being enthusiastically discussed, Bosede went outside into the darkness. There. Thinking about the two Spitfires he had shot down, he was quietly sick.
"Are you alright, Sir?" Flight Lieutenant Lee had seen he was distressed and followed him out. He was a very tall man who towered over Bosede and his deep, rich voice seemed to dominate the whole area.
"Yes, thank you Chris. It's just I feel like I stabbed the old country in the back. Can you imagine what it feels like to stab somebody in the back?"
Lee smiled sadly at him. "I don’t have to imagine it, sir."
Governor-General's Chambers, Government House, Calcutta, India
Viceroy José Ricardo Pereira Cabral stormed into the Viceroy's suite, pushing the secretary roughly out of the way in the process. A more temperate man might have realized that the fact there was only a middle-aged Indian lady between him, and the Marquess Linlithgow indicated that all was, perhaps, not quite as it seemed. The Gurkhas who normally guarded the doors seemed remarkably unperturbed by the sight of an enraged Portuguese dignitary invading the inner sanctum of the Indian government. Once inside, he threw open the doors of the Marquess's private office and strode inside. The Marquess looked up from the man he was speaking with and nodded accommodatingly.
"Good morning, José. May I offer you a cup of tea?" Cabral ignored the greeting. Instead, he went across the room and slammed his hand on the Governor-General's desk. The bang echoed around the room as if a pistol had been fired. "You will surrender them to my government immediately."
"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador. I fear I must deal with this . . . . gentleman."
Ambassador Henry F. Grady reflected that only an English aristocrat could make the word 'gentleman' sound like the deadliest of insults. He had been hand-picked by President Roosevelt for this post, not least because he was regarded as a skilled and highly competent economist who could help India navigate her way through the maze of economic problems that beset her. He also noted that Cabral had realized the same intonation and gone deep purple.
"Last night, a battalion of your men stormed three ships anchored in our harbor at Vasco da Gama, killed many of their crew and blew the ships up. I demand you hand over the men responsible for trial as pirates. This insult to my nation's honor cannot be allowed to pass!"
"Is this true?" Grady looked at Linlithgow questioningly.
"Well, it wasn't a battalion, it was a platoon from the 7th Rajputs, but the rest is more or less accurate as far as it goes. The ships in question were German merchantmen interned by the Portuguese authorities a year ago but allowed to continue transmitting intelligence matters to their compatriots including the time of sailing and destinations of merchant ships leaving our ports. As a result of their actions, several of our ships were lost and several of our seamen were killed. José, we have brought this matter to your attention on a number of occasions and requested you abate this breach of neutrality, but our representations were ignored. So, we took action to remedy the situation ourselves. As we are entitled to do."
"These are lies! A feeble excuse! We all know India plans to attack Portuguese possessions in India!" Cabral had slammed his hand on the deck again, making the teacups rattle.
"Do you have proof of your allegations, Victor?"
Linlithgow reached under his desk and produced the signals bag containing the messages and transmission logs seized from the Drachenfels the previous night. Getting them to Calcutta in time for the expected early morning visit of Cabral had been an interesting challenge met using the fastest aircraft in the Indian Air Force. The whole timing of the operation had been determined by Cabral's presence in Calcutta instead of Goa. "Do you read German, Henry?"
"I do. I assume these are decoded . . . Ah, standard commercial cypher I see. That was clumsy of them. I would have expected something more secure. Oh dear. Your Excellency, these messages are damning. As far as I can see you have not a leg to stand on."
Linlithgow was holding his breath, while also trying to keep up a perfect picture of calm detachment. He knew he had to goad Cabral into saying the magic words. "I must admit, José, your government's handling of this outrageous breach of neutrality by the Germans leaves much to be desired. Indeed, the words, negligent and incompetent might be appropriate. We would be entitled to demand compensation from you for the losses we have suffered. However, in the spirit of friendly cooperation, might I suggest the following compromise? The Portuguese Government pays for the ammunition, explosives and fuel we used to take those three ships out and makes a public acknowledgment that we were acting at your request. Then, the matter will be closed."
Cabral exploded and went an even deeper shade of brilliant purple. "How dare you! If those pirates are not handed over to us by noon today, Goa time, then a state of war will exist between us!"
Linlithgow's face froze. "That being the case, this must go to Cabinet immediately. I will call an emergency meeting and advise you of its decision."
Cabral lurched to his feet and stormed out of the office. Linlithgow watched him depart with a face devoid of expression. We got what we wanted. I don’t think José quite realizes what he just said.
Grady did. "Victor, that was a conditional declaration of war. If you don’t hand those men over, then you will be at war with Portugal. At least until Lisbon finds out what Cabral has done and disowns his statement."
"They can't do that before noon. At least, we hope not. Henry, I've got to get to the radio room right away. Do you wish to attend as a witness for your government?"
"Victor, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. My boss thinks that colonial empires are a thing of the past. With the Japanese in Macao and Goa about to change hands, one more is about to go."
Five minutes later, Linlithgow was sitting in the Government radio room, speaking directly with Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Hannigan of the Calcutta Light Horse. "We have the needed conditions to start, Tom. Noon today your time."
"Very good, sir. Be advised we have a minor problem here right now. Gandhi has turned up with some of his followers."
SAAF Number 4 Squadron, approaching Odessa. May 31, 1941
"Damn it, they're like lambs to the slaughter." Pim Bosede looked down on the squadron of MiG-3 aircraft well below him. There were nine aircraft, in three groups of three. Each group was flying in very tight formation, the two wingmen with their wingtips tucked between the wing and tail of their flight leader. It was a formation that the South African pilots had abandoned well over a year earlier as almost the first result of the air battles over Kenya. Quite apart from its inherent clumsiness and the way it restricted maneuver, the pilots were so busy holding station on each other they were unable to watch the skies properly. In contrast, the South African Kittyhawks were flying in a spread-out finger four formation. Not coincidentally, it was the same basic disposition as the Luftwaffe used.
"They've no radios. They have to stay close like that so the commander can give hand signals." Flight Lieutenant Thys Koekemoer was the lead pilot of the second section in the flight. The problems the Russians were having pronouncing his name was a source of endless private enjoyment to the Afrikaaners. "And they're as under armed as hell. Have you seen those Migs up close? One .50 and one .30 each."
"They probably can't hit anything anyway. We've got kids still doing elementary who have more flying time than these guys. It's no wonder they've been cut to pieces."
"They keep flying though, Thys, never forget that. They've taken brutal casualties but each day they go back up. They're short of guns, experience and skill but not courage. My God, they've got more than their fair share of that."
"All pilots, we're approaching target now. Tighten up the cover. And cut the chatter." Group Captain Seymour Linford was commanding the formation from one of the No. 21 Squadron SAAF Baltimores. Unlike the South African fighters, the bombers were holding a tight formation to maximize their already-impressive firepower. Ahead of them the coastline and the port of Odessa was approaching quickly. Despite being besieged and under heavy attack from German and Romanian forces, Odessa was holding out and its garrison had even taken the offensive, pushing the siege lines back in places. Despite those successes, the troops defending Odessa were in a critical situation and needed all the support they could get. Much of that work had been assigned to the two Commonwealth Baltimore squadrons based in the Crimea.
The Baltimores had become specialists in a very specific form of attack. While the Soviet ground-attack aircraft, even the large medium bombers, flew in at very low altitude and suffered brutally from the German flak guns, the Baltimores flew in at medium altitude and pattern-bombed their target from around 12,000 feet. Although their bombload of one ton each was too small for a truly devastating effect, the 16 aircraft from 21 Squadron could drop enough to disrupt an attack or to knock a hole in the enemy defenses. The calls for their services from the troops fighting on the Odessa Perimeter were enough to see the bombers flying two missions a day. That meant the Kittyhawks of 4 Squadron were tied down escorting them, just as the Baltimores of 15 Squadron were monopolizing the services of the Indian Kittyhawks. That was the problem the Commonwealth Air Commando was facing; too much to do, too few aircraft to do it all.
The formation was a classic Russian three-tiered group. The 16 Baltimores in their tight box with the MiG-3s in close escort above and around them. Above the MiGs were the Kittyhawks. The remarkable thing was that the Soviets used the MiGs for these missions because they were considered high-altitude fighters yet by British and American, and German come to that, standards, their operational ceiling and handling at altitude was lack-luster.
"Bandits, coming in fast, Angels 18, four o'clock." The warning came over the radio, making Bosede almost snarl with anger. The Baltimores and Kittyhawks had got the message but the MiGs flying close escort had not. Then, he saw red flares being fired from the Baltimores to warn the Russian pilots. Meanwhile, Bosede had led his Kitthawks into a tight climbing turn that put them on an intercept course with the attacking aircraft.
That was when he felt something kick in his stomach. The attacking Axis fighters were Romanian Spitfire Mark IVs, built for the Romanian Air Force by the Supermarine factory in Southampton. Bosede had always known, intellectually, that the Armistice had put Britain into the column of German collaborators but the sight of an aircraft he had always regarded as being quintessentially British as an enemy drove the issue home with a level of realism nothing else could have managed. His hand was actually shaking with the tension as he reached for the firing button that would unleash his six .50 machine guns.
His mind did the calculations almost on autopilot; Spitfires diving at full speed, his own aircraft climbing as fast as it could, which wasn't very great. The angle of approach between the two formations was around twenty degrees. He instinctively applied the right course correction so he could lead his selected target, then squeezed the trigger. He could feel the shock as the recoil of the guns shook his Kittyhawk but saw nothing streaking out from his wings. Like most aces, Bosede never used tracer ammunition since he saw no point in warning his opponents and was confident enough in his marksmanship to discount the need for tracers to correct his aim. What he did see was the graceful, elegant fuselage of the Spitfire being torn open by the buzz-saw of the .50 calibers. Finely machined metal was being shredded from the fuselage as his burst struck the nose and walked along the fuselage. The Spitfire burst into flames and crumpled in mid-air before spinning downwards. The sight left Bosede feeling like a traitor.
It wasn't the only kill. The Spitfires were armed with the eight wing .30 machine guns they had been designed with and when they had been re-engined with the DB-603 power egg, they had gained two more in the nose cowling. All the guns were German MG-17s, guns that Bosede knew fired a powerful round for a .30 machine gun. Ten of them put out a withering blast of fire. One of the Kittyhawks was caught in the stream of tracers and staggered under the raking blow. It flew for a few seconds as the machine guns flayed it, then it too erupted into flame and started the long spin downwards.
The Spitfire responsible didn’t last long. It had got in the burst that had killed the section leader, but he had done so by leaving him exposed to the wingman. Again, a stream of tracers bridged the gap between the two aircraft. The blast of .50 blew a wing clean off the Spitfire, sending it tumbling out of the sky. Bosede saw a figure detach from the cockpit and cartwheel clear of the aircraft. By the time the pilot had fallen clear, and his parachute opened, the surviving Spitfires had dived through the Kittyhawk formation and were closing in on the bombers below.
The massacre of the MiGs was sickening for any experienced combat pilot to watch. The flights of MiG-3s had tried to hold their tight formations while turning to engage the Spitfires. The tightness of their turn was restricted by the maneuverability of the innermost aircraft, the speed at which they turned by the performance of the outermost. The formation was thus bound by the lowest common denominators of its aircraft. In contrast, the Romanian Spitfires were in loose pairs and their maneuverability was unhindered. The rearmost flight of MiGs never stood a chance. All three aircraft were sawed apart in mid-air while they tried to turn into the attack, the hail of machinegun fire tearing them up. Just to add to the MiGs deficiencies, they were very poorly protected, as bad as the old Tomahawk Is and IIs had been. No armor for the pilots, no self-sealing fuel tanks. Faced with the massed fire of ten machine guns per attacking aircraft, they just exploded. The remaining aircraft did not do any better. It was truly a massacre of the innocents.
They did achieve one thing though. Killing the near-helpless MiGs had enabled the Baltimore crews to get ready for the attack that was coming. The first group of Spitfires made the mistake of coming at the Baltimores from above and behind. The bombers had been equipped with the same design of quadruple machine gun turret as the Defiant fighters and the effect on unsuspecting attackers was the same. An interlocking web of machinegun fire was waiting for them. A year earlier, when Messerschmitt 109s had met Defiants for the first time, the result had been a disaster for the Germans. They had obviously warned their allies because the Romanians broke away quickly as soon as they realized the trap that had been set for them. One of the Spitfires didn't make it; pinned by the intersecting streams of bullets, its fuel tanks exploded into a great black ball of fire.
The two survivors of the flight Bosede's aircraft had intercepted saw the fate of the Spitfire and changed their attack pattern. They came up from below and behind the Baltimores only to find that arc was covered as well. There were twin .30 calibers in a belly position there and the bombers concentrated their fire on the attackers. The Romanian Spitfires peeled away and dived to get clear of the gunfire. Bosede watched sympathetically; he'd been in the same position a few months earlier and the defensive fire had cost him his beloved Marijke. The Spitfires tried to dive away, a bad mistake because the overweight Kittyhawks dived faster than they did. The Romanian pilots realized their error as the Kittyhawks closed in on them, pulled out of their dive and turned to fight.
The resulting dogfight was surprisingly even. The Romanian pilots were well-trained but inexperienced, the South Africans battle-hardened and deadly. The Spitfire was faster than a Kittyhawk, could climb better, accelerated faster and transitioned between maneuvers more quickly. The Kittyhawk was a lot tougher, better armed, and could dive faster and turn tighter. In the end it came down to which pilots could get the best out of their aircraft and there, the South Africans had the upper hand. When they finally got back to base, the two Romanian pilots counted themselves lucky to have survived the long but fruitless dogfight that followed.
The remaining flight of Spitfires had come in from directly aft of the Baltimores and learned another painful lesson. The Baltimore had four fixed .303 tail gun, fired by a foot-pedal in the pilot’s cockpit. Even if it wasn’t very effective, the display of tracers was awe-inspiring when combined with that from the Kittyhawks closing rapidly from behind. The Spitfires broke off the attack and ran. They had already seen that trying to dive away from the Kittyhawks was futile, so one Romanian tried to climb away from Bosede’s pursuing Kittyhawk. It was another bad mistake. As the Spitfire started to climb away, Boseda simply lifted the nose of Jozette and sawed the Spitfire’s wings off with his battery of .50s. The Spitfire broke up in mid-air, tumbled end-over-end and broke apart.
With the fighters beaten off, the Baltimores continued their run. They had been assigned to bomb a Romanian position that was protecting their occupation of a pumping station on the great inland reservoir. It was vital that the defenders recapture the station before the city’s water supply was depleted. Their target was easily recognized by a peculiar snake-like inlet in the reservoir shore. As the formation of bombers approached its dropping point, a light smattering of anti-aircraft fire erupted around it. The Baltimores were too high for 20mm and 37mm fire to be effective, leaving just a handful of Vickers 75mm guns to contest the raid. Bosede’s Kittyhawks, watching from a safe distance, saw that the Romanian gunners were reasonably skilled, but their guns were obsolete and there were simply too few of them to lay down an effective barrage.
One of the bombers was damaged, an engine leaving a thin black trail across the sky, but the formation box held tight as the 100-pound bombs streamed out of their bellies. An area some 400 feet wide and 1,200 yards long was enveloped in a great cloud of dust after the impact bursts formed a perfectly square devil's garden on the ground. The blasts of the bombs were followed by s scattering of secondary bursts and one major explosion that sent a black pillar of smoke skywards. With the MiG-3 group gravely reduced in strength, the Kittyhawks had to try and spread themselves as best they could to cover the approaches to the formation of bombers and to break up any fighter attacks that materialized. Bosede found himself sighing with relief when the formation was safely back over the sea and on its way home.
Airfield 7, Rovnoye, Crimea. May 31, 1941
"They were Romanian Spitfires. Both of them." For the first time in his life, Bosede was ashamed of claiming the two aircraft he had shot down.
"Are you sure?" Flight Lieutenant Christopher Lee, the squadron intelligence officer, asked the question softly. He'd seen how all the South African pilots were disturbed by the knowledge they'd shot down British-built aircraft. "They could be Heinkel 112s. They have the same wing shape and look a bit like the Spit. Guns in the nose and wings as well."
"I'm sure. I used to have pictures of the Spitfire up on my bedroom wall when I was a kid." Dear God, was that only three years ago? "It was a Mark IV, eight guns on the wings, two in the nose. "
"We'll have the camera gun film ready any minute." The base had its own photographic and film processing unit although the Russians were very unhappy about having it on one of their bases. "If it confirms what you've told us, we can claim four Spitfires for the loss of seven MiG-3s and a Kittyhawk.
"It does." One of the aircraftmen from the lab had arrived with several small spools of film in his arms. "I'll get the projector set up. Less than five minutes later Bosede was watching the scene as his bullets cut into a Spitfire and tore its fuselage apart. Then the camera blinked, and he saw his other kill rearing in front of him, straight into the streams of bullets.
"Not a doubt about that. Two kills." Van Heerden looked over to where Napalkov was sitting quietly in the background. He watched the Russian think and then nod fractionally. "Confirmed. Well done, Pim. We'll paint two more crosses on Jozette. Gold ones instead of black."
The remaining reel saw another Spitfire being shot down. The fourth kill was scored by the Baltimore gunners and that was a problem. Each of the gunners had claimed the kill and that meant of twelve Romanian Spitfires had been shot down twice each. Napalkov coughed politely. "Bratishka, in cases like this, where no one pilot can claim exclusivity, we award the kill to the squadron. Perhaps you should do the same?"
While that proposal was being enthusiastically discussed, Bosede went outside into the darkness. There. Thinking about the two Spitfires he had shot down, he was quietly sick.
"Are you alright, Sir?" Flight Lieutenant Lee had seen he was distressed and followed him out. He was a very tall man who towered over Bosede and his deep, rich voice seemed to dominate the whole area.
"Yes, thank you Chris. It's just I feel like I stabbed the old country in the back. Can you imagine what it feels like to stab somebody in the back?"
Lee smiled sadly at him. "I don’t have to imagine it, sir."
Governor-General's Chambers, Government House, Calcutta, India
Viceroy José Ricardo Pereira Cabral stormed into the Viceroy's suite, pushing the secretary roughly out of the way in the process. A more temperate man might have realized that the fact there was only a middle-aged Indian lady between him, and the Marquess Linlithgow indicated that all was, perhaps, not quite as it seemed. The Gurkhas who normally guarded the doors seemed remarkably unperturbed by the sight of an enraged Portuguese dignitary invading the inner sanctum of the Indian government. Once inside, he threw open the doors of the Marquess's private office and strode inside. The Marquess looked up from the man he was speaking with and nodded accommodatingly.
"Good morning, José. May I offer you a cup of tea?" Cabral ignored the greeting. Instead, he went across the room and slammed his hand on the Governor-General's desk. The bang echoed around the room as if a pistol had been fired. "You will surrender them to my government immediately."
"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador. I fear I must deal with this . . . . gentleman."
Ambassador Henry F. Grady reflected that only an English aristocrat could make the word 'gentleman' sound like the deadliest of insults. He had been hand-picked by President Roosevelt for this post, not least because he was regarded as a skilled and highly competent economist who could help India navigate her way through the maze of economic problems that beset her. He also noted that Cabral had realized the same intonation and gone deep purple.
"Last night, a battalion of your men stormed three ships anchored in our harbor at Vasco da Gama, killed many of their crew and blew the ships up. I demand you hand over the men responsible for trial as pirates. This insult to my nation's honor cannot be allowed to pass!"
"Is this true?" Grady looked at Linlithgow questioningly.
"Well, it wasn't a battalion, it was a platoon from the 7th Rajputs, but the rest is more or less accurate as far as it goes. The ships in question were German merchantmen interned by the Portuguese authorities a year ago but allowed to continue transmitting intelligence matters to their compatriots including the time of sailing and destinations of merchant ships leaving our ports. As a result of their actions, several of our ships were lost and several of our seamen were killed. José, we have brought this matter to your attention on a number of occasions and requested you abate this breach of neutrality, but our representations were ignored. So, we took action to remedy the situation ourselves. As we are entitled to do."
"These are lies! A feeble excuse! We all know India plans to attack Portuguese possessions in India!" Cabral had slammed his hand on the deck again, making the teacups rattle.
"Do you have proof of your allegations, Victor?"
Linlithgow reached under his desk and produced the signals bag containing the messages and transmission logs seized from the Drachenfels the previous night. Getting them to Calcutta in time for the expected early morning visit of Cabral had been an interesting challenge met using the fastest aircraft in the Indian Air Force. The whole timing of the operation had been determined by Cabral's presence in Calcutta instead of Goa. "Do you read German, Henry?"
"I do. I assume these are decoded . . . Ah, standard commercial cypher I see. That was clumsy of them. I would have expected something more secure. Oh dear. Your Excellency, these messages are damning. As far as I can see you have not a leg to stand on."
Linlithgow was holding his breath, while also trying to keep up a perfect picture of calm detachment. He knew he had to goad Cabral into saying the magic words. "I must admit, José, your government's handling of this outrageous breach of neutrality by the Germans leaves much to be desired. Indeed, the words, negligent and incompetent might be appropriate. We would be entitled to demand compensation from you for the losses we have suffered. However, in the spirit of friendly cooperation, might I suggest the following compromise? The Portuguese Government pays for the ammunition, explosives and fuel we used to take those three ships out and makes a public acknowledgment that we were acting at your request. Then, the matter will be closed."
Cabral exploded and went an even deeper shade of brilliant purple. "How dare you! If those pirates are not handed over to us by noon today, Goa time, then a state of war will exist between us!"
Linlithgow's face froze. "That being the case, this must go to Cabinet immediately. I will call an emergency meeting and advise you of its decision."
Cabral lurched to his feet and stormed out of the office. Linlithgow watched him depart with a face devoid of expression. We got what we wanted. I don’t think José quite realizes what he just said.
Grady did. "Victor, that was a conditional declaration of war. If you don’t hand those men over, then you will be at war with Portugal. At least until Lisbon finds out what Cabral has done and disowns his statement."
"They can't do that before noon. At least, we hope not. Henry, I've got to get to the radio room right away. Do you wish to attend as a witness for your government?"
"Victor, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. My boss thinks that colonial empires are a thing of the past. With the Japanese in Macao and Goa about to change hands, one more is about to go."
Five minutes later, Linlithgow was sitting in the Government radio room, speaking directly with Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Hannigan of the Calcutta Light Horse. "We have the needed conditions to start, Tom. Noon today your time."
"Very good, sir. Be advised we have a minor problem here right now. Gandhi has turned up with some of his followers."
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-One
Forward Positions, Calcutta Light Horse, Opposite Ravona, Portuguese Goa Border
Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Hannigan checked his watch anxiously. The great nightmare right now, from everybody at the highest levels of government down to his seat in his command vehicle, was that the Portuguese government in Lisbon would realize what their Viceroy had done and very hurriedly disown his words. If that happened, the liberation of Goa would be politically impossible, and months of planning would have gone for nothing. The destruction of the German merchant ships would be only a very limited victory in comparison. That was why the attack on the three ships had been planned as an independent operation. Hannigan sighed at the way politics interfered with honest soldiering, then stood up and looked over the edge of the personnel compartment of his armored car at the vehicles drawn up beside him.
"How are your Tatanagars, Lieutenant?" Hannigan gave a quick look at the little four-wheeled armored car in front of him. Tata Steel had designed the body, a neat little open-roofed armored box at the front for the crew and the engine mounted at the back. The design work had been very clever; the same box could be installed on several small four-wheel-drive trucks to give the Indian Army exactly what it needed most; an inexpensive, easily available light armored utility vehicle. The Tatanagar had been so successful that a larger version, based on a six-by-six truck and armed with a two-pounder gun instead of a Boys anti-tank rifle, was being prepared.
"Very good, Sir. We have checked every vehicle and they are all ready to go." Lieutenant Nirav Tamboli was one of the new officers who had joined the Calcutta Light Horse when it had been brought out of the Cavalry Reserve and reformed as an armored car regiment. He and his fellow officers had worked very hard to transform what had been little more than a social club for British expatriates into a fully professional armored unit. Now, they were all impatient to see their efforts crowned with success. "We have warmed-up the engines as well."
"Not all at once I hope." Hannigan was worried in case the sound of massed engines starting would have given the game away.
"Oh no, Sir. One here, one there, spread over the last few hours."
"Very good indeed, Lieutenant. We should be moving in the next few minutes."
"What about Gandhi and his followers, Sir? Have we arrested them all?" The hopefulness in Tamboli's voice was unmistakable.
"Sadly, no. They have done nothing we can arrest them for yet. However, we did persuade them to delay their 'walk' until just after midday when we would have our medical unit set up. Just in case, you know." Gandhi's plan was for a group of his followers, all unarmed civilians to stage one of their 'walks' to take them across the border into Portuguese Goa and then all the way to the capital Panjim. As he had earnestly explained to Hannigan, the Portuguese would not be so inhuman as to fire on unarmed civilians and if their officers ordered them to do so, the men would simply refuse to obey. Hannigan had listened with a cynical smile on his face. He knew exactly what was going to happen. That was when he realized he had a teachable moment in his hands.
"What do you think will happen when Gandhi starts the 'walk', Lieutenant?"
Tamboli thought for a second. "There is an understrength company of Cacadores, light infantry, over there. Their main strength is that they have two Skoda 70mm field guns. They also have a machinegun platoon with four Vickers guns and, we think, an old armored car. As that 'walk' crosses the border, the 70mm guns will open fire, three rounds per minute. When the walk closes to five hundred yards, the machine guns will open up. At this point I estimate the 'walk' will have taken 50 percent casualties. If they continue forward, which is very doubtful, the riflemen will open fire at two hundred yards inflicting yet more casualties. More likely, the people in the walk will panic once the artillery fire starts and they will run in chaos and confusion back to our side of the border. That will probably cost them dearly as well. This assumes, of course, that we sit and watch. If we move in and engage the Cacadores, we could save many of our misguided countrymen's lives."
Hannigan was proud of the man. "A first-class assessment, Nirav. You will go far in our new Army if you carry on like this. If the Portuguese do open fire on Gandhi's 'walk', I believe you are correct in deducing that they will, then we will engage them. Of course, we will be at war by then now that Gandhi's people have agreed to wait until after twelve. They do not, of course, know that a war is about to start."
Very shortly after noon, small groups of Indian civilians started to appear along the ridgeline that lay on the Indian side of the border and started to wander down towards the village at its foot 'to visit some family friends' as Gandhi had put it. He had seemed to regard the fact that the village lay in Portuguese territory as completely unimportant and was unaware of the fact that countries tend to defend their borders. The groups grew steadily more numerous until Hannigan estimated at least five hundred men and women were walking in a loose, disorganized mass towards the border that was marked by a single strand of wire. He watched while the lead elements reached the wire and cut it.
Almost instantly, there were two puffs of smoke from the Portuguese border position, a fortified village positioned in a wide gap between two groups of trees. The puffs were followed by an unmistakable scream of inbound artillery fire. The two shells exploded well short of the 'walk' but the warning was very clear and definitive. It was also futile. The 'walk' continued without interruption, the walkers apparently believing that the warning shots would not be followed by effective fire. If that was their opinion, they got a severe shock when two more rounds exploded directly in the area they were crossing. The Skoda 70mm gun was really a 66mm weapon and its four-kilogram shells were very limited in power. Nonetheless, their impact on the civilians was out of all proportion to their material effect.
Soldiers would have been familiar with the wounds caused by shell fragments, but civilians were not, and the gaping injuries horrified them. Hannigan watched as more shells dropped into the 'walk', spreading the death and devastation still further. Then the radio in his command vehicle crackled into life and he heard a single code word. It was noon and the war was on.
Alright, here we go. "The Portuguese have declared war upon us, and they are opening the conflict by shelling our civilians! The Calcutta Light Horse will charge the enemy gun positions, suppress their artillery fire, and then advance as far as is necessary to secure our border. The advance will commence immediately." And it will continue until we occupy Panjim. Or, as the Portuguese insist on calling it, Novo Goa. Occupying their capital should suppress those guns, shouldn't it? And annexing the whole colony will secure the border.
In common with many of the new Indian Army units, the Calcutta Light Horse was still far understrength and many of its units existed in theory only. It was supposed to have four squadrons of armored cars with 14 vehicles each divided into three troops of four. In fact, each squadron had only six vehicles and was organized as a single troop. The same applied to their artillery; instead of having a battery of 18 25-pounder guns, they had six old 13-pounders hastily converted to being towed by trucks. Nevertheless, the gunners set to work with a will and laid down a barrage of mixed smoke and high explosive shells on the Portuguese positions.
The artillery fire quickly silenced the two Portuguese guns and served to mask the armored cars cresting the ridgeline and sweeping down on the border. They made even shorter work of the border fence than the 'walk' had done, crushing the fenceposts and dragging the wire until it broke. The Portuguese machine guns opened fire on what targets they could see but their bullets bounced off the 14mm thick sloped armor on the front of the Tatanagars. The armored cars returned fire with their own Vickers-Berthier machine guns, targeting the sandbagged machine-gun positions and silencing them. The Cacadores company, closer to a couple of platoons in strength, had never been under armored attack before and they found the experience as demoralizing as everybody else had done when they were assaulted by armor for the first time.
Hannigan checked behind him. The Calcutta Light Horse's support unit, the Calcutta Scottish motorized infantry battalion, was following them although its two-wheel drive trucks were making much heavier work of the ground than the lighter, four-wheel drive Tatanagars had done. It really didn’t matter much. Both the Calcutta Light Horse and the Calcutta Scottish had cadres of skilled veterans who had learned their trade in the Middle East. The cacadores were individually brave but they lacked that experience and it showed. They were already falling back in increasing disarray when a series of loud bangs cut through the other noise of the battlefield. The Portuguese base had an old Crossley armored car that they used, Hannigan presumed, to patrol the border. It was obviously their ace card in defending the base but the gunners sitting in the front compartment of the Tatanagars had been waiting for it to appear. They had the armor-piercing rounds they needed already chambered.
Anti-tank rifles were already verging on the obsolescent, but they were perfectly adequate to kill an armored car dating from the 1920s. The rounds fired from the Boys anti-tank rifles mounted on the Tatanagars ripped through its thin armor without any trouble. The vehicle stopped but to Hannigan's great relief it didn’t burn. In his eyes, there was no need for more people to die than necessary. The crew bailed out, their hands raised high in the air, and they were quickly taken prisoner.
That was it. The firing stopped as the surrendered men were helped to cover. Before it could resume, a Portuguese Cacadores officer came out waving a white flag on the end of a bayonetted rifle.
"Colonel, I must protest against this unprovoked attack." Major Ricardo Seixas was obviously a very angry man. "But to prevent further pointless loss of life, I must surrender to you. Under protest and with the warning that this will create a most serious diplomatic incident between our countries."
"Captain, you did fire on our civilians and your country has already declared war on us. To be honest, I don’t think the situation can get much more serious than it is right now."
The Portuguese officer shook his head. "We've declared war? Nobody told me. What have the damned fools back in Nova Goa done this time? And speaking of damned fools, what did those civilians of yours think they were doing wandering onto a battlefield?"
"Gandhi." Hannigan knew that was explanation enough to any rational man.
The Cacadore officer sighed. "A damned fool indeed. They seem to be out in force today."
"Excuse me, Captain. You are wounded. May I offer you the services of my medical personnel?" The trucks carrying the Calcutta Scottish, a unit that was largely Sikh despite its name, had finally caught up and were unloading their infantry into the recently captured position.
"Thank you, yes. Although it appears that our casualties are thankfully small. I hope your civilians have not suffered too badly?"
"A half-dozen dead and twice that many wounded. We are lucky that we all have obsolete guns. Modern artillery would have done much more." Hannigan was genuinely relieved. He left the Sikh and Portuguese officers discussing the treatment of the wounded men and went over to the lead armored car. Tamboli and his crew were admiring the dents in the armor where the bullets from the Vickers machine guns had bounced off. "Anybody hurt?'
Tamboli shook his head. "A couple of men have scratches from splinters but nothing important. Time to move on, Sir?"
Hannigan pointed at the road heading west. "Twenty-five miles up that road is Panjim. Do you think we can make it by dusk?"
Tamboli looked at the map and shook his head. "If we laager overnight on the way, we can make an entrance in the morning. It's a little too far for one afternoon. With respect, sir, I don’t want to run out of fuel on the way. Stopping for the night will allow the fuel trucks to catch up with us."
Once again, Hannigan was impressed by the young officer. Won’t allow himself to be pushed into foolhardy moves by a superior. Makes his point politely yet firmly. "Well said, Nirav. We'll laager at dusk."
Admiral's Bridge, HMIS Hawkins, Off Mormugão, Portuguese Goa
Two cruisers, even ones dating from the First World War, were a major overmatch for the single colonial sloop that was stationed in Mormugão. The Hawkins and Frobisher were armed with a total of twelve 7.5-inch guns and had armored belts that could resist fire from the four 4.7-inch guns on the Afonso de Albuquerque. Admiral Somerville was mindful of his orders to reduce political complications as far as possible by keeping the butcher's bill low but even had that not been the case, he was reluctant to be the cause of brave men losing their lives for nothing. Only, that applied to his own men as well. On the whole, this would be best ended without a shot being fired. That we all should be so lucky.
"Signals, make to Afonso de Albuquerque. "Sincere respect to your Captain but regret to inform you that your position is hopeless. I beg you to strike your flag and avoid needless loss of life."
There was a long pause and then a signal lamp on Afonso de Albuquerque flickered. The message was very short, and Somerville had a heavy certainty about what it would say. In fact, he was wrong, and the reply was much more polite than he had expected. It read, simply, "Would you?"
Somerville knew what his answer to that would be. "Make signal. 'With deepest regret, no."
The forward guns on the Portuguese sloop flashed, sending two shells screaming towards Hawkins. They landed short but were good for line, making it obvious that the sloop intended to make a genuine fight of her last battle. The Afonso de Albuquerque was already picking up speed and swinging to parallel the Indian cruisers. That unmasked her stern pair of 4.7-inch guns and their shots were also good for line and much closer in range.
"Guns, open fire. Signals, tell Frobisher to commence firing. The faster we get this over with the better."
The seven 7.5-inch mountings on Hawkins were well-known to be clumsy and ill-adapted for their task. The shells were too heavy to be manhandled comfortably while the guns themselves had to be mounted high so they could gain adequate elevation. That meant getting the shells into the breech was hard and the rate of fire slow. Yet, once loaded, the 7.5 inch was a magnificent weapon, well-known to be more accurate than the 8-inch gun that had replaced it on later heavy cruisers. The five centerline guns fired almost simultaneously, sending out a pattern that straddled the Afonso de Albuquerque closely enough to spray her with fragments and showers of seawater. The sixth gun, one of the winged-out pair Hawkins carried amidships, fired late and its shot was perfect for range and only slightly out for line. For a moment Somerville thought it had hit and it had come very close indeed to doing so.
Astern, Frobisher fired a five-gun salvo since her winged-out 7.5-inch guns had been replaced by twin four-inch anti-aircraft weapons. Her straddle was, if anything, even closer than that of the flagship. Yet, it was Afonso de Albuquerque that scored first blood. Her second salvo, all four guns aimed at Hawkins, straddled the cruiser with one of the four shells hitting the searchlight platform high on the aft funnel. The armor-piercing shell sliced straight through the position, through the funnel and finally landed in the sea beyond.
The next pair of salvoes fired by the British cruisers, eleven shells in all, landed all around their target and obscured the Portuguese sloop from view. From the black smoke that appeared from amongst the white-water splashes, it was apparent that at least some of the shells had struck home. When the Afonso de Albuquerque emerged from the impact area, she was burning amidships, and her mainmast had been destroyed. Yet, her guns were still firing, and another shell hit Hawkins on the armor belt. The shot failed to penetrate but sent fragments howling through the air, causing the crew in the area to drop flat.
"Reports of wounded coming in, Sir." One of the officers had come to the bridge with the damage reports in his hands. "A few minor injuries, that's all. Isn't having armor grand."
"There's nothing 'grand' about this affair, Lieutenant. Except for the way that little sloop is doing her duty. As a seaman serving your country, you should be proud of her."
Somerville was interrupted by more 4.7-inch shells arriving into the water around his cruiser. There were only two now in the salvo, both from the forward guns of the Afonso de Albuquerque. It was clear why; repeated hits from the 7.5-inch guns had reduced the ship's after section to a complete shambles with both aft guns either knocked out or left inoperable by the wreckage of the mainmast covering them. The funnel was down and most of the midships section was burning, the fires fueled by the remains of the aircraft carried on a catapult there. Only the bridge and two forward guns were left intact. The sloop was listing heavily, the lower row of scuttles on the side facing her enemies were already underwater. Somerville watched her turning away, heading for the shore. He guessed that her Captain had decided to beach the ship before it was too late to do so.
"Squadron is to cease fire. Signals, contact Afonso de Albuquerque and tell her we will hold our fire while she evacuates her wounded."
Somerville watched while the crippled sloop dragged herself onto the shore. Positioned as she was, her bows facing inland, she couldn't bring her guns to bear on the cruisers out to sea. Through binoculars he could see litters being lowered over the sides as the crew got the wounded off the ship. "Message from First Officer Sarmento Gouveia, Admiral, thanking you for your humanity and advising you that Captain Cunha Aragão is amongst the 13 wounded being rushed to hospital. Gouveia adds that his orders are not to surrender his ship."
Ashore, civilian cars had arrived near the beached frigate and were loading the wounded for the trip to hospital. Other crewmen were leaving the ship, assembling on shore in the lee of the listing wreck. Some of them had carried off stretchers, undoubtedly with the dead members of the crew. Somerville found it a great relief that there were so few of them. Finally, a last small detachment of men left and he guessed the ship was largely deserted. The fires were now spreading out-of-control and it was obvious that Afonso de Albuquerque was doomed. The explosions that destroyed her merely emphasized that.
"Messages, Sir. Two companies of the 7th Rajputs have seized the islands offshore. The enclaves at Daman and Diu have surrendered with only token resistance. The ones at Dadra and Nagar Haveli didn't even put up that level of opposition. The Calcutta Light Horse has broken through the northern defenses of Goa and their armored cars are advancing quickly along the trunk road. The 2nd and 3rd Garwhal Rifles are moving in from the east. The Air Force strafed the airbase at Dabolim and destroyed the four aircraft there. There is a signal from Calcutta, advising us they anticipate an end to hostilities tomorrow."
Somerville looked across to the shore where the wreck of the Afonso de Albuquerque was still burning. Although the best units of the Indian armed forces were in the Middle East, the units assigned to the Goa operation had still done well. He remembered a phrase about doing something in one's professional capacity that one might find reprehensible in a private capacity. That described his current feelings perfectly.
Forward Positions, Calcutta Light Horse, Opposite Ravona, Portuguese Goa Border
Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Hannigan checked his watch anxiously. The great nightmare right now, from everybody at the highest levels of government down to his seat in his command vehicle, was that the Portuguese government in Lisbon would realize what their Viceroy had done and very hurriedly disown his words. If that happened, the liberation of Goa would be politically impossible, and months of planning would have gone for nothing. The destruction of the German merchant ships would be only a very limited victory in comparison. That was why the attack on the three ships had been planned as an independent operation. Hannigan sighed at the way politics interfered with honest soldiering, then stood up and looked over the edge of the personnel compartment of his armored car at the vehicles drawn up beside him.
"How are your Tatanagars, Lieutenant?" Hannigan gave a quick look at the little four-wheeled armored car in front of him. Tata Steel had designed the body, a neat little open-roofed armored box at the front for the crew and the engine mounted at the back. The design work had been very clever; the same box could be installed on several small four-wheel-drive trucks to give the Indian Army exactly what it needed most; an inexpensive, easily available light armored utility vehicle. The Tatanagar had been so successful that a larger version, based on a six-by-six truck and armed with a two-pounder gun instead of a Boys anti-tank rifle, was being prepared.
"Very good, Sir. We have checked every vehicle and they are all ready to go." Lieutenant Nirav Tamboli was one of the new officers who had joined the Calcutta Light Horse when it had been brought out of the Cavalry Reserve and reformed as an armored car regiment. He and his fellow officers had worked very hard to transform what had been little more than a social club for British expatriates into a fully professional armored unit. Now, they were all impatient to see their efforts crowned with success. "We have warmed-up the engines as well."
"Not all at once I hope." Hannigan was worried in case the sound of massed engines starting would have given the game away.
"Oh no, Sir. One here, one there, spread over the last few hours."
"Very good indeed, Lieutenant. We should be moving in the next few minutes."
"What about Gandhi and his followers, Sir? Have we arrested them all?" The hopefulness in Tamboli's voice was unmistakable.
"Sadly, no. They have done nothing we can arrest them for yet. However, we did persuade them to delay their 'walk' until just after midday when we would have our medical unit set up. Just in case, you know." Gandhi's plan was for a group of his followers, all unarmed civilians to stage one of their 'walks' to take them across the border into Portuguese Goa and then all the way to the capital Panjim. As he had earnestly explained to Hannigan, the Portuguese would not be so inhuman as to fire on unarmed civilians and if their officers ordered them to do so, the men would simply refuse to obey. Hannigan had listened with a cynical smile on his face. He knew exactly what was going to happen. That was when he realized he had a teachable moment in his hands.
"What do you think will happen when Gandhi starts the 'walk', Lieutenant?"
Tamboli thought for a second. "There is an understrength company of Cacadores, light infantry, over there. Their main strength is that they have two Skoda 70mm field guns. They also have a machinegun platoon with four Vickers guns and, we think, an old armored car. As that 'walk' crosses the border, the 70mm guns will open fire, three rounds per minute. When the walk closes to five hundred yards, the machine guns will open up. At this point I estimate the 'walk' will have taken 50 percent casualties. If they continue forward, which is very doubtful, the riflemen will open fire at two hundred yards inflicting yet more casualties. More likely, the people in the walk will panic once the artillery fire starts and they will run in chaos and confusion back to our side of the border. That will probably cost them dearly as well. This assumes, of course, that we sit and watch. If we move in and engage the Cacadores, we could save many of our misguided countrymen's lives."
Hannigan was proud of the man. "A first-class assessment, Nirav. You will go far in our new Army if you carry on like this. If the Portuguese do open fire on Gandhi's 'walk', I believe you are correct in deducing that they will, then we will engage them. Of course, we will be at war by then now that Gandhi's people have agreed to wait until after twelve. They do not, of course, know that a war is about to start."
Very shortly after noon, small groups of Indian civilians started to appear along the ridgeline that lay on the Indian side of the border and started to wander down towards the village at its foot 'to visit some family friends' as Gandhi had put it. He had seemed to regard the fact that the village lay in Portuguese territory as completely unimportant and was unaware of the fact that countries tend to defend their borders. The groups grew steadily more numerous until Hannigan estimated at least five hundred men and women were walking in a loose, disorganized mass towards the border that was marked by a single strand of wire. He watched while the lead elements reached the wire and cut it.
Almost instantly, there were two puffs of smoke from the Portuguese border position, a fortified village positioned in a wide gap between two groups of trees. The puffs were followed by an unmistakable scream of inbound artillery fire. The two shells exploded well short of the 'walk' but the warning was very clear and definitive. It was also futile. The 'walk' continued without interruption, the walkers apparently believing that the warning shots would not be followed by effective fire. If that was their opinion, they got a severe shock when two more rounds exploded directly in the area they were crossing. The Skoda 70mm gun was really a 66mm weapon and its four-kilogram shells were very limited in power. Nonetheless, their impact on the civilians was out of all proportion to their material effect.
Soldiers would have been familiar with the wounds caused by shell fragments, but civilians were not, and the gaping injuries horrified them. Hannigan watched as more shells dropped into the 'walk', spreading the death and devastation still further. Then the radio in his command vehicle crackled into life and he heard a single code word. It was noon and the war was on.
Alright, here we go. "The Portuguese have declared war upon us, and they are opening the conflict by shelling our civilians! The Calcutta Light Horse will charge the enemy gun positions, suppress their artillery fire, and then advance as far as is necessary to secure our border. The advance will commence immediately." And it will continue until we occupy Panjim. Or, as the Portuguese insist on calling it, Novo Goa. Occupying their capital should suppress those guns, shouldn't it? And annexing the whole colony will secure the border.
In common with many of the new Indian Army units, the Calcutta Light Horse was still far understrength and many of its units existed in theory only. It was supposed to have four squadrons of armored cars with 14 vehicles each divided into three troops of four. In fact, each squadron had only six vehicles and was organized as a single troop. The same applied to their artillery; instead of having a battery of 18 25-pounder guns, they had six old 13-pounders hastily converted to being towed by trucks. Nevertheless, the gunners set to work with a will and laid down a barrage of mixed smoke and high explosive shells on the Portuguese positions.
The artillery fire quickly silenced the two Portuguese guns and served to mask the armored cars cresting the ridgeline and sweeping down on the border. They made even shorter work of the border fence than the 'walk' had done, crushing the fenceposts and dragging the wire until it broke. The Portuguese machine guns opened fire on what targets they could see but their bullets bounced off the 14mm thick sloped armor on the front of the Tatanagars. The armored cars returned fire with their own Vickers-Berthier machine guns, targeting the sandbagged machine-gun positions and silencing them. The Cacadores company, closer to a couple of platoons in strength, had never been under armored attack before and they found the experience as demoralizing as everybody else had done when they were assaulted by armor for the first time.
Hannigan checked behind him. The Calcutta Light Horse's support unit, the Calcutta Scottish motorized infantry battalion, was following them although its two-wheel drive trucks were making much heavier work of the ground than the lighter, four-wheel drive Tatanagars had done. It really didn’t matter much. Both the Calcutta Light Horse and the Calcutta Scottish had cadres of skilled veterans who had learned their trade in the Middle East. The cacadores were individually brave but they lacked that experience and it showed. They were already falling back in increasing disarray when a series of loud bangs cut through the other noise of the battlefield. The Portuguese base had an old Crossley armored car that they used, Hannigan presumed, to patrol the border. It was obviously their ace card in defending the base but the gunners sitting in the front compartment of the Tatanagars had been waiting for it to appear. They had the armor-piercing rounds they needed already chambered.
Anti-tank rifles were already verging on the obsolescent, but they were perfectly adequate to kill an armored car dating from the 1920s. The rounds fired from the Boys anti-tank rifles mounted on the Tatanagars ripped through its thin armor without any trouble. The vehicle stopped but to Hannigan's great relief it didn’t burn. In his eyes, there was no need for more people to die than necessary. The crew bailed out, their hands raised high in the air, and they were quickly taken prisoner.
That was it. The firing stopped as the surrendered men were helped to cover. Before it could resume, a Portuguese Cacadores officer came out waving a white flag on the end of a bayonetted rifle.
"Colonel, I must protest against this unprovoked attack." Major Ricardo Seixas was obviously a very angry man. "But to prevent further pointless loss of life, I must surrender to you. Under protest and with the warning that this will create a most serious diplomatic incident between our countries."
"Captain, you did fire on our civilians and your country has already declared war on us. To be honest, I don’t think the situation can get much more serious than it is right now."
The Portuguese officer shook his head. "We've declared war? Nobody told me. What have the damned fools back in Nova Goa done this time? And speaking of damned fools, what did those civilians of yours think they were doing wandering onto a battlefield?"
"Gandhi." Hannigan knew that was explanation enough to any rational man.
The Cacadore officer sighed. "A damned fool indeed. They seem to be out in force today."
"Excuse me, Captain. You are wounded. May I offer you the services of my medical personnel?" The trucks carrying the Calcutta Scottish, a unit that was largely Sikh despite its name, had finally caught up and were unloading their infantry into the recently captured position.
"Thank you, yes. Although it appears that our casualties are thankfully small. I hope your civilians have not suffered too badly?"
"A half-dozen dead and twice that many wounded. We are lucky that we all have obsolete guns. Modern artillery would have done much more." Hannigan was genuinely relieved. He left the Sikh and Portuguese officers discussing the treatment of the wounded men and went over to the lead armored car. Tamboli and his crew were admiring the dents in the armor where the bullets from the Vickers machine guns had bounced off. "Anybody hurt?'
Tamboli shook his head. "A couple of men have scratches from splinters but nothing important. Time to move on, Sir?"
Hannigan pointed at the road heading west. "Twenty-five miles up that road is Panjim. Do you think we can make it by dusk?"
Tamboli looked at the map and shook his head. "If we laager overnight on the way, we can make an entrance in the morning. It's a little too far for one afternoon. With respect, sir, I don’t want to run out of fuel on the way. Stopping for the night will allow the fuel trucks to catch up with us."
Once again, Hannigan was impressed by the young officer. Won’t allow himself to be pushed into foolhardy moves by a superior. Makes his point politely yet firmly. "Well said, Nirav. We'll laager at dusk."
Admiral's Bridge, HMIS Hawkins, Off Mormugão, Portuguese Goa
Two cruisers, even ones dating from the First World War, were a major overmatch for the single colonial sloop that was stationed in Mormugão. The Hawkins and Frobisher were armed with a total of twelve 7.5-inch guns and had armored belts that could resist fire from the four 4.7-inch guns on the Afonso de Albuquerque. Admiral Somerville was mindful of his orders to reduce political complications as far as possible by keeping the butcher's bill low but even had that not been the case, he was reluctant to be the cause of brave men losing their lives for nothing. Only, that applied to his own men as well. On the whole, this would be best ended without a shot being fired. That we all should be so lucky.
"Signals, make to Afonso de Albuquerque. "Sincere respect to your Captain but regret to inform you that your position is hopeless. I beg you to strike your flag and avoid needless loss of life."
There was a long pause and then a signal lamp on Afonso de Albuquerque flickered. The message was very short, and Somerville had a heavy certainty about what it would say. In fact, he was wrong, and the reply was much more polite than he had expected. It read, simply, "Would you?"
Somerville knew what his answer to that would be. "Make signal. 'With deepest regret, no."
The forward guns on the Portuguese sloop flashed, sending two shells screaming towards Hawkins. They landed short but were good for line, making it obvious that the sloop intended to make a genuine fight of her last battle. The Afonso de Albuquerque was already picking up speed and swinging to parallel the Indian cruisers. That unmasked her stern pair of 4.7-inch guns and their shots were also good for line and much closer in range.
"Guns, open fire. Signals, tell Frobisher to commence firing. The faster we get this over with the better."
The seven 7.5-inch mountings on Hawkins were well-known to be clumsy and ill-adapted for their task. The shells were too heavy to be manhandled comfortably while the guns themselves had to be mounted high so they could gain adequate elevation. That meant getting the shells into the breech was hard and the rate of fire slow. Yet, once loaded, the 7.5 inch was a magnificent weapon, well-known to be more accurate than the 8-inch gun that had replaced it on later heavy cruisers. The five centerline guns fired almost simultaneously, sending out a pattern that straddled the Afonso de Albuquerque closely enough to spray her with fragments and showers of seawater. The sixth gun, one of the winged-out pair Hawkins carried amidships, fired late and its shot was perfect for range and only slightly out for line. For a moment Somerville thought it had hit and it had come very close indeed to doing so.
Astern, Frobisher fired a five-gun salvo since her winged-out 7.5-inch guns had been replaced by twin four-inch anti-aircraft weapons. Her straddle was, if anything, even closer than that of the flagship. Yet, it was Afonso de Albuquerque that scored first blood. Her second salvo, all four guns aimed at Hawkins, straddled the cruiser with one of the four shells hitting the searchlight platform high on the aft funnel. The armor-piercing shell sliced straight through the position, through the funnel and finally landed in the sea beyond.
The next pair of salvoes fired by the British cruisers, eleven shells in all, landed all around their target and obscured the Portuguese sloop from view. From the black smoke that appeared from amongst the white-water splashes, it was apparent that at least some of the shells had struck home. When the Afonso de Albuquerque emerged from the impact area, she was burning amidships, and her mainmast had been destroyed. Yet, her guns were still firing, and another shell hit Hawkins on the armor belt. The shot failed to penetrate but sent fragments howling through the air, causing the crew in the area to drop flat.
"Reports of wounded coming in, Sir." One of the officers had come to the bridge with the damage reports in his hands. "A few minor injuries, that's all. Isn't having armor grand."
"There's nothing 'grand' about this affair, Lieutenant. Except for the way that little sloop is doing her duty. As a seaman serving your country, you should be proud of her."
Somerville was interrupted by more 4.7-inch shells arriving into the water around his cruiser. There were only two now in the salvo, both from the forward guns of the Afonso de Albuquerque. It was clear why; repeated hits from the 7.5-inch guns had reduced the ship's after section to a complete shambles with both aft guns either knocked out or left inoperable by the wreckage of the mainmast covering them. The funnel was down and most of the midships section was burning, the fires fueled by the remains of the aircraft carried on a catapult there. Only the bridge and two forward guns were left intact. The sloop was listing heavily, the lower row of scuttles on the side facing her enemies were already underwater. Somerville watched her turning away, heading for the shore. He guessed that her Captain had decided to beach the ship before it was too late to do so.
"Squadron is to cease fire. Signals, contact Afonso de Albuquerque and tell her we will hold our fire while she evacuates her wounded."
Somerville watched while the crippled sloop dragged herself onto the shore. Positioned as she was, her bows facing inland, she couldn't bring her guns to bear on the cruisers out to sea. Through binoculars he could see litters being lowered over the sides as the crew got the wounded off the ship. "Message from First Officer Sarmento Gouveia, Admiral, thanking you for your humanity and advising you that Captain Cunha Aragão is amongst the 13 wounded being rushed to hospital. Gouveia adds that his orders are not to surrender his ship."
Ashore, civilian cars had arrived near the beached frigate and were loading the wounded for the trip to hospital. Other crewmen were leaving the ship, assembling on shore in the lee of the listing wreck. Some of them had carried off stretchers, undoubtedly with the dead members of the crew. Somerville found it a great relief that there were so few of them. Finally, a last small detachment of men left and he guessed the ship was largely deserted. The fires were now spreading out-of-control and it was obvious that Afonso de Albuquerque was doomed. The explosions that destroyed her merely emphasized that.
"Messages, Sir. Two companies of the 7th Rajputs have seized the islands offshore. The enclaves at Daman and Diu have surrendered with only token resistance. The ones at Dadra and Nagar Haveli didn't even put up that level of opposition. The Calcutta Light Horse has broken through the northern defenses of Goa and their armored cars are advancing quickly along the trunk road. The 2nd and 3rd Garwhal Rifles are moving in from the east. The Air Force strafed the airbase at Dabolim and destroyed the four aircraft there. There is a signal from Calcutta, advising us they anticipate an end to hostilities tomorrow."
Somerville looked across to the shore where the wreck of the Afonso de Albuquerque was still burning. Although the best units of the Indian armed forces were in the Middle East, the units assigned to the Goa operation had still done well. He remembered a phrase about doing something in one's professional capacity that one might find reprehensible in a private capacity. That described his current feelings perfectly.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Two
Room 208, Munitions Building, Washington D.C. USA.
"Now this is a problem." Henry L Stimson looked sadly around the room and shook his head. As Secretary of War, he was tasked with looking at potential risks to the United States. Portugal entering the war on the Axis side was a serious one, simply because it opened the possibility that the Axis countries might use the Azores as a forward base for an attack. "Judge, do we have any word on what is happening in Goa?"
Cordell Hull consulted a pile of diplomatic telegrams, one that was growing hourly. "Our Ambassador in India, Henry Grady, is doing a splendid job of keeping us briefed. His latest communication is that the Governor-General of Goa and the other Portuguese dependencies in India has surrendered to Colonel Hannigan of the Calcutta Light Horse, following a brief and almost ridiculously futile attempt to defend the capital. The Indian Government has already sent a bill to its Parliament, under the terms of which the former Portuguese territories will be incorporated as states within India. Henry, a very capable diplomat, believes that the bill will be passed and signed by the Viceroy either tomorrow or the day after. The end of the Portuguese empire in India is a done deal. The Portuguese Government in Lisbon is furious of course."
"What actually happened?" The Secretary of the Treasury, Henry Morgenthau, had been caught unawares by the suddenly developing crisis and needed to be brought into the loop.
Stimson took up the challenge. "The Germans had three spy-ships in a harbor within Goa that were transmitting information on Indian shipping movements to German U-boats and raiders. To do that, they also had to be running a spy-ring within India itself. The Indian government complained about this blatantly illegal abuse of a neutral port to the Goa authorities, eventually directly to Viceroy José Ricardo Pereira Cabral himself. The authorities refused to put an end to the spying, so the Indians staged a commando raid that destroyed all three ships and captured much highly incriminating documentation. They were entitled to do that of course. They seem to have stuck by the book right up to this point.
"Anyway, the Goa Governor-General was in Calcutta on an unofficial visit and took it on himself to register a violently worded complaint. Unfortunately, he was a hot-tempered man and he let his mouth run away with him." Stimson looked at Hull who flushed slightly and dropped his eyes.
Hull knew that he tended to do the same and not think through the consequences of his words. Unlike Cabral, though, he was a fair-minded man who was willing to learn, eventually, and would admit his errors when they were pointed out to him forcefully enough. "Cabral made a highly intemperate series of statements that ended with what amounted to a conditional declaration of war. Now, he had no authority to make such a declaration of war and should not have done so. This was a serious error of judgment on his part, especially since the Indians did not know what he had and had not been authorized to say. They had to assume that normal practices applied and that Cabral was authorized to make that conditional declaration. They honored the threat and geared up to deal with it. Then, Gandhi staged one of his demonstrations on the Goa border, the Portuguese border troops fired on it, as they were, of course, entitled to do. The Indians took that as an act enforcing their declaration of war and they acted accordingly. I must say the initial reports are that both their troops and the Portuguese have behaved with great honor and decency. The fighting was over in 36 hours."
"The Indian justification seems somewhat questionable to me." Morgenthau was pensive as he thought through the implications. "And their military actions were very quickly made, almost as if they were pre-planned. Is there any evidence Gandhi colluded in this action?”
"Almost certainly the military plans were prearranged. After all, armies have contingency plans for everything." Stimson had his own theories about that. "I believe they had their invasion already planned and were waiting for the excuse. I can sympathize with them. The Portuguese keeping Goa would be a bit like the British keeping Rhode Island after 1783. Or the Russians keeping Alaska. Gandhi though is a different matter. There is no love lost between him and the Indian government. Ambassador Grady believes that Gandhi’s action was an acute embarrassment to the Indian plans, and they would have been quietly happy if the Portuguese had killed him. "
"This leaves us with a serious conflict of interest here." Hull was sitting with his fingertips touching to form a pyramid in front of him. "On the one hand we have very friendly relations with India and are aiding them in supporting the Soviet Union resist the Nazi invasion. On the other hand, we also have amicable relations with Portugal and the Azores are a strategic threat to us should they fall into hostile hands. With India and Portugal now at war, our course of action is not clear."
"We occupied Iceland a year ago for exactly that reason. Perhaps we should now do the same to the Azores." Morgenthau looked around at the room. "A couple of Flying Fortress groups and a division of troops in the Azores should solve the problem."
"I think Secretary Stimson had a better solution." Philip Stuyvesant had been running the situation through his mind and come up with a solution to the conflict of interest.
"I did?" Stimson couldn’t think of anything he had proposed.
"The Alaska deal. We buy basing rights in the Azores off Portugal. Or, more precisely we offer to act as mediators between India and Portugal. We find a deal both can accept; something along the lines of mutual apologies for the various incidents that led up to this mess, very generous compensation theoretically paid by India but actually paid by us, for the Goa invasion, Portugal recognizes Goa as being Indian and we buy the basing rights in the Azores, the compensation from India being buried in there. We play that right, and we end up with Portugal's feelings smoothed and they have the cash they badly need, India ends up with Goa and an improved strategic situation and we end up with bases. Hell, we could end up with the Azores as sovereign territory, like Alaska. That's up to you, Secretary Hull."
"This seems to be working out very well for the Indians." Morgenthau was still suspicious.
"Situations always will if one plans properly. Looking at this Indian operation, it seems as if it was planned the way a good business project is planned. It's a series of components, each of which will bring about significant benefits if it succeeds but won’t cripple the enterprise if it fails. Like a Hollywood producer starting up a new company for each film. My companies are set up that way. The thing is, as more components succeed, the benefits rise exponentially. If the company sets it up properly, most of the components succeed and the company wins big, but it still gets some benefit if only one does. This time, the Indians pulled off all the components and they have won really big."
"You didn't plan this did you Philip?" Stimson was laughing but his eyes were watching Stuyvesant keenly.
"Not me, no. If you look at this, though, Wavell planned that attack of his in North Africa the same way. Compass wasn't it? Every part of the operation was independent and set up, so success was mutually reinforcing but failure was contained and isolated. He and Auchinleck trained in the same place so it's not surprising they operate the same way. Look, we tend to disregard British generals because we beat them in the Revolution but most of them are damned good. What's more, they all know each other, usually for several generations, and they know what they will all do under given sets of circumstances. So, putting this together wasn't hard for them.
Hull looked around the room again. "I'm convinced. I'll recommend that we approach India and Portugal as an honest mediator who will try to resolve this without further bloodshed. I understand that Salazar is seriously concerned about an invasion from Spain. Perhaps we can sweeten the pot with some military equipment for his army. It looks like they need it."
Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, London
“We have two items on the agenda today. The attack on Goa by India and the commitment of Commonwealth forces in aid of Russia. Sir John Dill, what have you to say on this?” Lord Halifax had found the international developments of the last few days immensely depressing and his whole bearing showed it.
“Prime Minister, let us deal with Goa first and admit we can have no influence on this situation one way or the other. There was a dispute between India and the Portuguese authorities in Goa, the rights and wrongs of the situation really don’t matter now. It ended with Indian forces seizing Goa and its related dependencies. They are preparing to incorporate them into India.”
“My apologies, Sir John, but just before we entered the Cabinet Room, I received a message saying that they have in fact done so. I tried to give you a copy before the meeting but . . .” Antony Eden looked around. “Also, the same message stated that the Portuguese Viceroy in Goa has committed suicide by jumping out of his office window.”
“Hmm. Thank you, Sir Anthony.” Privately Sir John Dill doubted that Cabral had in fact killed himself. It is more likely that he was helped to do so over his own strong objections. Salazar’s political police are as ruthless as Halifax’s. My God, what have I just thought? “There’s not much to say about the Indian operation. It was well-planned, designed to be flexible enough to accommodate changes and setbacks if they occurred. This time, it appears they did not, and it was all over in less than two days. One thing to note; with their forces in the Middle East and the Soviet Union and, it now appears, a capable force still in India, they have established themselves as a capable and independent force on the world stage.”
“They are not independent.” The last time Sir John had heard a grinding noise like Butler’s voice had been when Lady Dill had been learning to drive and had crashed the Bentley’s gearbox.
To Sir John’s relief, Anthony Eden dived in. “I fear I must correct you there RAB. Whether we like it or not, India is independent. It has proclaimed itself so, it is in secure control of its borders, its internal administration is unchallenged, at home and abroad, and it is recognized as a sovereign independent country by the rest of the world. Those are the recognized conditions for independence. I do not know if this was one of their intents when they took the current action in Goa, but we must recognize that Portugal declared war on India and India alone. For which we should be thankful.”
“Indeed so, Sir Anthony.” Halifax did indeed look grateful. “Every cloud has a silver lining. Where do we go from here?”
Sir Anthony was very firm. “Nowhere, Prime Minister, there is nowhere we can go. We have been cut out of the situation completely. Portugal is dealing directly with India on this matter, as one sovereign nation to another. The United States has offered to act as a mediator and ‘honest broker’. You might remember that is the same formula they used in approaching Russia and Japan in 1905. I suspect they must have just changed the dates.”
“Why do we not insert ourselves into this process?” Butler’s demand was unequivocal.
“We tried. Nobody bothered to answer our messages.” Eden looked around the room as the significance of his words sank in. Britain was now regarded as of so little account that her diplomatic communications were ignored. People were looking at each other as a further realization sank in. It took just over a year for us to sink this low.
Sir John Dill broke the silence. “Perhaps we should move on. The Commonwealth of Nations has sent some token forces to fight against Germany on the Russian Front. There is no secret about this, it has been reported in the Commonwealth and Soviet newspapers. They have what they call an Air Commando operating out of the Crimea, with significant success it appears. Some of the aircraft are South African, some are Indian and some Australian. However, from our point of view, the most important contingent is a fighter squadron and a night bomber squadron from Middle East Command. Those aircraft are manned by British crews, members of the Royal Air Force. Now they are facing the Romanians and all the Commonwealth units have done rather well. The South Africans, Australians and the Indians are one thing but British pilots in Middle East Command are quite another.”
“Fortunately, we listed them as deserters some months ago and are treating them as such. If they came back to Britain now, they would be arrested.” Butler spoke with an unhealthy degree of satisfaction in his voice. “We can wash our hands of them completely.”
“We have done more than that.” Eden had more to say on this matter and nothing was going to stop him. “When news of the Commonwealth Air Commando became public, the German high command issued orders that since the Commonwealth pilots were deserters from British forces, any pilots captured would be summarily executed by hanging. I do not recollect this Cabinet being informed of this intelligence. Furthermore, the Romanian Air Force front-line fighters are the Spitfires we sold to the Romanian government. Aircraft we built in our factories will be sending our kith and kin to the gallows.”
The murmur of shock that went around the Cabinet Office was profound and conveyed very genuine anger. Lord Halifax listened carefully to it, sensing in it the first serious opposition to his power. His resentment and anger at those who couldn’t see that he had only been doing what had to be done flared again. He paused for a few seconds to bring it under control and hoped that it would look as if he were carefully considering the position. To buy time he looked directly at Sir Anthony Eden. “Foreign Secretary are there other similar volunteer groups already in Russia?”
“There are, Prime Minister. The French have supplied a fighter squadron that is flying Soviet Yak-1 fighters. Officially, the Americans have done nothing but there are two ‘Volunteer Groups’ forming. Like the Commonwealth, they fly Kittyhawks. I believe the Americans call them ‘The Flying Bears’. Just like their volunteer group in China is called ‘The Flying Tigers’.”
“And have the Germans made any statement about those pilots?”
“They have stated they will hang any French pilots they capture. They have made no statement about the Americans.”
“I see. I will raise this matter personally with the German authorities and make it clear that since these pilots are deserters, they should be returned to us for trial and, if found guilty, imprisonment. As the supply of aircraft to Romania, I see no reason that should not continue although as neutrals, we must be paid in gold for the aircraft.”
Halifax looked around again. The incipient mutiny he had feared was already fading as the Cabinet members realized that no British court would convict a serviceman for going abroad to continue the fight against the Germans. It was only the perceptive who understood that the men would not be facing court as the British legal system understood it but a show trial with a hand-picked judge and jury. During the meeting, Sir Edward Bridges was one of those who did understand what this would mean. He had little doubt that the Germans would accept Halifax's proposed arrangement since it would stabilize their ally while also shifting the burden of the political and economic cost to Britain.
It was the news that some of the Spitfires whose sale he had helped arrange had shot down Commonwealth aircraft that struck at him. The thought made him feel physically sick and he couldn’t help looking at himself as a murderer. It was always a bit of a game before, setting up the trade deals that would help pay for the food we are importing from the Commonwealth. I never thought of the ultimate consequences of what I was doing. Now those aircraft are killing our kith and kin. What is more important, importing the food or reducing the ability of Germany and its allies to make war on our cousins in the Commonwealth? And what about the lorries, rifles and all the other goods that we have made for them? Spitfires for the Romanians are just the very visible tip of a large iceberg. How do I resolve this conflict of interest? Can it be resolved at all?
Sir Edward was dragged away from his thoughts by an acute pain running down his left arm and into his fingers. At first, he thought it was just a cramp from sitting down too long or perhaps a touch of indigestion. That was when he became aware that he was very short of breath and that he was sweating profusely for no apparent reason. The condition was so pronounced that he felt as if his clothes and skin were awash in the cold sweat and his whole body seemed to be filled with a terrible chill. He tried to say something, to call for help, but a strange sense of dizziness gives the impression of enveloping him, making the effort to form the words too tiring. That filled him with an all-pervading sense of anxiety as if all the forces of darkness were surrounding him and drawing him down to his doom. Suddenly, he seemed so tired that the idea of resting his head on the cabinet table gave the appearance of being a very good one.
"Sir Edward, are you unwell?" Sir Anthony Eden took one look at Sir Edward Bridge's pasty white face beaded with sweat and realized at once what was happening. "Quick, Sir Edward is having a heart attack. Get help now."
At the head of the table, Lord Halifax wasted not one second. He spun his seat around, picked up the telephone and immediately dialed the Cabinet Office switchboard. "Get a doctor up here, immediately. Then call an ambulance, right away. We have a medical emergency, a heart attack."
Sir Edward was already receiving expert attention. Doctor Walter Elliot, the Minister of State for Scotland was already in attendance and was loosening his collar and tie. "Quick, help me get him on the floor. Sir Edward, do you have any heart medicine? Nitroglycerine for example?"
Sir Edward tried to shake his head, but he was too weak to move. "Hold on, Sir Edward, look at me, focus your eyes on my face. You must hold on. If you let go you will pass on."
Suddenly, passing on seemed like being a very good idea to Sir Edward. No more worry, no more scheming, no more conflicts of interest. He started to relax, to let the darkness that was gathering around him take over and the softness swallow him up.
That was when he realized what he was really doing was dying, leaving much of his work unfinished. I still have a country to care for, a people to feed. And Halifax's oppressive, illegal government to resist. I can't go. Not yet. With that decision made, his mind pushed back the darkness and the room seemed to come back into focus.
"This is my fault." Halifax looked across the Cabinet Room, genuine distress on his face. "I have worked Sir Edward too hard, given him too many responsibilities, and asked too much."
The medical team arrived, lifted Sir Edward onto a stretcher and hurried him out. A few seconds later, everybody heard the ambulance bell ringing as the Cabinet Secretary was rushed to the nearest hospital.
Room 208, Munitions Building, Washington D.C. USA.
"Now this is a problem." Henry L Stimson looked sadly around the room and shook his head. As Secretary of War, he was tasked with looking at potential risks to the United States. Portugal entering the war on the Axis side was a serious one, simply because it opened the possibility that the Axis countries might use the Azores as a forward base for an attack. "Judge, do we have any word on what is happening in Goa?"
Cordell Hull consulted a pile of diplomatic telegrams, one that was growing hourly. "Our Ambassador in India, Henry Grady, is doing a splendid job of keeping us briefed. His latest communication is that the Governor-General of Goa and the other Portuguese dependencies in India has surrendered to Colonel Hannigan of the Calcutta Light Horse, following a brief and almost ridiculously futile attempt to defend the capital. The Indian Government has already sent a bill to its Parliament, under the terms of which the former Portuguese territories will be incorporated as states within India. Henry, a very capable diplomat, believes that the bill will be passed and signed by the Viceroy either tomorrow or the day after. The end of the Portuguese empire in India is a done deal. The Portuguese Government in Lisbon is furious of course."
"What actually happened?" The Secretary of the Treasury, Henry Morgenthau, had been caught unawares by the suddenly developing crisis and needed to be brought into the loop.
Stimson took up the challenge. "The Germans had three spy-ships in a harbor within Goa that were transmitting information on Indian shipping movements to German U-boats and raiders. To do that, they also had to be running a spy-ring within India itself. The Indian government complained about this blatantly illegal abuse of a neutral port to the Goa authorities, eventually directly to Viceroy José Ricardo Pereira Cabral himself. The authorities refused to put an end to the spying, so the Indians staged a commando raid that destroyed all three ships and captured much highly incriminating documentation. They were entitled to do that of course. They seem to have stuck by the book right up to this point.
"Anyway, the Goa Governor-General was in Calcutta on an unofficial visit and took it on himself to register a violently worded complaint. Unfortunately, he was a hot-tempered man and he let his mouth run away with him." Stimson looked at Hull who flushed slightly and dropped his eyes.
Hull knew that he tended to do the same and not think through the consequences of his words. Unlike Cabral, though, he was a fair-minded man who was willing to learn, eventually, and would admit his errors when they were pointed out to him forcefully enough. "Cabral made a highly intemperate series of statements that ended with what amounted to a conditional declaration of war. Now, he had no authority to make such a declaration of war and should not have done so. This was a serious error of judgment on his part, especially since the Indians did not know what he had and had not been authorized to say. They had to assume that normal practices applied and that Cabral was authorized to make that conditional declaration. They honored the threat and geared up to deal with it. Then, Gandhi staged one of his demonstrations on the Goa border, the Portuguese border troops fired on it, as they were, of course, entitled to do. The Indians took that as an act enforcing their declaration of war and they acted accordingly. I must say the initial reports are that both their troops and the Portuguese have behaved with great honor and decency. The fighting was over in 36 hours."
"The Indian justification seems somewhat questionable to me." Morgenthau was pensive as he thought through the implications. "And their military actions were very quickly made, almost as if they were pre-planned. Is there any evidence Gandhi colluded in this action?”
"Almost certainly the military plans were prearranged. After all, armies have contingency plans for everything." Stimson had his own theories about that. "I believe they had their invasion already planned and were waiting for the excuse. I can sympathize with them. The Portuguese keeping Goa would be a bit like the British keeping Rhode Island after 1783. Or the Russians keeping Alaska. Gandhi though is a different matter. There is no love lost between him and the Indian government. Ambassador Grady believes that Gandhi’s action was an acute embarrassment to the Indian plans, and they would have been quietly happy if the Portuguese had killed him. "
"This leaves us with a serious conflict of interest here." Hull was sitting with his fingertips touching to form a pyramid in front of him. "On the one hand we have very friendly relations with India and are aiding them in supporting the Soviet Union resist the Nazi invasion. On the other hand, we also have amicable relations with Portugal and the Azores are a strategic threat to us should they fall into hostile hands. With India and Portugal now at war, our course of action is not clear."
"We occupied Iceland a year ago for exactly that reason. Perhaps we should now do the same to the Azores." Morgenthau looked around at the room. "A couple of Flying Fortress groups and a division of troops in the Azores should solve the problem."
"I think Secretary Stimson had a better solution." Philip Stuyvesant had been running the situation through his mind and come up with a solution to the conflict of interest.
"I did?" Stimson couldn’t think of anything he had proposed.
"The Alaska deal. We buy basing rights in the Azores off Portugal. Or, more precisely we offer to act as mediators between India and Portugal. We find a deal both can accept; something along the lines of mutual apologies for the various incidents that led up to this mess, very generous compensation theoretically paid by India but actually paid by us, for the Goa invasion, Portugal recognizes Goa as being Indian and we buy the basing rights in the Azores, the compensation from India being buried in there. We play that right, and we end up with Portugal's feelings smoothed and they have the cash they badly need, India ends up with Goa and an improved strategic situation and we end up with bases. Hell, we could end up with the Azores as sovereign territory, like Alaska. That's up to you, Secretary Hull."
"This seems to be working out very well for the Indians." Morgenthau was still suspicious.
"Situations always will if one plans properly. Looking at this Indian operation, it seems as if it was planned the way a good business project is planned. It's a series of components, each of which will bring about significant benefits if it succeeds but won’t cripple the enterprise if it fails. Like a Hollywood producer starting up a new company for each film. My companies are set up that way. The thing is, as more components succeed, the benefits rise exponentially. If the company sets it up properly, most of the components succeed and the company wins big, but it still gets some benefit if only one does. This time, the Indians pulled off all the components and they have won really big."
"You didn't plan this did you Philip?" Stimson was laughing but his eyes were watching Stuyvesant keenly.
"Not me, no. If you look at this, though, Wavell planned that attack of his in North Africa the same way. Compass wasn't it? Every part of the operation was independent and set up, so success was mutually reinforcing but failure was contained and isolated. He and Auchinleck trained in the same place so it's not surprising they operate the same way. Look, we tend to disregard British generals because we beat them in the Revolution but most of them are damned good. What's more, they all know each other, usually for several generations, and they know what they will all do under given sets of circumstances. So, putting this together wasn't hard for them.
Hull looked around the room again. "I'm convinced. I'll recommend that we approach India and Portugal as an honest mediator who will try to resolve this without further bloodshed. I understand that Salazar is seriously concerned about an invasion from Spain. Perhaps we can sweeten the pot with some military equipment for his army. It looks like they need it."
Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, London
“We have two items on the agenda today. The attack on Goa by India and the commitment of Commonwealth forces in aid of Russia. Sir John Dill, what have you to say on this?” Lord Halifax had found the international developments of the last few days immensely depressing and his whole bearing showed it.
“Prime Minister, let us deal with Goa first and admit we can have no influence on this situation one way or the other. There was a dispute between India and the Portuguese authorities in Goa, the rights and wrongs of the situation really don’t matter now. It ended with Indian forces seizing Goa and its related dependencies. They are preparing to incorporate them into India.”
“My apologies, Sir John, but just before we entered the Cabinet Room, I received a message saying that they have in fact done so. I tried to give you a copy before the meeting but . . .” Antony Eden looked around. “Also, the same message stated that the Portuguese Viceroy in Goa has committed suicide by jumping out of his office window.”
“Hmm. Thank you, Sir Anthony.” Privately Sir John Dill doubted that Cabral had in fact killed himself. It is more likely that he was helped to do so over his own strong objections. Salazar’s political police are as ruthless as Halifax’s. My God, what have I just thought? “There’s not much to say about the Indian operation. It was well-planned, designed to be flexible enough to accommodate changes and setbacks if they occurred. This time, it appears they did not, and it was all over in less than two days. One thing to note; with their forces in the Middle East and the Soviet Union and, it now appears, a capable force still in India, they have established themselves as a capable and independent force on the world stage.”
“They are not independent.” The last time Sir John had heard a grinding noise like Butler’s voice had been when Lady Dill had been learning to drive and had crashed the Bentley’s gearbox.
To Sir John’s relief, Anthony Eden dived in. “I fear I must correct you there RAB. Whether we like it or not, India is independent. It has proclaimed itself so, it is in secure control of its borders, its internal administration is unchallenged, at home and abroad, and it is recognized as a sovereign independent country by the rest of the world. Those are the recognized conditions for independence. I do not know if this was one of their intents when they took the current action in Goa, but we must recognize that Portugal declared war on India and India alone. For which we should be thankful.”
“Indeed so, Sir Anthony.” Halifax did indeed look grateful. “Every cloud has a silver lining. Where do we go from here?”
Sir Anthony was very firm. “Nowhere, Prime Minister, there is nowhere we can go. We have been cut out of the situation completely. Portugal is dealing directly with India on this matter, as one sovereign nation to another. The United States has offered to act as a mediator and ‘honest broker’. You might remember that is the same formula they used in approaching Russia and Japan in 1905. I suspect they must have just changed the dates.”
“Why do we not insert ourselves into this process?” Butler’s demand was unequivocal.
“We tried. Nobody bothered to answer our messages.” Eden looked around the room as the significance of his words sank in. Britain was now regarded as of so little account that her diplomatic communications were ignored. People were looking at each other as a further realization sank in. It took just over a year for us to sink this low.
Sir John Dill broke the silence. “Perhaps we should move on. The Commonwealth of Nations has sent some token forces to fight against Germany on the Russian Front. There is no secret about this, it has been reported in the Commonwealth and Soviet newspapers. They have what they call an Air Commando operating out of the Crimea, with significant success it appears. Some of the aircraft are South African, some are Indian and some Australian. However, from our point of view, the most important contingent is a fighter squadron and a night bomber squadron from Middle East Command. Those aircraft are manned by British crews, members of the Royal Air Force. Now they are facing the Romanians and all the Commonwealth units have done rather well. The South Africans, Australians and the Indians are one thing but British pilots in Middle East Command are quite another.”
“Fortunately, we listed them as deserters some months ago and are treating them as such. If they came back to Britain now, they would be arrested.” Butler spoke with an unhealthy degree of satisfaction in his voice. “We can wash our hands of them completely.”
“We have done more than that.” Eden had more to say on this matter and nothing was going to stop him. “When news of the Commonwealth Air Commando became public, the German high command issued orders that since the Commonwealth pilots were deserters from British forces, any pilots captured would be summarily executed by hanging. I do not recollect this Cabinet being informed of this intelligence. Furthermore, the Romanian Air Force front-line fighters are the Spitfires we sold to the Romanian government. Aircraft we built in our factories will be sending our kith and kin to the gallows.”
The murmur of shock that went around the Cabinet Office was profound and conveyed very genuine anger. Lord Halifax listened carefully to it, sensing in it the first serious opposition to his power. His resentment and anger at those who couldn’t see that he had only been doing what had to be done flared again. He paused for a few seconds to bring it under control and hoped that it would look as if he were carefully considering the position. To buy time he looked directly at Sir Anthony Eden. “Foreign Secretary are there other similar volunteer groups already in Russia?”
“There are, Prime Minister. The French have supplied a fighter squadron that is flying Soviet Yak-1 fighters. Officially, the Americans have done nothing but there are two ‘Volunteer Groups’ forming. Like the Commonwealth, they fly Kittyhawks. I believe the Americans call them ‘The Flying Bears’. Just like their volunteer group in China is called ‘The Flying Tigers’.”
“And have the Germans made any statement about those pilots?”
“They have stated they will hang any French pilots they capture. They have made no statement about the Americans.”
“I see. I will raise this matter personally with the German authorities and make it clear that since these pilots are deserters, they should be returned to us for trial and, if found guilty, imprisonment. As the supply of aircraft to Romania, I see no reason that should not continue although as neutrals, we must be paid in gold for the aircraft.”
Halifax looked around again. The incipient mutiny he had feared was already fading as the Cabinet members realized that no British court would convict a serviceman for going abroad to continue the fight against the Germans. It was only the perceptive who understood that the men would not be facing court as the British legal system understood it but a show trial with a hand-picked judge and jury. During the meeting, Sir Edward Bridges was one of those who did understand what this would mean. He had little doubt that the Germans would accept Halifax's proposed arrangement since it would stabilize their ally while also shifting the burden of the political and economic cost to Britain.
It was the news that some of the Spitfires whose sale he had helped arrange had shot down Commonwealth aircraft that struck at him. The thought made him feel physically sick and he couldn’t help looking at himself as a murderer. It was always a bit of a game before, setting up the trade deals that would help pay for the food we are importing from the Commonwealth. I never thought of the ultimate consequences of what I was doing. Now those aircraft are killing our kith and kin. What is more important, importing the food or reducing the ability of Germany and its allies to make war on our cousins in the Commonwealth? And what about the lorries, rifles and all the other goods that we have made for them? Spitfires for the Romanians are just the very visible tip of a large iceberg. How do I resolve this conflict of interest? Can it be resolved at all?
Sir Edward was dragged away from his thoughts by an acute pain running down his left arm and into his fingers. At first, he thought it was just a cramp from sitting down too long or perhaps a touch of indigestion. That was when he became aware that he was very short of breath and that he was sweating profusely for no apparent reason. The condition was so pronounced that he felt as if his clothes and skin were awash in the cold sweat and his whole body seemed to be filled with a terrible chill. He tried to say something, to call for help, but a strange sense of dizziness gives the impression of enveloping him, making the effort to form the words too tiring. That filled him with an all-pervading sense of anxiety as if all the forces of darkness were surrounding him and drawing him down to his doom. Suddenly, he seemed so tired that the idea of resting his head on the cabinet table gave the appearance of being a very good one.
"Sir Edward, are you unwell?" Sir Anthony Eden took one look at Sir Edward Bridge's pasty white face beaded with sweat and realized at once what was happening. "Quick, Sir Edward is having a heart attack. Get help now."
At the head of the table, Lord Halifax wasted not one second. He spun his seat around, picked up the telephone and immediately dialed the Cabinet Office switchboard. "Get a doctor up here, immediately. Then call an ambulance, right away. We have a medical emergency, a heart attack."
Sir Edward was already receiving expert attention. Doctor Walter Elliot, the Minister of State for Scotland was already in attendance and was loosening his collar and tie. "Quick, help me get him on the floor. Sir Edward, do you have any heart medicine? Nitroglycerine for example?"
Sir Edward tried to shake his head, but he was too weak to move. "Hold on, Sir Edward, look at me, focus your eyes on my face. You must hold on. If you let go you will pass on."
Suddenly, passing on seemed like being a very good idea to Sir Edward. No more worry, no more scheming, no more conflicts of interest. He started to relax, to let the darkness that was gathering around him take over and the softness swallow him up.
That was when he realized what he was really doing was dying, leaving much of his work unfinished. I still have a country to care for, a people to feed. And Halifax's oppressive, illegal government to resist. I can't go. Not yet. With that decision made, his mind pushed back the darkness and the room seemed to come back into focus.
"This is my fault." Halifax looked across the Cabinet Room, genuine distress on his face. "I have worked Sir Edward too hard, given him too many responsibilities, and asked too much."
The medical team arrived, lifted Sir Edward onto a stretcher and hurried him out. A few seconds later, everybody heard the ambulance bell ringing as the Cabinet Secretary was rushed to the nearest hospital.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Three
Headquarters, SS Jägdverband 502, Zhovka, Ukraine
"Hello, hello?" Otto Skorzeny had been cut off in the middle of a telephone conversation with XXXXIV Corps commander General Friedrich Koch. "Damn it, Stephan, the telephones are down."
Bähr looked up from the report he was reading. XXXXIV Corps had wanted a strategic bridge seized, one that was well to the rear of the front line. The problem was that the Ivans had finally managed to get their act together and set up a reasonably coherent defensive position. By coincidence, they had done so at the point where lengthening supply lines had meant the rampage of the Panzers was slowing as the tanks ran out of fuel. Now, the Panzers were being forced to wait while their infantry support caught up with them. That made seizing a bridge in the deep rear superfluous.
"Are you surprised, Otto? Everything in this damned country is thirty years out of date, wasn't well-built to start with and the word maintenance doesn't seem to exist in the Russian language. According to the Panzer boys, half the tanks we have captured were broken down at the side of the road and needed ten minutes work with a screwdriver and spanner to fix. Not that they were worth spending ten minutes fixing."
"Hello, operator? Reconnect me with General Koch, XXXXIV Corps headquarters, immediately. What? Who? All right, get it fixed and connect me as soon as we're ready." Skorzeny drummed his fingers. "Now that's odd."
"Problem Otto?"
"It's just the one line that's down, the one to XXXXIV Corps. It's not Russian, it is one that we laid. Signals have put a resistance box on it to find where the break is and will then send some engineers out to fix it." Skorzeny thought about that and picked up the telephone again. "Signals? Hello Klaus. Look, when you send the engineers out to fix that break, attach a Hanomag and an infantry squad to give them an escort. I don't know why, but something worries me."
"Partisans?" Bähr asked the obvious question. "Have there been reports of any groups forming?"
"Not down here, no. Army Group North has reported some and Army Group Center more but none down here. The Abwehr assessment is that the Russians are so unpopular here in the Ukraine after the great famine here that we won't see any. I somehow doubt that report is accurate. Not the way the Einsatzgruppen are behaving."
Bähr thought the situation over carefully. "If there are partisan groups forming, having to maintain a blackout will be a Godsend to them. Quite apart from anything else, not being able to open the blackout curtains limits our ability to keep a good watch."
"Especially if there are any of those damned snipers around." Skorzeny snarled. The effectiveness of the Russian snipers had been a bad surprise. Word was beginning to spread that some of them were women. "Stand in front of a lighted window and they'll drill a hole in your forehead. Or somewhere more painful."
Kilometer Post 37, Near Lvov, Ukraine
"There's our problem." Lieutenant Axel Weigert had seen the telephone pole on the ground. Driving to the scene in the blackout had been a challenging experience and he looked back on the old days when no blackout was necessary with fond nostalgia. It is a pity, but the scattered night bombing raids are just effective enough to force us to shut the lights down. The number of road accident losses we have had since then far exceeds the casualties from the bombing.
The Austin three-ton truck pulled to a halt beside the downed pole. It was immediately very clear this had been no accident. The wood bore clear marks of having been chopped through before it had fallen from its own weight and torn down the telephone wires in the process. Weigert had anticipated something like this and had brought along two pre-cut telephone poles to speed the repairs. He wanted to get back within the defensive perimeter of the German base at Zhovka with the minimum delay. There was a brooding menace about the Ukrainian countryside that worried him.
"All right; Leimbach and Moosmann, get one of the poles ready to bring down. Bunte, start clearing the broken wires, Naber, put a tow-chain on the chopped pole. We'll drag it clear with the truck. Damn it, this whole situation is all 08/15." Weigert looked at the half track behind them. It had the driver still in the seat ready to get the vehicle moving and two men manning the machine guns front and rear. Two more men had dismounted and were watching the tree lines in case of an attack. What should have been a full squad was down to only five men. The rest had been whittled away in the fields of Ukraine. "Keep your eyes peeled. The Ivans cut this pole down, the whole situation stinks of an ambush."
Half an hour later, the cut pole had been dragged clear and left at the side of the road and a new one erected in its place. Bunte had been sent up the new pole and was reconnecting the wires with waterproof joints when there was a barrage of shots aimed at the two machine gunners in the Hanomag. Both went down before they could return fire. The two dismounted infantrymen were the next to go; both had taken cover and were trying to fire on the flashes from the tree line, but they were too late to have much of a chance. Their own muzzle flashes told the attackers where they were, and a few well-aimed shots silenced them. The engineers had little more time; Weigert went first, his rank badges attracting fire. Bunte was last since his position at the top of the pole had left him clear of the main engagement. He watched helplessly as the partisans left cover and closed in on him. Their leader produced a pistol and emptied the seven rounds at Bunte. His body hit the ground with a very satisfying thud.
The only unwounded survivor of the German unit was the driver of the Hanomag. He blessed the inspiration that had made him keep the engine idling and had broken away as soon as he saw the other men being cut down. He had stopped just long enough for one of the wounded dismounts to drag himself on board and then, with rifle bullets bouncing off his vehicle's armor, he had made his escape and gone to get help.
"We need to get clear of here." Osaulenko took the P-38 pistol from the dead officer's holster. He didn’t have any more rounds for his own Nagant revolver, and in any case, he had never liked it very much. Two of his men were picking up the rifles and submachine guns from the dead Germans. His unit of Partisans had started the day with seven rifles, two pistols and a knife. Now, they had enough rifles and submachine guns to give one to each man and still have a spare or two, three pistols and eight heavy utility knives. Critically, they had captured almost a dozen blocks of explosives, intended for clearing roadblocks and obstructions. Now, they would be put to better use. Others were stripping the bodies of their boots, uniforms and underclothes. That left Osaulenko with just one objective, he had to find extra trustworthy recruits to carry the weapons they had captured. Their last act was to pile the dead bodies in the engineer's truck and set it on fire. That was a message.
Room X, Communications Security Establishment, Ontario, Canada
"Be careful what you ask for, Reggie, you will probably get it." Lt. Col. Arthur Terence Roper-Caldbeck was looking at the pile of crates that had just arrived from India. They had been flown out on a Pan-American Clipper and the expense involved had been eye-watering. Lieutenant Reginald Miles Brooker had been complaining bitterly about the lack of intercepts linking the German raiders with their home base in Kiel. Now he had more than he could possibly handle.
"What do you recommend, Sir? How do we use all this?"
Roper-Caldbeck thought about that, secretly pleased that he had an officer who knew when he needed help and had the guts to ask for it. "Drakenfels, or whatever she was called, was the lead ship. The most important messages are likely to be on her. So, start there. Run each message through the bombs, get the Enigma settings and start decoding. Most recent ones first."
"Sounds like a plan, Sir. Umm, won't the Germans have changed everything? They must assume that we captured the machines off those ships?"
"The Indians were really smart there. Their men 'missed' the machines and left enough witnesses to confirm that. Now, we have to hope that the deception holds. Pass the most recent message flimsies out to the girls and we'll get to work. God knows, this data has cost us enough."
An hour later, Geraldine Morris came in, a message clasped in her hand. "Colonel, Sir, this is an odd one. I think it's important but I'm not sure why. I've translated it from German."
Roper-Caldbeck took the decode flimsy and read it. It was a warning to the raiders that Canadian merchant ships were now equipped with radar. Brooker looked at it and snorted. "I wish. We have barely enough radar sets to equip our warships. Giving one to Empire Foam meant that a destroyer had to go without."
"This is very interesting Genie. Thank you. If you come across any more like this, bring them in straight away, and do I have to tell you not to mention this to anybody?"
"Mention what, Sir?"
"Good girl."
Roper-Caldbeck waited until the door to his office was closed. "Reggie, what do you think is the first and most basic rule of intelligence analysis?"
Brooker had the wisdom to say nothing and look thoughtful. Roper-Caldbeck grinned in response. "Reggie, always ask why? Why is this person telling me this? Why was this message sent? Why did people react the way they did? Keep asking why until you run out of things that don’t have reasons. So?"
"Why was this message sent, Sir? I would assume because Kiel believed it was important information that the raiders needed to know."
"Go on."
"So, why would the raiders need to know this? Because a radar-equipped merchant ship would spot a suspicious contact and report it. And that would result in a raider meeting a real warship."
"You're missing an important why? Why was this message sent using the top-ranking code in the German Navy?"
Brooker thought about that. “It means they must have been convinced this was a very important message and they were certain of its accuracy. Why were they sure of that? Because they had absolute faith in the reliability of the source. That means they were confident that either the source must have had eyes on the equipment, or they got information from somebody who did. We know they can’t have had eyes on it because the information is not correct, so they got the information from somebody who did see radar on a merchant ship. They used the top-rank code because they realized if they used the standard commercial code, the message could be decoded, we would make the deductions we just have, and their source would be compromised.”
“And?” Roper-Caldbeck prompted the response.
“The only merchant ship that is radar-equipped is the CAM-ship, Empire Foam. Therefore, the source must have either been on the Empire Foam or knows somebody who is. But the crew on the CAM-ship knew that their installation is unique, at least until next week when the next pair of CAM-ships join the trade routes. So, we have an enemy source, a spy, who has contact with people in the CAM program. Or, indeed, is part of that program. But we have a problem there. Most of the people involved don’t know about the ship's radar. Doesn’t that rather suggest the source has a close association with the CAM ship program?"
“Very good, Reggie. We’d better contact the shipping control stations at Churchill and Ascension.” Roper-Caldsbeck thought for a second. “And send a copy of the warning to RCAF Station Debert. Most of the development work on the Seacane was done there. They might have a leak."
"Should we tell the Mounties, Sir?"
Roper-Caldbeck shuddered. "God, no. This facility must remain secret. As far as outsiders know, this is a training facility for radio operators who will be assigned to the Canadian armed forces. In fairness, most of it is and the Mounties already know about that side of it. They're smart cookies underneath that 'frozen north' exterior. We show them this and it will take them a fraction of a second to cotton onto what we are here for. We may have to tell them eventually, but we keep quiet until then."
Headquarters, "H" Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Churchill, Nova Scotia.
Detective Inspector Geoffrey Gour looked at the man sitting opposite him. He had a black eye, mashed lips and sundry other injuries that were probably the result of the bar fight. Gour was well-aware that the American police were perfectly capable of beating a suspect in ways that didn't leave marks. Usually, he strongly disproved of such conduct. This time, he wasn't quite so sure. The suspect was refusing to answer any questions and just sat in the interrogation room in silence. Viewed objectively, Gour understood that was the sensible thing to do but it didn’t make the position any less annoying.
"What is your real name?" Gour sighed to himself; this was starting again from the beginning.
There was a complete silence. Gour tried a slightly different tack. "We have two names for you, Dieter Ehrhardt and Dirk Eisenberg. Which one of those is correct? Or is there a third name you would like on your headstone?"
There was still silence. "Oh well. We know that the Dirk Eisenberg identity is fake. You see, you made a bad mistake when you punched Pilot Officer Dale on the nose. You said your ship had been sunk off Corvo although I do note you were careful not to give her name. Well, it might surprise you to learn we do keep records of which ships were sunk where and we lost only two ships in the area off Corvo in the six months before that incident. We checked the ship's articles and signing-on records for each and guess what? Neither Dieter Ehrhardt nor Dirk Eisenberg was registered on either ship. In fact, we can't find any record of either name on any ship, so we checked with the Seaman's Union. Guess what? They don’t have either name listed. They took one look at your Union card and dismissed it as a forgery. So, let's forget about Dirk Eisenberg and stick with Dieter Ehrhardt."
There was still silence but an uneasy one. Gour tried to push a little on Dieter Ehrhardt. We have evidence to support that one. Our cousins down south have a record of you working for the German American Bund. Apparently, you were involved in some minor crimes down there. Bricks through the windows of Jewish businesses and so on. The FBI gave us their file on you including your prints. That's how we confirmed the link."
There was still silence but the tension in the air was growing thicker. "One thing I don’t understand. Dieter Ehrhardt is a good Jewish name. So why are you working for the Nazis? And why take a swing at a Pilot Officer who is fighting those Nazi bastards for you? Ashamed you don’t have the guts to fight them yourself?"
Ehrhardt finally cracked and lunged across the table, obviously with the intent of trying to kill Gour but the handcuffs attached to the table stopped him cold. Since the table was bolted to the floor, he found the experience unusually painful. Amid a string of obscenities, he gasped out "I ain't no Jew."
"Oh come on." Gour sounded almost playful. "With a name like Dieter Ehrhardt? You're as Jewish as they come. Shouldn't you be wearing a little hat?"
It took longer for the stream of obscenities to subside, mainly because they were mixed up with a series of gruesome threats aimed at Gour and his family. Gour just sat there, waiting patiently with a condescending smile on his face. "I know what happened. You were bullied at school because you're Jewish and you sought refuge by denying it. When you made it stick, the bullying stopped so you blamed your Jewishness for the torment you had suffered. So now you seek to punish other Jews. But, beneath it all, you knew your cowardice had made you betray yourself. That's why you punched Pilot Officer Dale; because he had the courage to fight back, and you don’t."
"That's a lie! I ain't no Jew."
"So you said, but with a name like yours? Come on now. Let's get your record up to date." Gour took out the file on Ehrhardt and carefully added to it, speaking the words as he did so. "Religion . . . Jewish. There, it’s official now, you can't deny it anymore. You aren't going to tell me your official file is wrong now, are you?"
"That's not my name. It's Helmut Schlee."
"Thank you, Helmut. Now, just for the record, why did you attack Pilot Officer Dale?"
"Don't know why. Look, I had to come to here after the States got too hot for me. They fixed me up with the forged cards. Then they asked me to punch that pilot. I made up the story just to get some sympathy. Thought if I made it bad enough, they'd let me go with a warning. But they didn’t so I ran. Don’t ask me why it was him. I just did what I was told."
Gour noted the statement down in Helmut Schlee's new file. "Well, thank you Helmut. We'll type this up as a statement and you can sign it."
He started to leave and then, as he went through the door, his sense of humor got the better of him. "By the way, Helmut. You do know that Helmut Schlee is a Jewish name as well, don't you?"
Outside the door he paused and listened with great satisfaction to the screams of rage from inside. His Staff Sergeant was looking at him with admiration. "That was brilliant, Sir. How did you learn that?"
Gour looked nostalgic. "Back in Toronto, we had a nasty case. A working girl was murdered in a sleazy hotel room. Some low life had been seen leaving a bar with her and was also recognized by the hotel clerk as paying for the room. He admitted he'd hired her but claims somebody hit him on the head and when he came round, she was dead. Our doc thought the bang on his head was self-inflicted, so we were all prepared to top him. Only some Jesuit priest turned up and insisted on speaking with the low life. He said chummy was innocent and somebody else had done it. Cut a long story short, turned out the hotel clerk was also her pimp and she'd been skimming on him. That priest talked to him for an hour and got the whole story. The pimp followed them up, slugged the low-life and choked her. That interrogation was brilliant; I watched it and remembered as much as I could of how it was done. Now, it paid off."
The Staff Sergeant whistled quietly. "Did you ever find out who that priest was?"
"Nah, odd thing that. Every time his name came up, he sort of slid away sideways from it. Anyways, when our friend quiets down in there, give him that confession to sign. This is turning into an odd one."
Headquarters, SS Jägdverband 502, Zhovka, Ukraine
"Hello, hello?" Otto Skorzeny had been cut off in the middle of a telephone conversation with XXXXIV Corps commander General Friedrich Koch. "Damn it, Stephan, the telephones are down."
Bähr looked up from the report he was reading. XXXXIV Corps had wanted a strategic bridge seized, one that was well to the rear of the front line. The problem was that the Ivans had finally managed to get their act together and set up a reasonably coherent defensive position. By coincidence, they had done so at the point where lengthening supply lines had meant the rampage of the Panzers was slowing as the tanks ran out of fuel. Now, the Panzers were being forced to wait while their infantry support caught up with them. That made seizing a bridge in the deep rear superfluous.
"Are you surprised, Otto? Everything in this damned country is thirty years out of date, wasn't well-built to start with and the word maintenance doesn't seem to exist in the Russian language. According to the Panzer boys, half the tanks we have captured were broken down at the side of the road and needed ten minutes work with a screwdriver and spanner to fix. Not that they were worth spending ten minutes fixing."
"Hello, operator? Reconnect me with General Koch, XXXXIV Corps headquarters, immediately. What? Who? All right, get it fixed and connect me as soon as we're ready." Skorzeny drummed his fingers. "Now that's odd."
"Problem Otto?"
"It's just the one line that's down, the one to XXXXIV Corps. It's not Russian, it is one that we laid. Signals have put a resistance box on it to find where the break is and will then send some engineers out to fix it." Skorzeny thought about that and picked up the telephone again. "Signals? Hello Klaus. Look, when you send the engineers out to fix that break, attach a Hanomag and an infantry squad to give them an escort. I don't know why, but something worries me."
"Partisans?" Bähr asked the obvious question. "Have there been reports of any groups forming?"
"Not down here, no. Army Group North has reported some and Army Group Center more but none down here. The Abwehr assessment is that the Russians are so unpopular here in the Ukraine after the great famine here that we won't see any. I somehow doubt that report is accurate. Not the way the Einsatzgruppen are behaving."
Bähr thought the situation over carefully. "If there are partisan groups forming, having to maintain a blackout will be a Godsend to them. Quite apart from anything else, not being able to open the blackout curtains limits our ability to keep a good watch."
"Especially if there are any of those damned snipers around." Skorzeny snarled. The effectiveness of the Russian snipers had been a bad surprise. Word was beginning to spread that some of them were women. "Stand in front of a lighted window and they'll drill a hole in your forehead. Or somewhere more painful."
Kilometer Post 37, Near Lvov, Ukraine
"There's our problem." Lieutenant Axel Weigert had seen the telephone pole on the ground. Driving to the scene in the blackout had been a challenging experience and he looked back on the old days when no blackout was necessary with fond nostalgia. It is a pity, but the scattered night bombing raids are just effective enough to force us to shut the lights down. The number of road accident losses we have had since then far exceeds the casualties from the bombing.
The Austin three-ton truck pulled to a halt beside the downed pole. It was immediately very clear this had been no accident. The wood bore clear marks of having been chopped through before it had fallen from its own weight and torn down the telephone wires in the process. Weigert had anticipated something like this and had brought along two pre-cut telephone poles to speed the repairs. He wanted to get back within the defensive perimeter of the German base at Zhovka with the minimum delay. There was a brooding menace about the Ukrainian countryside that worried him.
"All right; Leimbach and Moosmann, get one of the poles ready to bring down. Bunte, start clearing the broken wires, Naber, put a tow-chain on the chopped pole. We'll drag it clear with the truck. Damn it, this whole situation is all 08/15." Weigert looked at the half track behind them. It had the driver still in the seat ready to get the vehicle moving and two men manning the machine guns front and rear. Two more men had dismounted and were watching the tree lines in case of an attack. What should have been a full squad was down to only five men. The rest had been whittled away in the fields of Ukraine. "Keep your eyes peeled. The Ivans cut this pole down, the whole situation stinks of an ambush."
Half an hour later, the cut pole had been dragged clear and left at the side of the road and a new one erected in its place. Bunte had been sent up the new pole and was reconnecting the wires with waterproof joints when there was a barrage of shots aimed at the two machine gunners in the Hanomag. Both went down before they could return fire. The two dismounted infantrymen were the next to go; both had taken cover and were trying to fire on the flashes from the tree line, but they were too late to have much of a chance. Their own muzzle flashes told the attackers where they were, and a few well-aimed shots silenced them. The engineers had little more time; Weigert went first, his rank badges attracting fire. Bunte was last since his position at the top of the pole had left him clear of the main engagement. He watched helplessly as the partisans left cover and closed in on him. Their leader produced a pistol and emptied the seven rounds at Bunte. His body hit the ground with a very satisfying thud.
The only unwounded survivor of the German unit was the driver of the Hanomag. He blessed the inspiration that had made him keep the engine idling and had broken away as soon as he saw the other men being cut down. He had stopped just long enough for one of the wounded dismounts to drag himself on board and then, with rifle bullets bouncing off his vehicle's armor, he had made his escape and gone to get help.
"We need to get clear of here." Osaulenko took the P-38 pistol from the dead officer's holster. He didn’t have any more rounds for his own Nagant revolver, and in any case, he had never liked it very much. Two of his men were picking up the rifles and submachine guns from the dead Germans. His unit of Partisans had started the day with seven rifles, two pistols and a knife. Now, they had enough rifles and submachine guns to give one to each man and still have a spare or two, three pistols and eight heavy utility knives. Critically, they had captured almost a dozen blocks of explosives, intended for clearing roadblocks and obstructions. Now, they would be put to better use. Others were stripping the bodies of their boots, uniforms and underclothes. That left Osaulenko with just one objective, he had to find extra trustworthy recruits to carry the weapons they had captured. Their last act was to pile the dead bodies in the engineer's truck and set it on fire. That was a message.
Room X, Communications Security Establishment, Ontario, Canada
"Be careful what you ask for, Reggie, you will probably get it." Lt. Col. Arthur Terence Roper-Caldbeck was looking at the pile of crates that had just arrived from India. They had been flown out on a Pan-American Clipper and the expense involved had been eye-watering. Lieutenant Reginald Miles Brooker had been complaining bitterly about the lack of intercepts linking the German raiders with their home base in Kiel. Now he had more than he could possibly handle.
"What do you recommend, Sir? How do we use all this?"
Roper-Caldbeck thought about that, secretly pleased that he had an officer who knew when he needed help and had the guts to ask for it. "Drakenfels, or whatever she was called, was the lead ship. The most important messages are likely to be on her. So, start there. Run each message through the bombs, get the Enigma settings and start decoding. Most recent ones first."
"Sounds like a plan, Sir. Umm, won't the Germans have changed everything? They must assume that we captured the machines off those ships?"
"The Indians were really smart there. Their men 'missed' the machines and left enough witnesses to confirm that. Now, we have to hope that the deception holds. Pass the most recent message flimsies out to the girls and we'll get to work. God knows, this data has cost us enough."
An hour later, Geraldine Morris came in, a message clasped in her hand. "Colonel, Sir, this is an odd one. I think it's important but I'm not sure why. I've translated it from German."
Roper-Caldbeck took the decode flimsy and read it. It was a warning to the raiders that Canadian merchant ships were now equipped with radar. Brooker looked at it and snorted. "I wish. We have barely enough radar sets to equip our warships. Giving one to Empire Foam meant that a destroyer had to go without."
"This is very interesting Genie. Thank you. If you come across any more like this, bring them in straight away, and do I have to tell you not to mention this to anybody?"
"Mention what, Sir?"
"Good girl."
Roper-Caldbeck waited until the door to his office was closed. "Reggie, what do you think is the first and most basic rule of intelligence analysis?"
Brooker had the wisdom to say nothing and look thoughtful. Roper-Caldbeck grinned in response. "Reggie, always ask why? Why is this person telling me this? Why was this message sent? Why did people react the way they did? Keep asking why until you run out of things that don’t have reasons. So?"
"Why was this message sent, Sir? I would assume because Kiel believed it was important information that the raiders needed to know."
"Go on."
"So, why would the raiders need to know this? Because a radar-equipped merchant ship would spot a suspicious contact and report it. And that would result in a raider meeting a real warship."
"You're missing an important why? Why was this message sent using the top-ranking code in the German Navy?"
Brooker thought about that. “It means they must have been convinced this was a very important message and they were certain of its accuracy. Why were they sure of that? Because they had absolute faith in the reliability of the source. That means they were confident that either the source must have had eyes on the equipment, or they got information from somebody who did. We know they can’t have had eyes on it because the information is not correct, so they got the information from somebody who did see radar on a merchant ship. They used the top-rank code because they realized if they used the standard commercial code, the message could be decoded, we would make the deductions we just have, and their source would be compromised.”
“And?” Roper-Caldbeck prompted the response.
“The only merchant ship that is radar-equipped is the CAM-ship, Empire Foam. Therefore, the source must have either been on the Empire Foam or knows somebody who is. But the crew on the CAM-ship knew that their installation is unique, at least until next week when the next pair of CAM-ships join the trade routes. So, we have an enemy source, a spy, who has contact with people in the CAM program. Or, indeed, is part of that program. But we have a problem there. Most of the people involved don’t know about the ship's radar. Doesn’t that rather suggest the source has a close association with the CAM ship program?"
“Very good, Reggie. We’d better contact the shipping control stations at Churchill and Ascension.” Roper-Caldsbeck thought for a second. “And send a copy of the warning to RCAF Station Debert. Most of the development work on the Seacane was done there. They might have a leak."
"Should we tell the Mounties, Sir?"
Roper-Caldbeck shuddered. "God, no. This facility must remain secret. As far as outsiders know, this is a training facility for radio operators who will be assigned to the Canadian armed forces. In fairness, most of it is and the Mounties already know about that side of it. They're smart cookies underneath that 'frozen north' exterior. We show them this and it will take them a fraction of a second to cotton onto what we are here for. We may have to tell them eventually, but we keep quiet until then."
Headquarters, "H" Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Churchill, Nova Scotia.
Detective Inspector Geoffrey Gour looked at the man sitting opposite him. He had a black eye, mashed lips and sundry other injuries that were probably the result of the bar fight. Gour was well-aware that the American police were perfectly capable of beating a suspect in ways that didn't leave marks. Usually, he strongly disproved of such conduct. This time, he wasn't quite so sure. The suspect was refusing to answer any questions and just sat in the interrogation room in silence. Viewed objectively, Gour understood that was the sensible thing to do but it didn’t make the position any less annoying.
"What is your real name?" Gour sighed to himself; this was starting again from the beginning.
There was a complete silence. Gour tried a slightly different tack. "We have two names for you, Dieter Ehrhardt and Dirk Eisenberg. Which one of those is correct? Or is there a third name you would like on your headstone?"
There was still silence. "Oh well. We know that the Dirk Eisenberg identity is fake. You see, you made a bad mistake when you punched Pilot Officer Dale on the nose. You said your ship had been sunk off Corvo although I do note you were careful not to give her name. Well, it might surprise you to learn we do keep records of which ships were sunk where and we lost only two ships in the area off Corvo in the six months before that incident. We checked the ship's articles and signing-on records for each and guess what? Neither Dieter Ehrhardt nor Dirk Eisenberg was registered on either ship. In fact, we can't find any record of either name on any ship, so we checked with the Seaman's Union. Guess what? They don’t have either name listed. They took one look at your Union card and dismissed it as a forgery. So, let's forget about Dirk Eisenberg and stick with Dieter Ehrhardt."
There was still silence but an uneasy one. Gour tried to push a little on Dieter Ehrhardt. We have evidence to support that one. Our cousins down south have a record of you working for the German American Bund. Apparently, you were involved in some minor crimes down there. Bricks through the windows of Jewish businesses and so on. The FBI gave us their file on you including your prints. That's how we confirmed the link."
There was still silence but the tension in the air was growing thicker. "One thing I don’t understand. Dieter Ehrhardt is a good Jewish name. So why are you working for the Nazis? And why take a swing at a Pilot Officer who is fighting those Nazi bastards for you? Ashamed you don’t have the guts to fight them yourself?"
Ehrhardt finally cracked and lunged across the table, obviously with the intent of trying to kill Gour but the handcuffs attached to the table stopped him cold. Since the table was bolted to the floor, he found the experience unusually painful. Amid a string of obscenities, he gasped out "I ain't no Jew."
"Oh come on." Gour sounded almost playful. "With a name like Dieter Ehrhardt? You're as Jewish as they come. Shouldn't you be wearing a little hat?"
It took longer for the stream of obscenities to subside, mainly because they were mixed up with a series of gruesome threats aimed at Gour and his family. Gour just sat there, waiting patiently with a condescending smile on his face. "I know what happened. You were bullied at school because you're Jewish and you sought refuge by denying it. When you made it stick, the bullying stopped so you blamed your Jewishness for the torment you had suffered. So now you seek to punish other Jews. But, beneath it all, you knew your cowardice had made you betray yourself. That's why you punched Pilot Officer Dale; because he had the courage to fight back, and you don’t."
"That's a lie! I ain't no Jew."
"So you said, but with a name like yours? Come on now. Let's get your record up to date." Gour took out the file on Ehrhardt and carefully added to it, speaking the words as he did so. "Religion . . . Jewish. There, it’s official now, you can't deny it anymore. You aren't going to tell me your official file is wrong now, are you?"
"That's not my name. It's Helmut Schlee."
"Thank you, Helmut. Now, just for the record, why did you attack Pilot Officer Dale?"
"Don't know why. Look, I had to come to here after the States got too hot for me. They fixed me up with the forged cards. Then they asked me to punch that pilot. I made up the story just to get some sympathy. Thought if I made it bad enough, they'd let me go with a warning. But they didn’t so I ran. Don’t ask me why it was him. I just did what I was told."
Gour noted the statement down in Helmut Schlee's new file. "Well, thank you Helmut. We'll type this up as a statement and you can sign it."
He started to leave and then, as he went through the door, his sense of humor got the better of him. "By the way, Helmut. You do know that Helmut Schlee is a Jewish name as well, don't you?"
Outside the door he paused and listened with great satisfaction to the screams of rage from inside. His Staff Sergeant was looking at him with admiration. "That was brilliant, Sir. How did you learn that?"
Gour looked nostalgic. "Back in Toronto, we had a nasty case. A working girl was murdered in a sleazy hotel room. Some low life had been seen leaving a bar with her and was also recognized by the hotel clerk as paying for the room. He admitted he'd hired her but claims somebody hit him on the head and when he came round, she was dead. Our doc thought the bang on his head was self-inflicted, so we were all prepared to top him. Only some Jesuit priest turned up and insisted on speaking with the low life. He said chummy was innocent and somebody else had done it. Cut a long story short, turned out the hotel clerk was also her pimp and she'd been skimming on him. That priest talked to him for an hour and got the whole story. The pimp followed them up, slugged the low-life and choked her. That interrogation was brilliant; I watched it and remembered as much as I could of how it was done. Now, it paid off."
The Staff Sergeant whistled quietly. "Did you ever find out who that priest was?"
"Nah, odd thing that. Every time his name came up, he sort of slid away sideways from it. Anyways, when our friend quiets down in there, give him that confession to sign. This is turning into an odd one."
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Four
CAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
Dale brought his Hurry-can around in a smooth turn, carefully noting the response of the aircraft to his control inputs. The heavy 37mm guns under the wings had made the aircraft more sluggish than its older sisters armed with 12 0.3-inch machine guns and its turning circle was wider. More importantly, its roll-rate was lower and that made transitioning between maneuvers more difficult. On the other hand, the maximum speed hadn't been degraded by the pods under the wings. Dale realized that was because the aerodynamic problems with the Hurry-can meant that there was still enough excess power in the engine to pull the plane up to the point where those problems prevented any further increase. The other piece of good news was that the Hurry-can was still a good-natured and docile aircraft to fly. That made up for a lot of sins.
He could see the target that had been set up on the ground ready for him. The first test-flight had been made with the guns set to fire alternately but the resulting swings as the recoil had pushed the aircraft first one way then the other had made accuracy impossible. Now, the guns were set to fire together. The 37 mm autocannon were modified versions of the US Army's M1A2 anti-aircraft gun. It was a much better gun than the M4s taken from the P-39 despite being twice as heavy. Its feed was more reliable, it had 50 percent greater muzzle velocity and its trajectory was flatter. The weight had turned out not to matter too much but the much sharper and heavier recoil was another matter.
The strange fact was that the design of the aircraft had already moved on since this prototype had been built. The second prototype had a cut-down rear fuselage and a bubble cockpit to improve rearwards vision. It had been whispered that if the test-flights were successful, it would go into production for the RCAF. Not as a fighter of course but as an anti-tank ground attack aircraft. For that role, the aircraft had to be a good gun-platform and the first test had clearly shown it was not.
The target was now clearly visible; a mock-up of a tank made using scrap steel and piping. To make it 'more realistic', it had been covered with black crosses and swastikas which seemed to Dale to have gone a little too far. Nevertheless, he pushed the nose down and started his dive on the 'enemy tank'. It was critical to make the dive shallow enough to stretch the time he had available for shots; this wasn't a dive-bombing attack after all. He waited until the target was close enough to fill his gunsight and then squeezed the trigger on his guns. The recoil from two guns firing together was much worse than he had expected, and it forced the nose of his aircraft right down, causing the shots to go short and the aircraft's dive to pick up to a dangerous level.
Dale pulled back on the stick, brought the aircraft back to its original dive. Then, he thought for a second and tried to compensate for the recoil by aiming over the target. It took him three successive shots to get the correction right but the last pair hit squarely on the side of the target. To his delight, it exploded in a cloud of black, oily smoke. Obviously, the ground crew put a drum of gasoline and used engine oil inside.
Two more passes taught him to aim high and correct for the nose-depressing recoil between shots. By the end of the second pass, he was hitting the by-now shredded target reliably. "Bill, we got it. Takes a bit of practice but once I got the knack, she's a tack-driver. This one is a keeper."
"Great to hear Digger. Better come in now. Your friend from the Mounties is here."
Once again, Dale delighted in the easy handling of the Hurry-Can and put the aircraft down in a perfect landing. He watched the aircraft being towed away to the hangar for a post-test flight inspection, then went over to meet his guest. "Hi Geoff. Anything interesting happening?"
"Well, yes. We caught the guy that punched you and he's in the cells now. There's a bit of an oddity come up though. He was using two false names; it appears now that his real name is Helmut Schnee and he's a German American. Came to the US in the 1920s and hooked up with the German American Bund. Attracted the interest of the FBI then and they wanted him quite badly after he fire-bombed a Jewish-owned business. Nobody was killed but the owner and his family were quite seriously burned. He ran for Canada where our equivalent of the German American Bund, the National Social Christian Party, took him in and fixed him up with a false identity, the Dieter Ehrhardt one. Then they gave him a second false identity, the Dirk Eisenberg one, and told him to punch you out. It appears that what everybody thought was a random attack by a lunatic and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, was nothing of the sort. It was carefully planned, and you were carefully targeted. What we don’t understand is why?"
Dale thought about that. "It doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"No, it doesn't. The only thing we can think of is your work here. Perhaps it was an attempt to sabotage that. He could have expected you to fight back, and he'd have stuck a knife in you during the brawl. Deprived this place of its test pilot."
"Somehow, I don’t think the Germans are so afraid of the Hurry-Can that they would go to that length to stop it entering service. Anyway, there are three other pilots here. It just doesn’t make sense."
Headquarters, Artillery Regiment 171, 71st Infantry Division, Irwin, Ukraine
“Have we any ammunition left?” Colonel Klaus Marcks had a pile of demands for artillery support in his command post, none of which he could fulfill. He was rationing the heavy guns to three round per day and that had deprived the 71st of a lot of its options. The 10.5 cm howitzers were a bit better off; they had been rationed to five rounds per day. Despite these economies, which he knew very well were costing the division a steady increase in its casualty rate, the on-hand stockpiles were critically low.
Captain Heinrich Asbach had just completed a full inventory. The results of which could have been set to music and sung as a dirge for a funeral. Which, for many of our infantry is exactly what it is. “Critically low, Colonel. At the present rate we will be out of artillery ammunition by the end of the week.”
“Heini, this is Friday.” Marcks knew all the tricks of reporting bad news to his superiors. ‘End of the week’ sounded so much more palatable than ‘tomorrow’.
“Yes, Klaus. All the regiments are reporting the same problem. Low on ammunition and fuel. If we couldn’t live off the country, we would be short of food as well. It’s not that we’re short of supplies, the dumps at the rear are still well-filled. It’s getting those supplies to us. The roads are frightful, the railways are almost useless.”
“Don’t you just hate it when Felix is right?” Marcks had vivid memories of the days before Barbarossa had started and his supply officer, Colonel Felix Peiper, had put his finger at a point on the map and said that was where they would run out of fuel and ammunition. “We are exactly where he said we would be when we ran out.”
“It’s the same across the Army, Klaus. All the infantry divisions have the same problem, no fuel, and no ammunition. We’re all still moving forward but we are doing it at a walking pace and we’re losing men because of it. Even so, we’re advancing faster than the Panzers for once. They have the same fuel and munitions problems, but their tanks can’t move.”
“It’s not just that Heini. It’s that the Ivans are fighting back now. They’ve stopped pouring east, turned around, and formed a defensive line. They’re holding it with units they’ve reformed from the retreat and a lot of new ones, and they’ve got new equipment. North and Central are reporting they’ve run into two new tanks, a medium and a heavy. Fast, heavily armed, and heavily armored. Our tanks just bounce shells off them. It’s only a question of time before we run into them here. I’ll tell you the next thing we will run out of. Men. We started this war with 361,000 trained reservists. In the six weeks since Barbarossa started, we’ve lost at least that many. Like ammunition, getting them to us will be a real problem. At a guess, I’d say the training units are being stripped right now for extra men that can be sent here.”
“So, what are our orders, Klaus?”
“Thank God, somebody has had a blinding flash of the obvious. We’re to hold where we are and keep a defensive posture until supplies and fuel catch up with us. In the meantime, Army Group Center will freeze its front line and swing its Panzer divisions south. That way they can take the Ivans in front of us from the rear. We’re fighting the Southwestern Front here; if this works, we’ll put the whole damned lot in the bag.”
Asbach looked at the maps that littered the command post. “That’ll eliminate the open flank on the south of Army Group Center. We’re lucky the Ivans never spotted that.”
“Oh they spotted it Heini, but they chose to do nothing about it. Their top priority was getting as much of the army and the population east as possible. Their whole national strategy was based on doing that while they husbanded as much of their strength as possible for a long-term war. Now their situation is stabilizing, they can think about offensives. We may have less time to launch ours than we think.”
Asbach thought about that as well. “Klaus, how many trained reservists do the Ivans have?”
Marcks had the answer to hand. “According to the Abwehr, about fourteen million.”
4th Ground-Attack Aircraft Regiment, Airfield 11, Donuzlav Lake, Crimea.
Donuzlav was a seriously attractive place to base a ground attack regiment. Not for any operational reason but because before the war it had been a moderately famous spa. A stream of almost boiling and highly sulfurized water that smelled of rotten eggs ran down to where a wood-lined hollow had been dug into the ground. It could be filled with water, and when it cooled a bit, a dozen exhausted and wounded pilots could submerge in it and enjoy the healing water. It was generally agreed that the 4th Regiment would fight to the last man and the last aircraft to protect their spa and, incidentally, their base.
Lieutenant Petr Anisimovich Ochakov and Lieutenant Alekse Ivanovich Vasilyev were taking full advantage of the spa pool. After flying between two and three missions a day for over a month, they had finally been allowed a day’s rest to have a walk through Donuzlav and acquaint themselves with the geography of the town. The official reason was to be aware of their environment in case the base was overrun, and they had to continue the fight as Partisans. The real reason was that their politruk had seen they were both on the verge of collapse and desperately needed a good rest. The two had left early that morning and spent the day strolling along the streets, trying to find a few souvenirs of the Crimea that they could send back to their families. The unspoken message of doing so was, of course, to let them know they had survived so far and perhaps give a hint of where they were.
Instead, they had found a town crowded with refugees, one where endless queues surrounded all the shops that still could provide bread and the other bare necessities of life. They had eventually found their way down to the harbor, thinking perhaps that they could see the blue water and perhaps even take a swim. But it had been the same there as it had been throughout the rest of the town. There were just thousands of refugees swarming the whole area. More steamers had come in while the two pilots watched. Ships loaded with women with and their children, mixed in with old men and badly wounded soldiers. They both knew that all the refugees, the children, old men and women had been waiting for several weeks for a steamer to evacuate them from Odessa and the towns along the Black Sea coast. Everything bore the shambles of defeat. Even the sea was not blue; instead, it was a filthy greyish brown covered with a skim of oil in which pieces of paper, wood and other garbage were drifting along the surface.
They were looking at the ruin of what had once been a beautiful harbor when the air raid warning sirens had started their insane wailing. The panic along the waterfront had been terrible to behold; people had scattered across the area, frantically running for whatever cover they could find. Women had been pulling their children along, desperately trying to find somewhere they could hide. Even the stallholders who had been trying to sell whatever they had to the refugees abandoned their pitiful stands and joined in the chaotic rush for cover. From high in the sky, Ochakov and Vasilyev heard the harsh, broken sound of German aircraft engines. Looking up, Ochakov saw the formation making its run. He estimated they were at least 5,000 meters high and in a closely packed block of 36 aircraft. As they closed on the town, he recognized them as Heinkel 111s.
The battle overhead was quick and one-sided. The formation was attacked by a dozen or so MiG-3s that dived out of the sun, straight into the massed gunfire of the fascist bombers. As they closed in on the bombers, they were hit from behind by Messers who sliced through the MiGs as if they had been helpless babies. Ochakov guessed that to the fascist pilots, that was what they were. The bombers plowed majestically and imperturbably onwards while the Soviet attack behind them shattered into a chaos of burning aircraft and black smoke trails across the sky.
The fascists had not been aiming at the port; instead, their bombs landed in a tight box pattern that devastated a worker’s housing complex on the coast a couple of kilometers south of the town. Ochakov guessed that it must have looked like a factory or an army barracks from aerial photographs. He and Vasilyev had set off at a run for the blazing ruins but there was little anybody could do. The small, neat houses had been blown apart by the heavy bombs and most of the area was already burning. The devastation was beyond anything the local firefighting force could handle and without proper equipment there was no hope of stopping the fires spreading. Instead, the two pilots joined groups of men and women who were rescuing trapped and wounded people from their homes before the fires spread to them. Amid the ruins, the clinging smoke and dust and surrounded by the wailing and screaming of the stricken residents, just getting people clear seemed little enough. To make matters worse, when they had finally been leaving, they had heard a voice sneering from the crowd. “Stalin’s Eagles? More like Stalin’s bitches.”
They had returned to base feeling very differently from the way they had set out that morning. Then they had been exhausted, brain-tired and wanted nothing more than an opportunity to sleep for a day. Now, having seen the grimness of the situation and the despair of the refugees who had nothing to fight with, they wanted to fly again and strike back at the invaders who were the cause of all this misery. The Politruk had been quite firm on that point. Tomorrow, they would fly, today they would rest. And so, they had found themselves in the spa-pool.
“Bratishka, I have good news!” Their Politruk was coming up the path towards them. “A fighter regiment, with LaGG-3 aircraft is joining us at this base this evening. Their assignment will be to cover our attackers to the exclusion of all other considerations. We will have a proper fighter escort at last!”
Ochakov and Vasilyev looked at each other. A few hours ago, a dedicated fighter escort would have been the answer to their dreams and would have given them a fighting chance of hitting the invaders and surviving. Now, monopolizing the few survivors of the hundreds of fighters that had been destroyed on the ground or thrown away in pointless ‘army support’ missions seemed more than cowardly. But it was better to say nothing about that. Instead, they just gave the expected reply, “we serve the Party and the People.”
Partisan Group, Kostopilskyi Forest, Ukraine
“Tovarish Leader, there is something strange up ahead.” Iohannes Andriychuk, with his intimate knowledge of the forest and the myriad of tracks that led through it, had quickly become the Partisan unit’s scout. He slipped through the trees and the tangled undergrowth with the skills of a boy who had been brought up in the forest and was completely at home there.
“Something strange, bratishka? That is not a very helpful sighting.” Ousalenko was trying to balance encouraging the boy while also teaching him the fundamentals of soldiering.
“Not a sighting Tovarish Leader. A smell, a foul, disgusting smell. As if an over-filled cesspit was rotting in the hot sun.”
Ousalenko made a grunting noise. He could visualize exactly what kind of smell Andriychuk was describing but he couldn’t decide what had caused it. It wasn’t right for decaying bodies; that was something every man in his team was familiar with by now. “You did well to report this bratishka. We must investigate. Petya, Sasha and Volya, come with me. Tovarish Iochka, show us where this strange smell can be found.”
Ousalenko had to admit the smell was bad although it was much fainter than he had expected. He guessed that Andriychuk had spent so long in the forest that his nose was tuned to the smells of the trees and bushes, not the foul stench of sewage. Now how did the stench of sewage get here? Somebody must have brought it because this is not a natural smell of the forest. That’s why Iochka noticed it. It’s a good bet that somebody is still here. Now, if I were trying to hide, where would I go?
He looked around and his attention was drawn to a small group of trees that provided a framework for a particularly dense patch of undergrowth. “Bratishka, come with me. We must take great care here.”
The smell grew stronger as the partisans approached the thicket. When Ousalenko stopped and listened, he could hear a faint sound of whimpering from within. From there it was only a few seconds before he found the person trying to hide within. It was a girl, mid-teenage at most and she was shaking with fear. “Please, don’t set me on fire.”
“We’re not going to hurt you, tovarishch sestra. We were Soviet Soldiers, now we are partisans.” Ousalenko watched the girl calm down slightly. "We will protect you as best we can. Who are you?
The girl steadied herself still further. "I am Valentina Aleksandrovna Nasonkin, from the village of Gorynka. I cannot go home; the village no longer exists. The fascists and their dogs burned it."
"What happened, Valechka?" Ousalenko had sat down beside her so he could listen better. The story she told was little different from the scenes they had witnessed earlier. The men and women separated, the former marched off as slaves, the latter burned alive with their children. Valentina's mother and brother had been amongst the latter.
"How did you escape?"
"I was . . . . . in the outhouse. When I saw what was happening I hid in the cess-pit. I got right under the . . . water . . with only my nose and mouth showing. A few days earlier, one of the Ukrainian Nationalist bandits left some of their posters and my father, Chekist Aleksandr Nikitich Nasonkin, threw them in the pit. That was just before he went to Moskva on Party business. I found one and used it to hide by nose and mouth so when the fascists looked into the pit they didn’t see me. I stayed there until the screaming stopped and there was quiet for a long time."
And that explains the awful smell. Ousalenko thought. I bet she washed herself afterwards and tried to wash her clothes but they are saturated with the filth and can never be cleaned. "Valechka, this is very important. Can you tell us anything about the fascists?"
"Their trucks had a shield painted on the side, with a key on it. And their dogs were Ukrainian Auxiliaries. The fascists called them nightingales because they made the women and children sing so beautifully while they burned."
Valentina lost her hard-won composure as the dreadful memories came flooding back. Yet, she was steadied almost instantly by the obvious anger and hatred that spread amongst the Partisans as they heard of the Nightingales. Ousalenko nodded, the glimmering of an idea forming in his mind. "Valechka, we will rejoin the rest of our band now. Will you tell them your story, complete with the Nightingales?"
When the Partisan company had reassembled, Valentina did as he asked. Once she had finished, Ousalenko stood before them and asked the question. "Comrades, should we allow Valentina Aleksandrovna Nasonkin, from the village of Gorynka to join our company?"
Eight hands were raised as one. "Valechka, you are now our sister. There is a stream here you can wash in and we have some clean clothes you can wear. They are men's clothes but will serve you well. I suggest you cut off your braid as well, it would be better if you did not look too much like a girl when we kill the fascists who wiped out your family. Now, here is our Partisans Oath. Swear it and carry its words firmly in your heart!"
An hour later, Valentina reappeared, now washed clean with short hair and wearing a mixture of Soviet Army and civilian clothing. She even had a pair of boots that weren't too outrageously large for her. All the donated clothes were too big for her, but Ousalenko suspected that after a night spent sewing, they would fit well enough. To the relief of everybody, the foul smell that had enveloped her was finally gone.
"Valechka, you said your father is a Chekist? We are simple soldiers who know little of party matters. We need a Politruk to explain such things to us. You understand party matters, will you be our Politruk?" Ousalenk watched the girl think and then nod. "Good, tovarish Politruk. Here is a gift from all of us to welcome you to our company."
He handed her one of the trophy MP40 submachine guns. "It is a machine gun, but ammunition is scarce. You must use it carefully. The magazine has thirty rounds in it; I expect you to kill twenty fascists with them!"
She took the weapon and nodded solemnly. Ousalenko had been joking. Valentina Aleksandrovna Nasonkin was not.
CAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
Dale brought his Hurry-can around in a smooth turn, carefully noting the response of the aircraft to his control inputs. The heavy 37mm guns under the wings had made the aircraft more sluggish than its older sisters armed with 12 0.3-inch machine guns and its turning circle was wider. More importantly, its roll-rate was lower and that made transitioning between maneuvers more difficult. On the other hand, the maximum speed hadn't been degraded by the pods under the wings. Dale realized that was because the aerodynamic problems with the Hurry-can meant that there was still enough excess power in the engine to pull the plane up to the point where those problems prevented any further increase. The other piece of good news was that the Hurry-can was still a good-natured and docile aircraft to fly. That made up for a lot of sins.
He could see the target that had been set up on the ground ready for him. The first test-flight had been made with the guns set to fire alternately but the resulting swings as the recoil had pushed the aircraft first one way then the other had made accuracy impossible. Now, the guns were set to fire together. The 37 mm autocannon were modified versions of the US Army's M1A2 anti-aircraft gun. It was a much better gun than the M4s taken from the P-39 despite being twice as heavy. Its feed was more reliable, it had 50 percent greater muzzle velocity and its trajectory was flatter. The weight had turned out not to matter too much but the much sharper and heavier recoil was another matter.
The strange fact was that the design of the aircraft had already moved on since this prototype had been built. The second prototype had a cut-down rear fuselage and a bubble cockpit to improve rearwards vision. It had been whispered that if the test-flights were successful, it would go into production for the RCAF. Not as a fighter of course but as an anti-tank ground attack aircraft. For that role, the aircraft had to be a good gun-platform and the first test had clearly shown it was not.
The target was now clearly visible; a mock-up of a tank made using scrap steel and piping. To make it 'more realistic', it had been covered with black crosses and swastikas which seemed to Dale to have gone a little too far. Nevertheless, he pushed the nose down and started his dive on the 'enemy tank'. It was critical to make the dive shallow enough to stretch the time he had available for shots; this wasn't a dive-bombing attack after all. He waited until the target was close enough to fill his gunsight and then squeezed the trigger on his guns. The recoil from two guns firing together was much worse than he had expected, and it forced the nose of his aircraft right down, causing the shots to go short and the aircraft's dive to pick up to a dangerous level.
Dale pulled back on the stick, brought the aircraft back to its original dive. Then, he thought for a second and tried to compensate for the recoil by aiming over the target. It took him three successive shots to get the correction right but the last pair hit squarely on the side of the target. To his delight, it exploded in a cloud of black, oily smoke. Obviously, the ground crew put a drum of gasoline and used engine oil inside.
Two more passes taught him to aim high and correct for the nose-depressing recoil between shots. By the end of the second pass, he was hitting the by-now shredded target reliably. "Bill, we got it. Takes a bit of practice but once I got the knack, she's a tack-driver. This one is a keeper."
"Great to hear Digger. Better come in now. Your friend from the Mounties is here."
Once again, Dale delighted in the easy handling of the Hurry-Can and put the aircraft down in a perfect landing. He watched the aircraft being towed away to the hangar for a post-test flight inspection, then went over to meet his guest. "Hi Geoff. Anything interesting happening?"
"Well, yes. We caught the guy that punched you and he's in the cells now. There's a bit of an oddity come up though. He was using two false names; it appears now that his real name is Helmut Schnee and he's a German American. Came to the US in the 1920s and hooked up with the German American Bund. Attracted the interest of the FBI then and they wanted him quite badly after he fire-bombed a Jewish-owned business. Nobody was killed but the owner and his family were quite seriously burned. He ran for Canada where our equivalent of the German American Bund, the National Social Christian Party, took him in and fixed him up with a false identity, the Dieter Ehrhardt one. Then they gave him a second false identity, the Dirk Eisenberg one, and told him to punch you out. It appears that what everybody thought was a random attack by a lunatic and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, was nothing of the sort. It was carefully planned, and you were carefully targeted. What we don’t understand is why?"
Dale thought about that. "It doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"No, it doesn't. The only thing we can think of is your work here. Perhaps it was an attempt to sabotage that. He could have expected you to fight back, and he'd have stuck a knife in you during the brawl. Deprived this place of its test pilot."
"Somehow, I don’t think the Germans are so afraid of the Hurry-Can that they would go to that length to stop it entering service. Anyway, there are three other pilots here. It just doesn’t make sense."
Headquarters, Artillery Regiment 171, 71st Infantry Division, Irwin, Ukraine
“Have we any ammunition left?” Colonel Klaus Marcks had a pile of demands for artillery support in his command post, none of which he could fulfill. He was rationing the heavy guns to three round per day and that had deprived the 71st of a lot of its options. The 10.5 cm howitzers were a bit better off; they had been rationed to five rounds per day. Despite these economies, which he knew very well were costing the division a steady increase in its casualty rate, the on-hand stockpiles were critically low.
Captain Heinrich Asbach had just completed a full inventory. The results of which could have been set to music and sung as a dirge for a funeral. Which, for many of our infantry is exactly what it is. “Critically low, Colonel. At the present rate we will be out of artillery ammunition by the end of the week.”
“Heini, this is Friday.” Marcks knew all the tricks of reporting bad news to his superiors. ‘End of the week’ sounded so much more palatable than ‘tomorrow’.
“Yes, Klaus. All the regiments are reporting the same problem. Low on ammunition and fuel. If we couldn’t live off the country, we would be short of food as well. It’s not that we’re short of supplies, the dumps at the rear are still well-filled. It’s getting those supplies to us. The roads are frightful, the railways are almost useless.”
“Don’t you just hate it when Felix is right?” Marcks had vivid memories of the days before Barbarossa had started and his supply officer, Colonel Felix Peiper, had put his finger at a point on the map and said that was where they would run out of fuel and ammunition. “We are exactly where he said we would be when we ran out.”
“It’s the same across the Army, Klaus. All the infantry divisions have the same problem, no fuel, and no ammunition. We’re all still moving forward but we are doing it at a walking pace and we’re losing men because of it. Even so, we’re advancing faster than the Panzers for once. They have the same fuel and munitions problems, but their tanks can’t move.”
“It’s not just that Heini. It’s that the Ivans are fighting back now. They’ve stopped pouring east, turned around, and formed a defensive line. They’re holding it with units they’ve reformed from the retreat and a lot of new ones, and they’ve got new equipment. North and Central are reporting they’ve run into two new tanks, a medium and a heavy. Fast, heavily armed, and heavily armored. Our tanks just bounce shells off them. It’s only a question of time before we run into them here. I’ll tell you the next thing we will run out of. Men. We started this war with 361,000 trained reservists. In the six weeks since Barbarossa started, we’ve lost at least that many. Like ammunition, getting them to us will be a real problem. At a guess, I’d say the training units are being stripped right now for extra men that can be sent here.”
“So, what are our orders, Klaus?”
“Thank God, somebody has had a blinding flash of the obvious. We’re to hold where we are and keep a defensive posture until supplies and fuel catch up with us. In the meantime, Army Group Center will freeze its front line and swing its Panzer divisions south. That way they can take the Ivans in front of us from the rear. We’re fighting the Southwestern Front here; if this works, we’ll put the whole damned lot in the bag.”
Asbach looked at the maps that littered the command post. “That’ll eliminate the open flank on the south of Army Group Center. We’re lucky the Ivans never spotted that.”
“Oh they spotted it Heini, but they chose to do nothing about it. Their top priority was getting as much of the army and the population east as possible. Their whole national strategy was based on doing that while they husbanded as much of their strength as possible for a long-term war. Now their situation is stabilizing, they can think about offensives. We may have less time to launch ours than we think.”
Asbach thought about that as well. “Klaus, how many trained reservists do the Ivans have?”
Marcks had the answer to hand. “According to the Abwehr, about fourteen million.”
4th Ground-Attack Aircraft Regiment, Airfield 11, Donuzlav Lake, Crimea.
Donuzlav was a seriously attractive place to base a ground attack regiment. Not for any operational reason but because before the war it had been a moderately famous spa. A stream of almost boiling and highly sulfurized water that smelled of rotten eggs ran down to where a wood-lined hollow had been dug into the ground. It could be filled with water, and when it cooled a bit, a dozen exhausted and wounded pilots could submerge in it and enjoy the healing water. It was generally agreed that the 4th Regiment would fight to the last man and the last aircraft to protect their spa and, incidentally, their base.
Lieutenant Petr Anisimovich Ochakov and Lieutenant Alekse Ivanovich Vasilyev were taking full advantage of the spa pool. After flying between two and three missions a day for over a month, they had finally been allowed a day’s rest to have a walk through Donuzlav and acquaint themselves with the geography of the town. The official reason was to be aware of their environment in case the base was overrun, and they had to continue the fight as Partisans. The real reason was that their politruk had seen they were both on the verge of collapse and desperately needed a good rest. The two had left early that morning and spent the day strolling along the streets, trying to find a few souvenirs of the Crimea that they could send back to their families. The unspoken message of doing so was, of course, to let them know they had survived so far and perhaps give a hint of where they were.
Instead, they had found a town crowded with refugees, one where endless queues surrounded all the shops that still could provide bread and the other bare necessities of life. They had eventually found their way down to the harbor, thinking perhaps that they could see the blue water and perhaps even take a swim. But it had been the same there as it had been throughout the rest of the town. There were just thousands of refugees swarming the whole area. More steamers had come in while the two pilots watched. Ships loaded with women with and their children, mixed in with old men and badly wounded soldiers. They both knew that all the refugees, the children, old men and women had been waiting for several weeks for a steamer to evacuate them from Odessa and the towns along the Black Sea coast. Everything bore the shambles of defeat. Even the sea was not blue; instead, it was a filthy greyish brown covered with a skim of oil in which pieces of paper, wood and other garbage were drifting along the surface.
They were looking at the ruin of what had once been a beautiful harbor when the air raid warning sirens had started their insane wailing. The panic along the waterfront had been terrible to behold; people had scattered across the area, frantically running for whatever cover they could find. Women had been pulling their children along, desperately trying to find somewhere they could hide. Even the stallholders who had been trying to sell whatever they had to the refugees abandoned their pitiful stands and joined in the chaotic rush for cover. From high in the sky, Ochakov and Vasilyev heard the harsh, broken sound of German aircraft engines. Looking up, Ochakov saw the formation making its run. He estimated they were at least 5,000 meters high and in a closely packed block of 36 aircraft. As they closed on the town, he recognized them as Heinkel 111s.
The battle overhead was quick and one-sided. The formation was attacked by a dozen or so MiG-3s that dived out of the sun, straight into the massed gunfire of the fascist bombers. As they closed in on the bombers, they were hit from behind by Messers who sliced through the MiGs as if they had been helpless babies. Ochakov guessed that to the fascist pilots, that was what they were. The bombers plowed majestically and imperturbably onwards while the Soviet attack behind them shattered into a chaos of burning aircraft and black smoke trails across the sky.
The fascists had not been aiming at the port; instead, their bombs landed in a tight box pattern that devastated a worker’s housing complex on the coast a couple of kilometers south of the town. Ochakov guessed that it must have looked like a factory or an army barracks from aerial photographs. He and Vasilyev had set off at a run for the blazing ruins but there was little anybody could do. The small, neat houses had been blown apart by the heavy bombs and most of the area was already burning. The devastation was beyond anything the local firefighting force could handle and without proper equipment there was no hope of stopping the fires spreading. Instead, the two pilots joined groups of men and women who were rescuing trapped and wounded people from their homes before the fires spread to them. Amid the ruins, the clinging smoke and dust and surrounded by the wailing and screaming of the stricken residents, just getting people clear seemed little enough. To make matters worse, when they had finally been leaving, they had heard a voice sneering from the crowd. “Stalin’s Eagles? More like Stalin’s bitches.”
They had returned to base feeling very differently from the way they had set out that morning. Then they had been exhausted, brain-tired and wanted nothing more than an opportunity to sleep for a day. Now, having seen the grimness of the situation and the despair of the refugees who had nothing to fight with, they wanted to fly again and strike back at the invaders who were the cause of all this misery. The Politruk had been quite firm on that point. Tomorrow, they would fly, today they would rest. And so, they had found themselves in the spa-pool.
“Bratishka, I have good news!” Their Politruk was coming up the path towards them. “A fighter regiment, with LaGG-3 aircraft is joining us at this base this evening. Their assignment will be to cover our attackers to the exclusion of all other considerations. We will have a proper fighter escort at last!”
Ochakov and Vasilyev looked at each other. A few hours ago, a dedicated fighter escort would have been the answer to their dreams and would have given them a fighting chance of hitting the invaders and surviving. Now, monopolizing the few survivors of the hundreds of fighters that had been destroyed on the ground or thrown away in pointless ‘army support’ missions seemed more than cowardly. But it was better to say nothing about that. Instead, they just gave the expected reply, “we serve the Party and the People.”
Partisan Group, Kostopilskyi Forest, Ukraine
“Tovarish Leader, there is something strange up ahead.” Iohannes Andriychuk, with his intimate knowledge of the forest and the myriad of tracks that led through it, had quickly become the Partisan unit’s scout. He slipped through the trees and the tangled undergrowth with the skills of a boy who had been brought up in the forest and was completely at home there.
“Something strange, bratishka? That is not a very helpful sighting.” Ousalenko was trying to balance encouraging the boy while also teaching him the fundamentals of soldiering.
“Not a sighting Tovarish Leader. A smell, a foul, disgusting smell. As if an over-filled cesspit was rotting in the hot sun.”
Ousalenko made a grunting noise. He could visualize exactly what kind of smell Andriychuk was describing but he couldn’t decide what had caused it. It wasn’t right for decaying bodies; that was something every man in his team was familiar with by now. “You did well to report this bratishka. We must investigate. Petya, Sasha and Volya, come with me. Tovarish Iochka, show us where this strange smell can be found.”
Ousalenko had to admit the smell was bad although it was much fainter than he had expected. He guessed that Andriychuk had spent so long in the forest that his nose was tuned to the smells of the trees and bushes, not the foul stench of sewage. Now how did the stench of sewage get here? Somebody must have brought it because this is not a natural smell of the forest. That’s why Iochka noticed it. It’s a good bet that somebody is still here. Now, if I were trying to hide, where would I go?
He looked around and his attention was drawn to a small group of trees that provided a framework for a particularly dense patch of undergrowth. “Bratishka, come with me. We must take great care here.”
The smell grew stronger as the partisans approached the thicket. When Ousalenko stopped and listened, he could hear a faint sound of whimpering from within. From there it was only a few seconds before he found the person trying to hide within. It was a girl, mid-teenage at most and she was shaking with fear. “Please, don’t set me on fire.”
“We’re not going to hurt you, tovarishch sestra. We were Soviet Soldiers, now we are partisans.” Ousalenko watched the girl calm down slightly. "We will protect you as best we can. Who are you?
The girl steadied herself still further. "I am Valentina Aleksandrovna Nasonkin, from the village of Gorynka. I cannot go home; the village no longer exists. The fascists and their dogs burned it."
"What happened, Valechka?" Ousalenko had sat down beside her so he could listen better. The story she told was little different from the scenes they had witnessed earlier. The men and women separated, the former marched off as slaves, the latter burned alive with their children. Valentina's mother and brother had been amongst the latter.
"How did you escape?"
"I was . . . . . in the outhouse. When I saw what was happening I hid in the cess-pit. I got right under the . . . water . . with only my nose and mouth showing. A few days earlier, one of the Ukrainian Nationalist bandits left some of their posters and my father, Chekist Aleksandr Nikitich Nasonkin, threw them in the pit. That was just before he went to Moskva on Party business. I found one and used it to hide by nose and mouth so when the fascists looked into the pit they didn’t see me. I stayed there until the screaming stopped and there was quiet for a long time."
And that explains the awful smell. Ousalenko thought. I bet she washed herself afterwards and tried to wash her clothes but they are saturated with the filth and can never be cleaned. "Valechka, this is very important. Can you tell us anything about the fascists?"
"Their trucks had a shield painted on the side, with a key on it. And their dogs were Ukrainian Auxiliaries. The fascists called them nightingales because they made the women and children sing so beautifully while they burned."
Valentina lost her hard-won composure as the dreadful memories came flooding back. Yet, she was steadied almost instantly by the obvious anger and hatred that spread amongst the Partisans as they heard of the Nightingales. Ousalenko nodded, the glimmering of an idea forming in his mind. "Valechka, we will rejoin the rest of our band now. Will you tell them your story, complete with the Nightingales?"
When the Partisan company had reassembled, Valentina did as he asked. Once she had finished, Ousalenko stood before them and asked the question. "Comrades, should we allow Valentina Aleksandrovna Nasonkin, from the village of Gorynka to join our company?"
Eight hands were raised as one. "Valechka, you are now our sister. There is a stream here you can wash in and we have some clean clothes you can wear. They are men's clothes but will serve you well. I suggest you cut off your braid as well, it would be better if you did not look too much like a girl when we kill the fascists who wiped out your family. Now, here is our Partisans Oath. Swear it and carry its words firmly in your heart!"
An hour later, Valentina reappeared, now washed clean with short hair and wearing a mixture of Soviet Army and civilian clothing. She even had a pair of boots that weren't too outrageously large for her. All the donated clothes were too big for her, but Ousalenko suspected that after a night spent sewing, they would fit well enough. To the relief of everybody, the foul smell that had enveloped her was finally gone.
"Valechka, you said your father is a Chekist? We are simple soldiers who know little of party matters. We need a Politruk to explain such things to us. You understand party matters, will you be our Politruk?" Ousalenk watched the girl think and then nod. "Good, tovarish Politruk. Here is a gift from all of us to welcome you to our company."
He handed her one of the trophy MP40 submachine guns. "It is a machine gun, but ammunition is scarce. You must use it carefully. The magazine has thirty rounds in it; I expect you to kill twenty fascists with them!"
She took the weapon and nodded solemnly. Ousalenko had been joking. Valentina Aleksandrovna Nasonkin was not.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Five
Patrol Ship Enggano, Off Kalimantan, Dutch East Indies
By now, the patrol ship Enggano and the M/T Hoyo Maru had become firm friends. At least part of that was due to simple economics. The tanker's voyage cycle took her five days at sea from Balikpapan to Nagasaki or back with two days in port, loading or unloading, at each end. Each return voyage brought 11,500 tons of Dutch East Indies crude to the refineries in Nagasaki. The same voyage meant that $14,000 was deposited in the Royal Dutch Shell bank account. There were 17 Japanese tankers on the route and together they brought 391,000 tons of oil, worth almost half a million dollars, to Japan every month. That was three-quarters of Japan's total oil requirement and the sales produced almost all the Dutch East Indies’ foreign currency earnings. The foreign currency in question was the Yen, which was hardly a front-rank trading currency, yet it was much better than nothing. With a source of foreign currency, even a weak and unstable one, the Dutch East Indies could participate in the Sovereign pool and that was a major benefit.
So, the cargoes of oil carried by the Hoyo Maru, and her sister ships were a vital economic interest to both countries. Indeed, they truly represented the economic lifeblood of them both. As a direct result, in addition to the economic significance of the tankers and the little patrol ships escorting them, both crews knew they were truly doing work of vital national importance and recognized that in the other. Friendship and mutual respect were the inevitable results. In the case of Enggano and Hoyo Maru, this had matured into a genuinely warm relationship.
After the routine and mandated introductions had been made, Captain Olaf Baart watched the Hoyo Maru slow down slightly to allow the Enggano to overtake her and take station in front of her charge. Baart understood the Japanese tanker was better-armed and faster than his patrol ship was, but he could provide protection from pirates and act as a mine bumper. Baart saw little difference between pirates and mines save that one was a brutal and indiscriminate murderer of defenseless seamen, and the other was a misguided fisherman. Both threats were common enemies around these waters, so Enggano was doing truly useful work.
"Make to Hoyo Maru Wish Captain Tachibana a good morning and send him the local activities reports."
Lieutenant Cahaya hesitated. "All of them, sir? Including the ones from German decrypts?"
That made Baart think. "No. Just the ones from our own resources and any standard merchant code decrypts. Keep the rest under wraps."
"Very good, Sir." Cahaya looked around the bridge. This was his last cruise on the Enggano. On his return, he would be promoted and assume command of a patrol ship of his own. She would be no larger, no faster, and as poorly armed as Enggano but she would be his. And that made her the most beautiful ship in the world.
Baart watched his first lieutenant get the situation report out and take down the reply message of thanks from the Japanese tanker. He had written a fitness report that had put Cahaya in line for a command of his own although he knew in his heart that leaving Enggano would be a step down since no other ship in the Dutch East Indies Squadron could match his Enggano. He was distracted from his musings by a roar overhead as a Dutch East Indies maritime patrol aircraft passed overhead, on course for the Celebes Sea. It would patrol as far north as the Sulu Archipelago, a group of islands that formed a useful and unmistakable division between the Dutch East Indies controlled area to the south and the American-controlled Philippines to the north.
Quite apart from the truth of the old saying 'good fences make good neighbors, there was another reason why an unmistakable demarcation line was made. The maritime patrol aircraft was an ex-Japanese Navy G3M2. After Governor-General Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer had sent a chastened Cordell Hull scuttling back to the United States with his tail firmly between his legs, the Japanese Government had 'donated' 18 G3M torpedo bombers to the Dutch East Indies as a gift to confirm friendly relations between the two. The aircraft, despite being old and having seen hard service was invaluable since their range was double that of the DB-7Cs and their patrol capability was excellent even if their combat capability was outmoded.
Stachouwer was, of course, under no illusions about what the Japanese were up to. By giving combat aircraft to the Dutch East Indies, they were driving a wedge between them and the United States. That made it much less likely that the DEI would agree to any oil embargo aimed at Japan. Securing Japan's oil supplies at a cost of 18 old torpedo planes that were already being replaced by the newer Mitsubishi G4M had been an inspired gesture. To Japanese eyes, the gift, and the subsequent warming of relations between Japan and the DEI was also causing a crack in the armed perimeter that was sealing Japan off from any southern advance. Where one crack had been created more could follow. Or so the Japanese thought.
Baart had heard through the grapevine that Australia and India had been worried by just that possible outcome. Stachouwer had soothed their fears by pointing out that these maritime patrol aircraft would help protect the flow of aid to the Soviet Union and that the aircraft would be protecting Indian and Australian ships as much as any other. In fact, the only type of ships they would not be protecting would be German ones. Once the implications of that had sunk in, Australian and Indian objections had been muted into inaudibility.
The G3M2, its freshly painted DEI markings shining in the morning sun, rocked its wings as it overflew the two ships heading north. There was little either ship could do to reciprocate the friendly gesture, but the sight made Baart feel cautiously optimistic about this voyage. DEI strength was growing slowly but surely. Already Governor-General Stachouwer, Sukarno and Mohammad Hatta had jointly presented a motion to the DEI parliament, changing the name of the country from the Dutch East Indies to Indonesia. At that point, Baart had an evil thought. The only way the Americans can respond to Japan's initiative is to donate some aircraft to us as well. At this rate, we could end up as the most heavily armed country in the region.
That idea made him laugh and shake his head. "Number One, take us north through the Makassar Strait."
The Hidechiyo Geisha House, Tokyo, Japan.
"You are stupid, ignorant cowards, unfit to lick a dog's vomit from the grave of an Eta." Rear Admiral Yamaguchi Tamon looked across the table at his companions through eyes that were bleary with drink. His bristling belligerence cut through the party that had been picking up momentum and stopped it in its tracks. "A true warrior does not negotiate for what he wants like some spineless craven merchant. He takes it with his sword!"
The cause of his outburst had been a suggestion from one of the other members of the small gathering that the Inperiaru Zaimushō Sābisu may have been correct after all, and it was still possible for Japan to obtain its vital oil supplies without recourse to war. That simple, and demonstrably true comment had thrown Yamaguchi into an angry outburst.
In the background, the mama-san of the geisha house had already quietly isolated this party from her other guests. She had also instructed the ladies working for her to be prepared to evacuate the room at the first sign of trouble. Yamaguchi might be a Rear Admiral but he had a fearsome reputation as a brutal bully who used indiscriminate violence the way most normal people used a fountain pen. The story of how, on realizing that the planned attack on Pearl Harbor had been abandoned, he had got roaring drunk and attacked Vice-Admiral Nagumo Chuichi in his quarters, putting him in a headlock and trying to blind him with his fingers before three other officers had managed to pry him loose. All that, despite Nagumo having voted in favor of the attack. After that, even Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku, another key proponent of the Pearl Harbor attack and a long-time mentor of Yamaguchi, had had enough. He had severed their relationship and left Yamaguchi to follow his own path.
What Yamamoto didn’t realize that was by doing so he had turned Yamaguchi from an erratic and unreliable supporter into a mortal enemy. When, as the months had passed, Yamamoto had realized that the decision to abort the planned attack had been the right one and that the decision to try and establish a secure position by trade was working. Yamamoto had shifted his position accordingly and that had turned Yamaguchi's enmity into bitter hatred. A hatred that had now spread to engulf the whole of the Imperial Japanese command structure. To make matters worse, Yamaguchi had gathered a clique of like-minded officers around himself and was filling their heads with his ideas. As far as anybody outside that clique could make of his incoherent ramblings, he favored going to war simply for the sake of doing so.
"It is said the emperor himself looks with favor on us obtaining all that we need by peaceful means if possible." General Sasaki Tetsui was a little more sober than anybody else at the party, a fortunate state, for him, and one that was not entirely accidental.
"The Emperor is being misled by treacherous and self-seeking advisors." Yamaguchi was working himself up into a major fury. "Those lily-livered gutless schemers have filled the Emperor's head with falsehoods. Now is the time for all true patriots to cut our way to the heart of their number and reveal the truth to His Imperial Majesty! Once His Majesty knows the truth, he will see how he has been deceived."
"And how can four of us do that?" General Sasaki was intensely curious to find out how even Yamaguchi could be foolish enough to think that four men could achieve the specified objective.
"We will not be four. We will issue a call to arms in the Emperor's name and all true sons of the samurai will rally to our cause. Their fervor and fighting spirit will overwhelm the traitors that might oppose us!"
In the background, the four geishas who were supposed to be entertaining the guests were struck with horror at the open advocating of what was obviously a coup. With one accord, they started to back quietly out of the room. Fortunately for them, they had been trained since childhood to move quietly and unobtrusively. The intent was so that they could serve their guests without disturbing them. Now, they used those skills to put as much distance between this soused madman and themselves as possible.
Fortunately for them, they were at a safe distance when the door crashed in. Three figures strode in, led by a man whose expression of invincible truculence was chilling to behold. In the league of "don't screw with me" looks, it was right at the top of the ratings. Even more so was the emperor's seal he held high. "Takehiko-san, could this be true? Are we looking at those who would commit treason against the Emperor?"
His companion looked around with obvious disgust. "Takeda-Sama, I believe you are correct. These apologies for human beings seem to be doing just that. Obviously, they do not understand that the Tokubetsu Kōtō Kempeitai have ears and eyes everywhere."
Takeda shook his head in well-calculated disbelief. "It is incredible. These dogs dare challenge the authority of His Imperial Majesty?"
The sheer force of Takeda's personality forced the four conspirators to take a pace backwards. One of them managed to tumble drunkenly over the table, destroying the beautifully laid-out display that had taken the house hours to put together. Takeda's withering look of scorn was enough to make the beautifully sliced and sculpted fruit shrivel. Yamaguchi reached out to grab one of the geishas as a shield but they had all moved out of reach.
Those geishas had seen something that their ‘guests’ had missed. One of the three Tokubetsu Kōtō Kempeitai was a woman, dressed in a kimono that was the equal in its exquisite grace and style to their own. The main difference was that she carried a shirasaya, a katana in a plain, undecorated Japanese magnolia scabbard in her hands. In its way, that was as chilling a sight as Takeda's glowering gaze. In a world where swords were carried in beautifully engraved and decorated Koshirae sheaths that proclaimed the bearer’s wealth and power, a plain Japanese magnolia scabbard meant only one thing. The bearer had nothing left to prove to anybody.
Yamaguchi was flailing backwards, still trying to seize one of the geishas as a shield. They were deftly staying out of his way, a skill perfected by years of dealing with drunken 'guests'. Takeda shook his head in disgust. "Shirayukihime, look at him. Not just a treacherous dog but a sniveling coward. I regret asking you to sully your blade with his unworthy blood but, kindly take his head."
Shirayukihime took a pace forward, poised and graceful. As she did so, she drew the shirasaya in a single flowing motion that had the folds of her kimono swirling around her in a carefully calculated display that accentuated her stately bearing. Yamaguchi was still fumbling for his own sword when Shirayukihime’s shirasaya sang out with the gentle hiss of the blade through air. As she controlled the stroke, her movements had the same studied elegance as the best of the classical dancers. The razor-sharp blade sliced through Yamaguchi’s stomach, cutting his midriff open almost to the spine. Without seeming to interrupt the sinuous flow of her movements, her hand shifted on the hilt. The overhead to down-hand blow seemed to be part of the first slice so smoothly perfect was the transition between the two. The Shirasaya hit Yamaguchi beside the neck, carved through the stiff collar of his uniform and sliced downwards until it exited through his groin.
That was when the realization she had killed him sunk through Yamaguchi’s drink-addled mind. He sank to his knees, instinctively trying to hold his intestines inside the great cross carved in his body. Yet, Shirayukihime was still moving in the same, flowing, movement when she brought the Shirasaya down for a third time, this time separating his head from his body. She reached down with her free hand, picked up the head from where it was rolling on the floor and carefully spat into its face. Then she tossed it down onto the wreckage of what had once been an admiral of the Japanese Navy.
Katsuyori Takehiko sighed gentle at the marvelous beauty of the execution. In medieval Japanese, a dialect almost forgotten in the modern world, he composed a poem to capture that beauty. He cleared his throat before reciting it in the traditional high-pitched semi-singing voice used for poetry recitals.
“Utsukushī ken, utsukushī josei,
megumi to sukiru ga saikō
yotta kyōaku-han no shi o maneku
geijutsu-tekide kanpekina bamen”
Shurayukihime, awed by the honor of a poem dedicated to her kill, bowed deeply to Katsuyori. In the background, the Geisha Rikiko whose real name was Kasaya Michiru, had studied medieval Japanese in order to learn some of the old ballads and stories for her guests. So, she understood the words and translated them for the others.
“Beautiful woman, beautiful sword
Grace and skill supreme
Make even the death of a drunken thug
An artistic, perfect scene”
Then, she took a treasured piece of snow-white finest-quality silk and took it to Shurayukihime. “Please, Lady Snowblood, honor me by using this poor rag to clean the blood from your sword.”
Shurayukihime took the cloth and carefully wiped her blade clean before returning it to its scabbard. Rikiko would keep that piece of blood-stained silk as a memento for many years and then pass it on to her children and grandchildren along with the story of how the traitor to the Emperor had died. Takeda looked at her and then nodded abruptly, acknowledging her gesture. “Takehiko-san, we have cut the head off this stupid conspiracy, but the body still remains. Take these three to our headquarters where we can identify all those who believe starting another war while the China Incident remains unsettled is a wise idea. Above all, we must ensure that any conspiracy to revive the Southern Area attack is thoroughly rooted out.”
Takeda Shingen knew that the names would be forthcoming soon enough. General Sasaki had done his work very well and kept the Tokubetsu Kōtō Kempeitai properly informed ever since Yamaguchi had first approached him. Behind him, Katsuyori Takehiko gestured towards the body as he spoke to Shurayukihime in a voice intended to carry across the room. “Do you think that any of the people here will think to throw that trash away?”
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel” Makassar Strait, Dutch East Indies.
Captain von Ruckteschell may have felt blind without the Kondors and Ju-90s to provide airborne support; with the supply line of information from the spy-ships in Goa cut off as well, he really was blind. He was also painfully aware that the air support that was available belonged to his enemies. Michel had been overflown twice by DB-7C aircraft, but they had failed to recognize the auxiliary cruiser for what she was. Von Ruckteschell assumed that they had simply believed she was one more of the dozens of merchant ships passing through this area.
If those aircraft overflew her now, they would have grave cause for suspicion. Despite all the odds, despite the cessation of communications and information from Goa, Michel had made her planned rendezvous with Rafael. Captain Karl Gumprich had joined von Ruckteschell aboard Michel for a conference before the two ships launched a concerted attack on the merchant ships carrying oil and supplies to the Soviet Union. That assault would be started by a mass minelaying effort intended to make the Makassar Strait too dangerous to traverse. That would force the Commonwealth to route its ships through the Molucca Sea, further away from the main Dutch East Indies airfields in Sumatra. The expanses of the Molucca Sea were also much better-suited to the kind of commerce war fought by raiders than the confined waters of the Makassar Strait.
"So, Hellmuth, you met one of the Canadian aircraft-carrying merchant ships?" Gumprich had enjoyed a more successful outward voyage than von Ruckteschell, sinking three ships totaling over 15,000 tons. "That must have been a surprise."
"We got strafed by the aircraft, we never saw the ship it came from. We assume we were spotted on radar and the ship sent its aircraft out to send us away. You received the message about the Canadian merchant ships carrying radar?"
"Indeed we did. A worrying piece of news."
Von Ruckteschell nodded in agreement. "It makes our operation here even more hazardous. Anyway, when we got strafed, we lost our gunnery officer and our main director. Can you help us?"
"I am afraid not. We have only a single gunnery officer ourselves and we have no spare parts for our systems." Gumprich saw that von Ruckteschell was looking skeptical and hastened to enlarge on the problem. "Honestly, Hellmuth, we would help you if I could, but we just don’t have the equipment or the specialists. You know we were at the bottom of the priority lists when it came to handing out both. That's why we have French guns and fire control. By the way, have you heard about our ammunition supply?"
"It is a concern obviously."
"Not really. You have noted how excellent our firing tables for the French 152mm guns are? Well, when we captured the guns and the ammunition, we did not capture the documentation for them. So, our technical experts had to construct new firing tables and operating manuals. They did a splendid job of course, but in doing so, they shot off all the available ammunition. There is none left unless we capture some more. What we have in our magazines is it. Once it is gone, that is that. So, no need to worry about getting replacements. There aren't any."
"Thousands of kilometers from home, in the middle of our enemies and we can't get any more ammunition. Karl, I think we have a problem."
Patrol Ship Enggano, Off Kalimantan, Dutch East Indies
By now, the patrol ship Enggano and the M/T Hoyo Maru had become firm friends. At least part of that was due to simple economics. The tanker's voyage cycle took her five days at sea from Balikpapan to Nagasaki or back with two days in port, loading or unloading, at each end. Each return voyage brought 11,500 tons of Dutch East Indies crude to the refineries in Nagasaki. The same voyage meant that $14,000 was deposited in the Royal Dutch Shell bank account. There were 17 Japanese tankers on the route and together they brought 391,000 tons of oil, worth almost half a million dollars, to Japan every month. That was three-quarters of Japan's total oil requirement and the sales produced almost all the Dutch East Indies’ foreign currency earnings. The foreign currency in question was the Yen, which was hardly a front-rank trading currency, yet it was much better than nothing. With a source of foreign currency, even a weak and unstable one, the Dutch East Indies could participate in the Sovereign pool and that was a major benefit.
So, the cargoes of oil carried by the Hoyo Maru, and her sister ships were a vital economic interest to both countries. Indeed, they truly represented the economic lifeblood of them both. As a direct result, in addition to the economic significance of the tankers and the little patrol ships escorting them, both crews knew they were truly doing work of vital national importance and recognized that in the other. Friendship and mutual respect were the inevitable results. In the case of Enggano and Hoyo Maru, this had matured into a genuinely warm relationship.
After the routine and mandated introductions had been made, Captain Olaf Baart watched the Hoyo Maru slow down slightly to allow the Enggano to overtake her and take station in front of her charge. Baart understood the Japanese tanker was better-armed and faster than his patrol ship was, but he could provide protection from pirates and act as a mine bumper. Baart saw little difference between pirates and mines save that one was a brutal and indiscriminate murderer of defenseless seamen, and the other was a misguided fisherman. Both threats were common enemies around these waters, so Enggano was doing truly useful work.
"Make to Hoyo Maru Wish Captain Tachibana a good morning and send him the local activities reports."
Lieutenant Cahaya hesitated. "All of them, sir? Including the ones from German decrypts?"
That made Baart think. "No. Just the ones from our own resources and any standard merchant code decrypts. Keep the rest under wraps."
"Very good, Sir." Cahaya looked around the bridge. This was his last cruise on the Enggano. On his return, he would be promoted and assume command of a patrol ship of his own. She would be no larger, no faster, and as poorly armed as Enggano but she would be his. And that made her the most beautiful ship in the world.
Baart watched his first lieutenant get the situation report out and take down the reply message of thanks from the Japanese tanker. He had written a fitness report that had put Cahaya in line for a command of his own although he knew in his heart that leaving Enggano would be a step down since no other ship in the Dutch East Indies Squadron could match his Enggano. He was distracted from his musings by a roar overhead as a Dutch East Indies maritime patrol aircraft passed overhead, on course for the Celebes Sea. It would patrol as far north as the Sulu Archipelago, a group of islands that formed a useful and unmistakable division between the Dutch East Indies controlled area to the south and the American-controlled Philippines to the north.
Quite apart from the truth of the old saying 'good fences make good neighbors, there was another reason why an unmistakable demarcation line was made. The maritime patrol aircraft was an ex-Japanese Navy G3M2. After Governor-General Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer had sent a chastened Cordell Hull scuttling back to the United States with his tail firmly between his legs, the Japanese Government had 'donated' 18 G3M torpedo bombers to the Dutch East Indies as a gift to confirm friendly relations between the two. The aircraft, despite being old and having seen hard service was invaluable since their range was double that of the DB-7Cs and their patrol capability was excellent even if their combat capability was outmoded.
Stachouwer was, of course, under no illusions about what the Japanese were up to. By giving combat aircraft to the Dutch East Indies, they were driving a wedge between them and the United States. That made it much less likely that the DEI would agree to any oil embargo aimed at Japan. Securing Japan's oil supplies at a cost of 18 old torpedo planes that were already being replaced by the newer Mitsubishi G4M had been an inspired gesture. To Japanese eyes, the gift, and the subsequent warming of relations between Japan and the DEI was also causing a crack in the armed perimeter that was sealing Japan off from any southern advance. Where one crack had been created more could follow. Or so the Japanese thought.
Baart had heard through the grapevine that Australia and India had been worried by just that possible outcome. Stachouwer had soothed their fears by pointing out that these maritime patrol aircraft would help protect the flow of aid to the Soviet Union and that the aircraft would be protecting Indian and Australian ships as much as any other. In fact, the only type of ships they would not be protecting would be German ones. Once the implications of that had sunk in, Australian and Indian objections had been muted into inaudibility.
The G3M2, its freshly painted DEI markings shining in the morning sun, rocked its wings as it overflew the two ships heading north. There was little either ship could do to reciprocate the friendly gesture, but the sight made Baart feel cautiously optimistic about this voyage. DEI strength was growing slowly but surely. Already Governor-General Stachouwer, Sukarno and Mohammad Hatta had jointly presented a motion to the DEI parliament, changing the name of the country from the Dutch East Indies to Indonesia. At that point, Baart had an evil thought. The only way the Americans can respond to Japan's initiative is to donate some aircraft to us as well. At this rate, we could end up as the most heavily armed country in the region.
That idea made him laugh and shake his head. "Number One, take us north through the Makassar Strait."
The Hidechiyo Geisha House, Tokyo, Japan.
"You are stupid, ignorant cowards, unfit to lick a dog's vomit from the grave of an Eta." Rear Admiral Yamaguchi Tamon looked across the table at his companions through eyes that were bleary with drink. His bristling belligerence cut through the party that had been picking up momentum and stopped it in its tracks. "A true warrior does not negotiate for what he wants like some spineless craven merchant. He takes it with his sword!"
The cause of his outburst had been a suggestion from one of the other members of the small gathering that the Inperiaru Zaimushō Sābisu may have been correct after all, and it was still possible for Japan to obtain its vital oil supplies without recourse to war. That simple, and demonstrably true comment had thrown Yamaguchi into an angry outburst.
In the background, the mama-san of the geisha house had already quietly isolated this party from her other guests. She had also instructed the ladies working for her to be prepared to evacuate the room at the first sign of trouble. Yamaguchi might be a Rear Admiral but he had a fearsome reputation as a brutal bully who used indiscriminate violence the way most normal people used a fountain pen. The story of how, on realizing that the planned attack on Pearl Harbor had been abandoned, he had got roaring drunk and attacked Vice-Admiral Nagumo Chuichi in his quarters, putting him in a headlock and trying to blind him with his fingers before three other officers had managed to pry him loose. All that, despite Nagumo having voted in favor of the attack. After that, even Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku, another key proponent of the Pearl Harbor attack and a long-time mentor of Yamaguchi, had had enough. He had severed their relationship and left Yamaguchi to follow his own path.
What Yamamoto didn’t realize that was by doing so he had turned Yamaguchi from an erratic and unreliable supporter into a mortal enemy. When, as the months had passed, Yamamoto had realized that the decision to abort the planned attack had been the right one and that the decision to try and establish a secure position by trade was working. Yamamoto had shifted his position accordingly and that had turned Yamaguchi's enmity into bitter hatred. A hatred that had now spread to engulf the whole of the Imperial Japanese command structure. To make matters worse, Yamaguchi had gathered a clique of like-minded officers around himself and was filling their heads with his ideas. As far as anybody outside that clique could make of his incoherent ramblings, he favored going to war simply for the sake of doing so.
"It is said the emperor himself looks with favor on us obtaining all that we need by peaceful means if possible." General Sasaki Tetsui was a little more sober than anybody else at the party, a fortunate state, for him, and one that was not entirely accidental.
"The Emperor is being misled by treacherous and self-seeking advisors." Yamaguchi was working himself up into a major fury. "Those lily-livered gutless schemers have filled the Emperor's head with falsehoods. Now is the time for all true patriots to cut our way to the heart of their number and reveal the truth to His Imperial Majesty! Once His Majesty knows the truth, he will see how he has been deceived."
"And how can four of us do that?" General Sasaki was intensely curious to find out how even Yamaguchi could be foolish enough to think that four men could achieve the specified objective.
"We will not be four. We will issue a call to arms in the Emperor's name and all true sons of the samurai will rally to our cause. Their fervor and fighting spirit will overwhelm the traitors that might oppose us!"
In the background, the four geishas who were supposed to be entertaining the guests were struck with horror at the open advocating of what was obviously a coup. With one accord, they started to back quietly out of the room. Fortunately for them, they had been trained since childhood to move quietly and unobtrusively. The intent was so that they could serve their guests without disturbing them. Now, they used those skills to put as much distance between this soused madman and themselves as possible.
Fortunately for them, they were at a safe distance when the door crashed in. Three figures strode in, led by a man whose expression of invincible truculence was chilling to behold. In the league of "don't screw with me" looks, it was right at the top of the ratings. Even more so was the emperor's seal he held high. "Takehiko-san, could this be true? Are we looking at those who would commit treason against the Emperor?"
His companion looked around with obvious disgust. "Takeda-Sama, I believe you are correct. These apologies for human beings seem to be doing just that. Obviously, they do not understand that the Tokubetsu Kōtō Kempeitai have ears and eyes everywhere."
Takeda shook his head in well-calculated disbelief. "It is incredible. These dogs dare challenge the authority of His Imperial Majesty?"
The sheer force of Takeda's personality forced the four conspirators to take a pace backwards. One of them managed to tumble drunkenly over the table, destroying the beautifully laid-out display that had taken the house hours to put together. Takeda's withering look of scorn was enough to make the beautifully sliced and sculpted fruit shrivel. Yamaguchi reached out to grab one of the geishas as a shield but they had all moved out of reach.
Those geishas had seen something that their ‘guests’ had missed. One of the three Tokubetsu Kōtō Kempeitai was a woman, dressed in a kimono that was the equal in its exquisite grace and style to their own. The main difference was that she carried a shirasaya, a katana in a plain, undecorated Japanese magnolia scabbard in her hands. In its way, that was as chilling a sight as Takeda's glowering gaze. In a world where swords were carried in beautifully engraved and decorated Koshirae sheaths that proclaimed the bearer’s wealth and power, a plain Japanese magnolia scabbard meant only one thing. The bearer had nothing left to prove to anybody.
Yamaguchi was flailing backwards, still trying to seize one of the geishas as a shield. They were deftly staying out of his way, a skill perfected by years of dealing with drunken 'guests'. Takeda shook his head in disgust. "Shirayukihime, look at him. Not just a treacherous dog but a sniveling coward. I regret asking you to sully your blade with his unworthy blood but, kindly take his head."
Shirayukihime took a pace forward, poised and graceful. As she did so, she drew the shirasaya in a single flowing motion that had the folds of her kimono swirling around her in a carefully calculated display that accentuated her stately bearing. Yamaguchi was still fumbling for his own sword when Shirayukihime’s shirasaya sang out with the gentle hiss of the blade through air. As she controlled the stroke, her movements had the same studied elegance as the best of the classical dancers. The razor-sharp blade sliced through Yamaguchi’s stomach, cutting his midriff open almost to the spine. Without seeming to interrupt the sinuous flow of her movements, her hand shifted on the hilt. The overhead to down-hand blow seemed to be part of the first slice so smoothly perfect was the transition between the two. The Shirasaya hit Yamaguchi beside the neck, carved through the stiff collar of his uniform and sliced downwards until it exited through his groin.
That was when the realization she had killed him sunk through Yamaguchi’s drink-addled mind. He sank to his knees, instinctively trying to hold his intestines inside the great cross carved in his body. Yet, Shirayukihime was still moving in the same, flowing, movement when she brought the Shirasaya down for a third time, this time separating his head from his body. She reached down with her free hand, picked up the head from where it was rolling on the floor and carefully spat into its face. Then she tossed it down onto the wreckage of what had once been an admiral of the Japanese Navy.
Katsuyori Takehiko sighed gentle at the marvelous beauty of the execution. In medieval Japanese, a dialect almost forgotten in the modern world, he composed a poem to capture that beauty. He cleared his throat before reciting it in the traditional high-pitched semi-singing voice used for poetry recitals.
“Utsukushī ken, utsukushī josei,
megumi to sukiru ga saikō
yotta kyōaku-han no shi o maneku
geijutsu-tekide kanpekina bamen”
Shurayukihime, awed by the honor of a poem dedicated to her kill, bowed deeply to Katsuyori. In the background, the Geisha Rikiko whose real name was Kasaya Michiru, had studied medieval Japanese in order to learn some of the old ballads and stories for her guests. So, she understood the words and translated them for the others.
“Beautiful woman, beautiful sword
Grace and skill supreme
Make even the death of a drunken thug
An artistic, perfect scene”
Then, she took a treasured piece of snow-white finest-quality silk and took it to Shurayukihime. “Please, Lady Snowblood, honor me by using this poor rag to clean the blood from your sword.”
Shurayukihime took the cloth and carefully wiped her blade clean before returning it to its scabbard. Rikiko would keep that piece of blood-stained silk as a memento for many years and then pass it on to her children and grandchildren along with the story of how the traitor to the Emperor had died. Takeda looked at her and then nodded abruptly, acknowledging her gesture. “Takehiko-san, we have cut the head off this stupid conspiracy, but the body still remains. Take these three to our headquarters where we can identify all those who believe starting another war while the China Incident remains unsettled is a wise idea. Above all, we must ensure that any conspiracy to revive the Southern Area attack is thoroughly rooted out.”
Takeda Shingen knew that the names would be forthcoming soon enough. General Sasaki had done his work very well and kept the Tokubetsu Kōtō Kempeitai properly informed ever since Yamaguchi had first approached him. Behind him, Katsuyori Takehiko gestured towards the body as he spoke to Shurayukihime in a voice intended to carry across the room. “Do you think that any of the people here will think to throw that trash away?”
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel” Makassar Strait, Dutch East Indies.
Captain von Ruckteschell may have felt blind without the Kondors and Ju-90s to provide airborne support; with the supply line of information from the spy-ships in Goa cut off as well, he really was blind. He was also painfully aware that the air support that was available belonged to his enemies. Michel had been overflown twice by DB-7C aircraft, but they had failed to recognize the auxiliary cruiser for what she was. Von Ruckteschell assumed that they had simply believed she was one more of the dozens of merchant ships passing through this area.
If those aircraft overflew her now, they would have grave cause for suspicion. Despite all the odds, despite the cessation of communications and information from Goa, Michel had made her planned rendezvous with Rafael. Captain Karl Gumprich had joined von Ruckteschell aboard Michel for a conference before the two ships launched a concerted attack on the merchant ships carrying oil and supplies to the Soviet Union. That assault would be started by a mass minelaying effort intended to make the Makassar Strait too dangerous to traverse. That would force the Commonwealth to route its ships through the Molucca Sea, further away from the main Dutch East Indies airfields in Sumatra. The expanses of the Molucca Sea were also much better-suited to the kind of commerce war fought by raiders than the confined waters of the Makassar Strait.
"So, Hellmuth, you met one of the Canadian aircraft-carrying merchant ships?" Gumprich had enjoyed a more successful outward voyage than von Ruckteschell, sinking three ships totaling over 15,000 tons. "That must have been a surprise."
"We got strafed by the aircraft, we never saw the ship it came from. We assume we were spotted on radar and the ship sent its aircraft out to send us away. You received the message about the Canadian merchant ships carrying radar?"
"Indeed we did. A worrying piece of news."
Von Ruckteschell nodded in agreement. "It makes our operation here even more hazardous. Anyway, when we got strafed, we lost our gunnery officer and our main director. Can you help us?"
"I am afraid not. We have only a single gunnery officer ourselves and we have no spare parts for our systems." Gumprich saw that von Ruckteschell was looking skeptical and hastened to enlarge on the problem. "Honestly, Hellmuth, we would help you if I could, but we just don’t have the equipment or the specialists. You know we were at the bottom of the priority lists when it came to handing out both. That's why we have French guns and fire control. By the way, have you heard about our ammunition supply?"
"It is a concern obviously."
"Not really. You have noted how excellent our firing tables for the French 152mm guns are? Well, when we captured the guns and the ammunition, we did not capture the documentation for them. So, our technical experts had to construct new firing tables and operating manuals. They did a splendid job of course, but in doing so, they shot off all the available ammunition. There is none left unless we capture some more. What we have in our magazines is it. Once it is gone, that is that. So, no need to worry about getting replacements. There aren't any."
"Thousands of kilometers from home, in the middle of our enemies and we can't get any more ammunition. Karl, I think we have a problem."
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Six
Governor-General's Chambers, Government House, Calcutta, India
"We have three items on the agenda today." Sir Eric Haohoa opened the meeting in his function as Cabinet Secretary. The Marquess of Linlithgow who would normally do so was away in the newly designated province of Goa and Deputy Viceroy Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had elected to delegate the duty of opening the meeting to Sir Eric. "First the proposal from the Americans on the settlement of the Goa issue."
"I thought we had settled that. It cost us more than I would wish of our Jawans to do so." Auchinleck seemed displeased that the issue was still apparently undecided.
"It is settled, Claude, the trick now is to get everybody to agree it is settled. The Americans have inserted themselves as mediators and have produced a compromise agreement. Under its terms, the Portuguese note the failure of their late Governor-General to terminate the German spy-ships in Goa harbor was gross negligence on his part and tender their sincere apologies for his dereliction of duty, they recognize that our commando raid to take them out was justified by this negligence. We note that our failure to stop Gandhi from violating the border with his demonstration was negligence on our part and we sincerely apologize for allowing the incursion to take place. We recognize that the artillery fire from Portuguese positions designed to ensure the integrity of their border was justified by our negligence. The Portuguese note that the provisional declaration of war issued by the Governor-General was unauthorized and he had no justification to make any such statement. They also recognize we had no means of knowing that the declaration had no weight or validity, and we made an honest mistake when we saw their artillery fire as the opening moves in that war thus triggering a counterattack. We recognize that we should have contacted Lisbon by telegraph to confirm whether the Governor-General's words were meaningful, and the border defenses were justified in resisting our counterattack."
"In other words, everybody apologizes to everybody for everything, and each recognizes the other was behaving correctly in the light of the information available to it. I don’t see Cordell Hull writing that." Auchinleck was, if anything, amused by the diplomatic niceties on display.
"I doubt he did; this shows the hallmark of a dark and devious mind. Now, the settlement. We recognize that Goa was Portuguese territory for four hundred years and, under normal circumstances, that would make their tenure unchallengeable. However, in the belief that Portugal had declared war upon us, we acted correctly in seizing what could be used as a land bridgehead against India. Portugal recognizes that fact as well. Portugal recognizes also that the strain of supporting the garrison in Goa leaves their homeland dangerously exposed to adventurism. Mounting an expeditionary force to retake Goa would leave their homeland completely defenseless and that time, distance and relative force levels mean such an expedition would have only a limited chance of success."
"Read, none at all." Auchinleck grunted.
"Clause, this is diplomacy. Portugal can't admit that they don't stand a hope in hell of recovering their ground. This makes it sound as if they could, but the troops needed are desperately required elsewhere. The latter part of which is true, by the way. To continue. In view of the situation, Portugal is ready to cede sovereignty of Goa to India in exchange for compensation and reparations of thirty million gold sovereigns or its equivalent in US dollars."
"We don't have thirty million in gold sovereigns. We don't have three million. I will have to check if we have three." The finance minister sounded acerbic.
"We don’t need it. The Americans add, for our ears only, that if we accept this deal, they will pay the Portuguese for us and, in addition, give us a $20 million dollar arms credit for the purchase of American military equipment. I would suspect that the Americans are giving the Portuguese a $50 million arms credit. Possibly more."
"Why can't they just give us cash?" The Finance Minister's acerbity had given way to querulousness.
"Because this way, we have to spend the money in American factories, so they get it all back again." Sir Eric shook his head sadly. "As I said, a dark and devious mind was behind this."
Deputy Viceroy Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru stood up. "Thank you, Sir Eric. However, much it may appear to run against the grain to apologize for recovering our own territory, this compromise appears to confirm the results of the endeavor and give us renewed access to American armaments. I would suggest that we accept its terms."
There was a stir of agreement, interrupted only by the representatives of the Indian Army, Royal Indian Air Force, and Royal Indian Navy arguing between themselves over who should get to spend the money. Sir Eric smiled to himself and shook his head and took one of two pre-written replies from the file he had brought with him. He checked it briefly to make sure it was the right one and handed it to an aide. "We are agreed then. Lieutenant, please take this message to the communications room and send it to the Americans immediately. Now, the second item on the agenda. The support of our expeditionary force in Russia. This is an expensive commitment in terms of blood and treasure. Our forces have already suffered losses, nowhere near as great as the Russians of course, but grievous still. Should we withdraw?"
That sparked off a long, equally balanced debate that contrasted the cost and losses of the Russian expeditionary force against the strategic and political advantages it was bringing. Once again, it was Nehru who brought the debate to an end with a single armor-piercing question. "If we withdraw now, and leave our allies betrayed on the field of battle, exactly how will we be different from That Man?'
There was a shocked, stunned silence as the 'name that shall never be spoken' was invoked. It was followed by a surge of agreement. Gerald Tarrant, Private Secretary to the Viceroy, added to the sentiment. "Perhaps we should use this arms credit to buy more and better aircraft for service in Russia and replace our losses there? Who knows, if the Americans find we are doing so, they may offer us better prices and our credit will go further?"
That caused an outburst of laughter and general agreement. Sir Eric breathed a sigh of relief and came to the last item. "For the third Item, we have the subject of the railway through Afghanistan. We have decided that it should be broad-gauge. Surveyors are already plotting a route through Afghanistan, and they have a preliminary line by way of Kabul and Mazar-al-Sharif plotted. The first leg, from Amritsar to Kabul is already planned and our laborers are starting work on the track and its associated facilities. We will not make the mistake the Soviets made with the Trans-Siberian Railway; the Trans-Afghan Railway will be double tracked all the way to Tashkent!"
Several members of the Cabinet reflected on that. They had visited the start of construction of the Trans-Afghanistan railway and watched the swarm of laborers brought in from all over India starting the back-breaking work of digging the track bed and leveling the ground ready for the railway and its marshaling yards. The first stage of the work, upgrading the railway link from Amritsar to Rawalapindi and Peshawar to double-track operation and to carry heavy freight trains was already in progress. As part of that, Amritsar was set to become a major transport hub. There was another advantage to the work; it was firmly integrating the largely Moslem north-west with the largely Hindu rest of the country. It was the sheer enormity of the task though that caused the greatest impression; the final railway would be 1,650 miles long and driven through some of the most unforgiving terrain on earth. Those who had seen the swarms of workers descending on the planned route and driving the work forward believed that their final reward would be to know they were a part of creating a new wonder of the world.
Headquarters, XXXXIV Corps, Radtvyliv, Ukraine
Generaloberst Friedrich Koch stared with contemptuous scorn at the Panzer commander who was standing in front of the meeting. Behind him, the map showed the initial dispositions for the planned assault on the Kiev area. The advance of the infantry components of Army Group North and Center had been stopped and the formations had established a reasonably firm defense line a little short of Smolensk. The infantry formations of Army group South had done the same although their final positions were significantly further to the west. The result was a great step between the two lines, one that had been almost undefended. The 2nd, 3rd and 4th Panzergruppe had been moved back from their advanced positions and into the gap so formed. From there, they would create a great encirclement around Kiev that would entrap the entire Soviet force defending Ukraine. Once that was done and Army Group South resumed its advance eastwards, the panzers would be redeployed for the assault on Moscow.
Generalleutnant Rudolf Veiel had been the most prominent voice amongst those who had condemned the decision. He had echoed Generals Halder, Bock and Guderian, who had advocated an advance on Moscow as soon as possible. It hadn't helped when his impassioned demand for an immediate all-out assault on Moscow had caused open laughter from the logistics officers attending the Corps briefing. Nor had it helped when the infantry divisional and regimental commanders had rallied behind their logistics divisions. Veiel had been reduced to shouting abuse at them and pointing at his rank insignia in an attempt to overawe any opposition to his opinions.
"Rudi, the General Staff have agreed that taking Moscow will not bring about an end to the Russian Campaign." For those with the wit to hear it, Koch's reference to 'the Russian campaign', not 'Barbarossa' was profoundly important. It was an official recognition that the war with Russia was not going to end soon. "If we do take the city, the Soviets will destroy the place. That's what they did in 1812 and their current regime is far more ruthless than the Tsars ever were. This is going to be a long war and long wars are won by obtaining resources and by denying them to the enemy. Even if an assault on Moscow was successful, what would it gain us? A burned-out ruin. By launching the Kiev operation, we destroy the Soviet forces in the south and open the doors to the Crimea, to the industrial and coal region of the Don, and isolated the oil-producing regions of the Caucasus from the rest of the Soviet Union. Compared with that overriding economic objective, the capture of Moscow before the onset of winter is not a primary objective."
Koch saw that his words had not registered with the panzer general and knew why. There is a massive conflict of interest in the war with Russia that is only now becoming apparent. Because Germany's economy is so weak, we must win wars quickly and decisively before the cost bankrupts us. The panzers have been the key to doing that. The price we have paid is that their officer corps is obsessed with the offensive and always seeks the quick, devastating attack that will force the enemy to surrender. They cannot adapt to the idea that Russia is so huge there cannot be a quick, devastating and decisive attack. So, they always look for something that is not there, and the capture of an enemy capital is an obvious choice. Sometimes, they are right but not always and this is one of the exceptions. We must think beyond the quick and decisive paradigm and that means fighting for industrial objectives. Koch had been a general in the First World War and he remembered the British "100 days" offensive that had ended that war. Instead of a single massive blow, the British Army had launched limited offensives up and down the line that seized an area of ground and dug in on it before shifting their focus to somewhere else. In those 100 days, the British had done more damage to the German Army than it had suffered in the previous four years. That is the paradigm we must follow if we are to succeed in Russia. Yet it is counter to everything the Panzertruppe believes.
"In any case, the issue is moot. We will not launch the assault on Moscow because we cannot. Rudi, your tanks have no fuel and no ammunition. Worst of all they have no spare parts. I know, and so do you, that two-thirds of your panzers are down from mechanical failure. You cannot go anywhere until your panzers are resupplied and that will take weeks. You know as well as I do that the supply lines are all 08/15. But the Kiev Operation will be launched from areas where the supply lines have already been established. It is not a choice between 'drive on Kiev' or 'drive on Moscow' but 'drive on Kiev' or 'do nothing'. And doing nothing is the only unforgiveable action in war."
"That's not . . ." Veiel had been about to shout that it wasn't true but reflected that he was in a room full of people who knew it was. He changed his mind, a split second too late.
Koch seized the opening and jumped in. "Klaus, how much artillery ammunition does the 71st have?"
Marcks had a principle, in meeting like this, keep quiet. "Heini?"
"In the dumps, Sir, none. We get a truck-full or two each day and what we get one day we shoot off the next. We ration accordingly. Fuel? Same story."
"Why don’t you borrow it from other units?" Koch was hammering the point home.
This time it was Asbach who responded immediately. "I try, Sir, every day, and we do some trading, so we all have a balanced inventory, such as it is. That’s how I know it’s the same story across the whole corps and beyond. Every unit is out of ammunition and the 71st is better off than most. We have trucks, you see, not horse-drawn wagons. By the way, the horses are starting to die from overwork and disease. At least that reduces the ration problems."
Koch turned to Veiel. "And there you have it. No fuel, no ammunition, precious little food. What, exactly, do you suggest we advance on Moscow with?"
There was something else in Koch's mind. Every day, the clock ticked, the pages of the calendar turned. Summer was passing by, and the fall was approaching. And with the fall came mud. The Rasputitsa was waiting, and hard-surfaced roads were few and far between.
250 Nautical Miles, Due East of RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
The drastically modified Hurricanes finally had a name. When the prototype with a bubble cockpit had been delivered, a telegram from the Air Ministry had advised them that the new aircraft was to be known as the Khamseen. With the new bubble cockpit giving good all-round vision, the 37mm guns under the wings providing a lot of punch and some refinement of the forward fuselage lines reducing the annoying buzz, the Khamseen was a practical aircraft at last.
Months of work had finally paid off. Seacanes were being delivered to the CAM-ships, three of which were already out on the sea lanes and watching out for Kondors. The Khamseen was a reasonable close support aircraft and was also to go into production. That meant it would be leaving Debert for operational stations. That left Digby Dale wondering what he would be doing next. He knew the Chinook program that was supposed to provide Canada with its new fighters was in trouble. The prototypes were plagued with technical problems including oil coolers failing, carbon monoxide finding its way into the cockpit, mid-air structural failures of the joints between the forward and rear fuselage, and tail breakaways caused by control surface flutter or violent tail vibration. In short, Dale blessed the day he had been regarded as not quite capable enough for that program and had no intention of going to fly an aircraft that gave every impression of hating its pilot.
He’d levelled off at 15,000 feet and was flying east, out across French Bank until he was 250 miles out from shore. Then he would turn south-east until he came to Sable Island and then fly back to Debert. It was a routine navigational exercise, one that tested the suitability for the Khamseen for long-range flights over water. The poor weather that was endemic to the Sable Island area added a little realism to the test-flight. Dale yawned, checked his charts and swung his aircraft over to its new course. He was used to the more sluggish responses of the Khamseen compared with the Seacane fighter and didn’t really notice the effects of the heavy cannon and their ammunition under the wings.
In making the turn, his eye was caught by a flash on the sea surface below and drawn to a black speck. As Dale looked harder, he saw the white line of a ship’s wake below him. His pre-flight had said nothing about any merchant ships or naval operations in the area, anyway, lone merchant ships in this area, at this time made hen’s teeth seem positively abundant by comparison. He reached down and reset his radio to the Churchill Shipping Control frequency. “Haystack, this is Dogpatch five-one. I’m seeing a lone ship out here. My position is . . .” Dale consulted his map and read off the coded location. “Friendly?”
There was a long pause, then his radio crackled. “Dogpatch five-one, be advised, Cornbread has you on radar and confirms your position. There are no, repeat no, say again no, friendly or neutral ships in your area. There is commerce 60 miles south-west of you, they are detaching a destroyer to assist at flank speed. Also, there is a Hayseed on its way from Cornbread. They will be with you in 30 minutes. Do you have anything useful?”
“Haystack, this is a Khamseen. Look it up in your Confidential Books. Have a full load of AP shot.” Dale looked down at his fuel gauge and did some quick calculations. He blessed the fuel-economy of his radial engine and his own forethought in flying it leaned out for maximum economy. “I can shoot the target up and stay with it until the Hayseeds arrive.”
“Confirm, Dogpatch, five-one. Good hunting and stay safe.”
Dale pushed the nose of the Khamseen over and started a 40-degree dive down to the black speck beneath. The aircraft was picking up speed nicely and the buzz from the airframe didn’t start until he had reached a hair over 300 miles per hour, 20mph better than before. The black speck below his was growing rapidly and quickly became easily recognizable as a submarine. Water fountains were starting to spout upwards as the crew realized their danger and tried to crash-dive. Dale guessed at their mistake; most aircraft relied on bombs and depth-charges to make their attack and that meant they had to overfly their targets, thus giving the submarine time to dive. Only, the Khamseen had two anti-tank guns hanging under its wings and they allowed Dale to start firing when he was well away from the target. He gave a quick burst from the two .30 machine guns in the wings and saw the stream of tracers hitting his target.
He felt the Khamseen’s nose dip as his first shots went out and he caught the move in time to correct it. The submarine’s bow was now under water and the sea was approaching her conning tower. The first two shots were short but close enough for the splash they caused to shower the superstructure. The next pair seemed to be extremely close and dead center on the hull and one of the third pair caused a brilliant red flash as the shell hit the root of the sail. By now, Dale was getting dangerously close, and he squeezed off a fourth pair at almost point-blank range. Both hit the hull just aft of the conning tower, causing a sudden cloud of black smoke. Well, I hurt something.
He climbed away and circled around to see the results of his attack. Below him, the submarine had stopped diving and was coming back to the surface. The crew was coming out of the hatches and manning the guns around the conning tower. Dale had only fired off a quarter of his 16 rounds so he made a wingover and repeated his dive, this time coming in from the stern where the submarine’s forward gun was masked by the conning tower. Blobs of tracer fire were streaking towards him as he closed in, a rapid series of flashes from the 20mm gun and slower, more spaced-out shots from the 37mm. Dale returned fire with his two machine guns and, as soon as his tracers were on target, resumed firing with his own 37mm guns. Once again, the first pair of shots missed but he got at least four hits spaced along the submarine’s hull from the four additional salvoes he fired. One of them was on the rear platform of the bridge and it caused the 20mm gun there to abruptly stop firing.
Once again, Dale circled the submarine, noting that she was moving slowly and appeared to be trailing oil. Also, the promised Hudsons from RCAF were arriving and they were better equipped for dealing with a submarine than the Khamseen. Or are they? Dale thought. I’ve been doing well up to now.
“Dogpatch, this is Hayseed. We’ll take it from here. By the look of it, that bitch isn’t going anywhere. You all right with a shared kill?”
“You bet Hayseed. Watch the forward gun and the 37mm aft. The 20mm is gone. I’m low on fuel now so she’s all yours. Good hunting!”
Governor-General's Chambers, Government House, Calcutta, India
"We have three items on the agenda today." Sir Eric Haohoa opened the meeting in his function as Cabinet Secretary. The Marquess of Linlithgow who would normally do so was away in the newly designated province of Goa and Deputy Viceroy Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had elected to delegate the duty of opening the meeting to Sir Eric. "First the proposal from the Americans on the settlement of the Goa issue."
"I thought we had settled that. It cost us more than I would wish of our Jawans to do so." Auchinleck seemed displeased that the issue was still apparently undecided.
"It is settled, Claude, the trick now is to get everybody to agree it is settled. The Americans have inserted themselves as mediators and have produced a compromise agreement. Under its terms, the Portuguese note the failure of their late Governor-General to terminate the German spy-ships in Goa harbor was gross negligence on his part and tender their sincere apologies for his dereliction of duty, they recognize that our commando raid to take them out was justified by this negligence. We note that our failure to stop Gandhi from violating the border with his demonstration was negligence on our part and we sincerely apologize for allowing the incursion to take place. We recognize that the artillery fire from Portuguese positions designed to ensure the integrity of their border was justified by our negligence. The Portuguese note that the provisional declaration of war issued by the Governor-General was unauthorized and he had no justification to make any such statement. They also recognize we had no means of knowing that the declaration had no weight or validity, and we made an honest mistake when we saw their artillery fire as the opening moves in that war thus triggering a counterattack. We recognize that we should have contacted Lisbon by telegraph to confirm whether the Governor-General's words were meaningful, and the border defenses were justified in resisting our counterattack."
"In other words, everybody apologizes to everybody for everything, and each recognizes the other was behaving correctly in the light of the information available to it. I don’t see Cordell Hull writing that." Auchinleck was, if anything, amused by the diplomatic niceties on display.
"I doubt he did; this shows the hallmark of a dark and devious mind. Now, the settlement. We recognize that Goa was Portuguese territory for four hundred years and, under normal circumstances, that would make their tenure unchallengeable. However, in the belief that Portugal had declared war upon us, we acted correctly in seizing what could be used as a land bridgehead against India. Portugal recognizes that fact as well. Portugal recognizes also that the strain of supporting the garrison in Goa leaves their homeland dangerously exposed to adventurism. Mounting an expeditionary force to retake Goa would leave their homeland completely defenseless and that time, distance and relative force levels mean such an expedition would have only a limited chance of success."
"Read, none at all." Auchinleck grunted.
"Clause, this is diplomacy. Portugal can't admit that they don't stand a hope in hell of recovering their ground. This makes it sound as if they could, but the troops needed are desperately required elsewhere. The latter part of which is true, by the way. To continue. In view of the situation, Portugal is ready to cede sovereignty of Goa to India in exchange for compensation and reparations of thirty million gold sovereigns or its equivalent in US dollars."
"We don't have thirty million in gold sovereigns. We don't have three million. I will have to check if we have three." The finance minister sounded acerbic.
"We don’t need it. The Americans add, for our ears only, that if we accept this deal, they will pay the Portuguese for us and, in addition, give us a $20 million dollar arms credit for the purchase of American military equipment. I would suspect that the Americans are giving the Portuguese a $50 million arms credit. Possibly more."
"Why can't they just give us cash?" The Finance Minister's acerbity had given way to querulousness.
"Because this way, we have to spend the money in American factories, so they get it all back again." Sir Eric shook his head sadly. "As I said, a dark and devious mind was behind this."
Deputy Viceroy Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru stood up. "Thank you, Sir Eric. However, much it may appear to run against the grain to apologize for recovering our own territory, this compromise appears to confirm the results of the endeavor and give us renewed access to American armaments. I would suggest that we accept its terms."
There was a stir of agreement, interrupted only by the representatives of the Indian Army, Royal Indian Air Force, and Royal Indian Navy arguing between themselves over who should get to spend the money. Sir Eric smiled to himself and shook his head and took one of two pre-written replies from the file he had brought with him. He checked it briefly to make sure it was the right one and handed it to an aide. "We are agreed then. Lieutenant, please take this message to the communications room and send it to the Americans immediately. Now, the second item on the agenda. The support of our expeditionary force in Russia. This is an expensive commitment in terms of blood and treasure. Our forces have already suffered losses, nowhere near as great as the Russians of course, but grievous still. Should we withdraw?"
That sparked off a long, equally balanced debate that contrasted the cost and losses of the Russian expeditionary force against the strategic and political advantages it was bringing. Once again, it was Nehru who brought the debate to an end with a single armor-piercing question. "If we withdraw now, and leave our allies betrayed on the field of battle, exactly how will we be different from That Man?'
There was a shocked, stunned silence as the 'name that shall never be spoken' was invoked. It was followed by a surge of agreement. Gerald Tarrant, Private Secretary to the Viceroy, added to the sentiment. "Perhaps we should use this arms credit to buy more and better aircraft for service in Russia and replace our losses there? Who knows, if the Americans find we are doing so, they may offer us better prices and our credit will go further?"
That caused an outburst of laughter and general agreement. Sir Eric breathed a sigh of relief and came to the last item. "For the third Item, we have the subject of the railway through Afghanistan. We have decided that it should be broad-gauge. Surveyors are already plotting a route through Afghanistan, and they have a preliminary line by way of Kabul and Mazar-al-Sharif plotted. The first leg, from Amritsar to Kabul is already planned and our laborers are starting work on the track and its associated facilities. We will not make the mistake the Soviets made with the Trans-Siberian Railway; the Trans-Afghan Railway will be double tracked all the way to Tashkent!"
Several members of the Cabinet reflected on that. They had visited the start of construction of the Trans-Afghanistan railway and watched the swarm of laborers brought in from all over India starting the back-breaking work of digging the track bed and leveling the ground ready for the railway and its marshaling yards. The first stage of the work, upgrading the railway link from Amritsar to Rawalapindi and Peshawar to double-track operation and to carry heavy freight trains was already in progress. As part of that, Amritsar was set to become a major transport hub. There was another advantage to the work; it was firmly integrating the largely Moslem north-west with the largely Hindu rest of the country. It was the sheer enormity of the task though that caused the greatest impression; the final railway would be 1,650 miles long and driven through some of the most unforgiving terrain on earth. Those who had seen the swarms of workers descending on the planned route and driving the work forward believed that their final reward would be to know they were a part of creating a new wonder of the world.
Headquarters, XXXXIV Corps, Radtvyliv, Ukraine
Generaloberst Friedrich Koch stared with contemptuous scorn at the Panzer commander who was standing in front of the meeting. Behind him, the map showed the initial dispositions for the planned assault on the Kiev area. The advance of the infantry components of Army Group North and Center had been stopped and the formations had established a reasonably firm defense line a little short of Smolensk. The infantry formations of Army group South had done the same although their final positions were significantly further to the west. The result was a great step between the two lines, one that had been almost undefended. The 2nd, 3rd and 4th Panzergruppe had been moved back from their advanced positions and into the gap so formed. From there, they would create a great encirclement around Kiev that would entrap the entire Soviet force defending Ukraine. Once that was done and Army Group South resumed its advance eastwards, the panzers would be redeployed for the assault on Moscow.
Generalleutnant Rudolf Veiel had been the most prominent voice amongst those who had condemned the decision. He had echoed Generals Halder, Bock and Guderian, who had advocated an advance on Moscow as soon as possible. It hadn't helped when his impassioned demand for an immediate all-out assault on Moscow had caused open laughter from the logistics officers attending the Corps briefing. Nor had it helped when the infantry divisional and regimental commanders had rallied behind their logistics divisions. Veiel had been reduced to shouting abuse at them and pointing at his rank insignia in an attempt to overawe any opposition to his opinions.
"Rudi, the General Staff have agreed that taking Moscow will not bring about an end to the Russian Campaign." For those with the wit to hear it, Koch's reference to 'the Russian campaign', not 'Barbarossa' was profoundly important. It was an official recognition that the war with Russia was not going to end soon. "If we do take the city, the Soviets will destroy the place. That's what they did in 1812 and their current regime is far more ruthless than the Tsars ever were. This is going to be a long war and long wars are won by obtaining resources and by denying them to the enemy. Even if an assault on Moscow was successful, what would it gain us? A burned-out ruin. By launching the Kiev operation, we destroy the Soviet forces in the south and open the doors to the Crimea, to the industrial and coal region of the Don, and isolated the oil-producing regions of the Caucasus from the rest of the Soviet Union. Compared with that overriding economic objective, the capture of Moscow before the onset of winter is not a primary objective."
Koch saw that his words had not registered with the panzer general and knew why. There is a massive conflict of interest in the war with Russia that is only now becoming apparent. Because Germany's economy is so weak, we must win wars quickly and decisively before the cost bankrupts us. The panzers have been the key to doing that. The price we have paid is that their officer corps is obsessed with the offensive and always seeks the quick, devastating attack that will force the enemy to surrender. They cannot adapt to the idea that Russia is so huge there cannot be a quick, devastating and decisive attack. So, they always look for something that is not there, and the capture of an enemy capital is an obvious choice. Sometimes, they are right but not always and this is one of the exceptions. We must think beyond the quick and decisive paradigm and that means fighting for industrial objectives. Koch had been a general in the First World War and he remembered the British "100 days" offensive that had ended that war. Instead of a single massive blow, the British Army had launched limited offensives up and down the line that seized an area of ground and dug in on it before shifting their focus to somewhere else. In those 100 days, the British had done more damage to the German Army than it had suffered in the previous four years. That is the paradigm we must follow if we are to succeed in Russia. Yet it is counter to everything the Panzertruppe believes.
"In any case, the issue is moot. We will not launch the assault on Moscow because we cannot. Rudi, your tanks have no fuel and no ammunition. Worst of all they have no spare parts. I know, and so do you, that two-thirds of your panzers are down from mechanical failure. You cannot go anywhere until your panzers are resupplied and that will take weeks. You know as well as I do that the supply lines are all 08/15. But the Kiev Operation will be launched from areas where the supply lines have already been established. It is not a choice between 'drive on Kiev' or 'drive on Moscow' but 'drive on Kiev' or 'do nothing'. And doing nothing is the only unforgiveable action in war."
"That's not . . ." Veiel had been about to shout that it wasn't true but reflected that he was in a room full of people who knew it was. He changed his mind, a split second too late.
Koch seized the opening and jumped in. "Klaus, how much artillery ammunition does the 71st have?"
Marcks had a principle, in meeting like this, keep quiet. "Heini?"
"In the dumps, Sir, none. We get a truck-full or two each day and what we get one day we shoot off the next. We ration accordingly. Fuel? Same story."
"Why don’t you borrow it from other units?" Koch was hammering the point home.
This time it was Asbach who responded immediately. "I try, Sir, every day, and we do some trading, so we all have a balanced inventory, such as it is. That’s how I know it’s the same story across the whole corps and beyond. Every unit is out of ammunition and the 71st is better off than most. We have trucks, you see, not horse-drawn wagons. By the way, the horses are starting to die from overwork and disease. At least that reduces the ration problems."
Koch turned to Veiel. "And there you have it. No fuel, no ammunition, precious little food. What, exactly, do you suggest we advance on Moscow with?"
There was something else in Koch's mind. Every day, the clock ticked, the pages of the calendar turned. Summer was passing by, and the fall was approaching. And with the fall came mud. The Rasputitsa was waiting, and hard-surfaced roads were few and far between.
250 Nautical Miles, Due East of RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
The drastically modified Hurricanes finally had a name. When the prototype with a bubble cockpit had been delivered, a telegram from the Air Ministry had advised them that the new aircraft was to be known as the Khamseen. With the new bubble cockpit giving good all-round vision, the 37mm guns under the wings providing a lot of punch and some refinement of the forward fuselage lines reducing the annoying buzz, the Khamseen was a practical aircraft at last.
Months of work had finally paid off. Seacanes were being delivered to the CAM-ships, three of which were already out on the sea lanes and watching out for Kondors. The Khamseen was a reasonable close support aircraft and was also to go into production. That meant it would be leaving Debert for operational stations. That left Digby Dale wondering what he would be doing next. He knew the Chinook program that was supposed to provide Canada with its new fighters was in trouble. The prototypes were plagued with technical problems including oil coolers failing, carbon monoxide finding its way into the cockpit, mid-air structural failures of the joints between the forward and rear fuselage, and tail breakaways caused by control surface flutter or violent tail vibration. In short, Dale blessed the day he had been regarded as not quite capable enough for that program and had no intention of going to fly an aircraft that gave every impression of hating its pilot.
He’d levelled off at 15,000 feet and was flying east, out across French Bank until he was 250 miles out from shore. Then he would turn south-east until he came to Sable Island and then fly back to Debert. It was a routine navigational exercise, one that tested the suitability for the Khamseen for long-range flights over water. The poor weather that was endemic to the Sable Island area added a little realism to the test-flight. Dale yawned, checked his charts and swung his aircraft over to its new course. He was used to the more sluggish responses of the Khamseen compared with the Seacane fighter and didn’t really notice the effects of the heavy cannon and their ammunition under the wings.
In making the turn, his eye was caught by a flash on the sea surface below and drawn to a black speck. As Dale looked harder, he saw the white line of a ship’s wake below him. His pre-flight had said nothing about any merchant ships or naval operations in the area, anyway, lone merchant ships in this area, at this time made hen’s teeth seem positively abundant by comparison. He reached down and reset his radio to the Churchill Shipping Control frequency. “Haystack, this is Dogpatch five-one. I’m seeing a lone ship out here. My position is . . .” Dale consulted his map and read off the coded location. “Friendly?”
There was a long pause, then his radio crackled. “Dogpatch five-one, be advised, Cornbread has you on radar and confirms your position. There are no, repeat no, say again no, friendly or neutral ships in your area. There is commerce 60 miles south-west of you, they are detaching a destroyer to assist at flank speed. Also, there is a Hayseed on its way from Cornbread. They will be with you in 30 minutes. Do you have anything useful?”
“Haystack, this is a Khamseen. Look it up in your Confidential Books. Have a full load of AP shot.” Dale looked down at his fuel gauge and did some quick calculations. He blessed the fuel-economy of his radial engine and his own forethought in flying it leaned out for maximum economy. “I can shoot the target up and stay with it until the Hayseeds arrive.”
“Confirm, Dogpatch, five-one. Good hunting and stay safe.”
Dale pushed the nose of the Khamseen over and started a 40-degree dive down to the black speck beneath. The aircraft was picking up speed nicely and the buzz from the airframe didn’t start until he had reached a hair over 300 miles per hour, 20mph better than before. The black speck below his was growing rapidly and quickly became easily recognizable as a submarine. Water fountains were starting to spout upwards as the crew realized their danger and tried to crash-dive. Dale guessed at their mistake; most aircraft relied on bombs and depth-charges to make their attack and that meant they had to overfly their targets, thus giving the submarine time to dive. Only, the Khamseen had two anti-tank guns hanging under its wings and they allowed Dale to start firing when he was well away from the target. He gave a quick burst from the two .30 machine guns in the wings and saw the stream of tracers hitting his target.
He felt the Khamseen’s nose dip as his first shots went out and he caught the move in time to correct it. The submarine’s bow was now under water and the sea was approaching her conning tower. The first two shots were short but close enough for the splash they caused to shower the superstructure. The next pair seemed to be extremely close and dead center on the hull and one of the third pair caused a brilliant red flash as the shell hit the root of the sail. By now, Dale was getting dangerously close, and he squeezed off a fourth pair at almost point-blank range. Both hit the hull just aft of the conning tower, causing a sudden cloud of black smoke. Well, I hurt something.
He climbed away and circled around to see the results of his attack. Below him, the submarine had stopped diving and was coming back to the surface. The crew was coming out of the hatches and manning the guns around the conning tower. Dale had only fired off a quarter of his 16 rounds so he made a wingover and repeated his dive, this time coming in from the stern where the submarine’s forward gun was masked by the conning tower. Blobs of tracer fire were streaking towards him as he closed in, a rapid series of flashes from the 20mm gun and slower, more spaced-out shots from the 37mm. Dale returned fire with his two machine guns and, as soon as his tracers were on target, resumed firing with his own 37mm guns. Once again, the first pair of shots missed but he got at least four hits spaced along the submarine’s hull from the four additional salvoes he fired. One of them was on the rear platform of the bridge and it caused the 20mm gun there to abruptly stop firing.
Once again, Dale circled the submarine, noting that she was moving slowly and appeared to be trailing oil. Also, the promised Hudsons from RCAF were arriving and they were better equipped for dealing with a submarine than the Khamseen. Or are they? Dale thought. I’ve been doing well up to now.
“Dogpatch, this is Hayseed. We’ll take it from here. By the look of it, that bitch isn’t going anywhere. You all right with a shared kill?”
“You bet Hayseed. Watch the forward gun and the 37mm aft. The 20mm is gone. I’m low on fuel now so she’s all yours. Good hunting!”
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Seven
4th Ground-Attack Aircraft Regiment, Crimea.
Senior Lieutenant Petr Anisimovich Ochakov had taken off as part of a formation of eight Il-2s that were on an armed reconnaissance mission towards Odessa. This flight was different from its predecessors in that above and behind the Sturmoviks was their escort of LaGG-3 fighters, six fighters collectively known as the 'hats'. The fighter regiment had been formed by assembling the survivors of the units that had been destroyed earlier in the fascist invasion. All of the pilots had experience of air combat and had seen at first hand the disaster that resulted from the skilled fascist veterans slicing through Soviet pilots that could barely fly their aircraft. They had also painfully learned the lessons from the massacre of the Soviet fighters. Although they had taken off in the tight Vee formations dictated by the manuals, as soon as they were out of sight, the formation had split into three loose pairs and were weaving from side to side as they watched for the fascist fighters.
The LaGGs were not the only pilots keeping a keen watch. Ochakov had been briefed that the Germans were so angered by the failure of the Romanians to take Odessa that they were moving their own troops down to reinforce what they fondly hoped would be the final assault. The resulting mission had two separate components. The first was to find the enemy columns, and the second was to bomb and strafe the hell out of them. As a result, the mission profile was unusual since it required the Sturmoviks to climb immediately after take-off. This was a calculated risk, but it paid off handsomely. After flying over the Dniprovs'ka Gulf, they had spotted a thick cloud of dust inland, one so dense that it almost looked like a smokescreen. As the Il-2s closed in on it, it was apparent the dust cloud was coming from the road joining Koshary to Voronivka. As it happened Ochakov knew the area reasonably well and he was able to picture the operational situation. Enraged by the way Odessa was holding out, the fascists had detached troops from the advance on the Crimea and sent them to attack the besieged port-city. The Romanians had been hammering on the defenses from the North and the West; probably the fascists thought that a blow from the East would have a decisive element of surprise. Reluctantly, Ochakov thought that they might be right.
With an enemy target now in view, the Il-2s dropped to a height of 600 meters and began to make their runs towards the fascist column. Obviously, the Sturmoviks, previously flying at the unprecedented altitude of 2,000 meters, had been mistaken for fascist aircraft. When the men on the ground realized their mistake, something close to panic erupted amongst the marching figures below. To his delight, Ochakov saw tanks, automobiles and armored troop carriers swerving round each other in a desperate attempt to get clear of the road. Right at the front was something that looked like a luxurious staff car, and he decided that was his prey. Some of the trucks couldn't get off the road and got stuck on banks or in the ditches. The fascist soldiers began to jump out of those vehicles and tried to hide in the roadside ditches.
Despite the chaos below, the anti-aircraft guns were already firing at the attacking aircraft. Ochakov made an additional turn in order to align his dive along the column, starting from the head where the driver of the limousine had suddenly realized he was the main target of the attack aircraft bearing down on him. He tried to swerve out of the line of fire, but it was too late. Ochakov opened up with his cannon and machine guns, using the tracers and the impact point on the unsurfaced road to walk his fire onto the limousine. It exploded into a ball of flame before rolling over into a ditch. By lifting the nose on his Il-2, Ochakov was able to space his 50-kilogram bombs down the line of the column. Behind him, the other Sturmoviks were following him down. One by one they dived and strafed the column, following Ochakov in trying to place their bombs as far down the line of vehicles as they could.
Almost by instinct, Ochakov had pulled off to the left as his last bomb had dropped clear. Below him, the fascist column was a patchwork maze of bomb blasts, burning vehicles and running men. As he climbed out of his attack run, he saw the last of the Sturmoviks was making its dive on the column. Without really thinking about it, Ochakov levelled out, turned left, and flew along an arc to join the rear of the line of Il-2s. That was when he realized that the eight aircraft had formed a circle that would allow them to attack the fascists almost continuously. The other pilots had seen the same thing and realized they were onto something good. Another Il-2 dropped out of the circle and dived down on the column below, firing his RS-82 rockets at one of the trucks. All the pilots could see the bursts from the rockets tearing a hole in the column. There was something else evident as well. The fascist flak gunners had no idea which Il-2 was going to make its run next or from where. Instead of being from a predictable direction, they could be from anywhere within the circle.
Ochakov took his chance, dropped out of the circle and made his dive on a group of trucks that had previously escaped attention. His salvo of eight RS-82s exploded right alongside one of the trucks, flipping it onto its side and setting the wreckage ablaze. He then fired a long burst from his cannon and machine guns, spraying the remaining trucks in the group with fire. The dive had brought his Il-2 down really low but it had also allowed him to build up speed in the dive. That allowed his Sturmovik to soar skywards and rejoin the circle. It expanded to receive him and then closed again. Being amongst his comrades again instead of the formation being scattered over the countryside felt good. Ochakov realized that, quite by chance, he had stumbled onto something valuable.
Just how valuable became apparent just a few seconds later. While the Il-2s had been bombing the column below, a group of eight Messers had attacked the six LaGG-3s escorting the bombers. Ochakov did a quick count; there were eight fighters above the Sturmoviks, two LaGG-3s and six Messers. It looked as if the LaGGs had lost four of their number but made two kills of their own. The ‘hats’ had obviously had a hard time, but they had managed to draw blood themselves. That was a big change and Ochakov knew it. He also knew that the situation was still very dangerous. The Il-2s were holding their circle when the Messers came down to attack. The 109F swerved into the circle, trying to get a shot in at the Il-2 in front of Ochakov’s aircraft. In doing so, he gave Ochakov a perfect deflection shot at the fascist fighter. Even better, he realized that the geometry of the circle meant that the Il-2 in front of him was already turning out of his line of fire. Unlike his first kill where only sheer luck had prevented him from killing one of his own comrades, this time the shot was safe.
Hurriedly, Ochakov squeezed the trigger firing the 23mm cannon and 7.62 machine guns at the Messer. He watched his tracer bullets race past the fighter before hitting near the nose and sawing back along the fuselage. The Messer climbed abruptly, the pilot obviously trying to get out of the trap, but immediately the burning fighter rolled on its back and started a near-vertical dive into the ground. For a brief second, Ochakov hoped it would crash onto the already-mauled column, but it landed short.
That was when Ochakov realized that the Messer’s wingman was coming for him. Fortunately, Alekse Ivanovich Vasilyev was flying the Sturmovik behind him and nobody had ever suggested he was slow on the uptake. He’d seen how Ochakov had dealt with the Messer attacking the aircraft in front of him, so he covered Ochakov’s tail. The Me-109F saw the danger just in time and pulled clear. In doing so, it lost any chance of breaking into the circling Il-2 formation.
By now the Soviet formation had settled down into an orderly, even-spaced circle with the LaGG-3s prowling outside. That left the Messers with the choice of trying to break into the circle and running the gauntlet of fire from the Il-2s or being sandwiched between them and the fighters. The fascist pilots took the third option, break off, go home and think about this new problem.
Ochakov was about to make his third and final pass on the column when there was a loud bang and his engine stopped instantly. His first thought was that something, almost certainly anti-aircraft fire, had hit the engine. Then, when the engine started to generate a thick trail of white vapor rather than black smoke, he realized it had overheated and seized up rather than suffering any damage. Either way, I am going down.
The Il-2 was too heavy to glide very far and the advice all the Sturmovik pilots had received echoed in his mind. ‘Do not bail out over the troops you have just strafed.’ The altitude was too low for him to glide very far, and the only troops in the area were those in the enemy column below. The only option he had was to glide as far away from the road as possible and put the Sturmovik down in a field. Then set the aircraft on fire and run as far from it as possible.
There was a significant surge of relief when he made his decision. Just having a plan was a world better than not knowing what to do next. Ahead of him, the ground was flat and apparently uninterrupted, lathe enough to make a reasonable emergency landing. That raised another problem, whether to lower the landing gear or to belly the aircraft in. Bellying in would write the aircraft off and make destroying it a little easier but the Il-2 was not an easy aircraft to bring in that way and all too many pilots had fractured their skulls when their heads had struck some of the many obstructions. On the other hand, if he dropped the landing gear, catching the wheels in an unseen ditch or mount might flip the aircraft over. If I end up turned over, the fascists will fish me out like a bird from a cage. Or, more likely, they will kill me on the spot and capture the aircraft intact. What to do?
Knowing he was running out of time, Ochakov reached down and released the undercarriage. It was designed so that the wheels would come down under gravity even if the aircraft was totally without power. By the time it was down and locked, his Sturmovik was already about to start bouncing along the undulations in the ground. The aircraft was threatening to nose over at any second. He braced one hand against the instrument panel while trying to prevent the aircraft flipping over with the other. Somehow, despite the unexpected roughness of the ground, he managed to bring it to a stop while still right side up. With an awe-inspiring level of relief, Ochakov jumped out of the cockpit and started to run away from the aircraft. His next responsibility was to burn the plane so that the fascists would not learn its secrets. He knew very well that if he failed to do so, his wingmen racing over him would report the dereliction of duty.
The situation was rapidly becoming critical. The Sturmovik had all the landing characteristics of a well-thrown brick and that had left him less than a kilometer from the wreckage of the column. A pyre of black smoke marked the area where more than a dozen trucks and a few tanks were burning. The fascists from the column had been able to see the Sturmovik gliding to land and it was standing on a bare field in full view of the enemy. Ochakov realized he had to burn the aircraft quickly. A few of the more enterprising fascists were already firing their rifles at him.
There was a drill for burning a stranded aircraft that Ochakov followed to the letter. The first step was to take off his parachute and pull the red ring that released the canopy. The parachute pack swept open allowing a bundle of white silk to billow out in an unruly white cloud. He gathered it in, bundled it up and packed it in around the fuel filler cap. The next job was to punch out the retaining pin that stopped the cap being opened by accident. He tapped it, wrenched at it and pounded it with the butt of his pistol. Nothing seemed to release it. In desperation, he grabbed it and twisted. The pin made a smooth half turn and then slid straight out. The filler cap dropped off into his hand, releasing a stream of avgas into the packed silk. The last stage was to take the flare gun that was always loaded. He drew it from its pack, turned round so his face would not get burned, and fired. The gasoline-soaked silk parachute immediately caught fire and started to burn fiercely. At that point, Ochakov realized that staying close to a blazing aircraft was probably not a good idea.
In any case, the fascist soldiers were closing rapidly in on his position. One group was running towards him from the road, more were closing in from the sides. The black cloud of smoke from the burning Sturmovik gave him a minimum of cover but there was neither a bush nor a mound around for him to hide behind. Word was already spreading quickly about what the fascists did to the prisoners they took and Ochakov decided that it would be better to shoot himself at the last moment. Already he could hear sub-machine guns firing and knew that the fascists must be within a few meters of him.
He fell face down on the ground and prepared to empty all but the last round of its magazine at the enemy. As he drew the Tokarev out of its holster, he heard a low rumbling of some aircraft. To his surprise, the line of fascist soldiers that had been advancing so confidently upon him were all dispersing and taking cover. Overhead, the two surviving LaGG-3s had returned and were diving in for a strafing pass that sprayed 20 and 7.62mm ammunition all over the fascist position. The two fighters zoomed and circled round, ready to attack again. In the bright sunlit sky, six of the Sturmoviks had formed a circle and were obviously watching for any movement on the ground. Watching them, Ochakov suddenly realized how menacing the constant circling was. It reminded him of crews circling a crippled and dying animal, waiting for a chance to feed. Then it struck him. Six aircraft circling overhead, his own aircraft burning on the ground. What has happened to Number Seven?
Ochakov dismissed the thought. The strafing pass had bought him a few seconds to try and run as far as possible from the enemy column. That decision was emphasized by the emergence of a fascist armored car, one of the big eight-wheeled ones, that had emerged from the wreckage of the column and was tearing across the grass towards him. It was a foolish move; one of the Sturmoviks broke out of the circle and went into a steep dive. Ochakov heard the hammering of its heavy cannon and saw the armored car vanishing under the spurts of dust and smoke. Soon, it was the source of yet another column of smoke that reached up as if it was a last, desperate effort to strike at the Sturmovik that had destroyed it.
That was when Sturmovik number 7 appeared, hedgehopping towards Ochakov from the tree-line opposite to where the column was burning. Ochakov stood up at full height and started to wave his white scarf at the pilot to salute him and wish him a safe trip home. He was flying at an altitude of ten meters, allowing Ochakov to see his helmet, his goggles, and his face. The aircraft had a large white seven painted on the tail, identifying it as Vasilyev's aircraft. Since he was now the senior attacking pilot in the formation, it was his duty to be the last to leave the target.
Ochakov waved at him again and he saw Vasilyev rocking his wings in acknowledgment. Without any warning, his aircraft zoomed and banked left. Ochavov thought that Vasilyev was trying to fix the location in his memory so he could carry the word back to base. There, he could report to the regiment commander and perhaps the partisans could stage a rescue mission. A second later, it was apparent Vasilyev had something else in mind. His wheels dropped and the Sturmovik was in its landing approach. Ochakov could even see the flaps lowering under the wings. Alekse Ivanovich is coming in to pick me up!
If he did, Ochakov realized it would be in the face of everything the fascists could do to prevent him. The fascists were blazing away with rifles and machine guns, every weapon that they could find. Even the sub-machine gunners were firing at the Il-2, leaving Ochakov to wonder if even the officers were firing their pistols at the aircraft. A rain of tracer bullets from dozens of guns were racing towards Vasilyev's aircraft, enveloping it in a curtain of orange-red fire, yet Vasilyev brought the aircraft calmly into its landing.
For all its ferocity, it was not the gunfire that was dangerous. It was the trenches and mounts that littered the pasture that could catch a wheel and damage the landing gear. Vasilyev had dropped down until he was flying just above the ground when one of his wheels knocked against a bump. For a moment, Ochakov thought his friend was going to abandon the attempt at a rescue but the engine surged and the Sturmovik made a neat, three-point landing and stopped a hundred meters in front of Ochakov who rushed towards the aircraft as if chased by all the devils in hell. Which, with the fascist infantry closing in, wasn't too far from the truth.
Vasilyev had climbed out of the cockpit and was opening the cargo compartment that was located behind the pilot's seat. The Il-2 had originally been designed as a two-seat attacker with a gunner to guard its rear. That gunner had been deleted to save weight but there was still an empty compartment where his position had been. It would hold one man in relative comfort or, as the joke went, two if they were very friendly. Normally it was used to carry ground crew members when changing bases. Ochakov found himself remembering the time when two armorers had come to exchanging blows over who should share the compartment with a particularly attractive nurse. Come to think of it, that was aircraft seven as well. Then, he dived into the rear compartment and dragged the hatch closed behind him
"Alekse Ivanovich, you are a prince amongst men!!!!" Ochakov shouted out the praise and got a wave in acknowledgement. Vasilyev was already turning the Il-2 on the ground and preparing to take off along the tracks his wheels had made while coming in to land. That way he knew the ground was smooth. The engine picked up power and the aircraft started to speed up. That was when Ochakov did something he had not done for many years. He started praying. It would only take one rifle or pistol bullet in a tire to make the Sturmovik spin on a rim and that would be that. For the last time the plane jerked and bounced and then, suddenly it was smooth and quiet in the aft compartment. We have made it back into the air.
Ochakov knew that the danger was not yet past. He could hear the occasional thrumming noise as a bullet hit the airframe and knew that there were many more passing all around them. Vasilyev was sitting in the armored cockpit, protected from rifle and machinegun fire but Ochakov was not, and every bullet aimed at them could pierce the thin skin of the fuselage. He eased the hatch open a fraction and saw the ground below, the enemy column burning in many places, his own plane was blazing a few tens of meters away from it and the fascist armored car in flames between them. Only now did he appreciate how close he had been to the column. Overhead, the pair of LaGG-3s was escorting the seven Sturmoviks. Fourteen planes set out, nine were returning but they had left a fascist column burning and shot down three Messers! This was a great victory!!
Airfield 11, Donuzlav Lake, Crimea.
The aircraft were on the ground at last and were surrounded by cheering ground crews. One of the Il-2s was on the ground quite literally; like Ochakov's aircraft, the engine had overheated and failed. Faced with the choice of landing with the wheels up or down, the pilot had elected to make a belly landing. The Sturmovik was already being lifted up by a crane and its wrecked propeller was being replaced. It was a mark of how strongly built the aircraft was that it would be back in service within a few hours.
Meanwhile, the party was reaching new heights. Ochakov and Vasilyev had been carried from their aircraft and tossed into the air in the traditional celebration. So had the two LaGG-3 pilots. While the revelry was at its peak, confirmation of the three kills had come in. Now, each of the LaGGs was having a cross painted under its cockpit. Ochakov had been given a replacement Il-2, an older model with a 20mm ShVak cannon in each wing instead of the 23mm VYa gun. The shortcoming in firepower was offset by the two black crosses painted under its cockpit.
"Petka, please would you tell me more about this circle of death you have come up with?"
Napalkov listened carefully as Ochakov explained how the attack aircraft had serendipitously formed a defensive circle and used it to keep the Messers from picking them off. At the end of the description, he had a clear idea of how the maneuver had been performed and the advantages it brought. That left only one thing to do before he circulated word to the Politruks in other ground attack regiments and they brought it to the attention of the pilots there. “Bratishka, is there anything else that would have improved your performance of this mission.
Ochakov thought carefully. “Tovarish politruk, we need that rear gun. I know it was deleted to save weight, but the situation has changed, and we should reconsider the choices made. We need a rear gun more than anything else.”
“And how do we achieve that?” Napalkov was more interested in the way Ochakov answered than what he said.
“I do not know. Perhaps there should be a Party meeting to discuss ideas?”
Napalkov nodded in agreement. It had been a good answer.
4th Ground-Attack Aircraft Regiment, Crimea.
Senior Lieutenant Petr Anisimovich Ochakov had taken off as part of a formation of eight Il-2s that were on an armed reconnaissance mission towards Odessa. This flight was different from its predecessors in that above and behind the Sturmoviks was their escort of LaGG-3 fighters, six fighters collectively known as the 'hats'. The fighter regiment had been formed by assembling the survivors of the units that had been destroyed earlier in the fascist invasion. All of the pilots had experience of air combat and had seen at first hand the disaster that resulted from the skilled fascist veterans slicing through Soviet pilots that could barely fly their aircraft. They had also painfully learned the lessons from the massacre of the Soviet fighters. Although they had taken off in the tight Vee formations dictated by the manuals, as soon as they were out of sight, the formation had split into three loose pairs and were weaving from side to side as they watched for the fascist fighters.
The LaGGs were not the only pilots keeping a keen watch. Ochakov had been briefed that the Germans were so angered by the failure of the Romanians to take Odessa that they were moving their own troops down to reinforce what they fondly hoped would be the final assault. The resulting mission had two separate components. The first was to find the enemy columns, and the second was to bomb and strafe the hell out of them. As a result, the mission profile was unusual since it required the Sturmoviks to climb immediately after take-off. This was a calculated risk, but it paid off handsomely. After flying over the Dniprovs'ka Gulf, they had spotted a thick cloud of dust inland, one so dense that it almost looked like a smokescreen. As the Il-2s closed in on it, it was apparent the dust cloud was coming from the road joining Koshary to Voronivka. As it happened Ochakov knew the area reasonably well and he was able to picture the operational situation. Enraged by the way Odessa was holding out, the fascists had detached troops from the advance on the Crimea and sent them to attack the besieged port-city. The Romanians had been hammering on the defenses from the North and the West; probably the fascists thought that a blow from the East would have a decisive element of surprise. Reluctantly, Ochakov thought that they might be right.
With an enemy target now in view, the Il-2s dropped to a height of 600 meters and began to make their runs towards the fascist column. Obviously, the Sturmoviks, previously flying at the unprecedented altitude of 2,000 meters, had been mistaken for fascist aircraft. When the men on the ground realized their mistake, something close to panic erupted amongst the marching figures below. To his delight, Ochakov saw tanks, automobiles and armored troop carriers swerving round each other in a desperate attempt to get clear of the road. Right at the front was something that looked like a luxurious staff car, and he decided that was his prey. Some of the trucks couldn't get off the road and got stuck on banks or in the ditches. The fascist soldiers began to jump out of those vehicles and tried to hide in the roadside ditches.
Despite the chaos below, the anti-aircraft guns were already firing at the attacking aircraft. Ochakov made an additional turn in order to align his dive along the column, starting from the head where the driver of the limousine had suddenly realized he was the main target of the attack aircraft bearing down on him. He tried to swerve out of the line of fire, but it was too late. Ochakov opened up with his cannon and machine guns, using the tracers and the impact point on the unsurfaced road to walk his fire onto the limousine. It exploded into a ball of flame before rolling over into a ditch. By lifting the nose on his Il-2, Ochakov was able to space his 50-kilogram bombs down the line of the column. Behind him, the other Sturmoviks were following him down. One by one they dived and strafed the column, following Ochakov in trying to place their bombs as far down the line of vehicles as they could.
Almost by instinct, Ochakov had pulled off to the left as his last bomb had dropped clear. Below him, the fascist column was a patchwork maze of bomb blasts, burning vehicles and running men. As he climbed out of his attack run, he saw the last of the Sturmoviks was making its dive on the column. Without really thinking about it, Ochakov levelled out, turned left, and flew along an arc to join the rear of the line of Il-2s. That was when he realized that the eight aircraft had formed a circle that would allow them to attack the fascists almost continuously. The other pilots had seen the same thing and realized they were onto something good. Another Il-2 dropped out of the circle and dived down on the column below, firing his RS-82 rockets at one of the trucks. All the pilots could see the bursts from the rockets tearing a hole in the column. There was something else evident as well. The fascist flak gunners had no idea which Il-2 was going to make its run next or from where. Instead of being from a predictable direction, they could be from anywhere within the circle.
Ochakov took his chance, dropped out of the circle and made his dive on a group of trucks that had previously escaped attention. His salvo of eight RS-82s exploded right alongside one of the trucks, flipping it onto its side and setting the wreckage ablaze. He then fired a long burst from his cannon and machine guns, spraying the remaining trucks in the group with fire. The dive had brought his Il-2 down really low but it had also allowed him to build up speed in the dive. That allowed his Sturmovik to soar skywards and rejoin the circle. It expanded to receive him and then closed again. Being amongst his comrades again instead of the formation being scattered over the countryside felt good. Ochakov realized that, quite by chance, he had stumbled onto something valuable.
Just how valuable became apparent just a few seconds later. While the Il-2s had been bombing the column below, a group of eight Messers had attacked the six LaGG-3s escorting the bombers. Ochakov did a quick count; there were eight fighters above the Sturmoviks, two LaGG-3s and six Messers. It looked as if the LaGGs had lost four of their number but made two kills of their own. The ‘hats’ had obviously had a hard time, but they had managed to draw blood themselves. That was a big change and Ochakov knew it. He also knew that the situation was still very dangerous. The Il-2s were holding their circle when the Messers came down to attack. The 109F swerved into the circle, trying to get a shot in at the Il-2 in front of Ochakov’s aircraft. In doing so, he gave Ochakov a perfect deflection shot at the fascist fighter. Even better, he realized that the geometry of the circle meant that the Il-2 in front of him was already turning out of his line of fire. Unlike his first kill where only sheer luck had prevented him from killing one of his own comrades, this time the shot was safe.
Hurriedly, Ochakov squeezed the trigger firing the 23mm cannon and 7.62 machine guns at the Messer. He watched his tracer bullets race past the fighter before hitting near the nose and sawing back along the fuselage. The Messer climbed abruptly, the pilot obviously trying to get out of the trap, but immediately the burning fighter rolled on its back and started a near-vertical dive into the ground. For a brief second, Ochakov hoped it would crash onto the already-mauled column, but it landed short.
That was when Ochakov realized that the Messer’s wingman was coming for him. Fortunately, Alekse Ivanovich Vasilyev was flying the Sturmovik behind him and nobody had ever suggested he was slow on the uptake. He’d seen how Ochakov had dealt with the Messer attacking the aircraft in front of him, so he covered Ochakov’s tail. The Me-109F saw the danger just in time and pulled clear. In doing so, it lost any chance of breaking into the circling Il-2 formation.
By now the Soviet formation had settled down into an orderly, even-spaced circle with the LaGG-3s prowling outside. That left the Messers with the choice of trying to break into the circle and running the gauntlet of fire from the Il-2s or being sandwiched between them and the fighters. The fascist pilots took the third option, break off, go home and think about this new problem.
Ochakov was about to make his third and final pass on the column when there was a loud bang and his engine stopped instantly. His first thought was that something, almost certainly anti-aircraft fire, had hit the engine. Then, when the engine started to generate a thick trail of white vapor rather than black smoke, he realized it had overheated and seized up rather than suffering any damage. Either way, I am going down.
The Il-2 was too heavy to glide very far and the advice all the Sturmovik pilots had received echoed in his mind. ‘Do not bail out over the troops you have just strafed.’ The altitude was too low for him to glide very far, and the only troops in the area were those in the enemy column below. The only option he had was to glide as far away from the road as possible and put the Sturmovik down in a field. Then set the aircraft on fire and run as far from it as possible.
There was a significant surge of relief when he made his decision. Just having a plan was a world better than not knowing what to do next. Ahead of him, the ground was flat and apparently uninterrupted, lathe enough to make a reasonable emergency landing. That raised another problem, whether to lower the landing gear or to belly the aircraft in. Bellying in would write the aircraft off and make destroying it a little easier but the Il-2 was not an easy aircraft to bring in that way and all too many pilots had fractured their skulls when their heads had struck some of the many obstructions. On the other hand, if he dropped the landing gear, catching the wheels in an unseen ditch or mount might flip the aircraft over. If I end up turned over, the fascists will fish me out like a bird from a cage. Or, more likely, they will kill me on the spot and capture the aircraft intact. What to do?
Knowing he was running out of time, Ochakov reached down and released the undercarriage. It was designed so that the wheels would come down under gravity even if the aircraft was totally without power. By the time it was down and locked, his Sturmovik was already about to start bouncing along the undulations in the ground. The aircraft was threatening to nose over at any second. He braced one hand against the instrument panel while trying to prevent the aircraft flipping over with the other. Somehow, despite the unexpected roughness of the ground, he managed to bring it to a stop while still right side up. With an awe-inspiring level of relief, Ochakov jumped out of the cockpit and started to run away from the aircraft. His next responsibility was to burn the plane so that the fascists would not learn its secrets. He knew very well that if he failed to do so, his wingmen racing over him would report the dereliction of duty.
The situation was rapidly becoming critical. The Sturmovik had all the landing characteristics of a well-thrown brick and that had left him less than a kilometer from the wreckage of the column. A pyre of black smoke marked the area where more than a dozen trucks and a few tanks were burning. The fascists from the column had been able to see the Sturmovik gliding to land and it was standing on a bare field in full view of the enemy. Ochakov realized he had to burn the aircraft quickly. A few of the more enterprising fascists were already firing their rifles at him.
There was a drill for burning a stranded aircraft that Ochakov followed to the letter. The first step was to take off his parachute and pull the red ring that released the canopy. The parachute pack swept open allowing a bundle of white silk to billow out in an unruly white cloud. He gathered it in, bundled it up and packed it in around the fuel filler cap. The next job was to punch out the retaining pin that stopped the cap being opened by accident. He tapped it, wrenched at it and pounded it with the butt of his pistol. Nothing seemed to release it. In desperation, he grabbed it and twisted. The pin made a smooth half turn and then slid straight out. The filler cap dropped off into his hand, releasing a stream of avgas into the packed silk. The last stage was to take the flare gun that was always loaded. He drew it from its pack, turned round so his face would not get burned, and fired. The gasoline-soaked silk parachute immediately caught fire and started to burn fiercely. At that point, Ochakov realized that staying close to a blazing aircraft was probably not a good idea.
In any case, the fascist soldiers were closing rapidly in on his position. One group was running towards him from the road, more were closing in from the sides. The black cloud of smoke from the burning Sturmovik gave him a minimum of cover but there was neither a bush nor a mound around for him to hide behind. Word was already spreading quickly about what the fascists did to the prisoners they took and Ochakov decided that it would be better to shoot himself at the last moment. Already he could hear sub-machine guns firing and knew that the fascists must be within a few meters of him.
He fell face down on the ground and prepared to empty all but the last round of its magazine at the enemy. As he drew the Tokarev out of its holster, he heard a low rumbling of some aircraft. To his surprise, the line of fascist soldiers that had been advancing so confidently upon him were all dispersing and taking cover. Overhead, the two surviving LaGG-3s had returned and were diving in for a strafing pass that sprayed 20 and 7.62mm ammunition all over the fascist position. The two fighters zoomed and circled round, ready to attack again. In the bright sunlit sky, six of the Sturmoviks had formed a circle and were obviously watching for any movement on the ground. Watching them, Ochakov suddenly realized how menacing the constant circling was. It reminded him of crews circling a crippled and dying animal, waiting for a chance to feed. Then it struck him. Six aircraft circling overhead, his own aircraft burning on the ground. What has happened to Number Seven?
Ochakov dismissed the thought. The strafing pass had bought him a few seconds to try and run as far as possible from the enemy column. That decision was emphasized by the emergence of a fascist armored car, one of the big eight-wheeled ones, that had emerged from the wreckage of the column and was tearing across the grass towards him. It was a foolish move; one of the Sturmoviks broke out of the circle and went into a steep dive. Ochakov heard the hammering of its heavy cannon and saw the armored car vanishing under the spurts of dust and smoke. Soon, it was the source of yet another column of smoke that reached up as if it was a last, desperate effort to strike at the Sturmovik that had destroyed it.
That was when Sturmovik number 7 appeared, hedgehopping towards Ochakov from the tree-line opposite to where the column was burning. Ochakov stood up at full height and started to wave his white scarf at the pilot to salute him and wish him a safe trip home. He was flying at an altitude of ten meters, allowing Ochakov to see his helmet, his goggles, and his face. The aircraft had a large white seven painted on the tail, identifying it as Vasilyev's aircraft. Since he was now the senior attacking pilot in the formation, it was his duty to be the last to leave the target.
Ochakov waved at him again and he saw Vasilyev rocking his wings in acknowledgment. Without any warning, his aircraft zoomed and banked left. Ochavov thought that Vasilyev was trying to fix the location in his memory so he could carry the word back to base. There, he could report to the regiment commander and perhaps the partisans could stage a rescue mission. A second later, it was apparent Vasilyev had something else in mind. His wheels dropped and the Sturmovik was in its landing approach. Ochakov could even see the flaps lowering under the wings. Alekse Ivanovich is coming in to pick me up!
If he did, Ochakov realized it would be in the face of everything the fascists could do to prevent him. The fascists were blazing away with rifles and machine guns, every weapon that they could find. Even the sub-machine gunners were firing at the Il-2, leaving Ochakov to wonder if even the officers were firing their pistols at the aircraft. A rain of tracer bullets from dozens of guns were racing towards Vasilyev's aircraft, enveloping it in a curtain of orange-red fire, yet Vasilyev brought the aircraft calmly into its landing.
For all its ferocity, it was not the gunfire that was dangerous. It was the trenches and mounts that littered the pasture that could catch a wheel and damage the landing gear. Vasilyev had dropped down until he was flying just above the ground when one of his wheels knocked against a bump. For a moment, Ochakov thought his friend was going to abandon the attempt at a rescue but the engine surged and the Sturmovik made a neat, three-point landing and stopped a hundred meters in front of Ochakov who rushed towards the aircraft as if chased by all the devils in hell. Which, with the fascist infantry closing in, wasn't too far from the truth.
Vasilyev had climbed out of the cockpit and was opening the cargo compartment that was located behind the pilot's seat. The Il-2 had originally been designed as a two-seat attacker with a gunner to guard its rear. That gunner had been deleted to save weight but there was still an empty compartment where his position had been. It would hold one man in relative comfort or, as the joke went, two if they were very friendly. Normally it was used to carry ground crew members when changing bases. Ochakov found himself remembering the time when two armorers had come to exchanging blows over who should share the compartment with a particularly attractive nurse. Come to think of it, that was aircraft seven as well. Then, he dived into the rear compartment and dragged the hatch closed behind him
"Alekse Ivanovich, you are a prince amongst men!!!!" Ochakov shouted out the praise and got a wave in acknowledgement. Vasilyev was already turning the Il-2 on the ground and preparing to take off along the tracks his wheels had made while coming in to land. That way he knew the ground was smooth. The engine picked up power and the aircraft started to speed up. That was when Ochakov did something he had not done for many years. He started praying. It would only take one rifle or pistol bullet in a tire to make the Sturmovik spin on a rim and that would be that. For the last time the plane jerked and bounced and then, suddenly it was smooth and quiet in the aft compartment. We have made it back into the air.
Ochakov knew that the danger was not yet past. He could hear the occasional thrumming noise as a bullet hit the airframe and knew that there were many more passing all around them. Vasilyev was sitting in the armored cockpit, protected from rifle and machinegun fire but Ochakov was not, and every bullet aimed at them could pierce the thin skin of the fuselage. He eased the hatch open a fraction and saw the ground below, the enemy column burning in many places, his own plane was blazing a few tens of meters away from it and the fascist armored car in flames between them. Only now did he appreciate how close he had been to the column. Overhead, the pair of LaGG-3s was escorting the seven Sturmoviks. Fourteen planes set out, nine were returning but they had left a fascist column burning and shot down three Messers! This was a great victory!!
Airfield 11, Donuzlav Lake, Crimea.
The aircraft were on the ground at last and were surrounded by cheering ground crews. One of the Il-2s was on the ground quite literally; like Ochakov's aircraft, the engine had overheated and failed. Faced with the choice of landing with the wheels up or down, the pilot had elected to make a belly landing. The Sturmovik was already being lifted up by a crane and its wrecked propeller was being replaced. It was a mark of how strongly built the aircraft was that it would be back in service within a few hours.
Meanwhile, the party was reaching new heights. Ochakov and Vasilyev had been carried from their aircraft and tossed into the air in the traditional celebration. So had the two LaGG-3 pilots. While the revelry was at its peak, confirmation of the three kills had come in. Now, each of the LaGGs was having a cross painted under its cockpit. Ochakov had been given a replacement Il-2, an older model with a 20mm ShVak cannon in each wing instead of the 23mm VYa gun. The shortcoming in firepower was offset by the two black crosses painted under its cockpit.
"Petka, please would you tell me more about this circle of death you have come up with?"
Napalkov listened carefully as Ochakov explained how the attack aircraft had serendipitously formed a defensive circle and used it to keep the Messers from picking them off. At the end of the description, he had a clear idea of how the maneuver had been performed and the advantages it brought. That left only one thing to do before he circulated word to the Politruks in other ground attack regiments and they brought it to the attention of the pilots there. “Bratishka, is there anything else that would have improved your performance of this mission.
Ochakov thought carefully. “Tovarish politruk, we need that rear gun. I know it was deleted to save weight, but the situation has changed, and we should reconsider the choices made. We need a rear gun more than anything else.”
“And how do we achieve that?” Napalkov was more interested in the way Ochakov answered than what he said.
“I do not know. Perhaps there should be a Party meeting to discuss ideas?”
Napalkov nodded in agreement. It had been a good answer.
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Eight
RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
"Digger, the brass wants to see you now. As in right now." Bill Soulsby had made a point about finding Dale as early as possible. He'd made a calculated guess that the test-pilot would be near the Khamseen prototype checking on something or another. It had turned out to be perfectly correct; Dale was looking at the feed on the underwing 37mm guns, trying to work out if it was possible to squeeze an extra couple of rounds into the magazines. He straightened up, banged his head on the cannon pod and cursed fluently.
"Any idea what they want, Bill?"
"They've got an odd look about them. A bit spooky. You know like they might suddenly walk in one direction while their shadow walks off somewhere else. I wouldn't keep them waiting if I were you and it might be a good idea not to be in the same room as them come sunset." That brought a laugh from the men working in the hangar. The previous night, the cinema had shown the 1936 version of 'Dracula's Daughter' and the whole base had gone Vampire-mad. "Seriously, I think it's about that sub you took out. Better take your logbook and official report."
In the debriefing room, Lt. Col. Arthur Terence Roper-Caldbeck was getting ready to investigate another possible source of the leak. He was reasonably certain that the information about merchant ships being equipped with radar had come from RCAF Debert. The question was, how?
Lieutenant Reginald Miles Brooker had been assigned to open the debriefing. “Pilot Officer Dale, I understand you were flying one of the new Khamseen anti-tank aircraft when you engaged a submarine off Seal Island two days ago. Could you, in your own words, walk us through that engagement?”
Dale gave a careful account of what had happened, consulting his logbook and official report whenever necessary. When he had finished, Brooker asked a pointed question. “You opened fire with your 37mm guns from a range of about one thousand yards, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. I was in a 30-degree dive and wanted to close the range as quickly as I could.”
“Of course, but at no time prior to opening fire with those heavy guns did you positively identify the submarine?”
“No Sir, but I contacted Churchill Shipping Control and they confirmed there were no friendly ships or submarines in the area. They were very emphatic about that.”
“So I see. You do realize that submarines are often, some may say almost always, not where they are supposed to be. So, how did you know this was a German submarine and not one of ours?”
“Well, Sir . . ." The anvil dropped on Dale at that point. “It wasn’t one of ours, was it?”
He thought over the action again. “Sir, there were two light anti-aircraft guns, one automatic and the other not, aft of the conning tower. Our subs don’t have that configuration.”
“No, Pilot Officer Dale, they do not. The submarine was, in fact, German. The two Hudsons depth-charged and bombed it until the submarine sank. A destroyer picked up some survivors from the water. They told an interesting story. Apparently, your first two shots, the ones that struck just short penetrated the pressure hull and prevented the submarine from diving. Several of your additional hits also penetrated the pressure hull and one knocked out the 20mm gun. You did well, Digby, just be a little more careful about identification in future. Those guns of yours can do a lot of damage and overall we would rather you did it to the enemy.”
“Understood, Sir.”
“Now, next issue. Have you ever heard of the Victory Aircraft Company?”
Dale shook his head. Wrapped up in the Hurricane program he’d got out of touch with other parts of the war effort.
"It's an aviation company formed by the government, a group of companies that want to get into the aviation business, some private investors and the Canadian branches of aviation companies from Britain. Technically it’s a Crown Corporation. Initially at least, it is producing Anson trainers and Hampden bombers from plans and pattern aircraft delivered before the war. Now, remember the Liberator? The Yanks called it the LB-30?"
"Yes, Sir. We still see them around."
"Well, there was a problem in keeping them flying. Consolidated in the States had ended production when the Yanks cancelled the B-24 program and we're running out of spare parts. So, Victory Aircraft went to Consolidated to buy a license to build spares. Quite normal for the circumstances. Only, when the Victory people headed by Jack Bickel went to Fort Worth, there were discussions, negotiations, much underhanded dealing and they not only got the license to build spares, but they got a license to build LB-30s at a very advantageous price."
Dale could see where this was going. "And our next job here will be to develop the LB-30 into an RCAF production item."
"Not quite." Brooker seemed more amused by that idea than anything else. "Victory Aircraft will be doing that. They're not impressed with the basic LB-30 design and believe Consolidated made some fairly elementary mistakes. So, they're redesigning it. Replacing the twin tail with a single fin-and-rudder like a civilized aircraft, taking the turbochargers off the engines, removing most of the armor and some of the defensive armament and fitting it out for hunting submarines. A lot more range and a lot better attack capability."
"I'm a fighter pilot, Sir. I fly fighters."
"You're a test pilot and you'll damned well fly what we tell you to fly. Let me tell you something Dale. Debert has got one hell of a reputation now as a place where weird ideas get turned into a sound, practical 'something' Canada really needs. If we can resolve one other issue, you're a big part of that. So, you'll test-fly the modified LB-30 when it's built." Roper-Caldbeck looked at Dale with unrelenting ferocity.
"What other issue, Sir." As soon as he'd finished the words, Dale realized he had been set up.
Roper-Caldbeck and Brooker exchanged grins, then Brooker took over the interview again. "Dale, we've found out, never mind how, that there is a security leak from Debert. The Huns know some things they shouldn’t about what is going on here. Have you been talking to anybody outside the base?"
"No, Sir. We've all been cautioned to watch what we say. Are you sure somebody isn't just watching the base? They could learn a lot from just sitting in the woods and using a pair of binoculars."
"We thought of that, and we checked it out. The information that has leaked isn't the sort of things you could get that way. Do you have any friends off-base?”
"There's my girl of course, Isabel Jones, she lives in town. A few others on nodding terms. That's all. We are quite isolated here. Don’t have much contact with the locals."
"One of the reasons this is a good test establishment. Which it is officially by the way. All right, thank you Dale. And good luck with the LB-30 project. I don't really need to tell you how badly we need that aircraft. And, by the way, if you learn anything, anything at all, about a possible leak, call us right away at RCAF headquarters."
Political Staff Meeting, Yalta, Crimea.
“Odessa.” Senior Political Commissar Vasily Grigoryevich Lutsenko put his finger on the besieged city.
“The city still holds firm. In fact, we have counter-attacked the Rumanians and pushed them back over four kilometers. The Odessa Garrison now controls the water supply again.” Petr Alekseevich Rassadkin, Zampolit for the Coastal Army that was the backbone of Odessa’s defenses, was determined to defend the performance of his forces although the truth was everybody present knew that the heroism of the Coastal Army needed no defense.
"None doubt the bravery of the Coastal Army." Fedor Vasilyevich Rylin, Zampolit for the 51st Army defending the Crimea spoke with due respect. "But we must examine this in a wider context. The fascist 11th and 17th Armies is gearing up for an assault through the Isthmus of Perekop. If they succeed, they will be able to occupy the whole of the Crimea. We should bring the Coastal Army out of Odessa and relocate them in Sevastopol. Both are vital ports but I propose that Sevastopol is the more important of the two."
"Sevastopol is already equipped to resist a long siege and has heavy defenses in place. We have naval guns defending both land and sea defenses. What we need are more men to man those defenses."
"I wouldn't let tovarish Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko hear you say that." Rassadkin's comment caused a much-needed burst of laughter around the table. It was an uneasy laugh; the exploits of the sniper were becoming famous and in the month and a half Odessa had been under siege, she had already been credited with 122 fascists. The unease was due to the knowledge of how she had racked up so many kills; she had abandoned the sniper's code of 'one shot, one kill' and would shoot her first victim of the day in the leg or groin. Then, she would pick off anybody who tried to rescue the wounded man. Several of the assembled Zampolits reflexively crossed their legs at the mention of her name.
"Do we have to bring them in from Odessa?" Lutsenko asked. "We have other reserves we can draw on. From the Kuban, for example."
"They are all committed and bringing them here would mean leaving another area exposed. We know the fascists will be attacking round Kiev in the next few hours. Tovarish Semyon Mikhailovich Budyonny has pledged to hold on and prevent the fall of that city, but Kiev is more significant than Sevastopol and Odessa combined." Vasily Semenovich Kucherov was the Zampolit for the Southwestern Front, and he was well aware of the sledgehammer that was about to descend on his forces.
"The problem is that every part of the Front is in critical danger, and we have not yet got the troops to secure them all." Rylin looked at the map again. The existing army at the front was buying time for the Rodina to mass its troops and prepare for a great counter-offensive. The existing forces in the west had to hang on until the Rasputitsa came. "We must get troops from wherever we can and that means Odessa must be abandoned. It hurts to say this, but reality drives us."
"Perhaps we should cast our net still wider?" Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov. Zampolit of the Air Forces operating out of the Crimea was thinking aloud. He was the youngest of all the political officers at the meeting, but the older Zampolits believed that a young man was better-placed to understand what was happening in the new art of air warfare. In any case, Napalkov had already won respect by volunteering to act as Politruk for a ground-attack regiment in addition to his other duties. He believed that gave him additional insight into a fast-moving war.
"Troops from other fronts?" Lutsenko had a warning note in his voice. The troops in the Far east and the Siberians were the Army’s ace-in-the-hole, their trump card for when the winter offensive began. They were not to be spoken of.
"A different way of looking at this problem. There are two ways to improve a defense. To strengthen it by adding our forces or to weaken the attack by making the fascists withdraw a part of their force. Just before I left for this meeting, Sturmoviks from the 4th Regiment were attacking a fascist division that was being withdrawn to support the Romanians attacking Odessa. They are inflicting severe losses on it and have developed new tactics that aid them in doing so." Napalkov had already circulated a report on the wheeling attack pattern that the 4th had developed. While the situation on the Isthmus of Perekop is critical, the fascists are withdrawing troops from the line there. First one division and now another one has been mauled. We must ask ourselves which is of greater overall benefit; more troops in the line at the gateway to the Crimea or forcing the fascists to send troops to reinforce the attack on Odessa."
"And another point." Lutsenko was allowing his mind to run free. "We all know of the logistics problems the fascists are facing." That caused another round of laughter. Everybody knew that before the war had started, the logistics experts had pointed to the exact spot where the invaders would run out of fuel and ammunition. They had been right to within a few kilometers. "If we surrender Odessa, the fascists will gain a major port close to the front. Instead of the attack over the Isthmus of Perekop being at the end of a long, tenuous supply line, they will have a solid, easily managed connection. That will make up for any advantage we gain by withdrawing."
That caused a long pause that seemed to stretch almost to infinity. The political officers were balancing the issues in their minds, trying to resolve the massive conflict of interest that bedeviled the situation. The Crimea had to hold but would maintaining the enclave at Odessa aid or weaken that effort? More troops were needed but there were no more to be had. With the fascists advancing in north, center and south, how were scarce resources to be allocated?
Eventually, Kucherov spoke quietly and very carefully. "Tovarishchi Vasily Grigoryevich and Ivan Mihailovich speak well. There is more to consider here than just a balance of forces. We must seek to understand the correlation of forces as well. I suggest that the correlation of forces suggests that the Coastal Army in Odessa should continue to hold their ground."
Everybody present at the meeting understood that under the Marxist doctrine of war (as expounded by Stalin), the correlation of forces was much more important than the raw balance of forces. Thus, Kucherov was telling them that supply and logistics advantages of denying Odessa to the fascists was the most valuable use to which the forces there could be put. One by one, they nodded their heads in agreement, Rylin reluctantly, Rassadkin with fervor and relief.
"Very well. We are agreed; the defense of Odessa will continue."
Imperial Headquarters, Tokyo, Japan.
"The deed is done. The Navy is cleansed of the foul traitors who would betray Japan and our sacred Emperor himself!" Takeda Shingen was addressing Katsuyori Takehiko, but he glared at the assembled officers with a ferocity that made even the strongest feel their manhood shrivel. "Their leader, Yamaguchi Tamon is dead, his head taken, and his soul denied forever a place in Yasukuni."
Once again, the uncompromising expression on Takeda's face was enough to make even the most stalwart cower. There had been a time when warriors had practiced their "battle-face" for hours, knowing that to intimidate their foes went far to defeating them. Takeda had come from that era and, whether they knew that or not, all admitted that his battle-face was an unequalled masterpiece. As always, Katsuyori Takehiko felt honored that a strange fate had allowed him to serve such a man.
In the background, Shurayukihime knelt on the mats, her shirasaya on her lap, her face set in a perfect masterpiece of the docile submissiveness expected of a Japanese lady. Her kimono, of pure white decorated with exquisitely printed multi-colored butterflies, was arranged around her with graceful precision. She was amusing herself by working out how many of the men present she could behead before they cut her down. All but one. She decided. She, too, was grateful beyond measure that the workings of a fate she could not understand had brought her into the service of Takeda Shingen.
"The Southern Resources Area Operation is definitively canceled?" General Tomoyuki Yamashita was trying hard to equal Takeda's display of aggressive truculence, but he couldn't manage it.
Takeda gave him a pure, undiluted example of 'the great stone face', an expressionless gaze that somehow managed to suggest the recipient wasn't worthy of the effort needed to move a face into any sort of expression. He turned to his aide. "Takehiko-san, do you feel that, perhaps, this one wasn't listening?"
"I fear that is so, Takeda-sama. Perhaps I should drive nails through his ears to let the sound enter?"
"That would be Shurayukihime's responsibility. It is not necessary now. Perhaps when General Yamashita thinks about it, he will understand that the Southern Resources Area operation is no longer necessary. What we once hoped to obtain by conquest we have obtained peacefully. Where once we stood to create only enemies, we now have only friends. We have scored a great victory by doing nothing and now we can proceed with the China Incident as planned." The assembled members of the Imperial Japanese General Staff looked at each other in triumph. The Army policy was triumphant, the Navy's attempt to seize power had been defeated and the instigator was dead along with all his followers.
Takeda stomped out of the room, without casting a glance to either side or behind him. His two assistants followed him with the same oblivious lack of concern. Once Shurayukihime had left the room, each of the attendees counted the number of General Staff members and the number of heads still firmly attached to their bodies and found they were reassuringly identical.
General Tojo Hideki let out a sigh of relief. "Where does that leave the Russian Far Eastern Front and our alliance with Germany?"
Yamashita had been thinking about that. "Ah yes, the alliance with Germany. Does anybody else feel that it is becoming an embarrassment? After all, the Soviet Union had an alliance with Germany as well."
RCAF Station Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada
"Digger, the brass wants to see you now. As in right now." Bill Soulsby had made a point about finding Dale as early as possible. He'd made a calculated guess that the test-pilot would be near the Khamseen prototype checking on something or another. It had turned out to be perfectly correct; Dale was looking at the feed on the underwing 37mm guns, trying to work out if it was possible to squeeze an extra couple of rounds into the magazines. He straightened up, banged his head on the cannon pod and cursed fluently.
"Any idea what they want, Bill?"
"They've got an odd look about them. A bit spooky. You know like they might suddenly walk in one direction while their shadow walks off somewhere else. I wouldn't keep them waiting if I were you and it might be a good idea not to be in the same room as them come sunset." That brought a laugh from the men working in the hangar. The previous night, the cinema had shown the 1936 version of 'Dracula's Daughter' and the whole base had gone Vampire-mad. "Seriously, I think it's about that sub you took out. Better take your logbook and official report."
In the debriefing room, Lt. Col. Arthur Terence Roper-Caldbeck was getting ready to investigate another possible source of the leak. He was reasonably certain that the information about merchant ships being equipped with radar had come from RCAF Debert. The question was, how?
Lieutenant Reginald Miles Brooker had been assigned to open the debriefing. “Pilot Officer Dale, I understand you were flying one of the new Khamseen anti-tank aircraft when you engaged a submarine off Seal Island two days ago. Could you, in your own words, walk us through that engagement?”
Dale gave a careful account of what had happened, consulting his logbook and official report whenever necessary. When he had finished, Brooker asked a pointed question. “You opened fire with your 37mm guns from a range of about one thousand yards, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. I was in a 30-degree dive and wanted to close the range as quickly as I could.”
“Of course, but at no time prior to opening fire with those heavy guns did you positively identify the submarine?”
“No Sir, but I contacted Churchill Shipping Control and they confirmed there were no friendly ships or submarines in the area. They were very emphatic about that.”
“So I see. You do realize that submarines are often, some may say almost always, not where they are supposed to be. So, how did you know this was a German submarine and not one of ours?”
“Well, Sir . . ." The anvil dropped on Dale at that point. “It wasn’t one of ours, was it?”
He thought over the action again. “Sir, there were two light anti-aircraft guns, one automatic and the other not, aft of the conning tower. Our subs don’t have that configuration.”
“No, Pilot Officer Dale, they do not. The submarine was, in fact, German. The two Hudsons depth-charged and bombed it until the submarine sank. A destroyer picked up some survivors from the water. They told an interesting story. Apparently, your first two shots, the ones that struck just short penetrated the pressure hull and prevented the submarine from diving. Several of your additional hits also penetrated the pressure hull and one knocked out the 20mm gun. You did well, Digby, just be a little more careful about identification in future. Those guns of yours can do a lot of damage and overall we would rather you did it to the enemy.”
“Understood, Sir.”
“Now, next issue. Have you ever heard of the Victory Aircraft Company?”
Dale shook his head. Wrapped up in the Hurricane program he’d got out of touch with other parts of the war effort.
"It's an aviation company formed by the government, a group of companies that want to get into the aviation business, some private investors and the Canadian branches of aviation companies from Britain. Technically it’s a Crown Corporation. Initially at least, it is producing Anson trainers and Hampden bombers from plans and pattern aircraft delivered before the war. Now, remember the Liberator? The Yanks called it the LB-30?"
"Yes, Sir. We still see them around."
"Well, there was a problem in keeping them flying. Consolidated in the States had ended production when the Yanks cancelled the B-24 program and we're running out of spare parts. So, Victory Aircraft went to Consolidated to buy a license to build spares. Quite normal for the circumstances. Only, when the Victory people headed by Jack Bickel went to Fort Worth, there were discussions, negotiations, much underhanded dealing and they not only got the license to build spares, but they got a license to build LB-30s at a very advantageous price."
Dale could see where this was going. "And our next job here will be to develop the LB-30 into an RCAF production item."
"Not quite." Brooker seemed more amused by that idea than anything else. "Victory Aircraft will be doing that. They're not impressed with the basic LB-30 design and believe Consolidated made some fairly elementary mistakes. So, they're redesigning it. Replacing the twin tail with a single fin-and-rudder like a civilized aircraft, taking the turbochargers off the engines, removing most of the armor and some of the defensive armament and fitting it out for hunting submarines. A lot more range and a lot better attack capability."
"I'm a fighter pilot, Sir. I fly fighters."
"You're a test pilot and you'll damned well fly what we tell you to fly. Let me tell you something Dale. Debert has got one hell of a reputation now as a place where weird ideas get turned into a sound, practical 'something' Canada really needs. If we can resolve one other issue, you're a big part of that. So, you'll test-fly the modified LB-30 when it's built." Roper-Caldbeck looked at Dale with unrelenting ferocity.
"What other issue, Sir." As soon as he'd finished the words, Dale realized he had been set up.
Roper-Caldbeck and Brooker exchanged grins, then Brooker took over the interview again. "Dale, we've found out, never mind how, that there is a security leak from Debert. The Huns know some things they shouldn’t about what is going on here. Have you been talking to anybody outside the base?"
"No, Sir. We've all been cautioned to watch what we say. Are you sure somebody isn't just watching the base? They could learn a lot from just sitting in the woods and using a pair of binoculars."
"We thought of that, and we checked it out. The information that has leaked isn't the sort of things you could get that way. Do you have any friends off-base?”
"There's my girl of course, Isabel Jones, she lives in town. A few others on nodding terms. That's all. We are quite isolated here. Don’t have much contact with the locals."
"One of the reasons this is a good test establishment. Which it is officially by the way. All right, thank you Dale. And good luck with the LB-30 project. I don't really need to tell you how badly we need that aircraft. And, by the way, if you learn anything, anything at all, about a possible leak, call us right away at RCAF headquarters."
Political Staff Meeting, Yalta, Crimea.
“Odessa.” Senior Political Commissar Vasily Grigoryevich Lutsenko put his finger on the besieged city.
“The city still holds firm. In fact, we have counter-attacked the Rumanians and pushed them back over four kilometers. The Odessa Garrison now controls the water supply again.” Petr Alekseevich Rassadkin, Zampolit for the Coastal Army that was the backbone of Odessa’s defenses, was determined to defend the performance of his forces although the truth was everybody present knew that the heroism of the Coastal Army needed no defense.
"None doubt the bravery of the Coastal Army." Fedor Vasilyevich Rylin, Zampolit for the 51st Army defending the Crimea spoke with due respect. "But we must examine this in a wider context. The fascist 11th and 17th Armies is gearing up for an assault through the Isthmus of Perekop. If they succeed, they will be able to occupy the whole of the Crimea. We should bring the Coastal Army out of Odessa and relocate them in Sevastopol. Both are vital ports but I propose that Sevastopol is the more important of the two."
"Sevastopol is already equipped to resist a long siege and has heavy defenses in place. We have naval guns defending both land and sea defenses. What we need are more men to man those defenses."
"I wouldn't let tovarish Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko hear you say that." Rassadkin's comment caused a much-needed burst of laughter around the table. It was an uneasy laugh; the exploits of the sniper were becoming famous and in the month and a half Odessa had been under siege, she had already been credited with 122 fascists. The unease was due to the knowledge of how she had racked up so many kills; she had abandoned the sniper's code of 'one shot, one kill' and would shoot her first victim of the day in the leg or groin. Then, she would pick off anybody who tried to rescue the wounded man. Several of the assembled Zampolits reflexively crossed their legs at the mention of her name.
"Do we have to bring them in from Odessa?" Lutsenko asked. "We have other reserves we can draw on. From the Kuban, for example."
"They are all committed and bringing them here would mean leaving another area exposed. We know the fascists will be attacking round Kiev in the next few hours. Tovarish Semyon Mikhailovich Budyonny has pledged to hold on and prevent the fall of that city, but Kiev is more significant than Sevastopol and Odessa combined." Vasily Semenovich Kucherov was the Zampolit for the Southwestern Front, and he was well aware of the sledgehammer that was about to descend on his forces.
"The problem is that every part of the Front is in critical danger, and we have not yet got the troops to secure them all." Rylin looked at the map again. The existing army at the front was buying time for the Rodina to mass its troops and prepare for a great counter-offensive. The existing forces in the west had to hang on until the Rasputitsa came. "We must get troops from wherever we can and that means Odessa must be abandoned. It hurts to say this, but reality drives us."
"Perhaps we should cast our net still wider?" Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov. Zampolit of the Air Forces operating out of the Crimea was thinking aloud. He was the youngest of all the political officers at the meeting, but the older Zampolits believed that a young man was better-placed to understand what was happening in the new art of air warfare. In any case, Napalkov had already won respect by volunteering to act as Politruk for a ground-attack regiment in addition to his other duties. He believed that gave him additional insight into a fast-moving war.
"Troops from other fronts?" Lutsenko had a warning note in his voice. The troops in the Far east and the Siberians were the Army’s ace-in-the-hole, their trump card for when the winter offensive began. They were not to be spoken of.
"A different way of looking at this problem. There are two ways to improve a defense. To strengthen it by adding our forces or to weaken the attack by making the fascists withdraw a part of their force. Just before I left for this meeting, Sturmoviks from the 4th Regiment were attacking a fascist division that was being withdrawn to support the Romanians attacking Odessa. They are inflicting severe losses on it and have developed new tactics that aid them in doing so." Napalkov had already circulated a report on the wheeling attack pattern that the 4th had developed. While the situation on the Isthmus of Perekop is critical, the fascists are withdrawing troops from the line there. First one division and now another one has been mauled. We must ask ourselves which is of greater overall benefit; more troops in the line at the gateway to the Crimea or forcing the fascists to send troops to reinforce the attack on Odessa."
"And another point." Lutsenko was allowing his mind to run free. "We all know of the logistics problems the fascists are facing." That caused another round of laughter. Everybody knew that before the war had started, the logistics experts had pointed to the exact spot where the invaders would run out of fuel and ammunition. They had been right to within a few kilometers. "If we surrender Odessa, the fascists will gain a major port close to the front. Instead of the attack over the Isthmus of Perekop being at the end of a long, tenuous supply line, they will have a solid, easily managed connection. That will make up for any advantage we gain by withdrawing."
That caused a long pause that seemed to stretch almost to infinity. The political officers were balancing the issues in their minds, trying to resolve the massive conflict of interest that bedeviled the situation. The Crimea had to hold but would maintaining the enclave at Odessa aid or weaken that effort? More troops were needed but there were no more to be had. With the fascists advancing in north, center and south, how were scarce resources to be allocated?
Eventually, Kucherov spoke quietly and very carefully. "Tovarishchi Vasily Grigoryevich and Ivan Mihailovich speak well. There is more to consider here than just a balance of forces. We must seek to understand the correlation of forces as well. I suggest that the correlation of forces suggests that the Coastal Army in Odessa should continue to hold their ground."
Everybody present at the meeting understood that under the Marxist doctrine of war (as expounded by Stalin), the correlation of forces was much more important than the raw balance of forces. Thus, Kucherov was telling them that supply and logistics advantages of denying Odessa to the fascists was the most valuable use to which the forces there could be put. One by one, they nodded their heads in agreement, Rylin reluctantly, Rassadkin with fervor and relief.
"Very well. We are agreed; the defense of Odessa will continue."
Imperial Headquarters, Tokyo, Japan.
"The deed is done. The Navy is cleansed of the foul traitors who would betray Japan and our sacred Emperor himself!" Takeda Shingen was addressing Katsuyori Takehiko, but he glared at the assembled officers with a ferocity that made even the strongest feel their manhood shrivel. "Their leader, Yamaguchi Tamon is dead, his head taken, and his soul denied forever a place in Yasukuni."
Once again, the uncompromising expression on Takeda's face was enough to make even the most stalwart cower. There had been a time when warriors had practiced their "battle-face" for hours, knowing that to intimidate their foes went far to defeating them. Takeda had come from that era and, whether they knew that or not, all admitted that his battle-face was an unequalled masterpiece. As always, Katsuyori Takehiko felt honored that a strange fate had allowed him to serve such a man.
In the background, Shurayukihime knelt on the mats, her shirasaya on her lap, her face set in a perfect masterpiece of the docile submissiveness expected of a Japanese lady. Her kimono, of pure white decorated with exquisitely printed multi-colored butterflies, was arranged around her with graceful precision. She was amusing herself by working out how many of the men present she could behead before they cut her down. All but one. She decided. She, too, was grateful beyond measure that the workings of a fate she could not understand had brought her into the service of Takeda Shingen.
"The Southern Resources Area Operation is definitively canceled?" General Tomoyuki Yamashita was trying hard to equal Takeda's display of aggressive truculence, but he couldn't manage it.
Takeda gave him a pure, undiluted example of 'the great stone face', an expressionless gaze that somehow managed to suggest the recipient wasn't worthy of the effort needed to move a face into any sort of expression. He turned to his aide. "Takehiko-san, do you feel that, perhaps, this one wasn't listening?"
"I fear that is so, Takeda-sama. Perhaps I should drive nails through his ears to let the sound enter?"
"That would be Shurayukihime's responsibility. It is not necessary now. Perhaps when General Yamashita thinks about it, he will understand that the Southern Resources Area operation is no longer necessary. What we once hoped to obtain by conquest we have obtained peacefully. Where once we stood to create only enemies, we now have only friends. We have scored a great victory by doing nothing and now we can proceed with the China Incident as planned." The assembled members of the Imperial Japanese General Staff looked at each other in triumph. The Army policy was triumphant, the Navy's attempt to seize power had been defeated and the instigator was dead along with all his followers.
Takeda stomped out of the room, without casting a glance to either side or behind him. His two assistants followed him with the same oblivious lack of concern. Once Shurayukihime had left the room, each of the attendees counted the number of General Staff members and the number of heads still firmly attached to their bodies and found they were reassuringly identical.
General Tojo Hideki let out a sigh of relief. "Where does that leave the Russian Far Eastern Front and our alliance with Germany?"
Yamashita had been thinking about that. "Ah yes, the alliance with Germany. Does anybody else feel that it is becoming an embarrassment? After all, the Soviet Union had an alliance with Germany as well."
Re: 1941 - Conflict of Interest
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Patrol Ship Enggano, Off Kalimantan, Dutch East Indies
"A good day for an escort." Captain Olaf Baart knew that it was more than just a warm, sunny day providing comfortable conditions for his crew. The same weather provided excellent visibility while the flat sea meant that he could keep up with the tanker he was supposed to be escorting without straining his engines or discomforting his crew. The two ships were sailing in line ahead with Enggano in the lead and the Hoyo Maru behind. It was a formation made familiar by long practice, so much so that the crew of Enggano almost forgot they were there to hit any mines that would otherwise threaten the vital tanker. "Time and position, Number One?"
"Thirty minutes short of noon, local, Captain. We're approaching the Bontang Narrows." Baart noted the time in his log. The Bontang Narrows was where the Talok Peninsula jutted east, and the Celebes curved west to produce a 60 nautical miles wide channel. The problem was that the deep-water passage was barely a third of that. On the other hand, being 3,000 meters deep meant that it left them safe from mines. It was, however, a choke point and Baart knew that raiders favored choke points.
"Very good, Number One. Radio our position to Shipping Control at Bontang City."
"Sir, dead ahead. There's smoke on the horizon." The lookout shouted out the warning. Baart took one look through his binoculars and confirmed the report. He had hoped it was a mistake, a cloud or an optical illusion. He had seen both mistaken for smoke in his time, but he already knew in his heart that this was a real sighting. Right time and right place made an undeniable argument. He watched through his binoculars as the smudge of smoke became an easily distinguished plume, then another and finally turned into two ships. They appeared from over the horizon dead ahead and at a range of approximately seven nautical miles.
"They're not ours, are they, Sir."
"No, Number One, they are not. Get on the radio and report this now. Signal to Hoyo Maru that we are being intercepted by hostile raiders and they can expect to be attacked. Looks like we are about to earn our pay, Number One."
"Shipping Control Sir. There are no allied ships in this region. They suggest we take evasive action while they get help to us. They also advise us that the motion to change the name of our country has been signed and we are now officially Indonesia."
"Time to set a few traditions for the Indonesian Navy then. Relay signal to Hoyo Maru, tell them we will try and evade the enemy. We will go to maximum speed, and we urgently recommend they do the same."
Baart felt Enggano shaking under his feet as the patrol ship's old engines went to full power. He could swear he saw the single funnel bulge as the increased volume of smoke from the boilers was vented. With both Hoyo Maru and Enggano blasting out warnings on their sirens. Although it wasn't obvious who they were sounding the alarm to. Both ships turned 90 degrees to starboard, away from the enemy ships. Watching intently, Baart saw the two enemy ships changing course to intercept and he knew he was fleeing for his ship's life, the life of the ship he was entrusted with protecting and, incidentally, his own.
Yet, despite the Enggano doing her best, it was quickly apparent that the two ships behind them were slowly but surely closing the range. Baart made the decision he had been avoiding for the last few minutes. "Signal to Hoyo Maru change course 90 degrees to starboard then maintain heading of 180 degrees. Make all revolutions possible for maximum speed. Help is on its way."
He watched as Hoyo Maru started to swing south and pick up speed. It was apparent that she was a lot faster than her Captain had previously admitted. "Well, Number One, I think she probably is a Naval Auxiliary after all."
"With a 10 cm gun? I think so, Captain. Now, what do we do?"
"Buy time for her to get clear. Reverse course, head straight for those two ships and make smoke. Prepare to open fire. Baart had his confidential books brought to the bridge and he was comparing the silhouettes of the two rapidly approaching raiders with those in his identification pages. It was clear that they were enemy ships, but seemingly just to make it obvious, they had both broken out Nazi German battle flags. Then, he turned the page and looked at the next silhouette. "Got them, Number One. We're facing Michel and Rafael. Two of a class of four but the other two have an extra pair of kingposts aft of the bridge. Six 15 cm guns each. This is going to be interesting."
Bridge, Hoyo Maru, heading South at 20 knots.
"Lieutenant, those are German auxiliary cruisers. They are supposed to be our allies, but I do not believe that they will pay much attention to that. Look, our little friend makes course to engage them. Watch them, Chiba, you may not see such bravery again."
"Captain, truly the Samurai of old would be proud of such men. And we hide behind a smokescreen and leave them to their fate?"
Lieutenant Chiba knew that his words were bordering on insolence. Nevertheless, Captain Tachibana was nodding in agreement. "To leave such men to die alone would be unforgiveable. Lieutenant, we are no longer just a merchant tanker. Now, we return to being an auxiliary of the Imperial Navy. Order the men to battle stations, bring our fire control equipment into operation. Man the Sokutekiban and order the crew to calculate the position and projected movements of those two raiders. When we have their projected position, set course for them at maximum speed. And, Lieutenant, break out our battle ensign. Who knows, if those two cruisers realize we are Japanese, they may break off their attack."
"If they do not Captain?"
"Then we support Enggano with our 10cm gun."
Patrol Ship Enggano
Her turn completed, Enggano was now steaming straight towards the raider leading the enemy. The two German ships were in line astern which would at least serve to mask the gunfire from the second ship for a few minutes. Baart knew that this was one of those times when every few seconds were precious. As if his ship was echoing his thoughts, her bell sounded, marking the stroke of noon. He felt insanely tempted to take a sextant reading, then suddenly realized that it was actually a good idea. Solemnly, he took the sextant from its box and made the necessary reading. "Latitude naught degrees, 42 minutes north Number One. A pity we are just a little too far north for us to call this the Battle of the Equator."
"Sir, lead enemy ship is firing." The lookout sounded agitated.
Baart sympathized; knowing that four 15-cm shells weighing 50 kilograms each were heading their way was enough to agitate any man. "And now we are committed. Send an SOS to Shipping Control, saying that we are under attack by the German raiders Michel and Rafael. Our position is naught degrees, 42 minutes north, 119 degrees 26 minutes east and we are returning fire."
The four shells from Michel splashed into the water ahead of Enggano. "Across our bows, Number One? That's insulting. Send our reply. And don't shoot in front of their bows."
"Sir, Enggano opening fire with 75mm gun at 12.05. Range, 8,000 meters." The blast of the forward 75mm gun rolled across the sea and made the instruments on the bridge blink slightly for a second. Baart was certain that he could trace the shell through the air as it streaked out towards the raider. He was intensely disappointed to see that the splash of the shell hitting the water was good for line but had fallen short. He was hardly surprised though. His 75mm had a theoretical range of 10,000 meters but in reality, 8,000 meters was really pushing the gun to the edge of its performance. Baart had always been amused by pundits who thought the book figures on gun performance were matched by reality.
"Number One, send a message to those ships on the open channel. Let's shake them up a little."
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel”
Captain von Ruckteschell saw the shell strike the water well short of his ship but the message it had carried struck home. He and his ship were, again, in a fight where they completely outmatched their enemy, yet the enemy was determined to engage him anyway.
Radio message from Indonesian Navy patrol ship, Sir. They inform us that we are under arrest and order us to surrender. They advise us they that will escort us to Balikpapan where we will be tried as pirates.
Von Ruckteschell was about to burst out laughing when the content of the message made him stop and think. "What the hell is Indonesia when it is at home? But, for a ship so overwhelmingly outclassed to send a message like that, they must know something we don't. And what is this about pirates? We are displaying our colors."
"Perhaps they are implying we are under false colors, Sir?"
Von Ruckteschell had had enough. This entire voyage had been one frustrating failure after another. Shot up by an aircraft that had no right to be where it was, forced to fight a merchant ship that didn’t understand it had to surrender, losing his floatplanes so early on and now being accused or piracy and sailing under a false flag. I will make an example of this little swine so that others will fear us. "That would be a legitimate ruse de guerre as long as we displayed the true colors before opening fire. And we are a commissioned warship of the Kriegsmarine. Oh, to hell with it. Take that little bastard out."
Third Bomber Flight Group, Bandar Udara Airfield, Samarinda, East Kalimantan
The alert sirens were sounding across the airfield as the top-priority message had come in. One of the Navy's small patrol craft was fighting for its life against two German cruisers just 320 kilometers north of the airfield. She was doing so to defend a merchant ship she had been ordered to protect. That made getting her help was a matter of honor as well as military necessity. The ground crews were working frantically to arm the six G3M2 aircraft based at Bandar Udara with torpedoes for an anti-ship strike. It was not something they had ever done before.
The Japanese had not supplied any manuals with the G3Ms. That was logical enough since the only manuals they had were in Japanese and contained a lot of information that was not for public dissemination. Instead, they had supplied one complete Japanese crew for every six aircraft to act as "walking manuals". One such crew, who were not entirely unconnected with Japanese naval intelligence, was at Bandar Udara and they had a problem. They knew that Germany was a Japanese ally although quite why escaped them. They also knew that the tanker being escorted by the patrol ship wasn't just Japanese, it was an Imperial Japanese Navy fleet tanker, an auxiliary warship. That meant going to her aid was a matter of honor. On that issue, they and the Indonesian ground crews had a complete and total meeting of minds. The conflict of interest was intense and caused the crew detachment commander mental anguish. As with all conflicts of interest, there was no right and wrong choices in front of him, only wrong and less wrong.
Typically, the strictly regimented school system they had been brought up in meant that the Japanese did not deal with confusion well; they demanded clear-cut situations and well-defined alternatives. These, Lieutenant Kenkichi Shunsen did not have. If he and his men took part in the strike, they would be attacking a Japanese ally. If they did not, they would be leaving a Japanese ship, a unit of the Imperial Navy no less, to be defended by these utterly inexperienced Indonesians. When it got out that a unit of Japanese sailors had stayed on base while the trainees, they were responsible for went out to fight on their behalf, the shame would be unbearable.
"What do we do, Sir?" Sergeant Taro Ishiyama was relieved he didn't have to make the decisions. Anyway, making decisions at his rank was strongly discouraged.
Lieutenant Kenkichi made his decision based on honor. The political complications were beyond his pay grade but his duty to defend Japanese ships was not. "Sergeant, disperse the crew amongst the aircraft, one man to each. They are to provide advice and instruction as needed but they are not to take an active part in flying the aircraft or conducting the attack. I will fly in the lead aircraft. Ground crews, do the same, one to each aircraft, tell them what to do and how to do it but don't touch anything."
At 12:15, the first G3M2 of the Indonesian Naval Air Arm moved slowly down the taxiway and took position at the end of the runway. As soon as the other five aircraft were lined up behind it, the flight leader throttled up his engines and started his take-off run.
Patrol Ship Enggano
"Hard to port, eight-zero degrees." Baart was swinging Enggano towards the position where the last group of shells had just landed. This tactic of salvo-chasing was a last, desperate resort of an outnumbered and outgunned ship trying to survive. The deadly danger was that Michel would realize what the patrol ship was doing and not try to correct her aim. The next broadside would go to where the previous one had landed and Enggano would sail straight into them. There was one redeeming factor. Baart had noticed that Michel was making curiously bad practice with her guns. The salvoes seemed to be slow in responding to Enggano's movements and the patterns were loose. It's as if all her guns are firing on local control Baart thought. That gives us a little bit of a chance.
The bridge shook again as Enggano answered the salvo from Michel with her 75mm gun. They were still at long range for the old, obsolete weapon but at least the shell reached Michel, plowing into the water close enough for the spray to scatter against the ship's side. The next one scored a direct hit somewhere in the superstructure. There was no visible effect but the morale benefit on board Enggano was immediate. Quite incredibly, against all reasonable expectations, they had scored first blood.
Revenge came swiftly. Rafael had broken away from Michel and finally cleared her firing arcs. Her shell pattern was tight and well directed. The four shells exploded all around Enggano, spraying her with steel fragments that raked through the light structure of the ship. When Baart picked himself up from the deck, he saw Lieutenant Cahaya on the deck in a spreading pool of blood, his side opened by a jagged shell splinter. He was obviously in extremis. Baart did the only thing he could think of. In his Captain's locker on the bridge was the gift he had planned to present to his first officer when he left to take command of the Muang Tana. A framed picture of the patrol ship that would have been his first command.
"Hang on, Number One. She's waiting for you back in Balikpapan." He held up the picture of the ship where Cahaya could see it.
Cahaya lifted his hand, slowly and painfully, and allowed his fingers to touch the picture. "I would like to have seen Muang Tana." Then his face went deep yellow from the death shadow that spread downwards and he died.
Rafael's second salvo also landed around Enggano but one of the 15cm shells struck the aft deckhouse, ripping it apart and destroying the ex-Australian two-pounder gun that was mounted there. It was the patrol ship's only defense against air attack and Baart couldn't help thinking that if hostile aircraft turned up, he would be in serious trouble. He was waiting for Rafael's next salvo to blow his ship apart when Hoyo Maru erupted out of the smokescreen, a bone the size of a walrus moustache in her teeth and perfectly placed to engage Rafael with her stern-mounted 10cm gun.
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel”
"No damage, Captain. The shell hit a storage area and blew up several sacks of potatoes. Nobody hurt." The messenger was looking at his captain with some carefully concealed reserve. So much had gone wrong on this voyage that word was spreading, spoken only in whispers, suggesting Captain von Ruckteschell was jinxed.
Von Ruckteschell was about to acknowledge the message when the tanker they had been chasing barreled out of the smokescreen. To him, it was another confirmation that everything had gone badly wrong. The merchant ships were supposed to surrender or flee, not fight back and certainly not turn around and attack him. The little patrol ship should have been blown out of the water with a few well-placed rounds, not evaded them all. Even now, with Rafael joining the fight, the ship had survived.
"Sir, I think she's Japanese. I think I can see a Japanese flag flying from her stern."
"Are you sure?"
"No, Sir. It’s a red flag, I'm certain of that. The tanker is making a lot of smoke, I think she's pushing her engines really hard, and the angle is very bad. I can just catch glimpses now and then.
"Could it be the Australian merchant flag?"
"It could, Sir, I can see some red and white. I think there's a cross there."
"That's the Australian red ensign. She's Australian. Signal to Rafael to take her while we finish this patrol craft off."
Bridge, Hoyo Maru, heading north at 21 knots.
The Japanese fire control system was complex, manpower-intensive and slow to respond to rapidly changing situations. None of that mattered since it was designed for battleships fighting in line where the situation didn't change very quickly. The virtue of the Japanese system was that, in its intended role, it was extremely accurate. At the heart of that system was the Sokutekiban, an elaborate mechanical computer that would predict the position of a target several minutes ahead of its present location. Provided it was fed all the right data of course and provided nothing changed radically. Battleships and cruisers used the Sokutekiban to predict the location of targets for long-range gunfire; destroyers to predict locations for torpedo attacks. Captain Tachibana would have given his place in Yasukuni for a couple of Special type destroyers as escort right now. Their 12.7 cm rapid-fire guns and torpedoes would have finished off the two raiders easily.
Nevertheless, he had to admit that the Sokutekiban had performed its role admirably. The crew had fed all the needed data into the system, and it had predicted where the two hostile ships would be when Hoyo Maru emerged from the smokescreen. That had allowed Captain Tachibana to place his ship in exactly the right position to clear the arc of his gun aft and enable it to fire on one of the two raiders. Of course, he had the same problem as Enggano, one gun and two targets. The difference was that his gun was ultra-modern, a 10cm 65-caliber gun that was fast-firing and with a flat trajectory that made it very accurate. Most navies gave their merchant ships an old gun taken from obsolete ships. The Japanese had made a different decision. They believed that if a ship were important enough to have a gun and if it could only have one, that one better be the best available. Most gunnery officers believed that the 10cm 65-caliber was a better weapon than the 12.7cm 50-caliber on the destroyers.
The only thing that the Sokutekiban hadn't predicted was that the dense cloud of black smoke from the Hoyo Maru's straining engines the direction of the wind and the geometry of the ship's position made her ensign impossible to read correctly. Rafael had received orders to open fire on the tanker, had been unable to make out her ensign and her captain assumed that receiving the order meant that his fellow Captain had been able to identify it. So, he retargeted on the approaching tanker and opened fire at a range of 8.000 meters.
It was a well-aimed salvo; of the four shells fired, one hit splintered the tanker's main mast, the second went wide, the third hit just in front of the bow and the fourth tore into the aft superstructure of the tanker.
"Well, that settles that." Tachibana felt a great relief at the salvo that had struck his ship. Despite bringing his main mast down, it had done virtually no damage and it had given him the excuse he had been longing for. He had always wanted to command a warship and had felt shamed at being assigned to command a tanker. Understanding how important these tankers were had only helped sooth his hurt feelings a little. Now, he had the opportunity to show that a tanker could fight. "Open fire on the nearest enemy ship."
Patrol Ship Enggano, Off Kalimantan, Dutch East Indies
"A good day for an escort." Captain Olaf Baart knew that it was more than just a warm, sunny day providing comfortable conditions for his crew. The same weather provided excellent visibility while the flat sea meant that he could keep up with the tanker he was supposed to be escorting without straining his engines or discomforting his crew. The two ships were sailing in line ahead with Enggano in the lead and the Hoyo Maru behind. It was a formation made familiar by long practice, so much so that the crew of Enggano almost forgot they were there to hit any mines that would otherwise threaten the vital tanker. "Time and position, Number One?"
"Thirty minutes short of noon, local, Captain. We're approaching the Bontang Narrows." Baart noted the time in his log. The Bontang Narrows was where the Talok Peninsula jutted east, and the Celebes curved west to produce a 60 nautical miles wide channel. The problem was that the deep-water passage was barely a third of that. On the other hand, being 3,000 meters deep meant that it left them safe from mines. It was, however, a choke point and Baart knew that raiders favored choke points.
"Very good, Number One. Radio our position to Shipping Control at Bontang City."
"Sir, dead ahead. There's smoke on the horizon." The lookout shouted out the warning. Baart took one look through his binoculars and confirmed the report. He had hoped it was a mistake, a cloud or an optical illusion. He had seen both mistaken for smoke in his time, but he already knew in his heart that this was a real sighting. Right time and right place made an undeniable argument. He watched through his binoculars as the smudge of smoke became an easily distinguished plume, then another and finally turned into two ships. They appeared from over the horizon dead ahead and at a range of approximately seven nautical miles.
"They're not ours, are they, Sir."
"No, Number One, they are not. Get on the radio and report this now. Signal to Hoyo Maru that we are being intercepted by hostile raiders and they can expect to be attacked. Looks like we are about to earn our pay, Number One."
"Shipping Control Sir. There are no allied ships in this region. They suggest we take evasive action while they get help to us. They also advise us that the motion to change the name of our country has been signed and we are now officially Indonesia."
"Time to set a few traditions for the Indonesian Navy then. Relay signal to Hoyo Maru, tell them we will try and evade the enemy. We will go to maximum speed, and we urgently recommend they do the same."
Baart felt Enggano shaking under his feet as the patrol ship's old engines went to full power. He could swear he saw the single funnel bulge as the increased volume of smoke from the boilers was vented. With both Hoyo Maru and Enggano blasting out warnings on their sirens. Although it wasn't obvious who they were sounding the alarm to. Both ships turned 90 degrees to starboard, away from the enemy ships. Watching intently, Baart saw the two enemy ships changing course to intercept and he knew he was fleeing for his ship's life, the life of the ship he was entrusted with protecting and, incidentally, his own.
Yet, despite the Enggano doing her best, it was quickly apparent that the two ships behind them were slowly but surely closing the range. Baart made the decision he had been avoiding for the last few minutes. "Signal to Hoyo Maru change course 90 degrees to starboard then maintain heading of 180 degrees. Make all revolutions possible for maximum speed. Help is on its way."
He watched as Hoyo Maru started to swing south and pick up speed. It was apparent that she was a lot faster than her Captain had previously admitted. "Well, Number One, I think she probably is a Naval Auxiliary after all."
"With a 10 cm gun? I think so, Captain. Now, what do we do?"
"Buy time for her to get clear. Reverse course, head straight for those two ships and make smoke. Prepare to open fire. Baart had his confidential books brought to the bridge and he was comparing the silhouettes of the two rapidly approaching raiders with those in his identification pages. It was clear that they were enemy ships, but seemingly just to make it obvious, they had both broken out Nazi German battle flags. Then, he turned the page and looked at the next silhouette. "Got them, Number One. We're facing Michel and Rafael. Two of a class of four but the other two have an extra pair of kingposts aft of the bridge. Six 15 cm guns each. This is going to be interesting."
Bridge, Hoyo Maru, heading South at 20 knots.
"Lieutenant, those are German auxiliary cruisers. They are supposed to be our allies, but I do not believe that they will pay much attention to that. Look, our little friend makes course to engage them. Watch them, Chiba, you may not see such bravery again."
"Captain, truly the Samurai of old would be proud of such men. And we hide behind a smokescreen and leave them to their fate?"
Lieutenant Chiba knew that his words were bordering on insolence. Nevertheless, Captain Tachibana was nodding in agreement. "To leave such men to die alone would be unforgiveable. Lieutenant, we are no longer just a merchant tanker. Now, we return to being an auxiliary of the Imperial Navy. Order the men to battle stations, bring our fire control equipment into operation. Man the Sokutekiban and order the crew to calculate the position and projected movements of those two raiders. When we have their projected position, set course for them at maximum speed. And, Lieutenant, break out our battle ensign. Who knows, if those two cruisers realize we are Japanese, they may break off their attack."
"If they do not Captain?"
"Then we support Enggano with our 10cm gun."
Patrol Ship Enggano
Her turn completed, Enggano was now steaming straight towards the raider leading the enemy. The two German ships were in line astern which would at least serve to mask the gunfire from the second ship for a few minutes. Baart knew that this was one of those times when every few seconds were precious. As if his ship was echoing his thoughts, her bell sounded, marking the stroke of noon. He felt insanely tempted to take a sextant reading, then suddenly realized that it was actually a good idea. Solemnly, he took the sextant from its box and made the necessary reading. "Latitude naught degrees, 42 minutes north Number One. A pity we are just a little too far north for us to call this the Battle of the Equator."
"Sir, lead enemy ship is firing." The lookout sounded agitated.
Baart sympathized; knowing that four 15-cm shells weighing 50 kilograms each were heading their way was enough to agitate any man. "And now we are committed. Send an SOS to Shipping Control, saying that we are under attack by the German raiders Michel and Rafael. Our position is naught degrees, 42 minutes north, 119 degrees 26 minutes east and we are returning fire."
The four shells from Michel splashed into the water ahead of Enggano. "Across our bows, Number One? That's insulting. Send our reply. And don't shoot in front of their bows."
"Sir, Enggano opening fire with 75mm gun at 12.05. Range, 8,000 meters." The blast of the forward 75mm gun rolled across the sea and made the instruments on the bridge blink slightly for a second. Baart was certain that he could trace the shell through the air as it streaked out towards the raider. He was intensely disappointed to see that the splash of the shell hitting the water was good for line but had fallen short. He was hardly surprised though. His 75mm had a theoretical range of 10,000 meters but in reality, 8,000 meters was really pushing the gun to the edge of its performance. Baart had always been amused by pundits who thought the book figures on gun performance were matched by reality.
"Number One, send a message to those ships on the open channel. Let's shake them up a little."
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel”
Captain von Ruckteschell saw the shell strike the water well short of his ship but the message it had carried struck home. He and his ship were, again, in a fight where they completely outmatched their enemy, yet the enemy was determined to engage him anyway.
Radio message from Indonesian Navy patrol ship, Sir. They inform us that we are under arrest and order us to surrender. They advise us they that will escort us to Balikpapan where we will be tried as pirates.
Von Ruckteschell was about to burst out laughing when the content of the message made him stop and think. "What the hell is Indonesia when it is at home? But, for a ship so overwhelmingly outclassed to send a message like that, they must know something we don't. And what is this about pirates? We are displaying our colors."
"Perhaps they are implying we are under false colors, Sir?"
Von Ruckteschell had had enough. This entire voyage had been one frustrating failure after another. Shot up by an aircraft that had no right to be where it was, forced to fight a merchant ship that didn’t understand it had to surrender, losing his floatplanes so early on and now being accused or piracy and sailing under a false flag. I will make an example of this little swine so that others will fear us. "That would be a legitimate ruse de guerre as long as we displayed the true colors before opening fire. And we are a commissioned warship of the Kriegsmarine. Oh, to hell with it. Take that little bastard out."
Third Bomber Flight Group, Bandar Udara Airfield, Samarinda, East Kalimantan
The alert sirens were sounding across the airfield as the top-priority message had come in. One of the Navy's small patrol craft was fighting for its life against two German cruisers just 320 kilometers north of the airfield. She was doing so to defend a merchant ship she had been ordered to protect. That made getting her help was a matter of honor as well as military necessity. The ground crews were working frantically to arm the six G3M2 aircraft based at Bandar Udara with torpedoes for an anti-ship strike. It was not something they had ever done before.
The Japanese had not supplied any manuals with the G3Ms. That was logical enough since the only manuals they had were in Japanese and contained a lot of information that was not for public dissemination. Instead, they had supplied one complete Japanese crew for every six aircraft to act as "walking manuals". One such crew, who were not entirely unconnected with Japanese naval intelligence, was at Bandar Udara and they had a problem. They knew that Germany was a Japanese ally although quite why escaped them. They also knew that the tanker being escorted by the patrol ship wasn't just Japanese, it was an Imperial Japanese Navy fleet tanker, an auxiliary warship. That meant going to her aid was a matter of honor. On that issue, they and the Indonesian ground crews had a complete and total meeting of minds. The conflict of interest was intense and caused the crew detachment commander mental anguish. As with all conflicts of interest, there was no right and wrong choices in front of him, only wrong and less wrong.
Typically, the strictly regimented school system they had been brought up in meant that the Japanese did not deal with confusion well; they demanded clear-cut situations and well-defined alternatives. These, Lieutenant Kenkichi Shunsen did not have. If he and his men took part in the strike, they would be attacking a Japanese ally. If they did not, they would be leaving a Japanese ship, a unit of the Imperial Navy no less, to be defended by these utterly inexperienced Indonesians. When it got out that a unit of Japanese sailors had stayed on base while the trainees, they were responsible for went out to fight on their behalf, the shame would be unbearable.
"What do we do, Sir?" Sergeant Taro Ishiyama was relieved he didn't have to make the decisions. Anyway, making decisions at his rank was strongly discouraged.
Lieutenant Kenkichi made his decision based on honor. The political complications were beyond his pay grade but his duty to defend Japanese ships was not. "Sergeant, disperse the crew amongst the aircraft, one man to each. They are to provide advice and instruction as needed but they are not to take an active part in flying the aircraft or conducting the attack. I will fly in the lead aircraft. Ground crews, do the same, one to each aircraft, tell them what to do and how to do it but don't touch anything."
At 12:15, the first G3M2 of the Indonesian Naval Air Arm moved slowly down the taxiway and took position at the end of the runway. As soon as the other five aircraft were lined up behind it, the flight leader throttled up his engines and started his take-off run.
Patrol Ship Enggano
"Hard to port, eight-zero degrees." Baart was swinging Enggano towards the position where the last group of shells had just landed. This tactic of salvo-chasing was a last, desperate resort of an outnumbered and outgunned ship trying to survive. The deadly danger was that Michel would realize what the patrol ship was doing and not try to correct her aim. The next broadside would go to where the previous one had landed and Enggano would sail straight into them. There was one redeeming factor. Baart had noticed that Michel was making curiously bad practice with her guns. The salvoes seemed to be slow in responding to Enggano's movements and the patterns were loose. It's as if all her guns are firing on local control Baart thought. That gives us a little bit of a chance.
The bridge shook again as Enggano answered the salvo from Michel with her 75mm gun. They were still at long range for the old, obsolete weapon but at least the shell reached Michel, plowing into the water close enough for the spray to scatter against the ship's side. The next one scored a direct hit somewhere in the superstructure. There was no visible effect but the morale benefit on board Enggano was immediate. Quite incredibly, against all reasonable expectations, they had scored first blood.
Revenge came swiftly. Rafael had broken away from Michel and finally cleared her firing arcs. Her shell pattern was tight and well directed. The four shells exploded all around Enggano, spraying her with steel fragments that raked through the light structure of the ship. When Baart picked himself up from the deck, he saw Lieutenant Cahaya on the deck in a spreading pool of blood, his side opened by a jagged shell splinter. He was obviously in extremis. Baart did the only thing he could think of. In his Captain's locker on the bridge was the gift he had planned to present to his first officer when he left to take command of the Muang Tana. A framed picture of the patrol ship that would have been his first command.
"Hang on, Number One. She's waiting for you back in Balikpapan." He held up the picture of the ship where Cahaya could see it.
Cahaya lifted his hand, slowly and painfully, and allowed his fingers to touch the picture. "I would like to have seen Muang Tana." Then his face went deep yellow from the death shadow that spread downwards and he died.
Rafael's second salvo also landed around Enggano but one of the 15cm shells struck the aft deckhouse, ripping it apart and destroying the ex-Australian two-pounder gun that was mounted there. It was the patrol ship's only defense against air attack and Baart couldn't help thinking that if hostile aircraft turned up, he would be in serious trouble. He was waiting for Rafael's next salvo to blow his ship apart when Hoyo Maru erupted out of the smokescreen, a bone the size of a walrus moustache in her teeth and perfectly placed to engage Rafael with her stern-mounted 10cm gun.
German Auxiliary Cruiser Schiff 28, “Michel”
"No damage, Captain. The shell hit a storage area and blew up several sacks of potatoes. Nobody hurt." The messenger was looking at his captain with some carefully concealed reserve. So much had gone wrong on this voyage that word was spreading, spoken only in whispers, suggesting Captain von Ruckteschell was jinxed.
Von Ruckteschell was about to acknowledge the message when the tanker they had been chasing barreled out of the smokescreen. To him, it was another confirmation that everything had gone badly wrong. The merchant ships were supposed to surrender or flee, not fight back and certainly not turn around and attack him. The little patrol ship should have been blown out of the water with a few well-placed rounds, not evaded them all. Even now, with Rafael joining the fight, the ship had survived.
"Sir, I think she's Japanese. I think I can see a Japanese flag flying from her stern."
"Are you sure?"
"No, Sir. It’s a red flag, I'm certain of that. The tanker is making a lot of smoke, I think she's pushing her engines really hard, and the angle is very bad. I can just catch glimpses now and then.
"Could it be the Australian merchant flag?"
"It could, Sir, I can see some red and white. I think there's a cross there."
"That's the Australian red ensign. She's Australian. Signal to Rafael to take her while we finish this patrol craft off."
Bridge, Hoyo Maru, heading north at 21 knots.
The Japanese fire control system was complex, manpower-intensive and slow to respond to rapidly changing situations. None of that mattered since it was designed for battleships fighting in line where the situation didn't change very quickly. The virtue of the Japanese system was that, in its intended role, it was extremely accurate. At the heart of that system was the Sokutekiban, an elaborate mechanical computer that would predict the position of a target several minutes ahead of its present location. Provided it was fed all the right data of course and provided nothing changed radically. Battleships and cruisers used the Sokutekiban to predict the location of targets for long-range gunfire; destroyers to predict locations for torpedo attacks. Captain Tachibana would have given his place in Yasukuni for a couple of Special type destroyers as escort right now. Their 12.7 cm rapid-fire guns and torpedoes would have finished off the two raiders easily.
Nevertheless, he had to admit that the Sokutekiban had performed its role admirably. The crew had fed all the needed data into the system, and it had predicted where the two hostile ships would be when Hoyo Maru emerged from the smokescreen. That had allowed Captain Tachibana to place his ship in exactly the right position to clear the arc of his gun aft and enable it to fire on one of the two raiders. Of course, he had the same problem as Enggano, one gun and two targets. The difference was that his gun was ultra-modern, a 10cm 65-caliber gun that was fast-firing and with a flat trajectory that made it very accurate. Most navies gave their merchant ships an old gun taken from obsolete ships. The Japanese had made a different decision. They believed that if a ship were important enough to have a gun and if it could only have one, that one better be the best available. Most gunnery officers believed that the 10cm 65-caliber was a better weapon than the 12.7cm 50-caliber on the destroyers.
The only thing that the Sokutekiban hadn't predicted was that the dense cloud of black smoke from the Hoyo Maru's straining engines the direction of the wind and the geometry of the ship's position made her ensign impossible to read correctly. Rafael had received orders to open fire on the tanker, had been unable to make out her ensign and her captain assumed that receiving the order meant that his fellow Captain had been able to identify it. So, he retargeted on the approaching tanker and opened fire at a range of 8.000 meters.
It was a well-aimed salvo; of the four shells fired, one hit splintered the tanker's main mast, the second went wide, the third hit just in front of the bow and the fourth tore into the aft superstructure of the tanker.
"Well, that settles that." Tachibana felt a great relief at the salvo that had struck his ship. Despite bringing his main mast down, it had done virtually no damage and it had given him the excuse he had been longing for. He had always wanted to command a warship and had felt shamed at being assigned to command a tanker. Understanding how important these tankers were had only helped sooth his hurt feelings a little. Now, he had the opportunity to show that a tanker could fight. "Open fire on the nearest enemy ship."