Chapter Twenty One
Füsilier-Battalion 214, Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
At some point in the last few days, the Panthers had been painted with whitewash to blend them in with the snow-covered ground and protect them from air attack. To Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz it was another sign that the Russian winter had arrived. It also reminded him that the Ivans had methodically driven their enemies out of every scrap of shelter in this sector of the Onega front. They had made sure that this winter, the German infantry would be living in the open. Or trying to. From bitter experience, Renz knew just how hard it was for non-Russians to survive in the vicious cold of a northern winter. What are we doing here? Why did we ever come to this country? We don’t belong here and never will.
“Get ready to go!” There were six Panthers providing support for the attack that would try and push the Ivans back so that the German infantry could recover the small cluster of buildings that comprised Naumovskaya Kolkhoz. Those six tanks were the survivors of a 22-tank company. Renz knew that there were few units left in this part of Russia that was closer to full strength than that. Companies were the size of platoons, battalions of companies, and divisions were barely more than reinforced regiments. With that grim reflection, he heard the rushing sound of artillery fire overhead and noted the way it changed into a terrible roar. It was so familiar that he had to force himself to remember that the sound was telling him that this artillery fire was outbound, not inbound.
In the briefing that preceded this action, Renz had been told that the spearhead of the attack had been detached from the Third Panzergrenadier Division. The six Panthers were from the divisional tank battalion and there was also a composite panzer grenadier company in half-tracks from one of the regiments. It was typical of the way units all along the front line had become mixed up as the generals tried to cope with a length of the front that greatly exceeded the number of troops available to defend it. Renz knew that other parts of the Third Panzergrenadier Division were fighting to prevent the Ivan forces in Porog from crossing the river and advancing along the railway line that led west. Yet other parts were on the east bank of the Onega trying to hold the bridgehead around the bridges at Etatochka. A critically understrength division split up into three battlegroups, each trying to do the impossible. Is this how far we have fallen?
To his shock, Renz found that he was already halfway across the open ground that led up to the Ivan defenses. Somehow, the artillery fire and the blast of whistles that started the attack had put his mind into autopilot and he had run forward while his mind was blanked out. This is no way to survive a war. Then he realized that he had done it again, even while having that quick thought, he had moved forward another few meters without realizing it. Around him, everything seemed to be progressing in a dream, the half-tracks up ahead were using their machineguns, pelting likely areas where the Ivans could have infantry positions with a hail of bullets. It all seemed a very long way ahead. Behind him, the Panthers were moving forward in overwatch, their turrets swinging as their crews scanned the tree lines and waves in the ground for hull-down Ivan T-34s or SU-85s. The absence of the blast from their long 75mm guns told Renz that they hadn't spotted any Ivan tanks. Yet.
Other things were missing as well and their absence slowly sank in on Renz's mind. There was no barrage of rifle and machine-gun fire from the Ivan infantry, no crashing explosions from their mortars. Best of all there was no deafening, wailing howl from the Stalin's Organs rocket launcher that would fill an entire battlefield with lethal clouds of smoke and fragments.
The buildings were now only a few meters ahead and the half-tracks had stopped. Once they could have driven in and debussed their infantry right in amongst the buildings but those days were long gone. First, the Amis had arrived with their bazookas which made going too close to enemy infantry hazardous for any armored vehicle. Then the Germans had captured bazookas and improved on them to produce the Panzerschreck and supplemented them with the Panzerfaust, a cheap, one-shot anti-tank weapon. The Ivans had taken both the Ami and German weapons and produced their own that combined features of all three. The new RPG-2s were rare at the moment but they were becoming more common as each week passed. And, the Amis had a new, more powerful bazooka. So, armored vehicles stayed away from buildings where enemies might lurk.
"Kill them all. Just don’t destroy the buildings." The machine gunner on one of the half-tracks called out the encouragement as Renz and his fellow fusiliers ran past the vehicles and into Naumovskaya. This was what the Füsilier-Battalions were trained for, to be the spearhead of an advance. Renz watched his men start the well-practiced drill; they would cluster by a window of a building and then hurl their stick grenades in, ducking well down to avoid the blasts that would be funneled outside. The men armed with submachine guns would then fire in through the windows, raking the inside with streams of bullets. That was where the SS units had the advantage; their infantry had automatic rifles that would send bullets through wooden interior walls and do a much more effective job of clearing the room. Renz's Füsilier-Battalion would have to make do with the pistol ammunition used by the MP40. Once the inside of the building had been thoroughly raked by gunfire, the men would move on to the next. Combat engineers following them would check the doors and windows for booby traps and, once they had declared the building safe, it would be considered occupied.
This time, the attack went quickly. Naumovskaya was unoccupied; in fact, it was deserted. The defenders had pulled out the previous night, apparently leaving too fast to booby trap the buildings. When his men reached the banks of the Onega, Renz could see why. What had been a slow-flowing but still moving riven had finally frozen over during the cold of the night and snow falling on the fresh ice had turned the Onega into a smooth, white plain. When the attack had started, Naumovskaya had been seen as good winter quarters with buildings solid enough to shelter troops from the cold and protected on three sides by the river. Now, with the river frozen, the same position was a trap, exposed to attack from three sides and with only a limited line of retreat that was also dominated by enemy fire. Füsilier-Battalion 214 had very obligingly stuck its neck into a noose.
"Get out of here! It's a trap." He yelled the words out and watched his men start the scramble backward. Any further words were drowned out by the eerie waling howl from the northern bank of the Onega. Stalin's Organs. It had to be Stalin's Organs.
The explosions from the rocket artillery seemed to blanket the whole area. Next to him, Renz saw one of the Panzergranadier's half-tracks frantically backing up to get away from the solid wall of smoke and fragments that was bearing down on them. A hand grabbed him by the collar and hauled him on board. He landed on the floor of the driving compartment and looked up at his savior. A small, dark-haired man with a likable, crooked smile. "Don’t worry, Captain, we'll get you out of here."
The Panzergrenadier Lieutenant was as good as his word. The half-track didn't waste time trying to turn around but backed up until it had reached cover. Most of the half-tracks and the Panthers had done the same, carrying with them as many of the other infantrymen as they could. Those who had been too far from the vehicles to be picked up had been left behind and died in the maelstrom of explosions that characterized the Ivan rocket artillery at work.
"Thank you, Lieutenant . . . "
"Ackerman. Welcome on board our wagon, Captain. Next to you is our driver Gefreiter Johan Treibitz and our machine-gunner Grenadier Paul Inglemann. And our radio operator Grenadier Matthias Krause. We had a feeling this was going to happen when we saw that the buildings were empty and hadn't been booby-trapped. The Ivans wanted you as far into the trap as possible before they opened up so they did nothing that might slow your advance down. I think you will have to look elsewhere for somewhere to winter."
Ackermann looked across the site where Naumovskaya had once stood. There was nothing left but a mass of interlocking craters. Despite the half-tracks evacuating as many men from his battalion as possible, he knew that he had lost much of the unit in the artillery ambush.
"Joa . . . Lieutenant, Sir, we have a problem. While we were involved here, the Ivans attacked out of Medvedskaya and linked up with the force advancing from the west." Matthias Krause's voice shook slightly. He had only been in the unit a few days and six weeks before that he had been a civilian. His training had been barely enough to teach him how to hold a rifle and operate a radio. He was quickly finding out that the Russian Front was not a place where civilized rules applied. "I think we have been encircled."
Headquarters, Dau Chemical Corporation, Dearborn, Michigan.
“You want how much Composition N?” Michael B. Trosper, Chief Executive Officer of Dau Chemicals listened with shock as the patient female voice on the other end of the telephone line read out the quantities of Composition N required. “Ma’am, you must realize that up to now, we have been producing Composition N as an afterthought. The only customer for it has been the Marines and they need a few tons a year, single-digit numbers of tons. Now you are asking us for two orders of magnitude increase in production, immediately.”
“You see, it’s not difficult, you do understand. That’s exactly what you are being instructed to deliver. This will only be a start, you can expect at least another two orders of magnitude increase in orders over the next few months. We will be supplying Composition N to the Russians and Canadians as well.” The voice on the telephone was friendly but there was a lot of steel buried in it. It also had a trace of a foreign accent, one which was both familiar and unfamiliar, leaving Trosper to feel that he should be able to recognize it but couldn’t.
“The problem is getting the raw materials. They are not common ingredients; only limited amounts are available.” He glanced down at the telephone and noted that the line was indeed scrambled and secure. It was checked every few days by experts from the FBI. “Palmitic acid is derived from palm oil. Composition N uses the aluminum salt of that acid. It’s usually used in soaps and similar products. We also use the aluminum salt of . . . a by-product from the oil industry. We recover it from waste.”
“Naphthenic acid, I know. This line is very secure Mr. Trosper. Dau Chemical Corporation is a chemical company. Do some chemistry. We need all the Composition N we can get our hands on.” The steel in the voice was much more evident. “I will give you a priority number. Use it to contact all the other companies that have access to Naphthenic and Palmitic acids and get hold of supplies. We do not need large quantities of nice-smelling soap, we do need Composition N. We’ll be flying the first quantities out by way of the Air Bridge next week.”
That alone told Trosper just how urgent the Composition N order was. Space on the Air Bridge freighters was in short supply and every cubic inch was seriously prioritized. Not only that, but Douglas was straining every nerve to deliver as many of the C-54 freighters as they could. So much so that the C-54 had priority over the light bombers for the Army and dive-bombers for the Navy. There was another aspect to the situation. Composition N was already a high-profit item and he could use the shortage of raw materials to finesse an even greater margin. If the amounts that were being demanded held good, Dau Chemicals would make profits large enough to ensure that he would be carried shoulder-high through the streets by cheering stockholders.
“All right. As soon as we’re done, I’ll contact our suppliers and everybody else we can think of and buy the raw materials. You should be aware though, with a sudden increase in demand like this, we will have to pay premium prices for them.”
“Fine, just don’t make us smack price controls on the commodities in question. Now, when you do speak with suppliers, quote a Triple-Alpha 665 priority. If they have any questions tell them to contact me, Assistant Director Lillith Biti-Anat at the Economic Intelligence and Warfare Committee.”
That, if nothing else, told Trosper that this was serious. The EIWC rarely got involved in production matters but when it did so, the issues were important and the action required was immediate. There was a click and a hiss on the line that told him the call was over. He sighed, hung up, then picked up the receiver and called the Purchasing Department. “George? Mike here. Get on the lines, we need every gallon of the palm oil we can purchase, all of it. Triple-Alpha-665 priority. Once that’s fixed, we need to contact all the big oil companies, here and in Canada. We need their tailing water shipped here so we can extract the naphthenic acid. Same priority. Yeah, right away, sooner if possible.”
The next call was to the production facilities, organizing the conversion of the raw materials into the needed aluminum salts. That had its problems as well; aluminum was a strategic material with an even high priority than triple-alpha. That meant producing the aluminum salts of naphthenic and palmitic acids would have to go around the side of the metallurgical requirements. Still, the production line is in place, we’ll just have to work it flat out until we can expand it. I wonder if it’s possible to work four eight-hour shifts in a day.
As an afterthought, he called the research and development division. “Joe? Mike here. Look into palm oil and see what we can do with what’s left over after we’ve taken the palmitic acid out, can you? We’re going to have a lot of the stuff leftover soon. That’s right, Composition N, a huge increase in orders. While you’re at it, see if you can find other mixes that work the same way. I don’t know what’s going on in Russia but the Army see themselves using a hell of a lot of flamethrowers next year.”
Back in her office, Lillith looked at the day’s to-do list and crossed off the entry labeled ‘Composition N’. The next entry was ‘130-Octane gas shipments.’ Supplies weren’t the problem there, getting them to where they were needed was.
Conning Tower, U-491, South of the Scilly Isles
“Holding 17 knots, Captain. The scope is clear and there are no warnings of the American aircraft carriers in the area.” Lieutenant Hecker had the latest machinery report that told him the diesel was running well.
“Any other word of enemy activity?” Fehler was scanning the area with his binoculars. Ever since the American carrier strikes had destroyed the airbases on the Scilly and the Channel Islands, U-boats leaving the Channel had to do without air cover for this part of their route. He didn’t like running his radar but U-491 needed the warning if hostile aircraft were about. He wished he could use his Metox radar detector but there had been a warning that Allied aircraft could home in on its emissions.
“There’s a large, very fast convoy heading for Iceland and presumably Murmansk. U-511 attacked it and got a hit, sinking a cruiser. She was badly knocked around in the counter-attack but got clear by using decoys and fake debris. She reported she’s on her way home now, too badly damaged to continue her patrol. Apart from that, the Atlantic is quiet for the present. The Amis and Canadians are probably going home for Christmas.”
“I doubt it, Oskar. There is a cycle to their operations and this is the low point in that cycle. Their carriers are back at home, refitting and loading new aircraft. Once they have done that, they will be back. The winter on the North Atlantic is too bad for much in the way of other operations, the convoys are the best they can do”
“We should be hitting the carriers while they are in port. That would be a proper target for our Kirschkerns.” Hecker shook his head. It was safe to say such things while they were alone on the conning tower. Elsewhere, it might be overheard and reported as ‘defeatism’ or worse.
“I agree, but our masters have decided that the Americans are soft and will crumble at a threat to their cities. And so we shoot at New York. If we were to unload at Norfolk or one of the other naval bases. Or Churchill come to that, we could really achieve something. Perhaps, if the Gods smiled on us, hit a carrier. But those are daydreams, Oskar, we must do what we must because we must. Now, to more important things. How is our boat shaking down?”
Hecker looked at his clipboard. “The engines run well, the generators keep our batteries charged and everything seems to be in order. We have all our supplies stowed away, well, what passes for stowed away on a U-boat.” Both Fehler and Hecker laughed at that. Every empty centimeter of the submarine was stuffed tight with supplies. They were even laid on the decks with cardboard laid over the top so the crew could walk over them. Provided they ducked the material that was hanging from the overheads. U-491 was one of the largest submarines in the Navy, 90 meters long with a pressure hull 4.5 meters in beam she displaced over 2,300 tons. That made her larger and heavier than the Klasse XXIs. Only, for a submarine, size was not necessarily an advantage.
“We take a long time to dive.” Fehler had been exercising the boat and was beginning to get a grasp on how unwieldy she was. The topweight of the hangar forward delayed her ability to get underwater quickly yet also managed to make her unsteady on the surface. Worst of all, her control response time was poor. She took time to get started on diving and, once going down, it took time to stop her. Her turning circle was large but straightening up was also a time-consuming process. “Perhaps a few more drills?”
“I’ll get them organized, Captain. Perhaps things may improve with practice.”
“I hope so. Because once we are within reach of the Allied aircraft, our lives will depend on us doing much better than we are right now.”
Hecker nodded and went below. A couple of minutes later, the emergency diving klaxon sounded and Fehler heard the rumble of the submarine beginning her dive. I wonder if I have time for another cup of ersatz coffee before I leave the bridge, probably not. Not quite. And so it was that he left the conning tower in no semblance of a real hurry. He was back in the control room long before the U-491s dive took the spot where he had been standing underwater.
U-491 dived to 50 meters and steadied. Fehler was pleased to notice that the crew were anticipating her unwieldy movements and taking the necessary control actions in advance. The next set of maneuvers would be to get the dived trim right and have the boat properly balanced on the bubble. It suddenly occurred to him that if he had to do an emergency dive after firing his missiles, trimming the boat afterward might be a lot harder than it seemed. All in all, he wished that he was back in the Baltic.
1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty Two
Captain's Bridge, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, Labrador Sea.
Even though his ship had been specifically equipped for the role she was now playing, Captain Anthony Tillett resented the number of senior staff officers on Howe. There was the convoy commander and all his staff and the commander of the escort forces, Admiral Sir Thomas Phillips and all his staff. Then there were the liaison groups that interfaced with the land-based support aircraft flying out of Nova Scotia, Greenland, and Iceland. Finally, a group that was being sensible enough to keep out of the way at this point, the Russian Naval Liaison Party who would be coordinating the final run of the convoy with the Russian fleet and Naval Aviation. They might not have much of a presence now but they would be critical during the last part of the run. That would be the most critical part and by far the most dangerous. By the time he had finished counting, Tillett believed there was more than 300 command staff on his ship.
“And we’re all a bloody nuisance, aren’t we?” Tillett started guiltily at the voice from behind him. Admiral Phillips was looking over his shoulder with a broad smile on his face. “Well, don’t deny it, Captain, it’s always a bloody nuisance to have the command staff on board, let alone two sets of them and a bunch of liaison parties to boot.”
“It’s the air warfare command space that concerns me, Sir. With all the situation boards, radar screens, and tactical plots down there, it’s a large space low down in the ship. We’re lucky it’s behind the armor. One torpedo hit that penetrates the defense system though and we have a serious issue with flooding.”
“So will the people who have to work down there, Captain, but they should consider themselves fortunate. My escort control room is where your twin 14-inch mount used to be and the only protection we have is that the Convoy Commander’s space is on top of us. I’m impressed by the layout you have here though. It makes Prince of Wales and Duke of York seem positively primitive.”
“Anson, sir?” Tillett hadn’t had a chance to visit the other battleship with the convoy yet.
“She’s better than the first three, nowhere near Howe though.” Phillips looked thoughtful. “Howe is the first battleship for the modern age. If she doesn’t work as a concept, then the battleship is done.”
He was stopped from pursuing that thought further by the sound of the ship’s klaxon going off and the urgent message, “All hands to battle stations. Enemy submarine contact.”
“Captain Tillett, may I invite you to the escort operations center? You can see how your ship is the center of everything that will happen from there.”
Tillett pressed the button on the intercom system. “Commander McKendrick, do we have an air threat?”
The voice came back, distorted by the sound-powered system. “Air threat board is clear, Sir. Kazan is launching TBFs to assist the surface ships.”
“Thank you. Admiral, I would be delighted to accept your invitation.”
Inside the escort command center, Tillett saw the convoy from an entirely new perspective. Previously he had seen the ships as gray shapes that surrounded his own but now he saw them as if he was in an aircraft hundreds or even thousands of feet above the formation. The heart of the formation was the seven columns of ships with eight ships in each row. The two middle ships in the middle row were the escort carriers Kazan and Ulyanovsk, their position mute testimony as to their importance. Looking at them, Tillett couldn’t help feeling as if he wanted to shake his head. Somehow, US warships bearing the names of cities in Russia just didn’t seem right. Logically he knew it did; the names commemorated the two great battles in 1943 where the US Army had won its first victories on the Russian Front. It still seemed odd.
“You wait, the next pair is Moskva and Stalingrad.” Tom Phillips spoke quietly, not disturbing the command room crew who were moving to deal with the hostile report from ahead of the convoy. Tillett began to think that the Admiral was telepathic; he seemed to have an eerie ability to judge what he was thinking.
On either side of the two carriers were the heavy surface ships, two battleships, and two heavy cruisers. Around them were the fourteen large, fast oilers. They had the same hulls as the escort carriers, but the carriers had been given hangars and flight decks instead of the forest of liquid cargo handling piping, pumps, and derricks. The remaining thirty-six ships were all large, fast merchantmen, stuffed to the gills with desperately needed cargoes. There was no doubt that CWF-17 was a rich prize for any attacker. That put an old piece of history into Tillett’s mind. “I suppose, Sir, if the worst comes to the worst, the merchies could always form a line of battle and chase the Hitlerites off?”
There was an eruption of laughter from the command center crew at the picture. Admiral Philipps was snorting with merriment at the picture. “Well, Commodore Welland is the spitting image of Commodore Dance. And, to make the parallel closer, after what happened to Graf Spee, it does seem that Linois lives again in the fascist navy. Anyway, see the contact up ahead of the convoy? One of the two sweep groups has found her and is prosecuting the contact.”
Tillett could see one of the sweep groups had gone to maximum speed and was moving in on surface contact. A group of four TBFs was moving in quickly to assist. If the contact action went on for more than a few minutes, at least one and, given the importance of this convoy, possibly several Privateers would be diverted to join in. A sweep group, running ahead of the convoy to force down (and preferably sink) any submarines with air support was a dangerous opponent. The three sweep ships were converted American Gleaves class destroyers with three of their five-inch guns removed and replaced by hedgehogs, additional depth charge throwers, and one-ton depth charges fired out of their torpedo tubes.
“How did we spot it, Admiral?”
“Intercepted radio communications. We’re decoding now but we think she was radioing our position and course. Target spotter.”
“Admiral, reports from Sweep Group Starboard and the communications room.” Lieutenant Commander Gray had the flimsies in his hand. “Comms reports that the intercepted transmission is indeed a contact report. SGS-17 reports they have the target attempting to evade at 16 knots submerged.”
“A Type XXI.” Tillett recognized the underwater speed instantly. There were very few of them and the fascists tended to reserve them for finding and tracking convoys, leaving the lethally dangerous attack work to the older designs.
“That’s right. We’d better hope that the sweep groups are on the ball.” Phillips looked at the display. “Swing the convoy twenty degrees further north. We’ll try and dodge it.”
Sweep Group SGS-17, Ahead of Convoy CWF-17, Labrador Sea.
“We’re at intercept position now, Sir.”
Captain Albert Sturmer nodded. We know that Type XXI cleared datum at 16 knots so it will be running down its batteries. It’ll have to slow down soon. It’s got to be within 16 miles of us. It won’t run towards the convoy and it can’t run from it. Normally it could but this convoy is holding 18 – 20 knots and it will overhaul him once his batteries have run down. If it goes west, it’ll be running into shallows and the fascists hate that. So, it’ll go east, towards the deeps. “Bring course around to 90 degrees, make 28 knots. Ask our flying friends to lay down a sonobuoy pattern 12 miles due east of us. Alert SGP-17 that there may be some business coming their way - and tell the Convoy what we are doing.”
“Very good, Captain.
Sturmer felt Earle vibrating under his feet as she picked up speed. Beside her, Grayson and Mayo were plowing through the waves with a spectacular display of spray. Running hard in a North Atlantic winter was hardly good for a ship’s hull and Sturmer had a strong feeling that the Gleaves class ASW conversions wouldn’t be in the fleet very long once the war ended. If it ever did. The sly, almost treacherous, thought crept into his mind as a particularly save a sheet of spray swept over the big hedgehog in front of his bridge.
“Order Grayson to drop to six knots and active sonar search.” Sturmer gave the order reluctantly. In this foul weather, Grayson will drop a long way behind while she does her search and it’ll be two or three hours or more before she catches up. That’ll mean a third of our firepower will have gone. And that Hitlerites won’t be slowed down at all. That’s the big advantage the bubbleheads have over us. Where they are, it’s calm.
“Captain, TBFs calling in. They’ve dropped a sonobuoy pattern at the projected position of the fascist. Report no contact.”
Sturmer stared at the map again, trying to work out what the submarine was up to. Suddenly, his mind linked the situation with his thoughts a few seconds earlier. “Damn, he’s fooled us. He’s heading south for the convoy. Belay the order to Grayson tell her to rejoin formation immediately. Then swing to course 180 and make maximum revolutions. That damned fascist is heading deep and slow, probably heading for the convoy position estimated from radar. That radio message was a fake to lure us out here and leave a hole in the screen.”
“Course, 180, flank speed, Sir.”
“Get through to Howe, the top priority. Tell her the target is coming her way fast.”
“Message sent and received.” There was a pause. “Howe, Sir. Ulyanovsk is launching four more TBFs. And the Canucks are moving two of their converted destroyers to intercept.”
"Message from Admiral Phillips, Sir. Commendation on picking up enemy plan so quickly. The convoy close escort will take it from here. Return to sweep station immediately."
Sturmer wondered whether that was genuine praise or a carefully disguised rocket for getting faked out. In the end, he settled for the former. The fascist submarine skippers were a shadow of what they had been once but they were still dangerous and devious opponents.
"Two Privateers have been diverted to help, Sir. They'll be over the convoy in about 15 minutes."
"May the Good Lord pile his blessings upon the Victory Aircraft Company." Sturmer was being quite genuine in his sentiments. Victory Aircraft had bought a license to produce the Consolidated LB-30 when the American B-24 program had been canceled. They had worked hard on the design, changing it from a twin-tail to a single-tail configuration stripping out the armor and turbochargers for the engines, and giving it radar, sonobuoys, a four-gun 20mm cannon pack in the nose, and twin 20mms in mid-upper and tail turrets. The result had been the Privateer, a formidable anti-submarine aircraft indeed that had made life for the Type VII and Type IX U-boats hazardous indeed. Even snorkels hadn’t helped the U-boats very much and only the appearance of the Type XXIs had slowed the destruction of the U-boat fleet. The convoy commanders were quick to claim that a single Privateer circling their convoy was worth at least two extra ASW-modified destroyers.
Convoy Escort Command-Space, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, Labrador Sea.
"The two Privateers are on station, Admiral."
The two light blue markers had been placed on the situation board, taking station ahead of the convoy. Their job was to provide early warning of the submarine supposed to be approaching from the north and alerts on any torpedoes launched. That was easy enough for the high-speed, long-range turbine-powered weapons that left a distinctive track on the surface but much harder for the newer electrically powered torpedoes.
Phillips looked at the set-up. The convoy had changed course again to put the submarine's estimated position dead ahead of the convoy track. That would mean that any torpedo fire would have a good chance of running down between the columns of ships and missing everything. Fired from an angle off the convoy's bows, the same torpedoes would run across the columns and rows, making a single hit as close to a certainty as anything could be and multiple strikes a distinct probability. The ability to maneuver the convoy as a single unit to evade attack was as vital a contribution to defense as any weapons could be. The position of convoy command and escort command in the same ship made sure that the two were properly integrated. Over in one corner of the escort command center, one of the situation controllers was taking the latest convoy report from the command center overhead and transposing it to the escort situation report. The quiet efficiency with which it was being done was the feature that most surprised Phillips. In his experience, command centers were the epitome of organized but noisy confusion. This one was distinguished by its quiet efficiency.
"Privateers report, Admiral. Torpedoes in the water. Dead ahead."
"Convoy screen, this is air plot. We have Privateer Y-Yoke on course for us, five miles out, bearing zero degrees."
Once again, the data was quietly and efficiently added to the escort plot. The message from the air plot deep down in the battleship made things a lot clearer. One of the Privateers had overflown the torpedo tracks and blipped her radar navigation beacon when she was directly on top of them. That had given the torpedoes position, course, and speed more accurately than a simple report could have done. The other aircraft had gone to the firing location revealed by the torpedo tracks and was dropping sonobuoys to try and find the attacking submarine. Phillips looked at the scene proudly; warships and aircraft from three navies were collaborating to protect the convoy and destroy the submarine that threatened it.
"Convoy escort, this is S-Sugar. We have sonobuoy data; analysis is now in progress." There was a long pause as the Privateer plotted the information coming in from its buoys. "Target is Type XXI U-boat, heading due east at 16 knots. Permission to engage with depth charges?"
"Convoy Escort, execute an attack." Phillips put down the handset with pleasure. With two Privateers overhead and the destroyers Huron and Haida closing in fast, that submarine was in deadly peril. "Be advised, two destroyers will be following up with Squid."
"Oh goody." The radio operator on S-Sugar sounded positively gleeful. Phillips could understand why; the sight of a Squid attack was always impressive. The two triple-barreled depth charge throwers could lay down a murderous pattern of explosions. He knew the Americans preferred the Hedgehog that threw a large number of smaller bombs at the targets but they only exploded when they hit something. The Squid rounds went off at preset depths which Phillips thought would at least shake the fascists up even if they didn’t kill them. Aircrew in particular liked watching the Squid rounds at work.
"Torpedoes?" Phillips' question was terse.
"Convoy here; they are running down the gaps between the columns." Commodore Welland had once been a Royal Navy captain himself, one who had fought in the convoy actions of 1917 and 1918. Since then he had retired and then been recalled to the colors as a convoy commander. If one listened very carefully, his age was apparent in his voice although that didn't seem to affect his ability to maneuver his ships. Quietly, he was regarded as being the best convoy commander out there.
Watching quietly from a corner, Captain Tillett was getting an eye-opening demonstration of how his ship functioned in a convoy battle. With Welland concentrating on maneuvering his ship, Convoy Escort handling the defense against submarines, and Air Plot following aircraft operations, all feeding into the central situation display, each could handle its own situation while also keeping a full operational picture in view. He was still contemplating the beauty of the way his ship had been set up for this kind of battle when he felt a slight vibration under his feet. It was almost lost in the other vibrations that surrounded him, from his own ship and the convoy, but explosions were always that little bit different. Enough to make them stand out from the rest.
"That was S-Sugar dropping depth charges. Y-Yoke will be following her in a minute or so." Phillips had barely finished speaking when the second slight tremor shook Howe. "There she goes."
Tillett could see what was happening without needing to be there. The two Privateers would have dropped their depth charges in a giant cross over the position indicated by the sonobuoys. The TBFs would be circling, waiting for the situation to mature so they would know where to put their weapons. TBFs usually carry FIDO homing torpedoes but they're too slow to handle XXIs.
"Huron and Haida doing their Squid run now." The plot room annunciator, the man tasked with giving a running commentary on the action, had a deep voice that cut through the noise of the room. The fact that the destroyers are going in with Squid suggests they have a firm fix on their target. Come to think of it, that fascist must be running its batteries low by now. It's been running at high speed for more than 45 minutes; it can't be at more than 25 percent charge. Tillett wasn't surprised by how little sympathy he had for the target of the hunt. As far as he was concerned, U-boatmen were rabid dogs who needed to be shot down with the same attention to detail as killing a dangerously-diseased dog.
"It's broached!" The radio operator aboard either Huron or Haida had broken in without obeying the usual protocols and his voice, charged with excitement, was echoing over the plot room loudspeaker. "The Squids blew it to the surface! We're firing on it now."
Sure enough, the boom of the destroyer's 4.7-inch guns and the rapid hammering of her anti-aircraft guns were audible. Again, Tillett didn’t need to be an eyewitness to see what was happening. The U-boat was on the surface, the captain had probably lost control when it was bracketed by the Squid rounds. One thing we learned when we rebuilt those two S-class submarines to mimic XXIs was that they are very unstable when it comes to depth control. Another advantage of Squid is that the operators explode the rounds under the target. That train of thought made Tillett ask himself a question that had befuddled Navy officers across the Allied war effort. How come we knew so much about the Type XXI that we were able to build submarines to simulate its performance before the fascists had the first one in service? Now, the submarine will be under fire from both destroyers with the barrage only ceasing when the aircraft makes strafing passes. The chaotic explosions and other battle noise coming over the loudspeakers highlighted the calm, efficient quiet that reigned aboard Howe
"It's going! It's sinking by the stern, one of them Privateers dropped a pair of depth charges right on top of her!" The radio operator's excitement and immense satisfaction were obvious even through the crackling and distortion of the loudspeakers. "Yeah, the fascist bastard is going down fast. No survivors."
Faintly, in the background, a voice could be heard booming off the bulkheads. "Andrews? Stop babbling like a damned DEMOCRAT and get a grip on yourself. Rest of you, stop gawking and get buckets ready to pick up the evidence. And don’t let the ship's cook near it."
"Score one for the resistance," Phillips spoke quietly. Tillett looked curiously at him. "The Type XXI is nothing new; it's just an enlarged British R class from 1917/18. We had two of them running as fast targets out of Pompey for years, well into the 1930s. So, the Resistance stole the plans from Admiralty archives for us."
Tillett nodded. The explanation made sense, which didn’t mean it was true of course. "Admiral, Sir, I must get back to my bridge. Thank you for showing me all this. It's been an eye-opener."
Captain's Bridge, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, Labrador Sea.
Even though his ship had been specifically equipped for the role she was now playing, Captain Anthony Tillett resented the number of senior staff officers on Howe. There was the convoy commander and all his staff and the commander of the escort forces, Admiral Sir Thomas Phillips and all his staff. Then there were the liaison groups that interfaced with the land-based support aircraft flying out of Nova Scotia, Greenland, and Iceland. Finally, a group that was being sensible enough to keep out of the way at this point, the Russian Naval Liaison Party who would be coordinating the final run of the convoy with the Russian fleet and Naval Aviation. They might not have much of a presence now but they would be critical during the last part of the run. That would be the most critical part and by far the most dangerous. By the time he had finished counting, Tillett believed there was more than 300 command staff on his ship.
“And we’re all a bloody nuisance, aren’t we?” Tillett started guiltily at the voice from behind him. Admiral Phillips was looking over his shoulder with a broad smile on his face. “Well, don’t deny it, Captain, it’s always a bloody nuisance to have the command staff on board, let alone two sets of them and a bunch of liaison parties to boot.”
“It’s the air warfare command space that concerns me, Sir. With all the situation boards, radar screens, and tactical plots down there, it’s a large space low down in the ship. We’re lucky it’s behind the armor. One torpedo hit that penetrates the defense system though and we have a serious issue with flooding.”
“So will the people who have to work down there, Captain, but they should consider themselves fortunate. My escort control room is where your twin 14-inch mount used to be and the only protection we have is that the Convoy Commander’s space is on top of us. I’m impressed by the layout you have here though. It makes Prince of Wales and Duke of York seem positively primitive.”
“Anson, sir?” Tillett hadn’t had a chance to visit the other battleship with the convoy yet.
“She’s better than the first three, nowhere near Howe though.” Phillips looked thoughtful. “Howe is the first battleship for the modern age. If she doesn’t work as a concept, then the battleship is done.”
He was stopped from pursuing that thought further by the sound of the ship’s klaxon going off and the urgent message, “All hands to battle stations. Enemy submarine contact.”
“Captain Tillett, may I invite you to the escort operations center? You can see how your ship is the center of everything that will happen from there.”
Tillett pressed the button on the intercom system. “Commander McKendrick, do we have an air threat?”
The voice came back, distorted by the sound-powered system. “Air threat board is clear, Sir. Kazan is launching TBFs to assist the surface ships.”
“Thank you. Admiral, I would be delighted to accept your invitation.”
Inside the escort command center, Tillett saw the convoy from an entirely new perspective. Previously he had seen the ships as gray shapes that surrounded his own but now he saw them as if he was in an aircraft hundreds or even thousands of feet above the formation. The heart of the formation was the seven columns of ships with eight ships in each row. The two middle ships in the middle row were the escort carriers Kazan and Ulyanovsk, their position mute testimony as to their importance. Looking at them, Tillett couldn’t help feeling as if he wanted to shake his head. Somehow, US warships bearing the names of cities in Russia just didn’t seem right. Logically he knew it did; the names commemorated the two great battles in 1943 where the US Army had won its first victories on the Russian Front. It still seemed odd.
“You wait, the next pair is Moskva and Stalingrad.” Tom Phillips spoke quietly, not disturbing the command room crew who were moving to deal with the hostile report from ahead of the convoy. Tillett began to think that the Admiral was telepathic; he seemed to have an eerie ability to judge what he was thinking.
On either side of the two carriers were the heavy surface ships, two battleships, and two heavy cruisers. Around them were the fourteen large, fast oilers. They had the same hulls as the escort carriers, but the carriers had been given hangars and flight decks instead of the forest of liquid cargo handling piping, pumps, and derricks. The remaining thirty-six ships were all large, fast merchantmen, stuffed to the gills with desperately needed cargoes. There was no doubt that CWF-17 was a rich prize for any attacker. That put an old piece of history into Tillett’s mind. “I suppose, Sir, if the worst comes to the worst, the merchies could always form a line of battle and chase the Hitlerites off?”
There was an eruption of laughter from the command center crew at the picture. Admiral Philipps was snorting with merriment at the picture. “Well, Commodore Welland is the spitting image of Commodore Dance. And, to make the parallel closer, after what happened to Graf Spee, it does seem that Linois lives again in the fascist navy. Anyway, see the contact up ahead of the convoy? One of the two sweep groups has found her and is prosecuting the contact.”
Tillett could see one of the sweep groups had gone to maximum speed and was moving in on surface contact. A group of four TBFs was moving in quickly to assist. If the contact action went on for more than a few minutes, at least one and, given the importance of this convoy, possibly several Privateers would be diverted to join in. A sweep group, running ahead of the convoy to force down (and preferably sink) any submarines with air support was a dangerous opponent. The three sweep ships were converted American Gleaves class destroyers with three of their five-inch guns removed and replaced by hedgehogs, additional depth charge throwers, and one-ton depth charges fired out of their torpedo tubes.
“How did we spot it, Admiral?”
“Intercepted radio communications. We’re decoding now but we think she was radioing our position and course. Target spotter.”
“Admiral, reports from Sweep Group Starboard and the communications room.” Lieutenant Commander Gray had the flimsies in his hand. “Comms reports that the intercepted transmission is indeed a contact report. SGS-17 reports they have the target attempting to evade at 16 knots submerged.”
“A Type XXI.” Tillett recognized the underwater speed instantly. There were very few of them and the fascists tended to reserve them for finding and tracking convoys, leaving the lethally dangerous attack work to the older designs.
“That’s right. We’d better hope that the sweep groups are on the ball.” Phillips looked at the display. “Swing the convoy twenty degrees further north. We’ll try and dodge it.”
Sweep Group SGS-17, Ahead of Convoy CWF-17, Labrador Sea.
“We’re at intercept position now, Sir.”
Captain Albert Sturmer nodded. We know that Type XXI cleared datum at 16 knots so it will be running down its batteries. It’ll have to slow down soon. It’s got to be within 16 miles of us. It won’t run towards the convoy and it can’t run from it. Normally it could but this convoy is holding 18 – 20 knots and it will overhaul him once his batteries have run down. If it goes west, it’ll be running into shallows and the fascists hate that. So, it’ll go east, towards the deeps. “Bring course around to 90 degrees, make 28 knots. Ask our flying friends to lay down a sonobuoy pattern 12 miles due east of us. Alert SGP-17 that there may be some business coming their way - and tell the Convoy what we are doing.”
“Very good, Captain.
Sturmer felt Earle vibrating under his feet as she picked up speed. Beside her, Grayson and Mayo were plowing through the waves with a spectacular display of spray. Running hard in a North Atlantic winter was hardly good for a ship’s hull and Sturmer had a strong feeling that the Gleaves class ASW conversions wouldn’t be in the fleet very long once the war ended. If it ever did. The sly, almost treacherous, thought crept into his mind as a particularly save a sheet of spray swept over the big hedgehog in front of his bridge.
“Order Grayson to drop to six knots and active sonar search.” Sturmer gave the order reluctantly. In this foul weather, Grayson will drop a long way behind while she does her search and it’ll be two or three hours or more before she catches up. That’ll mean a third of our firepower will have gone. And that Hitlerites won’t be slowed down at all. That’s the big advantage the bubbleheads have over us. Where they are, it’s calm.
“Captain, TBFs calling in. They’ve dropped a sonobuoy pattern at the projected position of the fascist. Report no contact.”
Sturmer stared at the map again, trying to work out what the submarine was up to. Suddenly, his mind linked the situation with his thoughts a few seconds earlier. “Damn, he’s fooled us. He’s heading south for the convoy. Belay the order to Grayson tell her to rejoin formation immediately. Then swing to course 180 and make maximum revolutions. That damned fascist is heading deep and slow, probably heading for the convoy position estimated from radar. That radio message was a fake to lure us out here and leave a hole in the screen.”
“Course, 180, flank speed, Sir.”
“Get through to Howe, the top priority. Tell her the target is coming her way fast.”
“Message sent and received.” There was a pause. “Howe, Sir. Ulyanovsk is launching four more TBFs. And the Canucks are moving two of their converted destroyers to intercept.”
"Message from Admiral Phillips, Sir. Commendation on picking up enemy plan so quickly. The convoy close escort will take it from here. Return to sweep station immediately."
Sturmer wondered whether that was genuine praise or a carefully disguised rocket for getting faked out. In the end, he settled for the former. The fascist submarine skippers were a shadow of what they had been once but they were still dangerous and devious opponents.
"Two Privateers have been diverted to help, Sir. They'll be over the convoy in about 15 minutes."
"May the Good Lord pile his blessings upon the Victory Aircraft Company." Sturmer was being quite genuine in his sentiments. Victory Aircraft had bought a license to produce the Consolidated LB-30 when the American B-24 program had been canceled. They had worked hard on the design, changing it from a twin-tail to a single-tail configuration stripping out the armor and turbochargers for the engines, and giving it radar, sonobuoys, a four-gun 20mm cannon pack in the nose, and twin 20mms in mid-upper and tail turrets. The result had been the Privateer, a formidable anti-submarine aircraft indeed that had made life for the Type VII and Type IX U-boats hazardous indeed. Even snorkels hadn’t helped the U-boats very much and only the appearance of the Type XXIs had slowed the destruction of the U-boat fleet. The convoy commanders were quick to claim that a single Privateer circling their convoy was worth at least two extra ASW-modified destroyers.
Convoy Escort Command-Space, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, Labrador Sea.
"The two Privateers are on station, Admiral."
The two light blue markers had been placed on the situation board, taking station ahead of the convoy. Their job was to provide early warning of the submarine supposed to be approaching from the north and alerts on any torpedoes launched. That was easy enough for the high-speed, long-range turbine-powered weapons that left a distinctive track on the surface but much harder for the newer electrically powered torpedoes.
Phillips looked at the set-up. The convoy had changed course again to put the submarine's estimated position dead ahead of the convoy track. That would mean that any torpedo fire would have a good chance of running down between the columns of ships and missing everything. Fired from an angle off the convoy's bows, the same torpedoes would run across the columns and rows, making a single hit as close to a certainty as anything could be and multiple strikes a distinct probability. The ability to maneuver the convoy as a single unit to evade attack was as vital a contribution to defense as any weapons could be. The position of convoy command and escort command in the same ship made sure that the two were properly integrated. Over in one corner of the escort command center, one of the situation controllers was taking the latest convoy report from the command center overhead and transposing it to the escort situation report. The quiet efficiency with which it was being done was the feature that most surprised Phillips. In his experience, command centers were the epitome of organized but noisy confusion. This one was distinguished by its quiet efficiency.
"Privateers report, Admiral. Torpedoes in the water. Dead ahead."
"Convoy screen, this is air plot. We have Privateer Y-Yoke on course for us, five miles out, bearing zero degrees."
Once again, the data was quietly and efficiently added to the escort plot. The message from the air plot deep down in the battleship made things a lot clearer. One of the Privateers had overflown the torpedo tracks and blipped her radar navigation beacon when she was directly on top of them. That had given the torpedoes position, course, and speed more accurately than a simple report could have done. The other aircraft had gone to the firing location revealed by the torpedo tracks and was dropping sonobuoys to try and find the attacking submarine. Phillips looked at the scene proudly; warships and aircraft from three navies were collaborating to protect the convoy and destroy the submarine that threatened it.
"Convoy escort, this is S-Sugar. We have sonobuoy data; analysis is now in progress." There was a long pause as the Privateer plotted the information coming in from its buoys. "Target is Type XXI U-boat, heading due east at 16 knots. Permission to engage with depth charges?"
"Convoy Escort, execute an attack." Phillips put down the handset with pleasure. With two Privateers overhead and the destroyers Huron and Haida closing in fast, that submarine was in deadly peril. "Be advised, two destroyers will be following up with Squid."
"Oh goody." The radio operator on S-Sugar sounded positively gleeful. Phillips could understand why; the sight of a Squid attack was always impressive. The two triple-barreled depth charge throwers could lay down a murderous pattern of explosions. He knew the Americans preferred the Hedgehog that threw a large number of smaller bombs at the targets but they only exploded when they hit something. The Squid rounds went off at preset depths which Phillips thought would at least shake the fascists up even if they didn’t kill them. Aircrew in particular liked watching the Squid rounds at work.
"Torpedoes?" Phillips' question was terse.
"Convoy here; they are running down the gaps between the columns." Commodore Welland had once been a Royal Navy captain himself, one who had fought in the convoy actions of 1917 and 1918. Since then he had retired and then been recalled to the colors as a convoy commander. If one listened very carefully, his age was apparent in his voice although that didn't seem to affect his ability to maneuver his ships. Quietly, he was regarded as being the best convoy commander out there.
Watching quietly from a corner, Captain Tillett was getting an eye-opening demonstration of how his ship functioned in a convoy battle. With Welland concentrating on maneuvering his ship, Convoy Escort handling the defense against submarines, and Air Plot following aircraft operations, all feeding into the central situation display, each could handle its own situation while also keeping a full operational picture in view. He was still contemplating the beauty of the way his ship had been set up for this kind of battle when he felt a slight vibration under his feet. It was almost lost in the other vibrations that surrounded him, from his own ship and the convoy, but explosions were always that little bit different. Enough to make them stand out from the rest.
"That was S-Sugar dropping depth charges. Y-Yoke will be following her in a minute or so." Phillips had barely finished speaking when the second slight tremor shook Howe. "There she goes."
Tillett could see what was happening without needing to be there. The two Privateers would have dropped their depth charges in a giant cross over the position indicated by the sonobuoys. The TBFs would be circling, waiting for the situation to mature so they would know where to put their weapons. TBFs usually carry FIDO homing torpedoes but they're too slow to handle XXIs.
"Huron and Haida doing their Squid run now." The plot room annunciator, the man tasked with giving a running commentary on the action, had a deep voice that cut through the noise of the room. The fact that the destroyers are going in with Squid suggests they have a firm fix on their target. Come to think of it, that fascist must be running its batteries low by now. It's been running at high speed for more than 45 minutes; it can't be at more than 25 percent charge. Tillett wasn't surprised by how little sympathy he had for the target of the hunt. As far as he was concerned, U-boatmen were rabid dogs who needed to be shot down with the same attention to detail as killing a dangerously-diseased dog.
"It's broached!" The radio operator aboard either Huron or Haida had broken in without obeying the usual protocols and his voice, charged with excitement, was echoing over the plot room loudspeaker. "The Squids blew it to the surface! We're firing on it now."
Sure enough, the boom of the destroyer's 4.7-inch guns and the rapid hammering of her anti-aircraft guns were audible. Again, Tillett didn’t need to be an eyewitness to see what was happening. The U-boat was on the surface, the captain had probably lost control when it was bracketed by the Squid rounds. One thing we learned when we rebuilt those two S-class submarines to mimic XXIs was that they are very unstable when it comes to depth control. Another advantage of Squid is that the operators explode the rounds under the target. That train of thought made Tillett ask himself a question that had befuddled Navy officers across the Allied war effort. How come we knew so much about the Type XXI that we were able to build submarines to simulate its performance before the fascists had the first one in service? Now, the submarine will be under fire from both destroyers with the barrage only ceasing when the aircraft makes strafing passes. The chaotic explosions and other battle noise coming over the loudspeakers highlighted the calm, efficient quiet that reigned aboard Howe
"It's going! It's sinking by the stern, one of them Privateers dropped a pair of depth charges right on top of her!" The radio operator's excitement and immense satisfaction were obvious even through the crackling and distortion of the loudspeakers. "Yeah, the fascist bastard is going down fast. No survivors."
Faintly, in the background, a voice could be heard booming off the bulkheads. "Andrews? Stop babbling like a damned DEMOCRAT and get a grip on yourself. Rest of you, stop gawking and get buckets ready to pick up the evidence. And don’t let the ship's cook near it."
"Score one for the resistance," Phillips spoke quietly. Tillett looked curiously at him. "The Type XXI is nothing new; it's just an enlarged British R class from 1917/18. We had two of them running as fast targets out of Pompey for years, well into the 1930s. So, the Resistance stole the plans from Admiralty archives for us."
Tillett nodded. The explanation made sense, which didn’t mean it was true of course. "Admiral, Sir, I must get back to my bridge. Thank you for showing me all this. It's been an eye-opener."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty Three
Worker's Canteen, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
"Tovarishchi kollegi!" Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna carefully hesitated for a precisely-calculated beat. "No, comrade fellow-workers is not the right way to salute you. Instead, I will address you the way we frontoviki address each other for whenever the crew of our '85' go into battle, you are all riding alongside us in spirit. You are our Brat'ya, our brothers. Today, I will not tell you about glorious victories or great acts of bravery and gallantry to stir your hearts. I am just a sergeant, I do not know of such things. Instead, I will tell you about what we do, about the war we fight as average workers and peasants who serve the Rodina in its hour of need. That will tell you why my crew, my family, in our '85' look on you as our brat'ya."
She looked at the audience, surprised to see hostility on the faces of many of those present. She hadn't expected that. Perhaps they feel guilty because we are on the front and they are safe in a factory. She had been told by the writers that many felt that way, that they felt they were skulking in the rear while others fought for them. They had told her that this speech was supposed to address this morale problem. A few evenings before, she had spent some hours sitting down with the speechwriters, telling them about her experiences around Amosovskaya. She had, of course, taken care to remember that they were Chekists and had watched her words carefully. Nevertheless, she had been shocked when she received her speech from them. She had expected a bombastic lecture full of heroic phrases mixed in with the latest propaganda lines yet there had been none of that. Instead, she had read words that were familiar to her and she recognized herself in the way words were used and how they were spoken. They were the words she would have used had she been an experienced speechwriter. The authors had simply polished what she had said and turned it into a smooth performance.
"I said I would not tell you of great battles. You have read of these in the newspapers I am sure. The truth is that even those who take part in such battles see little of them and we find out what happened from the same newspapers! But, we might take part in only one great battle each year. The rest of the time is small actions, a continuous fight all along the front. We aim at liberating a village here, taking a dominant hill there, or repelling a fascist attack somewhere else. This goes on every day and every day, our bratishka die in these continuous battles. Let me tell you about the fighting at Amosovskaya, in the weeks before our crew was sent here to collect our new '100s'.
"Winter is coming. In the north, it has already arrived. Now, there is constant fighting to secure shelter from the cold and snow. We try and drive the Hitlerites out of the villages they occupy so we can shelter from the winter while they cannot. They try and do the same to us. Right now, up on the Onega, this battle continues with men, and women, dying so that their brat'ya can have warmth and shelter for the winter."
She went ahead, describing the assault on Amosovskaya and the fighting that had followed it. By the time she was describing the advance through the pine forest, she had become swept up in the story and her audience had been caught up with her. She caught the collective gasp as her ‘85’ (she tactfully did not mention its name) hit a mine and came to a halt with one of its road wheels destroyed and its track on that side broken. She made a slight pause for effect, then her gaze swept the listeners.
“And this is when you were with us brothers. We were knocked out, unable to move and when an ‘85’ cannot move it cannot train its gun. It is helpless. We all bailed out and looked at the damage. Our ’85’ is crippled, what do we do? Our brat’ya need us for every gun in a battle counts. Then, our gunner, Sergeant-Gunner Vasily Andreyevich, calls out, ‘there is a ‘34’ that has also hit a mine just a few meters from us. It has been damaged much worse than ours, I can see its final drive has been wrecked. Let us salvage road wheels and track links from it and get our ‘85’ running again’. So we all bail out and run over to the ‘34’, tell the commander what we want and he orders his crew to help. All of us together seize the tools and undo the bolts that hold the road wheel in place. Sometimes it can take hours to do this if the parts do not fit properly or have been badly machined. This time, your hard work, and your dedication help us well! The bolts come right out, the wheels slide off the axles and we roll them over to our ‘85’. There, the bolts on the wrecked wheels also slide out and we can put the new wheels on.
“Now your skill and care pay off. In that battle in the forest, your bodies might have been in the factory here, but your hearts, your hands, your care and your skill were all with us. The wheels slide right on to the axle! The bolt holes line up perfectly, not a fraction of a millimeter out of place. So it is that a job that would normally take a couple of hours is completed in ten minutes! We fasten the bolts and the wheels are ready. Then we hear a cry from behind us.
‘Artillerists, artillerists, stand clear!’
"The Tankists have come with replacement track from their ‘34’. Quickly we hurry to assemble the tracks, factory workers, engineers, tankists and artillerists side by side. We slide the pins in and we are ready to go! We take our places and drive off to rejoin the battle. Because we were delayed in the forest, we came out on the flank of the Hitlerites. In doing so, the first thing we see is a fascist Panther and we put a shot straight through its side. It blew up and burned, killing its entire crew. Afraid of us, mark that brat’va, afraid of us, the other fascist tanks fled from the Gribanikha Kolkhoz.”
The roar of “Urrah” that went up from the audience was quite genuine. At the rear, Chekist Adianov nodded happily. The new style of speeches, where complex party ideology took second place to a good story that people wanted to hear, were proving a resounding success. He stood up and waited for the sound to ebb. "Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna has been given time from her duties to answer a few questions. Who would like to start?"
One of the women factory workers stood up. "What do you do when you are not fighting?"
"Much of the time we maintain our '85'. They are demanding vehicles. Firstly we check the fluids, oil, coolant, diesel fuel of course. They are the life-blood of our '85'. Then we much check track tension every night and adjust it so that it is within the limits specified in our manuals. If we do not do this we will lose a track, walk it off the wheels, next time we move. We must check the sight zero for the main gun has not shifted. When all that is done, we eat, drink our ration of vodka, write letters home or sing popular songs accompanied by those of our brat'ya who can play instruments. Also, sometimes our sub-commander for political affairs will bring a newspaper and read us stories from it. Sometimes editorials that raise our spirits and teach important lessons but the most popular are just stories about normal routine life of every town and village. An award to a class for doing well on graduation or to the farmers for exceeding quotas in food production. They tell us that the normal life we fight to protect is still there, still goes on and we will return to it after the war is over."
"Where do you sleep?" A man had stood up to ask the question. He had glanced, smirking, at those standing around him before he did so,
"We have a crew of four in an '85'. Three sleep on the back deck, over the engine. In summer we just lie down there, using our bedroll to make ourselves comfortable. In winter, we have a tent we can erect over the back to keep the snow and ice off us. Then, the heat of the engine keeps us warm. Each night, one person sleeps inside the '85' so he is near the radio in case of an emergency message. This is not popular since the back deck is much more comfortable than inside. That is why we rotate inside duty. There are those who like to sleep under their '85' but most are afraid of what would happen if the vehicle started to settle at night."
"What are the Americans like?" Another female factory worker spoke, blushing as she did so.
"I have not met American soldiers, they all serve down near Kazan and Ulyanov’sk. We often get supported by American aircraft and their pilots are very brave and extremely skilled. When their heavy bombers come, they blast great holes in the fascist positions for us to exploit. One thing we do know, Americans are very kind. They send packages to their own sons on the front with chocolates and cigarettes. And all the other things they need that the army does not supply. They started sending us packages as well, addressed to 'A Russian Tank Crew' or 'A tank destroyer crew". You asked what we do in the evenings? If a crew gets such a package, they write a letter to those who sent it, thanking them for their kindness and enclosing a photograph of their '85' and its crew, signed by all of them. Many times, the American family will then adopt the crew and send it packages regularly."
Adianov stood up. "I do not wish to interrupt my comrade but I must add when Americans started sending packages to our troops, CheKa published a list of the things our people need most in American newspapers with instructions where to send packages for delivery to our troops. CheKa then distributes the ones addressed to ‘a tank crew’ or ‘an infantry squad’ so they are shared out fairly. This is a responsibility of the unit political officer. Sometimes also, we must tell the American family that the crew they have adopted has laid down their lives defending the Rodina. Almost always they will then find another crew to adopt."
Kabakova picked up smoothly. "When they found out some of our crews had women, they would add things like nice soap, hair shampoo, and soft paper for…."
She half-turned and pointed at her rear end which caused a great roar of laughter. "They also send us girl-things. You know. We share everything of course. Except the women-things naturally."
"And chewing gum? Do they send it to you and what does it taste like?" It was the worker who had asked about Americans.
"Yes, they do send it and it tastes terrible. But it is very good for repairing leaks in the fuel system." That also caused a roar of laughter. "They must all be a very kind people in America."
Adianov looked around. It had been a very successful meeting, much more so than he had hoped. "Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna must now return to her duties, testing the new '100'. And you must return to your benches. She has told you how important your work is and there is much to do this day."
Outside Welfare Office, National Maritime Union, 7th Avenue, New York.
"What are we doing here?" Achillea looked around the snow-covered street. It looked dark and cheerless as the dusk started to close in during the early days of December 1944. As dusk fell this year, the cheerful lights that had decorated the stores pre-war would not be turning on. There was a blackout in force and a fifty dollar fine awaited anybody who broke it.
"You're looking after me of course." Igrat smiled at her friend. "Me, I'm here to visit the stores and pick up some things for my next trip. Hello, who's this? She's left it a bit late."
A obviously-pregnant woman had just carefully climbed down the steps from the Union offices, clinging carefully to the handrail in order to avoid the ultimate disaster of slipping and falling down. Igrat noted that she'd had the common sense to wear stout, flat shoes in the winter weather. As she started to move down the pavement towards the 57th Street Subway Station, three figures detached from the shadows of the Park and walked across the road towards her. Quickly, they surrounded her and pushed her hard against the concrete palisade.
"Give us the money." The leader's voice was hard and brutal. The gang had obviously been waiting for a wife to come and collect the allotment from her husband's pay. Earlier in the day, there would have been lines of women waiting to get their allowance but this late, most had gone. Obviously that was what the thieves had been waiting for.
"Please, can't you see I've got a baby coming?" The woman was crying in a mixture of fear and distress.
The man showed no signs of easing off. "Gives you something else to lose then, doesn’t it. Now, hand the money over."
"And that does it." Achillea set off to join the party, Igrat close behind her.
The three men were so intent on tormenting their victim that they didn’t see or hear Achillea closing in on them until she was already within arm's reach of their anatomy. The first they heard was a friendly "Ignave canis stupri-fragmen stercore."
"Mind your own business, bitch." The man snarled the words at Achillea then paused. He hadn’t understood what she had said of course, few people without an advanced degree in rapid-fire gutter-Latin did and even then they pronounced it wrong. He did, however understand that despite the bright smile on her face, the new arrival had not spoken to him with politeness or respect.
"Do yourself a favor. Drop that knife, right now, and get on your knees with your hands behind your head. That applies to all of you. Take a little advice. When someone threatens you with death, the tool that makes you obey is not death itself but that you prefer to do anything rather than die. And, death is what you face right now. Be afraid." In the background Igrat decided that Achillea was enjoying herself far too much. And talking too much. That is unlike her. What is she up to?
The leader of the gang lashed out with the knife. He had been threatening his victim's belly with it and now tried to plunge it into Achillea's stomach. Instead, he felt a hard slap on his wrist followed by a curious numbness in his knife-hand. A split second later he felt a blazing, stinging heat across his throat as his own knife slashed his neck open. The force of the slash had been calculated to give Achillea the momentum she needed for a punch that ended with her slamming the side of her fist, wrapped around the knife-hilt, into the second man's jaw. He screamed in anguish as the force of the blow broke his jaw and cheekbones and sent a shower of blood and most of his teeth spraying across the sidewalk. He slid slowly downwards, unconscious.
The third man was turning to run when Achillea, still using the momentum from the first blow continued her spin around. Seeing the man was running from her, she took a step forward and scythed with her leg, kicking his feet out from underneath him. He crashed down, and she slammed another kick into his ribs. The crackle of breaking bones was clearly audible as he rolled across the sidewalk from the impact. It was over and even by her standards the fight had been fast. "Next?" she said hopefully.
To her great pleasure there was a thunder of applause from the citizens who had gathered around. Achillea had just received the one thing she valued most yet so rarely received, a spirited ovation from a delighted audience. Now, if they only start chanting my name, the day would be perfect she thought. In fairness, she knew that the people gathered around had run up to help the woman who had been attacked and then had the common sense to stay out of the way while Achillea had dealt with the problem.
"What happened here?" A police officer in his dark blue greatcoat had run up, pistol drawn. Now, with one attacker dead and the other two unconscious, he wasn't certain who to point it at. After a few seconds thought, he put it back in its holster. He'd seen Achillea take the knife out of a man's hand and was astute enough to realize she would do the same with his revolver. It suddenly sank in on Igrat why Achillea had talked so much before the fight started; she had seen the police officer or sensed his presence and bought as much time as she could to make sure the deceased gang-leader had struck the first blow. Or tried to, Saved on the paperwork.
"This man." The woman the gang had attacked was pointing at the body of the gang leader, its throat slashed open to the spine. "He wanted to steal my allotment, He held that knife against me, said he would cut me open if I didn’t give it to him. Then this lady stopped him."
"Who are you, ma'am?"
"Mrs. Young. Mrs. Darlene Young. My husband is a sailor." Admirably, she kept quiet about the other details. What sort of sailor, where he was, on what sort of ship, where he might be going, were all sensitive information and the policeman knew it.
He collected statements from the other witnesses, ending with those of Achillea and Igrat. It was, he decided, an open-and-shut case of defending a helpless victim from a potentially murderous attack and if some idiot DA tried to make a charge, the jury would toss it out in half a second flat. "All right, Miss Foyle, I doubt if any charge will be preferred here. Come down to the Precinct House tomorrow morning to do some paperwork and you can be on your way. Just, in future, Lady, leave this sort of thing to the men, right?"
Achillea looked at him, an odd half-smile on her face. "Officer, when I don't need to see things like this done properly, I'll be sure to do just that. Now, I'll see you down at the shop tomorrow."
Igrat was comforting Mrs. Young. "Why are you here this late? It's not a good area for a woman at dusk. Why do you think my friend came with me?"
"I had to pick up my allotment and I didn’t get off work until three. By the time I had got to the ferry terminal, crossed over, and caught the R-line up here, it was this late."
"Staten Island?" The woman nodded. "All right, we'll walk you to the subway station and escort you down there" And put you on the ferry. Just in case. "How will you get from the terminal home?"
"There's a bus, that leaves whenever the ferry gets in and stops right outside our house. We will be all right now."
Igrat smiled gently at the way Mrs. Young had used the 'we' to refer to herself and her baby. Then she reminded herself to mention the problem of the women collecting their allotments. She decided that her father could address this as a war production issue. After all, the women were taking time off from work to make the trip to the Union offices. And could even be wasting fuel doing so. There has to be a better way of doing this.
Worker's Canteen, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
"Tovarishchi kollegi!" Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna carefully hesitated for a precisely-calculated beat. "No, comrade fellow-workers is not the right way to salute you. Instead, I will address you the way we frontoviki address each other for whenever the crew of our '85' go into battle, you are all riding alongside us in spirit. You are our Brat'ya, our brothers. Today, I will not tell you about glorious victories or great acts of bravery and gallantry to stir your hearts. I am just a sergeant, I do not know of such things. Instead, I will tell you about what we do, about the war we fight as average workers and peasants who serve the Rodina in its hour of need. That will tell you why my crew, my family, in our '85' look on you as our brat'ya."
She looked at the audience, surprised to see hostility on the faces of many of those present. She hadn't expected that. Perhaps they feel guilty because we are on the front and they are safe in a factory. She had been told by the writers that many felt that way, that they felt they were skulking in the rear while others fought for them. They had told her that this speech was supposed to address this morale problem. A few evenings before, she had spent some hours sitting down with the speechwriters, telling them about her experiences around Amosovskaya. She had, of course, taken care to remember that they were Chekists and had watched her words carefully. Nevertheless, she had been shocked when she received her speech from them. She had expected a bombastic lecture full of heroic phrases mixed in with the latest propaganda lines yet there had been none of that. Instead, she had read words that were familiar to her and she recognized herself in the way words were used and how they were spoken. They were the words she would have used had she been an experienced speechwriter. The authors had simply polished what she had said and turned it into a smooth performance.
"I said I would not tell you of great battles. You have read of these in the newspapers I am sure. The truth is that even those who take part in such battles see little of them and we find out what happened from the same newspapers! But, we might take part in only one great battle each year. The rest of the time is small actions, a continuous fight all along the front. We aim at liberating a village here, taking a dominant hill there, or repelling a fascist attack somewhere else. This goes on every day and every day, our bratishka die in these continuous battles. Let me tell you about the fighting at Amosovskaya, in the weeks before our crew was sent here to collect our new '100s'.
"Winter is coming. In the north, it has already arrived. Now, there is constant fighting to secure shelter from the cold and snow. We try and drive the Hitlerites out of the villages they occupy so we can shelter from the winter while they cannot. They try and do the same to us. Right now, up on the Onega, this battle continues with men, and women, dying so that their brat'ya can have warmth and shelter for the winter."
She went ahead, describing the assault on Amosovskaya and the fighting that had followed it. By the time she was describing the advance through the pine forest, she had become swept up in the story and her audience had been caught up with her. She caught the collective gasp as her ‘85’ (she tactfully did not mention its name) hit a mine and came to a halt with one of its road wheels destroyed and its track on that side broken. She made a slight pause for effect, then her gaze swept the listeners.
“And this is when you were with us brothers. We were knocked out, unable to move and when an ‘85’ cannot move it cannot train its gun. It is helpless. We all bailed out and looked at the damage. Our ’85’ is crippled, what do we do? Our brat’ya need us for every gun in a battle counts. Then, our gunner, Sergeant-Gunner Vasily Andreyevich, calls out, ‘there is a ‘34’ that has also hit a mine just a few meters from us. It has been damaged much worse than ours, I can see its final drive has been wrecked. Let us salvage road wheels and track links from it and get our ‘85’ running again’. So we all bail out and run over to the ‘34’, tell the commander what we want and he orders his crew to help. All of us together seize the tools and undo the bolts that hold the road wheel in place. Sometimes it can take hours to do this if the parts do not fit properly or have been badly machined. This time, your hard work, and your dedication help us well! The bolts come right out, the wheels slide off the axles and we roll them over to our ‘85’. There, the bolts on the wrecked wheels also slide out and we can put the new wheels on.
“Now your skill and care pay off. In that battle in the forest, your bodies might have been in the factory here, but your hearts, your hands, your care and your skill were all with us. The wheels slide right on to the axle! The bolt holes line up perfectly, not a fraction of a millimeter out of place. So it is that a job that would normally take a couple of hours is completed in ten minutes! We fasten the bolts and the wheels are ready. Then we hear a cry from behind us.
‘Artillerists, artillerists, stand clear!’
"The Tankists have come with replacement track from their ‘34’. Quickly we hurry to assemble the tracks, factory workers, engineers, tankists and artillerists side by side. We slide the pins in and we are ready to go! We take our places and drive off to rejoin the battle. Because we were delayed in the forest, we came out on the flank of the Hitlerites. In doing so, the first thing we see is a fascist Panther and we put a shot straight through its side. It blew up and burned, killing its entire crew. Afraid of us, mark that brat’va, afraid of us, the other fascist tanks fled from the Gribanikha Kolkhoz.”
The roar of “Urrah” that went up from the audience was quite genuine. At the rear, Chekist Adianov nodded happily. The new style of speeches, where complex party ideology took second place to a good story that people wanted to hear, were proving a resounding success. He stood up and waited for the sound to ebb. "Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna has been given time from her duties to answer a few questions. Who would like to start?"
One of the women factory workers stood up. "What do you do when you are not fighting?"
"Much of the time we maintain our '85'. They are demanding vehicles. Firstly we check the fluids, oil, coolant, diesel fuel of course. They are the life-blood of our '85'. Then we much check track tension every night and adjust it so that it is within the limits specified in our manuals. If we do not do this we will lose a track, walk it off the wheels, next time we move. We must check the sight zero for the main gun has not shifted. When all that is done, we eat, drink our ration of vodka, write letters home or sing popular songs accompanied by those of our brat'ya who can play instruments. Also, sometimes our sub-commander for political affairs will bring a newspaper and read us stories from it. Sometimes editorials that raise our spirits and teach important lessons but the most popular are just stories about normal routine life of every town and village. An award to a class for doing well on graduation or to the farmers for exceeding quotas in food production. They tell us that the normal life we fight to protect is still there, still goes on and we will return to it after the war is over."
"Where do you sleep?" A man had stood up to ask the question. He had glanced, smirking, at those standing around him before he did so,
"We have a crew of four in an '85'. Three sleep on the back deck, over the engine. In summer we just lie down there, using our bedroll to make ourselves comfortable. In winter, we have a tent we can erect over the back to keep the snow and ice off us. Then, the heat of the engine keeps us warm. Each night, one person sleeps inside the '85' so he is near the radio in case of an emergency message. This is not popular since the back deck is much more comfortable than inside. That is why we rotate inside duty. There are those who like to sleep under their '85' but most are afraid of what would happen if the vehicle started to settle at night."
"What are the Americans like?" Another female factory worker spoke, blushing as she did so.
"I have not met American soldiers, they all serve down near Kazan and Ulyanov’sk. We often get supported by American aircraft and their pilots are very brave and extremely skilled. When their heavy bombers come, they blast great holes in the fascist positions for us to exploit. One thing we do know, Americans are very kind. They send packages to their own sons on the front with chocolates and cigarettes. And all the other things they need that the army does not supply. They started sending us packages as well, addressed to 'A Russian Tank Crew' or 'A tank destroyer crew". You asked what we do in the evenings? If a crew gets such a package, they write a letter to those who sent it, thanking them for their kindness and enclosing a photograph of their '85' and its crew, signed by all of them. Many times, the American family will then adopt the crew and send it packages regularly."
Adianov stood up. "I do not wish to interrupt my comrade but I must add when Americans started sending packages to our troops, CheKa published a list of the things our people need most in American newspapers with instructions where to send packages for delivery to our troops. CheKa then distributes the ones addressed to ‘a tank crew’ or ‘an infantry squad’ so they are shared out fairly. This is a responsibility of the unit political officer. Sometimes also, we must tell the American family that the crew they have adopted has laid down their lives defending the Rodina. Almost always they will then find another crew to adopt."
Kabakova picked up smoothly. "When they found out some of our crews had women, they would add things like nice soap, hair shampoo, and soft paper for…."
She half-turned and pointed at her rear end which caused a great roar of laughter. "They also send us girl-things. You know. We share everything of course. Except the women-things naturally."
"And chewing gum? Do they send it to you and what does it taste like?" It was the worker who had asked about Americans.
"Yes, they do send it and it tastes terrible. But it is very good for repairing leaks in the fuel system." That also caused a roar of laughter. "They must all be a very kind people in America."
Adianov looked around. It had been a very successful meeting, much more so than he had hoped. "Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna must now return to her duties, testing the new '100'. And you must return to your benches. She has told you how important your work is and there is much to do this day."
Outside Welfare Office, National Maritime Union, 7th Avenue, New York.
"What are we doing here?" Achillea looked around the snow-covered street. It looked dark and cheerless as the dusk started to close in during the early days of December 1944. As dusk fell this year, the cheerful lights that had decorated the stores pre-war would not be turning on. There was a blackout in force and a fifty dollar fine awaited anybody who broke it.
"You're looking after me of course." Igrat smiled at her friend. "Me, I'm here to visit the stores and pick up some things for my next trip. Hello, who's this? She's left it a bit late."
A obviously-pregnant woman had just carefully climbed down the steps from the Union offices, clinging carefully to the handrail in order to avoid the ultimate disaster of slipping and falling down. Igrat noted that she'd had the common sense to wear stout, flat shoes in the winter weather. As she started to move down the pavement towards the 57th Street Subway Station, three figures detached from the shadows of the Park and walked across the road towards her. Quickly, they surrounded her and pushed her hard against the concrete palisade.
"Give us the money." The leader's voice was hard and brutal. The gang had obviously been waiting for a wife to come and collect the allotment from her husband's pay. Earlier in the day, there would have been lines of women waiting to get their allowance but this late, most had gone. Obviously that was what the thieves had been waiting for.
"Please, can't you see I've got a baby coming?" The woman was crying in a mixture of fear and distress.
The man showed no signs of easing off. "Gives you something else to lose then, doesn’t it. Now, hand the money over."
"And that does it." Achillea set off to join the party, Igrat close behind her.
The three men were so intent on tormenting their victim that they didn’t see or hear Achillea closing in on them until she was already within arm's reach of their anatomy. The first they heard was a friendly "Ignave canis stupri-fragmen stercore."
"Mind your own business, bitch." The man snarled the words at Achillea then paused. He hadn’t understood what she had said of course, few people without an advanced degree in rapid-fire gutter-Latin did and even then they pronounced it wrong. He did, however understand that despite the bright smile on her face, the new arrival had not spoken to him with politeness or respect.
"Do yourself a favor. Drop that knife, right now, and get on your knees with your hands behind your head. That applies to all of you. Take a little advice. When someone threatens you with death, the tool that makes you obey is not death itself but that you prefer to do anything rather than die. And, death is what you face right now. Be afraid." In the background Igrat decided that Achillea was enjoying herself far too much. And talking too much. That is unlike her. What is she up to?
The leader of the gang lashed out with the knife. He had been threatening his victim's belly with it and now tried to plunge it into Achillea's stomach. Instead, he felt a hard slap on his wrist followed by a curious numbness in his knife-hand. A split second later he felt a blazing, stinging heat across his throat as his own knife slashed his neck open. The force of the slash had been calculated to give Achillea the momentum she needed for a punch that ended with her slamming the side of her fist, wrapped around the knife-hilt, into the second man's jaw. He screamed in anguish as the force of the blow broke his jaw and cheekbones and sent a shower of blood and most of his teeth spraying across the sidewalk. He slid slowly downwards, unconscious.
The third man was turning to run when Achillea, still using the momentum from the first blow continued her spin around. Seeing the man was running from her, she took a step forward and scythed with her leg, kicking his feet out from underneath him. He crashed down, and she slammed another kick into his ribs. The crackle of breaking bones was clearly audible as he rolled across the sidewalk from the impact. It was over and even by her standards the fight had been fast. "Next?" she said hopefully.
To her great pleasure there was a thunder of applause from the citizens who had gathered around. Achillea had just received the one thing she valued most yet so rarely received, a spirited ovation from a delighted audience. Now, if they only start chanting my name, the day would be perfect she thought. In fairness, she knew that the people gathered around had run up to help the woman who had been attacked and then had the common sense to stay out of the way while Achillea had dealt with the problem.
"What happened here?" A police officer in his dark blue greatcoat had run up, pistol drawn. Now, with one attacker dead and the other two unconscious, he wasn't certain who to point it at. After a few seconds thought, he put it back in its holster. He'd seen Achillea take the knife out of a man's hand and was astute enough to realize she would do the same with his revolver. It suddenly sank in on Igrat why Achillea had talked so much before the fight started; she had seen the police officer or sensed his presence and bought as much time as she could to make sure the deceased gang-leader had struck the first blow. Or tried to, Saved on the paperwork.
"This man." The woman the gang had attacked was pointing at the body of the gang leader, its throat slashed open to the spine. "He wanted to steal my allotment, He held that knife against me, said he would cut me open if I didn’t give it to him. Then this lady stopped him."
"Who are you, ma'am?"
"Mrs. Young. Mrs. Darlene Young. My husband is a sailor." Admirably, she kept quiet about the other details. What sort of sailor, where he was, on what sort of ship, where he might be going, were all sensitive information and the policeman knew it.
He collected statements from the other witnesses, ending with those of Achillea and Igrat. It was, he decided, an open-and-shut case of defending a helpless victim from a potentially murderous attack and if some idiot DA tried to make a charge, the jury would toss it out in half a second flat. "All right, Miss Foyle, I doubt if any charge will be preferred here. Come down to the Precinct House tomorrow morning to do some paperwork and you can be on your way. Just, in future, Lady, leave this sort of thing to the men, right?"
Achillea looked at him, an odd half-smile on her face. "Officer, when I don't need to see things like this done properly, I'll be sure to do just that. Now, I'll see you down at the shop tomorrow."
Igrat was comforting Mrs. Young. "Why are you here this late? It's not a good area for a woman at dusk. Why do you think my friend came with me?"
"I had to pick up my allotment and I didn’t get off work until three. By the time I had got to the ferry terminal, crossed over, and caught the R-line up here, it was this late."
"Staten Island?" The woman nodded. "All right, we'll walk you to the subway station and escort you down there" And put you on the ferry. Just in case. "How will you get from the terminal home?"
"There's a bus, that leaves whenever the ferry gets in and stops right outside our house. We will be all right now."
Igrat smiled gently at the way Mrs. Young had used the 'we' to refer to herself and her baby. Then she reminded herself to mention the problem of the women collecting their allotments. She decided that her father could address this as a war production issue. After all, the women were taking time off from work to make the trip to the Union offices. And could even be wasting fuel doing so. There has to be a better way of doing this.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty Four
Railway Station, Maine-187, Columbia Falls, Maine
"I would like three tickets to Limestone, please.” 'Victor Walker' was standing by the ticket office peering in at the clerk and wondering why the man was sucking at his teeth.
“Limestone? Can’t get there from here. The best I can do for you is one set of tickets that will take you on the Bangor and Aroostook to Bangor. There, I’ll sell you another set of tickets for the Maine Central that will take you to Millinocket. You’ll have to change there to the North Maine and Montreal Presque Island line. Make sure you get the proper line or you’ll go the wrong way. It says Presque Island but it will take you up to Caribou if you get the right train. Just check the destination board in Millinocket and ask the train guard if you are in any doubt. Once you’re in Caribou it’s about eight or ten miles to Limestone. Can’t help you there. You’ll have to walk or get a lift. Mind you, to be honest, friend, it looks like you’ve been walking quite a bit.”
‘Walker’ sighed in agreement. It had been a harrowing, exhausting journey from Gouldsboro. “We had to come in from Gouldsboro and we thought we would bicycle in. But, with all the ice, we wrecked our bikes and had to walk the rest of the way. Took us four days. I think we’d better clean up before we report in for work though.”
“I’d recommend it. It’s wild country up there. Why are you going to the back end of nowhere?”
‘Walker’ gave a confidential nod. “War work. I’m 4-F,” he added proudly.
Aaron J. Weaver might have been a ticket clerk in a small-town railway station but he was no man’s fool. He also listened to the radio every night and knew that the Andrews Sister’s latest hit, ‘He’s 1-A in the Army and A-1 in my heart’ had just reached the top of the charts, finally displacing Glen Miller’s ‘Cossack Patrol’. Nobody admitted to being 4-F if they could avoid it. Quite apart from anything else, girls had several unmistakable ways of indicating that they considered 4-Fs to be beneath their contempt. Anyway ‘unfit for military service’ did not equate to ‘reserved for war-work.’ Suddenly he was suspicious. “Congratulation, friend. Can I ask what you do?”
“A steelworker. I’m an arc-starter.” Weaver’s suspicions hardened to near certainty. As it happened his brother really was a steelworker down in the shipyard at Bath and he’d told Aaron about the pranks the veterans played on newbies. They included sending them out for ‘striped paint’ and ‘left-handed monkey wrenches. Those pranks also included recommending that the poor sap asks for training as an ‘arc starter.’
“Good trade. You say that will be three sets of tickets, I’m afraid that will be fifty dollars each. All the line changes you see.” Weaver held his breath. Any real American would have exploded at the blatantly illegal price-gouging. Instead ‘Walker’ paid up using two one-hundred-dollar bills. Back at the Abwehr training course, his instructor had told him to always pay small amounts with the largest possible bill. They’d explained that to do so was a sign of wealth and power and all the tradesmen would be keen to accommodate people of such influence. ‘Walker’ remembered his American instructor, Lucas Fuerst, fondly. He had returned to Germany in 1939 after an active career in the German-American Bund and had been recruited by the Abwehr when the war had started. He had been teaching prospective American infiltrators the ways of American life ever since.
‘Walker’ would have been even more impressed had he known Lucas Fuerst’s real story. His parents had been strong-minded socialists in pre-WW1 Germany and, after Germany had surrendered, had escaped to America one step ahead of the Freikorps in 1919. Lucas had been a devoted communist from childhood and had been recruited by the GRU with the objective of infiltrating the German-American Bund. He had been contentedly reporting back on their every plan and move to his handlers until 1939 when the crack-down on the Bund by the FBI and the desperate Soviet need for good intelligence on German plans had resulted in his transfer to the NKVD and receiving orders to leave the US for Germany. He had done so, his apparently loyal service with the Bund allowing him to establish himself well enough to be recruited by the Abwehr. He had had a modest career and, after 1942, had been assigned to teaching prospective infiltrators all about American customs and habits. His task had been to make them inconspicuous but he had managed to give them enough subtle anomalies to raise the suspicions of everybody they talked to. Fuerst had hoped to get them detained by the FBI in hours. He hadn't been quite that successful but by his efforts, ‘Walker’ and his companions had been so thoroughly stitched up that it was only by incredible luck that they had survived this long. For ‘Walker’ that luck had just run out.
“Here you are, Sir.” Weaver handed the batch of tickets over along with Walker’s change (which had emptied his cashbox but Weaver had said nothing that might give 'Walker' a hint that he had been rumbled). “The next train through, Sir, is a slow train, it stops everywhere and is frequently put on the sidings if higher-priority traffic is coming through. If you can wait a couple of hours, yes, two and a half hours, the express will be along. It’ll go straight through. It could easily get you to Bangor eight hours before the slow train.”
“Thank you.” ‘Walker’ left the office and, as soon as he was through the door, Weaver grabbed his telephone and put a top-priority call through to the FBI office in Bangor. After hearing his story, they had contacted Agent Aaron Foster and his partner who were, providentially, in Harrington less than five miles down the road. By the time ‘Walker’ had given ‘Garden’ and ‘Smith’ their tickets, the two FBI agents were already driving towards Columbia Falls.
When it arrived, the train was already crowded and the extra passengers took all the remaining seats. That still left a few passengers standing, one of whom was a young black couple with the wife obviously expecting a baby. It took far less than a minute for a seated man to get up. “Excuse me, ma’am, would you like to sit down?”
“Oh yes, please. Thank you, Sir.” The woman sat with a small sigh of relief which got her benefactor smiles of appreciation from the other women passengers on the train.
“Yes, thank you, Sir. We really appreciate the kindness.” The woman’s husband repeated the thanks, then there was a lurch and the train pulled out.
‘Thomas Smith’ and ‘Eric Garden’ watched the minor exchange with interest but it was the apparent disappearance of 'Victor Walker' that concerned them. After giving them their tickets, he had gone to get some cigarettes and disappeared. That had left ‘Smith’ in apparent charge and what had happened was worrying him. Has he been arrested? Has he turned himself in and was now busily informing on us to buy himself an easier deal? Or has he simply deserted, finding the going too hard? That four-day struggle to get here would have dispirited anybody. Whatever it is, this is not good.
Watching them, Agent Foster noted how the two saboteurs were nervous. Giving up his seat to the young mother had put him in a perfect position to keep them under observation. Arresting ‘Victor Walker’ had been almost comically easy. 'Walker' had walked into the convenience store and asked for a package of Chelsea cigarettes even though there were packs of Camels and Lucky Strikes on display. Since nobody smoked Chelsea when they could get something better, which meant pretty much anything, the storekeeper’s suspicions had been roused. He had called the local police who were already on alert after a call from the FBI regional office advising them that an operation was about to go down. Foster had been tipped off and was waiting for ‘Walker’ as he left the store. A quick shout of “Halt, FBI!” had caused ‘Walker’ to run for it but he had slipped and fallen on a patch of ice. By the time he had recovered, he was looking at the muzzle of Foster’s .38 Super.
A quick conference had led to the decision to keep the other two men under surveillance. They’d been easy enough to spot, ragged, shabby, and travel-stained. Even if they hadn’t been so obvious, apparently-fit young men who weren’t in the Army or Navy stood out anyway in wartime America. They’d been quietly tagged and followed onto the train. With luck, they will either lead us to others of their kind or show us why they are so interested in Limestone. I wonder what’s up there that makes it so special? And why are the fascists so interested in that area? Victor Walker isn’t saying anything. Yet.
It took the train less than an hour to travel the 33 miles from Columbia Falls to Gouldsboro. Foster took grim delight in noting the look of shock on the face of ‘Thomas Smith’ when the train passed less than a hundred yards from the diner where they had eaten four days earlier. The train even stopped in Gouldsboro. Foster wasn’t quite sure how and why it had taken the three men landed from the U-boat so long to make the journey, but he was sure they weren’t happy to find that they had been wasting their time struggling through the frozen roads of Maine only to find they had walked in a circle. And destroyed their bicycles. Wherever it was they dumped them. And, with that cheerful thought, he shifted slightly to ease his feet and waited to get to Bangor where another team would take over the surveillance.
Ostrich EH-C, 101st Squadron Royal Australian Air Force, over Naumovskaya
“’Ave you hurd the word? We’re bein’ moved down ta Samarra.” Flight Lieutenant Nathan Roughley was sweeping his eves across the snow-covered forests below. “First they cut us down ta one sortie a week 'n' then they say they’ll move us out of here.”
“Fuel shortage.” Sergeant Mitchell Kepert snorted in disgust. “Where ta hell is Samarra anyhow?”
"Down south. They'll be shippin' us fuel from Persia courtesy of t'Indian Army, 'n' at least it's warm down there."
"Down below Nate. Panthers and half-tracks."
"Gottem Mitch." Roughley waggled his wings to alert the other three aircraft in the formation that they were over the target area. "Let's get us a Panther."
It was all a matter of technique. Roughley would put his Ostrich into a 40-degree dive, approaching the target from the rear. That way the armor-piercing shots from his 23mm guns would sheer through the engine gratings on the tanks and wreck their engines. It would also set the vehicles on fire and once a tank burned, it was fit only for scrap. He brought the Ostrich around, did a wingover, and started the dive down on the target. The approaching Ostriches were spotted soon enough but the response that came up from the ground was obviously machinegun fire and machinegun fire alone. The heavy concentrations from flak guns were notably absent.
"Flak's light Nate. Policy of shootin' up the flak guns is workin'." Kepert was keeping a keen eye backward. In this kind of attack, the moment of greatest danger was when the aircraft pulled out of its dive and was wallowing while it recovered speed and energy. At that point, it was a near-helpless target for flak and fighters. If there were fascist fighters around, they would be waiting down low for that moment. Then, he heard the roar of the guns and the kidney-punching vibration as they streamed their shots out at the Panther his pilot had picked out.
The Panther was enveloped in the smoke and debris thrown up by the torrent of 23mm rounds. Dirt, snow, and the blast of the shells all combined to conceal the target in its own private smoke screen. Yet through it, the crew of the Ostrich could see the brilliant flashes and the armor-piercing rounds struck the engine gratings and tore through them. The spray of dirt and snow was joined by the rolling black cloud of smoke as the stricken panther started to burn. Roughley had opened up with his wing-mounted .303 machine guns, hosing the tank with their bullets and hopefully killing the crew as they tried to bail out. He was already lifting his nose, feeling the aircraft fight him as he tried to do so.
A gentle curve brought one of the half-tracks into his sights and he fired off his eight five-inch rockets at it. The scream of their launch was most satisfying and the explosions seemed to surround the vehicle. He knew better though than to take it for granted that he had. The rockets were far too inaccurate for that assumption. His last act was to drop his four five-hundred-pound bombs on the ruins where the village had once stood. That was likely to be where the infantry was holding out.
By the time the Ostriches had finished bombing and strafing, three of the six Panthers and four of the seven half-tracks were burning. It was hard to see how effective the bombing of the infantry positions had been but Roughley and the other Australian crews could but hope.
"When are we heading ta Samarra?" Kepert seemed as if he hadn’t noticed the attack. The truth was, he hadn’t. He'd been too busy guarding their tail. Now, he could relax a little.
"By the end of the week. Couple of Yorks coming in this afternoon to start flying our stuff down there."
Kepert nodded. The York transport aircraft looked primitive but it had a couple of advantages over the sleeker American aircraft. Their square fuselages were excellent for hauling cargo and their four Allison engines were detuned to run on 87 octane gasoline. There weren't that many Yorks around right now and those that had found their way to Russia were mostly based in Kola. Having a couple to help them move was a testimony to the importance of the Ostriches. "There any horses down there Nate?"
"Down at Samarra? Dunno. Guess so, most of ta' fascist units use horses to shift things."
"Nah, mean down there." Kepert waved at the ground below, forgetting that his pilot couldn’t see him.
"Nuttin. Thank God." All the allied pilots hated strafing and bombing horse-drawn supply columns. It was regarded as a filthy, disgusting job yet one that had to be done. It was one of the things that were turning their feelings towards the Germans into pure undiluted hatred. Roughley hesitated for a second. "Y'know, when I told my old man I was comin' to Russia he was that chuffed. Said it was good to be helpin' the brothers. Daren't tell him we machine-gun horses. He'd throw a fit."
Kepert understood. His father wasn't a veteran red-ragger like Roughley's but he guessed the reaction would be the same. "Crossin' ta river now, Nate."
"Got it. Feet dry." He waggled his Ostrich's wings at a formation of Il-2s that were heading the other way and watched them return the salute. "Sturmoviks. No peace for them fascists today I guess."
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"The Ivans are across the line ahead of us." Kern carried the news back to his commander reluctantly. Not because Otto Carius was an unreasonable man but because he honestly couldn’t think of a solution to the problem of getting where they had to go. No good German officer carried a problem to his superiors without having at least some idea of a solution to present with it.
"We might have expected that. It's an eight or ten-meter ridge, heavily wooded. Ideal defensive ground for the Ivans." Carius was looking at his maps. "The railway line runs through a cutting. Any ideas, Rudi?"
Kern shook his head. "That cutting is death, even for our monsters. They could bury us in there, literally. If I was in their boots, I would have the walls of the cutting filled with explosive and they'd just blow the whole lot in on us. Do you think they know we are coming?"
"How many recon aircraft have flown over us today, Rudi?" Carius looked at his subordinate severely but with a hint of a smile around his mouth. "And how many were ours?"
"I think four, perhaps five. All Amis."
"So you can be sure the troops ahead of us know we are coming. The days when they never knew where we were or what we were doing are long gone. We could try and bull our way through the forests north and south of us. If we've got what I think we have, and Ivan’s finger sticking into our line along that ridge, we're only fifteen hundred meters from the other side of their position."
"And the ground is frozen now. We won’t bog down in those woods, the way we would have done six weeks ago." Kern thought carefully about trying to force their way around the blocking position they faced. "They'll have mined the woods as well and if we lose a track in there, we'll never get out."
"Agreed." Carius sounded distant. "Through the cutting, it’s the only way to go. We'll report in and tell the brass we're stuck here without infantry support to help us through. There's got to be some of our mud-feet around here. If they cover us as we go through and clear any little presents the Ivans have left for us, we can push through quickly enough. God knows we don’t have to worry about their tanks."
Kern looked at the 128 mm gun that armed the Jagdtigers. It would send a shot through the front of even the heaviest of Ivan tanks. That gave him a thought. "We have high explosives for our guns. If we can inspect the railway line ahead of us for mines, our guns can engage any blocking force. You said it, Otto, we don't have that far to go. We can fire a shot from here right across the ridge. Or through it using the cutting. We have survivors from the Flak guns and the scout section we can use as infantry."
Carius looked behind the line of Jagdtigers. "Good thought; we'll try it. The way we've torn those tracks up it will take hours to get supporting infantry up here. By then, the way through really will be blocked. We have some engineers with the Bergepanthers. We'll bring them up. They and their vehicles can clear a path for us through while we blast anything that tries to stop them."
There was an unspoken part of that plan and everybody knew it. The handful of engineers wouldn’t just be clearing mines and booby traps, they'd be live bait for the Ivan infantry defending the cutting. The Jagdtigers had the firepower to destroy anything short of a major fortification and probably that as well. But, it wouldn't help the engineers who had drawn the fire.
Railway Station, Maine-187, Columbia Falls, Maine
"I would like three tickets to Limestone, please.” 'Victor Walker' was standing by the ticket office peering in at the clerk and wondering why the man was sucking at his teeth.
“Limestone? Can’t get there from here. The best I can do for you is one set of tickets that will take you on the Bangor and Aroostook to Bangor. There, I’ll sell you another set of tickets for the Maine Central that will take you to Millinocket. You’ll have to change there to the North Maine and Montreal Presque Island line. Make sure you get the proper line or you’ll go the wrong way. It says Presque Island but it will take you up to Caribou if you get the right train. Just check the destination board in Millinocket and ask the train guard if you are in any doubt. Once you’re in Caribou it’s about eight or ten miles to Limestone. Can’t help you there. You’ll have to walk or get a lift. Mind you, to be honest, friend, it looks like you’ve been walking quite a bit.”
‘Walker’ sighed in agreement. It had been a harrowing, exhausting journey from Gouldsboro. “We had to come in from Gouldsboro and we thought we would bicycle in. But, with all the ice, we wrecked our bikes and had to walk the rest of the way. Took us four days. I think we’d better clean up before we report in for work though.”
“I’d recommend it. It’s wild country up there. Why are you going to the back end of nowhere?”
‘Walker’ gave a confidential nod. “War work. I’m 4-F,” he added proudly.
Aaron J. Weaver might have been a ticket clerk in a small-town railway station but he was no man’s fool. He also listened to the radio every night and knew that the Andrews Sister’s latest hit, ‘He’s 1-A in the Army and A-1 in my heart’ had just reached the top of the charts, finally displacing Glen Miller’s ‘Cossack Patrol’. Nobody admitted to being 4-F if they could avoid it. Quite apart from anything else, girls had several unmistakable ways of indicating that they considered 4-Fs to be beneath their contempt. Anyway ‘unfit for military service’ did not equate to ‘reserved for war-work.’ Suddenly he was suspicious. “Congratulation, friend. Can I ask what you do?”
“A steelworker. I’m an arc-starter.” Weaver’s suspicions hardened to near certainty. As it happened his brother really was a steelworker down in the shipyard at Bath and he’d told Aaron about the pranks the veterans played on newbies. They included sending them out for ‘striped paint’ and ‘left-handed monkey wrenches. Those pranks also included recommending that the poor sap asks for training as an ‘arc starter.’
“Good trade. You say that will be three sets of tickets, I’m afraid that will be fifty dollars each. All the line changes you see.” Weaver held his breath. Any real American would have exploded at the blatantly illegal price-gouging. Instead ‘Walker’ paid up using two one-hundred-dollar bills. Back at the Abwehr training course, his instructor had told him to always pay small amounts with the largest possible bill. They’d explained that to do so was a sign of wealth and power and all the tradesmen would be keen to accommodate people of such influence. ‘Walker’ remembered his American instructor, Lucas Fuerst, fondly. He had returned to Germany in 1939 after an active career in the German-American Bund and had been recruited by the Abwehr when the war had started. He had been teaching prospective American infiltrators the ways of American life ever since.
‘Walker’ would have been even more impressed had he known Lucas Fuerst’s real story. His parents had been strong-minded socialists in pre-WW1 Germany and, after Germany had surrendered, had escaped to America one step ahead of the Freikorps in 1919. Lucas had been a devoted communist from childhood and had been recruited by the GRU with the objective of infiltrating the German-American Bund. He had been contentedly reporting back on their every plan and move to his handlers until 1939 when the crack-down on the Bund by the FBI and the desperate Soviet need for good intelligence on German plans had resulted in his transfer to the NKVD and receiving orders to leave the US for Germany. He had done so, his apparently loyal service with the Bund allowing him to establish himself well enough to be recruited by the Abwehr. He had had a modest career and, after 1942, had been assigned to teaching prospective infiltrators all about American customs and habits. His task had been to make them inconspicuous but he had managed to give them enough subtle anomalies to raise the suspicions of everybody they talked to. Fuerst had hoped to get them detained by the FBI in hours. He hadn't been quite that successful but by his efforts, ‘Walker’ and his companions had been so thoroughly stitched up that it was only by incredible luck that they had survived this long. For ‘Walker’ that luck had just run out.
“Here you are, Sir.” Weaver handed the batch of tickets over along with Walker’s change (which had emptied his cashbox but Weaver had said nothing that might give 'Walker' a hint that he had been rumbled). “The next train through, Sir, is a slow train, it stops everywhere and is frequently put on the sidings if higher-priority traffic is coming through. If you can wait a couple of hours, yes, two and a half hours, the express will be along. It’ll go straight through. It could easily get you to Bangor eight hours before the slow train.”
“Thank you.” ‘Walker’ left the office and, as soon as he was through the door, Weaver grabbed his telephone and put a top-priority call through to the FBI office in Bangor. After hearing his story, they had contacted Agent Aaron Foster and his partner who were, providentially, in Harrington less than five miles down the road. By the time ‘Walker’ had given ‘Garden’ and ‘Smith’ their tickets, the two FBI agents were already driving towards Columbia Falls.
When it arrived, the train was already crowded and the extra passengers took all the remaining seats. That still left a few passengers standing, one of whom was a young black couple with the wife obviously expecting a baby. It took far less than a minute for a seated man to get up. “Excuse me, ma’am, would you like to sit down?”
“Oh yes, please. Thank you, Sir.” The woman sat with a small sigh of relief which got her benefactor smiles of appreciation from the other women passengers on the train.
“Yes, thank you, Sir. We really appreciate the kindness.” The woman’s husband repeated the thanks, then there was a lurch and the train pulled out.
‘Thomas Smith’ and ‘Eric Garden’ watched the minor exchange with interest but it was the apparent disappearance of 'Victor Walker' that concerned them. After giving them their tickets, he had gone to get some cigarettes and disappeared. That had left ‘Smith’ in apparent charge and what had happened was worrying him. Has he been arrested? Has he turned himself in and was now busily informing on us to buy himself an easier deal? Or has he simply deserted, finding the going too hard? That four-day struggle to get here would have dispirited anybody. Whatever it is, this is not good.
Watching them, Agent Foster noted how the two saboteurs were nervous. Giving up his seat to the young mother had put him in a perfect position to keep them under observation. Arresting ‘Victor Walker’ had been almost comically easy. 'Walker' had walked into the convenience store and asked for a package of Chelsea cigarettes even though there were packs of Camels and Lucky Strikes on display. Since nobody smoked Chelsea when they could get something better, which meant pretty much anything, the storekeeper’s suspicions had been roused. He had called the local police who were already on alert after a call from the FBI regional office advising them that an operation was about to go down. Foster had been tipped off and was waiting for ‘Walker’ as he left the store. A quick shout of “Halt, FBI!” had caused ‘Walker’ to run for it but he had slipped and fallen on a patch of ice. By the time he had recovered, he was looking at the muzzle of Foster’s .38 Super.
A quick conference had led to the decision to keep the other two men under surveillance. They’d been easy enough to spot, ragged, shabby, and travel-stained. Even if they hadn’t been so obvious, apparently-fit young men who weren’t in the Army or Navy stood out anyway in wartime America. They’d been quietly tagged and followed onto the train. With luck, they will either lead us to others of their kind or show us why they are so interested in Limestone. I wonder what’s up there that makes it so special? And why are the fascists so interested in that area? Victor Walker isn’t saying anything. Yet.
It took the train less than an hour to travel the 33 miles from Columbia Falls to Gouldsboro. Foster took grim delight in noting the look of shock on the face of ‘Thomas Smith’ when the train passed less than a hundred yards from the diner where they had eaten four days earlier. The train even stopped in Gouldsboro. Foster wasn’t quite sure how and why it had taken the three men landed from the U-boat so long to make the journey, but he was sure they weren’t happy to find that they had been wasting their time struggling through the frozen roads of Maine only to find they had walked in a circle. And destroyed their bicycles. Wherever it was they dumped them. And, with that cheerful thought, he shifted slightly to ease his feet and waited to get to Bangor where another team would take over the surveillance.
Ostrich EH-C, 101st Squadron Royal Australian Air Force, over Naumovskaya
“’Ave you hurd the word? We’re bein’ moved down ta Samarra.” Flight Lieutenant Nathan Roughley was sweeping his eves across the snow-covered forests below. “First they cut us down ta one sortie a week 'n' then they say they’ll move us out of here.”
“Fuel shortage.” Sergeant Mitchell Kepert snorted in disgust. “Where ta hell is Samarra anyhow?”
"Down south. They'll be shippin' us fuel from Persia courtesy of t'Indian Army, 'n' at least it's warm down there."
"Down below Nate. Panthers and half-tracks."
"Gottem Mitch." Roughley waggled his wings to alert the other three aircraft in the formation that they were over the target area. "Let's get us a Panther."
It was all a matter of technique. Roughley would put his Ostrich into a 40-degree dive, approaching the target from the rear. That way the armor-piercing shots from his 23mm guns would sheer through the engine gratings on the tanks and wreck their engines. It would also set the vehicles on fire and once a tank burned, it was fit only for scrap. He brought the Ostrich around, did a wingover, and started the dive down on the target. The approaching Ostriches were spotted soon enough but the response that came up from the ground was obviously machinegun fire and machinegun fire alone. The heavy concentrations from flak guns were notably absent.
"Flak's light Nate. Policy of shootin' up the flak guns is workin'." Kepert was keeping a keen eye backward. In this kind of attack, the moment of greatest danger was when the aircraft pulled out of its dive and was wallowing while it recovered speed and energy. At that point, it was a near-helpless target for flak and fighters. If there were fascist fighters around, they would be waiting down low for that moment. Then, he heard the roar of the guns and the kidney-punching vibration as they streamed their shots out at the Panther his pilot had picked out.
The Panther was enveloped in the smoke and debris thrown up by the torrent of 23mm rounds. Dirt, snow, and the blast of the shells all combined to conceal the target in its own private smoke screen. Yet through it, the crew of the Ostrich could see the brilliant flashes and the armor-piercing rounds struck the engine gratings and tore through them. The spray of dirt and snow was joined by the rolling black cloud of smoke as the stricken panther started to burn. Roughley had opened up with his wing-mounted .303 machine guns, hosing the tank with their bullets and hopefully killing the crew as they tried to bail out. He was already lifting his nose, feeling the aircraft fight him as he tried to do so.
A gentle curve brought one of the half-tracks into his sights and he fired off his eight five-inch rockets at it. The scream of their launch was most satisfying and the explosions seemed to surround the vehicle. He knew better though than to take it for granted that he had. The rockets were far too inaccurate for that assumption. His last act was to drop his four five-hundred-pound bombs on the ruins where the village had once stood. That was likely to be where the infantry was holding out.
By the time the Ostriches had finished bombing and strafing, three of the six Panthers and four of the seven half-tracks were burning. It was hard to see how effective the bombing of the infantry positions had been but Roughley and the other Australian crews could but hope.
"When are we heading ta Samarra?" Kepert seemed as if he hadn’t noticed the attack. The truth was, he hadn’t. He'd been too busy guarding their tail. Now, he could relax a little.
"By the end of the week. Couple of Yorks coming in this afternoon to start flying our stuff down there."
Kepert nodded. The York transport aircraft looked primitive but it had a couple of advantages over the sleeker American aircraft. Their square fuselages were excellent for hauling cargo and their four Allison engines were detuned to run on 87 octane gasoline. There weren't that many Yorks around right now and those that had found their way to Russia were mostly based in Kola. Having a couple to help them move was a testimony to the importance of the Ostriches. "There any horses down there Nate?"
"Down at Samarra? Dunno. Guess so, most of ta' fascist units use horses to shift things."
"Nah, mean down there." Kepert waved at the ground below, forgetting that his pilot couldn’t see him.
"Nuttin. Thank God." All the allied pilots hated strafing and bombing horse-drawn supply columns. It was regarded as a filthy, disgusting job yet one that had to be done. It was one of the things that were turning their feelings towards the Germans into pure undiluted hatred. Roughley hesitated for a second. "Y'know, when I told my old man I was comin' to Russia he was that chuffed. Said it was good to be helpin' the brothers. Daren't tell him we machine-gun horses. He'd throw a fit."
Kepert understood. His father wasn't a veteran red-ragger like Roughley's but he guessed the reaction would be the same. "Crossin' ta river now, Nate."
"Got it. Feet dry." He waggled his Ostrich's wings at a formation of Il-2s that were heading the other way and watched them return the salute. "Sturmoviks. No peace for them fascists today I guess."
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"The Ivans are across the line ahead of us." Kern carried the news back to his commander reluctantly. Not because Otto Carius was an unreasonable man but because he honestly couldn’t think of a solution to the problem of getting where they had to go. No good German officer carried a problem to his superiors without having at least some idea of a solution to present with it.
"We might have expected that. It's an eight or ten-meter ridge, heavily wooded. Ideal defensive ground for the Ivans." Carius was looking at his maps. "The railway line runs through a cutting. Any ideas, Rudi?"
Kern shook his head. "That cutting is death, even for our monsters. They could bury us in there, literally. If I was in their boots, I would have the walls of the cutting filled with explosive and they'd just blow the whole lot in on us. Do you think they know we are coming?"
"How many recon aircraft have flown over us today, Rudi?" Carius looked at his subordinate severely but with a hint of a smile around his mouth. "And how many were ours?"
"I think four, perhaps five. All Amis."
"So you can be sure the troops ahead of us know we are coming. The days when they never knew where we were or what we were doing are long gone. We could try and bull our way through the forests north and south of us. If we've got what I think we have, and Ivan’s finger sticking into our line along that ridge, we're only fifteen hundred meters from the other side of their position."
"And the ground is frozen now. We won’t bog down in those woods, the way we would have done six weeks ago." Kern thought carefully about trying to force their way around the blocking position they faced. "They'll have mined the woods as well and if we lose a track in there, we'll never get out."
"Agreed." Carius sounded distant. "Through the cutting, it’s the only way to go. We'll report in and tell the brass we're stuck here without infantry support to help us through. There's got to be some of our mud-feet around here. If they cover us as we go through and clear any little presents the Ivans have left for us, we can push through quickly enough. God knows we don’t have to worry about their tanks."
Kern looked at the 128 mm gun that armed the Jagdtigers. It would send a shot through the front of even the heaviest of Ivan tanks. That gave him a thought. "We have high explosives for our guns. If we can inspect the railway line ahead of us for mines, our guns can engage any blocking force. You said it, Otto, we don't have that far to go. We can fire a shot from here right across the ridge. Or through it using the cutting. We have survivors from the Flak guns and the scout section we can use as infantry."
Carius looked behind the line of Jagdtigers. "Good thought; we'll try it. The way we've torn those tracks up it will take hours to get supporting infantry up here. By then, the way through really will be blocked. We have some engineers with the Bergepanthers. We'll bring them up. They and their vehicles can clear a path for us through while we blast anything that tries to stop them."
There was an unspoken part of that plan and everybody knew it. The handful of engineers wouldn’t just be clearing mines and booby traps, they'd be live bait for the Ivan infantry defending the cutting. The Jagdtigers had the firepower to destroy anything short of a major fortification and probably that as well. But, it wouldn't help the engineers who had drawn the fire.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty Five
38/38 Orlovskaya, Sverdlovsk Prospekt, Yekaterinburg, Russia
Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova was sitting at the table in the house occupied by her mother, carefully polishing her medals. It was something she did with almost religious care every chance she got. The medals she had won and proudly displayed on her uniform tunic were the testimony by which everybody could see that she had served the Rodina faithfully and well. She had noticed that, while Russians wore the whole medal, the Americans wore only the ribbon. What exactly the significance of that was, she couldn’t even begin to guess.
The thought of the Americans in the tank plant made her smile. They had brought a prototype of their new heavy tank, the M-26 in to show the Russian designers. The groan that had gone up from the design office was clearly audible, showing that the Americans still had so much to learn. The M-26 looked like something the Russians might have designed before the War had started. In fact, it did look quite a bit like the old KV-1. Next to the sleek new T-44A that had just appeared on the factory floor, the American vehicle appeared antiquated. Ours are better, Faina thought contentedly.
She gave the shining Order of Glory (3rd Class) a final wipe and put it carefully down on a cloth. She'd never let on to anybody just how much that medal had meant to her. The next group was her campaign medals, only two right now but she knew there would be more. Especially when her regiment returned to the front with their new '100s'. Looking around her, she could see nearly all of the small house, one of many that had been built as quickly as possible while using as few resources as possible. It was bare-minimum accommodation for workers in the tank and armaments factories. Her mother was lucky to have this place to herself. More normally she would have to share it with one or two others.
The hurried nature of the construction showed when the whole building shook as her mother opened the door and let herself in. "Fainachka? Are you in? Getting ready to go to the dance?"
The local Party was holding a dance that evening. Faina had been asked to attend by the Party Secretary himself, to represent the Artillerists who were serving at the front. That was one reason why she was taking great care to make sure her new uniform was properly cleaned and pressed and her medals freshly polished.
Her mother came in and looked around the room. "You're not wearing your uniform are you?"
"Of course I am." Faina was slightly shocked. "I have been asked to represent the artillerists."
"But. . . " Her mother hesitated. "Why don’t you wear a dress instead? That way . . . . . "
Faina's eyes narrowed, enhancing the slightly Asiatic fold to her eyes. "That way what? I told you, the local Party asked me to represent the artillerists when tribute is paid to the Frontoviki. This is an honor."
About halfway through the dance, the party-goers would be asked to offer toasts to the men and women serving at the front. The tankists, the artillerists, the infantry, of course, the combat medics, the airmen, each group in turn. And one representative of each group would stand to reply with the words "I answer for them!"
"But everybody will know . . " Once more Faina's mother hesitated.
"Know what?" Faina's voice was cold, not least because she already had a shrewd idea where this was going.
Her mother tried to smile. "I suppose it doesn’t matter. We'll have to move to a new town after the war anyway. Where nobody will know."
"Know what," Faina repeated the question, this time her voice beginning to shake with anger.
"You'll have to find a husband after the war. And what man will want you if they know what you were?"
"The driver of an '85'? I see nothing wrong with that. Driving heavy vehicles is skilled work. Even if I become a civilian after the war, it’s a well-paid skill to have."
"You're a Front Wife." The words suddenly came tumbling out of her mother's mouth in an unstoppable torrent. "Everybody knows that is what women are on the front line for. To keep the men happy when they are away from home. What man will want you after you have spent years being handed around from one soldier to the next? We will have to go far away and hope nobody finds out. You'll just have to accept whoever will take you."
Her mother's voice faded away as the outburst ended and she saw the blazing hatred in her daughter's eyes. Suddenly she realized that working the heavy controls on a SU-85 had made her daughter strong and her life in the army had meant she had become familiar with killing. She smacked her mouth, trying to take the outburst back but it was far too late for that.
Faina's voice was a deadly hiss. "All my life, ever since I was a small child, you have run down everything I tried to do. Every chance you got, you belittled me. When I won a painting prize in school, you said it was because nobody else was any good. When I threw the javelin further than anybody else, you told me it was a game of no importance. When I was asked to make the year-end speech to my class, you told me it meant nothing and was just a waste of time. You told me everything I did was stupid and pointless, the acts of a child. Whatever I won was worthless, whatever I achieved was a pointless waste of effort. Well, you can tell yourself how fortunate you are that I don’t have my '85' here because if I did I would take the track-wrench from the tool kit and use it to smash your skull like an eggshell."
She carefully picked up her medals and stowed them in their case. Then she picked up her uniform tunic, greatcoat, and kitbag before striding to the door. Behind her, she heard her mother cry out, "Fainachka, daughter."
Faina turned at the door and spat on the floor. "You don’t have a daughter anymore. And if I see your face again, I'll have that track-wrench in my hand."
Pathfinder Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
Kern saw Feldwebel Weiss slap one of the Soldaten on the shoulder and point to a small outcrop over to the right. The railway cutting was only four or five meters deep but it provided a natural highway through the dense pine forests on either side. Consequently, there was a garrison that blocked the cutting but it appeared relatively weak. Kern's primary concern was finding booby traps and demolition charges and the infantry battlegroup ahead was intended to protect the surviving engineers as they checked for them. So far, the cutting had proved clear, much to the German's surprise. But then, we're only a few meters in. We've more than a kilometer left to go.
The infantry group ahead of him scattered as a burst of machinegun fire came from one of the defensive positions set up by the Ivans. What happened next was a well-drilled tactical procedure. The MG-42 machine-gunner started laying down bursts of fire to pin down the opposing gunner while the other infantrymen started to work around the flanks of the position. In doing so, they ran into the fire from another position, one that had escaped observation so far. The two had been carefully placed so that they were mutually supporting, each covering the other from exactly the sort of attack that was now being mounted against them. The concept was quite simple; the crossfire from the machine guns would pin the attacking infantry down until mortar fire would kill them.
This time things were different. Most of the survivors from the scout section had been issued StG-44 fully-automatic rifles and the ones that hadn't had taken the new rifles from men who had been killed in the continuous airstrikes. That meant that the attacking groups weren't dependent on the machine gun to pin down their enemy but could use their rifles to achieve the same effect. Over shorter distances certainly but the automatic rifles still had changed the balance in favor of the increasingly-outnumbered German infantry.
Kern saw a group of riflemen open fire on the second position. They quickly silenced it, their streams of fire driving the defenders into cover. That allowed the first group to work close enough to their target to throw stick grenades into the Ivan position, silencing it. A quick sprint across the open ground, more bursts of fire that killed any survivors, and the position was taken.
Now, with the first Ivan position held, the troops that had taken it were able to fire on the next. With the job of pinning down the position in front of them taken over by flanking fire from the captured trench, the second group of scouts was able to work their way forward. Once again, they did so until the blasts of grenades and the hammering of rifle fire silenced the opposition. With the two central positions in the railway cutting taken, the careful advance continued until the next could be located.
While the scout troops slowly worked through the defenses, Kern started the process of clearing a path for the Jagdtigers waiting patiently in the rear. They only had a very limited supply of onboard ammunition and no guarantee that any resupply would make it past the Ami aircraft. Although come to think of it, we have seen a lot less of them in the last few days. So, the Jagdtigers were holding their fire unless essential targets appeared. The four Bergepanthers were following the infantry to provide support with their 20mm guns if needed.
"Mine, Hauptmann." One of the engineers had found an anti-tank mine carefully concealed in a temptingly-smooth section of the cutting.
"You can keep it!" Kern called back, causing a ripple of laughter around his group of engineers.
"Hey Anto, you'll be claiming it followed you home next." That caused another burst of laughter as the position of the mine was carefully marked. Kern had already decided that as long as the way through for the Jagdtigers wasn't blocked, mines could be left in place. The risks of lifting them could not be justified by the limited risks leaving them entailed. It wasn't as if the Jagdtigers were staying here; they were just passing through. If the Ivans wanted this cutting afterward, they could clear the wretched mines.
"We're clear." The triumphant cry came from the scouting group that had finished mopping up the defenses in the railway cutting. The Ivan defense had been neither particularly strong nor determined. It is almost as if they didn't care very much.
"How many were there?" Kern wanted to know just what they had been facing.
"About a dozen. Four positions, each with a machine-gunner, his number-two, and a submachine-gunner. We lost one man killed and two wounded. Neither serious."
"Well done." Kern meant that the scout group commander had kept his men alive. That was critical these days; replacement men were almost as scarce as replacement ammunition and fuel. They all bore a distinct relationship to Hen's Teeth. "Send a runner back to the Jagdtigers and tell them to come through. Watch for three red flags, they mark the only mines we found."
The roar of the 75-ton Jagdtigers was impressive as they edged along the railway tracks. Carius had ordered the speed to be kept to a minimum to reduce stress on the Jagdtiger's running gear from the vibration of crossing rails and sleepers. Even so, it reminded Kern of just how intimidating the size of the vehicles was. That inspired him to look up the colors of the day. 'Yellow flare, turning red. Response, green flare, turning white.' He loaded the appropriate round into his flare gun and fired it skywards. A few seconds later, he saw the green and then white of the response. After the slow, painstaking advance across the Ivan salient, they were on the friendly ground again.
That was why the explosion on the side of the lead Jagdtiger came as such a shock. The fireball erupted from the side of the superstructure with a vicious crack before rising upwards. The stricken vehicle, lurched to one side, its engine stalled and it was left straddling the railway line.
"That was a Panzerfaust!" Despite being a veteran, Feldwebel Weiss was horrified by the sight and almost in tears with sheer unadulterated frustration. After all the care he and his men had taken, the risks they had accepted, one of the precious Jagdtigers had been knocked out by friendly fire. Bewilderment saturated his voice as he repeated, dumbly, disbelievingly. "It was a Panzerfaust."
The other Jagdtigers had stopped and their crews were running towards the stricken tank destroyer. It seemed undamaged except for a small hole in the side of the gun casement, barely the size of a man's little finger and surrounded by blackened paint. It looked insignificant enough but everybody knew it was the signature that a Panzerfaust had done its work. "Hatches locked from the inside. We'll have to cut our way in."
"Oh, this just gets better and better." Carius had dismounted from his own vehicle and was striding through the men gathering around the cripple. "Have we got cutting torches left?"
"Yes, Sir." One of the engineers from a Bergepanther was already getting the kit out of a storage locker. In the meantime, German infantry was emerging from the woods.
Carius turned on them furiously. "Just what the hell do you think you are doing? Didn't you see the recognition signals?"
"This is Gefreiter Zipstein, Sir. He fired the shot. What have you to say for yourself, Zipstein?"
"It was coming from the Ivan side . . . I thought. . . . ."
"No you didn’t." the Lieutenant in charge of the infantry shook his head. "Sir, I am sorry, I don’t know what to say. I have put this man under arrest. The field tribunal will be here soon to collect him."
Carius said nothing but looked at the Jagdtiger. Showers of sparks were rising from the rear of the casement where two large doors gave the crew access and also allowed the gun to be removed if necessary. The fact they hadn't been opened from inside did not bode well. Eventually, the doors were forced open and the engineer wielding the torch looked inside. "They're all gone, Sir. Commander, gunner, both loaders. Driver and co-driver too. Metal spray got them all."
Carius turned to the Lieutenant. "Six men dead. This will not end well for you."
The Lieutenant knew what Carius meant. The field tribunal was coming and they would not be merciful to a unit that had just killed a Jagdtiger and its crew of six. Gefreiter Zipstein might have fired the fatal shot but the Lieutenant was his commander and the fault was his. Both men would probably be hanging from a pine tree within the hour.
"Is the vehicle repairable here?" Carius shouted out the question.
"No, Sir. Inside is slagged. Gun is gone, equipment wrecked. Condensed metal droplets everywhere. She should have blown up, I'm not sure why she didn’t." There was a sound of the engine grinding from inside the crippled tank destroyer. "Engine is gone. If we could tow it to a workshop we could fix it, but here? Not a chance."
Carius shook his head. "It'll take all four Bergepanthers to move it. We can't do that. We have places to be. We'll leave it here. The engineers will try and get to it.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, Labrador Sea
"Oh God, I want to throw up." Young felt as if his stomach was about to exit his body via his mouth. Never in his seagoing career had he experienced anything like this. Shawnee was pitching violently, her bows rearing high in the air before crashing down into the white spray and seething water that was the signature of this storm. She was rolling heavily as well, sending men reeling from one side of the mess deck to the other. Finally, just to add to their misery, the ship was snaking in the water, making sudden surges of movement to port or starboard as the wave patterns interacted with her. It was a chilling demonstration of how little man's engineering skills mattered when the sea got mad at them.
"Just have a fried bacon sandwich, dripping with grease. That'll fix you up." One of the humorists in the mess shouted out the advice and watched while it had its effect. Young tried to grab for a bucket or anything but never made it. He vomited all over the deck.
"Well done, Sykes. You can clean that up." The Bosun's Mate looked around the deck. The grave danger now was one man vomiting could easily set everybody else off and Young was one of the better-off men. Some looked positively green. "You all right, son?"
"Yeah, I think so." Young had wiped his lips and washed his mouth out with some chilled water. "Sorry. What the hell is hitting us."
"It’s a Williwaw, an arctic storm. They're really bad but they don’t last too long. We'll be out of it in a few hours. We're having to change course though; the met report says the Denmark Strait north of Iceland is icing up already, we'll have to swing south."
"That'll take us closer to Norway won't it." Young felt his stomach lurch again but this time, without the 'aid' of self-appointed humorists he managed to keep its contents in place. He wasn't sure if it was the storm or the news that they were going to be much further south than planned that had nearly made him sick again.
"Yeah, that it will. And for a lot longer. We're in for a rough ride."
38/38 Orlovskaya, Sverdlovsk Prospekt, Yekaterinburg, Russia
Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova was sitting at the table in the house occupied by her mother, carefully polishing her medals. It was something she did with almost religious care every chance she got. The medals she had won and proudly displayed on her uniform tunic were the testimony by which everybody could see that she had served the Rodina faithfully and well. She had noticed that, while Russians wore the whole medal, the Americans wore only the ribbon. What exactly the significance of that was, she couldn’t even begin to guess.
The thought of the Americans in the tank plant made her smile. They had brought a prototype of their new heavy tank, the M-26 in to show the Russian designers. The groan that had gone up from the design office was clearly audible, showing that the Americans still had so much to learn. The M-26 looked like something the Russians might have designed before the War had started. In fact, it did look quite a bit like the old KV-1. Next to the sleek new T-44A that had just appeared on the factory floor, the American vehicle appeared antiquated. Ours are better, Faina thought contentedly.
She gave the shining Order of Glory (3rd Class) a final wipe and put it carefully down on a cloth. She'd never let on to anybody just how much that medal had meant to her. The next group was her campaign medals, only two right now but she knew there would be more. Especially when her regiment returned to the front with their new '100s'. Looking around her, she could see nearly all of the small house, one of many that had been built as quickly as possible while using as few resources as possible. It was bare-minimum accommodation for workers in the tank and armaments factories. Her mother was lucky to have this place to herself. More normally she would have to share it with one or two others.
The hurried nature of the construction showed when the whole building shook as her mother opened the door and let herself in. "Fainachka? Are you in? Getting ready to go to the dance?"
The local Party was holding a dance that evening. Faina had been asked to attend by the Party Secretary himself, to represent the Artillerists who were serving at the front. That was one reason why she was taking great care to make sure her new uniform was properly cleaned and pressed and her medals freshly polished.
Her mother came in and looked around the room. "You're not wearing your uniform are you?"
"Of course I am." Faina was slightly shocked. "I have been asked to represent the artillerists."
"But. . . " Her mother hesitated. "Why don’t you wear a dress instead? That way . . . . . "
Faina's eyes narrowed, enhancing the slightly Asiatic fold to her eyes. "That way what? I told you, the local Party asked me to represent the artillerists when tribute is paid to the Frontoviki. This is an honor."
About halfway through the dance, the party-goers would be asked to offer toasts to the men and women serving at the front. The tankists, the artillerists, the infantry, of course, the combat medics, the airmen, each group in turn. And one representative of each group would stand to reply with the words "I answer for them!"
"But everybody will know . . " Once more Faina's mother hesitated.
"Know what?" Faina's voice was cold, not least because she already had a shrewd idea where this was going.
Her mother tried to smile. "I suppose it doesn’t matter. We'll have to move to a new town after the war anyway. Where nobody will know."
"Know what," Faina repeated the question, this time her voice beginning to shake with anger.
"You'll have to find a husband after the war. And what man will want you if they know what you were?"
"The driver of an '85'? I see nothing wrong with that. Driving heavy vehicles is skilled work. Even if I become a civilian after the war, it’s a well-paid skill to have."
"You're a Front Wife." The words suddenly came tumbling out of her mother's mouth in an unstoppable torrent. "Everybody knows that is what women are on the front line for. To keep the men happy when they are away from home. What man will want you after you have spent years being handed around from one soldier to the next? We will have to go far away and hope nobody finds out. You'll just have to accept whoever will take you."
Her mother's voice faded away as the outburst ended and she saw the blazing hatred in her daughter's eyes. Suddenly she realized that working the heavy controls on a SU-85 had made her daughter strong and her life in the army had meant she had become familiar with killing. She smacked her mouth, trying to take the outburst back but it was far too late for that.
Faina's voice was a deadly hiss. "All my life, ever since I was a small child, you have run down everything I tried to do. Every chance you got, you belittled me. When I won a painting prize in school, you said it was because nobody else was any good. When I threw the javelin further than anybody else, you told me it was a game of no importance. When I was asked to make the year-end speech to my class, you told me it meant nothing and was just a waste of time. You told me everything I did was stupid and pointless, the acts of a child. Whatever I won was worthless, whatever I achieved was a pointless waste of effort. Well, you can tell yourself how fortunate you are that I don’t have my '85' here because if I did I would take the track-wrench from the tool kit and use it to smash your skull like an eggshell."
She carefully picked up her medals and stowed them in their case. Then she picked up her uniform tunic, greatcoat, and kitbag before striding to the door. Behind her, she heard her mother cry out, "Fainachka, daughter."
Faina turned at the door and spat on the floor. "You don’t have a daughter anymore. And if I see your face again, I'll have that track-wrench in my hand."
Pathfinder Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
Kern saw Feldwebel Weiss slap one of the Soldaten on the shoulder and point to a small outcrop over to the right. The railway cutting was only four or five meters deep but it provided a natural highway through the dense pine forests on either side. Consequently, there was a garrison that blocked the cutting but it appeared relatively weak. Kern's primary concern was finding booby traps and demolition charges and the infantry battlegroup ahead was intended to protect the surviving engineers as they checked for them. So far, the cutting had proved clear, much to the German's surprise. But then, we're only a few meters in. We've more than a kilometer left to go.
The infantry group ahead of him scattered as a burst of machinegun fire came from one of the defensive positions set up by the Ivans. What happened next was a well-drilled tactical procedure. The MG-42 machine-gunner started laying down bursts of fire to pin down the opposing gunner while the other infantrymen started to work around the flanks of the position. In doing so, they ran into the fire from another position, one that had escaped observation so far. The two had been carefully placed so that they were mutually supporting, each covering the other from exactly the sort of attack that was now being mounted against them. The concept was quite simple; the crossfire from the machine guns would pin the attacking infantry down until mortar fire would kill them.
This time things were different. Most of the survivors from the scout section had been issued StG-44 fully-automatic rifles and the ones that hadn't had taken the new rifles from men who had been killed in the continuous airstrikes. That meant that the attacking groups weren't dependent on the machine gun to pin down their enemy but could use their rifles to achieve the same effect. Over shorter distances certainly but the automatic rifles still had changed the balance in favor of the increasingly-outnumbered German infantry.
Kern saw a group of riflemen open fire on the second position. They quickly silenced it, their streams of fire driving the defenders into cover. That allowed the first group to work close enough to their target to throw stick grenades into the Ivan position, silencing it. A quick sprint across the open ground, more bursts of fire that killed any survivors, and the position was taken.
Now, with the first Ivan position held, the troops that had taken it were able to fire on the next. With the job of pinning down the position in front of them taken over by flanking fire from the captured trench, the second group of scouts was able to work their way forward. Once again, they did so until the blasts of grenades and the hammering of rifle fire silenced the opposition. With the two central positions in the railway cutting taken, the careful advance continued until the next could be located.
While the scout troops slowly worked through the defenses, Kern started the process of clearing a path for the Jagdtigers waiting patiently in the rear. They only had a very limited supply of onboard ammunition and no guarantee that any resupply would make it past the Ami aircraft. Although come to think of it, we have seen a lot less of them in the last few days. So, the Jagdtigers were holding their fire unless essential targets appeared. The four Bergepanthers were following the infantry to provide support with their 20mm guns if needed.
"Mine, Hauptmann." One of the engineers had found an anti-tank mine carefully concealed in a temptingly-smooth section of the cutting.
"You can keep it!" Kern called back, causing a ripple of laughter around his group of engineers.
"Hey Anto, you'll be claiming it followed you home next." That caused another burst of laughter as the position of the mine was carefully marked. Kern had already decided that as long as the way through for the Jagdtigers wasn't blocked, mines could be left in place. The risks of lifting them could not be justified by the limited risks leaving them entailed. It wasn't as if the Jagdtigers were staying here; they were just passing through. If the Ivans wanted this cutting afterward, they could clear the wretched mines.
"We're clear." The triumphant cry came from the scouting group that had finished mopping up the defenses in the railway cutting. The Ivan defense had been neither particularly strong nor determined. It is almost as if they didn't care very much.
"How many were there?" Kern wanted to know just what they had been facing.
"About a dozen. Four positions, each with a machine-gunner, his number-two, and a submachine-gunner. We lost one man killed and two wounded. Neither serious."
"Well done." Kern meant that the scout group commander had kept his men alive. That was critical these days; replacement men were almost as scarce as replacement ammunition and fuel. They all bore a distinct relationship to Hen's Teeth. "Send a runner back to the Jagdtigers and tell them to come through. Watch for three red flags, they mark the only mines we found."
The roar of the 75-ton Jagdtigers was impressive as they edged along the railway tracks. Carius had ordered the speed to be kept to a minimum to reduce stress on the Jagdtiger's running gear from the vibration of crossing rails and sleepers. Even so, it reminded Kern of just how intimidating the size of the vehicles was. That inspired him to look up the colors of the day. 'Yellow flare, turning red. Response, green flare, turning white.' He loaded the appropriate round into his flare gun and fired it skywards. A few seconds later, he saw the green and then white of the response. After the slow, painstaking advance across the Ivan salient, they were on the friendly ground again.
That was why the explosion on the side of the lead Jagdtiger came as such a shock. The fireball erupted from the side of the superstructure with a vicious crack before rising upwards. The stricken vehicle, lurched to one side, its engine stalled and it was left straddling the railway line.
"That was a Panzerfaust!" Despite being a veteran, Feldwebel Weiss was horrified by the sight and almost in tears with sheer unadulterated frustration. After all the care he and his men had taken, the risks they had accepted, one of the precious Jagdtigers had been knocked out by friendly fire. Bewilderment saturated his voice as he repeated, dumbly, disbelievingly. "It was a Panzerfaust."
The other Jagdtigers had stopped and their crews were running towards the stricken tank destroyer. It seemed undamaged except for a small hole in the side of the gun casement, barely the size of a man's little finger and surrounded by blackened paint. It looked insignificant enough but everybody knew it was the signature that a Panzerfaust had done its work. "Hatches locked from the inside. We'll have to cut our way in."
"Oh, this just gets better and better." Carius had dismounted from his own vehicle and was striding through the men gathering around the cripple. "Have we got cutting torches left?"
"Yes, Sir." One of the engineers from a Bergepanther was already getting the kit out of a storage locker. In the meantime, German infantry was emerging from the woods.
Carius turned on them furiously. "Just what the hell do you think you are doing? Didn't you see the recognition signals?"
"This is Gefreiter Zipstein, Sir. He fired the shot. What have you to say for yourself, Zipstein?"
"It was coming from the Ivan side . . . I thought. . . . ."
"No you didn’t." the Lieutenant in charge of the infantry shook his head. "Sir, I am sorry, I don’t know what to say. I have put this man under arrest. The field tribunal will be here soon to collect him."
Carius said nothing but looked at the Jagdtiger. Showers of sparks were rising from the rear of the casement where two large doors gave the crew access and also allowed the gun to be removed if necessary. The fact they hadn't been opened from inside did not bode well. Eventually, the doors were forced open and the engineer wielding the torch looked inside. "They're all gone, Sir. Commander, gunner, both loaders. Driver and co-driver too. Metal spray got them all."
Carius turned to the Lieutenant. "Six men dead. This will not end well for you."
The Lieutenant knew what Carius meant. The field tribunal was coming and they would not be merciful to a unit that had just killed a Jagdtiger and its crew of six. Gefreiter Zipstein might have fired the fatal shot but the Lieutenant was his commander and the fault was his. Both men would probably be hanging from a pine tree within the hour.
"Is the vehicle repairable here?" Carius shouted out the question.
"No, Sir. Inside is slagged. Gun is gone, equipment wrecked. Condensed metal droplets everywhere. She should have blown up, I'm not sure why she didn’t." There was a sound of the engine grinding from inside the crippled tank destroyer. "Engine is gone. If we could tow it to a workshop we could fix it, but here? Not a chance."
Carius shook his head. "It'll take all four Bergepanthers to move it. We can't do that. We have places to be. We'll leave it here. The engineers will try and get to it.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, Labrador Sea
"Oh God, I want to throw up." Young felt as if his stomach was about to exit his body via his mouth. Never in his seagoing career had he experienced anything like this. Shawnee was pitching violently, her bows rearing high in the air before crashing down into the white spray and seething water that was the signature of this storm. She was rolling heavily as well, sending men reeling from one side of the mess deck to the other. Finally, just to add to their misery, the ship was snaking in the water, making sudden surges of movement to port or starboard as the wave patterns interacted with her. It was a chilling demonstration of how little man's engineering skills mattered when the sea got mad at them.
"Just have a fried bacon sandwich, dripping with grease. That'll fix you up." One of the humorists in the mess shouted out the advice and watched while it had its effect. Young tried to grab for a bucket or anything but never made it. He vomited all over the deck.
"Well done, Sykes. You can clean that up." The Bosun's Mate looked around the deck. The grave danger now was one man vomiting could easily set everybody else off and Young was one of the better-off men. Some looked positively green. "You all right, son?"
"Yeah, I think so." Young had wiped his lips and washed his mouth out with some chilled water. "Sorry. What the hell is hitting us."
"It’s a Williwaw, an arctic storm. They're really bad but they don’t last too long. We'll be out of it in a few hours. We're having to change course though; the met report says the Denmark Strait north of Iceland is icing up already, we'll have to swing south."
"That'll take us closer to Norway won't it." Young felt his stomach lurch again but this time, without the 'aid' of self-appointed humorists he managed to keep its contents in place. He wasn't sure if it was the storm or the news that they were going to be much further south than planned that had nearly made him sick again.
"Yeah, that it will. And for a lot longer. We're in for a rough ride."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty Six
Approaching Kasimovo, Airfield 5, Near Petrograd, Kola Peninsula.
“Our course, Vladya?” Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov asked the question more out of the desire to speak to somebody than to confirm his Er-2 was on course for Kasimovo. The rough, pulsing noise of the diesels powering the Er-2 was more than a match for the ability of the crew to speak to each other without using the intercom system. Even using the intercom, making oneself understood could be problematic. The difficulties this gave the crew in coordinating their actions was something that hadn’t been considered when the proposal to switch to diesel engines had been made.
“We are just crossing the coast at Priozersk now.” Markov’s chart showed a carefully-plotted path that kept the Er-2s as far away from the Finnish fascists in the north and the Hitlerite fascists in the south as possible. Guards Fighter Regiments were covering the Er-2s from both directions, all the La-5 pilots having strict orders to keep fascist fighters away from the aircraft. They believed the aircraft they were protecting were American C-54s flying desperately-needed medical supplies to Petrograd. The Er-2s were doing their best to simulate C-54s but nobody believed that the fascists would be fooled for more than a few flights. But, they would also learn soon enough that large quantities of medical supplies had become available in Petrograd and assume that an airlift was in progress. That meant the aircraft flying across Lake Ladoga were indeed transports, albeit Russian ones. The illusion was reinforced by the authorities in Petrograd releasing large quantities of medical supplies from the strategic stores, thus creating an illusion of resupply. The objective of the plan was to get the fascists watching on their radar screens to get used to a thin steady trickle of aircraft shuttling from the Archangel area to Petrograd. Believing they were C-54s would set their minds to thinking they were indeed transport aircraft and not long-range bombers.
“Bring the aircraft around to one-nine-zero. That will put us 90 kilometers out from Kasimovo. Drop down to five hundred meters; we shouldn’t give the fascist radar crews an easy target.”
“One-nine-zero, 90 kilometers, Acknowledged. Twenty minutes?”
The weather data Markov had been given had been favorable for this flight. They’d been favored by a tailwind most of the way but now the situation is changing fast. The wind was swinging around to blow from the north and would be a headwind going back. A bitterly cold headwind. The temperature was already going down quickly. “Twenty minutes, Vitosha. Beware of icing for the temperature is dropping fast.”
Markov grew more worried as the Er-2 descended but still entered broken and then dense, bumpy clouds. Low cloud hugging the ground was bad news. Grimly, he watched Tomasov turn on the landing lights to see what was happening around him. The crew had hoped to see the ground or even a good navigational feature but instead, all they could see were oblique streams of snow crossing the lights. Tomasov’s words confirmed his navigator’s fears. “You are right Vladya, we have a bad problem here. Snow and cloud are bad enough but icing over will be too much. Everybody, watch the wing edges and the tail unit. If they start to turn white tell me immediately."
The plane lurched roughly along its course; the developing storm had violent air currents that tossed the Er-2 into the air and then tried to force it downwards into the ground. Foiled in that desire, they changed into a spiral that seized hold of one wing and threw it high while forcing the other wing down. Tomasov caught the move quickly and managed to turn the lurch into a turn and then reverse it so that the aircraft remained under control. His eyes were riveted on his instruments, in particular the 'stick and ball' that told him the pitch and yaw of the aircraft. As if the storm admitted defeat at that point, the turn and its correction led the Er-2 out of the storm front. The sky opened up and the horizon peeped out, along with it the single light that acted as the navigational beacon. Once again Markov checked his map and saw that the Er-2 had drifted away from the planned course somewhere in the snow and clouds.
“We need to come to two-seven-zero for five minutes then come around to one-eight-five.”
Tomasov thought about that and then started to turn in the opposite direction to the one indicated. Markov thought that his pilot had misunderstood the directions and was about to speak up when he realized that they were going the long way around the turn. The curve would put them in the right position without the dangerous low-altitude change of course he had suggested. It worked perfectly. Ahead of them, perfectly lined up with their course, the lights of the aircraft runway clicked on. The ground staff had heard the unmistakable sound of the diesel-engined Er-2 coming in and put the runway lights on at the last minute.
There was the usual grinding thump as the wheels went down and Tomasov dropped the aircraft neatly onto the end of the runway. Almost instantly, the lights went out, leaving the aircraft landing lights the only illumination. They were just enough for the Er-2 to find its way to the parking areas dispersed between the trees. Once there, the ground crew was waiting to unload the aircraft and take its crew to the living quarters. Markov looked back and saw the ground crews stretching tarpaulins over the engines and the cockpit transparencies. They had already done the same for the Pe-2s that were normally based at Kasimovo-17. On the walk through the snow, Markov had tried to see For Galina but could not. He assumed she was either in one of the other parking areas or had been lost. What he did notice was that the same was being done for two examples of an aircraft he hadn’t seen before. Four-engined but with a tailwheel undercarriage. They were painted in Russian brown and had Russian markings but under the cockpit was the familiar insignia of the Flying Bears.
Once inside the crew quarters, the bitter cold outside and the steadily-increasing snowfall seemed a long way away. Tomasov logged his crew in and gained a room assignment for them. The approaching storm that they had flown through on the way down wasn’t likely to pass until morning and flying operations wouldn’t start for hours after that. The extent to which sudden unpredictable storms could shut down air operations on the Kola Peninsula was something Markov hadn’t allowed for in his plans and he made a note of it.
“Hey, Tovarish Major.” Lieutenant Caleb O'Brien remembered his Russian military manners and snapped out a salute.
“Tovarish Lieutenant, it is good to meet you again. May I introduce you to my commander, tovarish Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov.”
O’Brien snapped out another salute and introduced his crew and that of the other transport. Formalities being completed, the airmen settled down in a convivial group, international friendship being lubricated by liberal quantities of vodka. Some of Markov’s old friends from his torpedo-bomber days soon joined in the growing party. The Americans spoke limited basic Russian, and the Russians limited English but they quickly found that by waving their hands around they could converse quite fluently.
Exploiting that, Markov worked around to the subject that had been intriguing him. “Bratischka, when we last met you were flying B-25s. I hope For Melba is still in service.”
“She is, but all our B-25s are grounded right now. Lack of fuel. So, we’re standing in as a transport group until we get some more 130-octane. Have you seen our C-75s outside? They fly on 87 octane so the Army gave them to us. There are rumors our fighter squadrons may be re-equipped with Yak-3s for the same reason.”
In the background, the base political officer winced. Americans have no sense of operational security he thought sadly, aware that the slowly spreading paralysis caused by the 130-octane fuel drought was a major concern to the powers that be in the Allied war effort.
Tank Storage Garage, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
The flood of light into the driving compartment as the hatch was lifted woke Faina making her blink in confusion. The previous night, grimly determined not to go back to her mother's house, the driving compartment of her new '100' was the only place she could think of where she felt secure and could rest. She had curled up there, made sure she had a track wrench to hand, and then cried herself to sleep. The half-hidden meaning of some of the questions she had been asked after her speech was now very plain to her.
"I am sorry, tovarish sergeant-driver. I did not know you were resting in here." The voice was quiet and polite, speaking basic Russian with friendliness evident in it.
"No, I must thank you for waking me Tovarish. I am on duty in" Faina glanced at the clock in her '100' "an hour."
"Do you always sleep in your '100'?" The American had looked at her swollen, tear-stained face and realized there was 'a situation' here. So, he kept his voice polite and friendly and made sure that his tone was carefully avoiding any suggestiveness.
Faina desperately needed somebody to talk to and the story of the previous night poured out. She kept the presence of mind to speak slowly, avoid complex Russian, and used the simplest words she could but the raw grief and anger still came through. What she didn’t know was that Chekist Bessonov was standing just a few feet away and heard everything with steadily growing fury at the mother who had so insulted a gallant, decorated Frontoviki. This kind of attitude towards those who serve the Rodina at risk of their lives is Cheka business and we will not tolerate it. Put healthy young men and young women together and nature will take its course. But to suggest that the Army is encouraging what amounts to organized prostitution is vile. We will stamp these stories out right now.
When Faina had finished the story, tears were trickling out of her eyes again. A year on the Front with two viciously fought campaigns and bailing out of one burning '85' hadn't made her cry but her mother had. The American reached out and gave her a handkerchief. That made her look at him more carefully. A bald man with just a horseshoe of silvering hair. He was wearing an oddly-cut short jacket with two patch pockets but no insignia or decorations. Not even ribbons. She assumed he was one of the American technical experts here to learn how to design tanks and tank destroyers. "Thank you, tovarish, I am sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for. How old are you, Sergeant-driver?"
"Eighteen, Tovarish." The American raised an amused eyebrow and Faina flushed. "Seventeen, but the Army thinks I am a year older. Please don't . . . "
"My son David is five years older than you. He graduated from West Point a few months ago and will be coming to Russia soon. He will be in the Armored Force as well. Perhaps a tank destroyer, although not a deadly machine like this SU-100. Tell me, what is the driver's position in the '100' like?"
Faina thought about that, noting the question was one asked of a professional tank destroyer crewman. "For me, it is very good. Some of the men find it cramped but I'm smaller than they are so it fits me well. A very good thing, see beside me? I think it might have been an accident but there is an empty space where I can put my things instead of leaving them outside. I have my greatcoat and kitbag in there now."
"So I see. Now, that is a clever use of space. We've lost vehicles because things stored outside catch fire. What else do you think of the '100'? And what advice would you give to my son?"
They spoke for a few minutes more, then the American made his apologies, thanked her for her insights, and left. When he had gone Bessonov came over to speak with her. "Bratishka, you spoke well to our guest. Struck exactly the right note of professional friendliness. By the way, do you know who you were speaking to?"
Faina shook her head. Bessonov grinned. "That was General Eisenhower, Chief of Staff to General Patton himself."
416th Bombardment Group, Airfield 46, Letneozerskiy, Archangel’sk Front, December 1944
Lieutenant 'Tex' Murphy swallowed his government-issue whisky and shook his head. “We shot up the flak positions good, Boss. There wasn’t a gun firing when we’d finished. Saw a couple of the boys were hit but we all made it back. Didn’t do any good though. The 368th had a smooth, straight run-in at 12,000 feet but the bridges are still standing. Not a single hit that I saw. Lots came close, so close the bridges were underwater half the time but no cigar. Medium bombers can’t hack it, Boss. For them, it’s like trying to cut a thread stretched across a dartboard from the other side of the room. We’re going to have to go right in there and skip bombs into the bridges.”
“I think the brass has come to the same conclusion.” Colonel Walter Brown watched the final members of the day’s missions landing. "We're going back to Etatochka tomorrow. The Thunderbolts will be skip-bombing the main bridge. If they can get the other two as well, so much the better. You'll be shooting up the flak guns again."
"What about fuel, Colonel? We've used up the week's allocation."
"We're getting more. I've had a message from the Allied Strategic Transport Administration Committee telling us that we're getting the next month's fuel originally allocated to a B-29 group. Those big boys will be doing minimal flying until the situation eases up. Doesn’t hurt with winter closing in. ASTAC work crews are also trying to improve the railway link up here. In the meantime, we'll be flying 130-octane in. Now, what else do you have to tell me?"
"Remember those big bastards we saw a week or more ago? Well, we found one of them by Ponga. On a railway line of all things. Not much flak, just machinegun fire so we shot it up. We did it the way those Sturmovik boys told us, came in from behind at a 40-degree angle and fired at the engine gratings. They were right, our 75s tore straight through those gratings. All four of us made passes and the damned great thing was burning like a pyre when we were finished. It's done."
Brown nodded in agreement; a tank that wasn’t burning was salvageable and could be back in action in a day or two. Once it burned it was fit for nothing but scrap. "So, I can credit you with a quarter of a Jagdtiger. Well done Tex. Now make sure you're ready for the strike tomorrow. Those bridges have to go. We need to show the fascists that if we want something gone, sooner or later and no matter what they do, it will be gone. One day those fascist bastards will look at each other and say 'see, they even bought down the bridges at Etatochka.' That will be the day they know they have lost this war."
Bangor Union Station, Exchange Street, Bangor, Maine.
“I think we are being followed.” ‘Thomas Smith’ and ‘Eric Garden’ looked around them at the busy railway station. Neither of them saw anybody tailing them but their skins were crawling with the sensation of being watched. ‘Smith’ had taken the lead in voicing their fears but the truth was that they were both feeling persecuted and hunted.
“Do you think Werner has informed on us?” ‘Eric Garden’ was also voicing the fears felt by both men.
“We cannot be sure that he did not.” ‘Smith’ was aware he was stating the obvious. “And if he has, then he will have told them of the train tickets he bought. That will mean they will know where we will go.”
“Then we cannot use these tickets.” ‘Garden’ was still stating the obvious. “What do we do.”
“Replace them. I have been looking at the train map. We can go to Millinocket by the Maine Central and then change to the North Maine. If we are being followed that might throw them off.”
“Buying more tickets will just draw attention. I think we will be better off watching for any enemies and if we spot one we can liquidate them. We don’t know Werner has talked. He may be keeping his tongue still.”
“And we have to watch the money.” ‘Smith’ added the extra, severely practical consideration. Their mission had been generously funded but their expenses had already been greater than expected and they were well aware the money they were both carrying was counterfeit. Very good counterfeits but counterfeits nonetheless. ‘Smith’ thought. He was not, of course, aware that the forged hundred-dollar bills that had bought their tickets had already been recognized as such. Nor were they aware that the discovery was causing the Secret Service to join in the hunt. “Soon we will not have enough left to eat. And there is no provision for us to get more.
“Then we should carry on as we are?”
“I do not see that we have any choice.” ‘Smith’ led the way off and found the archway that led to the Maine Central part of the station. He could see the ticket tracks and the indicator board that marked the platforms and trains. It took a little time for him to find the placard for Millinocket but once he had recognized the very unfamiliar name, he saw there was actually a choice of several trains they could choose from. One left in just five minutes and he thought that the fewer delays the better. So, they found the correct platform and boarded the train. To his surprise, it was a steam locomotive already building up for its departure. He had thought the American railways used diesels.
The train was already crowded and more people were hurrying on board, anxious not to miss the departure. ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ had both found seats and were scanning the standing passengers to see if any of them looked familiar. None did, something that helped ease their minds over the possibility of pursuit.
By the time the train pulled out, it was tightly packed. ‘Smith’ remembered how one of the men on their first train had given up his seat to a standing woman despite the fact that she was black and he had been white. He decided that it would draw less attention if he did the same.
“Excuse me, ma’am, would you like to sit down?”
Charlene Rasmussen gave him a flashing smile. “Why, thank you, Sir.”
It was rather fortunate for ‘Smith’s’ peace of mind that he didn’t realize that he had just given his seat to Maine’s only female detective.
Approaching Kasimovo, Airfield 5, Near Petrograd, Kola Peninsula.
“Our course, Vladya?” Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov asked the question more out of the desire to speak to somebody than to confirm his Er-2 was on course for Kasimovo. The rough, pulsing noise of the diesels powering the Er-2 was more than a match for the ability of the crew to speak to each other without using the intercom system. Even using the intercom, making oneself understood could be problematic. The difficulties this gave the crew in coordinating their actions was something that hadn’t been considered when the proposal to switch to diesel engines had been made.
“We are just crossing the coast at Priozersk now.” Markov’s chart showed a carefully-plotted path that kept the Er-2s as far away from the Finnish fascists in the north and the Hitlerite fascists in the south as possible. Guards Fighter Regiments were covering the Er-2s from both directions, all the La-5 pilots having strict orders to keep fascist fighters away from the aircraft. They believed the aircraft they were protecting were American C-54s flying desperately-needed medical supplies to Petrograd. The Er-2s were doing their best to simulate C-54s but nobody believed that the fascists would be fooled for more than a few flights. But, they would also learn soon enough that large quantities of medical supplies had become available in Petrograd and assume that an airlift was in progress. That meant the aircraft flying across Lake Ladoga were indeed transports, albeit Russian ones. The illusion was reinforced by the authorities in Petrograd releasing large quantities of medical supplies from the strategic stores, thus creating an illusion of resupply. The objective of the plan was to get the fascists watching on their radar screens to get used to a thin steady trickle of aircraft shuttling from the Archangel area to Petrograd. Believing they were C-54s would set their minds to thinking they were indeed transport aircraft and not long-range bombers.
“Bring the aircraft around to one-nine-zero. That will put us 90 kilometers out from Kasimovo. Drop down to five hundred meters; we shouldn’t give the fascist radar crews an easy target.”
“One-nine-zero, 90 kilometers, Acknowledged. Twenty minutes?”
The weather data Markov had been given had been favorable for this flight. They’d been favored by a tailwind most of the way but now the situation is changing fast. The wind was swinging around to blow from the north and would be a headwind going back. A bitterly cold headwind. The temperature was already going down quickly. “Twenty minutes, Vitosha. Beware of icing for the temperature is dropping fast.”
Markov grew more worried as the Er-2 descended but still entered broken and then dense, bumpy clouds. Low cloud hugging the ground was bad news. Grimly, he watched Tomasov turn on the landing lights to see what was happening around him. The crew had hoped to see the ground or even a good navigational feature but instead, all they could see were oblique streams of snow crossing the lights. Tomasov’s words confirmed his navigator’s fears. “You are right Vladya, we have a bad problem here. Snow and cloud are bad enough but icing over will be too much. Everybody, watch the wing edges and the tail unit. If they start to turn white tell me immediately."
The plane lurched roughly along its course; the developing storm had violent air currents that tossed the Er-2 into the air and then tried to force it downwards into the ground. Foiled in that desire, they changed into a spiral that seized hold of one wing and threw it high while forcing the other wing down. Tomasov caught the move quickly and managed to turn the lurch into a turn and then reverse it so that the aircraft remained under control. His eyes were riveted on his instruments, in particular the 'stick and ball' that told him the pitch and yaw of the aircraft. As if the storm admitted defeat at that point, the turn and its correction led the Er-2 out of the storm front. The sky opened up and the horizon peeped out, along with it the single light that acted as the navigational beacon. Once again Markov checked his map and saw that the Er-2 had drifted away from the planned course somewhere in the snow and clouds.
“We need to come to two-seven-zero for five minutes then come around to one-eight-five.”
Tomasov thought about that and then started to turn in the opposite direction to the one indicated. Markov thought that his pilot had misunderstood the directions and was about to speak up when he realized that they were going the long way around the turn. The curve would put them in the right position without the dangerous low-altitude change of course he had suggested. It worked perfectly. Ahead of them, perfectly lined up with their course, the lights of the aircraft runway clicked on. The ground staff had heard the unmistakable sound of the diesel-engined Er-2 coming in and put the runway lights on at the last minute.
There was the usual grinding thump as the wheels went down and Tomasov dropped the aircraft neatly onto the end of the runway. Almost instantly, the lights went out, leaving the aircraft landing lights the only illumination. They were just enough for the Er-2 to find its way to the parking areas dispersed between the trees. Once there, the ground crew was waiting to unload the aircraft and take its crew to the living quarters. Markov looked back and saw the ground crews stretching tarpaulins over the engines and the cockpit transparencies. They had already done the same for the Pe-2s that were normally based at Kasimovo-17. On the walk through the snow, Markov had tried to see For Galina but could not. He assumed she was either in one of the other parking areas or had been lost. What he did notice was that the same was being done for two examples of an aircraft he hadn’t seen before. Four-engined but with a tailwheel undercarriage. They were painted in Russian brown and had Russian markings but under the cockpit was the familiar insignia of the Flying Bears.
Once inside the crew quarters, the bitter cold outside and the steadily-increasing snowfall seemed a long way away. Tomasov logged his crew in and gained a room assignment for them. The approaching storm that they had flown through on the way down wasn’t likely to pass until morning and flying operations wouldn’t start for hours after that. The extent to which sudden unpredictable storms could shut down air operations on the Kola Peninsula was something Markov hadn’t allowed for in his plans and he made a note of it.
“Hey, Tovarish Major.” Lieutenant Caleb O'Brien remembered his Russian military manners and snapped out a salute.
“Tovarish Lieutenant, it is good to meet you again. May I introduce you to my commander, tovarish Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov.”
O’Brien snapped out another salute and introduced his crew and that of the other transport. Formalities being completed, the airmen settled down in a convivial group, international friendship being lubricated by liberal quantities of vodka. Some of Markov’s old friends from his torpedo-bomber days soon joined in the growing party. The Americans spoke limited basic Russian, and the Russians limited English but they quickly found that by waving their hands around they could converse quite fluently.
Exploiting that, Markov worked around to the subject that had been intriguing him. “Bratischka, when we last met you were flying B-25s. I hope For Melba is still in service.”
“She is, but all our B-25s are grounded right now. Lack of fuel. So, we’re standing in as a transport group until we get some more 130-octane. Have you seen our C-75s outside? They fly on 87 octane so the Army gave them to us. There are rumors our fighter squadrons may be re-equipped with Yak-3s for the same reason.”
In the background, the base political officer winced. Americans have no sense of operational security he thought sadly, aware that the slowly spreading paralysis caused by the 130-octane fuel drought was a major concern to the powers that be in the Allied war effort.
Tank Storage Garage, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
The flood of light into the driving compartment as the hatch was lifted woke Faina making her blink in confusion. The previous night, grimly determined not to go back to her mother's house, the driving compartment of her new '100' was the only place she could think of where she felt secure and could rest. She had curled up there, made sure she had a track wrench to hand, and then cried herself to sleep. The half-hidden meaning of some of the questions she had been asked after her speech was now very plain to her.
"I am sorry, tovarish sergeant-driver. I did not know you were resting in here." The voice was quiet and polite, speaking basic Russian with friendliness evident in it.
"No, I must thank you for waking me Tovarish. I am on duty in" Faina glanced at the clock in her '100' "an hour."
"Do you always sleep in your '100'?" The American had looked at her swollen, tear-stained face and realized there was 'a situation' here. So, he kept his voice polite and friendly and made sure that his tone was carefully avoiding any suggestiveness.
Faina desperately needed somebody to talk to and the story of the previous night poured out. She kept the presence of mind to speak slowly, avoid complex Russian, and used the simplest words she could but the raw grief and anger still came through. What she didn’t know was that Chekist Bessonov was standing just a few feet away and heard everything with steadily growing fury at the mother who had so insulted a gallant, decorated Frontoviki. This kind of attitude towards those who serve the Rodina at risk of their lives is Cheka business and we will not tolerate it. Put healthy young men and young women together and nature will take its course. But to suggest that the Army is encouraging what amounts to organized prostitution is vile. We will stamp these stories out right now.
When Faina had finished the story, tears were trickling out of her eyes again. A year on the Front with two viciously fought campaigns and bailing out of one burning '85' hadn't made her cry but her mother had. The American reached out and gave her a handkerchief. That made her look at him more carefully. A bald man with just a horseshoe of silvering hair. He was wearing an oddly-cut short jacket with two patch pockets but no insignia or decorations. Not even ribbons. She assumed he was one of the American technical experts here to learn how to design tanks and tank destroyers. "Thank you, tovarish, I am sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for. How old are you, Sergeant-driver?"
"Eighteen, Tovarish." The American raised an amused eyebrow and Faina flushed. "Seventeen, but the Army thinks I am a year older. Please don't . . . "
"My son David is five years older than you. He graduated from West Point a few months ago and will be coming to Russia soon. He will be in the Armored Force as well. Perhaps a tank destroyer, although not a deadly machine like this SU-100. Tell me, what is the driver's position in the '100' like?"
Faina thought about that, noting the question was one asked of a professional tank destroyer crewman. "For me, it is very good. Some of the men find it cramped but I'm smaller than they are so it fits me well. A very good thing, see beside me? I think it might have been an accident but there is an empty space where I can put my things instead of leaving them outside. I have my greatcoat and kitbag in there now."
"So I see. Now, that is a clever use of space. We've lost vehicles because things stored outside catch fire. What else do you think of the '100'? And what advice would you give to my son?"
They spoke for a few minutes more, then the American made his apologies, thanked her for her insights, and left. When he had gone Bessonov came over to speak with her. "Bratishka, you spoke well to our guest. Struck exactly the right note of professional friendliness. By the way, do you know who you were speaking to?"
Faina shook her head. Bessonov grinned. "That was General Eisenhower, Chief of Staff to General Patton himself."
416th Bombardment Group, Airfield 46, Letneozerskiy, Archangel’sk Front, December 1944
Lieutenant 'Tex' Murphy swallowed his government-issue whisky and shook his head. “We shot up the flak positions good, Boss. There wasn’t a gun firing when we’d finished. Saw a couple of the boys were hit but we all made it back. Didn’t do any good though. The 368th had a smooth, straight run-in at 12,000 feet but the bridges are still standing. Not a single hit that I saw. Lots came close, so close the bridges were underwater half the time but no cigar. Medium bombers can’t hack it, Boss. For them, it’s like trying to cut a thread stretched across a dartboard from the other side of the room. We’re going to have to go right in there and skip bombs into the bridges.”
“I think the brass has come to the same conclusion.” Colonel Walter Brown watched the final members of the day’s missions landing. "We're going back to Etatochka tomorrow. The Thunderbolts will be skip-bombing the main bridge. If they can get the other two as well, so much the better. You'll be shooting up the flak guns again."
"What about fuel, Colonel? We've used up the week's allocation."
"We're getting more. I've had a message from the Allied Strategic Transport Administration Committee telling us that we're getting the next month's fuel originally allocated to a B-29 group. Those big boys will be doing minimal flying until the situation eases up. Doesn’t hurt with winter closing in. ASTAC work crews are also trying to improve the railway link up here. In the meantime, we'll be flying 130-octane in. Now, what else do you have to tell me?"
"Remember those big bastards we saw a week or more ago? Well, we found one of them by Ponga. On a railway line of all things. Not much flak, just machinegun fire so we shot it up. We did it the way those Sturmovik boys told us, came in from behind at a 40-degree angle and fired at the engine gratings. They were right, our 75s tore straight through those gratings. All four of us made passes and the damned great thing was burning like a pyre when we were finished. It's done."
Brown nodded in agreement; a tank that wasn’t burning was salvageable and could be back in action in a day or two. Once it burned it was fit for nothing but scrap. "So, I can credit you with a quarter of a Jagdtiger. Well done Tex. Now make sure you're ready for the strike tomorrow. Those bridges have to go. We need to show the fascists that if we want something gone, sooner or later and no matter what they do, it will be gone. One day those fascist bastards will look at each other and say 'see, they even bought down the bridges at Etatochka.' That will be the day they know they have lost this war."
Bangor Union Station, Exchange Street, Bangor, Maine.
“I think we are being followed.” ‘Thomas Smith’ and ‘Eric Garden’ looked around them at the busy railway station. Neither of them saw anybody tailing them but their skins were crawling with the sensation of being watched. ‘Smith’ had taken the lead in voicing their fears but the truth was that they were both feeling persecuted and hunted.
“Do you think Werner has informed on us?” ‘Eric Garden’ was also voicing the fears felt by both men.
“We cannot be sure that he did not.” ‘Smith’ was aware he was stating the obvious. “And if he has, then he will have told them of the train tickets he bought. That will mean they will know where we will go.”
“Then we cannot use these tickets.” ‘Garden’ was still stating the obvious. “What do we do.”
“Replace them. I have been looking at the train map. We can go to Millinocket by the Maine Central and then change to the North Maine. If we are being followed that might throw them off.”
“Buying more tickets will just draw attention. I think we will be better off watching for any enemies and if we spot one we can liquidate them. We don’t know Werner has talked. He may be keeping his tongue still.”
“And we have to watch the money.” ‘Smith’ added the extra, severely practical consideration. Their mission had been generously funded but their expenses had already been greater than expected and they were well aware the money they were both carrying was counterfeit. Very good counterfeits but counterfeits nonetheless. ‘Smith’ thought. He was not, of course, aware that the forged hundred-dollar bills that had bought their tickets had already been recognized as such. Nor were they aware that the discovery was causing the Secret Service to join in the hunt. “Soon we will not have enough left to eat. And there is no provision for us to get more.
“Then we should carry on as we are?”
“I do not see that we have any choice.” ‘Smith’ led the way off and found the archway that led to the Maine Central part of the station. He could see the ticket tracks and the indicator board that marked the platforms and trains. It took a little time for him to find the placard for Millinocket but once he had recognized the very unfamiliar name, he saw there was actually a choice of several trains they could choose from. One left in just five minutes and he thought that the fewer delays the better. So, they found the correct platform and boarded the train. To his surprise, it was a steam locomotive already building up for its departure. He had thought the American railways used diesels.
The train was already crowded and more people were hurrying on board, anxious not to miss the departure. ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ had both found seats and were scanning the standing passengers to see if any of them looked familiar. None did, something that helped ease their minds over the possibility of pursuit.
By the time the train pulled out, it was tightly packed. ‘Smith’ remembered how one of the men on their first train had given up his seat to a standing woman despite the fact that she was black and he had been white. He decided that it would draw less attention if he did the same.
“Excuse me, ma’am, would you like to sit down?”
Charlene Rasmussen gave him a flashing smile. “Why, thank you, Sir.”
It was rather fortunate for ‘Smith’s’ peace of mind that he didn’t realize that he had just given his seat to Maine’s only female detective.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty Seven
404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Korovkinskaya-896 was primarily a fighter base but four-engined aircraft did land occasionally. So, while the C-54 that landed just after dawn wasn't precisely unusual but it was interesting enough to draw people around to watch it taxi in. It quickly became apparent that this wasn't one of the normal C-54s that made up the bulk of the aircraft on the Air Bridge. Quite apart from its different paint scheme, this aircraft had no windows in its fuselage.
"Colonel Daniel Campbell?" The pilot of the C-54 saluted as he climbed out of his aircraft. "Captain Summey. I've brought you 5,000 gallons of purple gas."
"I'd say that's close to being a gift from the Gods, Captain. Welcome to Korovkinskaya-896. Things were getting pretty dry around here. Purple gas?"
"It’s a new thing from the logistics people. 130-octane aviation gas is dyed purple, 100-octane avgas is green and 87-octane is blue. Motor fuel is red. People were getting the wrong stuff and we lost a couple of aircraft as a result. C-46s really do not like being given the wrong gas. So the refineries have been ordered to dye it. Anyway, if you can tow Galveston Lady over to the apron, Sir, we can pump your fuel out.
"Not drums? I don’t think we have suitable pumps here."
"We got the pump, Sir. Standard fitting where the aft doors used to be. This is a C-54M, does nothing but haul fuel. The old C-54As had provision for four long-range tanks in the fuselage but later marks replaced them with extra wing tanks. We have 12 of those surplus fuselage tanks, all permanent fixtures, and a pump. All you need to provide is a hose to your storage tanks. By the way, Colonel, if you can gas us up with blue while we're here, we'd surely appreciate. It's a long way from here to there in Russia and I don't like being short of fuel."
"It surely is, Captain. You say blue gas? 87?"
"Sure, the C-54s have R-2000s, they run quite happily on 87. It’s the C-69s and C-46s with R-2800s and 3350s that have to use the richer stuff. They're not being used much either right now."
"I thought I hadn't seen the 46s around recently. I'm Dan by the way. The mess hall is serving breakfast if you're hungry. We can get out of the cold as well."
"I'm Mickey. Bacon and eggs?" Summey looked hopeful.
"Sorry, Mickey. Porridge, well, Russian kasha, black bread and sausage. We haven't seen fresh eggs here for a long time. We do have coffee though, as well as tea." There was a bump behind them as a tractor hooked on to Galveston Lady's nosewheel and began to tow the aircraft over to the fuel storage area. It was one of the few things on the airfield that was heavily camouflaged and protected. The tanks themselves were underground and under a serious amount of concrete. That made Campbell think about the aircraft's cargo. "Flying your Lady must be like handling a bomb."
Summey shrugged, "It's not that bad. We haven't lost a fully-loaded M-ship yet although if a fully-loaded M does go in, it'll be quite a barbeque. We don’t usually come this far west so we don’t worry much about fascist fighters. We'll be making regular trips up here until this fuel thing gets sorted out though so that might change."
"Where's all this fuel coming from, Mickey? We heard 130 was running dry."
"B-29 groups. Eight of the twelve have been grounded, more or less. Just flying them enough to keep them in good condition and the balance of the fuel is coming up here. Have you heard the word? One of the reasons for the 130 shortage is that some refinery capacity is shifting over to 150-octane. We'll be giving 150-octane to the fighters once winter's over. And before you ask, it'll be dyed yellow. Bombers and attack aircraft will be staying with purple."
"That's the fascist jets I guess. They're giving us a hard time when they show up. Mess hall is through here. Come to think of it, ask the cooks if we have any bacon. The Russians might have given us some; they go out of the way to try and make us feel comfortable here. Just tell them you brought us extra gas."
Campbell showed his guest through the show line while he did some calculations. Galveston Lady had brought in enough 'purple fuel' to fill the internal tanks of 12 P-47Ns. He guessed that the C-54M had brought the fuel allocated to one B-29 for one mission, leaving some behind to keep the big bomber operational. That meant standing down the B-29 groups, even for a single mission would provide enough gas to fly 6,000 P-47 sorties. It was an impressive testament to the logistics commitment represented by the 8th Air Force's heavy bomber fleet. By the time he had reached that conclusion, they had reached the serving area and he heard Summey asking about bacon. The cook caught Campbell's eye and got a slight nod, authorizing the additional issue.
"He's just brought us five thousand gallons of gas" Campbell explained.
The cook looked much impressed. "Would you like some sausages as well, Sir?"
Outside, another C-54M was making its final approach.
Control Room, U-491, Due North of Flores, Azores
"We'd better clear out of here fast." Fehler had, everybody agreed, the right idea. The flying boat had come straight at them, out of the setting sun, and its attack had come very close to succeeding. The Martin had dropped four depth charges in a stick, neatly bracketing U-491. They would have inflicted fatal damage had the submarine been a normal U-boat but, ironically, its slow diving speed had saved it. U-491 had still been on the surface when the charges exploded but they had been fused to do so when they reached 75 feet, the depth the submarine was expected to reach during a crash dive. So, the cushion of water around the boat had protected it from mortal damage. The Martin had seen its target had survived but by the time it had circles around for another run, U-491 had submerged.
"That Martin will have called in his friends." Hecker looked up from the operations plot. "He still has four depth charges on board. If we move too fast we will give him an excuse to use them"
"Battery charge?" Fehler asked the question that bedeviled every submarine skipper.
"Eighty-eight percent. He got to us before we could finish recharging."
That was when Fehler had an inspiration. "There is a fast convoy going through. We had all the radio messages about it. They got U-2511 a couple of days ago. Or, at least she never reported in after signaling she was about to make an attack. They're 600 miles north of us but if we set off north, as fast as we can, our friendly Martin up there will think we are on our way to join in the attack. He'll drop his four charges on us. As soon as he does so, we go back to crawl speed, dive as far as we can and head west. He'll assume we are still heading north and send his friends to the wrong place."
Hecker looked at the charts spread out on the table. "We don’t want to make it too easy for him. I recommend we do a hard turn when we hear the depth charges hit the water. Then come back to the northerly course for a while. That will make it look as if we are determined to go north. Then we do the dive and crawl."
"We'll keep that second northerly leg as short as we can. Quite apart from anything else, we'll be draining charge trying to move fast."
"That should work, Captain."
"Then make it so."
U-491 accelerated sluggishly but she did pick up speed and, as she did so, the flow noise off her hull started to increase. The result was inevitable; she was picked up by sonobuoys dropped from the circling Martin Mariner. It took only a minute or two for the plotting room inside the flying boat to establish cross bearings from the buoys and nail down the position of the submarine. From inside U-491, the result was audible even over the weird flow noise from the submarine’s altered lines. Four splashes of depth charges hitting the water. To hear that noise meant the weapons had to be dangerously close.
They were; the explosions rocked U-491 in a vicious series of slams that caused the lighting to fail and water spray from vulnerable pipe fittings sprung by the shock. The crew reacted immediately, throwing the circuit breakers that had been disrupted" by the blasts and spinning the controls on valves.
“Speed to crawl, dive to three hundred meters, course, two-seven-zero. Damage report.” Fehler was aware that the rapid string of orders was hardly in official format but at this point he didn’t care very much. The lights came on again and the sigh of relief of the crew was audible. “Damage control party to the hangar, check the doors haven’t been sprung and the Kirschkerns are secured.”
“Forward engine room, Captain. We’re taking in water but we can handle it.”
“Torpedo room Captain. All secure.”
“Hangar, Captain. The Kirschkerns are secure and there is no leakage through the doors. The yardies did a good job.”
Fehler released a long sigh. “All right, continue heading west, on two-seven-zero. We’ll surface after dark and radio home a report.”
He relaxed again. Running the airbases in the Azores was the most dangerous part of a trans-Atlantic crossing. As long as one doesn’t get too close to Bermuda of course. That place is the Devil’s Triangle for U-boats. I wonder how that Martin found us? He flew almost straight to our position. I'll be glad to get the rest of this job over so we can stop dodging patrols. Then he shook himself slightly. He had started to think that it would be only a couple of days before they could complete their mission and go home. Then he had realized that once his Kirschkerns hit New York, he and his crew would be running for the rest of their lives.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, South of Narsarsuaq, Greenland.
"Oh no, not again." Dougie Young was hauled out of a sound and peaceful sleep that he had been enjoying for an unprecedented hour and a half by the raucous klaxon going off. Shawnee was going to general quarters again, for the third time in the day. Even while he was hauling himself out of his bunk, getting his feet into his sea-boots and trying to restore various parts of his brain and body to working condition, he was trying to work out what was happening this time. He went out through the hatch, on to the 20mm gallery before the bridge and into the tub that gave some measure of protection to the 20mm crew. By now, the complex procedures of readying the Oerlikon for combat without losing his fingers was automatic. He settled his shoulders into the rests and experimentally swung the gun around, checking for icing while he did so. It moved smoothly around before the bump that told him he had hit the stops. They prevented him from hitting Shawnee's superstructure. Hitting other ships was another matter; that was down to his own skill and he knew that it was tacitly accepted that, when air attacks started in earnest, ships would be hit and men killed by stray anti-aircraft fire.
"What's going on?" Chief Mate Ericsson was out on the gun gallery, one of his many responsibilities when the ship was at General Quarters. The shipping companies liked to point out how they ran ships the size of Shawnee with a few dozen men while the Navy had five times as many on identical ships but they didn't say how they achieved that was by working everybody very hard.
"Submarines. Again. Look out to sea, you can see the aircraft and a couple of DEs are doing the hunt. We call this area off Greenland where we make the turn for Iceland Hellfire Corner. There's always submarines out here."
Young kept swinging his 20mm gun around the sky. Ericsson watched him for a moment "Aren’t you going to watch the DEs do that sub?"
"I was thinking, Mr. Ericsson, that a sub-hunt like this would be a good time for the Hitlerites to sneak an air attack in. While everybody on the ships was watching the escorts."
Ericsson nodded both in agreement and in satisfaction at Young's perception. "They did that to us on CW-11. Their subs created a distraction then a group of Ju-188 torpedo bombers slipped in from dusk-side. Sank one merchant ship and crippled another. So, you keep swinging that gun lad, you're doing good."
Any further conversation ended abruptly with the warning scream from the klaxon, telling everybody within a good few miles of the news. "Torpedoes Inbound. Convoy evasion starboard NOW."
Young staggered against the gun tub as Shawnee made an emergency turn to starboard, a full 90 degrees that put the escorting destroyers and their hunt behind them. Young felt the slamming of the big tanker plowing through the waves pick up as she went to full speed and was visibly overhauling the ships on either side of her. He knew what that meant, the torpedoes were coming in from astern. Shawnee had presented her stern to them and was running fast to give the torpedoes the hardest possible target. He heard something else, the roar of a winch from the aft superstructure and the splash as the FOXER countermeasure was streamed. Despite all that, he was still swinging his gun, covering the sky arc against attack.
"The Old Lady can sure pick up her skirts and run!" Ericsson had his seaman's eye trained on the ships around them and the horizon. Years of experience gave him a highly satisfactory answer to the question he was asking himself. "I reckon we've got 25 knots on, possibly even 26. Not bad for a fully-loaded tanker."
"Woo-hooo." Young couldn’t help yelling in excitement; there was something immensely satisfying about running at full speed into a surging sea. The spray was stinging his face as Shawnee took green water over her bows and he guessed that the five-incher and the 40mm quad up there were untenable.
"Feels good doesn’t it lad. Now you know why John Paul Jones always wanted a fast ship."
"How do we know they're Gnats out there?" Young was curious about so much of the ship's operations that the question seemed critical, "and I thought that we couldn’t deploy FXR over 14 knots."
"We don’t know they aren’t. And the people who made that rule are safe ashore in Norfolk. We're probably OK, the Gnats only do 24 knots tops. We've left it behind us." His judgment was confirmed by a large explosion a couple of hundred yards behind them. "Ran out of fuel and sank itself. We'll be winching the FXR in soon." It was only then that Young realized that the Gnat had been homing in on their screws.
The sound of an explosion came unexpectedly, just as the crews on the merchant ships were starting to relax. One of the freighters over to port was slowing rapidly as a tower of water erupted against her side. Her sirens were already sounding in distress as she turned into the torpedo hit and started to list. It took her only a few second to come to a complete halt. By then, the white plume of the torpedo hit had been replaced by a black cloud of a shipboard fire.
"How the hell did the fascists manage that, Mr. Ericsson?" Young was shocked by the sight after having assumed they had evaded the torpedoes.
"It's what you said, Dougie. One submarine to distract us and lure the escorts away, a second to fire a spread into us as we turned. Add in that its smooth water down where that sub is, not the chop we have up here and there you are. One more load of food and ammunition won't be getting to Russia, even if she makes it to port."
They watched as a destroyer escort pulled alongside the stricken freighter and started to play its hoses on the fire. The smoke column quickly subsided and, by the time the ship had fallen back to the rear of the convoy, she was starting to move again. One of the Canadian destroyers took station by her, obviously preparing to escort the damaged ship to port.
"They're lucky." Ericsson looked at the scene as the damaged ship got underway. "We're able to do that here, these are still reasonably friendly waters. Once we're running up the coats of Norway, ship that gets slowed down like that is on her own. They can’t risk a whole convoy for a single ship. Not even a tanker. You done good here, Lad, I have to go to the bridge."
Ericsson left the 20mm gallery and made his way up to the bridge where Captain Brady was watching the efforts to save the torpedoed freighter. "Bad news, Carl. I thought we had got away with that."
"So did I, Sir. Sir, we have Young listed as an experienced deckhand don't we?"
"We do, and we have the money in the crew budget for an extra Able Seaman. Carrying an unusual number of apprentices will do that. You think he'll make the grade?"
"Said it as soon as I met him. He's picked up a lot since we told him he'd finished his apprenticeship and he's a good learner. He'll do well with a bit of seasoning."
"Good, tell him we’ve punched his ticket when we secure from GQ. And Carl?"
"Sir?"
"Five bucks says he'll want to send all the extra pay to his wife."
Ericsson laughed at that. "No bet there, Captain. Rock hard certainty I'd say."
404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Korovkinskaya-896 was primarily a fighter base but four-engined aircraft did land occasionally. So, while the C-54 that landed just after dawn wasn't precisely unusual but it was interesting enough to draw people around to watch it taxi in. It quickly became apparent that this wasn't one of the normal C-54s that made up the bulk of the aircraft on the Air Bridge. Quite apart from its different paint scheme, this aircraft had no windows in its fuselage.
"Colonel Daniel Campbell?" The pilot of the C-54 saluted as he climbed out of his aircraft. "Captain Summey. I've brought you 5,000 gallons of purple gas."
"I'd say that's close to being a gift from the Gods, Captain. Welcome to Korovkinskaya-896. Things were getting pretty dry around here. Purple gas?"
"It’s a new thing from the logistics people. 130-octane aviation gas is dyed purple, 100-octane avgas is green and 87-octane is blue. Motor fuel is red. People were getting the wrong stuff and we lost a couple of aircraft as a result. C-46s really do not like being given the wrong gas. So the refineries have been ordered to dye it. Anyway, if you can tow Galveston Lady over to the apron, Sir, we can pump your fuel out.
"Not drums? I don’t think we have suitable pumps here."
"We got the pump, Sir. Standard fitting where the aft doors used to be. This is a C-54M, does nothing but haul fuel. The old C-54As had provision for four long-range tanks in the fuselage but later marks replaced them with extra wing tanks. We have 12 of those surplus fuselage tanks, all permanent fixtures, and a pump. All you need to provide is a hose to your storage tanks. By the way, Colonel, if you can gas us up with blue while we're here, we'd surely appreciate. It's a long way from here to there in Russia and I don't like being short of fuel."
"It surely is, Captain. You say blue gas? 87?"
"Sure, the C-54s have R-2000s, they run quite happily on 87. It’s the C-69s and C-46s with R-2800s and 3350s that have to use the richer stuff. They're not being used much either right now."
"I thought I hadn't seen the 46s around recently. I'm Dan by the way. The mess hall is serving breakfast if you're hungry. We can get out of the cold as well."
"I'm Mickey. Bacon and eggs?" Summey looked hopeful.
"Sorry, Mickey. Porridge, well, Russian kasha, black bread and sausage. We haven't seen fresh eggs here for a long time. We do have coffee though, as well as tea." There was a bump behind them as a tractor hooked on to Galveston Lady's nosewheel and began to tow the aircraft over to the fuel storage area. It was one of the few things on the airfield that was heavily camouflaged and protected. The tanks themselves were underground and under a serious amount of concrete. That made Campbell think about the aircraft's cargo. "Flying your Lady must be like handling a bomb."
Summey shrugged, "It's not that bad. We haven't lost a fully-loaded M-ship yet although if a fully-loaded M does go in, it'll be quite a barbeque. We don’t usually come this far west so we don’t worry much about fascist fighters. We'll be making regular trips up here until this fuel thing gets sorted out though so that might change."
"Where's all this fuel coming from, Mickey? We heard 130 was running dry."
"B-29 groups. Eight of the twelve have been grounded, more or less. Just flying them enough to keep them in good condition and the balance of the fuel is coming up here. Have you heard the word? One of the reasons for the 130 shortage is that some refinery capacity is shifting over to 150-octane. We'll be giving 150-octane to the fighters once winter's over. And before you ask, it'll be dyed yellow. Bombers and attack aircraft will be staying with purple."
"That's the fascist jets I guess. They're giving us a hard time when they show up. Mess hall is through here. Come to think of it, ask the cooks if we have any bacon. The Russians might have given us some; they go out of the way to try and make us feel comfortable here. Just tell them you brought us extra gas."
Campbell showed his guest through the show line while he did some calculations. Galveston Lady had brought in enough 'purple fuel' to fill the internal tanks of 12 P-47Ns. He guessed that the C-54M had brought the fuel allocated to one B-29 for one mission, leaving some behind to keep the big bomber operational. That meant standing down the B-29 groups, even for a single mission would provide enough gas to fly 6,000 P-47 sorties. It was an impressive testament to the logistics commitment represented by the 8th Air Force's heavy bomber fleet. By the time he had reached that conclusion, they had reached the serving area and he heard Summey asking about bacon. The cook caught Campbell's eye and got a slight nod, authorizing the additional issue.
"He's just brought us five thousand gallons of gas" Campbell explained.
The cook looked much impressed. "Would you like some sausages as well, Sir?"
Outside, another C-54M was making its final approach.
Control Room, U-491, Due North of Flores, Azores
"We'd better clear out of here fast." Fehler had, everybody agreed, the right idea. The flying boat had come straight at them, out of the setting sun, and its attack had come very close to succeeding. The Martin had dropped four depth charges in a stick, neatly bracketing U-491. They would have inflicted fatal damage had the submarine been a normal U-boat but, ironically, its slow diving speed had saved it. U-491 had still been on the surface when the charges exploded but they had been fused to do so when they reached 75 feet, the depth the submarine was expected to reach during a crash dive. So, the cushion of water around the boat had protected it from mortal damage. The Martin had seen its target had survived but by the time it had circles around for another run, U-491 had submerged.
"That Martin will have called in his friends." Hecker looked up from the operations plot. "He still has four depth charges on board. If we move too fast we will give him an excuse to use them"
"Battery charge?" Fehler asked the question that bedeviled every submarine skipper.
"Eighty-eight percent. He got to us before we could finish recharging."
That was when Fehler had an inspiration. "There is a fast convoy going through. We had all the radio messages about it. They got U-2511 a couple of days ago. Or, at least she never reported in after signaling she was about to make an attack. They're 600 miles north of us but if we set off north, as fast as we can, our friendly Martin up there will think we are on our way to join in the attack. He'll drop his four charges on us. As soon as he does so, we go back to crawl speed, dive as far as we can and head west. He'll assume we are still heading north and send his friends to the wrong place."
Hecker looked at the charts spread out on the table. "We don’t want to make it too easy for him. I recommend we do a hard turn when we hear the depth charges hit the water. Then come back to the northerly course for a while. That will make it look as if we are determined to go north. Then we do the dive and crawl."
"We'll keep that second northerly leg as short as we can. Quite apart from anything else, we'll be draining charge trying to move fast."
"That should work, Captain."
"Then make it so."
U-491 accelerated sluggishly but she did pick up speed and, as she did so, the flow noise off her hull started to increase. The result was inevitable; she was picked up by sonobuoys dropped from the circling Martin Mariner. It took only a minute or two for the plotting room inside the flying boat to establish cross bearings from the buoys and nail down the position of the submarine. From inside U-491, the result was audible even over the weird flow noise from the submarine’s altered lines. Four splashes of depth charges hitting the water. To hear that noise meant the weapons had to be dangerously close.
They were; the explosions rocked U-491 in a vicious series of slams that caused the lighting to fail and water spray from vulnerable pipe fittings sprung by the shock. The crew reacted immediately, throwing the circuit breakers that had been disrupted" by the blasts and spinning the controls on valves.
“Speed to crawl, dive to three hundred meters, course, two-seven-zero. Damage report.” Fehler was aware that the rapid string of orders was hardly in official format but at this point he didn’t care very much. The lights came on again and the sigh of relief of the crew was audible. “Damage control party to the hangar, check the doors haven’t been sprung and the Kirschkerns are secured.”
“Forward engine room, Captain. We’re taking in water but we can handle it.”
“Torpedo room Captain. All secure.”
“Hangar, Captain. The Kirschkerns are secure and there is no leakage through the doors. The yardies did a good job.”
Fehler released a long sigh. “All right, continue heading west, on two-seven-zero. We’ll surface after dark and radio home a report.”
He relaxed again. Running the airbases in the Azores was the most dangerous part of a trans-Atlantic crossing. As long as one doesn’t get too close to Bermuda of course. That place is the Devil’s Triangle for U-boats. I wonder how that Martin found us? He flew almost straight to our position. I'll be glad to get the rest of this job over so we can stop dodging patrols. Then he shook himself slightly. He had started to think that it would be only a couple of days before they could complete their mission and go home. Then he had realized that once his Kirschkerns hit New York, he and his crew would be running for the rest of their lives.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, South of Narsarsuaq, Greenland.
"Oh no, not again." Dougie Young was hauled out of a sound and peaceful sleep that he had been enjoying for an unprecedented hour and a half by the raucous klaxon going off. Shawnee was going to general quarters again, for the third time in the day. Even while he was hauling himself out of his bunk, getting his feet into his sea-boots and trying to restore various parts of his brain and body to working condition, he was trying to work out what was happening this time. He went out through the hatch, on to the 20mm gallery before the bridge and into the tub that gave some measure of protection to the 20mm crew. By now, the complex procedures of readying the Oerlikon for combat without losing his fingers was automatic. He settled his shoulders into the rests and experimentally swung the gun around, checking for icing while he did so. It moved smoothly around before the bump that told him he had hit the stops. They prevented him from hitting Shawnee's superstructure. Hitting other ships was another matter; that was down to his own skill and he knew that it was tacitly accepted that, when air attacks started in earnest, ships would be hit and men killed by stray anti-aircraft fire.
"What's going on?" Chief Mate Ericsson was out on the gun gallery, one of his many responsibilities when the ship was at General Quarters. The shipping companies liked to point out how they ran ships the size of Shawnee with a few dozen men while the Navy had five times as many on identical ships but they didn't say how they achieved that was by working everybody very hard.
"Submarines. Again. Look out to sea, you can see the aircraft and a couple of DEs are doing the hunt. We call this area off Greenland where we make the turn for Iceland Hellfire Corner. There's always submarines out here."
Young kept swinging his 20mm gun around the sky. Ericsson watched him for a moment "Aren’t you going to watch the DEs do that sub?"
"I was thinking, Mr. Ericsson, that a sub-hunt like this would be a good time for the Hitlerites to sneak an air attack in. While everybody on the ships was watching the escorts."
Ericsson nodded both in agreement and in satisfaction at Young's perception. "They did that to us on CW-11. Their subs created a distraction then a group of Ju-188 torpedo bombers slipped in from dusk-side. Sank one merchant ship and crippled another. So, you keep swinging that gun lad, you're doing good."
Any further conversation ended abruptly with the warning scream from the klaxon, telling everybody within a good few miles of the news. "Torpedoes Inbound. Convoy evasion starboard NOW."
Young staggered against the gun tub as Shawnee made an emergency turn to starboard, a full 90 degrees that put the escorting destroyers and their hunt behind them. Young felt the slamming of the big tanker plowing through the waves pick up as she went to full speed and was visibly overhauling the ships on either side of her. He knew what that meant, the torpedoes were coming in from astern. Shawnee had presented her stern to them and was running fast to give the torpedoes the hardest possible target. He heard something else, the roar of a winch from the aft superstructure and the splash as the FOXER countermeasure was streamed. Despite all that, he was still swinging his gun, covering the sky arc against attack.
"The Old Lady can sure pick up her skirts and run!" Ericsson had his seaman's eye trained on the ships around them and the horizon. Years of experience gave him a highly satisfactory answer to the question he was asking himself. "I reckon we've got 25 knots on, possibly even 26. Not bad for a fully-loaded tanker."
"Woo-hooo." Young couldn’t help yelling in excitement; there was something immensely satisfying about running at full speed into a surging sea. The spray was stinging his face as Shawnee took green water over her bows and he guessed that the five-incher and the 40mm quad up there were untenable.
"Feels good doesn’t it lad. Now you know why John Paul Jones always wanted a fast ship."
"How do we know they're Gnats out there?" Young was curious about so much of the ship's operations that the question seemed critical, "and I thought that we couldn’t deploy FXR over 14 knots."
"We don’t know they aren’t. And the people who made that rule are safe ashore in Norfolk. We're probably OK, the Gnats only do 24 knots tops. We've left it behind us." His judgment was confirmed by a large explosion a couple of hundred yards behind them. "Ran out of fuel and sank itself. We'll be winching the FXR in soon." It was only then that Young realized that the Gnat had been homing in on their screws.
The sound of an explosion came unexpectedly, just as the crews on the merchant ships were starting to relax. One of the freighters over to port was slowing rapidly as a tower of water erupted against her side. Her sirens were already sounding in distress as she turned into the torpedo hit and started to list. It took her only a few second to come to a complete halt. By then, the white plume of the torpedo hit had been replaced by a black cloud of a shipboard fire.
"How the hell did the fascists manage that, Mr. Ericsson?" Young was shocked by the sight after having assumed they had evaded the torpedoes.
"It's what you said, Dougie. One submarine to distract us and lure the escorts away, a second to fire a spread into us as we turned. Add in that its smooth water down where that sub is, not the chop we have up here and there you are. One more load of food and ammunition won't be getting to Russia, even if she makes it to port."
They watched as a destroyer escort pulled alongside the stricken freighter and started to play its hoses on the fire. The smoke column quickly subsided and, by the time the ship had fallen back to the rear of the convoy, she was starting to move again. One of the Canadian destroyers took station by her, obviously preparing to escort the damaged ship to port.
"They're lucky." Ericsson looked at the scene as the damaged ship got underway. "We're able to do that here, these are still reasonably friendly waters. Once we're running up the coats of Norway, ship that gets slowed down like that is on her own. They can’t risk a whole convoy for a single ship. Not even a tanker. You done good here, Lad, I have to go to the bridge."
Ericsson left the 20mm gallery and made his way up to the bridge where Captain Brady was watching the efforts to save the torpedoed freighter. "Bad news, Carl. I thought we had got away with that."
"So did I, Sir. Sir, we have Young listed as an experienced deckhand don't we?"
"We do, and we have the money in the crew budget for an extra Able Seaman. Carrying an unusual number of apprentices will do that. You think he'll make the grade?"
"Said it as soon as I met him. He's picked up a lot since we told him he'd finished his apprenticeship and he's a good learner. He'll do well with a bit of seasoning."
"Good, tell him we’ve punched his ticket when we secure from GQ. And Carl?"
"Sir?"
"Five bucks says he'll want to send all the extra pay to his wife."
Ericsson laughed at that. "No bet there, Captain. Rock hard certainty I'd say."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty Eight
38/38 Orlovskaya, Sverdlovsk Prospekt, Yekaterinburg, Russia
Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva strode out of her home on the way to work in the tank construction plant. There were ledgers to be balanced and decisions to be documented. The self-righteous attitude she had carefully cultivated all her adult life seemed to flow outwards from her. After her blazing fight with her daughter the night before last, she had convinced herself that she had been totally in the right and that no sane person could possibly see otherwise. Therefore, the significance of the black limousine that was waiting on the road outside her house completely escaped her.
"Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva, your presence is required before a Tribunal." Evgeni Mihailovich Bessonov pronounced the dreaded words in a voice that was redolent with impending doom. He had been in urgent contact with his superiors to alert them to the defamatory stories that were being spread about female soldiers fighting on the front line. What he had not known was that he was only one of a number of Zampolits who had registered their concern with their superiors on the matter. With more than 800,000 women serving in the Russian Armed Forces, as pilots, snipers, machine gunners, tank crew members and partisans, as well as in auxiliary roles, they constituted roughly 5 percent of total military personnel. Nearly 200,000 had already been decorated and 89 of them so far had received Russia's highest award, the Hero of the Soviet Union or (later) Hero of the Rodina. Much more to the point, after the dreadful casualties in 1941 and 1942, they were filling gaps in the units that would otherwise be gravely weakened. The last thing the Russian Army needed was for that flow of volunteers to be shut down. Faina's mother was about to discover she was a leading candidate in CheKa's campaign to silence the critics of those heroic and patriotic women.
The driver of the CheKa vehicle was Chekist Aleksandr Nikitich Nasonkin. As a child he had suffered a severe attack of conjunctivitis that doctors had feared would leave him blind. He had recovered, but the illness had left him with staring, watery eyes that combined with their piercing light blue to make his gaze frightening to behold. He was a natural for CheKa. In fact, he was a kindly and generous man, always willing to stand in for a comrade who needed some extra time off to deal with a personal matter or to cope with a family emergency. If a younger comrade needed advice or assistance, it was Tovarish Aleksandr Nikitich to whom they turned. When woman had started to appear in the Chekist ranks, they found Nasonkin to be a fatherly figure who would assist them in adapting to their new environment and advise them on furthering their careers. What most of his comrades did not know was that his wife and son had been killed in the early days of the Hitlerite invasion. His daughter had escaped and was believed to have joined the Partisans but no word on her had been received since 1942. She was presumed dead but there was still a chance she might have survived. Nasonkin clung to that slight chance with what was very close to desperation.
So it was that the gaze that Nasonkin focused on Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva was neither friendly nor comforting. He continued the steady gaze as she was placed in the back seat of the limousine with a Chekist guard on either side of her. If she had not been aware of how much trouble she was in before, those two guards should have made certain she did now yet she was oblivious to the meanings of their presence. All around the limousine, curious eyes peered out from behind curtains or sneaked looks at the arrest as they walked past. Very carefully did they look because the last thing they wanted to do was to attract the attention of the Chekists. Overall, they were very grateful when the black vehicle pulled away and life in Orlovskaya could return to normal.
It took only a few minutes to drive to the grim block that marked CheKa headquarters in Yekaterinburg. Afanaeva spent that time asking what was happening and trying to tell the four Chekists in the car that they had made a mistake. She received not a word in reply. The two officers in the front seat stared fixedly ahead through the windscreen, the two guards in the back also said nothing and stared through the windows on their respective sides. They didn't even move when the wooden gates opened and the limousine drove past them to the courtyard beyond. It stopped in front of the two great wooden doors that marked the main entrance to the building. Afanaeva tried to refuse to leave the vehicle but she was roughly dragged out and taken, a guard on each side of her and holding her arms, through the doors and down a corridor to a bare room. It had no windows, no clock or furniture. All Afanaeva could do was to sit on the floor amid her fears and wait for the situation to change. It would be a long time before it did.
As she sat in the cold, empty room, Afanaeva's assurance and self-righteousness ebbed out of her. What she did not know was that while she sat there, spiraling downwards into fear and misery, she was also the center of a hive of activity. Her CheKa file, every Russian citizen had one, had been delivered and was being carefully read by members of the Tribunal. To the perceptive, the fact that those files were not, and never had been, stored in Moskva was significant. The personal and military files of Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova had also been delivered and were being read with equal care. On the latter, the first thing that members of the Tribunal saw were her medals, represented by paper images carefully glued to the cover. They also noted that she had lied about her age in order to serve the Rodina. A fault to be sure, but it was a small one that served the greater good and was thus allowable.
Once the Tribunal had a clear picture of the key participants in this situation, they proceeded to examine the submissions that placed the case within the greater context of what was happening. This was the difference between a CheKa Tribunal and a trial. A trial was to determine guilt or innocence. Before the Tribunal, that issue had already been decided. It was the work of the Tribunal to consider the situation in its larger context. They were tasked not only with the larger context of this particular case but also formulating plans to deal with the underlying problem. That, they all knew, would be the tricky bit.
Eventually, Afanaeva was brought from her cell to the Tribunal Room and stood before the five members of the tribunal. The Chairman started the proceedings. "Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva, you are charged with sabotage, conspiracy to demoralize the defenders of the Rodina and spreading enemy propaganda."
At last, Afanaeva understood just how much trouble she was in. All three charges made against her could carry the death penalty and the only bright side was she could not be executed three times. Although sufficiently motivated, Chekists had the skills to make it seem like she could. She looked around, horrified at the personal disaster that was enfolding her. "But I, I only said what everybody was saying . . . "
"Evgeni Mihailovich Bessonov. What are the facts of this case?"
"Comrades, the accused tried to force her daughter not to wear her uniform and medals when responding to the Artillerists Toast. When Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova stood her ground and refused to obey her mother’s instructions, she was accused of immorality in contravention to good order and discipline. Then the accused claimed that the Army deliberately prostituted the woman in its units to male soldiers." Bessonov went on to describe Faina's career, emphasizing her faithful Party membership, her volunteer work for the Young Komsomol and her gallantry in action. He read the citation for her medals and told of the time he had personally seen when her '85' had been hit. Despite the ‘85’ burning she had gone back into the flames and pulled the injured loader from the wrecked fighting compartment and out through her driver's hatch. He stressed how she was admired and respected by the crew of her vehicle and her other comrades and how there was no hint of impropriety in her behavior. "And we would know if there was," he reminded the Tribunal. "Women in the tank and tank destroyer crews are seen as sisters by their brat'ya and true proletarian brothers do not prostitute their sisters."
By the time Bessonov had finished his testimony, Afanaeva was weeping. She had never understood how dangerous her daughter's work was or how well respected she was in her unit. She also knew that her guilt was not in doubt since the Tribunal was being held to determine punishment not establish guilt. She just looked helplessly around her and whimpered “But I was just saying what everybody else says.”
The chairman of the Tribunal looked at her coldly. "Just because somebody else says something incredibly stupid, does not make you saying the same thing any the less incredibly stupid. It was your duty to speak up for your daughter, to defend her honor and, by extension, the honor of every Russian woman who serves on the Front to defend the Rodina. We find you guilty and will now discuss the penalty appropriate to your crimes."
As it happened, Afanaeva left the Tribunal alive and she had Faina's unblemished record to thank for that. Her residence in Yekaterinburg was revoked, her position at the Tank factory filled by another, more reliable, candidate, as it happened a Frontoviki who had lost one of her legs in the fighting around Samarra. The new worker had already been awarded Afanaeva's house and furniture. Instead of being shot out-of-hand, Afanaeva was sentenced to internal exile and assigned to an agricultural Kolkhoz down by Samarra. There she would work as unskilled labor in the fields and sleep in a communal barracks. There, she would find out, soon enough, that the fields had been a battleground and were still in artillery range of the fascist guns. Then, she would get a taste of the dangers her daughter had volunteered to face every day.
Railway Yard, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
"Backing Up," Faina shouted out the warning and sounded the horn before putting her SU-100 into reverse. Neatly and efficiently, she backed it up on to the railway low-loader, leaving enough space for a second SU-100 to be parked to the rear. There was a whine as the gun was elevated to maximum so that the vehicles would be nested properly. The train that would eventually take them to Yemtsa and then Porog had enough low-loaders for all the vehicles of the reconstituted 1435th and railway carriages for the personnel.
“Two days and we will be back home, tovarish Captain.” Pakholkov nodded sympathetically. News of the way Faina had been treated by her mother had spread through the 1435th and its members were doing their best to support her.
“I have a task to ask of you, bratishka.” He noted her back straighten slightly and her eyes shine at the use of the familiar term ‘brother’ for those who had served and killed fascists together. “We will have many new drivers joining us, some of whom have only a single hour training. I would ask you to take on the role of Senior Driver of the regiment, to train those drugs in how to handle a tank destroyer.”
“I serve the Rodina.” Faina snapped out the familiar acknowledgement. Then she grinned, for the first time since the row with her mother. “Thank you, Mikhail Prokopyevich. Now, I am again exactly where I want to be.”
“You have visitors, Fainachka.” Pakholkov indicated a small group of three men from the factory who were walking along the lines of railway wagons. They asked one of the men standing around watching the vehicles loading and saw him point to where she was standing. When they arrived, she saw their leader as the man who had asked the question about where she slept. Now he was rolling his cap in his hands. She also noted his black eye, mashed lips and apparently broken nose. None of his companions were in any better condition.
“Tovarish Sergeant-Driver, I, we, we all owe you a great apology. We believed slanderous stories that we should not have believed and we did not beat those who told them as we should have done. We should have never repeated them and we deserved to be beaten for doing so. May we please ask you for your forgiveness even though we do not deserve it?”
“We all make mistakes, tovarish. The great thing is to learn from them and not repeat them.” Faina tried to look severe but a great weight that had been lifted off her soul by the apology. She suspected, quite correctly, that the factory political officer had ‘counseled’ these men and the others who had been repeating stories about ‘Front Wives’ very, very sincerely and with great vigor.
“Thank you, tovarish. May we give you a small present? We hear that you told your mother you would crush her skull with a track wrench if she told such stories again. Please accept this. It is a track wrench from a IS-2. Much heavier than the one from a T-34.”
He held out a track wrench with a red ribbon tied in a bow around it. Faina took it gravely, weighed it in her hand and then slapped it on the palm of her other hand. “A fine wrench indeed and heavy. Brat’ya, I will dedicate the first fascist skull I crush with this wrench to you.”
A cheer went up at the vow and the men left, with noticeable relief. Faina carefully stowed the wrench by her driver’s seat and then locked the hatch down. Above her, the SU-100’s new commander, Nikola Ilyich Demkin, was doing the same with the hatches on top of the fighting compartment. He gave her a polite wave since, being a sensible man, he knew that he might be the commander of the ‘100’ and her superior in rank but the SU-100 was her vehicle. “Bratishka, have you seen the train on the siding next to ours?”
“No, tovarish Praporshchik. Is it something special?”
“Wrecked vehicles recovered from the fighting. A mix of ours and those we captured from the fascists. Every month, a few less of ours, a few more of theirs. There is a big Tiger there, an IS-2 ambushed it and knocked it out with a shot to the side. It is worth a look if you have time. We are not due to depart for at least three hours.”
“Thank you Nikola Ilyich, I will do that.” She had seen the huge Tiger IIs before but only from a great distance. She decided to take the chance to see one close-up before the wreck went into the great blast furnaces that would reduce them to molten steel for new tank production. She clambered down off the railway low-loader and joined her gunner, Vasily Andreyevich, to go and look at the wrecked Tiger. From his point of view, this was a professional viewing. He wanted to know exactly where to put a shot that so that it would penetrate the monster.
Füsilier-Battalion 214, Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
“There is no doubt about it. If we stay here, the Ivans will pound us until we are defenseless and then they will close in and wipe us out.” Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz looked around. The constant artillery fire from the Ivans on the other side of the frozen river had seen Füsilier-Battalion 214 reduced from a pair of under-strength companies to one. The airstrikes hadn’t done much more damage to the infantry but had knocked out all but two Panthers and a single half-track. “We have to break out now.”
“I agree.” Panzer grenadier Lieutenant Ackermann had just finished taking an inventory of the supplies and ammunition left in his unit. “We are almost out of fuel and ammunition. Food also.”
“Situation normal then.” Major Rüdiger Kohlhase looked around somewhat mournfully. He was in command of the small pocket but knew that the desperate situation required an officer’s conference. “My Panthers are almost dry and we have AP shot only. We’ll be all right if the Ivans send tanks, the first time anyway, but after that? Or if they just use infantry? We are done.”
“Herr Maior, just how much fuel do we have? Can we get anything moving?” Ackermann was trying to come up with a plan that would use what few assets they had left.
Kohlhase thought carefully about that. “The Panthers can move a kilometer or so each. If we drain them and use the fuel for your Hanomag, we can probably get it back to our lines. That would mean blowing the Panthers up.”
“If we get the Hanomag moving, we can put the wounded inside and get them out. Otherwise, we would have to leave them behind as well.” Renz had made a strong point and everybody knew it.
“Agreed.” Kohlhase’s voice was decisive. “We’ll drain the Panthers and rig them to blow. Ackermann, once we have the fuel, fill your Hanomag and get it ready to move. Renz, you take charge of collecting the wounded and loading them up. If there are too many, you’ll have to pick the ones who can’t walk but will recover. There’s no point in getting a man out who will die anyway if it means leaving behind one who will recover.”
It was a hard decision to make but everybody knew it was the right one. The orders were issued, then the conference resumed. “Where do we go and how?”
“I suggest we go south of southwest, Herr Maior.” Ackermann had been studying the maps ever since the meeting had been called. “It is relatively open ground but one with lines of single trees that give us some cover. When the forest closes in, it will be only five hundred meters of heavy going until we break out into the semi-open again. Once we have done that, we can reach the lakeshore and follow that south until we rejoin our own lines.”
There was a long pause while the proposed escape route was examined on each officer’s maps. Eventually Renz spoke up. “It is a good plan, Klaus, but it is a long way around. Could we not achieve the same by heading north-west, following the bank of the river? It will be half as far and the ground is easier.”
“I thought of that, yes, but I see two problems. One is that it is indeed the obvious way to go. The Ivans will see it as well and have a blocking force in place. Probably, it is already there. We are in no condition to fight a pitched battle against an organized block. Also, that way leads directly to Onega itself. We know how hard the Ivans fight to defend their towns. We are likely to hit strong resistance all the way.
“My other issue is that the river has now frozen over. It will no longer protect our flank. We will be a column moving along it and the Ivans can cross on the ice and attack us. That will be a bitter fight that we are sure to lose. By going inland we will be taken the route less travelled and that exposes us to lower risk.”
They were good points and well-made. Renz was nodding slowly. He could see how the dangers Ackermann foresaw could easily become a very ugly reality. The thought of Ivan tanks and infantry slicing into the column as it retreated was chilling. It was something that the German Army had seen too often. Once, in 1939, the German Army had made great propaganda play of Polish cavalry charging German positions. That was ‘then’ and since ‘then’ the German Army had learned that cavalry units, properly supported, and properly handled, could inflict savage carnage on columns trying to escape encirclement.
“Klaus is right, Herr Maior. Following the river has many risks that his proposal does not.”
Kohlhase was weighing the balance between a shorter easier route and a longer but better-placed escape. Eventually, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “Lieutenant Ackermann, your plan is, on balance, the better one. We will adopt the route you suggest. We will move out in one hour. That will give us as much darkness as possible before the Ivans realize we are evacuating.”
Everybody had noticed one thing. Nobody had suggested radioing in to headquarters to alert them of the plan. The danger that they would be ordered to stay where they were was too great to be contemplated.
38/38 Orlovskaya, Sverdlovsk Prospekt, Yekaterinburg, Russia
Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva strode out of her home on the way to work in the tank construction plant. There were ledgers to be balanced and decisions to be documented. The self-righteous attitude she had carefully cultivated all her adult life seemed to flow outwards from her. After her blazing fight with her daughter the night before last, she had convinced herself that she had been totally in the right and that no sane person could possibly see otherwise. Therefore, the significance of the black limousine that was waiting on the road outside her house completely escaped her.
"Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva, your presence is required before a Tribunal." Evgeni Mihailovich Bessonov pronounced the dreaded words in a voice that was redolent with impending doom. He had been in urgent contact with his superiors to alert them to the defamatory stories that were being spread about female soldiers fighting on the front line. What he had not known was that he was only one of a number of Zampolits who had registered their concern with their superiors on the matter. With more than 800,000 women serving in the Russian Armed Forces, as pilots, snipers, machine gunners, tank crew members and partisans, as well as in auxiliary roles, they constituted roughly 5 percent of total military personnel. Nearly 200,000 had already been decorated and 89 of them so far had received Russia's highest award, the Hero of the Soviet Union or (later) Hero of the Rodina. Much more to the point, after the dreadful casualties in 1941 and 1942, they were filling gaps in the units that would otherwise be gravely weakened. The last thing the Russian Army needed was for that flow of volunteers to be shut down. Faina's mother was about to discover she was a leading candidate in CheKa's campaign to silence the critics of those heroic and patriotic women.
The driver of the CheKa vehicle was Chekist Aleksandr Nikitich Nasonkin. As a child he had suffered a severe attack of conjunctivitis that doctors had feared would leave him blind. He had recovered, but the illness had left him with staring, watery eyes that combined with their piercing light blue to make his gaze frightening to behold. He was a natural for CheKa. In fact, he was a kindly and generous man, always willing to stand in for a comrade who needed some extra time off to deal with a personal matter or to cope with a family emergency. If a younger comrade needed advice or assistance, it was Tovarish Aleksandr Nikitich to whom they turned. When woman had started to appear in the Chekist ranks, they found Nasonkin to be a fatherly figure who would assist them in adapting to their new environment and advise them on furthering their careers. What most of his comrades did not know was that his wife and son had been killed in the early days of the Hitlerite invasion. His daughter had escaped and was believed to have joined the Partisans but no word on her had been received since 1942. She was presumed dead but there was still a chance she might have survived. Nasonkin clung to that slight chance with what was very close to desperation.
So it was that the gaze that Nasonkin focused on Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva was neither friendly nor comforting. He continued the steady gaze as she was placed in the back seat of the limousine with a Chekist guard on either side of her. If she had not been aware of how much trouble she was in before, those two guards should have made certain she did now yet she was oblivious to the meanings of their presence. All around the limousine, curious eyes peered out from behind curtains or sneaked looks at the arrest as they walked past. Very carefully did they look because the last thing they wanted to do was to attract the attention of the Chekists. Overall, they were very grateful when the black vehicle pulled away and life in Orlovskaya could return to normal.
It took only a few minutes to drive to the grim block that marked CheKa headquarters in Yekaterinburg. Afanaeva spent that time asking what was happening and trying to tell the four Chekists in the car that they had made a mistake. She received not a word in reply. The two officers in the front seat stared fixedly ahead through the windscreen, the two guards in the back also said nothing and stared through the windows on their respective sides. They didn't even move when the wooden gates opened and the limousine drove past them to the courtyard beyond. It stopped in front of the two great wooden doors that marked the main entrance to the building. Afanaeva tried to refuse to leave the vehicle but she was roughly dragged out and taken, a guard on each side of her and holding her arms, through the doors and down a corridor to a bare room. It had no windows, no clock or furniture. All Afanaeva could do was to sit on the floor amid her fears and wait for the situation to change. It would be a long time before it did.
As she sat in the cold, empty room, Afanaeva's assurance and self-righteousness ebbed out of her. What she did not know was that while she sat there, spiraling downwards into fear and misery, she was also the center of a hive of activity. Her CheKa file, every Russian citizen had one, had been delivered and was being carefully read by members of the Tribunal. To the perceptive, the fact that those files were not, and never had been, stored in Moskva was significant. The personal and military files of Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova had also been delivered and were being read with equal care. On the latter, the first thing that members of the Tribunal saw were her medals, represented by paper images carefully glued to the cover. They also noted that she had lied about her age in order to serve the Rodina. A fault to be sure, but it was a small one that served the greater good and was thus allowable.
Once the Tribunal had a clear picture of the key participants in this situation, they proceeded to examine the submissions that placed the case within the greater context of what was happening. This was the difference between a CheKa Tribunal and a trial. A trial was to determine guilt or innocence. Before the Tribunal, that issue had already been decided. It was the work of the Tribunal to consider the situation in its larger context. They were tasked not only with the larger context of this particular case but also formulating plans to deal with the underlying problem. That, they all knew, would be the tricky bit.
Eventually, Afanaeva was brought from her cell to the Tribunal Room and stood before the five members of the tribunal. The Chairman started the proceedings. "Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva, you are charged with sabotage, conspiracy to demoralize the defenders of the Rodina and spreading enemy propaganda."
At last, Afanaeva understood just how much trouble she was in. All three charges made against her could carry the death penalty and the only bright side was she could not be executed three times. Although sufficiently motivated, Chekists had the skills to make it seem like she could. She looked around, horrified at the personal disaster that was enfolding her. "But I, I only said what everybody was saying . . . "
"Evgeni Mihailovich Bessonov. What are the facts of this case?"
"Comrades, the accused tried to force her daughter not to wear her uniform and medals when responding to the Artillerists Toast. When Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova stood her ground and refused to obey her mother’s instructions, she was accused of immorality in contravention to good order and discipline. Then the accused claimed that the Army deliberately prostituted the woman in its units to male soldiers." Bessonov went on to describe Faina's career, emphasizing her faithful Party membership, her volunteer work for the Young Komsomol and her gallantry in action. He read the citation for her medals and told of the time he had personally seen when her '85' had been hit. Despite the ‘85’ burning she had gone back into the flames and pulled the injured loader from the wrecked fighting compartment and out through her driver's hatch. He stressed how she was admired and respected by the crew of her vehicle and her other comrades and how there was no hint of impropriety in her behavior. "And we would know if there was," he reminded the Tribunal. "Women in the tank and tank destroyer crews are seen as sisters by their brat'ya and true proletarian brothers do not prostitute their sisters."
By the time Bessonov had finished his testimony, Afanaeva was weeping. She had never understood how dangerous her daughter's work was or how well respected she was in her unit. She also knew that her guilt was not in doubt since the Tribunal was being held to determine punishment not establish guilt. She just looked helplessly around her and whimpered “But I was just saying what everybody else says.”
The chairman of the Tribunal looked at her coldly. "Just because somebody else says something incredibly stupid, does not make you saying the same thing any the less incredibly stupid. It was your duty to speak up for your daughter, to defend her honor and, by extension, the honor of every Russian woman who serves on the Front to defend the Rodina. We find you guilty and will now discuss the penalty appropriate to your crimes."
As it happened, Afanaeva left the Tribunal alive and she had Faina's unblemished record to thank for that. Her residence in Yekaterinburg was revoked, her position at the Tank factory filled by another, more reliable, candidate, as it happened a Frontoviki who had lost one of her legs in the fighting around Samarra. The new worker had already been awarded Afanaeva's house and furniture. Instead of being shot out-of-hand, Afanaeva was sentenced to internal exile and assigned to an agricultural Kolkhoz down by Samarra. There she would work as unskilled labor in the fields and sleep in a communal barracks. There, she would find out, soon enough, that the fields had been a battleground and were still in artillery range of the fascist guns. Then, she would get a taste of the dangers her daughter had volunteered to face every day.
Railway Yard, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
"Backing Up," Faina shouted out the warning and sounded the horn before putting her SU-100 into reverse. Neatly and efficiently, she backed it up on to the railway low-loader, leaving enough space for a second SU-100 to be parked to the rear. There was a whine as the gun was elevated to maximum so that the vehicles would be nested properly. The train that would eventually take them to Yemtsa and then Porog had enough low-loaders for all the vehicles of the reconstituted 1435th and railway carriages for the personnel.
“Two days and we will be back home, tovarish Captain.” Pakholkov nodded sympathetically. News of the way Faina had been treated by her mother had spread through the 1435th and its members were doing their best to support her.
“I have a task to ask of you, bratishka.” He noted her back straighten slightly and her eyes shine at the use of the familiar term ‘brother’ for those who had served and killed fascists together. “We will have many new drivers joining us, some of whom have only a single hour training. I would ask you to take on the role of Senior Driver of the regiment, to train those drugs in how to handle a tank destroyer.”
“I serve the Rodina.” Faina snapped out the familiar acknowledgement. Then she grinned, for the first time since the row with her mother. “Thank you, Mikhail Prokopyevich. Now, I am again exactly where I want to be.”
“You have visitors, Fainachka.” Pakholkov indicated a small group of three men from the factory who were walking along the lines of railway wagons. They asked one of the men standing around watching the vehicles loading and saw him point to where she was standing. When they arrived, she saw their leader as the man who had asked the question about where she slept. Now he was rolling his cap in his hands. She also noted his black eye, mashed lips and apparently broken nose. None of his companions were in any better condition.
“Tovarish Sergeant-Driver, I, we, we all owe you a great apology. We believed slanderous stories that we should not have believed and we did not beat those who told them as we should have done. We should have never repeated them and we deserved to be beaten for doing so. May we please ask you for your forgiveness even though we do not deserve it?”
“We all make mistakes, tovarish. The great thing is to learn from them and not repeat them.” Faina tried to look severe but a great weight that had been lifted off her soul by the apology. She suspected, quite correctly, that the factory political officer had ‘counseled’ these men and the others who had been repeating stories about ‘Front Wives’ very, very sincerely and with great vigor.
“Thank you, tovarish. May we give you a small present? We hear that you told your mother you would crush her skull with a track wrench if she told such stories again. Please accept this. It is a track wrench from a IS-2. Much heavier than the one from a T-34.”
He held out a track wrench with a red ribbon tied in a bow around it. Faina took it gravely, weighed it in her hand and then slapped it on the palm of her other hand. “A fine wrench indeed and heavy. Brat’ya, I will dedicate the first fascist skull I crush with this wrench to you.”
A cheer went up at the vow and the men left, with noticeable relief. Faina carefully stowed the wrench by her driver’s seat and then locked the hatch down. Above her, the SU-100’s new commander, Nikola Ilyich Demkin, was doing the same with the hatches on top of the fighting compartment. He gave her a polite wave since, being a sensible man, he knew that he might be the commander of the ‘100’ and her superior in rank but the SU-100 was her vehicle. “Bratishka, have you seen the train on the siding next to ours?”
“No, tovarish Praporshchik. Is it something special?”
“Wrecked vehicles recovered from the fighting. A mix of ours and those we captured from the fascists. Every month, a few less of ours, a few more of theirs. There is a big Tiger there, an IS-2 ambushed it and knocked it out with a shot to the side. It is worth a look if you have time. We are not due to depart for at least three hours.”
“Thank you Nikola Ilyich, I will do that.” She had seen the huge Tiger IIs before but only from a great distance. She decided to take the chance to see one close-up before the wreck went into the great blast furnaces that would reduce them to molten steel for new tank production. She clambered down off the railway low-loader and joined her gunner, Vasily Andreyevich, to go and look at the wrecked Tiger. From his point of view, this was a professional viewing. He wanted to know exactly where to put a shot that so that it would penetrate the monster.
Füsilier-Battalion 214, Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
“There is no doubt about it. If we stay here, the Ivans will pound us until we are defenseless and then they will close in and wipe us out.” Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz looked around. The constant artillery fire from the Ivans on the other side of the frozen river had seen Füsilier-Battalion 214 reduced from a pair of under-strength companies to one. The airstrikes hadn’t done much more damage to the infantry but had knocked out all but two Panthers and a single half-track. “We have to break out now.”
“I agree.” Panzer grenadier Lieutenant Ackermann had just finished taking an inventory of the supplies and ammunition left in his unit. “We are almost out of fuel and ammunition. Food also.”
“Situation normal then.” Major Rüdiger Kohlhase looked around somewhat mournfully. He was in command of the small pocket but knew that the desperate situation required an officer’s conference. “My Panthers are almost dry and we have AP shot only. We’ll be all right if the Ivans send tanks, the first time anyway, but after that? Or if they just use infantry? We are done.”
“Herr Maior, just how much fuel do we have? Can we get anything moving?” Ackermann was trying to come up with a plan that would use what few assets they had left.
Kohlhase thought carefully about that. “The Panthers can move a kilometer or so each. If we drain them and use the fuel for your Hanomag, we can probably get it back to our lines. That would mean blowing the Panthers up.”
“If we get the Hanomag moving, we can put the wounded inside and get them out. Otherwise, we would have to leave them behind as well.” Renz had made a strong point and everybody knew it.
“Agreed.” Kohlhase’s voice was decisive. “We’ll drain the Panthers and rig them to blow. Ackermann, once we have the fuel, fill your Hanomag and get it ready to move. Renz, you take charge of collecting the wounded and loading them up. If there are too many, you’ll have to pick the ones who can’t walk but will recover. There’s no point in getting a man out who will die anyway if it means leaving behind one who will recover.”
It was a hard decision to make but everybody knew it was the right one. The orders were issued, then the conference resumed. “Where do we go and how?”
“I suggest we go south of southwest, Herr Maior.” Ackermann had been studying the maps ever since the meeting had been called. “It is relatively open ground but one with lines of single trees that give us some cover. When the forest closes in, it will be only five hundred meters of heavy going until we break out into the semi-open again. Once we have done that, we can reach the lakeshore and follow that south until we rejoin our own lines.”
There was a long pause while the proposed escape route was examined on each officer’s maps. Eventually Renz spoke up. “It is a good plan, Klaus, but it is a long way around. Could we not achieve the same by heading north-west, following the bank of the river? It will be half as far and the ground is easier.”
“I thought of that, yes, but I see two problems. One is that it is indeed the obvious way to go. The Ivans will see it as well and have a blocking force in place. Probably, it is already there. We are in no condition to fight a pitched battle against an organized block. Also, that way leads directly to Onega itself. We know how hard the Ivans fight to defend their towns. We are likely to hit strong resistance all the way.
“My other issue is that the river has now frozen over. It will no longer protect our flank. We will be a column moving along it and the Ivans can cross on the ice and attack us. That will be a bitter fight that we are sure to lose. By going inland we will be taken the route less travelled and that exposes us to lower risk.”
They were good points and well-made. Renz was nodding slowly. He could see how the dangers Ackermann foresaw could easily become a very ugly reality. The thought of Ivan tanks and infantry slicing into the column as it retreated was chilling. It was something that the German Army had seen too often. Once, in 1939, the German Army had made great propaganda play of Polish cavalry charging German positions. That was ‘then’ and since ‘then’ the German Army had learned that cavalry units, properly supported, and properly handled, could inflict savage carnage on columns trying to escape encirclement.
“Klaus is right, Herr Maior. Following the river has many risks that his proposal does not.”
Kohlhase was weighing the balance between a shorter easier route and a longer but better-placed escape. Eventually, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “Lieutenant Ackermann, your plan is, on balance, the better one. We will adopt the route you suggest. We will move out in one hour. That will give us as much darkness as possible before the Ivans realize we are evacuating.”
Everybody had noticed one thing. Nobody had suggested radioing in to headquarters to alert them of the plan. The danger that they would be ordered to stay where they were was too great to be contemplated.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Millinocket Station, Station Road, Millinocket, Maine.
“All aboard. Houlton Line, stopping at Benedicta, Island Falls, Oakfield and Houlton. Next stop after Houlton is Jacksonville in Canada. All passengers with tickets beyond Houlton must show their passports to the Guard before boarding.”
“Excuse me, Sir. Is this the Presque Island train?” ‘Thomas Smith’ was somewhat bewildered by the situation. He had expected Millinocket to be some small, out-of-the-way town, a few small houses clustered around a railway junction and served by a few dirt roads. Instead, he and ‘Eric Garden’ had found a major industrial city, dominated by the largest paper mill either of them had ever seen. The Great Northern Paper Company paper mill dominated the town and it was served by a massive railyard that saw trains constantly arriving with logs and leaving with rolls of paper. They were rapidly gaining the impression that the American war effort depended on the availability of huge quantities of paper. That was one of the few things they had got right during their visit to the United States.
The guard managed to stop himself from raising his eyebrows. “No, Sir. This is the Houlton Line. You need the Presque Island Line, from Platform Three. It won’t be leaving for at least another three hours. Assuming the freight trains leave the lines open. I’d get something to eat if you’ve got the dough. Diner opposite is good.”
The guard watched the two shabby men leaving and was about to board himself when two more figures appeared. They both produced badges and introduced themselves. “Agent Foster of the FBI and Detective Rasmussen of the Maine State Police. Could you tell us what those two wanted?”
The guard blinked. An FBI agent and a State Police detective were a lot of juice when it came to following two men who seemed only a little further up the social scale than Hobos. “They were asking if this was the Presque Island train. Seemed a bit simple if you ask me. There’s enough signs and announcements saying it isn’t.”
“They’re not simple, sir. In fact, they may be quite dangerous. Thank you for your assistance and please forget this meeting ever took place.” Somewhat thankfully, the guard disappeared inside his carriage and the train rolled out.
“Well that confirms what we got from the one we picked up in Columbia Falls. Why the hell are they heading for Presque Island?”
“Excuse me, Sir, Ma’am, I might be able to answer that. Can we go somewhere quiet?” A man in Army Air Force uniform had approached them.
“And you are?” Detective Rasmussen got the question in first. One of her pet hates was male colleagues who always took the lead in asking things.
“Captain Alexander Taylor, Army Air Force Investigations Division. We were advised about this investigation and my bosses wanted to let you know what you were facing. We can’t tell you anything like all of it, in fact I only know the bare bones myself, but this is really big.”
“Captain Taylor. Weren’t you involved in the Brewster Aeronautics business a few months back?” Rasmussen narrowed her eyes slightly.
“I was. I transferred to AAID shortly afterwards. Now, we need to find somewhere out of sight.” Thirty minutes later Foster and Rasmussen both looked shocked at what they had just walked into. “I guess that we had better keep on this case ourselves. Prevents the information spreading any further. I’ll tell the regional office that Detective Rasmussen and I will be following up. Can you tell us what is involved here?”
Taylor shook his head. “I have told you as much as I can. All I know is that experimental aircraft are tested up around Limestone and we don’t want people nosing around there.”
“All right, Captain. We’ll stick to their tail. If it’s any consolation, they haven’t met anybody yet nor has anybody tried to contact them. Unless they’ve done so in the last few minutes and I doubt that very seriously.”
Out in the street, ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ had spent a fascinated half hour watching the sidings at work. It had dawned on them that the paper mill was not the only factory in Millinocket; the fast-running river was providing power for pine turpentine extraction, plywood production, maple syrup and charcoal amongst a whole clutch of other forest products. The trains were arriving in a constant stream and leaving laden with the products of the local factories all around them. Neither of the two men had ever heard of Millinocket yet it was an industrial center that could equal most German cities. That was forcing them to ask themselves a question that neither dared even voice. If there is one place like this hidden in the hills of America, how many more are there? Is it any wonder that the supplies the Ivans get from America seem to be never-ending?
They had watched as the train for Houlton left the station and then stopped. It waited, patiently while a long train of flatbeds loaded with logs arrived from the hills and slowly made its way to the Great Northern Paper Company unloading sidings. The train was so long that it was drawn by two engines and it backed into one siding, the cars it had pushed there were detached and the train moved forwards, then stopped and backed the next part of its train into another siding. ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ were expecting the passenger train to leave once the logging wagons were out of the way, but another train arrived. This one was different, long lines of tank cars. It arrived fully loaded and was picking up some additional wagons loaded with paper. Smith pointed at the names painted on the sides of the tank cars. ‘Anchor Petroleum, Tulsa, Oklahoma’, ‘Standard Oil Company, Texas’ and ‘Dau Chemicals, Michigan’. The two men started playing a game, seeing how many states were represented. It didn’t last long; the answer was obviously ‘all of them’.
They were also disturbed to find that their money was running out. They had none of the hundred dollar bills left and only one fifty each they were keeping as a last reserve. So, when they ordered their hamburgers ‘with the works’ they paid with a ten. They were aware the waitress was looking at them dubiously, half-expecting them to try to panhandle a free meal but they explained they’d been traveling for days to take up new jobs doing war work. This time they had made a better effort at behaving like Americans and managed to order and eat without raising too much suspicion. They were just dismissed as out-of-staters, a breed who most Mainians dismissed as being slightly mad.
By the time they had finished watching the trains, they started to head back to the station to catch their own. That was when the strange thing happened. There was a peculiar throbbing drone from overhead, one that seemed to fill the air and make the teeth shake It came from an aircraft, a great silver transport that had its wingtips, tail and nose painted bright orange. At first ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ thought that the aircraft was flying unusually low but with a chill, they realized that it was not a normal-sized aircraft flying low but a very large aircraft indeed flying at normal altitudes. For all its size it didn’t seem to be flying that fast. As it passed over, they could see that it was powered by six engines, all arranged in pusher configuration.
Almost next to them, one woman was watching the aircraft pass overhead. She said, very quietly and almost drowned out by the throbbing engines, “Good luck, boys. Come home safe.”
‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ looked at each other. They had heard, of course, that the Americans had a new six-engined transport for use on the Air Bridge to Russia. In fact, film of the aircraft had been shown in neutral countries but nobody had believed the propaganda about its size. They had just been told that the American aircraft was a copy of the Ju-390. Now they had seen one, they knew that the reports were true and it was the story they had been told that was propaganda. The much-vaunted Ju-390 was a pale shadow of the American transport. It was two very sobered German spies who took the train for Presque Island.
A-26B “Ubeyte Zakhvatchikov”, 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment, Over Naumovskaya.
"I think our holiday is over." Nadezhda “Nadia” Vasil'yevna was flying her A-26 along the banks of the Onega looking for any sign of movement. It was her first flight in a week or more and had only been made possible by the delivery of 12,000 liters of 130-octane fuel. Apparently the Americans had temporarily cut back operations of their B-29 fleet in order to make more fuel available for the front. "Natya, keep a watch out for the radar on that jet-engined night fighter."
Natalia "Natya" Nikitichna looked at the cathode ray tube that detected hostile radar emissions. It was blank, a flat green line that showed no enemy radars were searching for them. "We are clear. No hostile emissions. The fascists could be searching by eye though. There's enough moonlight for that."
"There is nothing down below us either. They must be trying to break out." Evgeniya "Senya" Maksimovna was checking the ground below carefully for any sign of fascists. The A-26 crew had been ordered to attack a small pocket of fascist troops that had been cut off at Naumovskaya. The fascists had been under air attack all day and now the bombardment would be round-the-clock. Only the problem was that the crew had been able to see the fighting on the ground all the way along the Onega by the streams of red tracer fire from machine guns, the round flares of artillery shell explosions and the streak of tank shots. They'd also seen the tracers that had been fired at them. But now, the ground underneath them was dark and silent. "Coming up on Anda-Kirpichnaya now. We better swing to two-seven-zero here. We're getting close to Onega."
"They can't be following the river. We would have seen something." Nadia was sure the fascists had tried to break out of the encirclement and make their way back to their lines. Following the river was the logical way to go; after two kilometers from their original position, there was a road leading north. Anda-Kirpichnaya had once marked the point where the front made a right-angle bend, from heading north towards the port of Onega to west. With all the fighting over the last three weeks, that had changed but the fascists might not be aware of by how much. What had once been a right-angle was now a diagonal line leading to a complex maze of bulges and re-entrants. The actual point where the front switched from north to west was east of Amosovskaya. Once the fighting had died down, straightening the line was going to be interesting.
"There's a lake ahead of us. They can't cross that." Senya was looking at her maps again. "North won’t do them any good, straight into a tank corps. They have to be going south."
"South it is. Sestri, watch for any sign of an enemy column."
Possibly because she had served in tanks before being transferred, it was Natya who spotted the moving shadow on the ground. She watched it for a second to make sure and then gave the alert. "On the ground, about two o'clock. Four hundred meters?"
"Got it." There was a long pause. "At least one vehicle. We'll take it with the '37s'. Natya, get your guns ready to return fire on any flak.
Nadia pulled the nose of the A-26 around and cut the engines down to idle. This would be a classic "Night Witch" attack except she would be using the two heavy cannon in the nose rather than dropping bombs or firing rockets. Those could come later if needed. The moonlight reflecting off the snow also helped things; it made the half-track in the middle of the formation stand out and, as the A-26 glided in, she could see the small figures of the infantry grouped around it. Some tiny movement of the controls put her gunsight just aft of the vehicle, then she squeezed the trigger that fired the two 37mm cannon.
There had been much debate over how to synchronize the two heavy guns. The problem had been the heavy recoil and how it would affect the aircraft as it made its pass. One school of thought had wanted the two guns to fire together for maximum effect, the other wanted them to fire alternately to reduce the deflection of the aircraft caused by the guns. The first caused the A-26 to pitch violently, the second to snake. Douglas had experimented with both settings and eventually recommended the alternate solution. And so it was that Nadia had to work overtime to hold the stream of one-kilogram shells on her target. The first pair landed short, the next one off to one side but the fourth and subsequent shots hit squarely in the back of the half-track. They were armor-piercing high explosive shells and their effect was catastrophic. The half-track was burning furiously as it swerved out of control and crashed. By the time it was fully engulfed in the flames, Nadia had switched over to her .50 machine guns and was raking the column of infantry. There was almost no return fire, just a few individual lines of tracers from machine guns. They were late, the men on the ground having responded fast but not fast enough. By then, Nadia had already pushed the throttles of her engines to the wall and was heading away from the strike. As the A-26 left the scene, Natya raked the area again with the twin .50s in her lower remote-controlled turret.
In the cockpit, Nadia pushed down the button on her throat microphone. "Well done, Sestri. Time for another pass, I think?"
Füsilier-Battalion 214, Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
As always, the attack had come out of the darkness, without warning. One moment, the Kampfgruppe had been retreating south in an attempt to break out of the encirclement. The men on foot were floundering through the snow; it was not yet so deep that it made walking without snow-shoes or skis impossible but it did make the effort tiring and slowed movement down to a crawl. Then, the Night Witches had emerged from the darkness and carried out the devastating attack. To Renz, it looked as if the crew had seen the half-track first and used that as their target reference. He could see the sheet of flame from the nose of the Douglas, the two long fingers of muzzle blast reaching forward as the guns fired. That was new to him; he'd seen the Night Witches using rockets, bombs and machinegun fire but never those cannon.
The shots had hit the half-track, some exploding in the back or the driving cab, others penetrating right through the vehicle to explode on the ground underneath it. The Hanomag bucked and lurched with the blasts, its fuel tanks erupting into flame as it swerved off the path it had been using, tipped over the edge of a bank and then rolled down the slope to end upside down on the ground. By then the vehicle was burning furiously and the scream of the wounded men it had been carrying pierced even the roar of engines and the harsh crackle of machine gun fire as the Douglas swept overhead. Then it was gone, and all that could be heard were the crackling of the flames that ate the Hanomag and the wails and moans of the men injured by the strafing. Mercifully, the screaming from inside the wrecked Hanomag had died away but the men around would remember them for the rest of their lives. With the vehicle upside down, there had been no chance of even shooting the wounded to save them the excruciating agony of being roasted alive.
Renz started to organize men to pull the wounded into cover and get them out of the area of the attack. Maior Rüdiger Kohlhase was dead, torn up by the stream of .50 caliber bullets that had walked across the column. That had left Renz in charge but the truth was that he was running on autopilot, going through the motions. That was when he heard the screamed warnings "The Night Witches! The Night Witches are coming back!"
It was true, unusually the Night Witches returned for a second pass on their prey. The Douglas was flying low, its nose and wings lit up by the red flames of the .50 machineguns firing. They were joined by the scream of the rockets leaving from under the wings. The moonlight reflecting from the snow seemed to turn the aircraft a ghostly shade of white but the same light also showed that the bomb bay doors were open. He watched the bombs falling in what seemed to be slow motion, then realized that they really were falling in slow motion. They were hanging from parachutes. In a moment of great clarity, he could even see the fuse-extenders that would ensure the bombs exploded above ground level. Then everything went curiously dark except for a brilliant spot of white light right in front of his eyes. Renz found himself drawn into it as it seemed to contract and vanish.
"Sir, Lieutenant Ackermann, Sir. You're the only officer left. What do we do?"
Ackermann was looking down at the body of Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz. He had been caught in the blast of one of the 250 kilogram bombs and the steel fragments had disemboweled him. " Maior Kohlhase?"
"Dead, Sir. When the Night Witches machine-gunned us. All the wounded who were in the half-track, they're all dead. Oh God, I can still hear them screaming."
"Compose yourself. Collect the other wounded, make litters from pine trees and the greatcoats from the dead. We need to get out of here. That Night Witch may have called her friends."
"Is it true that they are women flying those aircraft." Grenadier Matthias Krause was looking at the carnage around him. This is a war that is very far from the scenes in the propaganda films back home. Where are the brave soldiers singing as they march forward to victory? Where are the enemy fleeing before us as we sweep onwards? This war is just two beasts wrestling in the mud. Everything they told us has been lies.
Ackermann nodded. "Women, Mattie. We met them first three years ago when they flew old, antique biplanes. They would have a single bomb, or perhaps two small ones and they would drop them mostly to keep us awake. Which they did, but that was little more than a nuisance. Then, when the Americans came, they gave them the first type of Douglas aircraft and suddenly a nuisance became dangerous. Now they have the new Douglas and they are death itself, striking from the darkness. You have only been here a week or two Mattie, you will see much more of them.”
Krause looked around. "Do you think they knew that the Hanomag was carrying our wounded?"
Ackermann looked saddened. "I doubt it and they wouldn’t care if they did know. At Ulyanovsk, the SS started marking trucks carrying fuel and ammunition with the Red Cross. When the Amis found out, they did not say much but they never spared any vehicles so marked again. All across Russia, we have herded villagers into their churches and barns and burned them down. Now they repay us in kind. By doing what we did, we sowed the wind and now we reap the whirlwind."
Krause looked around at the scene lit by the dying fire of the Hanomag. "This is hell."
"Worse than that. This is the Russian Front."
Millinocket Station, Station Road, Millinocket, Maine.
“All aboard. Houlton Line, stopping at Benedicta, Island Falls, Oakfield and Houlton. Next stop after Houlton is Jacksonville in Canada. All passengers with tickets beyond Houlton must show their passports to the Guard before boarding.”
“Excuse me, Sir. Is this the Presque Island train?” ‘Thomas Smith’ was somewhat bewildered by the situation. He had expected Millinocket to be some small, out-of-the-way town, a few small houses clustered around a railway junction and served by a few dirt roads. Instead, he and ‘Eric Garden’ had found a major industrial city, dominated by the largest paper mill either of them had ever seen. The Great Northern Paper Company paper mill dominated the town and it was served by a massive railyard that saw trains constantly arriving with logs and leaving with rolls of paper. They were rapidly gaining the impression that the American war effort depended on the availability of huge quantities of paper. That was one of the few things they had got right during their visit to the United States.
The guard managed to stop himself from raising his eyebrows. “No, Sir. This is the Houlton Line. You need the Presque Island Line, from Platform Three. It won’t be leaving for at least another three hours. Assuming the freight trains leave the lines open. I’d get something to eat if you’ve got the dough. Diner opposite is good.”
The guard watched the two shabby men leaving and was about to board himself when two more figures appeared. They both produced badges and introduced themselves. “Agent Foster of the FBI and Detective Rasmussen of the Maine State Police. Could you tell us what those two wanted?”
The guard blinked. An FBI agent and a State Police detective were a lot of juice when it came to following two men who seemed only a little further up the social scale than Hobos. “They were asking if this was the Presque Island train. Seemed a bit simple if you ask me. There’s enough signs and announcements saying it isn’t.”
“They’re not simple, sir. In fact, they may be quite dangerous. Thank you for your assistance and please forget this meeting ever took place.” Somewhat thankfully, the guard disappeared inside his carriage and the train rolled out.
“Well that confirms what we got from the one we picked up in Columbia Falls. Why the hell are they heading for Presque Island?”
“Excuse me, Sir, Ma’am, I might be able to answer that. Can we go somewhere quiet?” A man in Army Air Force uniform had approached them.
“And you are?” Detective Rasmussen got the question in first. One of her pet hates was male colleagues who always took the lead in asking things.
“Captain Alexander Taylor, Army Air Force Investigations Division. We were advised about this investigation and my bosses wanted to let you know what you were facing. We can’t tell you anything like all of it, in fact I only know the bare bones myself, but this is really big.”
“Captain Taylor. Weren’t you involved in the Brewster Aeronautics business a few months back?” Rasmussen narrowed her eyes slightly.
“I was. I transferred to AAID shortly afterwards. Now, we need to find somewhere out of sight.” Thirty minutes later Foster and Rasmussen both looked shocked at what they had just walked into. “I guess that we had better keep on this case ourselves. Prevents the information spreading any further. I’ll tell the regional office that Detective Rasmussen and I will be following up. Can you tell us what is involved here?”
Taylor shook his head. “I have told you as much as I can. All I know is that experimental aircraft are tested up around Limestone and we don’t want people nosing around there.”
“All right, Captain. We’ll stick to their tail. If it’s any consolation, they haven’t met anybody yet nor has anybody tried to contact them. Unless they’ve done so in the last few minutes and I doubt that very seriously.”
Out in the street, ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ had spent a fascinated half hour watching the sidings at work. It had dawned on them that the paper mill was not the only factory in Millinocket; the fast-running river was providing power for pine turpentine extraction, plywood production, maple syrup and charcoal amongst a whole clutch of other forest products. The trains were arriving in a constant stream and leaving laden with the products of the local factories all around them. Neither of the two men had ever heard of Millinocket yet it was an industrial center that could equal most German cities. That was forcing them to ask themselves a question that neither dared even voice. If there is one place like this hidden in the hills of America, how many more are there? Is it any wonder that the supplies the Ivans get from America seem to be never-ending?
They had watched as the train for Houlton left the station and then stopped. It waited, patiently while a long train of flatbeds loaded with logs arrived from the hills and slowly made its way to the Great Northern Paper Company unloading sidings. The train was so long that it was drawn by two engines and it backed into one siding, the cars it had pushed there were detached and the train moved forwards, then stopped and backed the next part of its train into another siding. ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ were expecting the passenger train to leave once the logging wagons were out of the way, but another train arrived. This one was different, long lines of tank cars. It arrived fully loaded and was picking up some additional wagons loaded with paper. Smith pointed at the names painted on the sides of the tank cars. ‘Anchor Petroleum, Tulsa, Oklahoma’, ‘Standard Oil Company, Texas’ and ‘Dau Chemicals, Michigan’. The two men started playing a game, seeing how many states were represented. It didn’t last long; the answer was obviously ‘all of them’.
They were also disturbed to find that their money was running out. They had none of the hundred dollar bills left and only one fifty each they were keeping as a last reserve. So, when they ordered their hamburgers ‘with the works’ they paid with a ten. They were aware the waitress was looking at them dubiously, half-expecting them to try to panhandle a free meal but they explained they’d been traveling for days to take up new jobs doing war work. This time they had made a better effort at behaving like Americans and managed to order and eat without raising too much suspicion. They were just dismissed as out-of-staters, a breed who most Mainians dismissed as being slightly mad.
By the time they had finished watching the trains, they started to head back to the station to catch their own. That was when the strange thing happened. There was a peculiar throbbing drone from overhead, one that seemed to fill the air and make the teeth shake It came from an aircraft, a great silver transport that had its wingtips, tail and nose painted bright orange. At first ‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ thought that the aircraft was flying unusually low but with a chill, they realized that it was not a normal-sized aircraft flying low but a very large aircraft indeed flying at normal altitudes. For all its size it didn’t seem to be flying that fast. As it passed over, they could see that it was powered by six engines, all arranged in pusher configuration.
Almost next to them, one woman was watching the aircraft pass overhead. She said, very quietly and almost drowned out by the throbbing engines, “Good luck, boys. Come home safe.”
‘Smith’ and ‘Garden’ looked at each other. They had heard, of course, that the Americans had a new six-engined transport for use on the Air Bridge to Russia. In fact, film of the aircraft had been shown in neutral countries but nobody had believed the propaganda about its size. They had just been told that the American aircraft was a copy of the Ju-390. Now they had seen one, they knew that the reports were true and it was the story they had been told that was propaganda. The much-vaunted Ju-390 was a pale shadow of the American transport. It was two very sobered German spies who took the train for Presque Island.
A-26B “Ubeyte Zakhvatchikov”, 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment, Over Naumovskaya.
"I think our holiday is over." Nadezhda “Nadia” Vasil'yevna was flying her A-26 along the banks of the Onega looking for any sign of movement. It was her first flight in a week or more and had only been made possible by the delivery of 12,000 liters of 130-octane fuel. Apparently the Americans had temporarily cut back operations of their B-29 fleet in order to make more fuel available for the front. "Natya, keep a watch out for the radar on that jet-engined night fighter."
Natalia "Natya" Nikitichna looked at the cathode ray tube that detected hostile radar emissions. It was blank, a flat green line that showed no enemy radars were searching for them. "We are clear. No hostile emissions. The fascists could be searching by eye though. There's enough moonlight for that."
"There is nothing down below us either. They must be trying to break out." Evgeniya "Senya" Maksimovna was checking the ground below carefully for any sign of fascists. The A-26 crew had been ordered to attack a small pocket of fascist troops that had been cut off at Naumovskaya. The fascists had been under air attack all day and now the bombardment would be round-the-clock. Only the problem was that the crew had been able to see the fighting on the ground all the way along the Onega by the streams of red tracer fire from machine guns, the round flares of artillery shell explosions and the streak of tank shots. They'd also seen the tracers that had been fired at them. But now, the ground underneath them was dark and silent. "Coming up on Anda-Kirpichnaya now. We better swing to two-seven-zero here. We're getting close to Onega."
"They can't be following the river. We would have seen something." Nadia was sure the fascists had tried to break out of the encirclement and make their way back to their lines. Following the river was the logical way to go; after two kilometers from their original position, there was a road leading north. Anda-Kirpichnaya had once marked the point where the front made a right-angle bend, from heading north towards the port of Onega to west. With all the fighting over the last three weeks, that had changed but the fascists might not be aware of by how much. What had once been a right-angle was now a diagonal line leading to a complex maze of bulges and re-entrants. The actual point where the front switched from north to west was east of Amosovskaya. Once the fighting had died down, straightening the line was going to be interesting.
"There's a lake ahead of us. They can't cross that." Senya was looking at her maps again. "North won’t do them any good, straight into a tank corps. They have to be going south."
"South it is. Sestri, watch for any sign of an enemy column."
Possibly because she had served in tanks before being transferred, it was Natya who spotted the moving shadow on the ground. She watched it for a second to make sure and then gave the alert. "On the ground, about two o'clock. Four hundred meters?"
"Got it." There was a long pause. "At least one vehicle. We'll take it with the '37s'. Natya, get your guns ready to return fire on any flak.
Nadia pulled the nose of the A-26 around and cut the engines down to idle. This would be a classic "Night Witch" attack except she would be using the two heavy cannon in the nose rather than dropping bombs or firing rockets. Those could come later if needed. The moonlight reflecting off the snow also helped things; it made the half-track in the middle of the formation stand out and, as the A-26 glided in, she could see the small figures of the infantry grouped around it. Some tiny movement of the controls put her gunsight just aft of the vehicle, then she squeezed the trigger that fired the two 37mm cannon.
There had been much debate over how to synchronize the two heavy guns. The problem had been the heavy recoil and how it would affect the aircraft as it made its pass. One school of thought had wanted the two guns to fire together for maximum effect, the other wanted them to fire alternately to reduce the deflection of the aircraft caused by the guns. The first caused the A-26 to pitch violently, the second to snake. Douglas had experimented with both settings and eventually recommended the alternate solution. And so it was that Nadia had to work overtime to hold the stream of one-kilogram shells on her target. The first pair landed short, the next one off to one side but the fourth and subsequent shots hit squarely in the back of the half-track. They were armor-piercing high explosive shells and their effect was catastrophic. The half-track was burning furiously as it swerved out of control and crashed. By the time it was fully engulfed in the flames, Nadia had switched over to her .50 machine guns and was raking the column of infantry. There was almost no return fire, just a few individual lines of tracers from machine guns. They were late, the men on the ground having responded fast but not fast enough. By then, Nadia had already pushed the throttles of her engines to the wall and was heading away from the strike. As the A-26 left the scene, Natya raked the area again with the twin .50s in her lower remote-controlled turret.
In the cockpit, Nadia pushed down the button on her throat microphone. "Well done, Sestri. Time for another pass, I think?"
Füsilier-Battalion 214, Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
As always, the attack had come out of the darkness, without warning. One moment, the Kampfgruppe had been retreating south in an attempt to break out of the encirclement. The men on foot were floundering through the snow; it was not yet so deep that it made walking without snow-shoes or skis impossible but it did make the effort tiring and slowed movement down to a crawl. Then, the Night Witches had emerged from the darkness and carried out the devastating attack. To Renz, it looked as if the crew had seen the half-track first and used that as their target reference. He could see the sheet of flame from the nose of the Douglas, the two long fingers of muzzle blast reaching forward as the guns fired. That was new to him; he'd seen the Night Witches using rockets, bombs and machinegun fire but never those cannon.
The shots had hit the half-track, some exploding in the back or the driving cab, others penetrating right through the vehicle to explode on the ground underneath it. The Hanomag bucked and lurched with the blasts, its fuel tanks erupting into flame as it swerved off the path it had been using, tipped over the edge of a bank and then rolled down the slope to end upside down on the ground. By then the vehicle was burning furiously and the scream of the wounded men it had been carrying pierced even the roar of engines and the harsh crackle of machine gun fire as the Douglas swept overhead. Then it was gone, and all that could be heard were the crackling of the flames that ate the Hanomag and the wails and moans of the men injured by the strafing. Mercifully, the screaming from inside the wrecked Hanomag had died away but the men around would remember them for the rest of their lives. With the vehicle upside down, there had been no chance of even shooting the wounded to save them the excruciating agony of being roasted alive.
Renz started to organize men to pull the wounded into cover and get them out of the area of the attack. Maior Rüdiger Kohlhase was dead, torn up by the stream of .50 caliber bullets that had walked across the column. That had left Renz in charge but the truth was that he was running on autopilot, going through the motions. That was when he heard the screamed warnings "The Night Witches! The Night Witches are coming back!"
It was true, unusually the Night Witches returned for a second pass on their prey. The Douglas was flying low, its nose and wings lit up by the red flames of the .50 machineguns firing. They were joined by the scream of the rockets leaving from under the wings. The moonlight reflecting from the snow seemed to turn the aircraft a ghostly shade of white but the same light also showed that the bomb bay doors were open. He watched the bombs falling in what seemed to be slow motion, then realized that they really were falling in slow motion. They were hanging from parachutes. In a moment of great clarity, he could even see the fuse-extenders that would ensure the bombs exploded above ground level. Then everything went curiously dark except for a brilliant spot of white light right in front of his eyes. Renz found himself drawn into it as it seemed to contract and vanish.
"Sir, Lieutenant Ackermann, Sir. You're the only officer left. What do we do?"
Ackermann was looking down at the body of Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz. He had been caught in the blast of one of the 250 kilogram bombs and the steel fragments had disemboweled him. " Maior Kohlhase?"
"Dead, Sir. When the Night Witches machine-gunned us. All the wounded who were in the half-track, they're all dead. Oh God, I can still hear them screaming."
"Compose yourself. Collect the other wounded, make litters from pine trees and the greatcoats from the dead. We need to get out of here. That Night Witch may have called her friends."
"Is it true that they are women flying those aircraft." Grenadier Matthias Krause was looking at the carnage around him. This is a war that is very far from the scenes in the propaganda films back home. Where are the brave soldiers singing as they march forward to victory? Where are the enemy fleeing before us as we sweep onwards? This war is just two beasts wrestling in the mud. Everything they told us has been lies.
Ackermann nodded. "Women, Mattie. We met them first three years ago when they flew old, antique biplanes. They would have a single bomb, or perhaps two small ones and they would drop them mostly to keep us awake. Which they did, but that was little more than a nuisance. Then, when the Americans came, they gave them the first type of Douglas aircraft and suddenly a nuisance became dangerous. Now they have the new Douglas and they are death itself, striking from the darkness. You have only been here a week or two Mattie, you will see much more of them.”
Krause looked around. "Do you think they knew that the Hanomag was carrying our wounded?"
Ackermann looked saddened. "I doubt it and they wouldn’t care if they did know. At Ulyanovsk, the SS started marking trucks carrying fuel and ammunition with the Red Cross. When the Amis found out, they did not say much but they never spared any vehicles so marked again. All across Russia, we have herded villagers into their churches and barns and burned them down. Now they repay us in kind. By doing what we did, we sowed the wind and now we reap the whirlwind."
Krause looked around at the scene lit by the dying fire of the Hanomag. "This is hell."
"Worse than that. This is the Russian Front."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty
Air Warfare Plot, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
“And so it begins.” Commander Graham McKendrick was Duty Officer in the Air Plot. Captain Tillett was on the bridge where the overhead view was best. The convoy commander was in his plot and Admiral Phillips was in his. However, all was not well with the world. As they had passed the southernmost tip of Iceland, they had come within range of fascist bombers based in Scotland and Norway. The presence of shore-based fighter cover had postponed the inevitable for a few hours but that brief interlude had passed. The proof of that was on the radar screens; three formations of long-range bombers coming in from different angles. They were the first appearance of the air attacks that would be continuing for the next 72 hours. The convoy had picked up to its maximum speed of twenty knots in response.
It didn't take much insight to know the approaching aircraft were He-177 long-range bombers, almost certainly flying out of Stornoway in Scotland. McKendrick knew that the airbase on the Isles of Lewis had already been heavily hit by airstrikes, and had been again in preparation for the passage of this convoy, but had yet to be made completely unusable. It was the closest fascist-occupied airfield to Iceland and that had made it a primary target. The task that the US Navy faced was doing so much damage that the base couldn’t be kept operational and they had gone about it with a will. Only, as the radar screens showed, they hadn’t succeeded yet.
"Ulyanovsk and Kazan are launching FM-2s, Sir. Sixteen from Kazan, eight from Ulyanovsk as ordered. Eight-aircraft flights from Kazan are King-One and King-Two. Aircraft flight from Ulyanovsk is designated Uncle-One. Inbound hostile formations are designated Ghoul-One, Ghoul-Two, and Ghoul-Three. "
McKendrick looked at the status board and the operational plot. It was a steel table with placarded counters attached to it using magnetic bases. Early on, the placards and plot had been made of wood but sea trials had quickly shown that rough weather made the simple solution unworkable. The magnetic placards were much better. Now, the placards showed that Ghoul-Two was the closest, approaching from dead ahead, holding 350 miles per hour and an altitude of 19,000 feet, Angels-19 in fighter control parlance. He knew what would happen when the attacking aircraft got within range. They would go into a long, sustained dive that would see its speed build up to over 370 miles per hour before they released their guided bombs or anti-ship missiles. The FM-2s already climbing to intercept them were capable of only 338 miles per hour. A new, faster fighter was sorely needed but none were available yet. That meant the FM-2s would have to climb above the bombers and dive on them. In doing so, they would get one crack at their targets, just possibly two if the geometry was right.
"Assign King-One to intercept Ghoul-2. They are to get up to Angels-26 and dive on the bombers from astern. If they get a chance, follow up with a head-on pass. Pass word to the convoy commander to get all ships ready to lay smoke." Both Fritz-X and Hs-293 use a command-to-line-of sight radio command system that required the controller in the launching aircraft to have both the missile and the target in plain sight. Laying smoke seriously degrades their performance. Before we got jammers that worked, that was our best defense. Even if it does act as a magnet for every U-boat for tens of miles around. The stray thought reminded McKendrick of another measure that needed to be readied. "Contact Escort command and ask them to ready jamming equipment on all escort ships.
"Acknowledged, Sir. Smoke and jamming await your orders."
Early attempts at jamming the guided bombs and missiles had been ineffective but Athabaskan had made port with the wreckage of an unexploded Hs-293 still on board. A hasty redesign of the jammers had produced something much more effective.
All right, what next? Ghoul-One is the next furthest away, coming in from the starboard quarter. Placard says, same altitude, same speed. I bet this was supposed to be a coordinated attack with all three groups of aircraft coming in simultaneously. The Hitlerites don't seem to understand that is nowhere near as easy to do as theory suggests. Something for which we should be profoundly grateful. "Order Uncle-One to engage Ghoul-One, diving attack from Angels-26. One pass from astern, head-on pass if possible. All aircraft to regain altitude after the attack and try and get the surviving bombers as they leave."
All right, we're getting there. Ghoul-Three is the furthest out, coming in from the starboard beam. Placard also says formation closing at 350 miles per hour, altitude Angels 19. They're the least dangerous of the formations; we've seen that errors in Fritz-X and Hs-293 are in range not angle and coming from abeam means the range is the most critical piece of data. "Order King-Two to engage Ghoul-Three. Same conditions."
"Ulyanovsk and Kazan report aircraft launched, are securing ship against air attack." That makes sense. The carriers will burn like torches if they get hit. They're making sure all the aircraft are secured and the fuel lines filled with inert gas. The problem is, we've already got almost half our fighters in the air.
"Air raid alert sounding on all ships." The messages were coming in smoothly as Howe got ready to fight her first air battle. McKendrick settled back; this was the easy part. After the attack, when the inbound formations have dropped their loads and are breaking, that's where we come into our own. We'll try and make sure that as few as possible escape to come back at us. He knew the other key factor was how many fighters they would lose this time around. The He-177s weren't very well-armed and burned easily but they would down some of their attackers. Then, most intercepting fighters peeled off rather than fly into the dense anti-aircraft fire from the ships. The FM-2 pilots were expected to continue their attacks into the barrage and if that meant they got shot down, so be it. They also knew the ships would not stop to pick them up. Privately, McKendrick thought the FM-2 pilots were the bravest men he had ever met.
FM-2 Wildcat Sweet Arlene Over Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
Ensign David Berman had been steered out by the fighter controllers on Howe from immediately after take-off right up to the time they had positioned him alongside and 7,000 feet above the flight of four Heinkel 177s. Then with a heartfelt ‘Good Hunting’ they had released him to his own navigation. Or, rather, to the navigation of his flight leader. Ahead of him, he saw Corrine, the lead FM-2 make a wingover and start the dive down on the four bombers below. Already, the Heinkels were pulling away as the pilots pushed their engines to the max in the effort to outrun the attacking fighters. Berman could see the thin streams of black smoke from their engines as he followed his leader over. King-One flight had already split into four sections of two aircraft, each targeting one of the bombers.
Height played into the hands of the fighters though. That and the fact that the radars on Howe had detected the incoming raid early enough to get those fighters into position. Berman felt the dive pushing him back into his seat and the acceleration causing his vision to redden. He couldn’t help thinking that reduced the threat posed by the tracers floating up from the defensive positions on the bombers. He knew that the He-177s had only two guns each that could be brought to bear from this angle, a 13.2mm machine gun and a 20mm cannon and the small formation wasn’t able to put up the murderous crossfire from massed guns that made attacking American bomber formations so dangerous. Each bomber, faced with attack from two fighters working together, was trying to defend itself. It was a human reaction, understandable enough, but it also added to the isolation of each aircraft. The FM-2s evaded the single lines of tracer easily enough and started firing as soon as they were within range.
Each aircraft had four .50 caliber machine guns. In their urge to coax as much speed out of the old Wildcat airframe as possible, the designers had reduced the armament from six guns to four but upped the ammunition load to compensate. That, at least, gave the FM-2s a longer time to hose bullets at their targets. Berman and his section leader were using that to try and do as much damage to their targets as possible in the one-pass they knew they could rely on. They might get in a second pass but the odds were against it. The He-177s were already nosing over into their dives and that would allow them to leave the fighters far behind.
Berman saw his own tracers falling short of his target, so he lifted his nose to bring them on to the bomber below. That, of course, meant that his speed started to drop, and the rate at which his target seemed to grow in his gunsight diminished. Just ahead of him, Lieutenant Daniels was doing the same and his tracers were the first to strike home. They sliced into the Heinkel’s tail and walked along the fuselage, silencing the upper-aft gun position. Berman used the opportunity to stop evading return fire and was rewarded by his own tracers slamming into his target’s starboard wing root. A slight twitch of the nose sent them along the wing and marching into the single nacelle that contained two of the aircraft’s four engines. The Heinkel seemed to stagger under the blow as a thick stream of black smoke erupted from the engine and the propeller milled to a stop.
American aviation engineers had always been suspicious of the concept of gearing two engines together to drive a single propeller and had been unable to understand why the fascist designers had adopted it for their only long-range bomber. It had seemed a recipe for fire and mutual extinction of the two engines. Berman saw that had happened now and that his target was swinging hard to one side as the wrecked engines created drag. They also slowed the bomber down and that meant the FM-2s could close in. Daniels and Berman did just that, cutting across the arc flown by the damaged Heinkel and raking it from nose to tail.
It wasn’t the additional gunfire that doomed the aircraft though. That had already been done. The fires from the wrecked engines had penetrated the grossly under-strength firewall that separated them from the wing’s main structure and started burning through the main spars. Suddenly, without any warning, the wing failed and folded through 90 degrees at the site of the destroyed engine nacelle. The bomber rolled over, went into an irrecoverable spin and spiraled downwards. Long before it hit the sea, stress overcame structure and it broke up in mid-air.
“Crown, King-One-One. Scratch one hostile.” Daniel’s voice was triumphant.
“Make that two!” Lieutenant Napier from King-One-Five was ecstatic rather than triumphant. His Heinkel was going down in a thick stream of black smoke from both wings. Halfway down, it blew up rather than fall apart. Berman couldn’t help but feel it was a much more spectacular end than his target’s had been. Then he saw the two surviving bombers in their dives to the convoy, far ahead and pulling away from any possibility of pursuit from the FM-2s.
Air Warfare Plot, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
“King-One reporting in. Two bombers down, two through.”
“Start smokescreen. Move escorts to reinforce coverage of ahead and starboard quarter. Jamming on. Report from Uncle-One and King-Two?” McKendrick was pacing backward and forwards as the raid developed.
“Engaging, no kills reported yet. King-One returning to Angels-26.”
“Uncle-One reports two enemy aircraft downed, one fighter lost. Others returning to Angels-26.” The controller responsible for the interception of Ghoul-one grimaced. “Point-50s don’t cut it, we need a 20mm cannon.”
“So far we’ve knocked down four out of eight for one loss. Pretty good I’d say. It’s faster fighters we need.”
“King-Two reports one He-177 downed on the first pass. They managed a head-on and got a second. No losses. That makes it six out of twelve.”
McKendrick picked up the microphone. “All ships, clear to open fire on approaching bombers. Four inbounds. Anti-aircraft coordinators, allocate ships to inbound targets and open fire.”
Howe shook as the 5.25-inch guns started firing. The gunnery plot had divided the ships into groups and assigned them to the inbound targets. With both fighters and anti-aircraft gunnery being controlled from the same compartment, conflicts were being minimized although that didn’t mean they wouldn’t happen. McKendrick heard the fighter controllers’ position moving the three flights of FM-2s to intercept the bombers as they left their attack on the convoy. “Contact Vopnaford and tell them we need two replacement FM-2s sent out. Make that four, we can deck-park any overage. They’ll be needed soon enough.”
“Inbound Ghouls are reaching release point now, Sir. No AA kills reported.” McKendrick reflected that was hardly surprising; even with radar-assisted gunnery, the heavy guns were firing almost blind through the smokescreen. Their purpose at this point was to distract the bombardiers from steering the anti-ship weapons released by the bombers. Now we will get our first idea of what the fascists have as their targeting priorities. If they’re firing Hs-293s, they’re going after the merchant ships. If they’re dropping Fritz-X, they’re coming after the escorts. The submarines get to shoot at what they can and these days they just try and overwhelm the convoy with salvoes of torpedoes from outside the range of our defenses. What gets hit, if anything, is purely random. The bombers pick their targets. Or try to.
“One of the ghouls coming in from Blue-90 is going down, Sir. Rest are on release point now.” That means five weapons are coming down. For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful.
“Bombers are climbing, Sir. We have released.”
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, East of Iceland
Shawnee, like every ship in the convoy, was at General Quarters, every anti-aircraft gun manned, all damage control parties ready and waiting with the damage control timbers, portable pumps, and all the other items of their trade ready. Standing in the shoulder rests of his Oerlikon, Young watched his ship’s bow 5-inch gun swing up and train to 45 degrees starboard under the control of the director on the bridge. That was, in turn, taking its orders from the Air Plot on Howe. He’d jumped when the gun had fired for the first time; for some reason it seemed much louder and more urgent when there was a real target out there.
The ship’s sirens were sounding again, this time a series of short notes that started high and ended low. It was the warning that the attack was imminent.
“They’re on their way, Dougie. Radar saw the fascists pull up; they have to do that when they release. See where the 5-incher is aiming? That’s where the damned thing will be coming from. Start firing as soon as it appears.” He moved on to pass the word to the other guns on the 20mm gallery.
Time seemed to creak past as Young concentrated every scrap of attention on the gray-white clouds of the smokescreen that coated the skies overhead. Around him, the members of the crew who had an electric razor and excess to a free power socket had turned the razor on and were holding it up at arm's length. They had been told that the electrical noise radiated by the virtually unscreened motors would jam the missile control system albeit at uncomfortably close range. The technique even had a code-name, XG-2. Then, Young was surrounded by cheers as the black streak of a Fritz-X emerged from the smoke clouds overhead and started to spiral as it went completely out of control. The glider bomb fell in the sea, far away from any of the ships. Back on Shawnee one seaman was overcome with astonishment at the simple trick working and kissed his razor in delight.
Two more streaks came out of the clouds of smoke, clearly heading for Kazan. Everybody watching held their breath as the bombs neared the aircraft carrier, then burst into renewed cheering as they straddled her, too far out to do any serious damage. The cheering was already dying down when it was stilled completely by a fourth bomb streak that ended its path with a brilliant explosion amidships on the battleship Anson. A cloud of black smoke rose from between the ship's funnels but she held her position, despite obvious damage and a major onboard fire.
Two more pyres of water rose from the general convoy area but it was apparent to the men on the merchant ships that the electrical noise emitted from the massed use of electric razors was having its effect and morale soared at the sight of the dreaded guided bombs missing their targets. Two more splashes, even further removed from the convoy suggested that the weapons in question had failed to operate properly. The XG-2 men were unable to convince themselves that the weapons hitting the sea so far away could have fallen victims to their razors. A ninth missile hit the sea just ahead of one of the avgas tankers, that few feet of sea saving the convoy from the sight of the tanker exploding into flames.
Young was just beginning to relax when a tenth, and as it turned out final, the missile came in from the stern diagonal. He got a few shots off as it passed into his arc of fire but it was too little and too late. The Fritz-X tore into the forecastle, passed through the structure underneath, and exited through the ship's side to explode in the water off to the port beam. It was close enough for the fragments to lash the ship's side and scythe through the crews on the bow 5-inch and 40mm quad. By the time the ship's siren sounded the distress call, men were already running forward to tend to the wounded.
"Damn, I thought we got away with that." Young was sickened by the sight of the dead and wounded being pulled from the wreckage. His only consolation was that Perry was on the aft 40mm quad.
"We nearly did," was Mr. Ericsson's only comment.
Admiral's Bridge, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
"Reports coming in, Sir. Kazan reports minor splinter damage on both sides and half a dozen minor injuries. The bad news is, that they lost another FM-2 on landing. Anson took the hit amidships, the cinema is on fire, and firefighting crews are dealing with it. They say they have it contained. The blast extinguished the fires in the forward boiler room and damaged the extraction fans. She has 22 dead and about forty wounded. We were lucky, she can hold station and the damage is fixable. The Fritz-X hit the armor deck at a shallow angle and skidded off. Shawnee took a hit forward. The bomb went through the thin plating and exploded in the sea alongside. Two dead, eight wounded. The shielding on her guns saved a lot of men there.
Admiral Tom Phillips looked at his convoy. The attack had been well-planned but the ships had been lucky. Except for Anson of course. "They were going for the escorts, no doubt about that. The carriers, in particular. I think Shawnee was mistaken for one of them."
"I agree, Sir. This was a concerted attack to thin down the air defenses. If it hadn't been for the electric razors . . . "
The bridge crew burst out laughing at the reference, although it was more of a nervous relief after the attack. They knew that the much-vaunted XG-2 'razor defense' was really completely useless and was a cover for the Type 91 and Type 650/651 jammers installed on the warships. It was also a propaganda ploy, intended to undermine the Luftwaffe crew’s confidence in their weapons as well as impress on its audience that American war production was so high, that they could continue to make electric razors for the civilian market. American cinema newsreels (which had inevitably made their way to neutral countries and then to the fascists) had made a point of announcing that XG-2 was so efficient that a third of all electric razor production was being reserved for the merchant marine.
"Don't knock it, Jim. Those merchies believe XG-2 works and it’s a powerful moral tool. At least they feel that they are doing something to defend themselves."
Air Warfare Plot, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
“And so it begins.” Commander Graham McKendrick was Duty Officer in the Air Plot. Captain Tillett was on the bridge where the overhead view was best. The convoy commander was in his plot and Admiral Phillips was in his. However, all was not well with the world. As they had passed the southernmost tip of Iceland, they had come within range of fascist bombers based in Scotland and Norway. The presence of shore-based fighter cover had postponed the inevitable for a few hours but that brief interlude had passed. The proof of that was on the radar screens; three formations of long-range bombers coming in from different angles. They were the first appearance of the air attacks that would be continuing for the next 72 hours. The convoy had picked up to its maximum speed of twenty knots in response.
It didn't take much insight to know the approaching aircraft were He-177 long-range bombers, almost certainly flying out of Stornoway in Scotland. McKendrick knew that the airbase on the Isles of Lewis had already been heavily hit by airstrikes, and had been again in preparation for the passage of this convoy, but had yet to be made completely unusable. It was the closest fascist-occupied airfield to Iceland and that had made it a primary target. The task that the US Navy faced was doing so much damage that the base couldn’t be kept operational and they had gone about it with a will. Only, as the radar screens showed, they hadn’t succeeded yet.
"Ulyanovsk and Kazan are launching FM-2s, Sir. Sixteen from Kazan, eight from Ulyanovsk as ordered. Eight-aircraft flights from Kazan are King-One and King-Two. Aircraft flight from Ulyanovsk is designated Uncle-One. Inbound hostile formations are designated Ghoul-One, Ghoul-Two, and Ghoul-Three. "
McKendrick looked at the status board and the operational plot. It was a steel table with placarded counters attached to it using magnetic bases. Early on, the placards and plot had been made of wood but sea trials had quickly shown that rough weather made the simple solution unworkable. The magnetic placards were much better. Now, the placards showed that Ghoul-Two was the closest, approaching from dead ahead, holding 350 miles per hour and an altitude of 19,000 feet, Angels-19 in fighter control parlance. He knew what would happen when the attacking aircraft got within range. They would go into a long, sustained dive that would see its speed build up to over 370 miles per hour before they released their guided bombs or anti-ship missiles. The FM-2s already climbing to intercept them were capable of only 338 miles per hour. A new, faster fighter was sorely needed but none were available yet. That meant the FM-2s would have to climb above the bombers and dive on them. In doing so, they would get one crack at their targets, just possibly two if the geometry was right.
"Assign King-One to intercept Ghoul-2. They are to get up to Angels-26 and dive on the bombers from astern. If they get a chance, follow up with a head-on pass. Pass word to the convoy commander to get all ships ready to lay smoke." Both Fritz-X and Hs-293 use a command-to-line-of sight radio command system that required the controller in the launching aircraft to have both the missile and the target in plain sight. Laying smoke seriously degrades their performance. Before we got jammers that worked, that was our best defense. Even if it does act as a magnet for every U-boat for tens of miles around. The stray thought reminded McKendrick of another measure that needed to be readied. "Contact Escort command and ask them to ready jamming equipment on all escort ships.
"Acknowledged, Sir. Smoke and jamming await your orders."
Early attempts at jamming the guided bombs and missiles had been ineffective but Athabaskan had made port with the wreckage of an unexploded Hs-293 still on board. A hasty redesign of the jammers had produced something much more effective.
All right, what next? Ghoul-One is the next furthest away, coming in from the starboard quarter. Placard says, same altitude, same speed. I bet this was supposed to be a coordinated attack with all three groups of aircraft coming in simultaneously. The Hitlerites don't seem to understand that is nowhere near as easy to do as theory suggests. Something for which we should be profoundly grateful. "Order Uncle-One to engage Ghoul-One, diving attack from Angels-26. One pass from astern, head-on pass if possible. All aircraft to regain altitude after the attack and try and get the surviving bombers as they leave."
All right, we're getting there. Ghoul-Three is the furthest out, coming in from the starboard beam. Placard also says formation closing at 350 miles per hour, altitude Angels 19. They're the least dangerous of the formations; we've seen that errors in Fritz-X and Hs-293 are in range not angle and coming from abeam means the range is the most critical piece of data. "Order King-Two to engage Ghoul-Three. Same conditions."
"Ulyanovsk and Kazan report aircraft launched, are securing ship against air attack." That makes sense. The carriers will burn like torches if they get hit. They're making sure all the aircraft are secured and the fuel lines filled with inert gas. The problem is, we've already got almost half our fighters in the air.
"Air raid alert sounding on all ships." The messages were coming in smoothly as Howe got ready to fight her first air battle. McKendrick settled back; this was the easy part. After the attack, when the inbound formations have dropped their loads and are breaking, that's where we come into our own. We'll try and make sure that as few as possible escape to come back at us. He knew the other key factor was how many fighters they would lose this time around. The He-177s weren't very well-armed and burned easily but they would down some of their attackers. Then, most intercepting fighters peeled off rather than fly into the dense anti-aircraft fire from the ships. The FM-2 pilots were expected to continue their attacks into the barrage and if that meant they got shot down, so be it. They also knew the ships would not stop to pick them up. Privately, McKendrick thought the FM-2 pilots were the bravest men he had ever met.
FM-2 Wildcat Sweet Arlene Over Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
Ensign David Berman had been steered out by the fighter controllers on Howe from immediately after take-off right up to the time they had positioned him alongside and 7,000 feet above the flight of four Heinkel 177s. Then with a heartfelt ‘Good Hunting’ they had released him to his own navigation. Or, rather, to the navigation of his flight leader. Ahead of him, he saw Corrine, the lead FM-2 make a wingover and start the dive down on the four bombers below. Already, the Heinkels were pulling away as the pilots pushed their engines to the max in the effort to outrun the attacking fighters. Berman could see the thin streams of black smoke from their engines as he followed his leader over. King-One flight had already split into four sections of two aircraft, each targeting one of the bombers.
Height played into the hands of the fighters though. That and the fact that the radars on Howe had detected the incoming raid early enough to get those fighters into position. Berman felt the dive pushing him back into his seat and the acceleration causing his vision to redden. He couldn’t help thinking that reduced the threat posed by the tracers floating up from the defensive positions on the bombers. He knew that the He-177s had only two guns each that could be brought to bear from this angle, a 13.2mm machine gun and a 20mm cannon and the small formation wasn’t able to put up the murderous crossfire from massed guns that made attacking American bomber formations so dangerous. Each bomber, faced with attack from two fighters working together, was trying to defend itself. It was a human reaction, understandable enough, but it also added to the isolation of each aircraft. The FM-2s evaded the single lines of tracer easily enough and started firing as soon as they were within range.
Each aircraft had four .50 caliber machine guns. In their urge to coax as much speed out of the old Wildcat airframe as possible, the designers had reduced the armament from six guns to four but upped the ammunition load to compensate. That, at least, gave the FM-2s a longer time to hose bullets at their targets. Berman and his section leader were using that to try and do as much damage to their targets as possible in the one-pass they knew they could rely on. They might get in a second pass but the odds were against it. The He-177s were already nosing over into their dives and that would allow them to leave the fighters far behind.
Berman saw his own tracers falling short of his target, so he lifted his nose to bring them on to the bomber below. That, of course, meant that his speed started to drop, and the rate at which his target seemed to grow in his gunsight diminished. Just ahead of him, Lieutenant Daniels was doing the same and his tracers were the first to strike home. They sliced into the Heinkel’s tail and walked along the fuselage, silencing the upper-aft gun position. Berman used the opportunity to stop evading return fire and was rewarded by his own tracers slamming into his target’s starboard wing root. A slight twitch of the nose sent them along the wing and marching into the single nacelle that contained two of the aircraft’s four engines. The Heinkel seemed to stagger under the blow as a thick stream of black smoke erupted from the engine and the propeller milled to a stop.
American aviation engineers had always been suspicious of the concept of gearing two engines together to drive a single propeller and had been unable to understand why the fascist designers had adopted it for their only long-range bomber. It had seemed a recipe for fire and mutual extinction of the two engines. Berman saw that had happened now and that his target was swinging hard to one side as the wrecked engines created drag. They also slowed the bomber down and that meant the FM-2s could close in. Daniels and Berman did just that, cutting across the arc flown by the damaged Heinkel and raking it from nose to tail.
It wasn’t the additional gunfire that doomed the aircraft though. That had already been done. The fires from the wrecked engines had penetrated the grossly under-strength firewall that separated them from the wing’s main structure and started burning through the main spars. Suddenly, without any warning, the wing failed and folded through 90 degrees at the site of the destroyed engine nacelle. The bomber rolled over, went into an irrecoverable spin and spiraled downwards. Long before it hit the sea, stress overcame structure and it broke up in mid-air.
“Crown, King-One-One. Scratch one hostile.” Daniel’s voice was triumphant.
“Make that two!” Lieutenant Napier from King-One-Five was ecstatic rather than triumphant. His Heinkel was going down in a thick stream of black smoke from both wings. Halfway down, it blew up rather than fall apart. Berman couldn’t help but feel it was a much more spectacular end than his target’s had been. Then he saw the two surviving bombers in their dives to the convoy, far ahead and pulling away from any possibility of pursuit from the FM-2s.
Air Warfare Plot, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
“King-One reporting in. Two bombers down, two through.”
“Start smokescreen. Move escorts to reinforce coverage of ahead and starboard quarter. Jamming on. Report from Uncle-One and King-Two?” McKendrick was pacing backward and forwards as the raid developed.
“Engaging, no kills reported yet. King-One returning to Angels-26.”
“Uncle-One reports two enemy aircraft downed, one fighter lost. Others returning to Angels-26.” The controller responsible for the interception of Ghoul-one grimaced. “Point-50s don’t cut it, we need a 20mm cannon.”
“So far we’ve knocked down four out of eight for one loss. Pretty good I’d say. It’s faster fighters we need.”
“King-Two reports one He-177 downed on the first pass. They managed a head-on and got a second. No losses. That makes it six out of twelve.”
McKendrick picked up the microphone. “All ships, clear to open fire on approaching bombers. Four inbounds. Anti-aircraft coordinators, allocate ships to inbound targets and open fire.”
Howe shook as the 5.25-inch guns started firing. The gunnery plot had divided the ships into groups and assigned them to the inbound targets. With both fighters and anti-aircraft gunnery being controlled from the same compartment, conflicts were being minimized although that didn’t mean they wouldn’t happen. McKendrick heard the fighter controllers’ position moving the three flights of FM-2s to intercept the bombers as they left their attack on the convoy. “Contact Vopnaford and tell them we need two replacement FM-2s sent out. Make that four, we can deck-park any overage. They’ll be needed soon enough.”
“Inbound Ghouls are reaching release point now, Sir. No AA kills reported.” McKendrick reflected that was hardly surprising; even with radar-assisted gunnery, the heavy guns were firing almost blind through the smokescreen. Their purpose at this point was to distract the bombardiers from steering the anti-ship weapons released by the bombers. Now we will get our first idea of what the fascists have as their targeting priorities. If they’re firing Hs-293s, they’re going after the merchant ships. If they’re dropping Fritz-X, they’re coming after the escorts. The submarines get to shoot at what they can and these days they just try and overwhelm the convoy with salvoes of torpedoes from outside the range of our defenses. What gets hit, if anything, is purely random. The bombers pick their targets. Or try to.
“One of the ghouls coming in from Blue-90 is going down, Sir. Rest are on release point now.” That means five weapons are coming down. For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful.
“Bombers are climbing, Sir. We have released.”
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, East of Iceland
Shawnee, like every ship in the convoy, was at General Quarters, every anti-aircraft gun manned, all damage control parties ready and waiting with the damage control timbers, portable pumps, and all the other items of their trade ready. Standing in the shoulder rests of his Oerlikon, Young watched his ship’s bow 5-inch gun swing up and train to 45 degrees starboard under the control of the director on the bridge. That was, in turn, taking its orders from the Air Plot on Howe. He’d jumped when the gun had fired for the first time; for some reason it seemed much louder and more urgent when there was a real target out there.
The ship’s sirens were sounding again, this time a series of short notes that started high and ended low. It was the warning that the attack was imminent.
“They’re on their way, Dougie. Radar saw the fascists pull up; they have to do that when they release. See where the 5-incher is aiming? That’s where the damned thing will be coming from. Start firing as soon as it appears.” He moved on to pass the word to the other guns on the 20mm gallery.
Time seemed to creak past as Young concentrated every scrap of attention on the gray-white clouds of the smokescreen that coated the skies overhead. Around him, the members of the crew who had an electric razor and excess to a free power socket had turned the razor on and were holding it up at arm's length. They had been told that the electrical noise radiated by the virtually unscreened motors would jam the missile control system albeit at uncomfortably close range. The technique even had a code-name, XG-2. Then, Young was surrounded by cheers as the black streak of a Fritz-X emerged from the smoke clouds overhead and started to spiral as it went completely out of control. The glider bomb fell in the sea, far away from any of the ships. Back on Shawnee one seaman was overcome with astonishment at the simple trick working and kissed his razor in delight.
Two more streaks came out of the clouds of smoke, clearly heading for Kazan. Everybody watching held their breath as the bombs neared the aircraft carrier, then burst into renewed cheering as they straddled her, too far out to do any serious damage. The cheering was already dying down when it was stilled completely by a fourth bomb streak that ended its path with a brilliant explosion amidships on the battleship Anson. A cloud of black smoke rose from between the ship's funnels but she held her position, despite obvious damage and a major onboard fire.
Two more pyres of water rose from the general convoy area but it was apparent to the men on the merchant ships that the electrical noise emitted from the massed use of electric razors was having its effect and morale soared at the sight of the dreaded guided bombs missing their targets. Two more splashes, even further removed from the convoy suggested that the weapons in question had failed to operate properly. The XG-2 men were unable to convince themselves that the weapons hitting the sea so far away could have fallen victims to their razors. A ninth missile hit the sea just ahead of one of the avgas tankers, that few feet of sea saving the convoy from the sight of the tanker exploding into flames.
Young was just beginning to relax when a tenth, and as it turned out final, the missile came in from the stern diagonal. He got a few shots off as it passed into his arc of fire but it was too little and too late. The Fritz-X tore into the forecastle, passed through the structure underneath, and exited through the ship's side to explode in the water off to the port beam. It was close enough for the fragments to lash the ship's side and scythe through the crews on the bow 5-inch and 40mm quad. By the time the ship's siren sounded the distress call, men were already running forward to tend to the wounded.
"Damn, I thought we got away with that." Young was sickened by the sight of the dead and wounded being pulled from the wreckage. His only consolation was that Perry was on the aft 40mm quad.
"We nearly did," was Mr. Ericsson's only comment.
Admiral's Bridge, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, East of Iceland.
"Reports coming in, Sir. Kazan reports minor splinter damage on both sides and half a dozen minor injuries. The bad news is, that they lost another FM-2 on landing. Anson took the hit amidships, the cinema is on fire, and firefighting crews are dealing with it. They say they have it contained. The blast extinguished the fires in the forward boiler room and damaged the extraction fans. She has 22 dead and about forty wounded. We were lucky, she can hold station and the damage is fixable. The Fritz-X hit the armor deck at a shallow angle and skidded off. Shawnee took a hit forward. The bomb went through the thin plating and exploded in the sea alongside. Two dead, eight wounded. The shielding on her guns saved a lot of men there.
Admiral Tom Phillips looked at his convoy. The attack had been well-planned but the ships had been lucky. Except for Anson of course. "They were going for the escorts, no doubt about that. The carriers, in particular. I think Shawnee was mistaken for one of them."
"I agree, Sir. This was a concerted attack to thin down the air defenses. If it hadn't been for the electric razors . . . "
The bridge crew burst out laughing at the reference, although it was more of a nervous relief after the attack. They knew that the much-vaunted XG-2 'razor defense' was really completely useless and was a cover for the Type 91 and Type 650/651 jammers installed on the warships. It was also a propaganda ploy, intended to undermine the Luftwaffe crew’s confidence in their weapons as well as impress on its audience that American war production was so high, that they could continue to make electric razors for the civilian market. American cinema newsreels (which had inevitably made their way to neutral countries and then to the fascists) had made a point of announcing that XG-2 was so efficient that a third of all electric razor production was being reserved for the merchant marine.
"Don't knock it, Jim. Those merchies believe XG-2 works and it’s a powerful moral tool. At least they feel that they are doing something to defend themselves."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-One
1st Battalion, 503rd Regiment, 47th Rifle Division, Naumovskaya
As a medical orderly, Antonina Stepanovna Rabtsun had the task of following the advancing infantry, bandaging the wounded and dragging them to safety, not forgetting to salvage their rifle or submachinegun in the process. It was not safe to work; the combat medical orderlies had a casualty rate that was second only to the front-line infantry.
Today, though, the assault was running well, and casualties were few. Her battalion had surged out of the woods, by-passing the bottleneck between Medvedevskaya-East and West that had been the front line for almost a week, recaptured Medvedevskaya-West without firing a shot and then stormed into Naumovskaya. Following the devastating artillery ambush, what had once been a prosperous kolkhoz was now a deserted wasteland of interlocking shell craters. The fascists had left booby-traps in everything that was still standing and Antonina Stepanovna knew she would be treating bratishka who had lost hands when picking up a tempting 'souvenir' soon enough.
The fascists had left other things behind as well. Their wounded who had been too badly hurt to be moved. Most had died in the days between the Hitlerites departing and the Russian riflemen arriving. Others had killed themselves rather than submit to being captured. Some had tried to resist and been shot down in the attempt. One of them had come close to killing Rabtsun, he had trained a submachine gun on her back while she had been treating a wounded Russian but one of the riflemen with her had seen him and blown off his head. A few of the fascists were still alive but too badly wounded to be a threat. Rabtsun was looking down at one of them.
"Bitte, bitte." The man was almost whimpering. He was in his greatcoat but there was a massive bloodstain on the chest. His face was whitish-gray with deep black shadows under his eyes from exhaustion and the cold. That made her guess he would soon get frostbite if he wasn't taken in soon. If he didn’t die sooner. "Bitte, mutter, oh meine mutter."
Rabtsun spoke reasonably good German and understood that he was half under the impression that she was his mother. She found that insulting. "You want me to help you? Why should I?"
"Bitte, bitte."
"Put your hands where I can see them.” She hesitated, wondering why she was doing what she was doing. She was almost speaking to herself when she continued. “I had a friend, another medical orderly. She was captured by your friends. They cut off her hands and breasts and then put out her eyes before they buried her alive. Just a few minutes ago, another one of your friends tried to kill me while I bandaged the wounded. So why should I treat you?"
Even while she was speaking, she had jumped down into the shell-crater where the man had sheltered and started to open his greatcoat. In the process, she checked him for weapons, pistols, a hand grenade, or a knife. That done, she could see that the wound was ugly, ripped, and jagged from the rocket fragments that had cut him down. It was already beginning to fester. "This is bad. Not just the wound, but fragments of cloth and buttons from your coat are in there. I'll have to get them out before you bleed to death."
“Our officer, never allowed us to . . . do things like that. I am sorry . . . . for your friend.”
She grunted in open disbelief, but still took the tweezers out of her medical kit and quickly cleaned out the wound as well as she could. The surgeons back at the hospital will do a better job. Then she bandaged the wound and called for stretcher bearers. "You didn’t answer me; why did I treat your wounds when you tortured my friend to death?"
The man shook his head, bewildered. He hadn't known that the Russians would treat the enemy wounded. He had been told otherwise. He was now discovering that, while taking prisoners in battle was one thing after all nobody did that anymore, but Russian regulations were strict. Wounded found after the battle would be treated.
Looking at him, Rabtsun had an epiphany. If we treat them, they can serve us. After all, there was much work for them to do after they recovered. They can rebuild what they destroyed but who will bring back all the lives they stole? Rabtsun found herself thinking of just how many people she had known who had died in this war and was hard-put to stop herself weeping.
"I'll tell you why. It's because I am a communist and you are a fascist. Even if we make mistakes on the way, we and our Amerikanskiye brat'ya think of ways to improve people's lives while you think only of bringing death to them. Think on that as you are carried away by our orderlies, to our hospital where you will be treated with our medicine by our doctors and our nurses. Think on how we treat you and how you treated my friend."
Rabtsun checked over the edge of the crater, aware of the movement behind her as stretcher-bearers picked up her patient and evacuated him. What she didn’t expect was a cautious touch on her shoulder.
"That was very well said, tovarish Antonina Stepanovna. That was an inspiring thing to say that deserves a better audience. May I have your permission to send the story to Pravda and the news agencies? I took a picture of you treating the fascist along with others of you at work this day."
Sub-Commander for Political Affairs, Alekse Nikandrovich Udovchenko had been genuinely touched and impressed by the speech he had overheard. It had also fitted in well with the directive he had received from Yekaterinburg that the courageous and patriotic service of women on the front lines should be publicized with the message that they were real soldiers, real veterans doing irreplaceable work for the Rodina. Examples of those who suggested otherwise were already being made.
"I serve the Rodina, tovarish Alekse Nikandrovich. And, if you believe my poor words were worthy, then do as you think best with them."
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
Lieutenant Ackermann had finally finished the headcount after the devastating attack by the Night Witch. The breakout column had scattered under the hail of rockets, bombs, and gunfire and it had taken hours to get everybody reassembled. The results of the count were dispiriting. He had just under eighty men left uninjured, mostly panzergrenadiers and Fusiliers but with a dozen men from the crews of the Panthers. Uninjured was a relative term, several of that group had minor wounds from fragments but were still able to march, carry their weapons and help with the seriously wounded. There were a dozen men whose wounds were far too serious to allow them to walk out of here. Ackermann had ordered the greatcoats taken from the dead while others found the straightest pine branches they could. Once the branches had been fed through the sleeves of the heavy coats, the result was a serviceable stretcher. The relief of the wounded when they knew they would not be left behind was palpable. Now, he had to decide what to do next.
"Where do we go now, Herr Lieutenant?"
Ackermann looked up at the man who had asked the one question that was befuddling him as well. "You are?"
"Stabsfeldwebel Seehofer. Dietmar Seehofer. I am the ranking survivor of the Füsilier-Battalion. What do you wish of us?"
"How is the spirit of your men, Dietmar?"
Seehofer thought carefully about that. "They are shocked and desperately tired, Herr Lieutenant. A few dozen men left of a whole battalion. And all our officers are dead. They need leadership more than anything else. If Herr Lieutenant could speak with them?"
"I will do that, but we cannot rest here. We must get out before more jabos turn up. We will continue to head south, through the woods. Four kilometers south of here, there is a stream and then a kilometer beyond that, a railway line. Once we are south of that railway line, there will be a good chance of linking up with our troops. Do you have men skilled in woods-craft?"
"Feldkamp and Kuhnert are the best, Sir. Nieswandt is a good man as well. All three are skilled hunters and Nieswandt grew up in the Black Forest."
"Very good. Order them to scout ahead of us." Ackermann produced his map. "Along this route here. We need to keep under the trees now that we do not have a vehicle with us. Avoiding the Ivans must take priority over speed now. After last night they will be looking for us. Feldkamp, Kuhnert, and Nieswandt must see them first and warn us. Make sure the rest of your men take turns carrying the wounded on their stretchers."
"Yes, Sir. Flank guards, sir?"
"My Panzergrenadiers will provide them, they have the new StG-44s. Tell Feldkamp, Kuhner,t and Nieswandt to take them off the dead if they can find them; they may need the firepower. But warn them, those things burn through ammunition and they do not fire the same round as the 98ks."
Ackermann watched the Staff Sergeant get his men together and reflected it was time for him to assemble his own people. "Schönfeld, Stockinger, take two men each as a flank guard and move parallel to the main column, 100 meters out. All right, everybody listen. We took a bad hit last night and we must get away before the Jabos come back. The good news is that we have already covered more than half the distance back to our own lines and we have the forests for cover all the rest of the way. Also, we have really slapped the Ivans around, their casualties are at least three or four times higher than ours and they will be cautious about pursuing us. So, if we stick together and help each other out, we'll make it back. Once we do that, we'll probably be sent to the rear to rebuild our units. That will get us out of the snow. Any questions?"
"What can we do, Sir?" It was the senior NCO in the contingent from the tanks. Like the Füsilier-Battalion, they had lost all their remaining officers and they needed somebody to tell them what to do.
"At the moment, help with the wounded. You loaders are good, steady men, make sure that the stretchers keep up with everybody else." It was one of the quirks of the Panther's design that the loader was the one man in the crew who had a direct, easy path out of the tank when it started to burn. As a result, there were a disproportionate number of loaders amongst the survivors of the eight full crews who had started the battle around Naumovskaya. In most other types of tanks, the loader wasn't so lucky.
Grenadier Matthias Krause had found a radio belonging to one of the Füsilier units and was carrying it along with his StG-44. "Herr Lieutenant. Should I try and get through to our operators, tell them we are coming in."
Ackermann thought hard about that. There was much to be said on both sides of the argument. Eventually he decided discretion was the better part of valor. "No. Stay off the air. The Amis are too damned good at direction finding and the Ivans are better. We don’t want Stalin's Organs paying us a visit. Once we are close to our own lines, then we can radio in."
A-38 Grizzly "Wolf Bait", Over the Etatochka Bridges Korovskoye
"How many more guns d'ya think the fascists going to pour around this place?" Murphy was leading Lion Flight, a group of four A-38s, across the defenses of the bridges below. There were five at Etatochka now, the original large railway bridge and four assault bridges that had now been laid across the ice rather than on pontoons. The fact this was a vital crossing point was easily demonstrated by the number of anti-aircraft batteries that had been installed around the bridge complex. Murphy could count nearly sixty guns and some of them had radar fire control.
Those radar sites were the first, priority targets. Once they had been taken out with thousand-pound bombs and rockets carried by the A-38s, the Grizzlies would go after the guns themselves with their nose-mounted 75mms. The sixteen Grizzlies were to keep the flak-guns so occupied with defending themselves that they would be unable to take on the Thunderbolts that would be dive-bombing the bridges. Destroying the infrastructure around the bridges would be the job of the third wave of the attack, area bombing by two groups of B-33s. At the pre-flight briefing, Murphy and his fellow A-38 pilots had been told that this raid had been selected in preference to the destruction of a major fascist jet fighter base. That was how important these bridges were.
"All right. Hunter aircraft." Colonel Walter Brown's voice came over the radio. "We have clearance to commence the attack from Circus. Lion, Tiger, Seal and Elephant flights, begin your attack runs now."
"Going down." Murphy acknowledged the order and made a wingover to commence the dive on a radar station that guarded the eastern approach to the bridges. Tiger Flight was hitting the southern radar station, Seal the northern one while Elephant Flight had the task of taking down the western station. That was the newest station and it had been spotted only a few hours before the raid, resulting in the hasty addition of the fourth flight of Grizzlies. Intent on the target assigned to him, Murphy promptly and quite properly forgot about the other three stations. They were somebody else's problem.
He could see the octagonal concrete base with the disk-like antenna below him. Nobody was under any illusions about the chances of the thousand-pound bombs under his aircraft's belly penetrating down to the radar crew and the electronics under that base. After all, the Germans had learned how vulnerable radar stations were during the B-26 offensive against them down at Kazan the year before and hardened them against future attack. But, the bombs would destroy the antennas and that was good enough for government work.
The A-38 was holding its dive perfectly. Although designed as a platform for its 75mm gun, it still made a good dive-bomber with a smooth and steady descent. That allowed Murphy to hold the iron cross of his bombsight on the center of the target while he waited for the optimum release altitude. It took the anti-aircraft guns below a few seconds to realize that he was going for the radar station, not the bridges and re-aim but once they did, Murphy felt Wolf Bait start to bounce and shudder with the flak bursts. The first deep thrum noise of a 20mm round hitting the aircraft's structure caused him to flinch and settle deeper in his seat but the sudden lurch as the bombs under his wings dropped clear seemed to throw the gunners off. Then, the radar station vanished as the A-38s nose lifted up. A split second later, the aircraft was thrown bodily upwards as the bombs exploded.
"Whoa, look at that thing go!" Sergeant Gerstein, Murphy's gunner/navigator roared out the news, the excitement obviously getting to him. "That dish must be in a thousand pieces."
The A-38 pulled up from its dive only two hundred feet above the ground and was racing at full power down an alleyway between the flak sites clustered around the bridges. Murphy was making no effort to climb clear; by staying low down he was both avoiding the worst of the anti-aircraft fire and was distracting the guns from the Thunderbolt sections that were already making their approach. The path out had been carefully plotted to minimize exposure and allow the aircraft to make a secure turn for another run at the flak sites. It led over a deserted village that was presumed to have been cleared to make way for the defenses. That would be the navigation point for the turn.
As he approached the derelict buildings, large sections of the roofs appeared to drop away, exposing the muzzles of anti-aircraft guns. The fascist 50mm weapons opened fire at almost point-blank range. Murphy in Wolf Bait was already past when the firing started, but Bear Trap immediately behind him caught a direct hit in the belly and another by the engine nacelle. The wing separated at the root amid a stream of flame from the crippled A-38. Bear Trap rolled over on its back and plowed into the ground only a few yards from the concealed flak battery that had killed it. Snake Pit took a direct hit in the rear fuselage that blew its tail clean off. The aircraft somersaulted end-over-end in a long train of fire before exploding in mid-air. Possibly shielded by the smoke and flash of the explosion, the fourth aircraft made it through the flak-trap damaged but still flying.
Murphy hauled Wolf Bait around and lined up on the buildings. He felt the heavy thump as his 75mm cannon started to fire and saw the shells tearing into the wooden buildings. That was the trouble with masked batteries; they were all very good until they did their job. Then, they were as vulnerable as a battery in the open. Gerstein was giving him a constant report as he scanned behind, ready to engage any fighters that showed up with his two twin .50s. “Tiger’s Claw is taking the buildings on the left. What the hell hit Bear Trap and Snake Pit?”
There had been two buildings in front of Wolf Bait but the 75mm shots had reduced both of them to blazing fragments. In one of them, an anti-aircraft gun was surrounded by flame but still clearly visible. It looked a bit like a shrunken 88. “Dunno Sam, the tech boys will figure it out.”
Wolf Bait swerved as Murphy lined up on the nearest 37mm gun position. It had already pivoted to engage him and its tracers were streaking past his cockpit but his own 75mm outranged it and he was firing an accurate gun at a stationary target. It took two shots to suppress the gun and three more to send it skywards in a ball-like secondary.
“All Hunter aircraft, the Thunderbolts are going in now. Mallet Force is seven minutes out. Don’t get caught under their bombs. And watch out for masked batteries. They’ve cost us four aircraft so far.” Brown had kept his voice normal despite the fact he had just announced the first casualties the Group had taken since they had received the A-38s.
P-47N Thunderbolt "Babydoll", 404th Fighter Group, Over the Etatochka Bridges Korovskoye
Foster saw his vision turn red as he pushed his Babydoll over into the steep dive that should, if everything went right, deposit the three thousand-pound bombs he was carrying on to the central bridge of the cluster across the river. His was actually the third of the nine flights of P-47Ns to be dive-bombing the bridges but the first to attack the vital central structure. The sight of the railway bridge growing in his bombsight was a familiar one now. He could see the scars of the previous attacks that had failed to drop the spans and he even believed that he recognized some of them as his own. What was depressingly apparent was how few of the impact marks were on the bridge itself. They were all around the approaches, with the road having been cratered, and there were explosion marks on the bridge deck with signs of hasty repair but the bridge itself was as solid as it had ever been.
And so it was that Foster took extreme care in placing his three bombs. He had picked the area directly over one of the piers on which the deck rested and put the cross-hairs on the exact middle of the railway tracks. When pressing the button that released his bombs, he even held his breath so that the painstaking effort would not be wasted. Then, as Babydoll lurched with the release of over a ton and a half of bombs, he held the dive for a split second to ensure clean separation before heaving the stick back to pull out of the 70 degree dive. This time his vision grayed out and he knew it was only the new anti-G suits American pilots had been issued with that had stopped him from blacking out and flying into the ground. And yet, Babydoll hadn't issued a creak or groan in protest.
"You're a tough girl, Babydoll." Foster had spoken to his aircraft without thinking but suddenly got the feeling the P-47N was wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He was climbing away from the bridge but could see his bombs exploding more or less where he had wanted to put them. To his incredulous delight, one of the bombs had detonated exactly where he had aimed it, where the bridge deck met the pier. The span seemed to surge upwards and outwards away from the blast with the wave moving along the deck until it men the point where it hit the next pier. That caused the deck to start disintegrating with sections of the railway arching up through the air and then collapsing into the river. "Circus, this is Syrup-One. Etatochka Prime is down. Say again, Etatochka Prime is down."
Martin B-33B Maverick Silver Swan 483d Bombardment Group, Approaching Etatochka Bridges, Korovskoye
“I thought were done with these damned bridges.” Douglas had seen the sight of the bridges below far too often for comfort.
“We are.” Vinnie Jennings in the bomb-aimer’s compartment had clear orders; he and the rest of the 483rd were to hit the area of forest and marshes west of the Onega. Following behind them, the 495th would hammer Korelskoye itself to the east of the river. Each group would unload 200 tons of five hundred pound bombs on its respective target area. The idea was to destroy the repair sections and pre-positioned supplies that the fascists had around the bridges. So far, the string of earlier raids had damaged the assault bridges but they had been repaired very quickly. The medium and heavy bombers had proved largely ineffective at dropping bridges but the hope was that by plastering the areas around the bridge complex, those pre-positioned repair stockpiles could be destroyed. “Lining up on designated target area now.”
“Boss, there’s at least six of our planes down on the west bank.” Bill Hughes had swung his ball turret around so it was looking forward and down. Being under the belly of the aircraft, he had the best view of the ground.
“Confirm that.” Jennings sounded shaken by the realization that there were downed American aircraft in the area he was about to bomb. “Count six smoke columns compatible with downed aircraft.
“Can’t help that Vinnie. If it’s any help, kites shot down that low, nobody gets out. Approaching release point.”
“I have the aircraft.” Jennings took over the controls from his bombardier station. “Preparing to release.”
“I have word from Circus.” Douglas passed the word out. “Four Grizzlies and three Thunderbolts are down. All went straight in, nobody got out. If it’s any consolation, they got Etatochka Prime and three of the four assault bridges.”
Douglas felt Silver Swan moving slightly under the inputs from Jennings. Then, there was the jerk upwards as twenty four five-hundred pound bombs formed a long stream towards the target area. By the time the group had got clear, the ground below them was covered with the rolling mass of explosions. “I have the aircraft, Vinnie. Let’s go home. No flak, no fighters, that’s one for the books.”
“Yeah, I wonder how the little friends feel about it.”
Briefing Room, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"We have good news and bad news." Colonel Daniel Campbell had just received the reconnaissance pictures from Etatochka. "The good news is we dropped four of the five bridges including the railway bridge. It cost us seven aircraft in total and we think that the fascists have a new anti-aircraft gun that fires like a 37 but has the hitting power of an 88. One Grizzly went down after a single hit blew its wing off."
"That's good news?" Murphy sounded alarmed.
"That it is. Also, the fascists are countering the A-38s campaign against flak guns by concealing them inside buildings and, presumably, anything else that can cover them until they open fire. That shows we're hitting them where it hurts. Now the bad news. I just got the recon pictures back from Etatochka and they show that all five bridges have been repaired. Take a look at this."
The picture was taken by the forward oblique camera of an F-5. It showed the railway bridge with the wreckage of a dropped span on the ice underneath. The gap had already been repaired by a prefabricated section laid across it. Other photographs showed the same work done to the assault bridges on the ice.
"There we have it. Less than four hours after the strike, the bridges are clear again. How the B-33s missed the prepositioned repair components we don’t know. They had to be somewhere else. Whatever it is, I'm sorry, boys, but we will have to go back to Etatochka again.
1st Battalion, 503rd Regiment, 47th Rifle Division, Naumovskaya
As a medical orderly, Antonina Stepanovna Rabtsun had the task of following the advancing infantry, bandaging the wounded and dragging them to safety, not forgetting to salvage their rifle or submachinegun in the process. It was not safe to work; the combat medical orderlies had a casualty rate that was second only to the front-line infantry.
Today, though, the assault was running well, and casualties were few. Her battalion had surged out of the woods, by-passing the bottleneck between Medvedevskaya-East and West that had been the front line for almost a week, recaptured Medvedevskaya-West without firing a shot and then stormed into Naumovskaya. Following the devastating artillery ambush, what had once been a prosperous kolkhoz was now a deserted wasteland of interlocking shell craters. The fascists had left booby-traps in everything that was still standing and Antonina Stepanovna knew she would be treating bratishka who had lost hands when picking up a tempting 'souvenir' soon enough.
The fascists had left other things behind as well. Their wounded who had been too badly hurt to be moved. Most had died in the days between the Hitlerites departing and the Russian riflemen arriving. Others had killed themselves rather than submit to being captured. Some had tried to resist and been shot down in the attempt. One of them had come close to killing Rabtsun, he had trained a submachine gun on her back while she had been treating a wounded Russian but one of the riflemen with her had seen him and blown off his head. A few of the fascists were still alive but too badly wounded to be a threat. Rabtsun was looking down at one of them.
"Bitte, bitte." The man was almost whimpering. He was in his greatcoat but there was a massive bloodstain on the chest. His face was whitish-gray with deep black shadows under his eyes from exhaustion and the cold. That made her guess he would soon get frostbite if he wasn't taken in soon. If he didn’t die sooner. "Bitte, mutter, oh meine mutter."
Rabtsun spoke reasonably good German and understood that he was half under the impression that she was his mother. She found that insulting. "You want me to help you? Why should I?"
"Bitte, bitte."
"Put your hands where I can see them.” She hesitated, wondering why she was doing what she was doing. She was almost speaking to herself when she continued. “I had a friend, another medical orderly. She was captured by your friends. They cut off her hands and breasts and then put out her eyes before they buried her alive. Just a few minutes ago, another one of your friends tried to kill me while I bandaged the wounded. So why should I treat you?"
Even while she was speaking, she had jumped down into the shell-crater where the man had sheltered and started to open his greatcoat. In the process, she checked him for weapons, pistols, a hand grenade, or a knife. That done, she could see that the wound was ugly, ripped, and jagged from the rocket fragments that had cut him down. It was already beginning to fester. "This is bad. Not just the wound, but fragments of cloth and buttons from your coat are in there. I'll have to get them out before you bleed to death."
“Our officer, never allowed us to . . . do things like that. I am sorry . . . . for your friend.”
She grunted in open disbelief, but still took the tweezers out of her medical kit and quickly cleaned out the wound as well as she could. The surgeons back at the hospital will do a better job. Then she bandaged the wound and called for stretcher bearers. "You didn’t answer me; why did I treat your wounds when you tortured my friend to death?"
The man shook his head, bewildered. He hadn't known that the Russians would treat the enemy wounded. He had been told otherwise. He was now discovering that, while taking prisoners in battle was one thing after all nobody did that anymore, but Russian regulations were strict. Wounded found after the battle would be treated.
Looking at him, Rabtsun had an epiphany. If we treat them, they can serve us. After all, there was much work for them to do after they recovered. They can rebuild what they destroyed but who will bring back all the lives they stole? Rabtsun found herself thinking of just how many people she had known who had died in this war and was hard-put to stop herself weeping.
"I'll tell you why. It's because I am a communist and you are a fascist. Even if we make mistakes on the way, we and our Amerikanskiye brat'ya think of ways to improve people's lives while you think only of bringing death to them. Think on that as you are carried away by our orderlies, to our hospital where you will be treated with our medicine by our doctors and our nurses. Think on how we treat you and how you treated my friend."
Rabtsun checked over the edge of the crater, aware of the movement behind her as stretcher-bearers picked up her patient and evacuated him. What she didn’t expect was a cautious touch on her shoulder.
"That was very well said, tovarish Antonina Stepanovna. That was an inspiring thing to say that deserves a better audience. May I have your permission to send the story to Pravda and the news agencies? I took a picture of you treating the fascist along with others of you at work this day."
Sub-Commander for Political Affairs, Alekse Nikandrovich Udovchenko had been genuinely touched and impressed by the speech he had overheard. It had also fitted in well with the directive he had received from Yekaterinburg that the courageous and patriotic service of women on the front lines should be publicized with the message that they were real soldiers, real veterans doing irreplaceable work for the Rodina. Examples of those who suggested otherwise were already being made.
"I serve the Rodina, tovarish Alekse Nikandrovich. And, if you believe my poor words were worthy, then do as you think best with them."
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
Lieutenant Ackermann had finally finished the headcount after the devastating attack by the Night Witch. The breakout column had scattered under the hail of rockets, bombs, and gunfire and it had taken hours to get everybody reassembled. The results of the count were dispiriting. He had just under eighty men left uninjured, mostly panzergrenadiers and Fusiliers but with a dozen men from the crews of the Panthers. Uninjured was a relative term, several of that group had minor wounds from fragments but were still able to march, carry their weapons and help with the seriously wounded. There were a dozen men whose wounds were far too serious to allow them to walk out of here. Ackermann had ordered the greatcoats taken from the dead while others found the straightest pine branches they could. Once the branches had been fed through the sleeves of the heavy coats, the result was a serviceable stretcher. The relief of the wounded when they knew they would not be left behind was palpable. Now, he had to decide what to do next.
"Where do we go now, Herr Lieutenant?"
Ackermann looked up at the man who had asked the one question that was befuddling him as well. "You are?"
"Stabsfeldwebel Seehofer. Dietmar Seehofer. I am the ranking survivor of the Füsilier-Battalion. What do you wish of us?"
"How is the spirit of your men, Dietmar?"
Seehofer thought carefully about that. "They are shocked and desperately tired, Herr Lieutenant. A few dozen men left of a whole battalion. And all our officers are dead. They need leadership more than anything else. If Herr Lieutenant could speak with them?"
"I will do that, but we cannot rest here. We must get out before more jabos turn up. We will continue to head south, through the woods. Four kilometers south of here, there is a stream and then a kilometer beyond that, a railway line. Once we are south of that railway line, there will be a good chance of linking up with our troops. Do you have men skilled in woods-craft?"
"Feldkamp and Kuhnert are the best, Sir. Nieswandt is a good man as well. All three are skilled hunters and Nieswandt grew up in the Black Forest."
"Very good. Order them to scout ahead of us." Ackermann produced his map. "Along this route here. We need to keep under the trees now that we do not have a vehicle with us. Avoiding the Ivans must take priority over speed now. After last night they will be looking for us. Feldkamp, Kuhnert, and Nieswandt must see them first and warn us. Make sure the rest of your men take turns carrying the wounded on their stretchers."
"Yes, Sir. Flank guards, sir?"
"My Panzergrenadiers will provide them, they have the new StG-44s. Tell Feldkamp, Kuhner,t and Nieswandt to take them off the dead if they can find them; they may need the firepower. But warn them, those things burn through ammunition and they do not fire the same round as the 98ks."
Ackermann watched the Staff Sergeant get his men together and reflected it was time for him to assemble his own people. "Schönfeld, Stockinger, take two men each as a flank guard and move parallel to the main column, 100 meters out. All right, everybody listen. We took a bad hit last night and we must get away before the Jabos come back. The good news is that we have already covered more than half the distance back to our own lines and we have the forests for cover all the rest of the way. Also, we have really slapped the Ivans around, their casualties are at least three or four times higher than ours and they will be cautious about pursuing us. So, if we stick together and help each other out, we'll make it back. Once we do that, we'll probably be sent to the rear to rebuild our units. That will get us out of the snow. Any questions?"
"What can we do, Sir?" It was the senior NCO in the contingent from the tanks. Like the Füsilier-Battalion, they had lost all their remaining officers and they needed somebody to tell them what to do.
"At the moment, help with the wounded. You loaders are good, steady men, make sure that the stretchers keep up with everybody else." It was one of the quirks of the Panther's design that the loader was the one man in the crew who had a direct, easy path out of the tank when it started to burn. As a result, there were a disproportionate number of loaders amongst the survivors of the eight full crews who had started the battle around Naumovskaya. In most other types of tanks, the loader wasn't so lucky.
Grenadier Matthias Krause had found a radio belonging to one of the Füsilier units and was carrying it along with his StG-44. "Herr Lieutenant. Should I try and get through to our operators, tell them we are coming in."
Ackermann thought hard about that. There was much to be said on both sides of the argument. Eventually he decided discretion was the better part of valor. "No. Stay off the air. The Amis are too damned good at direction finding and the Ivans are better. We don’t want Stalin's Organs paying us a visit. Once we are close to our own lines, then we can radio in."
A-38 Grizzly "Wolf Bait", Over the Etatochka Bridges Korovskoye
"How many more guns d'ya think the fascists going to pour around this place?" Murphy was leading Lion Flight, a group of four A-38s, across the defenses of the bridges below. There were five at Etatochka now, the original large railway bridge and four assault bridges that had now been laid across the ice rather than on pontoons. The fact this was a vital crossing point was easily demonstrated by the number of anti-aircraft batteries that had been installed around the bridge complex. Murphy could count nearly sixty guns and some of them had radar fire control.
Those radar sites were the first, priority targets. Once they had been taken out with thousand-pound bombs and rockets carried by the A-38s, the Grizzlies would go after the guns themselves with their nose-mounted 75mms. The sixteen Grizzlies were to keep the flak-guns so occupied with defending themselves that they would be unable to take on the Thunderbolts that would be dive-bombing the bridges. Destroying the infrastructure around the bridges would be the job of the third wave of the attack, area bombing by two groups of B-33s. At the pre-flight briefing, Murphy and his fellow A-38 pilots had been told that this raid had been selected in preference to the destruction of a major fascist jet fighter base. That was how important these bridges were.
"All right. Hunter aircraft." Colonel Walter Brown's voice came over the radio. "We have clearance to commence the attack from Circus. Lion, Tiger, Seal and Elephant flights, begin your attack runs now."
"Going down." Murphy acknowledged the order and made a wingover to commence the dive on a radar station that guarded the eastern approach to the bridges. Tiger Flight was hitting the southern radar station, Seal the northern one while Elephant Flight had the task of taking down the western station. That was the newest station and it had been spotted only a few hours before the raid, resulting in the hasty addition of the fourth flight of Grizzlies. Intent on the target assigned to him, Murphy promptly and quite properly forgot about the other three stations. They were somebody else's problem.
He could see the octagonal concrete base with the disk-like antenna below him. Nobody was under any illusions about the chances of the thousand-pound bombs under his aircraft's belly penetrating down to the radar crew and the electronics under that base. After all, the Germans had learned how vulnerable radar stations were during the B-26 offensive against them down at Kazan the year before and hardened them against future attack. But, the bombs would destroy the antennas and that was good enough for government work.
The A-38 was holding its dive perfectly. Although designed as a platform for its 75mm gun, it still made a good dive-bomber with a smooth and steady descent. That allowed Murphy to hold the iron cross of his bombsight on the center of the target while he waited for the optimum release altitude. It took the anti-aircraft guns below a few seconds to realize that he was going for the radar station, not the bridges and re-aim but once they did, Murphy felt Wolf Bait start to bounce and shudder with the flak bursts. The first deep thrum noise of a 20mm round hitting the aircraft's structure caused him to flinch and settle deeper in his seat but the sudden lurch as the bombs under his wings dropped clear seemed to throw the gunners off. Then, the radar station vanished as the A-38s nose lifted up. A split second later, the aircraft was thrown bodily upwards as the bombs exploded.
"Whoa, look at that thing go!" Sergeant Gerstein, Murphy's gunner/navigator roared out the news, the excitement obviously getting to him. "That dish must be in a thousand pieces."
The A-38 pulled up from its dive only two hundred feet above the ground and was racing at full power down an alleyway between the flak sites clustered around the bridges. Murphy was making no effort to climb clear; by staying low down he was both avoiding the worst of the anti-aircraft fire and was distracting the guns from the Thunderbolt sections that were already making their approach. The path out had been carefully plotted to minimize exposure and allow the aircraft to make a secure turn for another run at the flak sites. It led over a deserted village that was presumed to have been cleared to make way for the defenses. That would be the navigation point for the turn.
As he approached the derelict buildings, large sections of the roofs appeared to drop away, exposing the muzzles of anti-aircraft guns. The fascist 50mm weapons opened fire at almost point-blank range. Murphy in Wolf Bait was already past when the firing started, but Bear Trap immediately behind him caught a direct hit in the belly and another by the engine nacelle. The wing separated at the root amid a stream of flame from the crippled A-38. Bear Trap rolled over on its back and plowed into the ground only a few yards from the concealed flak battery that had killed it. Snake Pit took a direct hit in the rear fuselage that blew its tail clean off. The aircraft somersaulted end-over-end in a long train of fire before exploding in mid-air. Possibly shielded by the smoke and flash of the explosion, the fourth aircraft made it through the flak-trap damaged but still flying.
Murphy hauled Wolf Bait around and lined up on the buildings. He felt the heavy thump as his 75mm cannon started to fire and saw the shells tearing into the wooden buildings. That was the trouble with masked batteries; they were all very good until they did their job. Then, they were as vulnerable as a battery in the open. Gerstein was giving him a constant report as he scanned behind, ready to engage any fighters that showed up with his two twin .50s. “Tiger’s Claw is taking the buildings on the left. What the hell hit Bear Trap and Snake Pit?”
There had been two buildings in front of Wolf Bait but the 75mm shots had reduced both of them to blazing fragments. In one of them, an anti-aircraft gun was surrounded by flame but still clearly visible. It looked a bit like a shrunken 88. “Dunno Sam, the tech boys will figure it out.”
Wolf Bait swerved as Murphy lined up on the nearest 37mm gun position. It had already pivoted to engage him and its tracers were streaking past his cockpit but his own 75mm outranged it and he was firing an accurate gun at a stationary target. It took two shots to suppress the gun and three more to send it skywards in a ball-like secondary.
“All Hunter aircraft, the Thunderbolts are going in now. Mallet Force is seven minutes out. Don’t get caught under their bombs. And watch out for masked batteries. They’ve cost us four aircraft so far.” Brown had kept his voice normal despite the fact he had just announced the first casualties the Group had taken since they had received the A-38s.
P-47N Thunderbolt "Babydoll", 404th Fighter Group, Over the Etatochka Bridges Korovskoye
Foster saw his vision turn red as he pushed his Babydoll over into the steep dive that should, if everything went right, deposit the three thousand-pound bombs he was carrying on to the central bridge of the cluster across the river. His was actually the third of the nine flights of P-47Ns to be dive-bombing the bridges but the first to attack the vital central structure. The sight of the railway bridge growing in his bombsight was a familiar one now. He could see the scars of the previous attacks that had failed to drop the spans and he even believed that he recognized some of them as his own. What was depressingly apparent was how few of the impact marks were on the bridge itself. They were all around the approaches, with the road having been cratered, and there were explosion marks on the bridge deck with signs of hasty repair but the bridge itself was as solid as it had ever been.
And so it was that Foster took extreme care in placing his three bombs. He had picked the area directly over one of the piers on which the deck rested and put the cross-hairs on the exact middle of the railway tracks. When pressing the button that released his bombs, he even held his breath so that the painstaking effort would not be wasted. Then, as Babydoll lurched with the release of over a ton and a half of bombs, he held the dive for a split second to ensure clean separation before heaving the stick back to pull out of the 70 degree dive. This time his vision grayed out and he knew it was only the new anti-G suits American pilots had been issued with that had stopped him from blacking out and flying into the ground. And yet, Babydoll hadn't issued a creak or groan in protest.
"You're a tough girl, Babydoll." Foster had spoken to his aircraft without thinking but suddenly got the feeling the P-47N was wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He was climbing away from the bridge but could see his bombs exploding more or less where he had wanted to put them. To his incredulous delight, one of the bombs had detonated exactly where he had aimed it, where the bridge deck met the pier. The span seemed to surge upwards and outwards away from the blast with the wave moving along the deck until it men the point where it hit the next pier. That caused the deck to start disintegrating with sections of the railway arching up through the air and then collapsing into the river. "Circus, this is Syrup-One. Etatochka Prime is down. Say again, Etatochka Prime is down."
Martin B-33B Maverick Silver Swan 483d Bombardment Group, Approaching Etatochka Bridges, Korovskoye
“I thought were done with these damned bridges.” Douglas had seen the sight of the bridges below far too often for comfort.
“We are.” Vinnie Jennings in the bomb-aimer’s compartment had clear orders; he and the rest of the 483rd were to hit the area of forest and marshes west of the Onega. Following behind them, the 495th would hammer Korelskoye itself to the east of the river. Each group would unload 200 tons of five hundred pound bombs on its respective target area. The idea was to destroy the repair sections and pre-positioned supplies that the fascists had around the bridges. So far, the string of earlier raids had damaged the assault bridges but they had been repaired very quickly. The medium and heavy bombers had proved largely ineffective at dropping bridges but the hope was that by plastering the areas around the bridge complex, those pre-positioned repair stockpiles could be destroyed. “Lining up on designated target area now.”
“Boss, there’s at least six of our planes down on the west bank.” Bill Hughes had swung his ball turret around so it was looking forward and down. Being under the belly of the aircraft, he had the best view of the ground.
“Confirm that.” Jennings sounded shaken by the realization that there were downed American aircraft in the area he was about to bomb. “Count six smoke columns compatible with downed aircraft.
“Can’t help that Vinnie. If it’s any help, kites shot down that low, nobody gets out. Approaching release point.”
“I have the aircraft.” Jennings took over the controls from his bombardier station. “Preparing to release.”
“I have word from Circus.” Douglas passed the word out. “Four Grizzlies and three Thunderbolts are down. All went straight in, nobody got out. If it’s any consolation, they got Etatochka Prime and three of the four assault bridges.”
Douglas felt Silver Swan moving slightly under the inputs from Jennings. Then, there was the jerk upwards as twenty four five-hundred pound bombs formed a long stream towards the target area. By the time the group had got clear, the ground below them was covered with the rolling mass of explosions. “I have the aircraft, Vinnie. Let’s go home. No flak, no fighters, that’s one for the books.”
“Yeah, I wonder how the little friends feel about it.”
Briefing Room, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"We have good news and bad news." Colonel Daniel Campbell had just received the reconnaissance pictures from Etatochka. "The good news is we dropped four of the five bridges including the railway bridge. It cost us seven aircraft in total and we think that the fascists have a new anti-aircraft gun that fires like a 37 but has the hitting power of an 88. One Grizzly went down after a single hit blew its wing off."
"That's good news?" Murphy sounded alarmed.
"That it is. Also, the fascists are countering the A-38s campaign against flak guns by concealing them inside buildings and, presumably, anything else that can cover them until they open fire. That shows we're hitting them where it hurts. Now the bad news. I just got the recon pictures back from Etatochka and they show that all five bridges have been repaired. Take a look at this."
The picture was taken by the forward oblique camera of an F-5. It showed the railway bridge with the wreckage of a dropped span on the ice underneath. The gap had already been repaired by a prefabricated section laid across it. Other photographs showed the same work done to the assault bridges on the ice.
"There we have it. Less than four hours after the strike, the bridges are clear again. How the B-33s missed the prepositioned repair components we don’t know. They had to be somewhere else. Whatever it is, I'm sorry, boys, but we will have to go back to Etatochka again.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Two
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, Northwest of Norway
'Here we go again." The ship’s sirens were sounding the now-familiar series of short notes that started high and ended low. It was the warning that the attack was, once more imminent. Young was losing count of the number of attack waves that had been thrown at the convoy. There was the one where Anson was hit, the other where the cruiser went down, then there were the two attacks with the rocket-powered ones that nailed three of the freighters. That's four . . . I'm sure I've missed a couple. After a while, they all seem to blur into each other.
He remembered the sinking of the cruiser clearly though. A Fritz-X had hit her just beside B turret and the impact had been followed by a massive magazine explosion. When the smoke cloud had rolled clear, the cruiser had been blown into two parts with her bows already sinking fast. The stern half had followed them. It had been reminiscent of the first ship to be lost on this run, the destroyer that had been torpedoed. Young was shocked to realize that he couldn't remember her name. Nor, he then realized, could he remember the name of the sunken cruiser.
"They're coming in low and fast, red-forty." The blare of the announcement replaced the alarm noise. Young had expected to see more of the big aircraft that had been harassing them for the last day, but these were much smaller. They were also significantly faster and the half-dozen aircraft in the attack slipped through the outer defense ring with ease. It was obvious that, unlike the earlier raids that had concentrated on the escorts and the outer ring of merchant ships, these aircraft were heading for the tankers.
"Where are our fighters?" Young called out the question almost unconsciously as he swung his 20mm gun around to bear on the fast-approaching bombers.
"Intercepting the other groups." The reply from Ericsson was terse. He knew Young was quite right, the fighter cover was getting patchy as attrition from the continuous air operations had reduced the fighter strength on the two carriers. Earlier losses had been replaced from Iceland but now the convoy had moved out of range of that option. From now on, the defenses were running on capital.
The six aircraft were past the outer lines of merchant ships and closing fast. Shawnee's bow five-inch gun was still out of action following the near-miss the previous day but the quad-forty was back in action. The two quads were putting on a spectacular display of firepower filling the sky with bursts around the attacking aircraft. The fascist bombers were swerving as they made their run, trying desperately to avoid the small puffs of smoke from the 40mms and the larger ones from the five inchers. In the face of the concentrated barrage from the ships, flying any kind of predictable course would be suicidal.
One of the fascists, Young recognized the aircraft as a Ju-188 and had obviously selected Shawnee as his target. That had one advantage, with the target coming straight at him, he didn't have to lead it or allow for deflection. Instead, he saw the brilliant orange-red flame on the nose where the Ju-188 had opened fire with its fixed 20mm cannon in an effort to strafe the anti-aircraft guns on the tanker. Young used that as his aiming point and felt the battering in his shoulders as his gun returned fire. He sensed rather than heard or felt the strafing spraying shells at his gun gallery and the heavy thuds as shells deflected off his gun shield. He managed to ignore them and held his own stream of fire onto the oddly shaped oval 'greenhouse' that made up the whole nose of the bomber. His own tracers first passed under the bomber but he made a small correction and saw the brilliant flashes of impacts on his target.
He kept firing, vaguely conscious of the work his crew members were carrying out around him but mainly intent on pouring shells into the approaching aircraft. There was a brief pause while his loader changed the ammunition drum but it made no difference. He continued to track his target and when the gun started firing again, the bomber was passing overhead. This time the shells hit the nearest engine, causing a thick stream of black smoke to erupt from the nacelle. It was too late; the bomber had already dropped the two one-thousand kilogram bombs that it had been carrying but it was still timely enough to see the Ju-188 curve around in a graceful arc that ended in one wingtip touching the sea. It cartwheeled across the water while it broke up. By the time it had come to a halt, it was already sinking too fast for any survivors to escape.
Young was shaken back to reality by being soaked with ice-cold water from the bomb blasts. The two bombs had straddled the ship, showering her crew with spray and fragments. He felt the vicious impact of the shockwaves from the explosions throw him against the protective coating but as he staggered back to his gun, he couldn't help but call out, "I got him."
Then the words froze in his mouth. Mr. Ericsson was on the deck in the biggest pool of blood that Young had even seen. A 20mm shell had punched straight through his chest leaving a hole a man could put his fist through. There was no doubt that he was dead. Young stared at the body of his mentor, his mouth working uselessly. There were two other bodies on the 20mm gallery deck but his eyes were focused only on Ericsson's.
"Can't do anything for them, lad. Get down below, to the midship pump room and help them. The blast from the bombs has sprung the valves." One of the officers was heading that way himself and Young shook himself back to life to follow him.
By the time he got to the pump room, he found Steve Perry and a team from the machinery department already working on the pipes and the pumping system. The cargo carried in the tanks below was spraying out of the pipe joints and soaking the floor of the compartment. Perry was spinning the wheels on the pumps that had been forced open by the blast. "Give me a hand here, Dougie, we can't get this place cleared up until we stop the leaks."
With both of them working the wheels, they were able to counter the damage done by the shock from the near-misses. The spray of fuel slowly diminished and then stopped completely. With the supply of fuel cut off, work could be started on cleaning up the oil-soaked floor. That was when Young absent-mindedly smelled his hands. "Steve, I thought we were carrying diesel. This isn't diesel fuel. Isn't Avgas either. I don’t know what it is."
Control Room, U-491, Hudson Canyon, 250 kilometers Southeast of New York City
Fehler checked the charts covering the eastern seaboard of the USA of New York very carefully. "Depth under our keel?"
"Two thousand, two hundred meters, Captain."
"Our depth?"
"100 meters, Captain."
Fehler relaxed a little. The long, hazardous run over the Atlantic had been a grating experience although nothing out of the ordinary for U-boat crews these days. Now, finally, U-491 was approaching the underwater escarpment that marked the boundary between the Hudson Shelf and the Atlantic Abyssal that lay beyond it. "We need to watch the depths very carefully here. The waters should start to shallow very quickly now and within 10 nautical miles, the Hudson Shelf should be showing a depth of 150 meters, plus or minus. If we're properly on the course, we should be seeing the depth under our keel shallow to no less than 1,000 meters. If it stays that deep, we're in the Hudson Canyon."
"Is it true there is still fresh water down there, Captain?" Lieutenant Hecker was keenly interested in such things.
"There are many who believe so. They suggest that the Hudson River continues to run to the edge of the continental shallows, underneath the Atlantic. Nobody knows for certain but there is evidence to support the belief. Certainly, something is moving sediment along the canyon and out to sea. Bring her around to two-six-zero. Under-keel depth?"
"Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven meters, Captain." Hecker was watching the depth sounder as it tracked the depths beneath them. He knew that U-491 would never see the deep canyon they were recording; her hull would be crushed long before they got anywhere near to the bottom. As part of her conversion to a missile-launching submarine, U-491 had been fitted with new depth-sounding equipment designed explicitly to help her move up the canyon to her firing position.
"Hold on this course for six miles, then bring her back to three-two-five. If the waters start to shallow, let me know without delay. During the last ice age, the sea was 150 meters lower than it is now and the coast ran all the way out to the edge of the shelf. The Hudson canyon is the remains of the river bed that took the Hudson all the way to the sea. There are those who say the river ended with a 100-meter waterfall to the Ocean. Now, that river bed gives us a highway through the defenses of New York." Fehler took another look at the chart. "When the depth under our keel drops to 1350 meters, then we have reached our firing point. That should be ten nautical miles after we make our turn back to three-two-five."
U-491 continued to edge its way up the Hudson Canyon, the depth sounder helping to keep the submarine centered in the deep rift. Fehler felt the U-boat change course as it made the dog-leg into the long, straight section of the canyon that would shepherd her directly to the launch point. Once there, the submarine would pause while the final checks were made on the two missiles and an exact fix on the U-491 position made. He had decided to fire the two missiles at 0900 local time when the traditional dawn alert would have stood down. The bearing he would fire them on had been carefully plotted so that both missiles would land in the Marine Ocean Terminal, close to Manhattan. It was the best he could do to ensure that they hit something that could reasonably be described as a military target. Even so, he was uneasily aware that he would probably be best serving the interests of his country by throwing them both into the sea. He was also aware that doing so wasn't an option.
Caribou Station, Limestone Street, Caribou, Maine.
"We must get out of here." ‘Eric Garden’ had realized that, as far as passenger transport had been concerned, Caribou was the end of the line. The station he and 'Thomas Smith' had disembarked at was nothing like the mainline stations further South. It had just one employee who served as the Station manager, ticket agent, and ticket collector. And anything else that needed doing including cleaning the rarely-used waiting room. The line did go further north, something they hadn't been aware of, but it was painfully obvious it was a freight line only. That didn't mean it was inactive. 'Garden' and 'Smith' had counted more than a dozen large trains, mostly tank cars, heading north along that line. All had been marked "Limestone Army Air Field" and were emblazoned with the name of every major refining company in America. Whatever was going on in the hills of Maine, the two German spies decided, had to be using a lot of aircraft fuel. The link to the large six-engined transport that they had seen flying overhead at Millinocket was obvious.
It was equally obvious that the vague, fragmented stories about a new American aircraft up in the hills referred to that transport. Since their initial sighting of the aircraft, they had seen several more and learned a lot more about it. It was called the C-99 and was entering service with the Air Bridge to Russia. It was a passenger transport and was taking over the burden of carrying American troops to and from Russia, leaving the smaller C-54s to carry cargo. It wasn't even particularly secret; they had seen it featured on cinema newsreels and that made it near-certain that the Abwehr had known about it as well. The logical deduction was that their harrowing trip had been a complete waste of time. They had learned nothing that an Abwehr agent could not have learned by going to a cinema in Geneva or a public library in Zurich.
"Where do we go? There are no passenger trains north and the secret police are closing in on us." 'Thomas Smith' had a point. He and 'Garden' had recognized one of the women in the station area as the woman 'Garden' had given his seat to on the train a week earlier. With that clue, they had spotted several other agents who were watching them. It was no great intellectual exercise to realize that their mission was thoroughly blown and they had only got this far because the Federal and State authorities had been waiting to see who, if anybody, they had tried to contact. It never occurred to them that their mission had been compromised long before that.
"Anywhere, but we go now." 'Garden' was fully aware of how precarious their situation had become. The American Secret Police must be on the point of giving up on us making contacts with sympathizers. As soon as they have done so, they will move in and scoop us up. "There is a freight train in the sidings, it looks like it is about to leave. I have heard many Americans ride on the freight trains, that they are folk heroes to the citizens. It is mostly tank cars but there are a few box cars as well. We shall board them and ride north. We might shake off the police and lose ourselves in the woods. We might even find out a little about that army field up there."
"I cannot see any other way out from here." 'Smith' was nodding in agreement. "We will have to cross the fence to board. We had better hurry, the train is leaving very soon."
He was quite correct. By the time they had crossed the barbed-wire fence surrounding the railway sidings, the train was already moving out and they had to jump on board the nearest box car. It was with inordinate relief that they saw the scattered lights of Caribou fading behind them.
"Can't say I'm sorry to see them go." The Chief of Police in Caribou put down his binoculars as the train pulled off down the lines. "Don't like the idea of saboteurs in my town."
"They were desperate. If they had any sympathizers up here, they would have contacted them. Your town is clean, Chief. You got a nice little community up here." Detective Rasmussen gave the Chief a flashing smile that made him feel warm all over.
"What she said, Chief. We'll take it from here; we've pushed this as far as it will go. The line branches a few miles north. One line goes to Limestone Field, the other to the Weapons Station. We'll stop the train there and pick them up. Can you have your coldest and most uncomfortable cell ready and waiting for them please?"
The Chief shook his head sadly. "We've got cells in the Department building of course but they're comfortable. The only crime we get here are local citizens drunk and disorderly and they don’t merit a hard time. We just sober them up and send them home. Will cold but comfortable do?"
"Sure will Chief and thank you for your help. Now, we've got a train to stop."
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
"We have absorbed the counter-attack and pushed the fascists out of the ground they had taken. Now we can expand further south." General Rodion Yakovlevich Malinovsky had just received the latest reports from the Amosovskaya region, detailing the recapture of Naumovskaya and the slow but steady expansion of the bridgehead along the Onega. "We have also started to ease pressure on Onega Corridor to the north of the area occupied by the Hitlerites. We have widened that corridor by at least three kilometers."
"You were a machine-gunner in the First World War weren't you tovarish Rodion? This kind of fighting must seem very familiar to you." General Lesley J. McNair had his own set of reports that were also good news.
"I was with the Russian Expeditionary Force in France. And you are right, this kind of grinding forwards and backward fighting is very much like the battles I remember. Yet, it is the kind of fighting the fascists cannot endure. Their army is like a razor, at first it gives a clean, fast shave but with each successive use, it is a little less quick, a little less clean. All too soon, a man cannot use that blade to spread butter."
"I never saw the front line in the Great War. "I was responsible for training the First Infantry Division and then was chief of artillery training at the AEF HQ. I wanted to get a front command but . . ."
"You did not miss much, my friend, I can assure you of that." Malinovsky laughed at the chagrin on McNair's face but couldn't help but sympathize with him. "You should have stowed away on a troop train the way I did. When the men who were supposed to be there found me, they were going to send me home to my mother but I talked their commander into signing me up a as volunteer ammunition carrier. After all, I wasn't very welcome at home. Still, if I'd known then what I know now . . . . "
McNair laughed at that. "I think every person on earth must have said that at one time or another. I have good news; the shift of fuel from the B-29 groups is working well. We're flying their 130 octane up here using 87-octane fueled transports. Means we're putting the strategic bombing offensive on pause until that convoy gets here. So, we'll be keeping the B-33s here after all. Restricted operations and all that but they'll stay. We brought the bridges at Etatochka down but the fascists put them right back up again. I guess we'll have to keep trying."
"How is the convoy doing?" Malinovsky was very well aware of how dangerous running a convoy this late in the year could be.
"Not good. We've lost a cruiser and a destroyer, with a battleship damaged. Four cargo ships out so far, three sunk, one damaged, and had to return home. Supplies are all right, we built in an allowance for losses on route but we lost the M-18s carried as deck cargo on one of the merchies. The tankers are all right, two have minor damage and some casualties but they're all still there."
"The really rough part is yet to come of course." Malinovski looked at the map of the North Cape area and the cluster of Hitlerite airfields in Norway. "Have you thought further about equipping one or more of your units with our aircraft until the 130-octane fuel problem is solved?"
McNair nodded. "It's been approved. One of our groups is getting Pe-2I dive bombers. . . ."
He would have continued but the headquarters was rocked by a sudden, completely unexpected blast. The windows shattered, throwing fragments across the room and sending papers and other desk impedimenta skywards. Both Malinovski and McNair hit the floor and rolled under the heavy conference table to shelter them from a possible building collapse. That didn’t happen but the room was filled with plaster dust that had both men coughing helplessly. The initial blast was followed by a double-crack and the sound of something very heavy rushing through the air.
"That was a rocket!" McNair had been one of the people who had seen Professor Goddard's experimental rockets in use and recognized the characteristic sound of the sonic boom. He would have elaborated further but he was interrupted again by a second rocket blast and then a third. Very belatedly, the air raid sirens started sounding.
Once they were able to look out of the shattered windows, Malinovski and McNair could see three columns of black smoke rising from parts of Archangel'sk. Malinovski summed up both their feelings with a single terse comment. "What the hell just happened?"
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, Northwest of Norway
'Here we go again." The ship’s sirens were sounding the now-familiar series of short notes that started high and ended low. It was the warning that the attack was, once more imminent. Young was losing count of the number of attack waves that had been thrown at the convoy. There was the one where Anson was hit, the other where the cruiser went down, then there were the two attacks with the rocket-powered ones that nailed three of the freighters. That's four . . . I'm sure I've missed a couple. After a while, they all seem to blur into each other.
He remembered the sinking of the cruiser clearly though. A Fritz-X had hit her just beside B turret and the impact had been followed by a massive magazine explosion. When the smoke cloud had rolled clear, the cruiser had been blown into two parts with her bows already sinking fast. The stern half had followed them. It had been reminiscent of the first ship to be lost on this run, the destroyer that had been torpedoed. Young was shocked to realize that he couldn't remember her name. Nor, he then realized, could he remember the name of the sunken cruiser.
"They're coming in low and fast, red-forty." The blare of the announcement replaced the alarm noise. Young had expected to see more of the big aircraft that had been harassing them for the last day, but these were much smaller. They were also significantly faster and the half-dozen aircraft in the attack slipped through the outer defense ring with ease. It was obvious that, unlike the earlier raids that had concentrated on the escorts and the outer ring of merchant ships, these aircraft were heading for the tankers.
"Where are our fighters?" Young called out the question almost unconsciously as he swung his 20mm gun around to bear on the fast-approaching bombers.
"Intercepting the other groups." The reply from Ericsson was terse. He knew Young was quite right, the fighter cover was getting patchy as attrition from the continuous air operations had reduced the fighter strength on the two carriers. Earlier losses had been replaced from Iceland but now the convoy had moved out of range of that option. From now on, the defenses were running on capital.
The six aircraft were past the outer lines of merchant ships and closing fast. Shawnee's bow five-inch gun was still out of action following the near-miss the previous day but the quad-forty was back in action. The two quads were putting on a spectacular display of firepower filling the sky with bursts around the attacking aircraft. The fascist bombers were swerving as they made their run, trying desperately to avoid the small puffs of smoke from the 40mms and the larger ones from the five inchers. In the face of the concentrated barrage from the ships, flying any kind of predictable course would be suicidal.
One of the fascists, Young recognized the aircraft as a Ju-188 and had obviously selected Shawnee as his target. That had one advantage, with the target coming straight at him, he didn't have to lead it or allow for deflection. Instead, he saw the brilliant orange-red flame on the nose where the Ju-188 had opened fire with its fixed 20mm cannon in an effort to strafe the anti-aircraft guns on the tanker. Young used that as his aiming point and felt the battering in his shoulders as his gun returned fire. He sensed rather than heard or felt the strafing spraying shells at his gun gallery and the heavy thuds as shells deflected off his gun shield. He managed to ignore them and held his own stream of fire onto the oddly shaped oval 'greenhouse' that made up the whole nose of the bomber. His own tracers first passed under the bomber but he made a small correction and saw the brilliant flashes of impacts on his target.
He kept firing, vaguely conscious of the work his crew members were carrying out around him but mainly intent on pouring shells into the approaching aircraft. There was a brief pause while his loader changed the ammunition drum but it made no difference. He continued to track his target and when the gun started firing again, the bomber was passing overhead. This time the shells hit the nearest engine, causing a thick stream of black smoke to erupt from the nacelle. It was too late; the bomber had already dropped the two one-thousand kilogram bombs that it had been carrying but it was still timely enough to see the Ju-188 curve around in a graceful arc that ended in one wingtip touching the sea. It cartwheeled across the water while it broke up. By the time it had come to a halt, it was already sinking too fast for any survivors to escape.
Young was shaken back to reality by being soaked with ice-cold water from the bomb blasts. The two bombs had straddled the ship, showering her crew with spray and fragments. He felt the vicious impact of the shockwaves from the explosions throw him against the protective coating but as he staggered back to his gun, he couldn't help but call out, "I got him."
Then the words froze in his mouth. Mr. Ericsson was on the deck in the biggest pool of blood that Young had even seen. A 20mm shell had punched straight through his chest leaving a hole a man could put his fist through. There was no doubt that he was dead. Young stared at the body of his mentor, his mouth working uselessly. There were two other bodies on the 20mm gallery deck but his eyes were focused only on Ericsson's.
"Can't do anything for them, lad. Get down below, to the midship pump room and help them. The blast from the bombs has sprung the valves." One of the officers was heading that way himself and Young shook himself back to life to follow him.
By the time he got to the pump room, he found Steve Perry and a team from the machinery department already working on the pipes and the pumping system. The cargo carried in the tanks below was spraying out of the pipe joints and soaking the floor of the compartment. Perry was spinning the wheels on the pumps that had been forced open by the blast. "Give me a hand here, Dougie, we can't get this place cleared up until we stop the leaks."
With both of them working the wheels, they were able to counter the damage done by the shock from the near-misses. The spray of fuel slowly diminished and then stopped completely. With the supply of fuel cut off, work could be started on cleaning up the oil-soaked floor. That was when Young absent-mindedly smelled his hands. "Steve, I thought we were carrying diesel. This isn't diesel fuel. Isn't Avgas either. I don’t know what it is."
Control Room, U-491, Hudson Canyon, 250 kilometers Southeast of New York City
Fehler checked the charts covering the eastern seaboard of the USA of New York very carefully. "Depth under our keel?"
"Two thousand, two hundred meters, Captain."
"Our depth?"
"100 meters, Captain."
Fehler relaxed a little. The long, hazardous run over the Atlantic had been a grating experience although nothing out of the ordinary for U-boat crews these days. Now, finally, U-491 was approaching the underwater escarpment that marked the boundary between the Hudson Shelf and the Atlantic Abyssal that lay beyond it. "We need to watch the depths very carefully here. The waters should start to shallow very quickly now and within 10 nautical miles, the Hudson Shelf should be showing a depth of 150 meters, plus or minus. If we're properly on the course, we should be seeing the depth under our keel shallow to no less than 1,000 meters. If it stays that deep, we're in the Hudson Canyon."
"Is it true there is still fresh water down there, Captain?" Lieutenant Hecker was keenly interested in such things.
"There are many who believe so. They suggest that the Hudson River continues to run to the edge of the continental shallows, underneath the Atlantic. Nobody knows for certain but there is evidence to support the belief. Certainly, something is moving sediment along the canyon and out to sea. Bring her around to two-six-zero. Under-keel depth?"
"Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven meters, Captain." Hecker was watching the depth sounder as it tracked the depths beneath them. He knew that U-491 would never see the deep canyon they were recording; her hull would be crushed long before they got anywhere near to the bottom. As part of her conversion to a missile-launching submarine, U-491 had been fitted with new depth-sounding equipment designed explicitly to help her move up the canyon to her firing position.
"Hold on this course for six miles, then bring her back to three-two-five. If the waters start to shallow, let me know without delay. During the last ice age, the sea was 150 meters lower than it is now and the coast ran all the way out to the edge of the shelf. The Hudson canyon is the remains of the river bed that took the Hudson all the way to the sea. There are those who say the river ended with a 100-meter waterfall to the Ocean. Now, that river bed gives us a highway through the defenses of New York." Fehler took another look at the chart. "When the depth under our keel drops to 1350 meters, then we have reached our firing point. That should be ten nautical miles after we make our turn back to three-two-five."
U-491 continued to edge its way up the Hudson Canyon, the depth sounder helping to keep the submarine centered in the deep rift. Fehler felt the U-boat change course as it made the dog-leg into the long, straight section of the canyon that would shepherd her directly to the launch point. Once there, the submarine would pause while the final checks were made on the two missiles and an exact fix on the U-491 position made. He had decided to fire the two missiles at 0900 local time when the traditional dawn alert would have stood down. The bearing he would fire them on had been carefully plotted so that both missiles would land in the Marine Ocean Terminal, close to Manhattan. It was the best he could do to ensure that they hit something that could reasonably be described as a military target. Even so, he was uneasily aware that he would probably be best serving the interests of his country by throwing them both into the sea. He was also aware that doing so wasn't an option.
Caribou Station, Limestone Street, Caribou, Maine.
"We must get out of here." ‘Eric Garden’ had realized that, as far as passenger transport had been concerned, Caribou was the end of the line. The station he and 'Thomas Smith' had disembarked at was nothing like the mainline stations further South. It had just one employee who served as the Station manager, ticket agent, and ticket collector. And anything else that needed doing including cleaning the rarely-used waiting room. The line did go further north, something they hadn't been aware of, but it was painfully obvious it was a freight line only. That didn't mean it was inactive. 'Garden' and 'Smith' had counted more than a dozen large trains, mostly tank cars, heading north along that line. All had been marked "Limestone Army Air Field" and were emblazoned with the name of every major refining company in America. Whatever was going on in the hills of Maine, the two German spies decided, had to be using a lot of aircraft fuel. The link to the large six-engined transport that they had seen flying overhead at Millinocket was obvious.
It was equally obvious that the vague, fragmented stories about a new American aircraft up in the hills referred to that transport. Since their initial sighting of the aircraft, they had seen several more and learned a lot more about it. It was called the C-99 and was entering service with the Air Bridge to Russia. It was a passenger transport and was taking over the burden of carrying American troops to and from Russia, leaving the smaller C-54s to carry cargo. It wasn't even particularly secret; they had seen it featured on cinema newsreels and that made it near-certain that the Abwehr had known about it as well. The logical deduction was that their harrowing trip had been a complete waste of time. They had learned nothing that an Abwehr agent could not have learned by going to a cinema in Geneva or a public library in Zurich.
"Where do we go? There are no passenger trains north and the secret police are closing in on us." 'Thomas Smith' had a point. He and 'Garden' had recognized one of the women in the station area as the woman 'Garden' had given his seat to on the train a week earlier. With that clue, they had spotted several other agents who were watching them. It was no great intellectual exercise to realize that their mission was thoroughly blown and they had only got this far because the Federal and State authorities had been waiting to see who, if anybody, they had tried to contact. It never occurred to them that their mission had been compromised long before that.
"Anywhere, but we go now." 'Garden' was fully aware of how precarious their situation had become. The American Secret Police must be on the point of giving up on us making contacts with sympathizers. As soon as they have done so, they will move in and scoop us up. "There is a freight train in the sidings, it looks like it is about to leave. I have heard many Americans ride on the freight trains, that they are folk heroes to the citizens. It is mostly tank cars but there are a few box cars as well. We shall board them and ride north. We might shake off the police and lose ourselves in the woods. We might even find out a little about that army field up there."
"I cannot see any other way out from here." 'Smith' was nodding in agreement. "We will have to cross the fence to board. We had better hurry, the train is leaving very soon."
He was quite correct. By the time they had crossed the barbed-wire fence surrounding the railway sidings, the train was already moving out and they had to jump on board the nearest box car. It was with inordinate relief that they saw the scattered lights of Caribou fading behind them.
"Can't say I'm sorry to see them go." The Chief of Police in Caribou put down his binoculars as the train pulled off down the lines. "Don't like the idea of saboteurs in my town."
"They were desperate. If they had any sympathizers up here, they would have contacted them. Your town is clean, Chief. You got a nice little community up here." Detective Rasmussen gave the Chief a flashing smile that made him feel warm all over.
"What she said, Chief. We'll take it from here; we've pushed this as far as it will go. The line branches a few miles north. One line goes to Limestone Field, the other to the Weapons Station. We'll stop the train there and pick them up. Can you have your coldest and most uncomfortable cell ready and waiting for them please?"
The Chief shook his head sadly. "We've got cells in the Department building of course but they're comfortable. The only crime we get here are local citizens drunk and disorderly and they don’t merit a hard time. We just sober them up and send them home. Will cold but comfortable do?"
"Sure will Chief and thank you for your help. Now, we've got a train to stop."
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
"We have absorbed the counter-attack and pushed the fascists out of the ground they had taken. Now we can expand further south." General Rodion Yakovlevich Malinovsky had just received the latest reports from the Amosovskaya region, detailing the recapture of Naumovskaya and the slow but steady expansion of the bridgehead along the Onega. "We have also started to ease pressure on Onega Corridor to the north of the area occupied by the Hitlerites. We have widened that corridor by at least three kilometers."
"You were a machine-gunner in the First World War weren't you tovarish Rodion? This kind of fighting must seem very familiar to you." General Lesley J. McNair had his own set of reports that were also good news.
"I was with the Russian Expeditionary Force in France. And you are right, this kind of grinding forwards and backward fighting is very much like the battles I remember. Yet, it is the kind of fighting the fascists cannot endure. Their army is like a razor, at first it gives a clean, fast shave but with each successive use, it is a little less quick, a little less clean. All too soon, a man cannot use that blade to spread butter."
"I never saw the front line in the Great War. "I was responsible for training the First Infantry Division and then was chief of artillery training at the AEF HQ. I wanted to get a front command but . . ."
"You did not miss much, my friend, I can assure you of that." Malinovsky laughed at the chagrin on McNair's face but couldn't help but sympathize with him. "You should have stowed away on a troop train the way I did. When the men who were supposed to be there found me, they were going to send me home to my mother but I talked their commander into signing me up a as volunteer ammunition carrier. After all, I wasn't very welcome at home. Still, if I'd known then what I know now . . . . "
McNair laughed at that. "I think every person on earth must have said that at one time or another. I have good news; the shift of fuel from the B-29 groups is working well. We're flying their 130 octane up here using 87-octane fueled transports. Means we're putting the strategic bombing offensive on pause until that convoy gets here. So, we'll be keeping the B-33s here after all. Restricted operations and all that but they'll stay. We brought the bridges at Etatochka down but the fascists put them right back up again. I guess we'll have to keep trying."
"How is the convoy doing?" Malinovsky was very well aware of how dangerous running a convoy this late in the year could be.
"Not good. We've lost a cruiser and a destroyer, with a battleship damaged. Four cargo ships out so far, three sunk, one damaged, and had to return home. Supplies are all right, we built in an allowance for losses on route but we lost the M-18s carried as deck cargo on one of the merchies. The tankers are all right, two have minor damage and some casualties but they're all still there."
"The really rough part is yet to come of course." Malinovski looked at the map of the North Cape area and the cluster of Hitlerite airfields in Norway. "Have you thought further about equipping one or more of your units with our aircraft until the 130-octane fuel problem is solved?"
McNair nodded. "It's been approved. One of our groups is getting Pe-2I dive bombers. . . ."
He would have continued but the headquarters was rocked by a sudden, completely unexpected blast. The windows shattered, throwing fragments across the room and sending papers and other desk impedimenta skywards. Both Malinovski and McNair hit the floor and rolled under the heavy conference table to shelter them from a possible building collapse. That didn’t happen but the room was filled with plaster dust that had both men coughing helplessly. The initial blast was followed by a double-crack and the sound of something very heavy rushing through the air.
"That was a rocket!" McNair had been one of the people who had seen Professor Goddard's experimental rockets in use and recognized the characteristic sound of the sonic boom. He would have elaborated further but he was interrupted again by a second rocket blast and then a third. Very belatedly, the air raid sirens started sounding.
Once they were able to look out of the shattered windows, Malinovski and McNair could see three columns of black smoke rising from parts of Archangel'sk. Malinovski summed up both their feelings with a single terse comment. "What the hell just happened?"
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Three
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
Gefreiter Feldkamp couldn't help thinking that Feldkamp, Kuhnert and Nieswandt sounded like a firm of advocates. He contented himself with the conclusion that if they were, they would be a fine group of lawyers indeed, regularly winning unwinnable cases and achieving acquittals for the most guilty of clients. Come to think of it, that's not a bad description of life on the Russian front.
They were having no trouble keeping some two hundred meters ahead of the main body of troops who were weighed down by the supplies and wounded they were carrying. Yet, Feldkamp, Kuhnert, and Nieswandt, like most German soldiers, regarded the endless forests with a loathing that was mixed with a very great deal of fear. They were convinced that the forests hated them and were just waiting for a chance to kill them. They were quite wrong of course. The forest was neutral, tolerant of all those who went into its domain as long as they obeyed its pitiless rules. It was those who lived in the forests, who had run to the forests to shelter from the Hitlerites, who hated the fascists and sought only to kill them. The forest was the home of the Partisans.
Yet, it was the ground layer of the forest itself that caused the most trouble. Trees had fallen over the years and had never been cleared and still lay where they had landed. They had then become overgrown and lurked in the ground cover, waiting to trip the unwary. They also provided homes for snakes, spiders, and disease-carrying ticks It was through this maze of obstructions and traps that the point section had to find its way. That the most obvious ways through were likely to be booby-trapped by the shadowy partisans was just an added detail in the nightmare.
Despite Feldkamp's musings about the similarity between the profession of law and soldiering on the Russian Front, he hadn't let his powers of observation be neglected. He was tipped off by a branch hanging from a tree that was broken in an odd way. Usually, that was the marker for a booby trap, left by the Partisans so they wouldn't kill their own. With that warning in mind, he started the search for a tripwire. His primary tool was a long length of bright red thread tied to the muzzle of his rifle. It hung down almost to the ground. If there was a tripwire, the thread would expose it by bending without being in contact enough to set it off. At this point, he actually regretted carrying the short, stubby StG-44 in place of the longer Kar-98k. Even a few centimeters additional separation from a booby trap was worth having. That point was emphasized when the thread was suddenly deflected backward at about waist height.
The moment Feldkamp held up his hand, Kuhnert and Nieswandt stopped moving and started to make a detailed check of their surroundings. The Soviet Partisans had a specialty they called the Slavonian Parade. It was a series of booby traps that were placed so that victims escaping from the first would fall into the kill zone of a second and then a third. Feldkamp had come across Slavonian Parades with as many as eight steps. Needless to say, such elaborate booby trap systems had greatly reduced the morale of the survivors from the units unfortunate enough to walk into them. With the dire examples of previous Slavonian Parades in mind, he started to trace the wire back. One end was secured to a bush and was obviously the anchor. The other led into a hollow tree stump that lay innocently to one side of the path.
Reldkamp recognized that one. A standard hand grenade at the back with the wire set to pull the pin and a zero-delay fuse. In front, a lot of stones and scrap iron or, even worse, shards of Perspex from the canopies of shot-down aircraft. They gave gruesome slash wounds yet the fragments didn’t show up on X-rays.
"What have we got, Max?" Nieswandt spoke quietly. Even a Slavonian Parade might have Partisans watching to finish off any survivors.
"Fragmentation mine. Set to blast this way. Now, if this went off and I dived for cover, where would I go?" Feldkamp looked around.
"Over there, Max?" Helpfully, Kuhnert pointed at an outcrop of rock that surfaced through the thick layer of undergrowth. It offered an inviting layer of protection from the threat of the fragmentation mine.
Feldkamp nodded and moved carefully to inspect it. Sure enough, there was a pressure-fused anti-personnel mine concealed between the stones. A man diving for cover would set it off. He recognized the weapon as an S-mine, a German mine that threw a ball charge one or two meters into the air. "Would you know it, an SMi-44. The bastards are lifting our own mines and using them against us!"
"Got another one over here." Nieswandt had worked out where he would go if a S-mine went off near him. The mine fires a level spread of fragments about a meter off the ground. A ditch or depression would be nice. Like that one there. He could picture the horrified reaction of the men around the site as the S-mine went off and their frantic effort to get under the spray of shrapnel. For sure, that ditch there. No tripwires, so it has to be a pressure switch, as carefully as Feldkamp, Nieswandt moved over to the ditch and started to probe with his bayonet. He thrust it into the soft ground at a shallow angle, hoping that it would find the mine but not hit the pressure switch.
"Got it. Schu-mine." He called out the news and then started to carefully check for more.
"How are we doing Gefreiter?" Lieutenant Ackermann had come up and was looking around, very carefully.
"Slavonian Parade. We found three steps so far. Looking for the fourth now."
"What was the last one?" Ackermann was trying to thread the very thin line between being helpful, keeping himself informed and getting in the way. Feldkamp appreciated the effort. He was beginning to like this Panzergrenadier commander.
"Schu-mine, in that hollow."
"Make that four." Nieswandt passed the news quietly.
Ackermann looked at the layout. "If you'd walked into this, I'd have sent men over to that hollow to bring you in, so those two extra mines were probably intended to catch them. There's your step five. May I watch, Feldkamp? Panzergrenadiers don't deal with this sort of thing very often and I need to learn about it."
That made Feldkamp proud. The Lieutenant didn’t say so, but his words mean he approves of the way we are doing this. "Certainly, Lieutenant, but please be careful. Very often there are snipers near a Slavonian Parade and they wait for somebody to start giving orders."
Ackermann chuckled. A very tactful way of telling me to shut up and not interfere. I like these men. "Carry on Gefreiter."
"Nasty one over here." Kuhnert had spotted an apparently smooth path that would help men running to aid the wounded. He'd been suspicious, which was a standard state for German soldiers in the Russian forests. "It's another Sch-mine but this one has about ten kilos of explosive around it. And lots of stones. Step five."
Two hours later, Feldman had found the step that made this one a nine-step record. He was now reasonably confident they had them all and reported that they had the area cleared. He thought he had kept his voice down but as soon as he finished his report, a voice shouted out from the forest around them. "Glad you think so, Fritz!"
The four men looked around in shock. To have overheard Feldkamp making his judgement, the speaker had to be within twenty or thirty meters of them yet they had seen and sensed nothing. By the time the voice had finished echoing, nobody could tell where it had come from and, anyway, the speaker was sure to have moved already. Ackermann suddenly had a crashing sense of understanding why the German line infantry hated the forests.
Maine Route 712 AKA 'Blake's Road Railway Crossing
The crossing was ungated but a properly-lit and marked heavy truck had been parked on the road to act as an impromptu stop. Foster knew well enough that the freight train would simply batter it out of the way if the locomotive engineer wanted but he was betting that the man was a law-abiding citizen and would see the blockage as a simple checkpoint or even a safety precaution put in place for some reason. That was the reasoning behind the lighting, to make everything seem as innocent as possible.
The intercept team had plenty of time to get set up. The crossing was only five miles west of Caribou, but the rail line made a big loop south before heading for Limestone and had taken over an hour to make the twenty-mile run. There were six FBI Agents all carrying Browning Automatic Rifles, Detective Charlene Rasmussen had a Reising submachine gun and two policemen from Caribou had volunteered to join the party with their hunting rifles. In fact, the entire police department had volunteered but Foster had taken only the two unmarried officers. He had pointed out to the disappointed that they were going up against men who could be highly-trained German agents.
"I like the hat, Charlie." Rasmussen and Foster had become good friends on the long trip across Maine and, although she didn’t know it yet, she was due to receive an invitation to become the FBI's first female agent. The FBI had employed women before but never as fully-qualified and sworn agents.
She patted her black Russian ushanka proudly. She'd piled her blonde hair underneath it and was also wearing a dark gray greatcoat. "When Kazan Thunderbolts was released, we had Guards-Major Litvyak visit us for a war bonds sale speech. I was her liaison officer and their Embassy gave me the hat as a souvenir. At least my ears are warm. I bet yours aren't."
Foster touched his ice-cold and now slightly blue ears and nodded. "Russians make good cold-weather kit. My kid brother said they supplied all our boys out there with ushankas and padded greatcoats for the winter. His entire unit stayed really warm and toasty all winter."
"What's your brother in, Aaron?"
"Jimmy is in the artillery. He's on the Volga of course. Ahh, train's coming. Yup, he's seen the lights and is slowing down. Everybody get ready, when this blows, it will blow fast and nasty."
The train stopped just a few yards short of the truck. Foster climbed up into the cab and looked at the crew carefully. "Agent Aaron Foster, FBI. You the regular crew?"
The men nodded and produced their IDs. It took Foster one glance to tell they were genuine. On German-produced forgeries, the arrows and olive branches on the Great Seal had been reversed. "What's going on, Agent Foster? Can you tell us?"
"You may be carrying some unauthorized passengers. We would like to speak to them, really urgently."
"Saboteurs?" The engineer sounded awed.
"What makes you say that?" Foster put an authentic-sounding lash in his voice although he wasn't actually surprised that word had started to leak out given the length of time the hunt had been on.
"Sorry, Agent, didn't mean to speak out of turn. Just there's been whispers for a couple of weeks now."
"No problem. Any ideas that might help us?"
The engineer thought for a second. "They can't be riding the tank cars. There's no cover on them and they'll have frozen to death by now. And the mail coach has a guard on it of course. I'd start with the other five box cars. They've got nothing special in them. Just routine supplies."
"Thank you, Sir. Just stay here will you?"
"It IS saboteurs, isn't it."
Foster nodded than jumped down from the cab and started to take his team back to the six box cars. The lead one was marked as a mail coach, complete with armed guard peering out through the security slot. Foster held up his badge and got a curt nod in exchange. Armed mail guards were not known for their sociability.
Box Car, Freight, Train 143, Blake's Road Railway Crossing
"Why has the train stopped?" 'Eric Garden' was frightened to the point of panic. The days of continued tension and the slowly-growing conviction that the authorities were closing in on them had slowly but surely drained away his inner strength and the sudden, unexpected stop had eliminated the last drop. He was glad of the darkness in the freight car because he was shaking with fear and he didn’t want 'Thomas Smith' to see that.
"There's something on the line ahead. A truck. Scheisse! There are a group of men, at least ten, coming down the train. They are searching the wagons! We have to make a run for it. Right now."
With the need for action, 'Eric Garden' regained a little of his lost courage. "We'll go out the left hand doors. There's woods there, we can run to them for cover."
"There are ten of them." Smith hesitated for a moment. "Six stay outside while four go in to search the wagon. They've all got guns, mostly rifles I think. They're on both sides."
"All right, we go when the four men go into the next car along. Ready?"
"Ja, they are going in to the next car now. Run for it."
Garden and Smith slid the car door open and jumped out, rolling in the snow as they landed. Both men had drawn P-38 pistols and fired at the three FBI men on their side of the tracks. Their shots went wild but they were on their feet and running for the woods, less than 75 yards away.
"There they are! Get them." The three FBO men shouted out the warning and then one of them fired a short burst from his BAR. The shots kicked up the snow all around their feet but the shots missed. 'Thomas Smith' turned around and fired two more shots from his pistol in return. For the first time in the brief gun-battle, some of the bullets fired struck home, sending the FBI man who had fired the shots rolling on the ground. His blood left a trail across the snow. If his warning had achieved anything, it was to make sure that no more warnings would be given now. 'Smith's' shots had been a declaration of 'no quarter'.
"They're shooting. Man down." The two remaining FBI Agents had taken cover and returned fire with their BARs. They were clumsy weapons, ill-suited for the purpose and at close range, they were hard to bring on to their target. By now, 'Garden', whose nerve had again gone completely, was sprinting for the wood line, caring only about getting away from the Americans and finding somewhere he could hide. Behind him, Smith was trying to give him some cover but he had already fired off one magazine and only had eight rounds left.
Rasmussen slipped between the two box cars next to her and found herself about a dozen yards from 'Smith' and out of his immediate arc of vision. She fired a burst from her Reising gun and saw him lurch and fall to his knees before the gun jammed. She ducked back into cover and frantically tried to work the mechanism to clear the balky weapon. A pistol round hit the wooden box car a few inches from her head, so she ducked back still further.
With 'Smith' on his knees, one of the FBI Agents took the opportunity to steady himself and aim properly before firing a short burst at his target. With his friend and partner down and probably badly hurt, he was in no mood to extend any mercy and he put the rifle's shots into his target's chest. 'Smith' was thrown backwards and lay on the ground, twitching violently from the nerve-shock of the impacts.
Behind him, 'Garden' was still running for the woods. Foster took his .38 Super pistol in both hands, aimed carefully and fired twice. One shot missed, the other caught 'Garden' on the edge of the shoulder, making him stagger. By that time, Officer Cliff Coleman was at the door of the freight car he and his partner had been checking and was bringing his rifle up to the aim. He had a scope fitted but the iron sights were still usable and he took the shot using them. Oddly, the staggering caused by the hit from Foster's .38 Super worked against the accuracy and his bullet hit 'Garden' in the back, only an inch below the wound inflicted by Foster. By the time Coleman had worked the bolt, 'Garden' had reached the woods and the cover of the trees.
"How's Pete?" Foster called out as his team concentrated on the sight of the firefight.
'Bad, took a shot in the chest." Agent Peter Suiza's partner was working hard to stabilize the wounded man's condition. "We need to get him to hospital fast."
Foster turned to the two Caribou police officers. "Will you two see to that? You know where to go, you've got lights on your cruiser and can get to hospital faster. And can you get dogs out here, we need to track the other one."
"Will be done." The two officers had already found something that could be used as a stretcher and were getting the wounded man on it. "Ole' Jim has some mighty fine bloodhounds. We'll get him to bring'em over. He's always proud to help us cops."
Between themselves, the two Caribou lawmen had a private laugh at the expense of the FBI men. Ole' Jim's hobby was smuggling untaxed whiskey over the Canadian border.
Everybody else was converging on 'Smith' as he lay bleeding out in the snow. He was dying fast but the thing that he did see was Rasmussen picking up his gun. His fading eyesight took in the black ushanka with the red star on the front and the dark greatcoat and he jumped to a completely wrong but understandable conclusion. "Ach nein, Tscheka. Bitte, bitte, nicht Tscheka. Bitte nich . . ."
"He's gone." Rasmussen looked down dispassionately. "He thought I was CheKa. It must have been the hat."
"We'd better get after the other one." Foster smiled at Rasmussen. "Well done, Charlie. You scored first blood on him, we'll make this one your collar."
Over a hundred yards away and extending the distance fast, 'Garden' was still running with speed that only a completely panicked man can achieve. Although he didn’t know it, he was heading straight for Limestone Army Air Force Field.
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
Gefreiter Feldkamp couldn't help thinking that Feldkamp, Kuhnert and Nieswandt sounded like a firm of advocates. He contented himself with the conclusion that if they were, they would be a fine group of lawyers indeed, regularly winning unwinnable cases and achieving acquittals for the most guilty of clients. Come to think of it, that's not a bad description of life on the Russian front.
They were having no trouble keeping some two hundred meters ahead of the main body of troops who were weighed down by the supplies and wounded they were carrying. Yet, Feldkamp, Kuhnert, and Nieswandt, like most German soldiers, regarded the endless forests with a loathing that was mixed with a very great deal of fear. They were convinced that the forests hated them and were just waiting for a chance to kill them. They were quite wrong of course. The forest was neutral, tolerant of all those who went into its domain as long as they obeyed its pitiless rules. It was those who lived in the forests, who had run to the forests to shelter from the Hitlerites, who hated the fascists and sought only to kill them. The forest was the home of the Partisans.
Yet, it was the ground layer of the forest itself that caused the most trouble. Trees had fallen over the years and had never been cleared and still lay where they had landed. They had then become overgrown and lurked in the ground cover, waiting to trip the unwary. They also provided homes for snakes, spiders, and disease-carrying ticks It was through this maze of obstructions and traps that the point section had to find its way. That the most obvious ways through were likely to be booby-trapped by the shadowy partisans was just an added detail in the nightmare.
Despite Feldkamp's musings about the similarity between the profession of law and soldiering on the Russian Front, he hadn't let his powers of observation be neglected. He was tipped off by a branch hanging from a tree that was broken in an odd way. Usually, that was the marker for a booby trap, left by the Partisans so they wouldn't kill their own. With that warning in mind, he started the search for a tripwire. His primary tool was a long length of bright red thread tied to the muzzle of his rifle. It hung down almost to the ground. If there was a tripwire, the thread would expose it by bending without being in contact enough to set it off. At this point, he actually regretted carrying the short, stubby StG-44 in place of the longer Kar-98k. Even a few centimeters additional separation from a booby trap was worth having. That point was emphasized when the thread was suddenly deflected backward at about waist height.
The moment Feldkamp held up his hand, Kuhnert and Nieswandt stopped moving and started to make a detailed check of their surroundings. The Soviet Partisans had a specialty they called the Slavonian Parade. It was a series of booby traps that were placed so that victims escaping from the first would fall into the kill zone of a second and then a third. Feldkamp had come across Slavonian Parades with as many as eight steps. Needless to say, such elaborate booby trap systems had greatly reduced the morale of the survivors from the units unfortunate enough to walk into them. With the dire examples of previous Slavonian Parades in mind, he started to trace the wire back. One end was secured to a bush and was obviously the anchor. The other led into a hollow tree stump that lay innocently to one side of the path.
Reldkamp recognized that one. A standard hand grenade at the back with the wire set to pull the pin and a zero-delay fuse. In front, a lot of stones and scrap iron or, even worse, shards of Perspex from the canopies of shot-down aircraft. They gave gruesome slash wounds yet the fragments didn’t show up on X-rays.
"What have we got, Max?" Nieswandt spoke quietly. Even a Slavonian Parade might have Partisans watching to finish off any survivors.
"Fragmentation mine. Set to blast this way. Now, if this went off and I dived for cover, where would I go?" Feldkamp looked around.
"Over there, Max?" Helpfully, Kuhnert pointed at an outcrop of rock that surfaced through the thick layer of undergrowth. It offered an inviting layer of protection from the threat of the fragmentation mine.
Feldkamp nodded and moved carefully to inspect it. Sure enough, there was a pressure-fused anti-personnel mine concealed between the stones. A man diving for cover would set it off. He recognized the weapon as an S-mine, a German mine that threw a ball charge one or two meters into the air. "Would you know it, an SMi-44. The bastards are lifting our own mines and using them against us!"
"Got another one over here." Nieswandt had worked out where he would go if a S-mine went off near him. The mine fires a level spread of fragments about a meter off the ground. A ditch or depression would be nice. Like that one there. He could picture the horrified reaction of the men around the site as the S-mine went off and their frantic effort to get under the spray of shrapnel. For sure, that ditch there. No tripwires, so it has to be a pressure switch, as carefully as Feldkamp, Nieswandt moved over to the ditch and started to probe with his bayonet. He thrust it into the soft ground at a shallow angle, hoping that it would find the mine but not hit the pressure switch.
"Got it. Schu-mine." He called out the news and then started to carefully check for more.
"How are we doing Gefreiter?" Lieutenant Ackermann had come up and was looking around, very carefully.
"Slavonian Parade. We found three steps so far. Looking for the fourth now."
"What was the last one?" Ackermann was trying to thread the very thin line between being helpful, keeping himself informed and getting in the way. Feldkamp appreciated the effort. He was beginning to like this Panzergrenadier commander.
"Schu-mine, in that hollow."
"Make that four." Nieswandt passed the news quietly.
Ackermann looked at the layout. "If you'd walked into this, I'd have sent men over to that hollow to bring you in, so those two extra mines were probably intended to catch them. There's your step five. May I watch, Feldkamp? Panzergrenadiers don't deal with this sort of thing very often and I need to learn about it."
That made Feldkamp proud. The Lieutenant didn’t say so, but his words mean he approves of the way we are doing this. "Certainly, Lieutenant, but please be careful. Very often there are snipers near a Slavonian Parade and they wait for somebody to start giving orders."
Ackermann chuckled. A very tactful way of telling me to shut up and not interfere. I like these men. "Carry on Gefreiter."
"Nasty one over here." Kuhnert had spotted an apparently smooth path that would help men running to aid the wounded. He'd been suspicious, which was a standard state for German soldiers in the Russian forests. "It's another Sch-mine but this one has about ten kilos of explosive around it. And lots of stones. Step five."
Two hours later, Feldman had found the step that made this one a nine-step record. He was now reasonably confident they had them all and reported that they had the area cleared. He thought he had kept his voice down but as soon as he finished his report, a voice shouted out from the forest around them. "Glad you think so, Fritz!"
The four men looked around in shock. To have overheard Feldkamp making his judgement, the speaker had to be within twenty or thirty meters of them yet they had seen and sensed nothing. By the time the voice had finished echoing, nobody could tell where it had come from and, anyway, the speaker was sure to have moved already. Ackermann suddenly had a crashing sense of understanding why the German line infantry hated the forests.
Maine Route 712 AKA 'Blake's Road Railway Crossing
The crossing was ungated but a properly-lit and marked heavy truck had been parked on the road to act as an impromptu stop. Foster knew well enough that the freight train would simply batter it out of the way if the locomotive engineer wanted but he was betting that the man was a law-abiding citizen and would see the blockage as a simple checkpoint or even a safety precaution put in place for some reason. That was the reasoning behind the lighting, to make everything seem as innocent as possible.
The intercept team had plenty of time to get set up. The crossing was only five miles west of Caribou, but the rail line made a big loop south before heading for Limestone and had taken over an hour to make the twenty-mile run. There were six FBI Agents all carrying Browning Automatic Rifles, Detective Charlene Rasmussen had a Reising submachine gun and two policemen from Caribou had volunteered to join the party with their hunting rifles. In fact, the entire police department had volunteered but Foster had taken only the two unmarried officers. He had pointed out to the disappointed that they were going up against men who could be highly-trained German agents.
"I like the hat, Charlie." Rasmussen and Foster had become good friends on the long trip across Maine and, although she didn’t know it yet, she was due to receive an invitation to become the FBI's first female agent. The FBI had employed women before but never as fully-qualified and sworn agents.
She patted her black Russian ushanka proudly. She'd piled her blonde hair underneath it and was also wearing a dark gray greatcoat. "When Kazan Thunderbolts was released, we had Guards-Major Litvyak visit us for a war bonds sale speech. I was her liaison officer and their Embassy gave me the hat as a souvenir. At least my ears are warm. I bet yours aren't."
Foster touched his ice-cold and now slightly blue ears and nodded. "Russians make good cold-weather kit. My kid brother said they supplied all our boys out there with ushankas and padded greatcoats for the winter. His entire unit stayed really warm and toasty all winter."
"What's your brother in, Aaron?"
"Jimmy is in the artillery. He's on the Volga of course. Ahh, train's coming. Yup, he's seen the lights and is slowing down. Everybody get ready, when this blows, it will blow fast and nasty."
The train stopped just a few yards short of the truck. Foster climbed up into the cab and looked at the crew carefully. "Agent Aaron Foster, FBI. You the regular crew?"
The men nodded and produced their IDs. It took Foster one glance to tell they were genuine. On German-produced forgeries, the arrows and olive branches on the Great Seal had been reversed. "What's going on, Agent Foster? Can you tell us?"
"You may be carrying some unauthorized passengers. We would like to speak to them, really urgently."
"Saboteurs?" The engineer sounded awed.
"What makes you say that?" Foster put an authentic-sounding lash in his voice although he wasn't actually surprised that word had started to leak out given the length of time the hunt had been on.
"Sorry, Agent, didn't mean to speak out of turn. Just there's been whispers for a couple of weeks now."
"No problem. Any ideas that might help us?"
The engineer thought for a second. "They can't be riding the tank cars. There's no cover on them and they'll have frozen to death by now. And the mail coach has a guard on it of course. I'd start with the other five box cars. They've got nothing special in them. Just routine supplies."
"Thank you, Sir. Just stay here will you?"
"It IS saboteurs, isn't it."
Foster nodded than jumped down from the cab and started to take his team back to the six box cars. The lead one was marked as a mail coach, complete with armed guard peering out through the security slot. Foster held up his badge and got a curt nod in exchange. Armed mail guards were not known for their sociability.
Box Car, Freight, Train 143, Blake's Road Railway Crossing
"Why has the train stopped?" 'Eric Garden' was frightened to the point of panic. The days of continued tension and the slowly-growing conviction that the authorities were closing in on them had slowly but surely drained away his inner strength and the sudden, unexpected stop had eliminated the last drop. He was glad of the darkness in the freight car because he was shaking with fear and he didn’t want 'Thomas Smith' to see that.
"There's something on the line ahead. A truck. Scheisse! There are a group of men, at least ten, coming down the train. They are searching the wagons! We have to make a run for it. Right now."
With the need for action, 'Eric Garden' regained a little of his lost courage. "We'll go out the left hand doors. There's woods there, we can run to them for cover."
"There are ten of them." Smith hesitated for a moment. "Six stay outside while four go in to search the wagon. They've all got guns, mostly rifles I think. They're on both sides."
"All right, we go when the four men go into the next car along. Ready?"
"Ja, they are going in to the next car now. Run for it."
Garden and Smith slid the car door open and jumped out, rolling in the snow as they landed. Both men had drawn P-38 pistols and fired at the three FBI men on their side of the tracks. Their shots went wild but they were on their feet and running for the woods, less than 75 yards away.
"There they are! Get them." The three FBO men shouted out the warning and then one of them fired a short burst from his BAR. The shots kicked up the snow all around their feet but the shots missed. 'Thomas Smith' turned around and fired two more shots from his pistol in return. For the first time in the brief gun-battle, some of the bullets fired struck home, sending the FBI man who had fired the shots rolling on the ground. His blood left a trail across the snow. If his warning had achieved anything, it was to make sure that no more warnings would be given now. 'Smith's' shots had been a declaration of 'no quarter'.
"They're shooting. Man down." The two remaining FBI Agents had taken cover and returned fire with their BARs. They were clumsy weapons, ill-suited for the purpose and at close range, they were hard to bring on to their target. By now, 'Garden', whose nerve had again gone completely, was sprinting for the wood line, caring only about getting away from the Americans and finding somewhere he could hide. Behind him, Smith was trying to give him some cover but he had already fired off one magazine and only had eight rounds left.
Rasmussen slipped between the two box cars next to her and found herself about a dozen yards from 'Smith' and out of his immediate arc of vision. She fired a burst from her Reising gun and saw him lurch and fall to his knees before the gun jammed. She ducked back into cover and frantically tried to work the mechanism to clear the balky weapon. A pistol round hit the wooden box car a few inches from her head, so she ducked back still further.
With 'Smith' on his knees, one of the FBI Agents took the opportunity to steady himself and aim properly before firing a short burst at his target. With his friend and partner down and probably badly hurt, he was in no mood to extend any mercy and he put the rifle's shots into his target's chest. 'Smith' was thrown backwards and lay on the ground, twitching violently from the nerve-shock of the impacts.
Behind him, 'Garden' was still running for the woods. Foster took his .38 Super pistol in both hands, aimed carefully and fired twice. One shot missed, the other caught 'Garden' on the edge of the shoulder, making him stagger. By that time, Officer Cliff Coleman was at the door of the freight car he and his partner had been checking and was bringing his rifle up to the aim. He had a scope fitted but the iron sights were still usable and he took the shot using them. Oddly, the staggering caused by the hit from Foster's .38 Super worked against the accuracy and his bullet hit 'Garden' in the back, only an inch below the wound inflicted by Foster. By the time Coleman had worked the bolt, 'Garden' had reached the woods and the cover of the trees.
"How's Pete?" Foster called out as his team concentrated on the sight of the firefight.
'Bad, took a shot in the chest." Agent Peter Suiza's partner was working hard to stabilize the wounded man's condition. "We need to get him to hospital fast."
Foster turned to the two Caribou police officers. "Will you two see to that? You know where to go, you've got lights on your cruiser and can get to hospital faster. And can you get dogs out here, we need to track the other one."
"Will be done." The two officers had already found something that could be used as a stretcher and were getting the wounded man on it. "Ole' Jim has some mighty fine bloodhounds. We'll get him to bring'em over. He's always proud to help us cops."
Between themselves, the two Caribou lawmen had a private laugh at the expense of the FBI men. Ole' Jim's hobby was smuggling untaxed whiskey over the Canadian border.
Everybody else was converging on 'Smith' as he lay bleeding out in the snow. He was dying fast but the thing that he did see was Rasmussen picking up his gun. His fading eyesight took in the black ushanka with the red star on the front and the dark greatcoat and he jumped to a completely wrong but understandable conclusion. "Ach nein, Tscheka. Bitte, bitte, nicht Tscheka. Bitte nich . . ."
"He's gone." Rasmussen looked down dispassionately. "He thought I was CheKa. It must have been the hat."
"We'd better get after the other one." Foster smiled at Rasmussen. "Well done, Charlie. You scored first blood on him, we'll make this one your collar."
Over a hundred yards away and extending the distance fast, 'Garden' was still running with speed that only a completely panicked man can achieve. Although he didn’t know it, he was heading straight for Limestone Army Air Force Field.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Four
Supreme Headquarters American Expeditionary Force (SHAEF), Kazan
General Eisenhower looked up from the map grimly. "Well, George, we knew it was coming. Now, it has."
"Damn it to hell. What and where Ike?"
"So far Archangel'sk has taken three hits, dispersed over the city. Four landed near Ulyanov'sk, three at Samara, and two at Salatov. So far, reports are of over 200 dead, almost all Russian civilians. Worst was down at Samara, the damned thing hit square on the morning market. Over a hundred dead, mostly women trying to buy food for their families. We've no figures on wounded yet."
General George S. Patton shook his head with great sadness mixed in with growing anger. "It would have to be the women and children. Ike, there are whole villages back there with nothing but women. Their men are gone, and most won’t be coming back. So tell me just what the hell can we do about this? And don't say 'nothing'.'
"It's a rough one, George. Those A-4 rockets come in so damned fast we don’t have a chance to do much more than sound the sirens. They're about as immune to defenses as they can get. Intelligence says that they aren't even guided so we don’t get a chance to jam them."
"Then we'll have to damned well find and bomb the crap out of the launching sites. We will not allow this to stand."
Eisenhower looked at his commander with concern. It looked as if Patton was working himself up into a raging fury and when he did that, he made mistakes. Not military mistakes but personal and public relations ones that damaged his standing and reputation. One of the reasons why Eisenhower had the job he did was his uncanny ability to keep Patton from self-destructing. Of all America’s Generals, Patton was the one who got on best with the Russians and the one whom they trusted most. That made him far too valuable to be lost from an outburst of bad temper.
"That will be harder than it seems. According to intelligence, the thing is fired from a small hexagonal launching pad that can be assembled and taken down in a few minutes. The whole system moves around all the time. They don’t move in the daylight of course, only at night. It looks like we’ll have to start some fairly intensive night intruder operations to try and hunt them down. We do have some good news there. The rockets are carried on a thing called a Meillerwagen. It’s a highly-specialized trailer that’s used for nothing else so if we see them, we've found a rocket unit. Intelligence also tells us that the full set-up time for launch is about 110 minutes with a crash-out time of twenty. So the job isn’t impossible.”
"I don't give a damn what it takes, Ike. I want those rockets stopped. Make sure our people know that. If you tell people where to go, but not how to get there, you'll be amazed at the results. And the best ideas often come from unexpected places. So do the worst of course. The trick is to recognize which is which."
"I've talked with the artillery people. They say we just can't hit something moving that fast, not without firing a huge number of shells." Eisenhower stared at the map. "I wonder where those rockets actually landed. Excuse me a minute George, we need that information."
Patton grunted. "If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn't thinking."
Eisenhower came back and was followed by a parade of privates with four cork boards on easels. Once the boards were set up, they pinned maps of the four cities that had been hit. A sergeant came in with a list of coordinates and stuck red pins on the map indicating the point of impact. He was about to leave when he stopped, stared at the map, and bit his lip.
"Permission to address the General, Sir."
"I'm beginning to think we've been in Russia too long," Eisenhower said, very quietly, to himself.
"Speak, Sergeant." Patton was giving the appearance of glowering in fury but was actually laughing to himself, not least at Eisenhower's discomfiture.
"Sir, I'm artillery. Looking at these maps, all the impact points are west of the city center, often quite a way west. Now, as an artilleryman, I want to correct my aim by shifting the aiming point east. Suppose we report the impact points as being on the eastern side of the cities? The fascists can't know exactly where the rockets land so they will probably, almost certainly, go by our own reports and correct accordingly. Putting the impact points beyond the city, in open country."
"See what I mean, Ike. Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do and they will surprise you with their ingenuity. If we can't stop those damned rockets, yet, we can try and stop them from hitting the cities. Good work Sergeant."
Once they had the room to themselves again, Eisenhower looked at the maps. "He's right, you know, George. That Sergeant in the army. Comes up with a simple idea but it will work. What we have to do is report the hits as gas explosions or munitions accidents so the fascists will think we're hiding the attacks. At least it will buy us some time."
"So, it's time for me to visit a faked impact point well to the east of a real one and make some outrageous statements that the damned idiots in the press will pick up on. Meanwhile, we find and attack those rocket convoys." Patton stopped and scowled. "I thought they were supposed to use ramps not pads."
"That's the V1 George. A jet-engined drone with a bomb. Intel thinks that the fascists dropped it in favor of the rocket." Eisenhower stopped and thought for a moment. "You know, I think the Hitlerites are doing us a real favor by building these rockets. According to Intel, every one of them costs as much in terms of manpower and materials as a fighter plane. Those rockets that hit us this morning are the equivalent of a squadron of fighters just thrown away. At a time when the fascists are desperate for every aircraft they can get, that isn't an intelligent use of resources."
Woods, Just South of Limestone Army Air Force Field
Erik Gersdorf was shivering violently as he tried to make his way west to escape from the pursuit that was slowly but surely gaining on him. He had assumed that the shivering was from the cold that was biting through his inadequate clothing and chilling his bones but there was more to it than that. The 38 Super pistol bullet that had hit his shoulder had done only superficial damage but the 45-70 rifle slug an inch lower was a very different matter. It had shattered his shoulder completely. It wasn't just the heavy soft-nosed hunting bullet that was doing the damage; severe though that damage was. It had also destroyed one of the bones in the complex joint and sent bone fragments scything through the surrounding tissue. Those razor-sharp fragments were now moving with Gersdorf's exertions and slowly but surely opening up more blood vessels. Although he didn’t realize it, Gersdorf was bleeding to death. All he knew was that he would like to return to being 'Eric Garden' again and find a nice quiet hole to hide in until the war was over.
He'd made matters worse a little earlier. Hearing the baying of the tracking dogs behind him, he had taken advantage of a stream to wade down it for a mile or so to throw them off the scent. As a result, he was thoroughly chilled and soaked through with water that was already beginning to freeze. The stream itself had been on the point of doing the same and would be ice by dawn. Only its rapid flow had kept it liquid this long. Now, he was suffering from hypothermia and was rapidly developing frostbite. Yet, his sacrifice had been futile. Behind him, he could hear the baying of the hounds again. He guessed, quite correctly, that the hunting dogs had made casts along the river banks until they had picked up his trail again. He was beginning to understand how grimly persistent American hunting dogs could be.
It was the bright lights over on his left that attracted him. Previously he had avoided lighted areas since they represented a population that wanted to catch him. Now, he was so far gone that the lights he could see offered a refuge, even if it was one of captivity. He came across a dirt road and staggered across it, not caring that he had left a trail of clearly-distinguishable footprints behind him. He continued through the trees, weaving now from one to the next as his body slowly gave out on him. When he reached the edge of the woods, what he saw shook him out of his cold and blood-loss-induced lethargy.
The lights were a long, wide runway with brilliant landing lights down it and arrays of red and yellow lights at the ends. Gersdorf recognized them instantly, it was a major airfield lavishly equipped for night operations. Behind the runway was a complex of buildings, equally brilliantly lit with surveillance lighting all over the area. It was painfully obvious that nobody could move around there without being seen. It was also obvious that this was a military airfield of a size and complexity Gersdorf had never seen before. Without being told, he knew that this was the home of the big six-engined transports he and his companions had seen earlier.
The closest building to him was the largest hangar Gersdorf had ever seen. In fact, everything he could see was on a scale that was beginning to affect his sense of proportions. Outsized things were looking normal and the normal buildings appeared to be miniatures. As he watched, the doors on the hangar started to open and he could see the aircraft inside.
At first, he thought it was one of the six-engined transports but it quickly became apparent that it was not. Its fuselage was circular and streamlined, without the cargo capacity of the transport. Hatches were open on the upper side of that fuselage with twin gun mounts elevated out of them. Then it dawned on him, he was looking at the largest bomber the world had ever seen. One that easily had the range to reach targets in Germany from its base here in America.
Gersdorf knew that he had stumbled across an American military secret that was so closely held that only those directly involved in it knew it even existed. He needed to get back to Germany to warn them of this new and dreadful threat that hung over them. Yet before he could even move, for at some time when he had been looking at the aircraft he had fallen to the ground. He heard voices around him.
"There he is, get him."
Knowing only that he had to get away to report his findings, Gersdorf drew his pistol and 'aimed' at the approaching uniformed men. He thought he was aiming anyway, in reality he was waving the pistol erratically in their general direction. Even so, it was enough to provide the men with the excuse they needed.
"He's got a gun. Shot him."
"It doesn’t matter, he saw the B-36B. That's enough." The men aimed the rifles they were carrying and fired long bursts that riddled Gersdorf with .30 carbine bullets. He saw the muzzle flashes merge into a single spot of bright light that drew him in as it contracted to a pinpoint. The last thing that Gersdorf was aware of before the pinpoint of light vanished was dark things closing in on him from the shadows.
"More men crossing the road Sergeant. They've got dogs, they must be hunting this jerk." The speaker was one of the men who had hosed the intruder with bullets from his M-2 carbine. Privately, he was glad the man had threatened them with a pistol. Shooting a man just because he had seen something he shouldn't didn’t sit right with him.
"Intercept them before they reach the deadline."
The Army Air Force Police detachment left one man with the body of the intruder while the others moved towards the new group of unwelcome visitors. There were almost a dozen of them, including one woman, and the same number of hunting dogs. "Stop right where you are. We will use lethal force if you proceed farther."
One of the men held up a badge. "Agent Aaron Foster, FBI"
The woman did the same. "Detective Rasmussen, Maine State Police."
The Sergeant glanced at his men. "Say again, stop where you are. We have orders to use lethal force against anybody, say again anybody, who crosses the dead-line. For your information, the dead-line is about ten yards in front of you."
"We're chasing a German saboteur, the last survivor of a group of three who landed from a U-boat couple of weeks back." Foster knew that the people in front of him were not joking. He'd heard whispers that there were installations in the United States where the guards shot first and asked questions not at all.
"We got him. He'd as dead as they come. Now back up. When we said anybody, it's the literal truth."
Foster turned to his group. "You heard the Sergeant. Back up and head back the way we came. We're done here. Sergeant, can we have the body?"
"Sure, Agent Foster. We'll ship it to you. Just call the Chief of Security, Limestone Army Air Force Field, and tell him where you want it sent. It's a hell of a mess though. My boys put 120 rounds into him."
Control Room, U-491, Hudson Canyon, 200 kilometers south East of New York City
"Depth thirteen-fifty two meters, Captain. Close enough for government work."
"Are the kirschkerns ready to fire?"
"Both checked and ready to go, Captain."
"Very well, surface and prepare to fire." And may God have mercy on our souls for the Americans surely will have none on our bodies.
Fehler felt the change in depth as U-491 made her way to the surface. Already he was bending over his charts working out the settings for the two Fi-103s in his hangar. They weren't quite the same as the ones in his orders; he was aiming at a military target instead of the center of New York. Up on the conning tower, the navigator and assistants were trying to fix the submarine’s position as accurately as possible. "Set range, 205 kilometers. Target Marine Ocean Terminal bearing 292 degrees."
Up in the hangar, preparing the Fi-103s for firing was a well-prepared drill. The range and bearing data were entered into the crude autopilot and, as soon as the U-boat had broken the surface, the clamshell doors started to open. That was the signal for a sudden and intense burst of work. The launch team strained to shift the Fi-103 forward until it was clear of the hangar. Then, they had to carefully inspect the missile to ensure that all the locks, clips, and restraints prevented the working parts from moving before they were supposed to have been removed. One launch had failed because the team had overlooked the red streamer that marked a pin holding the catapult release in place. Once everything had been cleared and double-checked, the Fi-103 was loaded onto its launch frame and rolled up to the end of the catapult. Then, its wings were unfolded and locked into place. The magazine, adapted from the one that had fed the long-gone deck gun as opened and the standard two booster rockets were attached to the fuselage under the wing roots. All that was left was for the crew to make the last check that the missile was properly seated on the launcher. Behind them, the clamshell doors closed to protect the second missile from the firing blast.
"Kirschkern ready to fire, Sir." The report from the foredeck came over the speaker in the control room.
"Very good. The launch crew takes cover. Firing the missile in three minutes."
The first things to happen were the rocket boosters firing and the pulse jet starting up. Then, amid the roar of the rockets and the peculiar growl of the pulse jet, the catapult fired and hurled the Fi-103 down its length. The take-off was smooth, placing the missile on a steady course for its target.
Now, it was a battle against time. Fehler knew that, sooner or later, the Fi-103 would be spotted by the coastal radar network and that would do two things. One was for the alert to be given to the defenses to intercept whatever was coming in. The other was for those defenses to plot the flight path back to its origin. The plot would show that both the inbounds came from the same patch of the open sea and that would mean anti-submarine aircraft would be sent out to search the area and find what was happening. U-491 had to get its second missile on the way before that happened.
U-491s crew excelled themselves. Within ten minutes, they had the second missile launched an on its way to its target. By that time, the first missile was already half way to New York. Fehler ordered a crash dive and a 180-degree turn that would get U-491 as far away from the launch point as possible.
Ten Minutes After Launch, Radar Station, Floyd Bennett Field, New York.
"Sir, I have a radar contact, coming in on course two-nine-four degrees."
The Lieutenant in command of the radar station looked at the plot. "It's just a Navy plane coming back from patrolling the shipping channels."
"There's no inbound flights listed, Sir. Not for another two hours. Everything was really quiet."
"Damned Navy pukes forgot to give us the flight schedule. It's not usually this quiet here. Don’t worry about it."
There was a long five minutes before the radar operator reported again. "I have a second contact, inbound course two-eight-eight. Sir, they're doing 400 knots. They can't be Navy birds."
"Oh CRAP."
Supreme Headquarters American Expeditionary Force (SHAEF), Kazan
General Eisenhower looked up from the map grimly. "Well, George, we knew it was coming. Now, it has."
"Damn it to hell. What and where Ike?"
"So far Archangel'sk has taken three hits, dispersed over the city. Four landed near Ulyanov'sk, three at Samara, and two at Salatov. So far, reports are of over 200 dead, almost all Russian civilians. Worst was down at Samara, the damned thing hit square on the morning market. Over a hundred dead, mostly women trying to buy food for their families. We've no figures on wounded yet."
General George S. Patton shook his head with great sadness mixed in with growing anger. "It would have to be the women and children. Ike, there are whole villages back there with nothing but women. Their men are gone, and most won’t be coming back. So tell me just what the hell can we do about this? And don't say 'nothing'.'
"It's a rough one, George. Those A-4 rockets come in so damned fast we don’t have a chance to do much more than sound the sirens. They're about as immune to defenses as they can get. Intelligence says that they aren't even guided so we don’t get a chance to jam them."
"Then we'll have to damned well find and bomb the crap out of the launching sites. We will not allow this to stand."
Eisenhower looked at his commander with concern. It looked as if Patton was working himself up into a raging fury and when he did that, he made mistakes. Not military mistakes but personal and public relations ones that damaged his standing and reputation. One of the reasons why Eisenhower had the job he did was his uncanny ability to keep Patton from self-destructing. Of all America’s Generals, Patton was the one who got on best with the Russians and the one whom they trusted most. That made him far too valuable to be lost from an outburst of bad temper.
"That will be harder than it seems. According to intelligence, the thing is fired from a small hexagonal launching pad that can be assembled and taken down in a few minutes. The whole system moves around all the time. They don’t move in the daylight of course, only at night. It looks like we’ll have to start some fairly intensive night intruder operations to try and hunt them down. We do have some good news there. The rockets are carried on a thing called a Meillerwagen. It’s a highly-specialized trailer that’s used for nothing else so if we see them, we've found a rocket unit. Intelligence also tells us that the full set-up time for launch is about 110 minutes with a crash-out time of twenty. So the job isn’t impossible.”
"I don't give a damn what it takes, Ike. I want those rockets stopped. Make sure our people know that. If you tell people where to go, but not how to get there, you'll be amazed at the results. And the best ideas often come from unexpected places. So do the worst of course. The trick is to recognize which is which."
"I've talked with the artillery people. They say we just can't hit something moving that fast, not without firing a huge number of shells." Eisenhower stared at the map. "I wonder where those rockets actually landed. Excuse me a minute George, we need that information."
Patton grunted. "If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn't thinking."
Eisenhower came back and was followed by a parade of privates with four cork boards on easels. Once the boards were set up, they pinned maps of the four cities that had been hit. A sergeant came in with a list of coordinates and stuck red pins on the map indicating the point of impact. He was about to leave when he stopped, stared at the map, and bit his lip.
"Permission to address the General, Sir."
"I'm beginning to think we've been in Russia too long," Eisenhower said, very quietly, to himself.
"Speak, Sergeant." Patton was giving the appearance of glowering in fury but was actually laughing to himself, not least at Eisenhower's discomfiture.
"Sir, I'm artillery. Looking at these maps, all the impact points are west of the city center, often quite a way west. Now, as an artilleryman, I want to correct my aim by shifting the aiming point east. Suppose we report the impact points as being on the eastern side of the cities? The fascists can't know exactly where the rockets land so they will probably, almost certainly, go by our own reports and correct accordingly. Putting the impact points beyond the city, in open country."
"See what I mean, Ike. Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do and they will surprise you with their ingenuity. If we can't stop those damned rockets, yet, we can try and stop them from hitting the cities. Good work Sergeant."
Once they had the room to themselves again, Eisenhower looked at the maps. "He's right, you know, George. That Sergeant in the army. Comes up with a simple idea but it will work. What we have to do is report the hits as gas explosions or munitions accidents so the fascists will think we're hiding the attacks. At least it will buy us some time."
"So, it's time for me to visit a faked impact point well to the east of a real one and make some outrageous statements that the damned idiots in the press will pick up on. Meanwhile, we find and attack those rocket convoys." Patton stopped and scowled. "I thought they were supposed to use ramps not pads."
"That's the V1 George. A jet-engined drone with a bomb. Intel thinks that the fascists dropped it in favor of the rocket." Eisenhower stopped and thought for a moment. "You know, I think the Hitlerites are doing us a real favor by building these rockets. According to Intel, every one of them costs as much in terms of manpower and materials as a fighter plane. Those rockets that hit us this morning are the equivalent of a squadron of fighters just thrown away. At a time when the fascists are desperate for every aircraft they can get, that isn't an intelligent use of resources."
Woods, Just South of Limestone Army Air Force Field
Erik Gersdorf was shivering violently as he tried to make his way west to escape from the pursuit that was slowly but surely gaining on him. He had assumed that the shivering was from the cold that was biting through his inadequate clothing and chilling his bones but there was more to it than that. The 38 Super pistol bullet that had hit his shoulder had done only superficial damage but the 45-70 rifle slug an inch lower was a very different matter. It had shattered his shoulder completely. It wasn't just the heavy soft-nosed hunting bullet that was doing the damage; severe though that damage was. It had also destroyed one of the bones in the complex joint and sent bone fragments scything through the surrounding tissue. Those razor-sharp fragments were now moving with Gersdorf's exertions and slowly but surely opening up more blood vessels. Although he didn’t realize it, Gersdorf was bleeding to death. All he knew was that he would like to return to being 'Eric Garden' again and find a nice quiet hole to hide in until the war was over.
He'd made matters worse a little earlier. Hearing the baying of the tracking dogs behind him, he had taken advantage of a stream to wade down it for a mile or so to throw them off the scent. As a result, he was thoroughly chilled and soaked through with water that was already beginning to freeze. The stream itself had been on the point of doing the same and would be ice by dawn. Only its rapid flow had kept it liquid this long. Now, he was suffering from hypothermia and was rapidly developing frostbite. Yet, his sacrifice had been futile. Behind him, he could hear the baying of the hounds again. He guessed, quite correctly, that the hunting dogs had made casts along the river banks until they had picked up his trail again. He was beginning to understand how grimly persistent American hunting dogs could be.
It was the bright lights over on his left that attracted him. Previously he had avoided lighted areas since they represented a population that wanted to catch him. Now, he was so far gone that the lights he could see offered a refuge, even if it was one of captivity. He came across a dirt road and staggered across it, not caring that he had left a trail of clearly-distinguishable footprints behind him. He continued through the trees, weaving now from one to the next as his body slowly gave out on him. When he reached the edge of the woods, what he saw shook him out of his cold and blood-loss-induced lethargy.
The lights were a long, wide runway with brilliant landing lights down it and arrays of red and yellow lights at the ends. Gersdorf recognized them instantly, it was a major airfield lavishly equipped for night operations. Behind the runway was a complex of buildings, equally brilliantly lit with surveillance lighting all over the area. It was painfully obvious that nobody could move around there without being seen. It was also obvious that this was a military airfield of a size and complexity Gersdorf had never seen before. Without being told, he knew that this was the home of the big six-engined transports he and his companions had seen earlier.
The closest building to him was the largest hangar Gersdorf had ever seen. In fact, everything he could see was on a scale that was beginning to affect his sense of proportions. Outsized things were looking normal and the normal buildings appeared to be miniatures. As he watched, the doors on the hangar started to open and he could see the aircraft inside.
At first, he thought it was one of the six-engined transports but it quickly became apparent that it was not. Its fuselage was circular and streamlined, without the cargo capacity of the transport. Hatches were open on the upper side of that fuselage with twin gun mounts elevated out of them. Then it dawned on him, he was looking at the largest bomber the world had ever seen. One that easily had the range to reach targets in Germany from its base here in America.
Gersdorf knew that he had stumbled across an American military secret that was so closely held that only those directly involved in it knew it even existed. He needed to get back to Germany to warn them of this new and dreadful threat that hung over them. Yet before he could even move, for at some time when he had been looking at the aircraft he had fallen to the ground. He heard voices around him.
"There he is, get him."
Knowing only that he had to get away to report his findings, Gersdorf drew his pistol and 'aimed' at the approaching uniformed men. He thought he was aiming anyway, in reality he was waving the pistol erratically in their general direction. Even so, it was enough to provide the men with the excuse they needed.
"He's got a gun. Shot him."
"It doesn’t matter, he saw the B-36B. That's enough." The men aimed the rifles they were carrying and fired long bursts that riddled Gersdorf with .30 carbine bullets. He saw the muzzle flashes merge into a single spot of bright light that drew him in as it contracted to a pinpoint. The last thing that Gersdorf was aware of before the pinpoint of light vanished was dark things closing in on him from the shadows.
"More men crossing the road Sergeant. They've got dogs, they must be hunting this jerk." The speaker was one of the men who had hosed the intruder with bullets from his M-2 carbine. Privately, he was glad the man had threatened them with a pistol. Shooting a man just because he had seen something he shouldn't didn’t sit right with him.
"Intercept them before they reach the deadline."
The Army Air Force Police detachment left one man with the body of the intruder while the others moved towards the new group of unwelcome visitors. There were almost a dozen of them, including one woman, and the same number of hunting dogs. "Stop right where you are. We will use lethal force if you proceed farther."
One of the men held up a badge. "Agent Aaron Foster, FBI"
The woman did the same. "Detective Rasmussen, Maine State Police."
The Sergeant glanced at his men. "Say again, stop where you are. We have orders to use lethal force against anybody, say again anybody, who crosses the dead-line. For your information, the dead-line is about ten yards in front of you."
"We're chasing a German saboteur, the last survivor of a group of three who landed from a U-boat couple of weeks back." Foster knew that the people in front of him were not joking. He'd heard whispers that there were installations in the United States where the guards shot first and asked questions not at all.
"We got him. He'd as dead as they come. Now back up. When we said anybody, it's the literal truth."
Foster turned to his group. "You heard the Sergeant. Back up and head back the way we came. We're done here. Sergeant, can we have the body?"
"Sure, Agent Foster. We'll ship it to you. Just call the Chief of Security, Limestone Army Air Force Field, and tell him where you want it sent. It's a hell of a mess though. My boys put 120 rounds into him."
Control Room, U-491, Hudson Canyon, 200 kilometers south East of New York City
"Depth thirteen-fifty two meters, Captain. Close enough for government work."
"Are the kirschkerns ready to fire?"
"Both checked and ready to go, Captain."
"Very well, surface and prepare to fire." And may God have mercy on our souls for the Americans surely will have none on our bodies.
Fehler felt the change in depth as U-491 made her way to the surface. Already he was bending over his charts working out the settings for the two Fi-103s in his hangar. They weren't quite the same as the ones in his orders; he was aiming at a military target instead of the center of New York. Up on the conning tower, the navigator and assistants were trying to fix the submarine’s position as accurately as possible. "Set range, 205 kilometers. Target Marine Ocean Terminal bearing 292 degrees."
Up in the hangar, preparing the Fi-103s for firing was a well-prepared drill. The range and bearing data were entered into the crude autopilot and, as soon as the U-boat had broken the surface, the clamshell doors started to open. That was the signal for a sudden and intense burst of work. The launch team strained to shift the Fi-103 forward until it was clear of the hangar. Then, they had to carefully inspect the missile to ensure that all the locks, clips, and restraints prevented the working parts from moving before they were supposed to have been removed. One launch had failed because the team had overlooked the red streamer that marked a pin holding the catapult release in place. Once everything had been cleared and double-checked, the Fi-103 was loaded onto its launch frame and rolled up to the end of the catapult. Then, its wings were unfolded and locked into place. The magazine, adapted from the one that had fed the long-gone deck gun as opened and the standard two booster rockets were attached to the fuselage under the wing roots. All that was left was for the crew to make the last check that the missile was properly seated on the launcher. Behind them, the clamshell doors closed to protect the second missile from the firing blast.
"Kirschkern ready to fire, Sir." The report from the foredeck came over the speaker in the control room.
"Very good. The launch crew takes cover. Firing the missile in three minutes."
The first things to happen were the rocket boosters firing and the pulse jet starting up. Then, amid the roar of the rockets and the peculiar growl of the pulse jet, the catapult fired and hurled the Fi-103 down its length. The take-off was smooth, placing the missile on a steady course for its target.
Now, it was a battle against time. Fehler knew that, sooner or later, the Fi-103 would be spotted by the coastal radar network and that would do two things. One was for the alert to be given to the defenses to intercept whatever was coming in. The other was for those defenses to plot the flight path back to its origin. The plot would show that both the inbounds came from the same patch of the open sea and that would mean anti-submarine aircraft would be sent out to search the area and find what was happening. U-491 had to get its second missile on the way before that happened.
U-491s crew excelled themselves. Within ten minutes, they had the second missile launched an on its way to its target. By that time, the first missile was already half way to New York. Fehler ordered a crash dive and a 180-degree turn that would get U-491 as far away from the launch point as possible.
Ten Minutes After Launch, Radar Station, Floyd Bennett Field, New York.
"Sir, I have a radar contact, coming in on course two-nine-four degrees."
The Lieutenant in command of the radar station looked at the plot. "It's just a Navy plane coming back from patrolling the shipping channels."
"There's no inbound flights listed, Sir. Not for another two hours. Everything was really quiet."
"Damned Navy pukes forgot to give us the flight schedule. It's not usually this quiet here. Don’t worry about it."
There was a long five minutes before the radar operator reported again. "I have a second contact, inbound course two-eight-eight. Sir, they're doing 400 knots. They can't be Navy birds."
"Oh CRAP."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Five
Igrat's Apartment, 349 Broadway, New York City, New York.
One of Igrat's unbending rules of life was that when she woke up in the morning, she gave no signs of having done so. To all intents and appearances, she remained soundly asleep while she was determining whether she was alone or not and if the answer was 'not' what the name and sex of the person with her were. Also, whether said partner was there on business or pleasure. These days, the latter question was probably the most important to her.
This time, though, it was immediately obvious to her that she was alone. The reason was simple, she was in her private bedroom and another unbending rule was that nobody else was allowed into that room. She had a separate room set aside for when she had company. Here, in this room, she could be herself and not worry about the image she was presenting to those around her. It was also where she kept everything related to her primary work as a courier. Before the war, she had worked mostly for banks and financial institutions, carrying fiscal instruments and agreements between business partners. Back then, several major business mergers had taken the market by surprise because the principals did not seem to have met. People watching for signs of such deals had overlooked her carrying the necessary documents between them and relaying their messages with extreme accuracy.
These days, her part of the war effort was mostly carrying intelligence analyses and alerts between the Allies. She was one of the unofficial pipelines that kept the alliance running smoothly although she was not naïve enough to believe she was the only one. Now, once she decided it was prudent to 'officially' wake up, she saw the clock by her bed and noted it was just after 10:30 am. That caused her to frown slightly; she didn’t usually wake up at the crack of dawn like this unless something was happening.
Her first act was to check the schedule that would dominate the next few days. A look at the list showed that she would be heading for Ottawa in Canada and then to Canberra in Australia with a side trip to Bangkok for her father. Once she got back, she would leave again for Rome, where she would have dinner with Apollo and check in on Conrad before catching the train to Geneva for the Orchestra intelligence package. Once she had returned from that trip, she would be off to Yekaterinburg again for the usual Russian-American intelligence exchange. With Christmas approaching and winter slowing down operations on the Russian Front, she was a little less busy than usual. Nevertheless, she would be traveling almost continuously for several days, eating on aircraft and catching sleep when she could.
She looked at the image in the mirror, reflecting how misleading it was on so many levels, and shrugged. This job is ruining my sex life. For a quick moment, she thought the mirror image had nodded sympathetically but she thought it was just her over-heated imagination. It was the sound of air raid sirens outside that made her realize the mirror had shivered slightly with the unexpected caterwauling In all her years living in New York, she had never heard them sounding off before. Even air raid drills staged by the Army and Navy hadn't involved warning the civilian population like this.
The sound of the sirens almost overwhelmed the sound of a single aircraft overhead. Igrat was remarkably familiar with aircraft and could tell a C-69 from a C-54 or a P-39 from a P-63 by engine noise alone. She had never heard anything like this aircraft though. The engine sound was a coarse and uneven popping rumble. It reminded her of a cement mixer churning over a load of gravel or Naamah trying to sing. She went to the window and looked up, trying to see what type of aircraft was causing the strange noise. What she saw was a small plane with short, straight wings and an equally simple tailpipe. Suddenly, she realized what was wrong with it; it didn’t have a propeller.
As that awareness ran through her mind, she heard the engine cut out. Almost immediately the small aircraft nosed over and started a long dive downwards. Instinctively, Igrat sensed dire danger and dived for cover behind her bed, curling up on the floor with her arms covering her face. There she huddled, suddenly knowing what was about to come.
The blast was deafening, even inside the solidly-constructed high-rise where she lived. Dust showered down from the ceiling and coated her, causing her to explode in a fit of violent, uncontrollable coughing. She could feel her building shaking with the shockwaves that seemed likely to tear the place apart. She mentally debated the contrasting virtues of making a run for the outside or staying put and riding the explosion out, then after due thought settled for the latter. She reasoned that if the building was going to go down, it would have done so and leaving was as likely to be running into harm's way as getting out of it.
The effects of the blast were still subsiding when the white telephone in her room started ringing. It was the direct-access line that bypassed the switchboard in the building and was used for business calls. It was also protected by the best scrambling equipment money could buy. Few people had the number and all those that did were important people for one reason or another. So, she crawled on the floor over to it and picked it up.
"Iggie, what the hell is going on up there?" It was The Seer on the line and the anxiety in his voice was apparent.
"I don’t know. We just got hit by something weird. It was like a little aircraft but it was moving fast and making the strangest noise I have heard. It came down very close, I'll find out where in a few minutes." Igrat chanced a look out the window, afraid that if a second explosion took place, it would shatter the windows and send the fragments into her face. She could see a pyre of smoke reaching upwards from an impact site that seemed terrifyingly close. "All right, the hit is south of here. Looks to me like Vesey and Nassau. Half a mile from here, tops. Hang on, how did you know something was going on. It only landed five minutes ago.”
“I was on the telephone to a company whose head office is in New York and I heard the sirens go off. You’re on the spot down there, keep me advised on what is going on will you. I need eyes on this, eyes I can trust.”
Before Igrat could answer, there was another blast that made the building vibrate slightly. Igrat probably wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t been on edge. “First report for you, there’s been another one. Lot further away though. Staten Island I think, it’s hard to tell here. Sound does peculiar things in this city.”
278 Livermore Avenue, Staten Island, New York.
Darlene Young heard the sirens going off and simply stood where she was, frozen by shock in the kitchen of her home. She’d had the instructions from the city authorities and the Army on what to do if there was an air-raid alert but it all vanished from her head. All she could think was that it shouldn’t be happening. Then she heard something else, a sound she couldn’t easily identify. It was a low-pitched buzzing noise, somewhere between a large truck, an aircraft or even, possibly a speedboat. A sailor’s wife learned about the sounds ships made early in her marriage. As the sound grew louder, she realized it was an aircraft passing overhead.
When the sound was directly over her home, the buzzing noise suddenly stopped. That broke her out of her trance and she ran, awkwardly and clumsily, for the cellar. She was praying desperately all the way but she never made it. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had. The Fi-103 dropped directly on 278 Livermore Avenue and its 1,870 pounds of Amatol explosive completely destroyed the house and a dozen more around it. 278 was a small, wooden frame house, built expressly for young couples to buy as their starter home. By the time the dust and roar settled down, there was nothing left of it but a crater 60 feet in diameter and 20 feet deep. Once they had recovered from the paralyzing shock of the sudden attack, the surviving neighbors converged on the site of the explosion and started to dig into the wrecked houses to find survivors and pull them from the wreckage. Nobody bothered with 278; there was nothing left to dig into.
349 Broadway, New York City, New York.
“Stop there, ma’am. You can’t go through.” The policeman was setting up a cordon to keep the curious away. People with needed skills, strong men and anybody with medical knowledge or useful equipment was being let through.
Igrat produced one of her IDs. “US Strategic Bombing Commission. We need pictures of the damage before it’s too badly disturbed by the rescue work. That way we can work out what the hell happened here. Where exactly did it come down?”
The Officer took in Igrat's pass and noted the fact she was wearing Russian Army-issue cold weather clothing. To the discerning, that meant more than the pass did. “This one? Right on the intersection of Ann and Nassau. All four buildings are down and three of them were high-rises. Hell of a mess. There's another down in Staten Island but I know nothing more than that. All right. On your way but be careful. Once you’re at the scene there’s glass and debris still coming down. Keep looking up as well as around you. . . . Hey you, you kids. Hold it right there.”
Igrat went into a jog trot as she headed for the scene. Despite the light snow and bitter cold, the air was already thick with dust that seemed to be billowing down Broadway. She couldn’t help feeling that this had been one of her closer calls; if the thing had come down 800 yards further along, her building would have been one of those at severe risk. She stopped briefly as the dust made her choke so she took a breath mask out from the emergency pack she always carried and used it to cover her nose and mouth. She was beginning to regret not bringing her gas mask. She was also stopped twice more by checkpoints on her run down Broadway and once when she turned on to Vesey. By now, she was part of a stream of New Yorkers converging on the bomb sight, intent on rescuing the victims of the attack.
The police officer on Vesey had noted that. Looking at the would-be rescuers already digging in the ruins, he remarked “They were here, digging, before the echoes faded. Makes us proud to be Americans, doesn’t it” before waving her through. The comment got added to the mental report Igrat was writing.
The first police officer had been right. All four buildings on the intersection of Nassau and Ann had collapsed from the explosion. Three of them had more than ten stories and Igrat guessed that they had already been full of workers. The fourth was a much lower structure, only three stories.
“Hey, stop that!” A police officer was running towards Igrat. “What are you doing, you damned ghoul. Trying to get some pictures to sell to the papers? If you want to stay here, get to work pulling people out of the wreckage.”
“I am working.” Igrat showed her USSBC pass again. “We have got to have fresh pictures of what happened here if we’re to work out what took place. I can see a lot that’s strange right now. Stuff our scientists need to know. Those high-rise ruins are really odd. I would have expected them to be blocking the street, the way that other one has.”
The policeman relaxed slightly. “Sorry ma’am. Yeah, I noticed that. It’s the three-story one that’s the most dangerous. There’s enough left standing to tempt people to go in there and pull out the casualties. And it’s bad enough to fall on them when they try. Something else you might want to take pictures of, go a few yards in any direction and the damage fades out fast. Go a block away and even the windows aren’t broken. It’s very bad where it is, but ain’t bad where it ain’t, if you get my drift. ‘Scuse. Hey you, don’t even think about looting. We’ve got orders to shoot looters on sight.”
The officer returned to Igrat and dropped his voice. “Sorry ma’am. We ain’t got orders like that. Yet. They’ll come though. You go take your pictures, I’ll spread word you’re not to be stopped. Good luck ma’am and watch your ass.”
Igrat wandered through the scene. The intersection itself had gone; there was a 10-foot deep crater where it had been, one that was already beginning to fill with water. Smoke and steam was rising in columns from severed pipes, giving a strange ghostly air to the whole scene. She wondered briefly about gas leaking from severed gas mains, sniffed cautiously but couldn’t smell gas. Then again, this whole scene smells so badly that gas would go unnoticed. We’ve got to make sure we cut utilities like gas, water and electric off when this happens again. Igrat wasn’t surprised to note she was assuming that this was going to happen again and that too went into her mental report.
A loud burst of cheering went up from a group working on the shattered low-rise. The ground floor had been a pharmacist’s and a group removing rubble had found the pharmacist and two of his assistants huddled in a triangular void formed by a collapsed roof girder and the walls. All three were coated in a thick white layer of dirt, were bloodstained and injured, obviously were suffering from severe shock but were alive. They were quickly pulled out, wrapped in blankets and put on stretchers to be rushed to the waiting ambulances. Igrat carefully photographed that scene as well. The fact that the triangle had held the wreckage off the victims and allowed them to live interested her and she filed the observation away.
“Officer, could you help me. I’m running out of film. There’s some in the pharmacy there, could you come with me while I requisition it please. I don’t want to be mistaken for a looter.”
“Sensible thing to ask ma’am. Sure. Hey Cooper, take over here. This lady is from the Army and I’ve got to go with her for a minute or two.”
There was a brief panic as the sound of aircraft engines returned. It turned into cheering as four P-63 Kingcobras swept overhead and started circling the city. Igrat went into the ruins and picked up the scattered packages of 35mm film. Behind her the policeman shouted out “It’s all right, she’s on Official Business. It’s for the War Effort.”
Those were the magic words of course. By now, the rescue effort was getting more and more organized as the professionals arrived and started directing the efforts. Army engineers were pulling up in trucks and unloading into the impact area, setting up equipment that would take some of the risk out of clearing the ruins. A Captain was directing the efforts and Igrat went over to him, displaying her ID all the way. “Sir, could you tell me what happened here. I know this is a big bomb but . . .”
“Ma’am . . . .” He read the ID and nodded. “All right. The quick version. Whatever happened here had very little penetration. It was an odd explosive as well, you can probably smell the ammonia. The majority of the blast went sideways and the bit that went up was funneled upwards by the high-rises. Anyway, the blast chopped the first floor out of those high-rises and upper floors fell vertically. We call it pancaking and it’s how we teach combat engineers to destroy enemy-held buildings. Destroys the building, kills everybody inside, doesn’t block the streets. I’d say we have three or four hundred dead here. Good news is that the gas mains and electricity supplies aren’t compromised and we’ve cut them off now. We’ve cut the Subway as well until we can check the tunnels. Nobody has ever hit a city with a subway system like this before. Now, please, out of the way.”
United States Strategic Bombardment Commission, Blair House, Washington D.C. USA.
Igrat finished her story and looked across the office to The Seer. “And that’s it. I couldn’t get to the hit on Staten Island. The ferries were closed down and even my pass didn’t get me over. From what I hear though, it was much the same as Nassau and Ann but on a smaller scale. The area hit was mostly low-rise residential.”
The Seer nodded. Igrat was looking, most uncharacteristically, a complete mess. Hair was all over the place, she was dirty and stained with dust and dirt from the impact site. She was still wearing her Russian Army cold-weather clothes instead of her normal high-fashion. Above all, she was obviously exhausted from stress as well as physical effort. Yet, dirt, stained and battered as she was, she had continued to do her job and had got to work almost immediately. She had a large bag of exposed film that was now down at the Army laboratories being processed for distribution. Some, the more impressive but the least revealing, would be released to the press as “US Army Official”. After leaving the scene, she had hitched a ride on a redeploying Black Widow night-fighter to get to Washington quickly. In some ways, she typified New York itself. Battered, damaged and exhausted yet already back at work and determined not to be beaten down.
“Any idea on casualties yet, father?” Igrat was carefully not rubbing her eyes, despite the irritation they were feeling. She was well-aware of the damage that grit could do to them. She would be seeing the first aid people soon to have them irrigated.
The Seer looked at the latest messages. “So far 351 dead on Manhattan, 36 on Staten Island. Wounded total about a thousand. Both going up hourly of course but the rate of increase is slowing fast. More people than anybody expected got out of the high-rises. It seems the structures held just long enough for people low down to get out. People at the top didn’t stand a chance of course.”
“Do we know what did it?”
“Oh yes.” The Seer handed over a picture of an Fi-103. “The fascists call it a V1 or Vengeance Weapon One. The Luftwaffe designation is Fi-103. They fired it from a submarine, we think about 120 miles offshore. The sub got away clean.”
Suddenly, his expression got grim and he handed over pictures of a U-boat on the surface, firing the Fi-103s. “The Navy knew all about it, rather their intelligence did. They have assets in Sweden who got film and photographs of a trial and sent it through to Navy Intel. They took one look at it, decided it was an anti-ship weapon and thus nobody else needed to know about it. Also, they needed to protect their assets. The latter I can understand, the former I can’t forgive. Anyway, its being distributed now. Too late of course.”
Igrat thought about that. “That’s going to cause difficulties, isn’t it.”
“Too right it is. Donovan is pushing for a centralized intelligence service with all intelligence being focused through a single point and the conclusions presented by that point. Since he who controls information . . .”
“Controls the decisions, that means Donovan, or whoever runs that central intelligence agency, will effectively make the decisions for the government.” Igrat frowned suddenly. “And that centralized information will be a serious danger to us.”
“It will. Anyway, we’ve seen this sort of thing happen before and the results are never good for anybody. Eventually, that centralized intelligence agency becomes a shadow government. If we let this happen, sooner or later that shadow government will attempt to depose the elected one. Unfortunately, the attack on New York and the intelligence foul-up that helped it along are powerful tools for Donovan to use. In fairness, the Navy failing to distribute their intelligence material is a good point for Donovan's ideas. We’ve got a crisis here Iggie, one that spreads further and wider than just an attack on a US city. Add in the rockets that hit four cities in Russia a few hours back and we haven’t just got a crisis, we have a real problem.
Igrat's Apartment, 349 Broadway, New York City, New York.
One of Igrat's unbending rules of life was that when she woke up in the morning, she gave no signs of having done so. To all intents and appearances, she remained soundly asleep while she was determining whether she was alone or not and if the answer was 'not' what the name and sex of the person with her were. Also, whether said partner was there on business or pleasure. These days, the latter question was probably the most important to her.
This time, though, it was immediately obvious to her that she was alone. The reason was simple, she was in her private bedroom and another unbending rule was that nobody else was allowed into that room. She had a separate room set aside for when she had company. Here, in this room, she could be herself and not worry about the image she was presenting to those around her. It was also where she kept everything related to her primary work as a courier. Before the war, she had worked mostly for banks and financial institutions, carrying fiscal instruments and agreements between business partners. Back then, several major business mergers had taken the market by surprise because the principals did not seem to have met. People watching for signs of such deals had overlooked her carrying the necessary documents between them and relaying their messages with extreme accuracy.
These days, her part of the war effort was mostly carrying intelligence analyses and alerts between the Allies. She was one of the unofficial pipelines that kept the alliance running smoothly although she was not naïve enough to believe she was the only one. Now, once she decided it was prudent to 'officially' wake up, she saw the clock by her bed and noted it was just after 10:30 am. That caused her to frown slightly; she didn’t usually wake up at the crack of dawn like this unless something was happening.
Her first act was to check the schedule that would dominate the next few days. A look at the list showed that she would be heading for Ottawa in Canada and then to Canberra in Australia with a side trip to Bangkok for her father. Once she got back, she would leave again for Rome, where she would have dinner with Apollo and check in on Conrad before catching the train to Geneva for the Orchestra intelligence package. Once she had returned from that trip, she would be off to Yekaterinburg again for the usual Russian-American intelligence exchange. With Christmas approaching and winter slowing down operations on the Russian Front, she was a little less busy than usual. Nevertheless, she would be traveling almost continuously for several days, eating on aircraft and catching sleep when she could.
She looked at the image in the mirror, reflecting how misleading it was on so many levels, and shrugged. This job is ruining my sex life. For a quick moment, she thought the mirror image had nodded sympathetically but she thought it was just her over-heated imagination. It was the sound of air raid sirens outside that made her realize the mirror had shivered slightly with the unexpected caterwauling In all her years living in New York, she had never heard them sounding off before. Even air raid drills staged by the Army and Navy hadn't involved warning the civilian population like this.
The sound of the sirens almost overwhelmed the sound of a single aircraft overhead. Igrat was remarkably familiar with aircraft and could tell a C-69 from a C-54 or a P-39 from a P-63 by engine noise alone. She had never heard anything like this aircraft though. The engine sound was a coarse and uneven popping rumble. It reminded her of a cement mixer churning over a load of gravel or Naamah trying to sing. She went to the window and looked up, trying to see what type of aircraft was causing the strange noise. What she saw was a small plane with short, straight wings and an equally simple tailpipe. Suddenly, she realized what was wrong with it; it didn’t have a propeller.
As that awareness ran through her mind, she heard the engine cut out. Almost immediately the small aircraft nosed over and started a long dive downwards. Instinctively, Igrat sensed dire danger and dived for cover behind her bed, curling up on the floor with her arms covering her face. There she huddled, suddenly knowing what was about to come.
The blast was deafening, even inside the solidly-constructed high-rise where she lived. Dust showered down from the ceiling and coated her, causing her to explode in a fit of violent, uncontrollable coughing. She could feel her building shaking with the shockwaves that seemed likely to tear the place apart. She mentally debated the contrasting virtues of making a run for the outside or staying put and riding the explosion out, then after due thought settled for the latter. She reasoned that if the building was going to go down, it would have done so and leaving was as likely to be running into harm's way as getting out of it.
The effects of the blast were still subsiding when the white telephone in her room started ringing. It was the direct-access line that bypassed the switchboard in the building and was used for business calls. It was also protected by the best scrambling equipment money could buy. Few people had the number and all those that did were important people for one reason or another. So, she crawled on the floor over to it and picked it up.
"Iggie, what the hell is going on up there?" It was The Seer on the line and the anxiety in his voice was apparent.
"I don’t know. We just got hit by something weird. It was like a little aircraft but it was moving fast and making the strangest noise I have heard. It came down very close, I'll find out where in a few minutes." Igrat chanced a look out the window, afraid that if a second explosion took place, it would shatter the windows and send the fragments into her face. She could see a pyre of smoke reaching upwards from an impact site that seemed terrifyingly close. "All right, the hit is south of here. Looks to me like Vesey and Nassau. Half a mile from here, tops. Hang on, how did you know something was going on. It only landed five minutes ago.”
“I was on the telephone to a company whose head office is in New York and I heard the sirens go off. You’re on the spot down there, keep me advised on what is going on will you. I need eyes on this, eyes I can trust.”
Before Igrat could answer, there was another blast that made the building vibrate slightly. Igrat probably wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t been on edge. “First report for you, there’s been another one. Lot further away though. Staten Island I think, it’s hard to tell here. Sound does peculiar things in this city.”
278 Livermore Avenue, Staten Island, New York.
Darlene Young heard the sirens going off and simply stood where she was, frozen by shock in the kitchen of her home. She’d had the instructions from the city authorities and the Army on what to do if there was an air-raid alert but it all vanished from her head. All she could think was that it shouldn’t be happening. Then she heard something else, a sound she couldn’t easily identify. It was a low-pitched buzzing noise, somewhere between a large truck, an aircraft or even, possibly a speedboat. A sailor’s wife learned about the sounds ships made early in her marriage. As the sound grew louder, she realized it was an aircraft passing overhead.
When the sound was directly over her home, the buzzing noise suddenly stopped. That broke her out of her trance and she ran, awkwardly and clumsily, for the cellar. She was praying desperately all the way but she never made it. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had. The Fi-103 dropped directly on 278 Livermore Avenue and its 1,870 pounds of Amatol explosive completely destroyed the house and a dozen more around it. 278 was a small, wooden frame house, built expressly for young couples to buy as their starter home. By the time the dust and roar settled down, there was nothing left of it but a crater 60 feet in diameter and 20 feet deep. Once they had recovered from the paralyzing shock of the sudden attack, the surviving neighbors converged on the site of the explosion and started to dig into the wrecked houses to find survivors and pull them from the wreckage. Nobody bothered with 278; there was nothing left to dig into.
349 Broadway, New York City, New York.
“Stop there, ma’am. You can’t go through.” The policeman was setting up a cordon to keep the curious away. People with needed skills, strong men and anybody with medical knowledge or useful equipment was being let through.
Igrat produced one of her IDs. “US Strategic Bombing Commission. We need pictures of the damage before it’s too badly disturbed by the rescue work. That way we can work out what the hell happened here. Where exactly did it come down?”
The Officer took in Igrat's pass and noted the fact she was wearing Russian Army-issue cold weather clothing. To the discerning, that meant more than the pass did. “This one? Right on the intersection of Ann and Nassau. All four buildings are down and three of them were high-rises. Hell of a mess. There's another down in Staten Island but I know nothing more than that. All right. On your way but be careful. Once you’re at the scene there’s glass and debris still coming down. Keep looking up as well as around you. . . . Hey you, you kids. Hold it right there.”
Igrat went into a jog trot as she headed for the scene. Despite the light snow and bitter cold, the air was already thick with dust that seemed to be billowing down Broadway. She couldn’t help feeling that this had been one of her closer calls; if the thing had come down 800 yards further along, her building would have been one of those at severe risk. She stopped briefly as the dust made her choke so she took a breath mask out from the emergency pack she always carried and used it to cover her nose and mouth. She was beginning to regret not bringing her gas mask. She was also stopped twice more by checkpoints on her run down Broadway and once when she turned on to Vesey. By now, she was part of a stream of New Yorkers converging on the bomb sight, intent on rescuing the victims of the attack.
The police officer on Vesey had noted that. Looking at the would-be rescuers already digging in the ruins, he remarked “They were here, digging, before the echoes faded. Makes us proud to be Americans, doesn’t it” before waving her through. The comment got added to the mental report Igrat was writing.
The first police officer had been right. All four buildings on the intersection of Nassau and Ann had collapsed from the explosion. Three of them had more than ten stories and Igrat guessed that they had already been full of workers. The fourth was a much lower structure, only three stories.
“Hey, stop that!” A police officer was running towards Igrat. “What are you doing, you damned ghoul. Trying to get some pictures to sell to the papers? If you want to stay here, get to work pulling people out of the wreckage.”
“I am working.” Igrat showed her USSBC pass again. “We have got to have fresh pictures of what happened here if we’re to work out what took place. I can see a lot that’s strange right now. Stuff our scientists need to know. Those high-rise ruins are really odd. I would have expected them to be blocking the street, the way that other one has.”
The policeman relaxed slightly. “Sorry ma’am. Yeah, I noticed that. It’s the three-story one that’s the most dangerous. There’s enough left standing to tempt people to go in there and pull out the casualties. And it’s bad enough to fall on them when they try. Something else you might want to take pictures of, go a few yards in any direction and the damage fades out fast. Go a block away and even the windows aren’t broken. It’s very bad where it is, but ain’t bad where it ain’t, if you get my drift. ‘Scuse. Hey you, don’t even think about looting. We’ve got orders to shoot looters on sight.”
The officer returned to Igrat and dropped his voice. “Sorry ma’am. We ain’t got orders like that. Yet. They’ll come though. You go take your pictures, I’ll spread word you’re not to be stopped. Good luck ma’am and watch your ass.”
Igrat wandered through the scene. The intersection itself had gone; there was a 10-foot deep crater where it had been, one that was already beginning to fill with water. Smoke and steam was rising in columns from severed pipes, giving a strange ghostly air to the whole scene. She wondered briefly about gas leaking from severed gas mains, sniffed cautiously but couldn’t smell gas. Then again, this whole scene smells so badly that gas would go unnoticed. We’ve got to make sure we cut utilities like gas, water and electric off when this happens again. Igrat wasn’t surprised to note she was assuming that this was going to happen again and that too went into her mental report.
A loud burst of cheering went up from a group working on the shattered low-rise. The ground floor had been a pharmacist’s and a group removing rubble had found the pharmacist and two of his assistants huddled in a triangular void formed by a collapsed roof girder and the walls. All three were coated in a thick white layer of dirt, were bloodstained and injured, obviously were suffering from severe shock but were alive. They were quickly pulled out, wrapped in blankets and put on stretchers to be rushed to the waiting ambulances. Igrat carefully photographed that scene as well. The fact that the triangle had held the wreckage off the victims and allowed them to live interested her and she filed the observation away.
“Officer, could you help me. I’m running out of film. There’s some in the pharmacy there, could you come with me while I requisition it please. I don’t want to be mistaken for a looter.”
“Sensible thing to ask ma’am. Sure. Hey Cooper, take over here. This lady is from the Army and I’ve got to go with her for a minute or two.”
There was a brief panic as the sound of aircraft engines returned. It turned into cheering as four P-63 Kingcobras swept overhead and started circling the city. Igrat went into the ruins and picked up the scattered packages of 35mm film. Behind her the policeman shouted out “It’s all right, she’s on Official Business. It’s for the War Effort.”
Those were the magic words of course. By now, the rescue effort was getting more and more organized as the professionals arrived and started directing the efforts. Army engineers were pulling up in trucks and unloading into the impact area, setting up equipment that would take some of the risk out of clearing the ruins. A Captain was directing the efforts and Igrat went over to him, displaying her ID all the way. “Sir, could you tell me what happened here. I know this is a big bomb but . . .”
“Ma’am . . . .” He read the ID and nodded. “All right. The quick version. Whatever happened here had very little penetration. It was an odd explosive as well, you can probably smell the ammonia. The majority of the blast went sideways and the bit that went up was funneled upwards by the high-rises. Anyway, the blast chopped the first floor out of those high-rises and upper floors fell vertically. We call it pancaking and it’s how we teach combat engineers to destroy enemy-held buildings. Destroys the building, kills everybody inside, doesn’t block the streets. I’d say we have three or four hundred dead here. Good news is that the gas mains and electricity supplies aren’t compromised and we’ve cut them off now. We’ve cut the Subway as well until we can check the tunnels. Nobody has ever hit a city with a subway system like this before. Now, please, out of the way.”
United States Strategic Bombardment Commission, Blair House, Washington D.C. USA.
Igrat finished her story and looked across the office to The Seer. “And that’s it. I couldn’t get to the hit on Staten Island. The ferries were closed down and even my pass didn’t get me over. From what I hear though, it was much the same as Nassau and Ann but on a smaller scale. The area hit was mostly low-rise residential.”
The Seer nodded. Igrat was looking, most uncharacteristically, a complete mess. Hair was all over the place, she was dirty and stained with dust and dirt from the impact site. She was still wearing her Russian Army cold-weather clothes instead of her normal high-fashion. Above all, she was obviously exhausted from stress as well as physical effort. Yet, dirt, stained and battered as she was, she had continued to do her job and had got to work almost immediately. She had a large bag of exposed film that was now down at the Army laboratories being processed for distribution. Some, the more impressive but the least revealing, would be released to the press as “US Army Official”. After leaving the scene, she had hitched a ride on a redeploying Black Widow night-fighter to get to Washington quickly. In some ways, she typified New York itself. Battered, damaged and exhausted yet already back at work and determined not to be beaten down.
“Any idea on casualties yet, father?” Igrat was carefully not rubbing her eyes, despite the irritation they were feeling. She was well-aware of the damage that grit could do to them. She would be seeing the first aid people soon to have them irrigated.
The Seer looked at the latest messages. “So far 351 dead on Manhattan, 36 on Staten Island. Wounded total about a thousand. Both going up hourly of course but the rate of increase is slowing fast. More people than anybody expected got out of the high-rises. It seems the structures held just long enough for people low down to get out. People at the top didn’t stand a chance of course.”
“Do we know what did it?”
“Oh yes.” The Seer handed over a picture of an Fi-103. “The fascists call it a V1 or Vengeance Weapon One. The Luftwaffe designation is Fi-103. They fired it from a submarine, we think about 120 miles offshore. The sub got away clean.”
Suddenly, his expression got grim and he handed over pictures of a U-boat on the surface, firing the Fi-103s. “The Navy knew all about it, rather their intelligence did. They have assets in Sweden who got film and photographs of a trial and sent it through to Navy Intel. They took one look at it, decided it was an anti-ship weapon and thus nobody else needed to know about it. Also, they needed to protect their assets. The latter I can understand, the former I can’t forgive. Anyway, its being distributed now. Too late of course.”
Igrat thought about that. “That’s going to cause difficulties, isn’t it.”
“Too right it is. Donovan is pushing for a centralized intelligence service with all intelligence being focused through a single point and the conclusions presented by that point. Since he who controls information . . .”
“Controls the decisions, that means Donovan, or whoever runs that central intelligence agency, will effectively make the decisions for the government.” Igrat frowned suddenly. “And that centralized information will be a serious danger to us.”
“It will. Anyway, we’ve seen this sort of thing happen before and the results are never good for anybody. Eventually, that centralized intelligence agency becomes a shadow government. If we let this happen, sooner or later that shadow government will attempt to depose the elected one. Unfortunately, the attack on New York and the intelligence foul-up that helped it along are powerful tools for Donovan to use. In fairness, the Navy failing to distribute their intelligence material is a good point for Donovan's ideas. We’ve got a crisis here Iggie, one that spreads further and wider than just an attack on a US city. Add in the rockets that hit four cities in Russia a few hours back and we haven’t just got a crisis, we have a real problem.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Six
786th Long Range Bomber Regiment, Airfield 23, Zolotitsa, Archangel'sk Oblast.
"Tovarish Vladimir Stepanovich, we have orders of the utmost urgency from STAVKA. We must strike at the Lair of the Beast tonight. Without fail!”
“Tonight? We have no weather reports, the aircraft are not ready.” Markov had gone almost white with shock.
“Then make sure the aircraft are ready and that we have the weather reports. And I wish to hear no more foolish excuses.” Tomasov was not usually such an uncultured man but he too was shocked by the bombshell that had been dropped on his regiment. As usual, the best cure for shock brought about by impossible orders from above was to issue them to those below.
“Tovarish Commander, what is happening?” Markov asked the question with all proper formality while looking around for somebody else to pass the kick down to.
Tomasov relented. “We have just heard from our Amerikanskiye brat'ya. A fascist submarine has fired two Fi-103 missiles into New York. Almost four hundred dead and over a thousand wounded. The news went straight to STAVKA and our masters have seen in this tragedy a great opportunity for the Rodina. Tonight, in revenge for the attack on New York, we will bomb Berlin. The Americans reacted to the attack upon them, first with shock but are now screaming furious. STAVKA says they have never seen our allies so angry. Not even after the massacre of their PoWs last year. If we now strike at Berlin in the name of revenge for the attack on New York, we will bind the Americans solidly to us, our alliance will be set so firm, that nothing will be able to shift it. Quite apart from that it will also be a due revenge for the fascist rocket attack on us.”
That had bought a little time for Markov to think. “Tovarish Colonel. We always planned to filter the aircraft down to Kasimovo by making their flight look like a routine part of the supply effort for Petrograd. We will load the aircraft that are ready to go now and get them down to Kasimovo. The rest can follow as they are made ready. I will speak with the Navy in Petrograd and get weather reports from our submarines in the Baltic. Respectfully, may I request that I fly in the first aircraft to Kasimovo and act as forward commander there while you command the effort here to get the rest of the aircraft off and fly down on the last one to leave? That will mean I can visit the Navy in person and eliminate the use of communications that may be overheard.”
It was a reasonable plan, Tomasov had to admit that. “Very good, bratishka, we will do as you suggest. You may be free.”
Twenty minutes later, the first Yermolaev Er-2 took off, fully loaded with bombs and fuel, for its flight to Kasimovo. Aboard was a very relieved Markov who had made his escape from what could be a potentially lethal level of responsibility.
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, 12 kilometers south of Ponga.
Carius took one look at the situation and gave his first battle order since getting his nine surviving Jagdtigers into position. That had been back-breaking work, digging pits for the huge vehicles, cutting branches to improve their cover and re-calibrating the guns after the road and cross-country marches had thrown them out of alignment. After spending all too much time wandering around the rear areas getting his orders changed each time he got close to doing something useful, he was now at a key point in the front and he knew it. “Boys, I want to see every shot we fire score a victory. There are at least eighty T-34s coming through and we need to stop them. If we don’t. the Ivans will link up with their forces to the east and an entire corps will be surrounded. Including us by the way, so, gunners, take care and do your work. Our comrades along the Onega are depending on us!”
Carius took a careful look through his commander’s sight. The ground was ideally suited to the Jagdtigers, a long, wide open area leading to a low ridge that gave the heavy vehicles a secure firing position. The range to the lead Ivan tanks was well over 2,500 meters, a distance that allowed the narrow field of vision from the gunner’s sight and the limited traverse of the main gun to include as many vehicles as possible. The raw power of the 128mm gun would still permit the shots to penetrate the T-34-85s armor without any trouble. Yet, the Russian formation had to come through this area because the way further north was blocked by a large lake and further south by a complex pattern of small lakes and marshland. So, Carius had the ground he wanted.
Carius saw that the opposing tank crews were inexperienced, newcomers who had yet to become cunning in the arts of war. They were too tightly grouped, crowding yet more vehicles into the killing ground set up by the Jagdtigers. It was an infallible mark of newly-trained tank crewmen; no matter how much they were told to spread out, they would always crowd together for mutual support. Veterans never did that.
“Take them.” The order was followed so fast by the crash of Carius’s own 128mm gun that he knew his gunner must have had his shot lined up and his thumb on the trigger. In the superstructure, the two loaders were already feeding the next round into the gun. Ahead of him Carius could see one of the T-34s exploding into a ball of fire that started an angry red of burning diesel fuel but quickly went white as the ammunition cooked off. Beside it another T-34 had its turret ripped off by a direct hit that sent the structure spinning through the air to crash into the tank behind. A third T-34 swerved as a shot plowed into its suspension and it came to a halt at an angle blocking the path of the tank behind it. The crew was already bailing out of the wreck and trying to find cover when the tank behind collided with it. Behind them, a third tank was already burning yet was continuing to move forward, presumably the driver being dead at his station. It also collided with the wrecks and all three vehicles started to burn.
The scene was being repeated across the whole formation. What had been an organized if badly-planned assault by brigades was quickly being reduced to utter chaos. The front rank of tanks were already being reduced to blazing scrap by the deadly fire from the Jagdtigers. The Tank Corps commander had left his slow but heavily-armored IS-2 tanks behind in an attempt to race through the German defenses. As a result he had committed his medium tanks without the support of the vehicles that were explicitly tasked with knocking out the German heavy tank destroyers. Now, those mediums were paying the price. Even if they had been able to see where the shots were coming from, their guns were incapable of penetrating the front of the Jagdtigers.
Carius saw another T-34 trying to turn away from the tangle of wrecked vehicles that blocked its path. Before he could give the order to fire, he felt the shock of discharge as his 128 fired and saw the red streak across the battlefield ending in the side of the Soviet tank. It exploded instantly, its turret also circling up wards before falling, upside down, to the ground more than 20 meters away from the hull. Doesn’t anybody teach the Ivans to keep the thickest armor facing the direction of fire.
By now, the worst enemy facing the Jagdtigers was the massive cloud of black smoke that was blocking the Jagdtiger gunners’ sightlines to the tanks in the rear of the attack. At least two dozen T-34-85s were burning in a tangle of wrecked vehicles that looked for all the world like a tropical island. Many of the stricken tanks had collided with each other and even the ones that had initially escaped burning were being set on fire as the flames spread from others that were burning. A couple of T-34s tried to feel their way around the wrecks but as they showed their noses, one or more of the Jagdtigers would blast them apart. It only took a few minutes for the attack to disintegrate and for the Russian armor to fall back to its start positions. For the next few hours at least, the Russian Tank Corps that was supposed to be pushing through the Ponga passage would be licking its wounds and trying to reconstitute its battered brigades.
“Cease fire, boys. Back up the vehicles so we’re under the crest of the ridge.” Carius looked sideways and saw that seven of the nine Jagdtigers were emitting clouds of black smoke from their engines as they backed down the slope. Two more had failed to start and their crews were already trying to open the engine hatches and find out what had gone wrong. Carius could tell them; the shock of the 128mm gun had broken some connections or shaken something apart. Two of the Bergepanthers were already edging up to them to help fix the problems.
“A successful engagement.” Hauptmann Rudolf Kern was trying to count the wrecked tanks almost two kilometers away.
“No, Rudi. A successful skirmish. The Ivans will be back and next time they will be more careful. The Battle of Ponga has only started. I just wish we had some infantry support here.”
Flight Line, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
The sight of a C-54 coming in to land was no longer an unfamiliar one at Airfield 896. Ever since the decision to re-route fuel supplies from the B-29 groups to the fighters and attack aircraft helping to hold the front line had been taken, the C-54M tankers had become well-known to the airbase personnel. Whether they were welcome or not was another matter. Their appearance meant that another series of missions for the P-47Ns was imminent. The pilots welcomed the chance to do their work in Russia but they were all realistic enough to know that the threat from anti-aircraft guns and the new jetfighters grew every day. They were confident in their ability to defeat the Focke-Wulf and Messerschmitt piston-engine fighters, but the jets were something quite different. The estimate was that it took between four and eight P-47Ns working together to bring down a jet.
So, it was with decidedly mixed feelings that the base personnel saw a C-54 join the landing pattern. As it made its final approach, it became apparent that this was not one of the fuel tankers. Instead of the silver overall sported by the aircraft that flew within Russia, this one had the outer panels of its wings, its nose and its tail painted bright orange. That meant it was one of the Air Bridge aircraft that had flown all the way in from Alaska. In addition, it had windows all the way down the side of the fuselage and an abnormally large cargo door aft by the tail. All of that spelled a cargo aircraft with a priority load.
The C-54 flared expertly as the pilot brought it in and touched down neatly on its main wheels before slowing down enough to allow the nosewheel to drop on to the concrete runway. By the time the aircraft had come to a halt, a "follow-me" jeep had met up with it and led the aircraft off the runway and down the taxiway that led to the unloading apron. There, its engines wound down and the airbase was temporarily quiet.
"Colonel Campbell? Second Lieutenant Dedmon. I have a priority cargo for you. 60 drums of Composition N whatever that might be."
"Welcome to Korovkinskaya, Lieutenant. We've been waiting for this. Your first trip to Russia?"
"Yes, sir. We came in from Anchorage and followed the railway. It's the longer way round but the weather is too bad to go the northern route. We've been in the air for a long time, Colonel, even allowing for refueling stops. Any chance of washing up?"
"Sure. We'll get the aircraft unloaded while you rest and get a bite to eat."
"Thank you, Sir. Oh, one thing. We had some spare cargo volume so we've got some parcels for the Russian military women on the base. Gifts from the American-Russian Friendship League. There'll be a lot more aircraft coming in with Composition N so if there aren't enough parcels this time around, the next plane in will have more."
"Thank you, Dedmon. I'll talk to our Liaison Officer who'll distribute them. How many have you got?"
"Six crates, Sir, Five parcels per crate."
Campbell thought quickly. "Thirty parcels, we have more than 90 women here. All on the anti-aircraft guns. Sure there are more coming?"
"Unless we lose a plane, yes, Sir. There's a big thing going on in the States right now. Life did a story about Russian women on the front lines here a week ago and highlighted the shortages of personal things they have to put up with. So, we've got stacks of aid parcels waiting to come in. They're pretty light packages so we use them to fill out the cargo."
"Thank you, tovarish Lieutenant." A Russian officer had appeared, resplendent in the blue hat that denoted members of CheKa. "I am Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov, your liaison officer. I know that the women will be most grateful for your kindness. The things in those packages are badly needed. Our Army, in its infinite wisdom, did not seem to realize that there are some things women need that men do not. If the packages could be placed in my Willys, I'll take them over."
Behind them, the first pallet of drums containing Composition N was being lowered from the cargo door of the parked C-54. As soon as it reached the ground, it was rushed off to the munitions dump where Foster would be looking at it with almost fatherly affection.
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
"Get down! Sniper!" Gefreiter Feldkamp yelled out the order as the rifle shot echoed through the trees. The warning was too late for Nieswandt; the bullet had caught him just under his left eye, leaving him slumping to the ground with unmistakable finality. Very cautiously, Feldkamp looked over the log that was sheltering from a similar fate. There was no indication where the unseen rifleman might be.
"Where the hell is he?" Kuhnert was also trying to find the elusive sniper.
"Not where he was when he fired that shot." Feldkamp knew the rules well. Never fire from the same place twice. That sniper already had a retreat route and alternate firing positions in place. I wonder why he picked Nieswandt?
"What is going on?" Lieutenant Ackermann and his radio operator had crawled up to where Feldkamp was waiting for the situation to evolve.
"Sniper. From where he got Nieswandt, he must be somewhere over there." Feldkamp gestured, very carefully, to his left. "See where the trees thin out? That would give him the range."
Ackermann looked carefully. "I doubt if he is still there now. Assuming he is a he of course. Mattie, we need a pair of smoke rounds, bearing 300 from this position, range, 200 meters. And ask Stabsfeldwebel Seehofer to bring a section of his men up here."
Behind him, Matthias Krause was keenly aware that the sight of a radio antenna was enough to give an Ivan sniper ecstasies of glee. Nevertheless, he carefully translated Ackermann's fire orders into the range and bearing data needed by the mortar crew and passed it and the other orders back. After a delay that seemed like hours, the two smoke rounds burst in front of the clearing. They were pitiful rounds, giving barely more cover than a smoke grenade but they were the best that the force in the woods could achieve. Krause reflected that they were lucky to have those. Even he had learned that mortar rounds in the woods rarely went off where they were aimed, let alone needed.
Thin and patchy though the smoke may have been, it was enough to provide cover for Seehofer and eight of his Fusiliers to move forward and start clearing the open area. They advanced very carefully, six of the eight in cover and always ready to open fire if the unseen sniper took a shot. The other two would move forward, find adequate cover themselves and then become part of the covering force while two more men moved forward. By the time the lead element reached the middle of the clearing, they had rotated through the entire section once and the original pair were leading again. It was when they reached the middle of the clearing, by a fallen log, that one of them lurched sideways and fell to the ground, screaming and holding his leg. His team-mate ran over to help him and, in the urgency, forgot about the sniper who was still somewhere around. Another single shot took the would-be rescuer in the head and he went down.
Seehofer and his remaining fusiliers opened fire, raking the woods around their clearing with rifles and machine guns. The noise was impressive but everybody knew it was futile defiance. The sniper would have gone again before any of the the bullets struck home. Krause was about to take advantage of the covering fire to go out and pull the wounded man in but Ackermann stopped him. "Stay with me. That radio is the most valuable weapon we have right now."
Two of the fusiliers had finally dragged the wounded man to safety. Two wooden boards, heavily studded with long nails were pinned either side of his leg, driven in with enough force to thrust the spikes through his upper parts of his leather boot. The stink from the boards was message enough that they and the spikes had been thoroughly soaked in human and animal waste then left to turn rancid. Ackermann took one look at the injuries and their cause and knew that the man was doomed. Gangrene was inevitable from such wounds.
"What happened?" Krause looked sickened by the sight and smell.
"Pit. Wide top and a narrow hole at the bottom underneath those boards. When he stepped into it his foot hit the boards and went into the hole underneath. The boards pivoted upwards and hit his leg. The soles of our boots will protect us if we step on a spike but that booby trap bypassed the sole completely. Unless we've captured some Ami medical supplies, he's done."
"Even the ground here hates us." Krause looked around, sensing the silent menace of the forest that surrounded them.
"I think you are beginning to learn, Mattie."
786th Long Range Bomber Regiment, Airfield 23, Zolotitsa, Archangel'sk Oblast.
"Tovarish Vladimir Stepanovich, we have orders of the utmost urgency from STAVKA. We must strike at the Lair of the Beast tonight. Without fail!”
“Tonight? We have no weather reports, the aircraft are not ready.” Markov had gone almost white with shock.
“Then make sure the aircraft are ready and that we have the weather reports. And I wish to hear no more foolish excuses.” Tomasov was not usually such an uncultured man but he too was shocked by the bombshell that had been dropped on his regiment. As usual, the best cure for shock brought about by impossible orders from above was to issue them to those below.
“Tovarish Commander, what is happening?” Markov asked the question with all proper formality while looking around for somebody else to pass the kick down to.
Tomasov relented. “We have just heard from our Amerikanskiye brat'ya. A fascist submarine has fired two Fi-103 missiles into New York. Almost four hundred dead and over a thousand wounded. The news went straight to STAVKA and our masters have seen in this tragedy a great opportunity for the Rodina. Tonight, in revenge for the attack on New York, we will bomb Berlin. The Americans reacted to the attack upon them, first with shock but are now screaming furious. STAVKA says they have never seen our allies so angry. Not even after the massacre of their PoWs last year. If we now strike at Berlin in the name of revenge for the attack on New York, we will bind the Americans solidly to us, our alliance will be set so firm, that nothing will be able to shift it. Quite apart from that it will also be a due revenge for the fascist rocket attack on us.”
That had bought a little time for Markov to think. “Tovarish Colonel. We always planned to filter the aircraft down to Kasimovo by making their flight look like a routine part of the supply effort for Petrograd. We will load the aircraft that are ready to go now and get them down to Kasimovo. The rest can follow as they are made ready. I will speak with the Navy in Petrograd and get weather reports from our submarines in the Baltic. Respectfully, may I request that I fly in the first aircraft to Kasimovo and act as forward commander there while you command the effort here to get the rest of the aircraft off and fly down on the last one to leave? That will mean I can visit the Navy in person and eliminate the use of communications that may be overheard.”
It was a reasonable plan, Tomasov had to admit that. “Very good, bratishka, we will do as you suggest. You may be free.”
Twenty minutes later, the first Yermolaev Er-2 took off, fully loaded with bombs and fuel, for its flight to Kasimovo. Aboard was a very relieved Markov who had made his escape from what could be a potentially lethal level of responsibility.
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, 12 kilometers south of Ponga.
Carius took one look at the situation and gave his first battle order since getting his nine surviving Jagdtigers into position. That had been back-breaking work, digging pits for the huge vehicles, cutting branches to improve their cover and re-calibrating the guns after the road and cross-country marches had thrown them out of alignment. After spending all too much time wandering around the rear areas getting his orders changed each time he got close to doing something useful, he was now at a key point in the front and he knew it. “Boys, I want to see every shot we fire score a victory. There are at least eighty T-34s coming through and we need to stop them. If we don’t. the Ivans will link up with their forces to the east and an entire corps will be surrounded. Including us by the way, so, gunners, take care and do your work. Our comrades along the Onega are depending on us!”
Carius took a careful look through his commander’s sight. The ground was ideally suited to the Jagdtigers, a long, wide open area leading to a low ridge that gave the heavy vehicles a secure firing position. The range to the lead Ivan tanks was well over 2,500 meters, a distance that allowed the narrow field of vision from the gunner’s sight and the limited traverse of the main gun to include as many vehicles as possible. The raw power of the 128mm gun would still permit the shots to penetrate the T-34-85s armor without any trouble. Yet, the Russian formation had to come through this area because the way further north was blocked by a large lake and further south by a complex pattern of small lakes and marshland. So, Carius had the ground he wanted.
Carius saw that the opposing tank crews were inexperienced, newcomers who had yet to become cunning in the arts of war. They were too tightly grouped, crowding yet more vehicles into the killing ground set up by the Jagdtigers. It was an infallible mark of newly-trained tank crewmen; no matter how much they were told to spread out, they would always crowd together for mutual support. Veterans never did that.
“Take them.” The order was followed so fast by the crash of Carius’s own 128mm gun that he knew his gunner must have had his shot lined up and his thumb on the trigger. In the superstructure, the two loaders were already feeding the next round into the gun. Ahead of him Carius could see one of the T-34s exploding into a ball of fire that started an angry red of burning diesel fuel but quickly went white as the ammunition cooked off. Beside it another T-34 had its turret ripped off by a direct hit that sent the structure spinning through the air to crash into the tank behind. A third T-34 swerved as a shot plowed into its suspension and it came to a halt at an angle blocking the path of the tank behind it. The crew was already bailing out of the wreck and trying to find cover when the tank behind collided with it. Behind them, a third tank was already burning yet was continuing to move forward, presumably the driver being dead at his station. It also collided with the wrecks and all three vehicles started to burn.
The scene was being repeated across the whole formation. What had been an organized if badly-planned assault by brigades was quickly being reduced to utter chaos. The front rank of tanks were already being reduced to blazing scrap by the deadly fire from the Jagdtigers. The Tank Corps commander had left his slow but heavily-armored IS-2 tanks behind in an attempt to race through the German defenses. As a result he had committed his medium tanks without the support of the vehicles that were explicitly tasked with knocking out the German heavy tank destroyers. Now, those mediums were paying the price. Even if they had been able to see where the shots were coming from, their guns were incapable of penetrating the front of the Jagdtigers.
Carius saw another T-34 trying to turn away from the tangle of wrecked vehicles that blocked its path. Before he could give the order to fire, he felt the shock of discharge as his 128 fired and saw the red streak across the battlefield ending in the side of the Soviet tank. It exploded instantly, its turret also circling up wards before falling, upside down, to the ground more than 20 meters away from the hull. Doesn’t anybody teach the Ivans to keep the thickest armor facing the direction of fire.
By now, the worst enemy facing the Jagdtigers was the massive cloud of black smoke that was blocking the Jagdtiger gunners’ sightlines to the tanks in the rear of the attack. At least two dozen T-34-85s were burning in a tangle of wrecked vehicles that looked for all the world like a tropical island. Many of the stricken tanks had collided with each other and even the ones that had initially escaped burning were being set on fire as the flames spread from others that were burning. A couple of T-34s tried to feel their way around the wrecks but as they showed their noses, one or more of the Jagdtigers would blast them apart. It only took a few minutes for the attack to disintegrate and for the Russian armor to fall back to its start positions. For the next few hours at least, the Russian Tank Corps that was supposed to be pushing through the Ponga passage would be licking its wounds and trying to reconstitute its battered brigades.
“Cease fire, boys. Back up the vehicles so we’re under the crest of the ridge.” Carius looked sideways and saw that seven of the nine Jagdtigers were emitting clouds of black smoke from their engines as they backed down the slope. Two more had failed to start and their crews were already trying to open the engine hatches and find out what had gone wrong. Carius could tell them; the shock of the 128mm gun had broken some connections or shaken something apart. Two of the Bergepanthers were already edging up to them to help fix the problems.
“A successful engagement.” Hauptmann Rudolf Kern was trying to count the wrecked tanks almost two kilometers away.
“No, Rudi. A successful skirmish. The Ivans will be back and next time they will be more careful. The Battle of Ponga has only started. I just wish we had some infantry support here.”
Flight Line, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
The sight of a C-54 coming in to land was no longer an unfamiliar one at Airfield 896. Ever since the decision to re-route fuel supplies from the B-29 groups to the fighters and attack aircraft helping to hold the front line had been taken, the C-54M tankers had become well-known to the airbase personnel. Whether they were welcome or not was another matter. Their appearance meant that another series of missions for the P-47Ns was imminent. The pilots welcomed the chance to do their work in Russia but they were all realistic enough to know that the threat from anti-aircraft guns and the new jetfighters grew every day. They were confident in their ability to defeat the Focke-Wulf and Messerschmitt piston-engine fighters, but the jets were something quite different. The estimate was that it took between four and eight P-47Ns working together to bring down a jet.
So, it was with decidedly mixed feelings that the base personnel saw a C-54 join the landing pattern. As it made its final approach, it became apparent that this was not one of the fuel tankers. Instead of the silver overall sported by the aircraft that flew within Russia, this one had the outer panels of its wings, its nose and its tail painted bright orange. That meant it was one of the Air Bridge aircraft that had flown all the way in from Alaska. In addition, it had windows all the way down the side of the fuselage and an abnormally large cargo door aft by the tail. All of that spelled a cargo aircraft with a priority load.
The C-54 flared expertly as the pilot brought it in and touched down neatly on its main wheels before slowing down enough to allow the nosewheel to drop on to the concrete runway. By the time the aircraft had come to a halt, a "follow-me" jeep had met up with it and led the aircraft off the runway and down the taxiway that led to the unloading apron. There, its engines wound down and the airbase was temporarily quiet.
"Colonel Campbell? Second Lieutenant Dedmon. I have a priority cargo for you. 60 drums of Composition N whatever that might be."
"Welcome to Korovkinskaya, Lieutenant. We've been waiting for this. Your first trip to Russia?"
"Yes, sir. We came in from Anchorage and followed the railway. It's the longer way round but the weather is too bad to go the northern route. We've been in the air for a long time, Colonel, even allowing for refueling stops. Any chance of washing up?"
"Sure. We'll get the aircraft unloaded while you rest and get a bite to eat."
"Thank you, Sir. Oh, one thing. We had some spare cargo volume so we've got some parcels for the Russian military women on the base. Gifts from the American-Russian Friendship League. There'll be a lot more aircraft coming in with Composition N so if there aren't enough parcels this time around, the next plane in will have more."
"Thank you, Dedmon. I'll talk to our Liaison Officer who'll distribute them. How many have you got?"
"Six crates, Sir, Five parcels per crate."
Campbell thought quickly. "Thirty parcels, we have more than 90 women here. All on the anti-aircraft guns. Sure there are more coming?"
"Unless we lose a plane, yes, Sir. There's a big thing going on in the States right now. Life did a story about Russian women on the front lines here a week ago and highlighted the shortages of personal things they have to put up with. So, we've got stacks of aid parcels waiting to come in. They're pretty light packages so we use them to fill out the cargo."
"Thank you, tovarish Lieutenant." A Russian officer had appeared, resplendent in the blue hat that denoted members of CheKa. "I am Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov, your liaison officer. I know that the women will be most grateful for your kindness. The things in those packages are badly needed. Our Army, in its infinite wisdom, did not seem to realize that there are some things women need that men do not. If the packages could be placed in my Willys, I'll take them over."
Behind them, the first pallet of drums containing Composition N was being lowered from the cargo door of the parked C-54. As soon as it reached the ground, it was rushed off to the munitions dump where Foster would be looking at it with almost fatherly affection.
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
"Get down! Sniper!" Gefreiter Feldkamp yelled out the order as the rifle shot echoed through the trees. The warning was too late for Nieswandt; the bullet had caught him just under his left eye, leaving him slumping to the ground with unmistakable finality. Very cautiously, Feldkamp looked over the log that was sheltering from a similar fate. There was no indication where the unseen rifleman might be.
"Where the hell is he?" Kuhnert was also trying to find the elusive sniper.
"Not where he was when he fired that shot." Feldkamp knew the rules well. Never fire from the same place twice. That sniper already had a retreat route and alternate firing positions in place. I wonder why he picked Nieswandt?
"What is going on?" Lieutenant Ackermann and his radio operator had crawled up to where Feldkamp was waiting for the situation to evolve.
"Sniper. From where he got Nieswandt, he must be somewhere over there." Feldkamp gestured, very carefully, to his left. "See where the trees thin out? That would give him the range."
Ackermann looked carefully. "I doubt if he is still there now. Assuming he is a he of course. Mattie, we need a pair of smoke rounds, bearing 300 from this position, range, 200 meters. And ask Stabsfeldwebel Seehofer to bring a section of his men up here."
Behind him, Matthias Krause was keenly aware that the sight of a radio antenna was enough to give an Ivan sniper ecstasies of glee. Nevertheless, he carefully translated Ackermann's fire orders into the range and bearing data needed by the mortar crew and passed it and the other orders back. After a delay that seemed like hours, the two smoke rounds burst in front of the clearing. They were pitiful rounds, giving barely more cover than a smoke grenade but they were the best that the force in the woods could achieve. Krause reflected that they were lucky to have those. Even he had learned that mortar rounds in the woods rarely went off where they were aimed, let alone needed.
Thin and patchy though the smoke may have been, it was enough to provide cover for Seehofer and eight of his Fusiliers to move forward and start clearing the open area. They advanced very carefully, six of the eight in cover and always ready to open fire if the unseen sniper took a shot. The other two would move forward, find adequate cover themselves and then become part of the covering force while two more men moved forward. By the time the lead element reached the middle of the clearing, they had rotated through the entire section once and the original pair were leading again. It was when they reached the middle of the clearing, by a fallen log, that one of them lurched sideways and fell to the ground, screaming and holding his leg. His team-mate ran over to help him and, in the urgency, forgot about the sniper who was still somewhere around. Another single shot took the would-be rescuer in the head and he went down.
Seehofer and his remaining fusiliers opened fire, raking the woods around their clearing with rifles and machine guns. The noise was impressive but everybody knew it was futile defiance. The sniper would have gone again before any of the the bullets struck home. Krause was about to take advantage of the covering fire to go out and pull the wounded man in but Ackermann stopped him. "Stay with me. That radio is the most valuable weapon we have right now."
Two of the fusiliers had finally dragged the wounded man to safety. Two wooden boards, heavily studded with long nails were pinned either side of his leg, driven in with enough force to thrust the spikes through his upper parts of his leather boot. The stink from the boards was message enough that they and the spikes had been thoroughly soaked in human and animal waste then left to turn rancid. Ackermann took one look at the injuries and their cause and knew that the man was doomed. Gangrene was inevitable from such wounds.
"What happened?" Krause looked sickened by the sight and smell.
"Pit. Wide top and a narrow hole at the bottom underneath those boards. When he stepped into it his foot hit the boards and went into the hole underneath. The boards pivoted upwards and hit his leg. The soles of our boots will protect us if we step on a spike but that booby trap bypassed the sole completely. Unless we've captured some Ami medical supplies, he's done."
"Even the ground here hates us." Krause looked around, sensing the silent menace of the forest that surrounded them.
"I think you are beginning to learn, Mattie."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Seven
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, North West of Norway
Young cursed fluently as the air raid sirens went off again. The convoy was getting steadily closer to the Norwegian coast and the frequency of the air-raids was increasing. The latest one had seen them being dive-bombed by the new Ju-388s. They'd come in faster than the older 188s and they had made a point of going for the tankers and heavy ships in the middle of the convoy. Anson had taken another hit, this one landing on top of her forward twin 14 inch mount. The bomb hadn't penetrated the roof of the turret, but the word was that fragments had slaughtered the bridge crew.
The real problem hadn't been the dive-bombers themselves. The enemy submarines had used the attack as a distraction while they carried out a long-range attack on the convoy. Two more of the cargo ships had gone down, one loaded with armored vehicles had gone down so fast that the tower of water from the torpedo hit that had finished her was still subsiding when she slipped beneath the waves. Another one of the destroyers had been hit when she had raced in to attack the position of the submarines. Her bows had been completely blown off leaving the stern half of the ship precariously afloat but the convoy had still left her behind. Young had little doubt that she'd been torpedoed again as soon as the convoy was over the horizon.
The lull in the air raids had lasted long enough for Shawnee to bury Mr. Ericsson and the other casualties. Their bodies had been slipped over the side in the traditional 'burial at sea' ceremony although the ever-present danger of submarines had prevented the ship stopping for the rites. Even so, the last phrases of the ceremony had struck home.
UNTO Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the deep; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.
"Air Raid. Enemy aircraft inbound from multiple directions and altitudes." Young guessed what that meant, they were about to be hit by torpedo-bombers and dive-bombers working together. Previous raids had been one or the other but with the shorter distances from shore to the convoy, coordination was much easier. He desperately missed the quiet, calming leadership of Mr. Ericsson on the forward 20mm gallery. We never realized how much he influenced us until he was gone.
He could feel the movement under his feet as Shawnee accelerated and started swerving from side to side, trying to make herself a harder target for the bombers overhead. Most of the other ships were doing the same, their maneuvers increasing as they saw that the leading formations were bombing from level flight at high altitude. In his lessons on anti-aircraft gunnery, Young had been taught that, against dive bombers, there was considerable doubt as to whether maneuver was a useful defense and a strong school of thought was that holding a steady course and thus improving the efficiency of anti-aircraft fire was more productive in terms of missed bombs and shot-down aircraft.
There was no doubt about high-altitude level bombers though, in their case, zig-zagging was a solid and proven defense. That was shown by the columns of water surrounding the ships in the center of the convoy where the fascist aim had been good but not quite good enough. It was not an invincible defense though; a brilliant red flash amidships followed by a pyre of smoke reaching skywards told of a bomb scoring a serious hit on the USS Ulyanovsk.
A few seconds later, Anson was hit again, this time the explosion being amidships in the same area where the Fritz-X guided bomb had struck earlier. Anson lurched out of line and veered towards the next row of ships before the helmsman got her back under control. Still, both she and Ulyanovsk were obviously in trouble and had their speeds reduced by the damage.
Young didn’t allow the two hits on the largest ships in the escort to distract him from his primary role. His 20mm gun was useless against the high-flying level bombers but it was a wicked defense against torpedo planes. They were now coming through the convoy formation, sliding through the serried ranks of ships in a way that reminded Young of snakes sliding through grass. They were already being engaged by the 40mm and five-inch guns of the escorts and the defensively armed merchant ships and that massed defensive fire was executing its toll. Two of the torpedo planes exploded in the air, their wreckage spiraling into the sea. More started streaming black smoke and tried to turn away for home. Others, realizing they were so far into the convoy that turning back was as dangerous as going on, made their runs at the tankers.
It was one of those already-crippled Ju-388s that dropped its torpedoes on the USS Kumeyaay two ships astern of Shawnee. One of the torpedoes passed just under the stern of the tanker but the second hit her directly under the bridge amidships. The familiar tower of water erupted from the position, soaring well above the bridge. It was swallowed by the roaring wall of flame that burst out of the decks and swept along the ship's length, outlining the whole ship in a brilliant orange glow. The fire kept on, leaving the confines of the stricken tanker's hull until it spread across the water surrounding the ship. Young knew that there was no way off the burning tanker for the crew once that had happened. It was the penalty of carrying avgas and it made him wonder what it was that Shawnee's cargo tanks held.
By then he had other things to worry about. The torpedo bomber wave had passed, leaving at least half a dozen aircraft down in their wake, but the last wave were dive-bombers. This time it was Shawnee that shuddered from the impact of a direct hit. It struck the aft superstructure, just forward of the funnel and exploded on contact sending showed of fragments through the gun crews in that area. Young cringed, waiting for the roaring blast of fire but nothing happened. Once again, Shawnee's luck had held.
A few minutes later he found out why. The bomb had hit a lifeboat's davit and exploded well above the deck. The lifeboat was gone but the ship had superficial splinter damage only. He shook his head, beset by an uneasy feeling that Shawnee's luck had just run its course, and looked back to where Kumeyaay was burning. Her structure was now just a series of darker shapes within the roaring sheet of fire fueled by the avgas she had been carrying.
In the background, Ulyanovsk was putting her fires out but had a list and was unable to keep up. She had transferred her remaining aircraft to Kazan and was turning for home. Anson, her speed also sorely reduced by boiler room damage was keeping her company. With two of the six major fleet warships forced to turn back, the striking power of the escort had been seriously reduced.
Airfield 5, Kasimovo, Near Petrograd, Kola Peninsula.
Markov looked at the map of the eastern Baltic that showed the weather patterns that night. At great risk, the submariners had surfaced to radio in last-minute weather reports that, although they did not know why they had to take such chances, were critically important. The Baltic coast was enveloped by thunder clouds and there was a storm front across the Baltic Sea. The bombers would be flying in heavy turbulence all the way. Markov rerouted the aircraft a little further to the south then realigned the rest of the flight across the Baltic. He made a last-minute note to the pilots that they had a small margin to fly higher but even with the stop at Kasimovo, fuel would be very tight. At all costs they had to avoid using the second stage of the superchargers on their diesels. If they did, they would run out of fuel while returning home.
Dusk was falling fast and soon the Er-2s would have to be on their way to the Lair. The weather on the flight down had been terrible. The ground had been covered with show but the red glare from the setting sun reflecting off the thunderclouds had made it seem to be on fire right up to the sky. The Er-2s had flown in by a zigzag route, avoiding towns and villages, hugging the ground. Crews who deviated from the planned route only managed to find their way through with great difficulty. Already one of the bombers had been lost; the pilot was not short of experience but he had been caught by a sudden burst of turbulence that had broken his aircraft apart. Markov was hoping that the crew had survived to make it home on foot.
Immediately after landing the bombers had taxied to the woods where the Navy ground crews had turned the bomber’s tails to the thickets and pushed them by hand under the green treetops, camouflaging them with nets and branches. The technicians had refueled the aircraft with great care making sure that every tank was filled to the very brim. They had checked and rechecked the bombs before screwing detonators into them. The RRABs had been inspected with particular care; nobody expected the 100-kilogram bombs to do much but the RRABs just might throw the target into chaos for days.
While the mechanics worked, the crews of the Er-2s fell into a sound sleep, a desperate attempt to get as much rest as possible before the unprecedented mission. They had even slept through the interruption when fascist reconnaissance planes came over the aerodrome and Navy Lavochkin fighters had rushed after them. There had been a brief air battle and the staccato crackle of machine guns had rapped in the air. Then the Luftwaffe disappeared and the Navy fighters had landed but the bomber crews had slept on.
Then, at last it was time. Shivering from the bitter Kola Peninsula cold, the crews pulled on their fur overalls and fur-lined jackboots. Now, the bombers, loaded up to the limit, taxied out of their forest shelters, their diesel engines roaring. Markov watched carefully as they took off with difficulty from the short and bumpy dirt airstrip into the white-hot air. Thick dust lengthened the intervals between take-offs but the crews hurried into the air as quickly as possible to try and keep the seventeen remaining aircraft reasonably close together.
“Vasya, good luck and kill some of the fascist bastards for me will you?” Lieutenant Caleb O’Brien hesitated for a moment then carefully took a treasured photograph from his wallet. “Bratishka, could you do something for me? This was my fiancé, Melba. She worked for Army CIC, our equivalent of SMERSH. She was kidnapped by fascist saboteurs and murdered. She told them she was pregnant with our child but they raped her anyway, then they ripped out all her teeth and beat her to death. When you make your bomb run over the Lair, can you please hold up her picture so she can watch the bombs explode?”
“Of course, my friend. It will be an honor.” He took the picture and carefully placed it between two cardboard charts on his clipboard. Then, he climbed into the Er-2 and quickly explained the request. “So you see, brat’ya, we have a sacred mission now. No matter what, we must get to the Lair and then return home so our Amerikanskiye bratishka may have his picture returned safely to him.”
Then, the red flag waved and the Er-2 surged forward at the start of its flight to Berlin.
Ammunition Dump, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"I think we've cracked it." Sergeant Eiler was looking at the latest variant of Napalm with profound satisfaction but the expression was mixed with genuine fear and a tinge of 'my God, what have we done?'.
"I thought we'd already got the recipe right?" Foster looked at the evil-smelling jelly as well. "What's different this time?"
"There's a chemical factory at Archangel'sk. Amongst other things, it makes solvents for industrial use. One of them is benzene. Only, they can't use it up there and can't get it out so it's been piling up in the warehouse. Nobody wanted it so I traded a ton of Spam for it. Our Russkie brat'ya really does love Spam."
"So that's why the canteen served mushroom kasha last night."
"Well, yes." Eiler looked a bit furtive; there was a thin line between black marketeering and scavenging. "Anyway, I read that benzene has a high burn temperature so I thought that if we mixed it in with the rest of the brew, it would make it burn a lot hotter. So, we mixed a drum of it in and tried it out. Sir, this stuff is evil. It burned as long and as hard as the previous mix did but it was so hot we had to evacuate the test area. I've never seen anything like it. Stuck to everything, just like the original recipe did, as well.
"Anyway, we've written up the final recipe for distribution. Nine drums of diesel/gasoline mix, one drum of benzene, four drums of Composition N. That's the magic mix. Got the loading procedure sorted out as well. What we do is hang the drop tanks on the aircraft and screw in the impact fuse. We've converted a trailer into a mixing tank so we can mix the Napalm up on the flight line and pump it straight up into the drop tanks. Then we leave it for thirty minutes to set. Once it's turned to jelly, we seal up the tank and remove the safety from the fuse. Just don't crash on take-off."
"I'll try not to." Foster tried to make it a joke, but Eiler's expression took the humor out of it.
"You don't understand, Sir. You haven’t seen this stuff burn now we have the benzene in. It's the worst thing I've ever seen. This must be the stuff the Devil uses down in Hell."
"You heard what has just happened in New York, Sergeant? Well, hell is just fine with me. And the more damned fascists we send there the better."
"I know that, Sir. But this stuff? Damn. Just, damn."
Living Quarters, Kolkhoz DEU-148, Samarra, Volga Front
Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva cursed the day she had ever opened her mouth to her daughter. Then, with greater vigor, she cursed her daughter for starting the chain of events that had led to her present predicament. Her logic was quite simple; if her daughter had done exactly as she had been told without hesitating or questioning, the row that had split them apart would never have happened and so Elizavet Kuzmanova would not have found herself in internal exile. But no, Faina had to slip off and volunteer for the Army. It is all her fault.
Elizavet Kuzmanova was learning a lot about farming and what the work involved. Initially, she had not been aware of the fact that farming any kind of land without any kind of agricultural machinery was every kind of back-breaking work. She knew it now. Traditionally, farmers always complained about their lot in life, the poverty of their land, and the eternally inclement weather. They would have counted themselves as blessed indeed compared with the women, young boys, and old men who now farmed the land that made up Kolkhoz DEU-148. That land was a minefield of real mines, booby-traps, and unexploded munitions that had to be cleared before crops could be planted, tended and then, with luck, harvested. Or, if the fascists came back, burned. Just to make matters worse, the Kolkhoz was still under long-range fascist artillery fire. That meant she was also familiar, now, with the sound of sirens that warned of an artillery barrage or an air attack.
To make matters worse, her unpopularity with the other women at the Kolkhoz had grown steadily since her arrival. They had already been aware that she had been sent to the Kolkhoz after attracting the adverse attention of CheKa. Since being friendly with her might cause the disapproving eyes of the Chekists to focus on them as well, they had kept a wary distance from her. Despite that, the opinions of her fellow farm workers had been divided once they had heard the reason for her exile. The younger women, most of whom intended to volunteer for the Army as soon as they were eighteen, condemned Elizavet Kuzmanova unreservedly and thought she deserved everything she was getting and more besides. The older women had been more inclined to believe the stories that the women on the front line were stealing their men and had been more sympathetic to Elizavet Kuzmanova.
What had changed all their attitudes was the arrival of the latest copies of Izvestia. The magazine was, apparently, a translation of a special issue of an American magazine called "Life" that was devoted to the Russian women serving on the front line. It was the American edition that was the translation of a Russian original but that was a minor detail. In it, the women at DEU-148 had read about what service on the front line meant for the women who had volunteered to serve there and the dreadful conditions they had to endure as a result. They also read of the heroism with which those women performed their duties as combat pilots, snipers, machine gunners, armored vehicle drivers, medical orderlies, communications specialists, and scouts. There were even some articles about women who were fighting with the Partisans far behind the lines.
One thing had become apparent to even the most cynical of the women; whatever might be going on in the rear areas of the army, the Front was hardly the place where women could steal men from their wives. Not amidst the dirt, the danger and the shortages of everything that made lives livable for women. The women who had volunteered for the Army had even had their braids cut off and wore their hair, what was left of it, cut as short as the men. By the time the women at DEU-148 had finished reading the article, they had sworn, both to themselves and each other, that they would never use the insult "Front Wife" again.
One of the articles in particular, about a medical orderly and the lecture she had given to a wounded fascist soldier she was treating, had struck home. By the time the women had finished reading Antonina Stepanovna Rabtsun's words, they had begun to understand what was happening on the Front and the unrelenting grimness that saturated every area of front life. The revelation made even the most obdurate of Elizavet Kuzmanova's supporters stare at her with acute loathing.
Even somebody as self-centered as Elizavet Kuzmanova was aware of the way the other women in the barracks were glaring at her. She even began, dimly, to realize that they now saw the way she had treated her daughter as being completely unforgivable. What she didn't understand was why some of those women had taken the men's shirts they wore instead of proper underwear, tied a knot at the end of one sleeve, and were busy filling the resulting long tube with potatoes.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, North West of Norway
Young cursed fluently as the air raid sirens went off again. The convoy was getting steadily closer to the Norwegian coast and the frequency of the air-raids was increasing. The latest one had seen them being dive-bombed by the new Ju-388s. They'd come in faster than the older 188s and they had made a point of going for the tankers and heavy ships in the middle of the convoy. Anson had taken another hit, this one landing on top of her forward twin 14 inch mount. The bomb hadn't penetrated the roof of the turret, but the word was that fragments had slaughtered the bridge crew.
The real problem hadn't been the dive-bombers themselves. The enemy submarines had used the attack as a distraction while they carried out a long-range attack on the convoy. Two more of the cargo ships had gone down, one loaded with armored vehicles had gone down so fast that the tower of water from the torpedo hit that had finished her was still subsiding when she slipped beneath the waves. Another one of the destroyers had been hit when she had raced in to attack the position of the submarines. Her bows had been completely blown off leaving the stern half of the ship precariously afloat but the convoy had still left her behind. Young had little doubt that she'd been torpedoed again as soon as the convoy was over the horizon.
The lull in the air raids had lasted long enough for Shawnee to bury Mr. Ericsson and the other casualties. Their bodies had been slipped over the side in the traditional 'burial at sea' ceremony although the ever-present danger of submarines had prevented the ship stopping for the rites. Even so, the last phrases of the ceremony had struck home.
UNTO Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the deep; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.
"Air Raid. Enemy aircraft inbound from multiple directions and altitudes." Young guessed what that meant, they were about to be hit by torpedo-bombers and dive-bombers working together. Previous raids had been one or the other but with the shorter distances from shore to the convoy, coordination was much easier. He desperately missed the quiet, calming leadership of Mr. Ericsson on the forward 20mm gallery. We never realized how much he influenced us until he was gone.
He could feel the movement under his feet as Shawnee accelerated and started swerving from side to side, trying to make herself a harder target for the bombers overhead. Most of the other ships were doing the same, their maneuvers increasing as they saw that the leading formations were bombing from level flight at high altitude. In his lessons on anti-aircraft gunnery, Young had been taught that, against dive bombers, there was considerable doubt as to whether maneuver was a useful defense and a strong school of thought was that holding a steady course and thus improving the efficiency of anti-aircraft fire was more productive in terms of missed bombs and shot-down aircraft.
There was no doubt about high-altitude level bombers though, in their case, zig-zagging was a solid and proven defense. That was shown by the columns of water surrounding the ships in the center of the convoy where the fascist aim had been good but not quite good enough. It was not an invincible defense though; a brilliant red flash amidships followed by a pyre of smoke reaching skywards told of a bomb scoring a serious hit on the USS Ulyanovsk.
A few seconds later, Anson was hit again, this time the explosion being amidships in the same area where the Fritz-X guided bomb had struck earlier. Anson lurched out of line and veered towards the next row of ships before the helmsman got her back under control. Still, both she and Ulyanovsk were obviously in trouble and had their speeds reduced by the damage.
Young didn’t allow the two hits on the largest ships in the escort to distract him from his primary role. His 20mm gun was useless against the high-flying level bombers but it was a wicked defense against torpedo planes. They were now coming through the convoy formation, sliding through the serried ranks of ships in a way that reminded Young of snakes sliding through grass. They were already being engaged by the 40mm and five-inch guns of the escorts and the defensively armed merchant ships and that massed defensive fire was executing its toll. Two of the torpedo planes exploded in the air, their wreckage spiraling into the sea. More started streaming black smoke and tried to turn away for home. Others, realizing they were so far into the convoy that turning back was as dangerous as going on, made their runs at the tankers.
It was one of those already-crippled Ju-388s that dropped its torpedoes on the USS Kumeyaay two ships astern of Shawnee. One of the torpedoes passed just under the stern of the tanker but the second hit her directly under the bridge amidships. The familiar tower of water erupted from the position, soaring well above the bridge. It was swallowed by the roaring wall of flame that burst out of the decks and swept along the ship's length, outlining the whole ship in a brilliant orange glow. The fire kept on, leaving the confines of the stricken tanker's hull until it spread across the water surrounding the ship. Young knew that there was no way off the burning tanker for the crew once that had happened. It was the penalty of carrying avgas and it made him wonder what it was that Shawnee's cargo tanks held.
By then he had other things to worry about. The torpedo bomber wave had passed, leaving at least half a dozen aircraft down in their wake, but the last wave were dive-bombers. This time it was Shawnee that shuddered from the impact of a direct hit. It struck the aft superstructure, just forward of the funnel and exploded on contact sending showed of fragments through the gun crews in that area. Young cringed, waiting for the roaring blast of fire but nothing happened. Once again, Shawnee's luck had held.
A few minutes later he found out why. The bomb had hit a lifeboat's davit and exploded well above the deck. The lifeboat was gone but the ship had superficial splinter damage only. He shook his head, beset by an uneasy feeling that Shawnee's luck had just run its course, and looked back to where Kumeyaay was burning. Her structure was now just a series of darker shapes within the roaring sheet of fire fueled by the avgas she had been carrying.
In the background, Ulyanovsk was putting her fires out but had a list and was unable to keep up. She had transferred her remaining aircraft to Kazan and was turning for home. Anson, her speed also sorely reduced by boiler room damage was keeping her company. With two of the six major fleet warships forced to turn back, the striking power of the escort had been seriously reduced.
Airfield 5, Kasimovo, Near Petrograd, Kola Peninsula.
Markov looked at the map of the eastern Baltic that showed the weather patterns that night. At great risk, the submariners had surfaced to radio in last-minute weather reports that, although they did not know why they had to take such chances, were critically important. The Baltic coast was enveloped by thunder clouds and there was a storm front across the Baltic Sea. The bombers would be flying in heavy turbulence all the way. Markov rerouted the aircraft a little further to the south then realigned the rest of the flight across the Baltic. He made a last-minute note to the pilots that they had a small margin to fly higher but even with the stop at Kasimovo, fuel would be very tight. At all costs they had to avoid using the second stage of the superchargers on their diesels. If they did, they would run out of fuel while returning home.
Dusk was falling fast and soon the Er-2s would have to be on their way to the Lair. The weather on the flight down had been terrible. The ground had been covered with show but the red glare from the setting sun reflecting off the thunderclouds had made it seem to be on fire right up to the sky. The Er-2s had flown in by a zigzag route, avoiding towns and villages, hugging the ground. Crews who deviated from the planned route only managed to find their way through with great difficulty. Already one of the bombers had been lost; the pilot was not short of experience but he had been caught by a sudden burst of turbulence that had broken his aircraft apart. Markov was hoping that the crew had survived to make it home on foot.
Immediately after landing the bombers had taxied to the woods where the Navy ground crews had turned the bomber’s tails to the thickets and pushed them by hand under the green treetops, camouflaging them with nets and branches. The technicians had refueled the aircraft with great care making sure that every tank was filled to the very brim. They had checked and rechecked the bombs before screwing detonators into them. The RRABs had been inspected with particular care; nobody expected the 100-kilogram bombs to do much but the RRABs just might throw the target into chaos for days.
While the mechanics worked, the crews of the Er-2s fell into a sound sleep, a desperate attempt to get as much rest as possible before the unprecedented mission. They had even slept through the interruption when fascist reconnaissance planes came over the aerodrome and Navy Lavochkin fighters had rushed after them. There had been a brief air battle and the staccato crackle of machine guns had rapped in the air. Then the Luftwaffe disappeared and the Navy fighters had landed but the bomber crews had slept on.
Then, at last it was time. Shivering from the bitter Kola Peninsula cold, the crews pulled on their fur overalls and fur-lined jackboots. Now, the bombers, loaded up to the limit, taxied out of their forest shelters, their diesel engines roaring. Markov watched carefully as they took off with difficulty from the short and bumpy dirt airstrip into the white-hot air. Thick dust lengthened the intervals between take-offs but the crews hurried into the air as quickly as possible to try and keep the seventeen remaining aircraft reasonably close together.
“Vasya, good luck and kill some of the fascist bastards for me will you?” Lieutenant Caleb O’Brien hesitated for a moment then carefully took a treasured photograph from his wallet. “Bratishka, could you do something for me? This was my fiancé, Melba. She worked for Army CIC, our equivalent of SMERSH. She was kidnapped by fascist saboteurs and murdered. She told them she was pregnant with our child but they raped her anyway, then they ripped out all her teeth and beat her to death. When you make your bomb run over the Lair, can you please hold up her picture so she can watch the bombs explode?”
“Of course, my friend. It will be an honor.” He took the picture and carefully placed it between two cardboard charts on his clipboard. Then, he climbed into the Er-2 and quickly explained the request. “So you see, brat’ya, we have a sacred mission now. No matter what, we must get to the Lair and then return home so our Amerikanskiye bratishka may have his picture returned safely to him.”
Then, the red flag waved and the Er-2 surged forward at the start of its flight to Berlin.
Ammunition Dump, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"I think we've cracked it." Sergeant Eiler was looking at the latest variant of Napalm with profound satisfaction but the expression was mixed with genuine fear and a tinge of 'my God, what have we done?'.
"I thought we'd already got the recipe right?" Foster looked at the evil-smelling jelly as well. "What's different this time?"
"There's a chemical factory at Archangel'sk. Amongst other things, it makes solvents for industrial use. One of them is benzene. Only, they can't use it up there and can't get it out so it's been piling up in the warehouse. Nobody wanted it so I traded a ton of Spam for it. Our Russkie brat'ya really does love Spam."
"So that's why the canteen served mushroom kasha last night."
"Well, yes." Eiler looked a bit furtive; there was a thin line between black marketeering and scavenging. "Anyway, I read that benzene has a high burn temperature so I thought that if we mixed it in with the rest of the brew, it would make it burn a lot hotter. So, we mixed a drum of it in and tried it out. Sir, this stuff is evil. It burned as long and as hard as the previous mix did but it was so hot we had to evacuate the test area. I've never seen anything like it. Stuck to everything, just like the original recipe did, as well.
"Anyway, we've written up the final recipe for distribution. Nine drums of diesel/gasoline mix, one drum of benzene, four drums of Composition N. That's the magic mix. Got the loading procedure sorted out as well. What we do is hang the drop tanks on the aircraft and screw in the impact fuse. We've converted a trailer into a mixing tank so we can mix the Napalm up on the flight line and pump it straight up into the drop tanks. Then we leave it for thirty minutes to set. Once it's turned to jelly, we seal up the tank and remove the safety from the fuse. Just don't crash on take-off."
"I'll try not to." Foster tried to make it a joke, but Eiler's expression took the humor out of it.
"You don't understand, Sir. You haven’t seen this stuff burn now we have the benzene in. It's the worst thing I've ever seen. This must be the stuff the Devil uses down in Hell."
"You heard what has just happened in New York, Sergeant? Well, hell is just fine with me. And the more damned fascists we send there the better."
"I know that, Sir. But this stuff? Damn. Just, damn."
Living Quarters, Kolkhoz DEU-148, Samarra, Volga Front
Elizavet Kuzmanova Afanaeva cursed the day she had ever opened her mouth to her daughter. Then, with greater vigor, she cursed her daughter for starting the chain of events that had led to her present predicament. Her logic was quite simple; if her daughter had done exactly as she had been told without hesitating or questioning, the row that had split them apart would never have happened and so Elizavet Kuzmanova would not have found herself in internal exile. But no, Faina had to slip off and volunteer for the Army. It is all her fault.
Elizavet Kuzmanova was learning a lot about farming and what the work involved. Initially, she had not been aware of the fact that farming any kind of land without any kind of agricultural machinery was every kind of back-breaking work. She knew it now. Traditionally, farmers always complained about their lot in life, the poverty of their land, and the eternally inclement weather. They would have counted themselves as blessed indeed compared with the women, young boys, and old men who now farmed the land that made up Kolkhoz DEU-148. That land was a minefield of real mines, booby-traps, and unexploded munitions that had to be cleared before crops could be planted, tended and then, with luck, harvested. Or, if the fascists came back, burned. Just to make matters worse, the Kolkhoz was still under long-range fascist artillery fire. That meant she was also familiar, now, with the sound of sirens that warned of an artillery barrage or an air attack.
To make matters worse, her unpopularity with the other women at the Kolkhoz had grown steadily since her arrival. They had already been aware that she had been sent to the Kolkhoz after attracting the adverse attention of CheKa. Since being friendly with her might cause the disapproving eyes of the Chekists to focus on them as well, they had kept a wary distance from her. Despite that, the opinions of her fellow farm workers had been divided once they had heard the reason for her exile. The younger women, most of whom intended to volunteer for the Army as soon as they were eighteen, condemned Elizavet Kuzmanova unreservedly and thought she deserved everything she was getting and more besides. The older women had been more inclined to believe the stories that the women on the front line were stealing their men and had been more sympathetic to Elizavet Kuzmanova.
What had changed all their attitudes was the arrival of the latest copies of Izvestia. The magazine was, apparently, a translation of a special issue of an American magazine called "Life" that was devoted to the Russian women serving on the front line. It was the American edition that was the translation of a Russian original but that was a minor detail. In it, the women at DEU-148 had read about what service on the front line meant for the women who had volunteered to serve there and the dreadful conditions they had to endure as a result. They also read of the heroism with which those women performed their duties as combat pilots, snipers, machine gunners, armored vehicle drivers, medical orderlies, communications specialists, and scouts. There were even some articles about women who were fighting with the Partisans far behind the lines.
One thing had become apparent to even the most cynical of the women; whatever might be going on in the rear areas of the army, the Front was hardly the place where women could steal men from their wives. Not amidst the dirt, the danger and the shortages of everything that made lives livable for women. The women who had volunteered for the Army had even had their braids cut off and wore their hair, what was left of it, cut as short as the men. By the time the women at DEU-148 had finished reading the article, they had sworn, both to themselves and each other, that they would never use the insult "Front Wife" again.
One of the articles in particular, about a medical orderly and the lecture she had given to a wounded fascist soldier she was treating, had struck home. By the time the women had finished reading Antonina Stepanovna Rabtsun's words, they had begun to understand what was happening on the Front and the unrelenting grimness that saturated every area of front life. The revelation made even the most obdurate of Elizavet Kuzmanova's supporters stare at her with acute loathing.
Even somebody as self-centered as Elizavet Kuzmanova was aware of the way the other women in the barracks were glaring at her. She even began, dimly, to realize that they now saw the way she had treated her daughter as being completely unforgivable. What she didn't understand was why some of those women had taken the men's shirts they wore instead of proper underwear, tied a knot at the end of one sleeve, and were busy filling the resulting long tube with potatoes.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Eight
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, North West of Norway
Able Seaman Douglas Young was barely awake as he staggered out of the warm compartments of the midships superstructure onto the bitterly cold 20mm gun gallery mounted before the bridge. A woolen scarf covered the lower half of his face, protecting his lips and nose so that just his eyes were exposed. Heavy gloves protected his hands as he went through the now-automatic drill of cocking his Oerlikon. The rest of him was swathed in layers of heavy sweaters, leather coats, and anything else that would protect him from the bitter cold.
"Torpedo bombers, inbound, Red-35." The message came over the loudspeakers amid the usual distortion and crackling. Shawnee's five-inch and 40mm guns were already swinging to bear on the inbound formations. Young's 20mm gun didn’t have director control but he would range on the explosions when the guns that did opened fire.
Once again, it was the suddenness with which the battle erupted that was most startling, only this time it was emphasized by the darkness that hid the attacking aircraft until the last moment. The warships had opened fire earlier of course, their guns under radar control but the merchant ships didn’t have that luxury. They could see the explosions from the barrage of course, including the large blasts from the 8-inch guns on the cruisers, but that was all. Young had the eerie feeling that time was standing still yet also that the situation was developing with lightning speed. Above him flares from high-flying bombers were drifting down to illuminate the ships in the convoy for the low-altitude attackers that were already boring in.
When Young had been a boy, he had built model aircraft and his father had shown him how to mount the finished aircraft on a tripod of metal wire so it would look as if it was flying. The Ju-388 torpedo-bombers that appeared reminded him of those models with the streams of tracers from the ships taking the place of the wires. The sky seemed full of tracers yet he could see that most of them were falling behind the 388s, presumably some of the gunners believing they were the slower Ju-188s. Young was careful not to make the same mistake; he lead his target more than necessary but aimed his fire so the fascist bomber flew directly into the stream of flashing tracers.
For all his care, it wasn’t his 20mm gun that got the Ju-388. It was Shawnee’s stern quad-40 that downed her. The gunners were working heroically to keep feeding the shells into the four guns and their efforts were rewarded, for good and for bad. Young could see at least two of the rounds scoring direct hits, one tearing into the glazed nose, another shredding the engine on the starboard wing. More five-inch and 40mm shots were exploding all around the aircraft; the fuse-setters had done their work to perfection. The Ju-388 was a comet of fire, the long red and orange streak behind it lengthening by the second as fire consumed the aircraft. Young watched it curving aft as the crippling damage inflicted by the shells forced it further and further from its course.
It was that deviation that was the bad news. The Ju-388 may have been out of control, its crew dead in their seats as the aircraft burned up around them but it had one last part to play. Its curving flight path took it away from the midships part of Shawnee that was its target and ended in a massive explosion as the aircraft slammed into the tanker’s stern superstructure.
The explosion lit up the night sky with a massive red flash that seemed bright enough to bring back the daylight. Shawnee staggered under the blow and writhed as the entire stern superstructure was engulfed by fire. Watching it, Young cringed as the fire spread, chewing its way through the rear section of the ship. With the memory of the way Kumeyaay had burned and blown up, he could feel the heat roasting him alive. Then, slowly, he understood that Shawnee hadn’t turned into an inferno the way Kumeyaay had. The fires aft were bad but they weren’t spreading, and the cargo remained unbreeched.
The fire had had another effect though; the sudden eruption of flame had both marked Shawnee out as a target and distracted her anti-aircraft crews. That had allowed another Ju-388 to make a bomb run on her. The aircraft released two SC1000 high explosive bombs that straddled the machinery compartment. Even through the vibration of the four 20mm guns on the gun gallery firing, Young could feel the change as Shawnee lost power and began to slow down.
Air Warfare Plot, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, Off North Cape.
The threat board had cleared as the survivors of the latest Hitlerite air raid had been sent limping home. Unfortunately, this raid had been the most professional yet, with high-altitude bombers dropping flares working with mixed groups of torpedo planes and low-level bombers. The damage was mounting; two more freighters had been hit by bombs while HMCS London had been shaken by a series of near-misses. She was already reporting flooding below decks. The worst problem was revealed by the brilliant orange-red glares on opposite sides of the convoy. One was the sight of a precious avgas tanker, Quinault. She had been raked by two thousand-pound bombs and had exploded into flame almost instantly. The other was Shawnee.
“Quinault?” Admiral Phillips was terse.
“Gone; she’s a blazing wreck and nobody is getting off her. Avgas is a mean cargo.” Commodore Welland had the terrible weariness in his voice that came from watching too many ships burning and too many crews dying with them. These convoy battles got into a man’s soul the way other naval engagements did not.
“And Shawnee?”
“Burning aft, two near misses have knocked out her machinery. She’s at a halt and won’t get under way until the fires are out. They’ve cut off access to her machinery spaces. Thank God her cargo didn’t burn.”
“We’ll have to leave her behind then.” Phillips was simply stating a fact. “Damn.”
“What is it with Shawnee?” Welland was curious. “I’ve never understood why we have a tanker loaded with diesel in the convoy. That’s not in short supply on the front. Avgas, I can understand even if I don’t like it but why diesel? Unless?”
“She’s not carrying diesel.” Phillips finished the sentence for him. “You’ve heard of the problems the fascist jets are causing our boys? Well, the first of our jets is arriving in Russia right now. We have to train pilots on them of course and do all the things that introducing a new type to the front brings but by spring, we’ll be ready to throw them in. They’re a hell of a sight better than the jets the fascists have been using to date, but they need special fuel. Shawnee is carrying the first consignment of Jet Fuel B. It’s enough like diesel to make the manifest believable. It’s still flammable. Although a lot less than avgas.”
“And we’re leaving it behind.” Welland couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“That’s right Commodore. Leaving the Jet-B behind is a serious problem. Slowing the convoy down to keep covering Shawnee would endanger the avgas and that’s a catastrophe. Shawnee is going to have to try and get through on her own.”
“With every submarine and aircraft, the fascists have converging on her.” Welland was simply stating a fact.
“That’s right,” Phillips confirmed the statement gloomily. He was all too aware that leaving the tanker behind was condemning her to death. It was a mark of how important the Avgas was that he had no hesitation in making the decision. "We will have to get a word through to Archangel'sk that Shawnee will be making her own way through. They might be able to arrange air cover for her."
"Not with Russian fighters they won't. Their birds have very short legs." Welland was grimly aware of the short range of Russian fighters. They were designed to operate in support of the Army from temporary airbases close to the front lines, not for long flights over water. Even the Navy fighters were capable of coastal operations only.
"I know. Perhaps we can bring some P-38s up. Problem is, of course, we can’t do that until we get more 130 octane into the Archangel'sk area. Chicken and egg situation isn't it."
Welland shook his head again. The complications caused by the 130 octane fuel shortage were spreading and they interplayed in unexpected ways. One thing he did know was that the arrival of the American jet fighters was desperately awaited by the pilots ashore. They'd been coping with the crisis caused by the fascist jet fighters but coping with was not the same as solving it. And, the jet fighter crisis had to be solved since the allied operations on the front depended on maintaining air superiority.
Er-2 “For New York” Over the Baltic
The Er-2 had two machine-gunners, one in the dorsal turret, the other firing out of a hatch in the belly. The gunners understood how critical their role was in getting For New York through to her target. Each was intently scanning the darkness around them for the first hint of fascist night-fighters. The atmosphere inside the aircraft was tense since this was the worst possible weather for the Er-2s to make such a daring raid. The northern sky was bright and clear, the Finnish coast was less than a stone’s throw away. Never had the Er-2s been flown so heavily loaded. Every single drop of fuel that could be squeezed into the tanks had been forced in and so the aircraft clawed their way up to cruising altitude only with great difficulty. The plan had been for La-5 and Yak-3 fighters to have escorted them for the first leg of the long flight but they had failed to appear. Markov couldn’t help thinking that was for the best since bombers with fighter escort could be taken for fascists and fired on.
The bomber crews slowly pushed deeper and deeper into the night. Nobody was under any illusions about the sky over the Baltic being safe; it was patrolled by Hitlerite fighters and there were fascist warships at sea. To all intents and purposes, the 23 bombers were already over enemy-occupied territory. Just to emphasize the point, Markov could see the tracers from anti-aircraft guns shooting up here and there. From their positions, he knew that some had to be from ships but the heavier concentration to the south was a useful navigational aid. They had to be fired from enemy-occupied Lithuania. Markov consoled himself with the thought that pinpointing them as early as possible was good because that way the Er-2 crews got a chance to avoid the heaviest concentrations of ground fire.
The route he had plotted lay due west, down the Gulf of Finland until they passed through the narrowest point of the Gulf, a mere 60 kilometers between Tallinn and Helsinki, then carrying slightly north of west until they were exactly due east of Stockholm. That would be the easy part of the route, from a navigational point of view anyway. Sweden was a neutral country and its civilian radio stations were still broadcasting. One of them was in Stockholm and it would be a simple matter to take navigational bearings from its signal until the station was exactly 270 degrees. Then, the aircraft would turn south of southwest and continue flying that course, past Gotland until the Stockholm radio signal was due north of them. That would be the signal to turn southwest for the run towards a point south of Bornholm Island. From there, they would head south towards Stettin. By this time, the formation would split. Originally eighteen aircraft would have gone on to Berlin while six bombed Stettin as a diversion. With the crash of one of the Berlin aircraft, a bomber had been transferred from the Stettin force to the Berlin group. Markov didn’t think that would matter, he didn’t believe that the Stettin diversion would be of any help.
“Vasya, the weather is closing in.” Tomasov sounded deeply concerned. The weather reports coming in from the submarines had suggested that this the weather conditions for this raid were the hardest that had been seen to date. The weather reports had also been deteriorating constantly and the areas covered by the thunderstorms were spreading steadily. Even worse, the weather front across the Baltic had turned to snow and ice. The Er-2 suddenly jolted severely, a wing dipped and the plane seemed to want to dive into the ground. Tomasov fought the controls and tried to compensate for the heavy turbulence. Lightning flashed ahead and to the right and in its blue-white light Markov saw the sparkling flashes that marked snow starting to fall.
Tomasov spoke again, very real concern in his voice. “You know the old words, bratishka, fly over thunderstorms if you can fly under them if you must, but never fly through them. Is there a way out of this?”
“We can try higher but we must be careful. Heavily loaded as we are, we cannot reach anything like our combat altitude. Especially as we cannot use the second stage of the supercharger. This is a snow thunderstorm so it will not go as high as the normal storms. We will swing another ten degrees further south as well; if we go further out to sea the storms may slacken.”
Markov felt the aircraft banking as Tomasov made the gentle turn and started to angle upwards. He was obviously reluctant to increase engine power and thus fuel consumption but as the Er-2s speed started to bleed off, he had no choice. There was no way of knowing, but Markov guessed that the other aircraft in the formation were doing the same thing. It was, after all, the logical thing to do and simple, basic, airmanship. Nevertheless, against his will, visions of impending disaster, of the entire formation crashing due to bad weather, forced their way into his mind. Russian long-range aviation would become a laughing stock, any hope of a truly strategic striking force gone forever and it would all be his fault. He decided that it would be better to crash with his aircraft than to endure such shame.
“How are the navigation signals?” Tomasov was staring through the cockpit canopy, straining his eyes for the first sight of a star breaking through the dense, angry clouds. The slow climb was taking them into a layer of broken and then dense, bumpy clouds. Markov turned on the landing light in order to have a good look around: an oblique stream of snow crossed the light. That was also grim, icing on the overloaded aircraft would be the last straw! Once again the crew were watching the wing leading edges and the tail unit for ice.
“Stockholm is still coming in loud and clear. They’ve upped their signal strength, probably because of the bad weather.” Or do they know we are out here and are giving us a helping hand? “We can’t tune in to the German radio stations because they are all still far away for a directional signal. It’s possible they are not operating at all. Again, could be the bad weather or they know we are coming.”
That was a grim thought indeed. The crew knew that the American bombers, bristling with guns and loaded with armor could fight their way through the fascist defenses but the Er-2s could not. Tomasov dismissed the thought, If the fascists know we are coming, then there is nothing we can do about it.
He glanced down at the altimeter and was surprised to see how far they had ascended. “Crew, on oxygen now.”
Then, as if the use of the oxygen masks had triggered a switch, stars begin to gleam through the murk. Markov adjusted his sextant and caught the star Altair through the astrodome. He knew that stellar reckoning was not very precise but his star shot told him that the aircraft was on the right bearing and was within the acceptable limits of deviation. Then, the Er-2 broke through the upper level of clouds and was flying above the storm. Markov looked around with astonishment at the brilliant light from the moon reflecting off the clouds. A few hundred meters away, another Er-2 broke through the top of the cloud cover and then another. They formation was widely scattered and most of the aircraft, Markov suspected, were still out of sight but at least some had made their way through the storm.
“We’re at five thousand meters.” Tomasov had checked his instruments carefully. “This light is bad, if the Hitlerites have night-fighters up, they’ll cut us to pieces.”
“Tovarish commander, may I suggest we skim the top of the storm? If night-fighters do appear, we can take cover in the clouds again.” Markov had spoken formally, a navigator giving advice to the commander of his aircraft.
“A good thought, Vasya. It is very beautiful is it not?”
Markov couldn’t help but agree. The moonlight was shining off the blue-gray clouds beneath them, turning them into an iridescent sea. All around them, the great masses of cumulonimbus were stretching upwards, the same moonlight turning them into mountains with strange, glowing edges. He felt Tomasov threading his way through the outcrops, avoiding the turbulence they contained. “Those are mature clouds, beginning to dissipate already. By the time we come back, the storm may be over.”
“Hope so,” Tomasov grunted. Markov noted that the storm was indeed slowly losing its violence and was gradually quietening down. That allowed the Er-2 to shift back on course, returning to its assigned heading. He got the strange impression that the engines were surging and then returning to their original beat but when he looked over at the instrument panel, the pointers stood motionless showing that the engines were working still smoothly.
“I know, I’ve seen this before. I think it’s the sound of the engines reflecting off the cloud layer beneath us. We’ll find out one day.” Tomasov checked his instruments anyway. “Any word from the radio-operator?”
At this point, the radio operators had very little to do; the Er-2 was flying in radio silence, so they spent their time sweeping the dials for usable signals and keeping watch. Eventually, the sky opened up as the storm front passed and the horizon peeped out. While they had been flying over the glowing sea of cloud, Gotland and Bornholm had both drifted aside somewhere in the gloom. Another change of course and the Er-2s were heading south. That was when they saw the fire from heavy-caliber guns and the formation detoured around it. Or tried to because ahead was a solid wall of glittering points of gunfire. White bars of searchlight beams, more than 200 of them rose like spears in the night mist. Markov knew what that meant. “Enemy coast ahead.”
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, North West of Norway
Able Seaman Douglas Young was barely awake as he staggered out of the warm compartments of the midships superstructure onto the bitterly cold 20mm gun gallery mounted before the bridge. A woolen scarf covered the lower half of his face, protecting his lips and nose so that just his eyes were exposed. Heavy gloves protected his hands as he went through the now-automatic drill of cocking his Oerlikon. The rest of him was swathed in layers of heavy sweaters, leather coats, and anything else that would protect him from the bitter cold.
"Torpedo bombers, inbound, Red-35." The message came over the loudspeakers amid the usual distortion and crackling. Shawnee's five-inch and 40mm guns were already swinging to bear on the inbound formations. Young's 20mm gun didn’t have director control but he would range on the explosions when the guns that did opened fire.
Once again, it was the suddenness with which the battle erupted that was most startling, only this time it was emphasized by the darkness that hid the attacking aircraft until the last moment. The warships had opened fire earlier of course, their guns under radar control but the merchant ships didn’t have that luxury. They could see the explosions from the barrage of course, including the large blasts from the 8-inch guns on the cruisers, but that was all. Young had the eerie feeling that time was standing still yet also that the situation was developing with lightning speed. Above him flares from high-flying bombers were drifting down to illuminate the ships in the convoy for the low-altitude attackers that were already boring in.
When Young had been a boy, he had built model aircraft and his father had shown him how to mount the finished aircraft on a tripod of metal wire so it would look as if it was flying. The Ju-388 torpedo-bombers that appeared reminded him of those models with the streams of tracers from the ships taking the place of the wires. The sky seemed full of tracers yet he could see that most of them were falling behind the 388s, presumably some of the gunners believing they were the slower Ju-188s. Young was careful not to make the same mistake; he lead his target more than necessary but aimed his fire so the fascist bomber flew directly into the stream of flashing tracers.
For all his care, it wasn’t his 20mm gun that got the Ju-388. It was Shawnee’s stern quad-40 that downed her. The gunners were working heroically to keep feeding the shells into the four guns and their efforts were rewarded, for good and for bad. Young could see at least two of the rounds scoring direct hits, one tearing into the glazed nose, another shredding the engine on the starboard wing. More five-inch and 40mm shots were exploding all around the aircraft; the fuse-setters had done their work to perfection. The Ju-388 was a comet of fire, the long red and orange streak behind it lengthening by the second as fire consumed the aircraft. Young watched it curving aft as the crippling damage inflicted by the shells forced it further and further from its course.
It was that deviation that was the bad news. The Ju-388 may have been out of control, its crew dead in their seats as the aircraft burned up around them but it had one last part to play. Its curving flight path took it away from the midships part of Shawnee that was its target and ended in a massive explosion as the aircraft slammed into the tanker’s stern superstructure.
The explosion lit up the night sky with a massive red flash that seemed bright enough to bring back the daylight. Shawnee staggered under the blow and writhed as the entire stern superstructure was engulfed by fire. Watching it, Young cringed as the fire spread, chewing its way through the rear section of the ship. With the memory of the way Kumeyaay had burned and blown up, he could feel the heat roasting him alive. Then, slowly, he understood that Shawnee hadn’t turned into an inferno the way Kumeyaay had. The fires aft were bad but they weren’t spreading, and the cargo remained unbreeched.
The fire had had another effect though; the sudden eruption of flame had both marked Shawnee out as a target and distracted her anti-aircraft crews. That had allowed another Ju-388 to make a bomb run on her. The aircraft released two SC1000 high explosive bombs that straddled the machinery compartment. Even through the vibration of the four 20mm guns on the gun gallery firing, Young could feel the change as Shawnee lost power and began to slow down.
Air Warfare Plot, HMCS Howe, Flagship Convoy CWF-17, Off North Cape.
The threat board had cleared as the survivors of the latest Hitlerite air raid had been sent limping home. Unfortunately, this raid had been the most professional yet, with high-altitude bombers dropping flares working with mixed groups of torpedo planes and low-level bombers. The damage was mounting; two more freighters had been hit by bombs while HMCS London had been shaken by a series of near-misses. She was already reporting flooding below decks. The worst problem was revealed by the brilliant orange-red glares on opposite sides of the convoy. One was the sight of a precious avgas tanker, Quinault. She had been raked by two thousand-pound bombs and had exploded into flame almost instantly. The other was Shawnee.
“Quinault?” Admiral Phillips was terse.
“Gone; she’s a blazing wreck and nobody is getting off her. Avgas is a mean cargo.” Commodore Welland had the terrible weariness in his voice that came from watching too many ships burning and too many crews dying with them. These convoy battles got into a man’s soul the way other naval engagements did not.
“And Shawnee?”
“Burning aft, two near misses have knocked out her machinery. She’s at a halt and won’t get under way until the fires are out. They’ve cut off access to her machinery spaces. Thank God her cargo didn’t burn.”
“We’ll have to leave her behind then.” Phillips was simply stating a fact. “Damn.”
“What is it with Shawnee?” Welland was curious. “I’ve never understood why we have a tanker loaded with diesel in the convoy. That’s not in short supply on the front. Avgas, I can understand even if I don’t like it but why diesel? Unless?”
“She’s not carrying diesel.” Phillips finished the sentence for him. “You’ve heard of the problems the fascist jets are causing our boys? Well, the first of our jets is arriving in Russia right now. We have to train pilots on them of course and do all the things that introducing a new type to the front brings but by spring, we’ll be ready to throw them in. They’re a hell of a sight better than the jets the fascists have been using to date, but they need special fuel. Shawnee is carrying the first consignment of Jet Fuel B. It’s enough like diesel to make the manifest believable. It’s still flammable. Although a lot less than avgas.”
“And we’re leaving it behind.” Welland couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“That’s right Commodore. Leaving the Jet-B behind is a serious problem. Slowing the convoy down to keep covering Shawnee would endanger the avgas and that’s a catastrophe. Shawnee is going to have to try and get through on her own.”
“With every submarine and aircraft, the fascists have converging on her.” Welland was simply stating a fact.
“That’s right,” Phillips confirmed the statement gloomily. He was all too aware that leaving the tanker behind was condemning her to death. It was a mark of how important the Avgas was that he had no hesitation in making the decision. "We will have to get a word through to Archangel'sk that Shawnee will be making her own way through. They might be able to arrange air cover for her."
"Not with Russian fighters they won't. Their birds have very short legs." Welland was grimly aware of the short range of Russian fighters. They were designed to operate in support of the Army from temporary airbases close to the front lines, not for long flights over water. Even the Navy fighters were capable of coastal operations only.
"I know. Perhaps we can bring some P-38s up. Problem is, of course, we can’t do that until we get more 130 octane into the Archangel'sk area. Chicken and egg situation isn't it."
Welland shook his head again. The complications caused by the 130 octane fuel shortage were spreading and they interplayed in unexpected ways. One thing he did know was that the arrival of the American jet fighters was desperately awaited by the pilots ashore. They'd been coping with the crisis caused by the fascist jet fighters but coping with was not the same as solving it. And, the jet fighter crisis had to be solved since the allied operations on the front depended on maintaining air superiority.
Er-2 “For New York” Over the Baltic
The Er-2 had two machine-gunners, one in the dorsal turret, the other firing out of a hatch in the belly. The gunners understood how critical their role was in getting For New York through to her target. Each was intently scanning the darkness around them for the first hint of fascist night-fighters. The atmosphere inside the aircraft was tense since this was the worst possible weather for the Er-2s to make such a daring raid. The northern sky was bright and clear, the Finnish coast was less than a stone’s throw away. Never had the Er-2s been flown so heavily loaded. Every single drop of fuel that could be squeezed into the tanks had been forced in and so the aircraft clawed their way up to cruising altitude only with great difficulty. The plan had been for La-5 and Yak-3 fighters to have escorted them for the first leg of the long flight but they had failed to appear. Markov couldn’t help thinking that was for the best since bombers with fighter escort could be taken for fascists and fired on.
The bomber crews slowly pushed deeper and deeper into the night. Nobody was under any illusions about the sky over the Baltic being safe; it was patrolled by Hitlerite fighters and there were fascist warships at sea. To all intents and purposes, the 23 bombers were already over enemy-occupied territory. Just to emphasize the point, Markov could see the tracers from anti-aircraft guns shooting up here and there. From their positions, he knew that some had to be from ships but the heavier concentration to the south was a useful navigational aid. They had to be fired from enemy-occupied Lithuania. Markov consoled himself with the thought that pinpointing them as early as possible was good because that way the Er-2 crews got a chance to avoid the heaviest concentrations of ground fire.
The route he had plotted lay due west, down the Gulf of Finland until they passed through the narrowest point of the Gulf, a mere 60 kilometers between Tallinn and Helsinki, then carrying slightly north of west until they were exactly due east of Stockholm. That would be the easy part of the route, from a navigational point of view anyway. Sweden was a neutral country and its civilian radio stations were still broadcasting. One of them was in Stockholm and it would be a simple matter to take navigational bearings from its signal until the station was exactly 270 degrees. Then, the aircraft would turn south of southwest and continue flying that course, past Gotland until the Stockholm radio signal was due north of them. That would be the signal to turn southwest for the run towards a point south of Bornholm Island. From there, they would head south towards Stettin. By this time, the formation would split. Originally eighteen aircraft would have gone on to Berlin while six bombed Stettin as a diversion. With the crash of one of the Berlin aircraft, a bomber had been transferred from the Stettin force to the Berlin group. Markov didn’t think that would matter, he didn’t believe that the Stettin diversion would be of any help.
“Vasya, the weather is closing in.” Tomasov sounded deeply concerned. The weather reports coming in from the submarines had suggested that this the weather conditions for this raid were the hardest that had been seen to date. The weather reports had also been deteriorating constantly and the areas covered by the thunderstorms were spreading steadily. Even worse, the weather front across the Baltic had turned to snow and ice. The Er-2 suddenly jolted severely, a wing dipped and the plane seemed to want to dive into the ground. Tomasov fought the controls and tried to compensate for the heavy turbulence. Lightning flashed ahead and to the right and in its blue-white light Markov saw the sparkling flashes that marked snow starting to fall.
Tomasov spoke again, very real concern in his voice. “You know the old words, bratishka, fly over thunderstorms if you can fly under them if you must, but never fly through them. Is there a way out of this?”
“We can try higher but we must be careful. Heavily loaded as we are, we cannot reach anything like our combat altitude. Especially as we cannot use the second stage of the supercharger. This is a snow thunderstorm so it will not go as high as the normal storms. We will swing another ten degrees further south as well; if we go further out to sea the storms may slacken.”
Markov felt the aircraft banking as Tomasov made the gentle turn and started to angle upwards. He was obviously reluctant to increase engine power and thus fuel consumption but as the Er-2s speed started to bleed off, he had no choice. There was no way of knowing, but Markov guessed that the other aircraft in the formation were doing the same thing. It was, after all, the logical thing to do and simple, basic, airmanship. Nevertheless, against his will, visions of impending disaster, of the entire formation crashing due to bad weather, forced their way into his mind. Russian long-range aviation would become a laughing stock, any hope of a truly strategic striking force gone forever and it would all be his fault. He decided that it would be better to crash with his aircraft than to endure such shame.
“How are the navigation signals?” Tomasov was staring through the cockpit canopy, straining his eyes for the first sight of a star breaking through the dense, angry clouds. The slow climb was taking them into a layer of broken and then dense, bumpy clouds. Markov turned on the landing light in order to have a good look around: an oblique stream of snow crossed the light. That was also grim, icing on the overloaded aircraft would be the last straw! Once again the crew were watching the wing leading edges and the tail unit for ice.
“Stockholm is still coming in loud and clear. They’ve upped their signal strength, probably because of the bad weather.” Or do they know we are out here and are giving us a helping hand? “We can’t tune in to the German radio stations because they are all still far away for a directional signal. It’s possible they are not operating at all. Again, could be the bad weather or they know we are coming.”
That was a grim thought indeed. The crew knew that the American bombers, bristling with guns and loaded with armor could fight their way through the fascist defenses but the Er-2s could not. Tomasov dismissed the thought, If the fascists know we are coming, then there is nothing we can do about it.
He glanced down at the altimeter and was surprised to see how far they had ascended. “Crew, on oxygen now.”
Then, as if the use of the oxygen masks had triggered a switch, stars begin to gleam through the murk. Markov adjusted his sextant and caught the star Altair through the astrodome. He knew that stellar reckoning was not very precise but his star shot told him that the aircraft was on the right bearing and was within the acceptable limits of deviation. Then, the Er-2 broke through the upper level of clouds and was flying above the storm. Markov looked around with astonishment at the brilliant light from the moon reflecting off the clouds. A few hundred meters away, another Er-2 broke through the top of the cloud cover and then another. They formation was widely scattered and most of the aircraft, Markov suspected, were still out of sight but at least some had made their way through the storm.
“We’re at five thousand meters.” Tomasov had checked his instruments carefully. “This light is bad, if the Hitlerites have night-fighters up, they’ll cut us to pieces.”
“Tovarish commander, may I suggest we skim the top of the storm? If night-fighters do appear, we can take cover in the clouds again.” Markov had spoken formally, a navigator giving advice to the commander of his aircraft.
“A good thought, Vasya. It is very beautiful is it not?”
Markov couldn’t help but agree. The moonlight was shining off the blue-gray clouds beneath them, turning them into an iridescent sea. All around them, the great masses of cumulonimbus were stretching upwards, the same moonlight turning them into mountains with strange, glowing edges. He felt Tomasov threading his way through the outcrops, avoiding the turbulence they contained. “Those are mature clouds, beginning to dissipate already. By the time we come back, the storm may be over.”
“Hope so,” Tomasov grunted. Markov noted that the storm was indeed slowly losing its violence and was gradually quietening down. That allowed the Er-2 to shift back on course, returning to its assigned heading. He got the strange impression that the engines were surging and then returning to their original beat but when he looked over at the instrument panel, the pointers stood motionless showing that the engines were working still smoothly.
“I know, I’ve seen this before. I think it’s the sound of the engines reflecting off the cloud layer beneath us. We’ll find out one day.” Tomasov checked his instruments anyway. “Any word from the radio-operator?”
At this point, the radio operators had very little to do; the Er-2 was flying in radio silence, so they spent their time sweeping the dials for usable signals and keeping watch. Eventually, the sky opened up as the storm front passed and the horizon peeped out. While they had been flying over the glowing sea of cloud, Gotland and Bornholm had both drifted aside somewhere in the gloom. Another change of course and the Er-2s were heading south. That was when they saw the fire from heavy-caliber guns and the formation detoured around it. Or tried to because ahead was a solid wall of glittering points of gunfire. White bars of searchlight beams, more than 200 of them rose like spears in the night mist. Markov knew what that meant. “Enemy coast ahead.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
“Now, Mattie, remember this is the most difficult part of the whole operation. There are two reasons for that. One is endofpatrolitis. We’re within a few hundred meters of safety and we’re feeling triumphant that we have made it back alive. So, we get careless and that’s when the Ivans spring an ambush.”
Ackermann looked grim. “If the Ivans are running true to form we can expect what they call a submachine gun ambush at any time. That’s where they hide in the folds of the ground, shell holes, houses, and in the trees in this damned forest. Their calling card is to let us pass and then open up with intensive fire from the rear to create panic. Remember this, Mattie, Ivan’s submachine-gunner fire is mostly for the moral effect. Usually, the losses that it inflicts on troops are insignificant. What it does do is panic our people into exposing themselves to deadlier forms of attack, usually mortars or snipers. Or both.
“So, when a partisan group suddenly stages one of these ambushes, get down, drop to the ground, fast as you can. Leave fighting the submachine-gun hunters. If you keep out of the way, we can identify the direction of the fire and work out where they are. Then we can leapfrog closer to them and gradually surround him. If the shooting suddenly stops, whatever you do don’t stand up. Ceasing fire means that an Ivan sniper is looking for a target. It is necessary to lie down and conceal yourself. As soon as she opens fire, and most of their best snipers are women, keep undercover and let the hunters continue to move closer to them.”
Ackermann paused. “The other danger is our own boys. They don’t know we are coming in and they can open upon us. Then we are in a world of hurt. We’re close now so I want you on that radio and tell them we are coming in. When you contact them and report, make sure you use the word ‘mediocrity’. ‘Mittelmäßigkeit’ first and for God’s sake, don’t pronounce it wrong. For some reason, the Ivans have problems with the word. Our people will ask you to confirm it and you reply with ‘kleines Licht’ and make sure you pronounce that clearly as well. Now get to work. We’re depending on you Mattie, otherwise, we’ll end up being shot by both sides. The rest of us will form a perimeter to keep you safe. That’s how important what you do now is.”
Matthias Krause set up his radio and tried to contact the forces on the other side of the line. Eventually, the radio crackled. “Who is this? Identify.”
“We’re the survivors from Naumovskaya. We’ve lost all our vehicles and most of our men. There are around seventy of us left. We’ve been making our way through these damned woods for days.”
The voice on the radio was loaded with suspicion. “How did you get past the Partisans?”
Krause thought quickly. “It wasn’t too bad. They hit us with snipers and mines but I would say their performance was distinguished only by mediocrity.”
“I’ve never heard the bandits described that way before. Can you confirm that?” The suspicion was still there but Krause got the feeling it was forced.
“I think mediocrity is a good description.”
“All right, lost sheep, come on in. We’ll give you mortar cover if there are problems.”
Krause crawled forward to Ackermann’s position. “We’re in contact. They said to come in.”
Ackermann looked over his shoulder. “What exactly did he say?”
“’All right, lost sheep, come on in.’ And he said we’d get mortar fire for cover if we hit problems.”
Ackermann sighed with relief. “All right, sergeants spread the word. We’re falling back towards our lines by bounds. Everybody cover everybody else.”
Twenty minutes later, the last of the ersatz battlegroup was safely within German lines. A staff officer was waiting for them. “Lieutenant Ackermann? You are the senior surviving officer?”
“Yes Sir.”
“You have done well to get as many men out as you did. A pity about the tanks but if there was no fuel, there was nothing else you could do. I’d like to send you and your men to the rear for a rest but we can’t do that right now. The Ivans are all over us and as for the Ami aircraft, they’re back in even greater strength. There’s a major battle brewing at Ponga. We’ve got a company of Jagdtigers down there trying to hold the line without infantry support. As soon as the Ivans get themselves in order, they’ll punch through there and we’ll all be cut off. Assemble your men into as close to a panzer grenadier company as you can and get them down there. We can loan you some trucks; there’s enough of the night left to take the chance.”
1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Railway Sidings at Gribanikha.
The cold was bitter, snow swirling around the train with its cargo of SU-100 tank destroyers and all the rest of the Regiment, the usually forgotten parts that enabled the SU-100s to do their work. Unloading was a slow, methodical process at a time when hours were gold-dust and minutes were in short supply. Captain Mikhail Prokopyevich Pakholkov was very well aware of just how short of time the Russian Army was. So, he had called a meeting of his self-propelled gun commanders and their drivers to tell them what they had to do.
“We have an advance to contact of twenty kilometers to make before dawn. We are fortunate, there is a road we can use and it has been cleared. It leads us straight to the area where we will be engaging the fascists. At the moment, a company of Jagdtigers is holding up an advance by a tank corps. They can’t get close enough to kill them and their infantry is still following up. We have to get there and pick the Jagdtigers off. One of the more doubtful privileges of having the best and most powerful tank destroyers in the Army. The good news is that if we do this well, we will be appearing behind and to the right of the Jagdtigers in an area of low, rolling hills. They won’t be expecting long-range gunnery from our four sniper guns. Tovarish Sergeant-Driver Fainachka? Since you are our most experienced and capable driver, I would ask you to lead the way.”
“I serve the Rodina!” Faina snapped out the traditional response.
“And if you see a fascist wandering round, smash his skull with your track-wrench!” Praporshchik-Commander Nikola Ilyich Demkin called out and met with a barrage of Urrah’s from the assembled crewmen.
Pakholkov couldn’t help reflecting that Faina’s mother had probably done more to cement his rebuilt unit together than anybody else could have done. All the men and women in the 1435th had consolidated behind Faina and shown her the proper level of comradely support. Now, all he hoped was that the same spirit would sustain them in the upcoming fight with the Jagdtigers. “Bratishka, get the vehicles ready, we must not waste the hours of darkness!”
It was not the first night march the 1435th had performed and the normal camouflage and precautionary measures were a matter of routine for everybody. On the train from Yekaterinburg, the veterans had sat down with the new recruits and tried to pass on all the knowledge they could. Now, those lessons started to pay off. The SU-100s moved sure-footedly in the pitch darkness guided only by the dull glow from the convoy lights. As Faina maneuvered her SU-100 through the forest, she was finding the road and direction by instinct. The night was so bitterly cold that even the tankodesantniki riding on the blessedly-warm engine gratings were drowsy. Before dawn, the Regiment had reached the designated area, laagered their vehicles and camouflaged the tank destroyers. The tankodesantniki jumped off the tank destroyers and started hopping around and energetically swinging their arms. Even with the first glimpses of the sun on the horizon and the promise of warmer hours to come, they still needed to warm themselves up and stretch their legs. It was some consolation to them that riding on an SU-100 was better than walking.
Once again, Pakholkov summoned his commanders and crews. The latest dispatches had been waiting for him when the SU-100s had pulled into their laager. “Bratischka, heavy fighting has continued in a limited area of the front where there is a major junction of rail, high and earth roads. The enemy had managed to muster a large group of troops drawn from units withdrawing from the Onega River and used it to strike a blow at the weakened forces of our 81st Tank Corps. Our tankists have been forced to retreat with heavy losses. At this point our Corps Commander has decided to throw his reserve into action and tasked the commander of the 1435th Regiment to advance immediately. We will support the attack by the main forces of the corps by destroying the opposing enemy with a flank attack and most especially destroying or driving back the Jagdtigers. This is our highest priority and because of it, our advance will be supported by artillery and aircraft. Tovarish Colonel Lev Nikolayevich Ochelenko of the 95th Tank Brigade will be advancing to the front with his T-34-85s while we will support him by picking off the fascist tanks and guns. Is everything clear?”
Er-2 “For New York” Over the German Coast
The shells all seemed to burst at Markov’s flight altitude, seeming to form an invincible wall across his flight path. Suddenly, he understood what the American bomber crews must have felt as they approached their targets and seen the wall of anti-aircraft fire in front of them. He could almost hear their thoughts; how could we get in there? How do we get through this? Then he realized that this night, someone would not. One of the Er-2s was already tangled in the searchlight beams. The pilot was maneuvering frantically to escape, corkscrewing the bomber in a vain effort to win back the cover of darkness. The maneuvering seemed to make him to fall and then to straighten up. Yet, for all his efforts, he could not escape from the searchlights. Instead, he twisted in them, his aircraft glittering like a little star as the heavy high-explosive shells burst around him over and over again. For every searchlight that the pilot managed to evade, two more would latch on.
“Take her down to three thousand meters.” Markov was trying to reconcile what he could see beneath him with his maps. “If we go lower, we can fly under the shell bursts. We did that with the Peshkas and it saved us more than once.”
“That will be taking a grave risk, Vasya. We’ve seen searchlights and anti-aircraft guns, the odds are – we might bump into a barrage balloon.”
Over where the Er-2 was fighting for its life was a sharp flash and then a bright blaze of fire. One of the anti-aircraft shells had finally found its mark and the aircraft was burning brilliantly, forming a great blazing red cross in the sky. It seemed to drift slowly downwards, in the same lazy spirals as a leaf falling from a tree on a warm evening. Then, it hit the ground and exploded.
“What was that? Did anybody get out?” Tomasov’s eyes were fixed on where the Er-2 had just died.
“Anti-aircraft artillerists. I saw nobody jump. Why should they try?” Markov’s question made complete sense. The fate of Russians who were captured was well-known. Immediate execution or slavery under conditions designed to ensure the victim died of starvation and exhaustion within a few months. What would be the fate of the men who had dared to attack the Lair of the Beast itself was grim to contemplate.
The coastline was becoming clearer as the Er-2 dropped downwards and the weather started to improve. The ground was visible more and more frequently, its landmarks coming into focus. One thing was apparent; the bay beneath them had a wide mouth while the one they were supposed to cross was closed by a thin bar of land. That gave Markov the clue he needed. “We’re too far west. That’s Ruegen, we’re 65 kilometers off course.”
“Tell the Stettin force where we are and what course to steer. The rest of us will keep going. Calculate the new course immediately.”
Markov had spread his maps out and quickly made the changes. “Fly one-seven-zero. We are 175 kilometers out. We should be over the Lair in exactly twenty five minutes.”
If we get there at all, he thought. The searchlight beams were stretching towards them, quartering the sky as they hunted the Er-2s. They were followed by shell bursts that came closer, as they followed the lights. Fortunately a small clump of clouds, strays left behind by the storm front behind them, had appeared. Tomasov flew into it and escaped from the net of searchlights. Over to his left, Markov could see the chaotic and scattered firing as the guns and searchlights started to chase the aircraft heading east for Stettin. He could almost read the artillerists minds, the bombers that had suddenly appeared had to be heading for Stettin. Anywhere else would be too far. To Markov’s astonishment, the decoy raid, now down to four aircraft was working but the battle of the coast was not over yet.
A pair of night-fighters had emerged from the darkness, drawn to the searchlights and gunfire with the same inevitability as a moth was drawn to a flame. They latched onto the tail of Markov’s aircraft outside the ring of anti-aircraft fire, guided in by the four long exhaust flames streaming back from the diesel engines. The American aircraft our allies give the Night Witches have flame suppressors on their exhausts. Why can we not have them? The answer was obvious. We do not receive those aircraft because they do not have the range to do what we are doing tonight.
In the cockpit, Tomasov was trying to evade the twin-engined Messers. He flew a broken course, constantly changing direction and altitude in an attempt to lose them but they followed the Er-2, steadily closing in while they winked at each other with yellow lights. When they got dangerously close Markov felt his pilot abruptly turning the aircraft directly towards them. The Messerschmitt 110s, taken by surprise by the sudden maneuver, dashed past, lost their target and disappeared in the dark. From their course, Markov guessed that they were chasing after the Stettin aircraft while their previous target returned to its previous course.
As usual, Markov had the strange sensation that the minutes seemed to crawl past with each seeming to take an interminable time to complete yet the time taken for the flight to the Lair evaporated. On the way, some cities took shots at the aircraft flying past, but Markov made sure that his aircraft gave them a wide berth. He saw what would happen to those that did not when an Er-2, otherwise lost in the darkness, was suddenly illuminated and trapped in a cone of anti-aircraft fire. That one did not survive as long as the one similarly trapped over the coast. It turned into an orange comet of flame that went almost vertically into the ground. Despite the loss, one thing Markov did notice, as they flew inland, fewer and fewer of the towns and cities were blacked out. It was as if the war had never touched the heart of Germany, that the country itself was still at peace. He promised himself that this night would change that.
Berlin itself gradually began to show up, a great, glaring patch of light on the horizon. At a distance it was an amorphous patch of light but as it spread to cover the horizon it also split down, first into areas of greater and lesser glare but then into streets and individual lights on those streets. That was when Markov saw the sight he had been straining his eyes to see. The black line of the River Spree that wound through the center of the Lair. There was a section where it seemed to form the shape of a pregnant woman laying on her back. It was very close to the Reichstag and Markov had a fiendish temptation to try and hit the building but he restrained himself heroically. The purpose of this raid was to cause the maximum possible level of chaos and confusion. The Reichstag was surrounded by greenery and his RRAB would waste its power there.
Instead, the Er-2 would drop on the Charlottenburg area to the west. A complex maze of streets intermixed with other communications and transport assets, the little bomblets dropped by the RRAB would reduce the area to complete paralysis. In the nose, the bombardier was already at his bombsight. Somehow, he could see the paths along which the aircraft would approach its targets. Markov knew he had one other thing to do before he made his attack. Very carefully he took the picture of Melba Ramsey that Caleb O’Brien had given him and handed it down to the bombardier who, with the same great care positioned it in the nose of the Er-2 so that the young woman in it was looking forward with an uninterrupted view of the city below.
Markov had handed navigation over to him now and all he could hear were the commands: ‘Five degrees to the left now . . . three to the right ... We are dropping now. At the last command Markov froze for an instant before taking back the navigation function. Down below the aircraft was a solid maelstrom of fire as the RRAB scattered its bomblets over the streets. The 100 kg bombs were different, Markov could clearly see the three red flashes as they exploded along the railway station installations. Across the city, he also saw others sets of flashes as the Er-2s dropped their loads. He tried to count them and guessed that at least twelve of the Yermolayevs had made it through to their target. Markov felt a huge swell of pride at the achievement. Our Amerikanskiye brat'ya may have their B-29s that are so far in advance of our Yermolayevs that it is hard to believe they come from the same century but we have one great thing that they cannot equal. We are here, and they are not. Ours are better! And when we get home and tell the world that, because the Americans are our Brat'ya pokrovi, our blood-brothers, we have avenged the attack on New York for them, then our alliance will be secure. And who knows where that will lead?
Markov gave the course north-east that would take them back to the Baltic and then, eventually to the base at Kasimovo. As he did so, he looked towards the lightening sky in the east with alarm. It was still hours until dawn but they were flying into the rising sun, not away from it. He knew, he had always known, that the dawn would catch the scattered Russian bombers long before they were safe in their own airspace line and an encounter between a single bomber and a fascist fighter plane would not end well for the bomber. Still, tonight we have achieved the unachievable and even if we are all lost, that will not change the work that has been done. That was when he got the uneasy feeling that the political side of the operation would be even more successful if the bombers suffered heavy losses, making their sacrifice more striking. Markov carefully dismissed that thought from his mind.
Friedrichstrasse, Berlin, Germany
Despite Goebbel’s appeals for a frugal “Front Christmas” to mark the sacrifices of the troops on the Russian Front, Berliners had not given up their pre-Christmas festivities although in deference to orders they had toned them down. Yet, the Friedrichstrasse had a Christmas Tree and it was decorated with candles and a few other ornaments. There was even a small band playing seasonal tunes, although for obvious reasons, the military bands that had played there before the war were absent. Meanwhile the local inhabitants were making their rounds to greet their neighbors and exchange traditional greetings. The more optimistic noted that the atmosphere was lighter than in previous war Christmas celebrations. The news of the missile strike on New York had come in just a couple of days before and was not the Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda promising that soon the whole of the American east coast would be cowering under the attacks?
The music had stopped for a moment while the musicians downed a much-needed pint of beer when the air raid sirens went off and the searchlights around Berlin flicked on and started searching the sky. The sight met with cheers from the revelers in the Friedrichstrasse who assumed that the crews on the searchlights and anti-aircraft batteries were entering into the spirit of the season. Cheers and applause rang around the street party and seemed to be spreading across the city. Then one of the searchlights caught an aircraft flying over the city and the others immediately swung to focus on it in a cone of light.
“It’s an ‘Einkel!” One of the children called out and there was a brief surge of cheer at the unexpected fly-past by the Luftwaffe. Then it dawned on people that its engine sound was very unfamiliar and its wings and fuselage were marked with red stars. The more astute were already beginning to run for cover when the bomb bay doors started to open. What happened next was bewildering. The Russian bomber had dropped a single large weapon that seemed to break up in mid-air. In doing so, it had scattered 150 three-kilogram bomblets all down the Friedrichstrasse. About a third of them exploded on impact sending fragments scything through the festivities and leaving carnage on the ground behind them. The other two thirds did not explode. Instead they were left on the road surface or had rolled into hidden holes or drains. Some had delayed action fuses and would explode sometime in the next 48 hours. Others were fitted with anti-handling devices that would cause them to explode when somebody moved or tried to defuse them. With over a dozen bombers surviving to drop a single RRAB-500 each on Berlin, there were enough unexploded bomblets to paralyze the city for days.
That was very much for the future though. The immediate effect of the completely unexpected bombing was to cause panic. The crowd surged backwards and forwards before beginning to stampede down the Friedrichstrasse. It was already chaos when one idiot saw an unexploded bomblet rolling on the street and tried to pick it up. The anti-handling device worked according to the manual and detonated the one kilogram charge in the bomblet and sent a spray of shrapnel through the crowd. Panic was replaced by terror since now everything unfamiliar was mistaken for a bomblet and avoided. In days to come, those trying to clear the streets would find themselves called to a dozen or more false reports for every genuine bomblet they found. For all that, even months later, unexploded bomblets would still be found in sewers or the nooks and crannies of rooftops and would still claim their victims.
The crowds surged down the streets, trying to seek shelter from the sudden assault. There were bomb shelters available; in fact, the city was quite well provided with them but five years of apparent immunity from attack had caused the system for their use to atrophy. There was no communication between the air raid wardens who were supposed to unlock the shelters and shepherd people inside and the air defenses. As a result, people backed up outside the locked shelters, trying to get inside. Casualties mounted as the weaker were crushed against the concrete walls or trampled underfoot. It didn’t help matters that the guns on the great flak towers were firing but the shelters within those towers were inaccessible. As the panic spread, civil administration broke down completely and that caused the casualties being suffered to increase far beyond the relatively tiny numbers caused by the handful of Russian bombers.
The final straw was when the crowd saw the much larger explosions as the three hundred-kilo bombs also carried by the Er-2s hit the railway stations and other targets scattered across the city and they knew that the war had finally reached them. Civilian morale crashed and would never quite recover. In a few hours, the civilian population of Berlin realized that the raid had been no more than a pin-prick, a magicians trick that created an image where only a tiny seed of reality existed. Yet, even a tiny pin-prick will burst a balloon and the carefully-cultivated German sense of immunity from the war was just such a balloon. It had burst and would never return.
Composite Battlegroup, South-West of Naumovskaya, West Bank of the Onega
“Now, Mattie, remember this is the most difficult part of the whole operation. There are two reasons for that. One is endofpatrolitis. We’re within a few hundred meters of safety and we’re feeling triumphant that we have made it back alive. So, we get careless and that’s when the Ivans spring an ambush.”
Ackermann looked grim. “If the Ivans are running true to form we can expect what they call a submachine gun ambush at any time. That’s where they hide in the folds of the ground, shell holes, houses, and in the trees in this damned forest. Their calling card is to let us pass and then open up with intensive fire from the rear to create panic. Remember this, Mattie, Ivan’s submachine-gunner fire is mostly for the moral effect. Usually, the losses that it inflicts on troops are insignificant. What it does do is panic our people into exposing themselves to deadlier forms of attack, usually mortars or snipers. Or both.
“So, when a partisan group suddenly stages one of these ambushes, get down, drop to the ground, fast as you can. Leave fighting the submachine-gun hunters. If you keep out of the way, we can identify the direction of the fire and work out where they are. Then we can leapfrog closer to them and gradually surround him. If the shooting suddenly stops, whatever you do don’t stand up. Ceasing fire means that an Ivan sniper is looking for a target. It is necessary to lie down and conceal yourself. As soon as she opens fire, and most of their best snipers are women, keep undercover and let the hunters continue to move closer to them.”
Ackermann paused. “The other danger is our own boys. They don’t know we are coming in and they can open upon us. Then we are in a world of hurt. We’re close now so I want you on that radio and tell them we are coming in. When you contact them and report, make sure you use the word ‘mediocrity’. ‘Mittelmäßigkeit’ first and for God’s sake, don’t pronounce it wrong. For some reason, the Ivans have problems with the word. Our people will ask you to confirm it and you reply with ‘kleines Licht’ and make sure you pronounce that clearly as well. Now get to work. We’re depending on you Mattie, otherwise, we’ll end up being shot by both sides. The rest of us will form a perimeter to keep you safe. That’s how important what you do now is.”
Matthias Krause set up his radio and tried to contact the forces on the other side of the line. Eventually, the radio crackled. “Who is this? Identify.”
“We’re the survivors from Naumovskaya. We’ve lost all our vehicles and most of our men. There are around seventy of us left. We’ve been making our way through these damned woods for days.”
The voice on the radio was loaded with suspicion. “How did you get past the Partisans?”
Krause thought quickly. “It wasn’t too bad. They hit us with snipers and mines but I would say their performance was distinguished only by mediocrity.”
“I’ve never heard the bandits described that way before. Can you confirm that?” The suspicion was still there but Krause got the feeling it was forced.
“I think mediocrity is a good description.”
“All right, lost sheep, come on in. We’ll give you mortar cover if there are problems.”
Krause crawled forward to Ackermann’s position. “We’re in contact. They said to come in.”
Ackermann looked over his shoulder. “What exactly did he say?”
“’All right, lost sheep, come on in.’ And he said we’d get mortar fire for cover if we hit problems.”
Ackermann sighed with relief. “All right, sergeants spread the word. We’re falling back towards our lines by bounds. Everybody cover everybody else.”
Twenty minutes later, the last of the ersatz battlegroup was safely within German lines. A staff officer was waiting for them. “Lieutenant Ackermann? You are the senior surviving officer?”
“Yes Sir.”
“You have done well to get as many men out as you did. A pity about the tanks but if there was no fuel, there was nothing else you could do. I’d like to send you and your men to the rear for a rest but we can’t do that right now. The Ivans are all over us and as for the Ami aircraft, they’re back in even greater strength. There’s a major battle brewing at Ponga. We’ve got a company of Jagdtigers down there trying to hold the line without infantry support. As soon as the Ivans get themselves in order, they’ll punch through there and we’ll all be cut off. Assemble your men into as close to a panzer grenadier company as you can and get them down there. We can loan you some trucks; there’s enough of the night left to take the chance.”
1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Railway Sidings at Gribanikha.
The cold was bitter, snow swirling around the train with its cargo of SU-100 tank destroyers and all the rest of the Regiment, the usually forgotten parts that enabled the SU-100s to do their work. Unloading was a slow, methodical process at a time when hours were gold-dust and minutes were in short supply. Captain Mikhail Prokopyevich Pakholkov was very well aware of just how short of time the Russian Army was. So, he had called a meeting of his self-propelled gun commanders and their drivers to tell them what they had to do.
“We have an advance to contact of twenty kilometers to make before dawn. We are fortunate, there is a road we can use and it has been cleared. It leads us straight to the area where we will be engaging the fascists. At the moment, a company of Jagdtigers is holding up an advance by a tank corps. They can’t get close enough to kill them and their infantry is still following up. We have to get there and pick the Jagdtigers off. One of the more doubtful privileges of having the best and most powerful tank destroyers in the Army. The good news is that if we do this well, we will be appearing behind and to the right of the Jagdtigers in an area of low, rolling hills. They won’t be expecting long-range gunnery from our four sniper guns. Tovarish Sergeant-Driver Fainachka? Since you are our most experienced and capable driver, I would ask you to lead the way.”
“I serve the Rodina!” Faina snapped out the traditional response.
“And if you see a fascist wandering round, smash his skull with your track-wrench!” Praporshchik-Commander Nikola Ilyich Demkin called out and met with a barrage of Urrah’s from the assembled crewmen.
Pakholkov couldn’t help reflecting that Faina’s mother had probably done more to cement his rebuilt unit together than anybody else could have done. All the men and women in the 1435th had consolidated behind Faina and shown her the proper level of comradely support. Now, all he hoped was that the same spirit would sustain them in the upcoming fight with the Jagdtigers. “Bratishka, get the vehicles ready, we must not waste the hours of darkness!”
It was not the first night march the 1435th had performed and the normal camouflage and precautionary measures were a matter of routine for everybody. On the train from Yekaterinburg, the veterans had sat down with the new recruits and tried to pass on all the knowledge they could. Now, those lessons started to pay off. The SU-100s moved sure-footedly in the pitch darkness guided only by the dull glow from the convoy lights. As Faina maneuvered her SU-100 through the forest, she was finding the road and direction by instinct. The night was so bitterly cold that even the tankodesantniki riding on the blessedly-warm engine gratings were drowsy. Before dawn, the Regiment had reached the designated area, laagered their vehicles and camouflaged the tank destroyers. The tankodesantniki jumped off the tank destroyers and started hopping around and energetically swinging their arms. Even with the first glimpses of the sun on the horizon and the promise of warmer hours to come, they still needed to warm themselves up and stretch their legs. It was some consolation to them that riding on an SU-100 was better than walking.
Once again, Pakholkov summoned his commanders and crews. The latest dispatches had been waiting for him when the SU-100s had pulled into their laager. “Bratischka, heavy fighting has continued in a limited area of the front where there is a major junction of rail, high and earth roads. The enemy had managed to muster a large group of troops drawn from units withdrawing from the Onega River and used it to strike a blow at the weakened forces of our 81st Tank Corps. Our tankists have been forced to retreat with heavy losses. At this point our Corps Commander has decided to throw his reserve into action and tasked the commander of the 1435th Regiment to advance immediately. We will support the attack by the main forces of the corps by destroying the opposing enemy with a flank attack and most especially destroying or driving back the Jagdtigers. This is our highest priority and because of it, our advance will be supported by artillery and aircraft. Tovarish Colonel Lev Nikolayevich Ochelenko of the 95th Tank Brigade will be advancing to the front with his T-34-85s while we will support him by picking off the fascist tanks and guns. Is everything clear?”
Er-2 “For New York” Over the German Coast
The shells all seemed to burst at Markov’s flight altitude, seeming to form an invincible wall across his flight path. Suddenly, he understood what the American bomber crews must have felt as they approached their targets and seen the wall of anti-aircraft fire in front of them. He could almost hear their thoughts; how could we get in there? How do we get through this? Then he realized that this night, someone would not. One of the Er-2s was already tangled in the searchlight beams. The pilot was maneuvering frantically to escape, corkscrewing the bomber in a vain effort to win back the cover of darkness. The maneuvering seemed to make him to fall and then to straighten up. Yet, for all his efforts, he could not escape from the searchlights. Instead, he twisted in them, his aircraft glittering like a little star as the heavy high-explosive shells burst around him over and over again. For every searchlight that the pilot managed to evade, two more would latch on.
“Take her down to three thousand meters.” Markov was trying to reconcile what he could see beneath him with his maps. “If we go lower, we can fly under the shell bursts. We did that with the Peshkas and it saved us more than once.”
“That will be taking a grave risk, Vasya. We’ve seen searchlights and anti-aircraft guns, the odds are – we might bump into a barrage balloon.”
Over where the Er-2 was fighting for its life was a sharp flash and then a bright blaze of fire. One of the anti-aircraft shells had finally found its mark and the aircraft was burning brilliantly, forming a great blazing red cross in the sky. It seemed to drift slowly downwards, in the same lazy spirals as a leaf falling from a tree on a warm evening. Then, it hit the ground and exploded.
“What was that? Did anybody get out?” Tomasov’s eyes were fixed on where the Er-2 had just died.
“Anti-aircraft artillerists. I saw nobody jump. Why should they try?” Markov’s question made complete sense. The fate of Russians who were captured was well-known. Immediate execution or slavery under conditions designed to ensure the victim died of starvation and exhaustion within a few months. What would be the fate of the men who had dared to attack the Lair of the Beast itself was grim to contemplate.
The coastline was becoming clearer as the Er-2 dropped downwards and the weather started to improve. The ground was visible more and more frequently, its landmarks coming into focus. One thing was apparent; the bay beneath them had a wide mouth while the one they were supposed to cross was closed by a thin bar of land. That gave Markov the clue he needed. “We’re too far west. That’s Ruegen, we’re 65 kilometers off course.”
“Tell the Stettin force where we are and what course to steer. The rest of us will keep going. Calculate the new course immediately.”
Markov had spread his maps out and quickly made the changes. “Fly one-seven-zero. We are 175 kilometers out. We should be over the Lair in exactly twenty five minutes.”
If we get there at all, he thought. The searchlight beams were stretching towards them, quartering the sky as they hunted the Er-2s. They were followed by shell bursts that came closer, as they followed the lights. Fortunately a small clump of clouds, strays left behind by the storm front behind them, had appeared. Tomasov flew into it and escaped from the net of searchlights. Over to his left, Markov could see the chaotic and scattered firing as the guns and searchlights started to chase the aircraft heading east for Stettin. He could almost read the artillerists minds, the bombers that had suddenly appeared had to be heading for Stettin. Anywhere else would be too far. To Markov’s astonishment, the decoy raid, now down to four aircraft was working but the battle of the coast was not over yet.
A pair of night-fighters had emerged from the darkness, drawn to the searchlights and gunfire with the same inevitability as a moth was drawn to a flame. They latched onto the tail of Markov’s aircraft outside the ring of anti-aircraft fire, guided in by the four long exhaust flames streaming back from the diesel engines. The American aircraft our allies give the Night Witches have flame suppressors on their exhausts. Why can we not have them? The answer was obvious. We do not receive those aircraft because they do not have the range to do what we are doing tonight.
In the cockpit, Tomasov was trying to evade the twin-engined Messers. He flew a broken course, constantly changing direction and altitude in an attempt to lose them but they followed the Er-2, steadily closing in while they winked at each other with yellow lights. When they got dangerously close Markov felt his pilot abruptly turning the aircraft directly towards them. The Messerschmitt 110s, taken by surprise by the sudden maneuver, dashed past, lost their target and disappeared in the dark. From their course, Markov guessed that they were chasing after the Stettin aircraft while their previous target returned to its previous course.
As usual, Markov had the strange sensation that the minutes seemed to crawl past with each seeming to take an interminable time to complete yet the time taken for the flight to the Lair evaporated. On the way, some cities took shots at the aircraft flying past, but Markov made sure that his aircraft gave them a wide berth. He saw what would happen to those that did not when an Er-2, otherwise lost in the darkness, was suddenly illuminated and trapped in a cone of anti-aircraft fire. That one did not survive as long as the one similarly trapped over the coast. It turned into an orange comet of flame that went almost vertically into the ground. Despite the loss, one thing Markov did notice, as they flew inland, fewer and fewer of the towns and cities were blacked out. It was as if the war had never touched the heart of Germany, that the country itself was still at peace. He promised himself that this night would change that.
Berlin itself gradually began to show up, a great, glaring patch of light on the horizon. At a distance it was an amorphous patch of light but as it spread to cover the horizon it also split down, first into areas of greater and lesser glare but then into streets and individual lights on those streets. That was when Markov saw the sight he had been straining his eyes to see. The black line of the River Spree that wound through the center of the Lair. There was a section where it seemed to form the shape of a pregnant woman laying on her back. It was very close to the Reichstag and Markov had a fiendish temptation to try and hit the building but he restrained himself heroically. The purpose of this raid was to cause the maximum possible level of chaos and confusion. The Reichstag was surrounded by greenery and his RRAB would waste its power there.
Instead, the Er-2 would drop on the Charlottenburg area to the west. A complex maze of streets intermixed with other communications and transport assets, the little bomblets dropped by the RRAB would reduce the area to complete paralysis. In the nose, the bombardier was already at his bombsight. Somehow, he could see the paths along which the aircraft would approach its targets. Markov knew he had one other thing to do before he made his attack. Very carefully he took the picture of Melba Ramsey that Caleb O’Brien had given him and handed it down to the bombardier who, with the same great care positioned it in the nose of the Er-2 so that the young woman in it was looking forward with an uninterrupted view of the city below.
Markov had handed navigation over to him now and all he could hear were the commands: ‘Five degrees to the left now . . . three to the right ... We are dropping now. At the last command Markov froze for an instant before taking back the navigation function. Down below the aircraft was a solid maelstrom of fire as the RRAB scattered its bomblets over the streets. The 100 kg bombs were different, Markov could clearly see the three red flashes as they exploded along the railway station installations. Across the city, he also saw others sets of flashes as the Er-2s dropped their loads. He tried to count them and guessed that at least twelve of the Yermolayevs had made it through to their target. Markov felt a huge swell of pride at the achievement. Our Amerikanskiye brat'ya may have their B-29s that are so far in advance of our Yermolayevs that it is hard to believe they come from the same century but we have one great thing that they cannot equal. We are here, and they are not. Ours are better! And when we get home and tell the world that, because the Americans are our Brat'ya pokrovi, our blood-brothers, we have avenged the attack on New York for them, then our alliance will be secure. And who knows where that will lead?
Markov gave the course north-east that would take them back to the Baltic and then, eventually to the base at Kasimovo. As he did so, he looked towards the lightening sky in the east with alarm. It was still hours until dawn but they were flying into the rising sun, not away from it. He knew, he had always known, that the dawn would catch the scattered Russian bombers long before they were safe in their own airspace line and an encounter between a single bomber and a fascist fighter plane would not end well for the bomber. Still, tonight we have achieved the unachievable and even if we are all lost, that will not change the work that has been done. That was when he got the uneasy feeling that the political side of the operation would be even more successful if the bombers suffered heavy losses, making their sacrifice more striking. Markov carefully dismissed that thought from his mind.
Friedrichstrasse, Berlin, Germany
Despite Goebbel’s appeals for a frugal “Front Christmas” to mark the sacrifices of the troops on the Russian Front, Berliners had not given up their pre-Christmas festivities although in deference to orders they had toned them down. Yet, the Friedrichstrasse had a Christmas Tree and it was decorated with candles and a few other ornaments. There was even a small band playing seasonal tunes, although for obvious reasons, the military bands that had played there before the war were absent. Meanwhile the local inhabitants were making their rounds to greet their neighbors and exchange traditional greetings. The more optimistic noted that the atmosphere was lighter than in previous war Christmas celebrations. The news of the missile strike on New York had come in just a couple of days before and was not the Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda promising that soon the whole of the American east coast would be cowering under the attacks?
The music had stopped for a moment while the musicians downed a much-needed pint of beer when the air raid sirens went off and the searchlights around Berlin flicked on and started searching the sky. The sight met with cheers from the revelers in the Friedrichstrasse who assumed that the crews on the searchlights and anti-aircraft batteries were entering into the spirit of the season. Cheers and applause rang around the street party and seemed to be spreading across the city. Then one of the searchlights caught an aircraft flying over the city and the others immediately swung to focus on it in a cone of light.
“It’s an ‘Einkel!” One of the children called out and there was a brief surge of cheer at the unexpected fly-past by the Luftwaffe. Then it dawned on people that its engine sound was very unfamiliar and its wings and fuselage were marked with red stars. The more astute were already beginning to run for cover when the bomb bay doors started to open. What happened next was bewildering. The Russian bomber had dropped a single large weapon that seemed to break up in mid-air. In doing so, it had scattered 150 three-kilogram bomblets all down the Friedrichstrasse. About a third of them exploded on impact sending fragments scything through the festivities and leaving carnage on the ground behind them. The other two thirds did not explode. Instead they were left on the road surface or had rolled into hidden holes or drains. Some had delayed action fuses and would explode sometime in the next 48 hours. Others were fitted with anti-handling devices that would cause them to explode when somebody moved or tried to defuse them. With over a dozen bombers surviving to drop a single RRAB-500 each on Berlin, there were enough unexploded bomblets to paralyze the city for days.
That was very much for the future though. The immediate effect of the completely unexpected bombing was to cause panic. The crowd surged backwards and forwards before beginning to stampede down the Friedrichstrasse. It was already chaos when one idiot saw an unexploded bomblet rolling on the street and tried to pick it up. The anti-handling device worked according to the manual and detonated the one kilogram charge in the bomblet and sent a spray of shrapnel through the crowd. Panic was replaced by terror since now everything unfamiliar was mistaken for a bomblet and avoided. In days to come, those trying to clear the streets would find themselves called to a dozen or more false reports for every genuine bomblet they found. For all that, even months later, unexploded bomblets would still be found in sewers or the nooks and crannies of rooftops and would still claim their victims.
The crowds surged down the streets, trying to seek shelter from the sudden assault. There were bomb shelters available; in fact, the city was quite well provided with them but five years of apparent immunity from attack had caused the system for their use to atrophy. There was no communication between the air raid wardens who were supposed to unlock the shelters and shepherd people inside and the air defenses. As a result, people backed up outside the locked shelters, trying to get inside. Casualties mounted as the weaker were crushed against the concrete walls or trampled underfoot. It didn’t help matters that the guns on the great flak towers were firing but the shelters within those towers were inaccessible. As the panic spread, civil administration broke down completely and that caused the casualties being suffered to increase far beyond the relatively tiny numbers caused by the handful of Russian bombers.
The final straw was when the crowd saw the much larger explosions as the three hundred-kilo bombs also carried by the Er-2s hit the railway stations and other targets scattered across the city and they knew that the war had finally reached them. Civilian morale crashed and would never quite recover. In a few hours, the civilian population of Berlin realized that the raid had been no more than a pin-prick, a magicians trick that created an image where only a tiny seed of reality existed. Yet, even a tiny pin-prick will burst a balloon and the carefully-cultivated German sense of immunity from the war was just such a balloon. It had burst and would never return.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Forty
Boiler Room, T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, At Sea, North West of Norway
The rising sun met with cheering from the surviving crew of Shawnee, not because of the sun itself since that meant only more trouble and much more danger but because the fires that had enveloped the rear superstructure had finally been extinguished. That had allowed the wreckage of the Ju-388 to be cut free and pushed over the side. The remains of the aircraft’s crew had been thrown over side as well, the ship’s crew making a point of doing so along with the ship’s garbage. After two years of the brutal fighting over the North Atlantic convoys, there was no magnanimity left for an enemy. The rear superstructure itself was burned black and twisted from the impact of the bomber; the quad-40mm and the 5-inch gun were write-offs and the 20mms were either gone or needed replacement crews. The burning gasoline from the aircraft had decimated the men in open positions although those inside the ship had survived.
Steve Perry was one of the lucky ones. His shift had been in one of the boiler rooms when Shawnee had been hit, otherwise he would have been on the quad forty when the Junkers had hit them. And that would have meant he would have died right there. Instead, he knew the sheer helpless terror of being in the machinery spaces with fires above him that had blocked his way out while firefighting water had flowed down and started to pool around their feet. He had been at the point of calculating when the water would be above his head and trying to work out whether he would be drowned or suffocated when the water had slowed and stopped. Then the fans had come back on and the water had been pumped out as the fresh air had flowed in. Yet, for all that, Shawnee was still dead in the water and that made her a dead duck the moment the fascists came back. A veteran of turboelectric machinery, Perry knew what the problem was. The shock from the two near misses had thrown the circuit breakers and cut the turbogenerators off from the electric motors. It needed one man, one minute to reset the circuit breakers and the ship would be under way again. Only, the fires had meant that one man couldn’t get to those breakers.
“Be grateful we’re on a Navy-designed ship, lad.” Engineering Officer Gary Tate was breathing the fresh air with almost bucolic pleasure. “The Navy insisted we have emergency diesel generators to cover a power outage. Lot of other tankers just rely on the turbogenerators in the boiler room. That cost them when they took a hit in the machinery.”
“Sir, we’re all squared away down here. Why don’t we get moving?” One of the other members of the black gang in the boiler room was less happy. Fresh air in the engine rooms was good to be sure but the prospect it might be followed by a hostile torpedo was still worrying.
Tate looked around. The truth was, qualified on conventional steam, he didn’t know why the ship wasn’t moving. Perry decided to save him the embarrassment of admitting ignorance. “Al, those two near misses must have thrown the circuit breakers in the motor room. As soon as Mr. Tate has reported that the turbogenerators are safe from shorts, he’ll get clearance from the Captain to send somebody to reset them. Probably me. I’ve done three voyages on diesel-electric tankers and they’re almost the same as these.”
“Thanks for volunteering Perry.” Tate mouthed the words ‘thank you’ and accompanied them with a friendly grin. So that’s why Perry got a Chief Engineer’s recommendation. Knows his stuff and tactful with it. “Pike’s right, we’re squared away. One more check to make sure there’s no loose ends. Last thing we want is a short with us all soaked in water.”
There was a quick conversation on the telephone, then he turned around. “Captain wants us under way, maximum power as soon as possible. Perry, take Pike and show him how to reset the circuit breakers. Mr. Fields, go with them and report when we have power to the electric motors restored.”
Outside the boiler room, the bulkheads were stained black from the fires overhead. Debris had come down, none of it that serious but all enough to make the footing uncertain. “We need to head for the switching compartment, Mr. Fields, The circuit breakers are separate from the motor room."
"Lead on, lad." That was Field's only reply.
The switching compartment's hatch was jammed in place. Perry was about to try and open it when Fields stopped him. "We don't know what's the other side of that hatch yet. We need to be damned careful." He very cautiously felt the clips and listened. "It's cool and silent. It's not burning in there and I don’t think its flooding. We'd better get it open."
It took all three men's strength to get it opened. Once they'd managed it, Perry looked inside. "Watchkeeper is dead Mr. Fields. Looks like the shock from those bombs brought the overhead down on him and cracked his skull. I can see the circuit breakers, they need resetting all right. Everything else looks fine. We can get current through to the motors any time Captain gives the word."
Fields went to the speaking tube and exchanged two very brief comments. "Captain says, word given. Get this ship under way Perry."
Bridge, T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, At Sea, North West of Norway
There was another thunderous burst of cheering as the sea around Shawnee’s stern started boiling white and the tanker started to move forward. The difference between moving slowly and not moving at all in waters dominated by enemy aircraft and submarines could be measured by the smiles on the faces of the crew. The difference was profound and the smiles were radiant with relief.
“Well done, Mr. Tate.” Captain Brady was privately sighing with relief. “A damned fine job getting the engines up and running.”
“Not me, Sir. That was Perry. He knew exactly what to do and got on with it. Sir, I didn’t. I was put on this ship at the last minute and whoever assigned me didn’t know turbine and turbo-electric are very different. I’ve been learning as fast as I can but when the crunch came, I just didn’t know enough. Perry did, and slipped me the word quiet like. Never let on he knew what was what and I didn’t. I owe him big-time.”
Brady made a mental note to commend Tate for his honesty and willingness to take advice from his subordinates. He had known a lot of men in Tate’s place who would have rather let the ship sink than admit they took advice from a just-certificated seaman. He also made a note to flay the company personnel department alive for assigning him to a turboelectric tanker in the first place. “That’s still a well-done Mr. Tate. Now, get Shawnee up to absolute maximum speed. We did 25.5 knots a couple of days ago outrunning a Gnat. I want to see at least that. The convoy is at least a hundred miles ahead of us by now and running at 20 knots. I want to be back with them by dawn tomorrow. By that time we will be rounding the Cape and heading down to the White Sea.”
“Sir. Urgent radio message from the Company. Marked private and in your personal code.”
“Thank you Sparky.” Brady took the message and went to his private cabin where he decoded the slip of paper. As he did so, he went white. “Oh My God.”
A few minutes later, Young, answering the call on the loudspeakers to report to the Captain’s cabin, knocked on the door. From inside he heard the soft “Come on in, Dougie, and close the door behind you.”
“Sir?”
“Take a seat, Dougie. I have just received a message from the Company headquarters. I have to tell you that New York was hit by two flying bombs just over 24 hours ago. Apparently, they were fired from a submarine. One landed in Manhattan, the other in Staten Island. So far there are 387 known dead and over a thousand wounded. There are a lot of people still missing, how many we don’t know yet.”
Young’s stomach clenched. “Darlene is she . . . . ? Our baby . . . . .?”
“Dougie, I am so sorry. Darlene is amongst the missing. She could be wounded and in a hospital somewhere; everybody is still trying to get the admissions records sorted out. I have to tell you that the flying bomb hitting Staten Island landed almost directly on your house. There’s nothing left of it. Now, the Company personnel office has hired two private detectives to find Darlene. They’re the best money can buy, from a group called the Rivers Detective Agency. Even the FBI use them sometimes to help out, they’re that good. They won’t stop until they find Darlene if she has escaped.” Brady left the words ‘or what happened if she didn’t’ unsaid. “But, if she was in your house, well, you’d better prepare for the worst. The Company personnel director has told me to tell you they will do everything they can and if you need any help, just let them know and they’ll deal with it for you."
"Captain, may I ask one thing? What are we carrying?"
Brady understood what the question really was about. Young wasn't really interested in the cargo except in that Shawnee hadn't blown up when she was hit the way the two avgas tankers had. He really wanted to know that what they were doing out here was worthwhile. That at least was something Brady could help with. "You've heard how much trouble the fascist jets are causing. Well, we're training our own jet pilots right now and the fuel we are carrying is for them. It's a bit like diesel, but not quite, and it’s really important. How did you know?"
"My old man was a worker in one of the refineries. I knew the smell of all the oil fractions by the time I was six. Happiest day of his life was when he heard he had a grandkid coming."
Kolkhoz 218-U, Ukhtinskoye, Onega Oblast
The tanks of the 95th Tank Brigade led the attack, carrying the tankodesantniki crouched down behind the turrets. The formation was deliberately designed to be a terrifying spectacle for any defending enemy. At Kolkhoz 218, about 100 tanks and self-propelled guns were attacking on a narrow sector of the front. That was just the armored spearhead. Behind the tanks and assault guns, over a thousand soldiers were running hard, trying to take maximum advantage of the disruption caused by the artillery barrage and the fast-moving thrust of the armor. Despite the roar of the engines, the crash of the artillery shells and the shriek of high-velocity armor-piercing shots bouncing off sloped armor, the battlefield with filled with the Russian infantry’s thunderous and continuous shouts of ‘Urrah! Urrah!’
For all that, the briefly stunned fascist defenders quickly came to their senses. The leading elements of the attack had only managed to cross only about half of the field, when the Hitlerite gunners were already laying down a reverse rolling barrage on the attackers. The fascist guns were firing from their positions to the west and slowly dropping their range so that the belt of shell bursts continued to fall on the heads of the approaching infantry. More guns were firing from the south over the heads of their own troops. These were the most worrying guns of all; their position meant that their shells would strike the assault guns’ weaker side armor and threatened to inflict heavy equipment losses. Yet, it was still the infantry, advancing across the vast expanse of open ground who had the hardest time. For them, there was not a single hillock or shrub, not a dip in the ground or low ridgeline that could provide them with even the smallest shred of cover. Only the steadily advancing tanks and assault guns could do that.
By the time that Pakholkov had moved the 1435th Regiment up to its position on the northern edge of the battle area, the tanks of the 95th had already broken through the front-line fascist positions. The T-34-85s were already moving up against the fire emplacements of an enemy artillery battery. They suppressed the guns with fire from their cannons and machine guns while the sub-machine gunners jumped from the vehicles to storm the positions. With the help of the JSU-152 assault guns, they swarmed over the artillery positions, shooting down the gunners and smashing their weapons in a vicious firefight that ended only when they broke through the support line of the defenses and took the road that lay behind them. There, the fascists had thrown in their counter-attack.
To the now-experienced artillerists of the 1435th, the enemy assault followed the pattern set earlier in the prolonged fighting around the Onega. The lead positions taken by the Russian assault were brought under a short, intense artillery bombardment. As the smoke and dirt cleared, Tiger tanks were already moving forward in small groups, looking for junctions and flanks that would allow them to bypass company and battalion-held defensive strongpoints. Those would be left to the infantry following 500–600 meters behind and supported by assault guns who were already at work, neutralizing the Russian anti-tank weapons. As usual, lighter Panzer IV tanks were covering the flanks while the rear was brought up by infantry in armored vehicles ready to pour forward as soon as the heavy tanks had found a way through. As usual the fascists were doing their best to penetrate as far as possible into the positions so recently seized by the Russian attack. Pakholkov knew that their plan was to make their way through and then to strike the Russian positions from the rear and to capture the most important positions in the depths of their defenses. The SU-100s were there to stop them doing just that.
All Faina could see in front of her position was the white slope of a snow-covered ridge. It wasn’t a high ridge but it was enough to shield the whitewashed SU-100 completely. Only, she knew that in the gunner’s position, Vasily Andreyevich was watching through the wide-angle periscopic sight installed in the roof. That sight even had a gunner’s reticule installed. Baranov had used it to pick out the lead Tiger I, almost 2,000 meters away and train the 100mm gun on it. Yet, all the Tiger would be able to see would be the two small hoods of the sight and the SU-100s radio aerials. Neither were visible at such a range. “Fainatchka, can you give me ten degrees to the left?”
Faina’s hands moved surely as she backed the tank destroyer, made a slight neutral turn and then moved forward again. “There you are, Vasya.”
“Perfect. Now – forward as fast as you can!” Faina slammed the tank destroyer into forward and saw the white of the slope suddenly replaced by the blue of the sky and the fields with the advancing Hitlerites coming steadily at the Russian forces. Then the 100mm gun crashed and she threw the SU-100 into reverse and backed up, taking her back into the cover of the slope. As she did she was already turning and preparing for her move to another position. All the SU-100s were doing the same, even the ones without the long-distance rangefinders. No sane tank destroyer crew ever fired from the same position twice.
“GOT HIM!” Vasily Andreyevich’s scream of triumph echoed around the tank destroyer. “Straight through the front! He’s burning. Burn you bastards, you deserve that crematorium! It will save us the ammunition!”
“Calm down, bratishka, we have more work to do this day.” Nikola Ilyich Demkin could see what was happening out in front even better than his gunner. The fascist assault had hesitated, confused by the sudden destruction of two of the mighty Tiger tanks by shots that had apparently come from nowhere. He guessed that the Tiger commanders were frantically scanning the ridges for hull-down tank destroyers but had been fooled by the unprecedented range of the engagement. Normally, Russian tanks and tank destroyers engaged at five to eight hundred meters, not two thousand.
“15 degrees right, Fainatchka.”
The SU-100 lurched and twisted on its tracks, guided by Faina’s expert touch on the controls. Then, with an APCBC round already loaded, the tank destroyer leapt forward, the gun already aimed at its target, and fired. Only, this time the retreat back to cover had only just been fast enough. In the commander’s cupola, Demkin could swear, and would for the rest of his life, that he had felt the wind of a Hitlerite 88 passing through his hair. Obviously the fascist tank commanders, never slow on the uptake, had figured out that there was a new sheriff on the battlefield, one capable of hitting and destroying tanks at unexpectedly long ranges. Once that realization had been made, spotting the good position and waiting for the new tank destroyers to show themselves had been the obvious move.
Yet, it was too late for the Panzerkeil that formed the center of the fascist attack. Five of the seven Tigers had already been knocked out, either ominously silent or burning, and the other two were damaged and immobile. More importantly, the left flanking group had run directly into the third battalion of the 95th Tank Brigade where they became engaged in a major slugging match with the T-34-85s. The Panzer IV company had already incurred significant losses: one tank was destroyed and stood motionless on the periphery, and two others were burning in white fields. Without any commands, the tanks and assault guns abruptly accelerated and began to weave, trying to throw off the aim of the T-34 gunners. Shells were exploding closer and closer, enveloping the armored vehicles with clouds of smoke. The fascist return fire was also picking up in lethality. Several T-34s had already been struck and were burning. The sight bitterly echoed in Demkin’s soul. Like every tanker or artillerist, he could all too easily picture how it was for their crews once hit. They had a choice of burning alive in their tanks or to leap out of the vehicle straight into the maelstrom of gunfire with their overalls on fire. However, the other T-34s could do nothing to help those who had come to grief, for to halt their vehicles to rescue a crew meant ruin for both. A motionless target inevitably becomes the enemy’s prey!
Demkin could see that the 95th was continuing to push forward with the support of the remaining SU-100s from the 1435th. They might not have periscopic sights and cross-hull rangefinders like the sniper SU-100Ms, but their weapons would still tear right through a Panzer IV. With their support, the third battalion of 95th pushed through the fascist force after an intense fight with significant losses and reached the road to Ponga.
The fascist artillery fire had intensified as the gunners tried to cover the retreat of the Hitlerites. Already five more of the Russian tanks were burning on the battlefield and one of the SU-100 tank destroyers hadn’t been quick enough to get back into cover and was silently immobile. With relief Pakholkov noted that it wasn’t burning and that meant it could be recovered and repaired. In what had once been the fascist main line of resistance, the infantry and the submachine-gunners were now locked in hand-to-hand fighting. The vicious ripping noise of machine guns and submachine-guns were chattering everywhere in foxholes, trenches, communication trenches and weapon emplacements. The whole main line of resistance area had turned into a surging, swaying mass of blood-crazed men trying to smash down their opponents with any weapon that came to hand. The battle zone was lost in a mass of choking smoke and soot while the ground heaved with the explosions of artillery, mortars and hand grenades. An yet, for all that there would be sudden, brief instances of near silence when the crews of the SU-100s could instantly hear the screams of wounded men and the crackle of burning vehicles.
Eventually, the fascist infantry broke and slowly retreated, giving ground as reluctantly as they always did. Having dislodged the enemy from the high road, the Russians tried to switch to a pursuit of the retreating enemy, but almost immediately ran into another defensive screen. This time, they were too weakened by the earlier defenses and failed to break through it. It didn’t really matter; what was important was that the Hitlerites intending to break through from the south and reinforce the Jagdtigers in their lonely stand had been pushed back.
Boiler Room, T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, At Sea, North West of Norway
The rising sun met with cheering from the surviving crew of Shawnee, not because of the sun itself since that meant only more trouble and much more danger but because the fires that had enveloped the rear superstructure had finally been extinguished. That had allowed the wreckage of the Ju-388 to be cut free and pushed over the side. The remains of the aircraft’s crew had been thrown over side as well, the ship’s crew making a point of doing so along with the ship’s garbage. After two years of the brutal fighting over the North Atlantic convoys, there was no magnanimity left for an enemy. The rear superstructure itself was burned black and twisted from the impact of the bomber; the quad-40mm and the 5-inch gun were write-offs and the 20mms were either gone or needed replacement crews. The burning gasoline from the aircraft had decimated the men in open positions although those inside the ship had survived.
Steve Perry was one of the lucky ones. His shift had been in one of the boiler rooms when Shawnee had been hit, otherwise he would have been on the quad forty when the Junkers had hit them. And that would have meant he would have died right there. Instead, he knew the sheer helpless terror of being in the machinery spaces with fires above him that had blocked his way out while firefighting water had flowed down and started to pool around their feet. He had been at the point of calculating when the water would be above his head and trying to work out whether he would be drowned or suffocated when the water had slowed and stopped. Then the fans had come back on and the water had been pumped out as the fresh air had flowed in. Yet, for all that, Shawnee was still dead in the water and that made her a dead duck the moment the fascists came back. A veteran of turboelectric machinery, Perry knew what the problem was. The shock from the two near misses had thrown the circuit breakers and cut the turbogenerators off from the electric motors. It needed one man, one minute to reset the circuit breakers and the ship would be under way again. Only, the fires had meant that one man couldn’t get to those breakers.
“Be grateful we’re on a Navy-designed ship, lad.” Engineering Officer Gary Tate was breathing the fresh air with almost bucolic pleasure. “The Navy insisted we have emergency diesel generators to cover a power outage. Lot of other tankers just rely on the turbogenerators in the boiler room. That cost them when they took a hit in the machinery.”
“Sir, we’re all squared away down here. Why don’t we get moving?” One of the other members of the black gang in the boiler room was less happy. Fresh air in the engine rooms was good to be sure but the prospect it might be followed by a hostile torpedo was still worrying.
Tate looked around. The truth was, qualified on conventional steam, he didn’t know why the ship wasn’t moving. Perry decided to save him the embarrassment of admitting ignorance. “Al, those two near misses must have thrown the circuit breakers in the motor room. As soon as Mr. Tate has reported that the turbogenerators are safe from shorts, he’ll get clearance from the Captain to send somebody to reset them. Probably me. I’ve done three voyages on diesel-electric tankers and they’re almost the same as these.”
“Thanks for volunteering Perry.” Tate mouthed the words ‘thank you’ and accompanied them with a friendly grin. So that’s why Perry got a Chief Engineer’s recommendation. Knows his stuff and tactful with it. “Pike’s right, we’re squared away. One more check to make sure there’s no loose ends. Last thing we want is a short with us all soaked in water.”
There was a quick conversation on the telephone, then he turned around. “Captain wants us under way, maximum power as soon as possible. Perry, take Pike and show him how to reset the circuit breakers. Mr. Fields, go with them and report when we have power to the electric motors restored.”
Outside the boiler room, the bulkheads were stained black from the fires overhead. Debris had come down, none of it that serious but all enough to make the footing uncertain. “We need to head for the switching compartment, Mr. Fields, The circuit breakers are separate from the motor room."
"Lead on, lad." That was Field's only reply.
The switching compartment's hatch was jammed in place. Perry was about to try and open it when Fields stopped him. "We don't know what's the other side of that hatch yet. We need to be damned careful." He very cautiously felt the clips and listened. "It's cool and silent. It's not burning in there and I don’t think its flooding. We'd better get it open."
It took all three men's strength to get it opened. Once they'd managed it, Perry looked inside. "Watchkeeper is dead Mr. Fields. Looks like the shock from those bombs brought the overhead down on him and cracked his skull. I can see the circuit breakers, they need resetting all right. Everything else looks fine. We can get current through to the motors any time Captain gives the word."
Fields went to the speaking tube and exchanged two very brief comments. "Captain says, word given. Get this ship under way Perry."
Bridge, T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, At Sea, North West of Norway
There was another thunderous burst of cheering as the sea around Shawnee’s stern started boiling white and the tanker started to move forward. The difference between moving slowly and not moving at all in waters dominated by enemy aircraft and submarines could be measured by the smiles on the faces of the crew. The difference was profound and the smiles were radiant with relief.
“Well done, Mr. Tate.” Captain Brady was privately sighing with relief. “A damned fine job getting the engines up and running.”
“Not me, Sir. That was Perry. He knew exactly what to do and got on with it. Sir, I didn’t. I was put on this ship at the last minute and whoever assigned me didn’t know turbine and turbo-electric are very different. I’ve been learning as fast as I can but when the crunch came, I just didn’t know enough. Perry did, and slipped me the word quiet like. Never let on he knew what was what and I didn’t. I owe him big-time.”
Brady made a mental note to commend Tate for his honesty and willingness to take advice from his subordinates. He had known a lot of men in Tate’s place who would have rather let the ship sink than admit they took advice from a just-certificated seaman. He also made a note to flay the company personnel department alive for assigning him to a turboelectric tanker in the first place. “That’s still a well-done Mr. Tate. Now, get Shawnee up to absolute maximum speed. We did 25.5 knots a couple of days ago outrunning a Gnat. I want to see at least that. The convoy is at least a hundred miles ahead of us by now and running at 20 knots. I want to be back with them by dawn tomorrow. By that time we will be rounding the Cape and heading down to the White Sea.”
“Sir. Urgent radio message from the Company. Marked private and in your personal code.”
“Thank you Sparky.” Brady took the message and went to his private cabin where he decoded the slip of paper. As he did so, he went white. “Oh My God.”
A few minutes later, Young, answering the call on the loudspeakers to report to the Captain’s cabin, knocked on the door. From inside he heard the soft “Come on in, Dougie, and close the door behind you.”
“Sir?”
“Take a seat, Dougie. I have just received a message from the Company headquarters. I have to tell you that New York was hit by two flying bombs just over 24 hours ago. Apparently, they were fired from a submarine. One landed in Manhattan, the other in Staten Island. So far there are 387 known dead and over a thousand wounded. There are a lot of people still missing, how many we don’t know yet.”
Young’s stomach clenched. “Darlene is she . . . . ? Our baby . . . . .?”
“Dougie, I am so sorry. Darlene is amongst the missing. She could be wounded and in a hospital somewhere; everybody is still trying to get the admissions records sorted out. I have to tell you that the flying bomb hitting Staten Island landed almost directly on your house. There’s nothing left of it. Now, the Company personnel office has hired two private detectives to find Darlene. They’re the best money can buy, from a group called the Rivers Detective Agency. Even the FBI use them sometimes to help out, they’re that good. They won’t stop until they find Darlene if she has escaped.” Brady left the words ‘or what happened if she didn’t’ unsaid. “But, if she was in your house, well, you’d better prepare for the worst. The Company personnel director has told me to tell you they will do everything they can and if you need any help, just let them know and they’ll deal with it for you."
"Captain, may I ask one thing? What are we carrying?"
Brady understood what the question really was about. Young wasn't really interested in the cargo except in that Shawnee hadn't blown up when she was hit the way the two avgas tankers had. He really wanted to know that what they were doing out here was worthwhile. That at least was something Brady could help with. "You've heard how much trouble the fascist jets are causing. Well, we're training our own jet pilots right now and the fuel we are carrying is for them. It's a bit like diesel, but not quite, and it’s really important. How did you know?"
"My old man was a worker in one of the refineries. I knew the smell of all the oil fractions by the time I was six. Happiest day of his life was when he heard he had a grandkid coming."
Kolkhoz 218-U, Ukhtinskoye, Onega Oblast
The tanks of the 95th Tank Brigade led the attack, carrying the tankodesantniki crouched down behind the turrets. The formation was deliberately designed to be a terrifying spectacle for any defending enemy. At Kolkhoz 218, about 100 tanks and self-propelled guns were attacking on a narrow sector of the front. That was just the armored spearhead. Behind the tanks and assault guns, over a thousand soldiers were running hard, trying to take maximum advantage of the disruption caused by the artillery barrage and the fast-moving thrust of the armor. Despite the roar of the engines, the crash of the artillery shells and the shriek of high-velocity armor-piercing shots bouncing off sloped armor, the battlefield with filled with the Russian infantry’s thunderous and continuous shouts of ‘Urrah! Urrah!’
For all that, the briefly stunned fascist defenders quickly came to their senses. The leading elements of the attack had only managed to cross only about half of the field, when the Hitlerite gunners were already laying down a reverse rolling barrage on the attackers. The fascist guns were firing from their positions to the west and slowly dropping their range so that the belt of shell bursts continued to fall on the heads of the approaching infantry. More guns were firing from the south over the heads of their own troops. These were the most worrying guns of all; their position meant that their shells would strike the assault guns’ weaker side armor and threatened to inflict heavy equipment losses. Yet, it was still the infantry, advancing across the vast expanse of open ground who had the hardest time. For them, there was not a single hillock or shrub, not a dip in the ground or low ridgeline that could provide them with even the smallest shred of cover. Only the steadily advancing tanks and assault guns could do that.
By the time that Pakholkov had moved the 1435th Regiment up to its position on the northern edge of the battle area, the tanks of the 95th had already broken through the front-line fascist positions. The T-34-85s were already moving up against the fire emplacements of an enemy artillery battery. They suppressed the guns with fire from their cannons and machine guns while the sub-machine gunners jumped from the vehicles to storm the positions. With the help of the JSU-152 assault guns, they swarmed over the artillery positions, shooting down the gunners and smashing their weapons in a vicious firefight that ended only when they broke through the support line of the defenses and took the road that lay behind them. There, the fascists had thrown in their counter-attack.
To the now-experienced artillerists of the 1435th, the enemy assault followed the pattern set earlier in the prolonged fighting around the Onega. The lead positions taken by the Russian assault were brought under a short, intense artillery bombardment. As the smoke and dirt cleared, Tiger tanks were already moving forward in small groups, looking for junctions and flanks that would allow them to bypass company and battalion-held defensive strongpoints. Those would be left to the infantry following 500–600 meters behind and supported by assault guns who were already at work, neutralizing the Russian anti-tank weapons. As usual, lighter Panzer IV tanks were covering the flanks while the rear was brought up by infantry in armored vehicles ready to pour forward as soon as the heavy tanks had found a way through. As usual the fascists were doing their best to penetrate as far as possible into the positions so recently seized by the Russian attack. Pakholkov knew that their plan was to make their way through and then to strike the Russian positions from the rear and to capture the most important positions in the depths of their defenses. The SU-100s were there to stop them doing just that.
All Faina could see in front of her position was the white slope of a snow-covered ridge. It wasn’t a high ridge but it was enough to shield the whitewashed SU-100 completely. Only, she knew that in the gunner’s position, Vasily Andreyevich was watching through the wide-angle periscopic sight installed in the roof. That sight even had a gunner’s reticule installed. Baranov had used it to pick out the lead Tiger I, almost 2,000 meters away and train the 100mm gun on it. Yet, all the Tiger would be able to see would be the two small hoods of the sight and the SU-100s radio aerials. Neither were visible at such a range. “Fainatchka, can you give me ten degrees to the left?”
Faina’s hands moved surely as she backed the tank destroyer, made a slight neutral turn and then moved forward again. “There you are, Vasya.”
“Perfect. Now – forward as fast as you can!” Faina slammed the tank destroyer into forward and saw the white of the slope suddenly replaced by the blue of the sky and the fields with the advancing Hitlerites coming steadily at the Russian forces. Then the 100mm gun crashed and she threw the SU-100 into reverse and backed up, taking her back into the cover of the slope. As she did she was already turning and preparing for her move to another position. All the SU-100s were doing the same, even the ones without the long-distance rangefinders. No sane tank destroyer crew ever fired from the same position twice.
“GOT HIM!” Vasily Andreyevich’s scream of triumph echoed around the tank destroyer. “Straight through the front! He’s burning. Burn you bastards, you deserve that crematorium! It will save us the ammunition!”
“Calm down, bratishka, we have more work to do this day.” Nikola Ilyich Demkin could see what was happening out in front even better than his gunner. The fascist assault had hesitated, confused by the sudden destruction of two of the mighty Tiger tanks by shots that had apparently come from nowhere. He guessed that the Tiger commanders were frantically scanning the ridges for hull-down tank destroyers but had been fooled by the unprecedented range of the engagement. Normally, Russian tanks and tank destroyers engaged at five to eight hundred meters, not two thousand.
“15 degrees right, Fainatchka.”
The SU-100 lurched and twisted on its tracks, guided by Faina’s expert touch on the controls. Then, with an APCBC round already loaded, the tank destroyer leapt forward, the gun already aimed at its target, and fired. Only, this time the retreat back to cover had only just been fast enough. In the commander’s cupola, Demkin could swear, and would for the rest of his life, that he had felt the wind of a Hitlerite 88 passing through his hair. Obviously the fascist tank commanders, never slow on the uptake, had figured out that there was a new sheriff on the battlefield, one capable of hitting and destroying tanks at unexpectedly long ranges. Once that realization had been made, spotting the good position and waiting for the new tank destroyers to show themselves had been the obvious move.
Yet, it was too late for the Panzerkeil that formed the center of the fascist attack. Five of the seven Tigers had already been knocked out, either ominously silent or burning, and the other two were damaged and immobile. More importantly, the left flanking group had run directly into the third battalion of the 95th Tank Brigade where they became engaged in a major slugging match with the T-34-85s. The Panzer IV company had already incurred significant losses: one tank was destroyed and stood motionless on the periphery, and two others were burning in white fields. Without any commands, the tanks and assault guns abruptly accelerated and began to weave, trying to throw off the aim of the T-34 gunners. Shells were exploding closer and closer, enveloping the armored vehicles with clouds of smoke. The fascist return fire was also picking up in lethality. Several T-34s had already been struck and were burning. The sight bitterly echoed in Demkin’s soul. Like every tanker or artillerist, he could all too easily picture how it was for their crews once hit. They had a choice of burning alive in their tanks or to leap out of the vehicle straight into the maelstrom of gunfire with their overalls on fire. However, the other T-34s could do nothing to help those who had come to grief, for to halt their vehicles to rescue a crew meant ruin for both. A motionless target inevitably becomes the enemy’s prey!
Demkin could see that the 95th was continuing to push forward with the support of the remaining SU-100s from the 1435th. They might not have periscopic sights and cross-hull rangefinders like the sniper SU-100Ms, but their weapons would still tear right through a Panzer IV. With their support, the third battalion of 95th pushed through the fascist force after an intense fight with significant losses and reached the road to Ponga.
The fascist artillery fire had intensified as the gunners tried to cover the retreat of the Hitlerites. Already five more of the Russian tanks were burning on the battlefield and one of the SU-100 tank destroyers hadn’t been quick enough to get back into cover and was silently immobile. With relief Pakholkov noted that it wasn’t burning and that meant it could be recovered and repaired. In what had once been the fascist main line of resistance, the infantry and the submachine-gunners were now locked in hand-to-hand fighting. The vicious ripping noise of machine guns and submachine-guns were chattering everywhere in foxholes, trenches, communication trenches and weapon emplacements. The whole main line of resistance area had turned into a surging, swaying mass of blood-crazed men trying to smash down their opponents with any weapon that came to hand. The battle zone was lost in a mass of choking smoke and soot while the ground heaved with the explosions of artillery, mortars and hand grenades. An yet, for all that there would be sudden, brief instances of near silence when the crews of the SU-100s could instantly hear the screams of wounded men and the crackle of burning vehicles.
Eventually, the fascist infantry broke and slowly retreated, giving ground as reluctantly as they always did. Having dislodged the enemy from the high road, the Russians tried to switch to a pursuit of the retreating enemy, but almost immediately ran into another defensive screen. This time, they were too weakened by the earlier defenses and failed to break through it. It didn’t really matter; what was important was that the Hitlerites intending to break through from the south and reinforce the Jagdtigers in their lonely stand had been pushed back.