Spiral of Destruction
Central Committee Room, STAVKA, Yekaterinburg. June 1944.
The sound of four officers marching in step echoed through the corridors. Anybody who had been accustomed to the palatial accommodation and art treasures of the Moscow Kremlin would have been shocked by the bleak, undecorated walls and the utilitarian furniture. But, the Moscow Kremlin was no more and the relics it had contained had been either taken to Germany or burned. STAVKA was a military command headquarters as well as the capital of the Russian Federation. Austerity and stark simplicity were the watchwords. President Zhukov had made it very clear that every luxury here in Yekaterinburg meant Russian soldiers going without necessities. Even after the Americans had arrived with their overwhelming wealth of supplies, the pattern of life in STAVKA remained Spartan.
The guards outside the Central Committee Room opened the doors and allowed the party in. Another change; once the visitors would have had to surrender their side-arms but those days were gone. Anyway, the Army dominated STAVKA, and they believed airmen couldn’t hit a barn with a pistol even while standing inside it.
"Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov, here at your command to serve the Rodina. I request permission to address the Central Committee." Rodina not The Party, Central Committee, not Supreme Soviet. How far we have come.
"Permission granted, Viktor Alexandrovich." Zhukov's reply was as curt and as matter-of-fact as the request it granted.
"I have with me tovarish Colonel Ilya Vasilyevich Gorbunov, my deputy officer for political affairs." That was yet another change. Once the officer for political affairs had the duty of helping the politicians deal with over-ambitious officers. Now, their job was to help officers deal with over-intrusive politicians. "Also, tovarish Major Aleksandr Viktorovich Robenstorg, my operations officer, and tovarish Major Viktor Dmitrievich Frolov, my senior pilot. All of us are from the 786th Bomber Regiment. We propose the conversion of this regiment, and at least one other, into long-range bomber regiments." Tomasov had been advised it was desirable to get straight to the point and not waste these people's time.
"Interesting." General Chuikov had his fingers interlaced in front of his face and he peered over them thoughtfully. "Long-range aviation had hardly covered itself in glory before it was disbanded. We spent much in the way of vital resources, lost many aircraft, and yet achieved little. Has so much changed? What aircraft does the 786th fly?"
"Tupolev Tu-2S, tovarish General."
"And this aircraft is unsatisfactory?"
"It is a fine aircraft, tovarish General, superior to anything the Americans will supply us with. It is possible to maneuver the aircraft like a fighter, it can survive heavy damage, and it is fast. But it has a short-range and is only suitable for attacking targets by the front line. This is a grave weakness. We need a means of striking deeper into occupied territory. Or further."
"Yet when we tried, we failed." Zhukov had summed the situation in one simple phrase.
"Tovarish President, we made terrible blunders. We sent aircraft out singly or in pairs, in daylight against heavily-defended targets. Our aircraft was shot down in great numbers and achieved little. We would not wish to repeat that experience.
"I am glad to hear it." General Rokossovsky sounded droll. "The Americans do what they do because they have practiced it for many years and they mass their force so they can blast their way through to their target. Their long-range bombers are surrounded by a cloud of fighters wherever they go. Do you suggest that we do the same?"
"No, tovarish General. We have no suitable aircraft and the Americans cannot supply us with them. Also, their heavy bombers are armed with between twelve and eighteen 12.7mm machine guns. The most heavily-armed of ours have but three."
"So what, tovarish Colonel, do you suggest?"
Robenstorg stepped forward. "We cannot punch our way in daylight. Even the Americans accept losses when they try and their air fleet outweighs our own. But, we can go in at night. Just like our comrades in the 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment. They did well when they flew the Polikarpov biplanes. Now that the Americans have given them A-20s, they are the terror of the fascist rear areas. We would strike deeper still and spread fear so much further that no fascist will sleep easily in his bed."
"And you wish us to ask for American heavy bombers for that?" Chuikov shook his head. "You said this yourself, the Americans need every B-29 and B-33 they can produce themselves and the B-33 is a short-range aircraft also. Even their remaining B-17s are hard-worked."
It was Frolov's turn. "We already have a suitable aircraft, tovarish General. The Yermolayev Er-2. It was built with radial engines before the war started but it was slow, used poorly and many were lost. The rest serve in training units. But, the designers have produced a version with diesel engines that has a range almost equal to that of the B-29. Of course, it is even slower than the original version and it has only a small fraction of the bombload of the American aircraft. But, our comrades in the 46th have taught us that it is not the size of the bombload that matters but where we put it. If we authorize the production of this aircraft, the new diesel-engined Er-2 may be a valuable way of striking at the enemy while he sleeps."
"And your opinion, Ilya Vasilyevich?" Zhukov looked straight at the political officer.
"There is indeed a political aspect to this. The truth is that we are being overwhelmed in our own country, not by the Hitlerites but by the Americans. They are good guests this is true. If we need something, they cheerfully give it to us without complaint or short measure. Their aircraft fill the skies, even our pilots fly many of them. They send their young men to die in our defense. When we needed them, they were there and so it is that we are no longer alone. But their very generosity, the scale of their aid to us, dominates the image of the war. It will be easy to forget that we sacrificed so much in our defense. With the long-range bomber force, we can also strike deep at the fascists and join in the campaign against their rear areas. We will be beside the Americans, not following behind them."
The members of the Central Committee looked at each other. The extent to which American aid and forces were flooding into Russia had already been the subject of much discussion. "Brat'ya, you have spoken well. Wait outside."
Thirty minutes later, the deputation was summoned back into the Committee room. Zhukov looked up. "The 786th bomber regiment is hereby redesignated the 786th Long Range bomber regiment. It will report directly to STAVKA and its missions will be decided by us. We have ordered limited production of the ER-2. If you are a success, then other regiments will be formed and the Long Range Air Force will be a separate arm, distinct from Frontal Aviation. Leave us now."
Hiring Hall, National Maritime Union, 7th Avenue, New York. November 1944.
“Signing On! Signing On!” The bell-ringing by the sign-on booths silenced men in the room instantly. “Brothers, we have three ships signing on crew members today. Booths one through three are signing on all hands for the SS Martin Van Buren, a Liberty ship on war service. Standard Union rates apply. Decks hands, Booth One, black gang, Booth Two. Apprentices, Booth Three.”
There was a surge of men forward to the three booths. The Union Steward took a satisfied look at the queues and reflected on the near-full employment for his union members that the war had brought. Sometimes, if a big convoy was going out, the queues to sign on would stretch out through the doors. Even so, nobody looking for a berth had to wait more than a day or two. “All right, Booth Four is signing on deckhands only for the SS Samuel Huntington, a Liberty ship on war service. Samuel Huntington is due to sail on the tide so applicants should be prepared to join the ship immediately. Standard Union rates apply plus a 100-dollar signing-on bonus.”
Another surge of men, this time mostly youngsters who didn’t have families or any serious personal business to settle. There could be any number of reasons why a ship was recruiting deckhands so late, many ominous, but that didn’t discourage the would-be sailors.
“Third ship, Booth Five, Booth Six, and Booth Seven are signing on all hands for the SS Shawnee, a T3-SE-A4 tanker on war service. Double Union Rates apply for all crew members including apprentices. Decks hands, Booth Five, black gang, Booth Six. Apprentices, Booth Seven.”
“Double rates!” Apprentice Seaman Douglas Young, known to his friends as Dougie, was almost smacking his lips as he headed for Booth Seven. He had one voyage to go before his apprenticeship was up and he would join the ranks of the fully-qualified mariners. Much more to the point, he had a young wife and a baby on the way. Double Union would give the mother and child a comfortable income while he was away on the tanker. Beside him, Seaman Steve Perry was heading for Booth Five. He had completed his apprenticeship the previous month and had signed off another tanker for a week’s leave. Now, he had the itch to go back to sea again and it just would not be stilled.
“You’ll be sooorrrrrrryyyyy!” The catcalls from the men lining up for the Liberty ships echoed around the room. Crewing the tankers paid well, but the specter of being torpedoed and left to try and swim in a sea of blazing fuel oil hung over the men who followed the lure of high wages. It wasn’t a theoretical threat; two years earlier, the aircraft carrier Enterprise had been putting to sea. She had cleared the narrows and was rounding Sandy Hook Point when a U-Boat had put four torpedoes into her. Although she was just a hundred yards from the shore, the torpedoes had ruptured her avgas tanks and she had been surrounded by an inferno of blazing fuel. There weren’t many survivors and most of the men who had made it to shore had been badly burned. Some were still in the hospital. The doctors trying to repair the damage so they could lead something approaching a normal life. The burned-out wreck of the carrier was still there, a memorial and a warning that it was never too early for mortal peril to become manifest.
“Passport and certificates?” The clerk, Micheal Tucker, asked the question reflexively. Dougie Young had the package of documents out ready and handed it over. Tucker checked the passport against the man in front of him, noting that Young was wearing a clean, freshly-ironed shirt, a properly-tied necktie, and a pre-war but meticulously cleaned and pressed suit. Some men turned up at the Hiring Hall in their sea-going clothes, but Young’s wife insisted her man go out properly dressed. Her concern for him was about to pay off. Tucker looked through the certificates and stopped suddenly.
“You have a certificate of competence in Damage Control?”
“I did the full course at the Maritime Academy after my second run. It seemed like a good idea.”
Tucker chuckled at the understatement and took another look at the young man in front of him. It was the smartness of his turn-out that decided him. “I’ll sign you on to the Shawnee as an Experienced Deckhand. That means you’ll have to help standing watches.”
“Experienced Deckhand? That’s almost an Able Seaman rating!” Usually, apprentices were rated as ordinary seamen at best and did little more than chip paint. Serving as an Experienced Deckhand was a big jump towards Able Seaman status, something almost unheard-of for an apprentice.
“You’ll start there. You fill the shoes, you keep the job.” Tucker’s judgment on the positions he assigned men to was provisional at best. A good man might be promoted by the Master, but a man who couldn’t hack it would be demoted. A really bad apple might be put ashore at the next port and left to fend for himself. “Do you want to make an allotment?”
This was the portion of his pay that would be assigned to his dependents ashore. Once a week, his wife Darlene would come to the Union and collect her allotment. Young had already filled out most of the authorization form. He had left the percentage blank until he found out his position and rate but both were better than he had expected. He took in a deep breath and filled in eighty percent.
Tucker blinked. “Are you sure? That’s a big chunk of change.”
“Don’t need much money on a tanker and we’ve got a baby on the way. Darlene will need all the money I can get to her.”
Tucker’s already favorable impression of Young took another step upwards. Some seamen went out making only nominal allotments or even none at all. One of the roles of the Union was to try and resolve hardship cases where women had been left destitute by their men. Young was going the opposite way; his generous allotment would ensure his wife would be able to live comfortably and give the baby a good start. “Good for you, son. Take these papers to the master of the Shawnee tomorrow and he’ll settle you in. Next?”
Alongside the apprentice’s queue, Steve Perry had reached the counter and was handing over his passport and certificates. He’d also included a letter of recommendation he’d received from the Chief Engineer on his previous ship. That impressed the clerk; in his experience, a letter of recommendation from the Master was relatively commonplace but ones issued by Chief Engineers were as rare as hen’s teeth. That caused him to look carefully at the rest of the papers. They were the usual requirements, the four basic CDC certificates (Personal Survival Techniques, Fire Prevention and Fire Fighting, Elementary First Aid and Personal Safety Responsibilities), Seafarer’s Medical Training, Security Awareness Training, Defensively-Armed Merchant Ship qualifications on five-inch and 40mm guns and 12 months sea time on sea-going merchant ships.
“I see you’ve served as an oiler and a motorman.” The clerk paused, “a diesel-engined ship?”
“One of the diesel-electric tankers.”
“Ahh. How would you like to get some experience as a pump man? The more varied your work experience, the better it’ll be for your career.”
“Sounds good, brother.” Perry signed on and arranged a sixty percent allotment for his mother who would invest it in war bonds for him, and ten percent for his sister. Any sailor knew that a girl who was short of money could easily be tempted to take the wrong path. Perry thought that ten percent of his salary was a suitable helping hand for Joan.
Ten minutes later, Steve Perry and Dougie Young were both on their way back to their respective homes. Both were asking themselves the same question. Why was it that seamen with extra qualifications in damage control and handling the ship’s defensive armament were getting such preferential treatment?
Fitting-Out Basin, F. Krupp Germaniawerft AG, Kiel
“And when is the happy event due?”
Kapitänleutnant Johann-Heinrich Fehler looked at his new command with a jaundiced eye. U-491 had started life as a Klasse XB submarine minelayer, one of the third groups of that class. The success of the first six in minelaying operations off Canada had resulted in two more being ordered to replace losses. Then, the XBs had scored an impressive string of successes mining American ports in the early winter of 1942. One of them had even managed to sneak in and mine the entrance to the Intracoastal Waterway. Accordingly, another group of eight had been ordered. Only, by the time they had been launched, the whole character of the war had changed. U-boats could no longer go unchallenged in American waters and those that tried suffered a fearful loss rate. That included most of the previous Klasse XB submarines. The ones under construction had lost all priority and, for the last year, had been languishing in Kiel. It had been rumored that they were being converted to cargo submarines. Obviously, thought Fehler that had been a cover story.
“She does look pregnant, doesn’t she.” Korvettenkapitan Georg Schewe couldn’t help but agree with Fehler. The sleek, streamlined, and (above all) small bridge of the original design had been replaced by a large cylinder that was half-sunken into the main hull. The original conning tower was perched on top of the cylinder, offset to the port. If one squinted at her just right, U-491 looked like a woman in the final stages of pregnancy where her navel had popped out. “But, it’s the future you’re looking at. Not just of us but of the whole world. This is where sea power is going.”
That’s laying it on a bit thick. Fehler was used to bombastic statements; one couldn’t live in National Socialist Germany without hearing them every day. “What’s the cylinder for, Sir?”
“Remember that Japanese submarine that came in here a year ago? I-30? She had a hangar and a catapult to launch a seaplane. It was a clever piece of design, I remember thinking that they’d worked hard to solve all the problems and asked myself ‘why did they bother?’ Well, our designers studied what they did, and how they did it and come up with a way of using their work.
Schewe led the way over the gangway and onto the aft deck of U-491. The engine room access hatch was open and he led the way down inside. “One of the problems we faced was that Japanese sub was a big bastard. Three times the size of our Klasse VIIC. That’s why we commandeered these. That and the fact nobody else wanted them. These Klasse XBs are the prototype. The design office is already working on a Klasse XXID that we’ll build in numbers. Now, the control room hatch leads to a trunk that’ll take you up to the conning tower bridge. If we go forward a bit. . .”
Just forward of the control room was another hatch. Schewe opened it and climbed up the ladder. Fehler followed him and climbed through a trunk before he found himself in the top half of the circular structure he’d seen from the outside. It was a hangar with clamshell doors at the front to allow the aircraft inside to be pulled out and installed on the catapult that rang along the foredeck. Only, it wasn’t aircraft in the hangar, it was missiles. Fiesler Fi-103 missiles to be precise. The type Goebbels referred to as the V-1 although nobody in the armed forces ever called them that. They preferred the nickname Kirschkern although nobody was quite sure where it had come from. The hangar held two of them, their wings folded to allow them to fit in the confined space.
“That warhead will devastate anything up to and including one of the new American battleships.” Fehler was thoughtful. “And we can fire them from outside the range of the anti-submarine cover. The Amis have heavy flak batteries on their ships though. Hitting a ship from long range will be very hard. These things aren’t that accurate even when used on land. A useful weapon to be sure, but hardly world-changing.”
Schewe grinned at him and clapped him on the back. “You won’t be shooting them at ships, my friend. The whole east coast of America is one long line of targets. From Churchill with its harbor full of merchantmen assembling for convoys down to the big naval bases in Virginia and then to the oil ports in the Gulf of Mexico. All almost undefended because we’ve never been able to get at them. Now, we can. Your first target will be New York.”
“The docks? The Marine Ocean Terminal in Bayonne?”
Schewe shrugged. “Who cares? The important thing is to hit New York, somewhere. Once one-ton warheads start exploding in their streets, the Amis will come to their senses very quickly.”
Fehler wasn’t so sure about that. Wasn’t so sure at all.
1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Two
Top Floor, Bank de Commerce et Industrie, Geneva, Switzerland.
“Just how bad is the situation?” Loki looked down at the sparse tray that Branwen had brought in for his lunch. At six foot eight, he was a big man, and his frame needed supporting. For the last year, the slowly but steadily declining amount of food available in Switzerland had left him perpetually hungry. That hadn’t done his mercurial temper any good at all.
“Here? It’s not so bad, Loki. Here in Switzerland, we’re importing some food from Italy and it’s making the difference between hunger and starvation. Britain isn’t too badly off right now, either. They built up a large reserve stockpile from 1940 to 1942 and they’ve been drawing down on that. The Germans are making a point of keeping Britain fed; the British war industries are too valuable to risk and they know very well that Britain is the fortress that protects Europe from invasion from the west. Always has been. The American aircraft carrier raids are showing how important that fortress is to them.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Stuyvesant,” Loki grumbled.
“Because he’s right. He almost always is when it comes to strategic questions. If you were a little less bull-headed, you’d listen to what he says and we’d have a lot fewer problems than we do.” Branwen was irritated and it showed hunger was getting at her as well. “Now, are you going to listen to me or do you want to have another ‘let’s trash Washington’ discussion?”
Loki waved apologetically. Branwen took a deep breath and continued. “All right. Germany is OK of course. They take what they need from the rest of Europe. Some they ship to Britain, mostly across the North Sea now the carrier raids are closing the Channel down, but the rest of it is consumed by the German home population. As a result, France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Poland western Russia, and their other conquests are all starving. It’s not quite famine level yet but it’s getting there. In Russia, of course, that’s deliberate policy. They intend to wipe out the entire Slavic population and starvation is the means they have chosen to do it. They’ve just started a new stage in that process. They take an area, a city, or a defined geographical location, and thoroughly loot it of food, taking everything they can and destroying the rest. Then they ring it off, allow nobody out or no supplies in and let nature run its course. As that process becomes known, all the Russians who can are fleeing eastwards, mostly to the bridgeheads on the west bank of the Volga. That is part of the German plan as well; by throwing huge numbers of refugees on the Allies, they are forcing them to use supplies and transport capacity that would otherwise be feeding their armies.”
“Gods, what sort of monsters have they become?” Loki had watched the growth of the Nazis from his office in Geneva but even he had failed to comprehend just how horrifying their regime was.
“The same monsters who are finishing off the project of exterminating every Jew in Europe.” Branwen couldn’t believe what she was saying yet she knew it was true. Loki’s Red Orchestra had traced the rail transport network and the traffic on it that had fed almost twelve million people into the gas chambers. Even in her sleep, she could remember the names. Some of them at least. There was Treblinka, Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, Majdanek, Auschwitz-Birkenau, Sobibór, Belzec and Chelmno. There were many more and the list went on and on until she would wake up weeping.
“And they wrecked their logistics network doing it. They could have launched their northern offensive three or four months earlier if their internal railway network and rolling stock hadn’t been committed to transporting people from western Europe to the extermination camps.” Loki shook his head. One of the very few mistakes his Red Orchestra had made was predicting that the 1944 campaigning season would open with the German assault in the north. He had been unable to believe the evidence that the Germans placed greater emphasis on exterminating the Jewish population of Europe than on scoring a potentially decisive breakthrough on the Russian front. “Still with that out of the way, analyzing their railway movements will be a lot less complex.”
Branwen felt her jaw drop and was glad nobody else was around to hear the remark. She had known Loki for many more years than she dared to admit and understood that he wasn’t a bad or cruel man. He was a kindly and generous soul. The problem was that he had no filter between his brain and his mouth so that his thoughts came straight out, undiluted by tact or discretion. To make matters worse, he unconsciously tended to stand too close to people, invading their personal space and towering over them. That gave an illusion of intimidation which was the last thing he intended. One of the prime roles of the high-ranking staff at the Bank was to prevent unexpected meetings between Loki and people not familiar with his eccentricities. She took a deep breath before answering. “What do you think is going to happen then?”
“They’re not running trains anywhere near the front lines anymore. The Americans taught them that. I’d never have guessed that the eight guns on a Thunderbolt could blow a railway engine completely off the tracks. The Germans are short of rolling stock as well. Going by the tonnages they are shifting, I’d say 1943 and 1944 cost them half their total locomotive and rolling stock inventory. They’ve built some, but not enough to replace the carnage. They daren’t risk what they have left. They are delivering supplies to rear-area depots by train and we lose track of them there. I assume getting them to the front line is something the Germans do at night or in bad weather when the aircraft is grounded. The train figures still show that they’re sending most of their goods north though.”
“Archangel.” Branwen could read a map as well.
“Archangel. A quarter of all supplies for the Allies go through Archangel. If that goes, the Americans will have to supply the Volga front entirely by way of Iran and Vladivostok. If the Allies want an offensive in 1945, they have to hold Archangel.”
HMCS Howe, Churchill Harbor, Nova Scotia.
“All our main and secondary guns are serviceable?” Captain Anthony Tillett looked around the wardroom at his assembled officers.
“The ones left are.” Commander Graham McKendrick bitterly resented losing two of his fourteen-inch guns. When Howe had made her run across the Atlantic two years earlier, her main guns had been on board but the turrets had been incomplete. The secondary battery of 5.25-inch guns had yet to be installed and was mostly on board as parts stowed below decks. Howe had been so incomplete that it had been seriously questioned whether she could make the run across the Atlantic with the other fast battleships and battlecruisers. For a while blowing her up at the fitting out yard had been seriously discussed but in the end, it was decided that she should get the chance to continue the fight from Canada. So, armed only with a few machine guns, she’d taken part in the Great Escape.
Her arrival in Boston had started a new debate. Just how much was an incomplete and homeless British battleship worth? The other four King George V class battleships were effective warships. Although Anson still needed a lot of work, she had the parts on board, and would be a valuable reinforcement in time but Howe? She was barely seaworthy. Proposed uses had ranged from a training ship to an accommodation hulk somewhere but eventually, some American analysts had pointed out it would be quicker and cheaper to finish her as a battleship than build one from scratch. So, she’d spent the next two years in an American shipyard before being given to the Canadian Navy as their flagship.
The result was that she looked quite different from her sisters. Her forward twin 14-inch gun turret had been removed, leaving her with just the two quadruple 14 inchers, one forward and one aft. There had been other plans as well including taking her 5.25-inch gun turrets for installation in cruisers and replacing them with American five-inch 38 caliber twins but shortages of time, five-inch twin mounts, and dockyard capacity had prevented that from happening. Plans to replace the old, obsolete octuple two-pounder anti-aircraft mounts with quadruple Bofors guns had been abandoned. Light cruisers and escort carriers had priority for those. Instead, more octuple two-pounders had been installed.
The big, easily-visible change was that the ship’s superstructure had been extended forward to provide fleet flag capacity and, much more importantly, an air operations center that had no known equal anywhere in the world. One of the reasons why Commander McKendrick was so out-of-sorts was he knew his beloved guns were no longer the primary armament of this ship. With the elaborate radar and communications fit the Americans had installed, Howe would fight with the aircraft she controlled, managing the air battles over the convoys she escorted. It was rumored that even the mighty Iowa class battleships couldn’t match Howe when it came to fighting an air battle with the aircraft she commanded.
“They’ll be enough to handle a raider or a cruiser. If the High Seas Fleet comes out, two 14-inch guns more or less won’t matter much.” Captain Tillett meant that although not in the way it sounded. He knew the amount of air power the US Navy was including in its fleet and he doubted if any battleship-based fleet in the world could withstand it.
“Convoy, Sir?” Lieutenant Commander Gerald Gray was the navigation officer. His chartroom had just received a set of new charts for the Arctic Ocean. Given the news from the Russian Front, it seemed probable that Howe would be making her maiden voyage as a Canadian warship to Murmansk.
“A big one.” Tillett had just received his orders direct from Ottawa. “Gentlemen, the situation is this. When the campaigning season opened this year we took the offensive. The American Army attacked in the center, around Ulyanovsk and the Chuvashskaya Bridgeheads, and succeeded in linking those two up. Then they attacked south to join up with the Samaraskaya Bridgehead. By mid-year, the situation looked pretty good. We have succeeded in forming a bridgehead from Cheboksary to Samara on the west bank of the Volga. It’s 250 miles long and from 10 to a hundred miles deep. In the south, the Russians pushed back the fascists and cleaned up the situation down by the Caspian, and were advancing on Stalingrad again. And not once had the Hitlerites launched a counter-attack.”
“That sounds very un-German.” McKendrick sounded guarded as well as he might. The German Army was notorious for counter-attacking any and every success their enemies had achieved.
“Very much so, and when they did, they showed us how it was done. They’d hoarded their reserves, they’d kept the Luftwaffe out of the fighting. The front-line fascist infantry had a saying. “If it’s brown, it’s Russian. If it’s silver, it’s American. If it’s invisible, it’s ours. The consensus is that the fighting in late 1943 was a horrible shock to them. By the time the Yanks had finished, they’d shot down something like three-quarters of the Luftwaffe in Russia and were bombing and strafing everything in sight. It was the first time the fascists had tried to fight in conditions where their enemies had complete air dominance. Rather than contest it, they left the Army on their own and tried to rebuild the Luftwaffe with new aircraft to try and reduce the quality gap a bit. You’ve heard that the fascists have started to use jet-engined fighters now?”
There were nods all around the briefing area. The German jets had come as an ugly surprise. The huge Allied numerical advantage in the air remained but the jets challenged the qualitative superiority the Americans had established. Fortunately, there weren’t many jets around, yet, and by the time there were, American jet fighters would be entering the battle.
“Well, that’s a problem. So, when they hit us in the north, they did a number on the Russian positions there. They broke through south of Petrograd and advanced through Karelia, coming very close to cutting off the Kola Peninsula. They also swung east and advanced on Archangel’sk, cutting the railway line from there to Kola. The Russians and our own troops stopped the German advance northwards along the White Sea Canal but Kola is still dependent on the supplies we can ship to Murmansk. And, we need to supply the troops holding the line along the Onega that is the key to defending Archangel’sk. So, we need to stock Kola up on everything Russia needs to keep fighting. Food, fuel, ammunition. This convoy will be carrying all three. We’ve picked out our largest, fastest merchant ships to make this a 20-knot run.” Tillett listened to the stir that went around the room. Normally convoys went at eight knots and a fast convoy was twelve. “The grain ships won’t be a problem but we’ll have ammunition ships along and about half the tankers will be loaded with Avgas. We’ll be unloading in Murmansk.”
Tillett looked around at his audience. “There’s a gut feeling in the brass that the fascists will make a concerted effort to stop this convoy and any others we send. And, as winter closes in, the ice pack will push south and force us closer to the Nazi bases in northern Norway. This promises to be a rough one, gentlemen.” And heartily glad to get rid of those cargoes the merchant crews will be. Especially when they find out this convoy isn’t going to Murmansk. It’s going to Archangel’sk. If the city is going to keep fighting, they need the supplies we’ll be carrying.
Martin B-33B Maverick Silver Swan 483d Bombardment Group, Approaching Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Approaching Initial Point.”
Captain Frank Douglas settled himself deeper into his seat, anticipating the storm of anti-aircraft fire that was about to erupt around the bomber formation. Hitlerite fighters might have been driven from the skies but their flak was still deadly. The 483d Bombardment Group had been one of the last to convert from the old B-17Fs. Most of the bomb groups were re-equipping with the B-29s but some were getting the new B-33s that had all the lessons from the bombing campaign in 1943 built into them. That included a thickly armored bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the nose compartment, heavy bullet-resistant windscreens, a powered ball turret with twin .50s in the nose, and four packaged .50s on the fuselage sides. That had made the fascist head-on attacks that had brought down so many B-17s very dangerous and unproductive.
“Any sign of the blow-jobs?” Douglas put the message out over the crew intercom. The Me-262s were very rare up in the north still, but when they did appear, their speed and the firepower of their four 30mm cannon spelled trouble.
“Nothing yet.” Donaldson in the forward top turret was the key to watching for jet fighter attacks. The 262s always came in from above in a curving pass. They never attacked from head-on; their speed meant the firing interval was so short they’d only get one or two rounds per gun off.
“Initial point now. Come around to bearing two-six-three.”
Ahead of him, Douglas could see the wide, twisting path of the River Onega. There had been a bridge directly below him but it had been blasted into ruins by a medium bomb group. The next landmark was where the river went sharply to the left before making a horse-shoe and turning again to resume its westward path. Then, there would be an island in mid-stream and their target would be just beyond it. Here, in the north, the Onega provided the same function as the Volga did in central and southern Russia; it was the moat that protected vital locations. In this case, the vital location was the port of Archangel’sk. Amosovskaya was one of the few bridgeheads that the fascists had established on the east bank of the Onega. Accordingly, it had to go and the first step in making the bridgehead go away was for the American heavy bombers to blast it and its contents into oblivion.
Nearly 18 months of bitter fighting had taught the American Army many things. One was never to take their enemy lightly. Another was that the heavy bombers were an ace in the hole when it came to dealing with that enemy. The B-17s had established the principle of pouring bombs into a critical area in such volumes that an enemy defense could not survive. In theory, artillery could do the same thing as the Russian artillery did. Or tried to, but the heavy bombers could deliver more high explosives in a few minutes than the massed Russian guns could do in days. The American heavy bombers simply blasted great holes in the fascist defenses and there was little or nothing the Hitlerites could do about it. Except not to be where the bombs dropped.
And so, plans to withdraw the B-17s in favor of B-29s had changed. The B-29s had still arrived in the steady stream that had seen them become a massive fist that could crush enemy logistics and production facilities hundreds of miles behind enemy lines. The tactical work of supporting the Army had been taken over by the Martin B-33. Douglas knew that the aircraft he was flying had been born by accident; the Army Air Force had never envisaged procuring an oddity like a short-range heavy bomber. When the prospect of building an improved version of the B-26 had been raised, the engine situation had been in flux. Martin was designing a new wing that would solve the flying characteristics issues that plagued the B-26 but had been uncertain what engines would be available. So, they had designed the new wing in two versions, one to accommodate two R-3350s and the other with four R-2800s. The two R-3350s had been selected for the B-27 Super-Marauder and that type was now slowly reaching the Russian Front. The wing with four R-2800s had been too promising to waste so Martin had matched it with a lengthened version of the B-26 fuselage to produce the B-33 Maverick.
Somewhat to its surprise, the Air Force had found the idea of a B-17 replacement for tactical support missions irresistible. Almost every newsreel from the Russian front featured the B-33s blasting large sections of the German front line to matchwood. What those newsreels never mentioned was that only a handful of B-33s had been built and the production rate was determined by what resources were available. That wasn't much. It was like every other issue in the war; the services of the B-33 were invaluable but were they more invaluable than other demands?
“Little friends are in place.” Harvey Newman, the rear-upper gunner, has spotted the American fighters providing cover. “Jugs, above and behind us.”
Suddenly, black blotches erupted in front of the B-33 formation. “We got flak.”
Douglas put the word out with a degree of relief. Flak meant no fighters, not now at any rate. “Warn our little friends to stay clear.”
“I got Island One boss.” Vinnie Jennings was at his bombsight, waiting to see the Hitlerite defenses start to flow under his eyepiece. “Now what the hell is that?”
“What’s what, Vinnie?”
“There’s something odd down there. The water is pretty dark but there are two pale lines, side-by-side, stretching from the shore to the island. I’m getting some pictures of them now. Hey, there’s another set, from the island to the other bank. Boss, I think there’s an underwater bridge down there.”
“Damn, make sure you get every picture you can.” One of the advantages of the B-33’s limited production status was that the aircraft that did get built tended to be well-equipped. The fighting over the last 18 months had shown the value of damage assessment photographs so the aircraft had been given good cameras to take them.
“Already done boss. Coming up on the release point now. Dropping in one minute. I have the aircraft. ”
Silver Swan was already bouncing in the flak although the accuracy of the shooting was well below the usual fascist standards. Over to port, Miss Martin was streaming black smoke from its starboard inner engine but was holding position well. Douglas felt Silver Swan jump upwards as twelve one thousand pound bombs poured from her belly. The long line seemed to join her to the ground and, for a moment, Douglas began to believe that his aircraft was tethered to the target. Then the whole of the area held by the Germans on the East Bank exploded in a vast sea of brown and black blasts that blotted out every sign of human habitation.
“Boss, you have the aircraft. Time to get out of here.”
Douglas agreed and started the turn that would take them back to their base at Syloga. Just over an hour and a half and the 483d Bombardment Group would be back at their base, this time without any missing slots in their formations. This mission had been a milk-run, an easy step to the 35 missions that qualified a bomber crew to go home. An hour and a half out, twenty minutes of sheer terror during the bomb run, and an hour and a half back, it had been just another day on the Russian Front.
Top Floor, Bank de Commerce et Industrie, Geneva, Switzerland.
“Just how bad is the situation?” Loki looked down at the sparse tray that Branwen had brought in for his lunch. At six foot eight, he was a big man, and his frame needed supporting. For the last year, the slowly but steadily declining amount of food available in Switzerland had left him perpetually hungry. That hadn’t done his mercurial temper any good at all.
“Here? It’s not so bad, Loki. Here in Switzerland, we’re importing some food from Italy and it’s making the difference between hunger and starvation. Britain isn’t too badly off right now, either. They built up a large reserve stockpile from 1940 to 1942 and they’ve been drawing down on that. The Germans are making a point of keeping Britain fed; the British war industries are too valuable to risk and they know very well that Britain is the fortress that protects Europe from invasion from the west. Always has been. The American aircraft carrier raids are showing how important that fortress is to them.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Stuyvesant,” Loki grumbled.
“Because he’s right. He almost always is when it comes to strategic questions. If you were a little less bull-headed, you’d listen to what he says and we’d have a lot fewer problems than we do.” Branwen was irritated and it showed hunger was getting at her as well. “Now, are you going to listen to me or do you want to have another ‘let’s trash Washington’ discussion?”
Loki waved apologetically. Branwen took a deep breath and continued. “All right. Germany is OK of course. They take what they need from the rest of Europe. Some they ship to Britain, mostly across the North Sea now the carrier raids are closing the Channel down, but the rest of it is consumed by the German home population. As a result, France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Poland western Russia, and their other conquests are all starving. It’s not quite famine level yet but it’s getting there. In Russia, of course, that’s deliberate policy. They intend to wipe out the entire Slavic population and starvation is the means they have chosen to do it. They’ve just started a new stage in that process. They take an area, a city, or a defined geographical location, and thoroughly loot it of food, taking everything they can and destroying the rest. Then they ring it off, allow nobody out or no supplies in and let nature run its course. As that process becomes known, all the Russians who can are fleeing eastwards, mostly to the bridgeheads on the west bank of the Volga. That is part of the German plan as well; by throwing huge numbers of refugees on the Allies, they are forcing them to use supplies and transport capacity that would otherwise be feeding their armies.”
“Gods, what sort of monsters have they become?” Loki had watched the growth of the Nazis from his office in Geneva but even he had failed to comprehend just how horrifying their regime was.
“The same monsters who are finishing off the project of exterminating every Jew in Europe.” Branwen couldn’t believe what she was saying yet she knew it was true. Loki’s Red Orchestra had traced the rail transport network and the traffic on it that had fed almost twelve million people into the gas chambers. Even in her sleep, she could remember the names. Some of them at least. There was Treblinka, Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, Majdanek, Auschwitz-Birkenau, Sobibór, Belzec and Chelmno. There were many more and the list went on and on until she would wake up weeping.
“And they wrecked their logistics network doing it. They could have launched their northern offensive three or four months earlier if their internal railway network and rolling stock hadn’t been committed to transporting people from western Europe to the extermination camps.” Loki shook his head. One of the very few mistakes his Red Orchestra had made was predicting that the 1944 campaigning season would open with the German assault in the north. He had been unable to believe the evidence that the Germans placed greater emphasis on exterminating the Jewish population of Europe than on scoring a potentially decisive breakthrough on the Russian front. “Still with that out of the way, analyzing their railway movements will be a lot less complex.”
Branwen felt her jaw drop and was glad nobody else was around to hear the remark. She had known Loki for many more years than she dared to admit and understood that he wasn’t a bad or cruel man. He was a kindly and generous soul. The problem was that he had no filter between his brain and his mouth so that his thoughts came straight out, undiluted by tact or discretion. To make matters worse, he unconsciously tended to stand too close to people, invading their personal space and towering over them. That gave an illusion of intimidation which was the last thing he intended. One of the prime roles of the high-ranking staff at the Bank was to prevent unexpected meetings between Loki and people not familiar with his eccentricities. She took a deep breath before answering. “What do you think is going to happen then?”
“They’re not running trains anywhere near the front lines anymore. The Americans taught them that. I’d never have guessed that the eight guns on a Thunderbolt could blow a railway engine completely off the tracks. The Germans are short of rolling stock as well. Going by the tonnages they are shifting, I’d say 1943 and 1944 cost them half their total locomotive and rolling stock inventory. They’ve built some, but not enough to replace the carnage. They daren’t risk what they have left. They are delivering supplies to rear-area depots by train and we lose track of them there. I assume getting them to the front line is something the Germans do at night or in bad weather when the aircraft is grounded. The train figures still show that they’re sending most of their goods north though.”
“Archangel.” Branwen could read a map as well.
“Archangel. A quarter of all supplies for the Allies go through Archangel. If that goes, the Americans will have to supply the Volga front entirely by way of Iran and Vladivostok. If the Allies want an offensive in 1945, they have to hold Archangel.”
HMCS Howe, Churchill Harbor, Nova Scotia.
“All our main and secondary guns are serviceable?” Captain Anthony Tillett looked around the wardroom at his assembled officers.
“The ones left are.” Commander Graham McKendrick bitterly resented losing two of his fourteen-inch guns. When Howe had made her run across the Atlantic two years earlier, her main guns had been on board but the turrets had been incomplete. The secondary battery of 5.25-inch guns had yet to be installed and was mostly on board as parts stowed below decks. Howe had been so incomplete that it had been seriously questioned whether she could make the run across the Atlantic with the other fast battleships and battlecruisers. For a while blowing her up at the fitting out yard had been seriously discussed but in the end, it was decided that she should get the chance to continue the fight from Canada. So, armed only with a few machine guns, she’d taken part in the Great Escape.
Her arrival in Boston had started a new debate. Just how much was an incomplete and homeless British battleship worth? The other four King George V class battleships were effective warships. Although Anson still needed a lot of work, she had the parts on board, and would be a valuable reinforcement in time but Howe? She was barely seaworthy. Proposed uses had ranged from a training ship to an accommodation hulk somewhere but eventually, some American analysts had pointed out it would be quicker and cheaper to finish her as a battleship than build one from scratch. So, she’d spent the next two years in an American shipyard before being given to the Canadian Navy as their flagship.
The result was that she looked quite different from her sisters. Her forward twin 14-inch gun turret had been removed, leaving her with just the two quadruple 14 inchers, one forward and one aft. There had been other plans as well including taking her 5.25-inch gun turrets for installation in cruisers and replacing them with American five-inch 38 caliber twins but shortages of time, five-inch twin mounts, and dockyard capacity had prevented that from happening. Plans to replace the old, obsolete octuple two-pounder anti-aircraft mounts with quadruple Bofors guns had been abandoned. Light cruisers and escort carriers had priority for those. Instead, more octuple two-pounders had been installed.
The big, easily-visible change was that the ship’s superstructure had been extended forward to provide fleet flag capacity and, much more importantly, an air operations center that had no known equal anywhere in the world. One of the reasons why Commander McKendrick was so out-of-sorts was he knew his beloved guns were no longer the primary armament of this ship. With the elaborate radar and communications fit the Americans had installed, Howe would fight with the aircraft she controlled, managing the air battles over the convoys she escorted. It was rumored that even the mighty Iowa class battleships couldn’t match Howe when it came to fighting an air battle with the aircraft she commanded.
“They’ll be enough to handle a raider or a cruiser. If the High Seas Fleet comes out, two 14-inch guns more or less won’t matter much.” Captain Tillett meant that although not in the way it sounded. He knew the amount of air power the US Navy was including in its fleet and he doubted if any battleship-based fleet in the world could withstand it.
“Convoy, Sir?” Lieutenant Commander Gerald Gray was the navigation officer. His chartroom had just received a set of new charts for the Arctic Ocean. Given the news from the Russian Front, it seemed probable that Howe would be making her maiden voyage as a Canadian warship to Murmansk.
“A big one.” Tillett had just received his orders direct from Ottawa. “Gentlemen, the situation is this. When the campaigning season opened this year we took the offensive. The American Army attacked in the center, around Ulyanovsk and the Chuvashskaya Bridgeheads, and succeeded in linking those two up. Then they attacked south to join up with the Samaraskaya Bridgehead. By mid-year, the situation looked pretty good. We have succeeded in forming a bridgehead from Cheboksary to Samara on the west bank of the Volga. It’s 250 miles long and from 10 to a hundred miles deep. In the south, the Russians pushed back the fascists and cleaned up the situation down by the Caspian, and were advancing on Stalingrad again. And not once had the Hitlerites launched a counter-attack.”
“That sounds very un-German.” McKendrick sounded guarded as well as he might. The German Army was notorious for counter-attacking any and every success their enemies had achieved.
“Very much so, and when they did, they showed us how it was done. They’d hoarded their reserves, they’d kept the Luftwaffe out of the fighting. The front-line fascist infantry had a saying. “If it’s brown, it’s Russian. If it’s silver, it’s American. If it’s invisible, it’s ours. The consensus is that the fighting in late 1943 was a horrible shock to them. By the time the Yanks had finished, they’d shot down something like three-quarters of the Luftwaffe in Russia and were bombing and strafing everything in sight. It was the first time the fascists had tried to fight in conditions where their enemies had complete air dominance. Rather than contest it, they left the Army on their own and tried to rebuild the Luftwaffe with new aircraft to try and reduce the quality gap a bit. You’ve heard that the fascists have started to use jet-engined fighters now?”
There were nods all around the briefing area. The German jets had come as an ugly surprise. The huge Allied numerical advantage in the air remained but the jets challenged the qualitative superiority the Americans had established. Fortunately, there weren’t many jets around, yet, and by the time there were, American jet fighters would be entering the battle.
“Well, that’s a problem. So, when they hit us in the north, they did a number on the Russian positions there. They broke through south of Petrograd and advanced through Karelia, coming very close to cutting off the Kola Peninsula. They also swung east and advanced on Archangel’sk, cutting the railway line from there to Kola. The Russians and our own troops stopped the German advance northwards along the White Sea Canal but Kola is still dependent on the supplies we can ship to Murmansk. And, we need to supply the troops holding the line along the Onega that is the key to defending Archangel’sk. So, we need to stock Kola up on everything Russia needs to keep fighting. Food, fuel, ammunition. This convoy will be carrying all three. We’ve picked out our largest, fastest merchant ships to make this a 20-knot run.” Tillett listened to the stir that went around the room. Normally convoys went at eight knots and a fast convoy was twelve. “The grain ships won’t be a problem but we’ll have ammunition ships along and about half the tankers will be loaded with Avgas. We’ll be unloading in Murmansk.”
Tillett looked around at his audience. “There’s a gut feeling in the brass that the fascists will make a concerted effort to stop this convoy and any others we send. And, as winter closes in, the ice pack will push south and force us closer to the Nazi bases in northern Norway. This promises to be a rough one, gentlemen.” And heartily glad to get rid of those cargoes the merchant crews will be. Especially when they find out this convoy isn’t going to Murmansk. It’s going to Archangel’sk. If the city is going to keep fighting, they need the supplies we’ll be carrying.
Martin B-33B Maverick Silver Swan 483d Bombardment Group, Approaching Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Approaching Initial Point.”
Captain Frank Douglas settled himself deeper into his seat, anticipating the storm of anti-aircraft fire that was about to erupt around the bomber formation. Hitlerite fighters might have been driven from the skies but their flak was still deadly. The 483d Bombardment Group had been one of the last to convert from the old B-17Fs. Most of the bomb groups were re-equipping with the B-29s but some were getting the new B-33s that had all the lessons from the bombing campaign in 1943 built into them. That included a thickly armored bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the nose compartment, heavy bullet-resistant windscreens, a powered ball turret with twin .50s in the nose, and four packaged .50s on the fuselage sides. That had made the fascist head-on attacks that had brought down so many B-17s very dangerous and unproductive.
“Any sign of the blow-jobs?” Douglas put the message out over the crew intercom. The Me-262s were very rare up in the north still, but when they did appear, their speed and the firepower of their four 30mm cannon spelled trouble.
“Nothing yet.” Donaldson in the forward top turret was the key to watching for jet fighter attacks. The 262s always came in from above in a curving pass. They never attacked from head-on; their speed meant the firing interval was so short they’d only get one or two rounds per gun off.
“Initial point now. Come around to bearing two-six-three.”
Ahead of him, Douglas could see the wide, twisting path of the River Onega. There had been a bridge directly below him but it had been blasted into ruins by a medium bomb group. The next landmark was where the river went sharply to the left before making a horse-shoe and turning again to resume its westward path. Then, there would be an island in mid-stream and their target would be just beyond it. Here, in the north, the Onega provided the same function as the Volga did in central and southern Russia; it was the moat that protected vital locations. In this case, the vital location was the port of Archangel’sk. Amosovskaya was one of the few bridgeheads that the fascists had established on the east bank of the Onega. Accordingly, it had to go and the first step in making the bridgehead go away was for the American heavy bombers to blast it and its contents into oblivion.
Nearly 18 months of bitter fighting had taught the American Army many things. One was never to take their enemy lightly. Another was that the heavy bombers were an ace in the hole when it came to dealing with that enemy. The B-17s had established the principle of pouring bombs into a critical area in such volumes that an enemy defense could not survive. In theory, artillery could do the same thing as the Russian artillery did. Or tried to, but the heavy bombers could deliver more high explosives in a few minutes than the massed Russian guns could do in days. The American heavy bombers simply blasted great holes in the fascist defenses and there was little or nothing the Hitlerites could do about it. Except not to be where the bombs dropped.
And so, plans to withdraw the B-17s in favor of B-29s had changed. The B-29s had still arrived in the steady stream that had seen them become a massive fist that could crush enemy logistics and production facilities hundreds of miles behind enemy lines. The tactical work of supporting the Army had been taken over by the Martin B-33. Douglas knew that the aircraft he was flying had been born by accident; the Army Air Force had never envisaged procuring an oddity like a short-range heavy bomber. When the prospect of building an improved version of the B-26 had been raised, the engine situation had been in flux. Martin was designing a new wing that would solve the flying characteristics issues that plagued the B-26 but had been uncertain what engines would be available. So, they had designed the new wing in two versions, one to accommodate two R-3350s and the other with four R-2800s. The two R-3350s had been selected for the B-27 Super-Marauder and that type was now slowly reaching the Russian Front. The wing with four R-2800s had been too promising to waste so Martin had matched it with a lengthened version of the B-26 fuselage to produce the B-33 Maverick.
Somewhat to its surprise, the Air Force had found the idea of a B-17 replacement for tactical support missions irresistible. Almost every newsreel from the Russian front featured the B-33s blasting large sections of the German front line to matchwood. What those newsreels never mentioned was that only a handful of B-33s had been built and the production rate was determined by what resources were available. That wasn't much. It was like every other issue in the war; the services of the B-33 were invaluable but were they more invaluable than other demands?
“Little friends are in place.” Harvey Newman, the rear-upper gunner, has spotted the American fighters providing cover. “Jugs, above and behind us.”
Suddenly, black blotches erupted in front of the B-33 formation. “We got flak.”
Douglas put the word out with a degree of relief. Flak meant no fighters, not now at any rate. “Warn our little friends to stay clear.”
“I got Island One boss.” Vinnie Jennings was at his bombsight, waiting to see the Hitlerite defenses start to flow under his eyepiece. “Now what the hell is that?”
“What’s what, Vinnie?”
“There’s something odd down there. The water is pretty dark but there are two pale lines, side-by-side, stretching from the shore to the island. I’m getting some pictures of them now. Hey, there’s another set, from the island to the other bank. Boss, I think there’s an underwater bridge down there.”
“Damn, make sure you get every picture you can.” One of the advantages of the B-33’s limited production status was that the aircraft that did get built tended to be well-equipped. The fighting over the last 18 months had shown the value of damage assessment photographs so the aircraft had been given good cameras to take them.
“Already done boss. Coming up on the release point now. Dropping in one minute. I have the aircraft. ”
Silver Swan was already bouncing in the flak although the accuracy of the shooting was well below the usual fascist standards. Over to port, Miss Martin was streaming black smoke from its starboard inner engine but was holding position well. Douglas felt Silver Swan jump upwards as twelve one thousand pound bombs poured from her belly. The long line seemed to join her to the ground and, for a moment, Douglas began to believe that his aircraft was tethered to the target. Then the whole of the area held by the Germans on the East Bank exploded in a vast sea of brown and black blasts that blotted out every sign of human habitation.
“Boss, you have the aircraft. Time to get out of here.”
Douglas agreed and started the turn that would take them back to their base at Syloga. Just over an hour and a half and the 483d Bombardment Group would be back at their base, this time without any missing slots in their formations. This mission had been a milk-run, an easy step to the 35 missions that qualified a bomber crew to go home. An hour and a half out, twenty minutes of sheer terror during the bomb run, and an hour and a half back, it had been just another day on the Russian Front.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Three
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Above Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“See tovarisch, how our Amerikanskiye brat'ya pave the way for us! Can we do less?” The Regimental Zampolit, Evgeni Bessonov, shouted the encouragement at the top of his voice. Then he glanced sideways at the commander of the assault gun company, Captain Mikhail Prokopyevich Pakholkov. “Tovarish Misha, may I have the honor of riding with your guns this day?”
Pakholkov nodded and waved at the second gun in the line often. Then he turned to his gun crews. “There are at least two Tigers in the bridgehead; they may be concealed in shacks or even inside buildings. If any of those buildings are left standing, blow them up! Above all, if we spot tanks, any tanks, keep advancing and don’t turn! If you expose your flanks to tank fire, you’re going to get burned! Do not fire on the move; there’s little chance of hitting your target and we have to conserve ammunition. We’ll fire from short pauses and halts made at the gun layer’s order whenever he catches a target in his gunsight. The main thing, though: don’t let the faustniki get close! Rake every suspicious place with machine-gun fire from a safe distance. If we spot a tank or anti-tank gun, we’re going to race towards it at full speed, with zigzags. The speed affects the gunners – they get unnerved; the maneuvers will throw off the aim of an enemy gun layer, and glancing hits are not dangerous for an assault gun. Now, board your guns!”
The advice was important but the timing was more so. Pakholkov knew that down in the village, the stunned Hitlerite survivors would be hauling themselves from their shattered defenses and trying to get ready to repel the Russian attack that would surely follow. Only, this time there was a wrinkle in the plans. An entire Guards Special Artillery regiment had moved up in the night and was waiting for the Hitlerites to man their defenses. As Pakholkov finished his exhortation, the preparatory artillery barrage began with the Katyusha and Andryusha rocket launchers pouring fire into the enemy positions. That was when the SU-85 crews burst out laughing. As the Andryushka battalion fired, one of the launching trucks managed to fire a launch frame still attached to its 300mm rocket. Assault gun driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova shouted out “Hey, artillerists, you’ve gone crazy. You’re firing packing crates at the fascists!”
Once again, the town of Amosovskaya vanished under a rolling cloud of explosions as the intense rocket-artillery barrage slammed home. The ripples of small explosions from the 132mm rockets were interspaced with the much greater blasts from the 300mm heavy missiles yet neither could compare with the shattering blasts from the American bombs. Pakholkov guessed that the difference was that the Hitlerites would have seen the bombers coming and taken cover in their deep bunkers but now would be out in the open. That would make the difference in destruction.
“Forward!” He yelled the order in the clear; there was just no time to use the code tables during combat. His SU-85 lurched and then started to accelerate across the pathway of open ground that led to Amosovskaya. His company formed the left flank of the advance, racing across a field, slightly weaving. This was a dangerous position since heavy pine forests bordered the field and there was the deadly danger of panzerfausts being fired from the trees to take the SU-85s to their vulnerable sides. Pakholkov knew that the plan for the assault had Russian infantry advancing through those forests to cover the flanks of the armored assault. He also knew that any attempted advance against the fascist infantry was a mission fraught with danger and success was uncertain unless massive artillery and air support were available.
Yet, for all that, the assault was going well. The fascists had indeed been stunned by the American bombers and then again by the rocket artillery. By the time the SU-85s had reached the fascist front line, the Hitlerites were only just beginning to get their wits together and realize that the assault guns were already upon them. The tankodesantniki crouched behind the superstructure of the assault gun was already leaping from the vehicles and engaging the enemy in fierce hand-to-hand fighting. The defending Hitlerites had rifles and tried to work the bolts on their Mausers before giving up and attempting to defend themselves with bayonet and rifle butt. It was futile; the tankodesantniki tossed hand grenades down from their vehicles into the fascist foxholes while the submachine-gunners sprayed ammunition slashed at their enemy, the long bursts from the 71-round drum magazines tearing at their target’s heads. Stunned by the ferocity of the assault, the Hitlerites began to pull back via the communication trenches.
Pakholkov was suddenly aware that shells were exploding all around his assault guns. Most were artillery rounds, mortars were his best guess based on what he knew of the defenses. The shrieking scream of armor-piercing shots bouncing off metal armor told him that there were anti-tank guns around and that it was their shots that kept shaking his SU-85 time and again, making him cringe. Yet, he was proud to see that not one of his ten Su-85 crews was showing any panic from the counter fire. Despite being mere drugs, new recruits without a dead fascist to their names, they were holding together and that was the main thing for success in combat! He felt his assault gun lurch and bounce as it bounced across the enemy trench line, the tankodesantniki sweeping along beside intent on killing any fascists who had failed to run for their lives. And, most of those who did.
The assault guns were now moving through the scattered huts that marked the western part of Amosovskaya. The scattered anti-tank gunfire had stopped when the smoky haze from burning houses screened the tanks from the guns. To Pakholkov’s eyes, the sight where the community had been was awesome; much of the area was covered by interlocking circular bomb craters. Some were deep where the bombs had penetrated the mud before exploding but others were shallow. The Americans had started fitting extender rods to the fuses on some of their bombs so that they would explode while still well above ground. The fragmentation from those bombs would slaughter every human in a wide radius. Then, Pakholkov saw that one of the ruined buildings had a barrel sticking out of a set of shattered windows. He didn’t hesitate with his order. “Company! From a stop by the fence! At the shack, by salvo! Fire!”
The shack disintegrated with the impacts, wreckage flying in smooth arcs through the air. For some strange reason it didn’t burn but the collapsing structure did reveal the armored vehicle hidden inside. It wasn’t a Tiger but something much rarer and more valuable - a Nashorn! None of its six crew members survived their efforts to leap out of it. The machine guns on the SU-85s cut them down and the tankodesantniki finished off any survivors with bursts from their submachine guns.
By the time the 11th Rifle Division reached the banks of the Onega, they had lost three T-34/85 tanks and a SU-85, all to Panzerfausts fired from the ruined village buildings. However, Pakholkov’s assault guns had captured two Nashorns. The tanks and the infantry took up favorable combat positions along the banks of the Onega and stopped. Soon, the engineers would come to repair the damaged vehicles, tow the captured Nashorns away and dig emplacements for the front-line troops. Pakholkov knew that winter was coming, the ground was already freezing and it would not yield to the shovels. But, the engineer vehicles were coming and they would remove dozens of cubic meters of earth to provide shelter from artillery and aviation. He looked proudly at his crew of drugs; despite their inexperience, they had proved their worth superbly.
“Well done! The Rodina is proud of you. The fascists have been driven from Russian soil once more.” Evgeni Bessonov shouted the words out so that all could hear. “And two captured Nashorns! Your families will hold their heads high in pride when they read about your work this day! Tonight, there will be a full glass of vodka for every soldier!”
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Phillips 66 Oil Terminal, Tremley Point, New Jersey.
“Excuse me, Sir. I’ve been ordered to report to Captain William Brady, Master of the Shawnee. Where may I find him?”
“You just have, son. And you are?”
“Apprentice Seaman Douglas Young, Sir.”
“Ah yes, the Union sent me the list of yesterday’s signees. They have you listed as an experienced deckhand. Bit young for that grade aren’t you?”
“Just finishing my apprenticeship now, Sir.” Young looked at the Shawnee. “She’s a big one, Sir. At least 70 feet more than the standard T3.”
Captain Brady smiled at Young’s obvious enthusiasm. “That makes her the biggest in the fleet, and she’s also the fastest tanker in civilian service. Twin screws, turbo-electric drive. We can make 24 knots, lightly loaded on a good day. The Navy calls them the Improved Cimmaron class and has commandeered most of them as fleet oilers. They’ll be taking Shawnee when we get back from this run, I reckon. The fast carriers need 24-knot tankers, not the convoys.”
“Well-armed too. Are those five-inchers, Sir?”
“Sure are, one forward, one aft with a quad Bofors superimposed over each. Four twin Bofors around the bridge and four galleries with four Oerlikons each. We’ve even got directors fore and aft for the 5-inchers and the Bofors.” Brady spoke with all the passion of a man who knew he had a ship to make other Captains envious. “Union representative says you’re a good, steady man. We’ll need you to help out with the guns if the chips are down. We’ve got a 29-man United States Navy Armed Guard assigned but they can’t even begin to man all the guns. Get yourself on board and once you’ve done your paperwork, find Ensign H. A. Axtell, Jr. He’s the officer commanding the Armed Guard. Sign up for cross-training on a 20mm Oerlikon.”
“Very good, Sir. May I ask, Sir, when we’ll be setting sail?”
Brady shook his head. “Soon. Very soon. Union says you’re a married man with a wife here in New York. Better get ready to say goodbye. We’ll try and give you and the other married men eight-hour leave tickets just before we depart. That’s all I can say right now. You better sign on right away, the Purser is on the bridge amidships, see him, sign the ship’s articles and he’ll find you bunk space.”
404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“It flies like a barge.” Captain Malcolm Foster didn’t like the new P-47Ns and was willing to make that opinion quite clear to everybody. He also didn’t like being assigned to a Ninth Air Force fighter group tasked mostly with close support and interdiction missions. His first tour had been with Eighth Air Force and it was Army Air Force policy that pilots who volunteered for a second tour would be assigned to the “other’ air force. That way, the duties, and risks would be spread evenly. Of course, which mission profile carried the greater risks was open to debate. The fascist pilots were good although not up to the standard of those who had been killed in 1943. But now they had jets. . . . On the other hand, the Hitlerite flak gun crews were good as well and they had quad-twenties.
“They do, when at gross maximum.” Colonel Daniel Campbell had found the P-47N took some getting used to as well. “Your previous tour was with the D-ship wasn’t it? Well, you’ll find the N model has quite a few plus points when she isn’t dragging a load of fuel, bombs, and rockets around. It’s not just she’s got much longer legs than the other models. She’s faster, the roll rate is even quicker than on the old models, the bubble cockpit means there is no blind zone aft and the new prop speeds the climb rate up a bit. You got a lot more armor as well, around the engine, under your seat, and protecting the fuel tanks. For the work we do, the N-ship is just fine.”
Foster didn’t look convinced but at least Campbell’s comments made him decide to give the N-ship a chance. “Are we based with the Russians here, Colonel?”
“We are. Our sister unit is the 114th Fighter Aviation Regiment. They were a Stavka Reserve unit until we moved up here.”
“Yaks?”
“P-45 Kobrushkas. We don’t mix Russian and American types on Allied bases anymore. Too many fuel problems. The Yaks and Lavochkins burn 87-octane, we use 130. So, when we share a base with the Russians, they use Lend-Lease aircraft. The Russians are giving us 87-octane fuel in return for the 130-octane we supply them with for Lend-Lease birds but Lord knows what we will do with it. We’ve tried running our engines on it but performance goes through the floor and maintenance is a lot harder.
“Apart from the Russians, we’ve got P-63 Kingcobras up here. They’re a match for any piston-engined bird the fascists have and can just about hold their own against jets. They fly top cover for us, well what counts for top cover here in Russia. There are Australians up in this area as well, flying Ostriches. Watch out for them, they don’t look like anything we’re familiar with. Pilots are good, overly aggressive though. A tendency to shoot first and ask questions afterward.”
“They can’t be that good or they’d be down by Kazan. What are they doing up here anyway?” Foster sounded as if he was looking for things to complain about, an attitude that made Campbell look at him sharply.
“Firstly, they’re a Commonwealth unit, supplied via Canada so they are supported by the convoys into Murmansk and Archangel’sk. Secondly, Archangel’sk is a key, the key, supply port for the northern part of the front. We know it, the Russians know it and the fascists know it. They’re pushing hard to close it down and we’ve been moved up here to stop them. The Kazan Front is stable now; this is the new key area. A quarter of all Lend-Lease supplies come to Russia through those two ports. If we lose one or both, we’ll be in a bad way. The situation is critical enough for the Air Bridge to be setting up a new destination in this area but they can’t equal the sheer carrying capacity of the ships. One convoy carries ten times as much cargo as the Air Bridge can deliver in a year.”
Foster had caught the look of his commander and wanted to make amends by explaining himself. “It’s just the B-29s will be hitting targets in Germany itself next year. I was hoping to be there to see the fascists suffering. After all, we’ve seen them do here.”
Campbell shook his head slowly. “We can’t get escort fighters that far, not even with the P-47N carrying fuel instead of ordnance. The P-38s will take them as far as they can but after that, they’ll be on their own. We’ll have our own problems up here in time. We haven’t seen much of the fascist jets yet but they’ll come. There are also reports of two new piston-engined fighters coming, the Ta-152 and the FW-290. Both are supposed to be an advanced version of the 190Ds we’ve been fighting for the last six months. Most of the fighters we’ve seen up here for the last few months have been 109Ks and we got the measure of those. We’re running into more and more British-built Spitfires though. It seems that the Luftwaffe is short of fighters right now, they’re transferring them from training units. What that’s doing to their fighter pilot training program we can only guess.”
“Back in the States, the brass believe that the fascists are running on capital and it shows in quality across the board. U-boat crews, troops on the ground, and aircrew are all dropping. Most of the improvements in their new types are just offsetting that.” Between his first tour with the 8th Air Force and volunteering for a second tour with the 9th, Foster had served in a staff appointment and had a feeling for how his superiors saw things.
“I’d like to see the brass out here fighting Hitlerites in jets before they say that. That’s why our top priority right now is hitting any airfield we see with concrete runways being built. That’s delaying the jets from coming up here but it’s only a delay. We’re just trying to buy time until winter comes.”
HMCS Howe, Churchill Harbor, Nova Scotia.
“Launch eight FM-2s from the Smolensk and position them twelve nautical miles out on bearing 135 relative. Order Smolensk to prepare the second flight of four FM-2s for launch to reinforce the combat air patrol.” Lieutenant Commander Gray looked at the situation table with its large block representing the convoy, surrounded by four flights of FM-2s from the escort carriers. I’ve forgotten something, but I just can’t see what it is.
The pause was tangibly painful. Eventually, Captain Tillett stepped forward. “Gerry, you depleted the overhead combat air patrol to position those FM-2s out on the threat axis. Now, that’s the right decision as far as it goes, but you have left a gap in coverage closer in. There are several ways you can handle that but any inbound formation will be broken up by those FM-2s. So, I would suggest you move Atlanta up to cover the gap. She’s the most effective AA ship we have in the screen.”
“Of course, she’d have to move up a long way. Atlanta’s in the Pacific.” Commander McKendrick sounded smug which made Tillett mark him down for a rough ride when it was his turn for the hot seat.
“We think. The Septics keep quiet about their ship dispositions. Anyway, Gerry, that’s not bad for a first shot at being in the fighter controller’s seat. The first time Graham sat there, he forgot to ready the replacement aircraft and left the whole convoy uncovered when the fighters had to come down for refueling.” Tillett took secret delight in McKendrick’s flush of guilt. “We’ll take a break now and then you can practice fighting an air battle over the convoy.”
“I never thought that navigating would involve things like this.” Gray looked overawed by the knowledge that he might have to fight the ship in defense of a convoy.
“It shouldn’t, Gerry, but suppose we catch a torpedo or something else goes badly wrong? A lot of the officers are dead and people filling in where they can. You might have to run the air battle and just do the best job possible.”
“What are we likely to run into, Sir?” The question pleased Tillett and showed that his navigating officer was taking the cross-training seriously.
“The main enemy is torpedo-bombers. When we ran the first convoys into Murmansk two years ago, they were mostly Heinkel 111 bombers and 115 floatplanes but they’ve all gone now. So, mostly, the Dornier 217s although some of the later versions with glide bombs turn up now and then. We’ve seen mostly Ju-188s since then but word is we can expect a new torpedo bomber soon. It’s an advanced version of the Ju-188 designated the Ju-388M. According to the intelligence people, it’s as fast as a thief but short-legged. We don’t have to worry about either of them until we’re 450 miles or so from the enemy coast.
“Our main enemy, right from early on, is the long-range maritime patrol aircraft. You’ve heard of the Kondors, well they’re mostly gone now. Few that are left are back to being used as transport aircraft. The main one we run into is the Ju-290. It’s got the range and is quite heavily armed. Usually, we recommend sending out a flight of four FM-2s to take one down. It can act as a high-altitude bomber using guided bombs but its main role is as a spotter for U-boats. It finds the convoys and steers the submarines in. There are standing orders for any Ju-290s we run into; shoot them down at all costs and then make sure the kill is reported to Washington. They’re keeping a running check on how many of those birds are available.”
“Doesn’t that mean we must know the production rate, Sir?”
“That would be a reasonable guess, Gerry. Just don’t make it outside this compartment. There’s supposed to be a new long-range reconnaissance aircraft coming but nobody’s seen any yet.” Tillett finished his tea. “Right, let’s get back to work. You’ve got a convoy of 48 merchant ships to defend and the fascists have broken through the fighter line. Now, you got a problem to handle.”
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Above Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“See tovarisch, how our Amerikanskiye brat'ya pave the way for us! Can we do less?” The Regimental Zampolit, Evgeni Bessonov, shouted the encouragement at the top of his voice. Then he glanced sideways at the commander of the assault gun company, Captain Mikhail Prokopyevich Pakholkov. “Tovarish Misha, may I have the honor of riding with your guns this day?”
Pakholkov nodded and waved at the second gun in the line often. Then he turned to his gun crews. “There are at least two Tigers in the bridgehead; they may be concealed in shacks or even inside buildings. If any of those buildings are left standing, blow them up! Above all, if we spot tanks, any tanks, keep advancing and don’t turn! If you expose your flanks to tank fire, you’re going to get burned! Do not fire on the move; there’s little chance of hitting your target and we have to conserve ammunition. We’ll fire from short pauses and halts made at the gun layer’s order whenever he catches a target in his gunsight. The main thing, though: don’t let the faustniki get close! Rake every suspicious place with machine-gun fire from a safe distance. If we spot a tank or anti-tank gun, we’re going to race towards it at full speed, with zigzags. The speed affects the gunners – they get unnerved; the maneuvers will throw off the aim of an enemy gun layer, and glancing hits are not dangerous for an assault gun. Now, board your guns!”
The advice was important but the timing was more so. Pakholkov knew that down in the village, the stunned Hitlerite survivors would be hauling themselves from their shattered defenses and trying to get ready to repel the Russian attack that would surely follow. Only, this time there was a wrinkle in the plans. An entire Guards Special Artillery regiment had moved up in the night and was waiting for the Hitlerites to man their defenses. As Pakholkov finished his exhortation, the preparatory artillery barrage began with the Katyusha and Andryusha rocket launchers pouring fire into the enemy positions. That was when the SU-85 crews burst out laughing. As the Andryushka battalion fired, one of the launching trucks managed to fire a launch frame still attached to its 300mm rocket. Assault gun driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova shouted out “Hey, artillerists, you’ve gone crazy. You’re firing packing crates at the fascists!”
Once again, the town of Amosovskaya vanished under a rolling cloud of explosions as the intense rocket-artillery barrage slammed home. The ripples of small explosions from the 132mm rockets were interspaced with the much greater blasts from the 300mm heavy missiles yet neither could compare with the shattering blasts from the American bombs. Pakholkov guessed that the difference was that the Hitlerites would have seen the bombers coming and taken cover in their deep bunkers but now would be out in the open. That would make the difference in destruction.
“Forward!” He yelled the order in the clear; there was just no time to use the code tables during combat. His SU-85 lurched and then started to accelerate across the pathway of open ground that led to Amosovskaya. His company formed the left flank of the advance, racing across a field, slightly weaving. This was a dangerous position since heavy pine forests bordered the field and there was the deadly danger of panzerfausts being fired from the trees to take the SU-85s to their vulnerable sides. Pakholkov knew that the plan for the assault had Russian infantry advancing through those forests to cover the flanks of the armored assault. He also knew that any attempted advance against the fascist infantry was a mission fraught with danger and success was uncertain unless massive artillery and air support were available.
Yet, for all that, the assault was going well. The fascists had indeed been stunned by the American bombers and then again by the rocket artillery. By the time the SU-85s had reached the fascist front line, the Hitlerites were only just beginning to get their wits together and realize that the assault guns were already upon them. The tankodesantniki crouched behind the superstructure of the assault gun was already leaping from the vehicles and engaging the enemy in fierce hand-to-hand fighting. The defending Hitlerites had rifles and tried to work the bolts on their Mausers before giving up and attempting to defend themselves with bayonet and rifle butt. It was futile; the tankodesantniki tossed hand grenades down from their vehicles into the fascist foxholes while the submachine-gunners sprayed ammunition slashed at their enemy, the long bursts from the 71-round drum magazines tearing at their target’s heads. Stunned by the ferocity of the assault, the Hitlerites began to pull back via the communication trenches.
Pakholkov was suddenly aware that shells were exploding all around his assault guns. Most were artillery rounds, mortars were his best guess based on what he knew of the defenses. The shrieking scream of armor-piercing shots bouncing off metal armor told him that there were anti-tank guns around and that it was their shots that kept shaking his SU-85 time and again, making him cringe. Yet, he was proud to see that not one of his ten Su-85 crews was showing any panic from the counter fire. Despite being mere drugs, new recruits without a dead fascist to their names, they were holding together and that was the main thing for success in combat! He felt his assault gun lurch and bounce as it bounced across the enemy trench line, the tankodesantniki sweeping along beside intent on killing any fascists who had failed to run for their lives. And, most of those who did.
The assault guns were now moving through the scattered huts that marked the western part of Amosovskaya. The scattered anti-tank gunfire had stopped when the smoky haze from burning houses screened the tanks from the guns. To Pakholkov’s eyes, the sight where the community had been was awesome; much of the area was covered by interlocking circular bomb craters. Some were deep where the bombs had penetrated the mud before exploding but others were shallow. The Americans had started fitting extender rods to the fuses on some of their bombs so that they would explode while still well above ground. The fragmentation from those bombs would slaughter every human in a wide radius. Then, Pakholkov saw that one of the ruined buildings had a barrel sticking out of a set of shattered windows. He didn’t hesitate with his order. “Company! From a stop by the fence! At the shack, by salvo! Fire!”
The shack disintegrated with the impacts, wreckage flying in smooth arcs through the air. For some strange reason it didn’t burn but the collapsing structure did reveal the armored vehicle hidden inside. It wasn’t a Tiger but something much rarer and more valuable - a Nashorn! None of its six crew members survived their efforts to leap out of it. The machine guns on the SU-85s cut them down and the tankodesantniki finished off any survivors with bursts from their submachine guns.
By the time the 11th Rifle Division reached the banks of the Onega, they had lost three T-34/85 tanks and a SU-85, all to Panzerfausts fired from the ruined village buildings. However, Pakholkov’s assault guns had captured two Nashorns. The tanks and the infantry took up favorable combat positions along the banks of the Onega and stopped. Soon, the engineers would come to repair the damaged vehicles, tow the captured Nashorns away and dig emplacements for the front-line troops. Pakholkov knew that winter was coming, the ground was already freezing and it would not yield to the shovels. But, the engineer vehicles were coming and they would remove dozens of cubic meters of earth to provide shelter from artillery and aviation. He looked proudly at his crew of drugs; despite their inexperience, they had proved their worth superbly.
“Well done! The Rodina is proud of you. The fascists have been driven from Russian soil once more.” Evgeni Bessonov shouted the words out so that all could hear. “And two captured Nashorns! Your families will hold their heads high in pride when they read about your work this day! Tonight, there will be a full glass of vodka for every soldier!”
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Phillips 66 Oil Terminal, Tremley Point, New Jersey.
“Excuse me, Sir. I’ve been ordered to report to Captain William Brady, Master of the Shawnee. Where may I find him?”
“You just have, son. And you are?”
“Apprentice Seaman Douglas Young, Sir.”
“Ah yes, the Union sent me the list of yesterday’s signees. They have you listed as an experienced deckhand. Bit young for that grade aren’t you?”
“Just finishing my apprenticeship now, Sir.” Young looked at the Shawnee. “She’s a big one, Sir. At least 70 feet more than the standard T3.”
Captain Brady smiled at Young’s obvious enthusiasm. “That makes her the biggest in the fleet, and she’s also the fastest tanker in civilian service. Twin screws, turbo-electric drive. We can make 24 knots, lightly loaded on a good day. The Navy calls them the Improved Cimmaron class and has commandeered most of them as fleet oilers. They’ll be taking Shawnee when we get back from this run, I reckon. The fast carriers need 24-knot tankers, not the convoys.”
“Well-armed too. Are those five-inchers, Sir?”
“Sure are, one forward, one aft with a quad Bofors superimposed over each. Four twin Bofors around the bridge and four galleries with four Oerlikons each. We’ve even got directors fore and aft for the 5-inchers and the Bofors.” Brady spoke with all the passion of a man who knew he had a ship to make other Captains envious. “Union representative says you’re a good, steady man. We’ll need you to help out with the guns if the chips are down. We’ve got a 29-man United States Navy Armed Guard assigned but they can’t even begin to man all the guns. Get yourself on board and once you’ve done your paperwork, find Ensign H. A. Axtell, Jr. He’s the officer commanding the Armed Guard. Sign up for cross-training on a 20mm Oerlikon.”
“Very good, Sir. May I ask, Sir, when we’ll be setting sail?”
Brady shook his head. “Soon. Very soon. Union says you’re a married man with a wife here in New York. Better get ready to say goodbye. We’ll try and give you and the other married men eight-hour leave tickets just before we depart. That’s all I can say right now. You better sign on right away, the Purser is on the bridge amidships, see him, sign the ship’s articles and he’ll find you bunk space.”
404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“It flies like a barge.” Captain Malcolm Foster didn’t like the new P-47Ns and was willing to make that opinion quite clear to everybody. He also didn’t like being assigned to a Ninth Air Force fighter group tasked mostly with close support and interdiction missions. His first tour had been with Eighth Air Force and it was Army Air Force policy that pilots who volunteered for a second tour would be assigned to the “other’ air force. That way, the duties, and risks would be spread evenly. Of course, which mission profile carried the greater risks was open to debate. The fascist pilots were good although not up to the standard of those who had been killed in 1943. But now they had jets. . . . On the other hand, the Hitlerite flak gun crews were good as well and they had quad-twenties.
“They do, when at gross maximum.” Colonel Daniel Campbell had found the P-47N took some getting used to as well. “Your previous tour was with the D-ship wasn’t it? Well, you’ll find the N model has quite a few plus points when she isn’t dragging a load of fuel, bombs, and rockets around. It’s not just she’s got much longer legs than the other models. She’s faster, the roll rate is even quicker than on the old models, the bubble cockpit means there is no blind zone aft and the new prop speeds the climb rate up a bit. You got a lot more armor as well, around the engine, under your seat, and protecting the fuel tanks. For the work we do, the N-ship is just fine.”
Foster didn’t look convinced but at least Campbell’s comments made him decide to give the N-ship a chance. “Are we based with the Russians here, Colonel?”
“We are. Our sister unit is the 114th Fighter Aviation Regiment. They were a Stavka Reserve unit until we moved up here.”
“Yaks?”
“P-45 Kobrushkas. We don’t mix Russian and American types on Allied bases anymore. Too many fuel problems. The Yaks and Lavochkins burn 87-octane, we use 130. So, when we share a base with the Russians, they use Lend-Lease aircraft. The Russians are giving us 87-octane fuel in return for the 130-octane we supply them with for Lend-Lease birds but Lord knows what we will do with it. We’ve tried running our engines on it but performance goes through the floor and maintenance is a lot harder.
“Apart from the Russians, we’ve got P-63 Kingcobras up here. They’re a match for any piston-engined bird the fascists have and can just about hold their own against jets. They fly top cover for us, well what counts for top cover here in Russia. There are Australians up in this area as well, flying Ostriches. Watch out for them, they don’t look like anything we’re familiar with. Pilots are good, overly aggressive though. A tendency to shoot first and ask questions afterward.”
“They can’t be that good or they’d be down by Kazan. What are they doing up here anyway?” Foster sounded as if he was looking for things to complain about, an attitude that made Campbell look at him sharply.
“Firstly, they’re a Commonwealth unit, supplied via Canada so they are supported by the convoys into Murmansk and Archangel’sk. Secondly, Archangel’sk is a key, the key, supply port for the northern part of the front. We know it, the Russians know it and the fascists know it. They’re pushing hard to close it down and we’ve been moved up here to stop them. The Kazan Front is stable now; this is the new key area. A quarter of all Lend-Lease supplies come to Russia through those two ports. If we lose one or both, we’ll be in a bad way. The situation is critical enough for the Air Bridge to be setting up a new destination in this area but they can’t equal the sheer carrying capacity of the ships. One convoy carries ten times as much cargo as the Air Bridge can deliver in a year.”
Foster had caught the look of his commander and wanted to make amends by explaining himself. “It’s just the B-29s will be hitting targets in Germany itself next year. I was hoping to be there to see the fascists suffering. After all, we’ve seen them do here.”
Campbell shook his head slowly. “We can’t get escort fighters that far, not even with the P-47N carrying fuel instead of ordnance. The P-38s will take them as far as they can but after that, they’ll be on their own. We’ll have our own problems up here in time. We haven’t seen much of the fascist jets yet but they’ll come. There are also reports of two new piston-engined fighters coming, the Ta-152 and the FW-290. Both are supposed to be an advanced version of the 190Ds we’ve been fighting for the last six months. Most of the fighters we’ve seen up here for the last few months have been 109Ks and we got the measure of those. We’re running into more and more British-built Spitfires though. It seems that the Luftwaffe is short of fighters right now, they’re transferring them from training units. What that’s doing to their fighter pilot training program we can only guess.”
“Back in the States, the brass believe that the fascists are running on capital and it shows in quality across the board. U-boat crews, troops on the ground, and aircrew are all dropping. Most of the improvements in their new types are just offsetting that.” Between his first tour with the 8th Air Force and volunteering for a second tour with the 9th, Foster had served in a staff appointment and had a feeling for how his superiors saw things.
“I’d like to see the brass out here fighting Hitlerites in jets before they say that. That’s why our top priority right now is hitting any airfield we see with concrete runways being built. That’s delaying the jets from coming up here but it’s only a delay. We’re just trying to buy time until winter comes.”
HMCS Howe, Churchill Harbor, Nova Scotia.
“Launch eight FM-2s from the Smolensk and position them twelve nautical miles out on bearing 135 relative. Order Smolensk to prepare the second flight of four FM-2s for launch to reinforce the combat air patrol.” Lieutenant Commander Gray looked at the situation table with its large block representing the convoy, surrounded by four flights of FM-2s from the escort carriers. I’ve forgotten something, but I just can’t see what it is.
The pause was tangibly painful. Eventually, Captain Tillett stepped forward. “Gerry, you depleted the overhead combat air patrol to position those FM-2s out on the threat axis. Now, that’s the right decision as far as it goes, but you have left a gap in coverage closer in. There are several ways you can handle that but any inbound formation will be broken up by those FM-2s. So, I would suggest you move Atlanta up to cover the gap. She’s the most effective AA ship we have in the screen.”
“Of course, she’d have to move up a long way. Atlanta’s in the Pacific.” Commander McKendrick sounded smug which made Tillett mark him down for a rough ride when it was his turn for the hot seat.
“We think. The Septics keep quiet about their ship dispositions. Anyway, Gerry, that’s not bad for a first shot at being in the fighter controller’s seat. The first time Graham sat there, he forgot to ready the replacement aircraft and left the whole convoy uncovered when the fighters had to come down for refueling.” Tillett took secret delight in McKendrick’s flush of guilt. “We’ll take a break now and then you can practice fighting an air battle over the convoy.”
“I never thought that navigating would involve things like this.” Gray looked overawed by the knowledge that he might have to fight the ship in defense of a convoy.
“It shouldn’t, Gerry, but suppose we catch a torpedo or something else goes badly wrong? A lot of the officers are dead and people filling in where they can. You might have to run the air battle and just do the best job possible.”
“What are we likely to run into, Sir?” The question pleased Tillett and showed that his navigating officer was taking the cross-training seriously.
“The main enemy is torpedo-bombers. When we ran the first convoys into Murmansk two years ago, they were mostly Heinkel 111 bombers and 115 floatplanes but they’ve all gone now. So, mostly, the Dornier 217s although some of the later versions with glide bombs turn up now and then. We’ve seen mostly Ju-188s since then but word is we can expect a new torpedo bomber soon. It’s an advanced version of the Ju-188 designated the Ju-388M. According to the intelligence people, it’s as fast as a thief but short-legged. We don’t have to worry about either of them until we’re 450 miles or so from the enemy coast.
“Our main enemy, right from early on, is the long-range maritime patrol aircraft. You’ve heard of the Kondors, well they’re mostly gone now. Few that are left are back to being used as transport aircraft. The main one we run into is the Ju-290. It’s got the range and is quite heavily armed. Usually, we recommend sending out a flight of four FM-2s to take one down. It can act as a high-altitude bomber using guided bombs but its main role is as a spotter for U-boats. It finds the convoys and steers the submarines in. There are standing orders for any Ju-290s we run into; shoot them down at all costs and then make sure the kill is reported to Washington. They’re keeping a running check on how many of those birds are available.”
“Doesn’t that mean we must know the production rate, Sir?”
“That would be a reasonable guess, Gerry. Just don’t make it outside this compartment. There’s supposed to be a new long-range reconnaissance aircraft coming but nobody’s seen any yet.” Tillett finished his tea. “Right, let’s get back to work. You’ve got a convoy of 48 merchant ships to defend and the fascists have broken through the fighter line. Now, you got a problem to handle.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Four
Ostrich EH-C, 101st Squadron Royal Australian Air Force, west of Onega. November 1944
"Keep your eyes peeled, mates. The Sweeney is reported ta be movin' a heap of kit up ta the front." Flight Lieutenant Nathan Roughley turned the Ostrich south to try and locate any fascist units unwise enough to move in daylight.
"How's she flyin', Nate?" Roughley's radio operator and the rear gunner were fascinated by their new aircraft. 101 Squadron had only just received its Ostriches, straight from the Government Aircraft Factory at Fisherman's Bend near Melbourne. For their first six months in Russia, they had been flying Beauforts, mostly on standard medium bomber missions and always within range of heavy fighter protection. As the only Beaufort unit in Russia, they had been top of the list for re-equipment when the first Ostriches had arrived. The other three squadrons in Six Group had received Beaufighters before coming to Russia and could wait for the new aircraft.
"Fair ta bloody," Roughley grunted. "Nose heavy and she snakes a bit. Heavy on ta controls too."
"Wit' four anti-tank guns in ta nose, what ta yoos expect? Along with all the other American, Australian and Canadian pilots who had seen the guns, Sergeant Mitchell Kepert was mightily impressed with the Russian-made 23mm Volkov-Yartsev guns. Four of them formed the primary armament of the Ostrich. The eight .303-inch machine guns in the wings, the six five hundred pound bombs, and eight 5-inch rockets under the wings, all were bonuses. It was the VYa 23mm guns that separated the Ostrich from its older and less-powerful Beaufighter cousin. Those guns and the heavy armor protected the crew, the engines, and the fuel tanks from anti-aircraft fire. The Ostrich was designed to do one thing superbly well. Provide close air support to the troops on the ground. The odd thing was that the Russians had regarded the VYa as a failure and had been intending to scale back production in favor of 37mm guns. That had been abandoned since the Americans and Australians were taking every VYa the Russians could produce and charging them against the Lend-Lease accounts.
"See nothin' down there, Mitch?" Roughly called the question back. Kepert was a sorely-overworked man. He had to operate the radio, man the .303 machine gun that was supposed to provide rear defense, and keep a keen eye on the ground below for targets. One job he didn’t have was to manhandle the 80-round drums of ammunition for the 20mm Hispano guns that armed the Beaufighters. The 23mm guns were belt-fed. The bad news was that because the Russian guns didn’t need reloading in flight, the crew member tasked with that work had been deleted. On the other hand, that had allowed the addition of another hundred pounds of armor.
"Wait a minute, Nate, there's somethin' happenin' down on the ground. Bloody convoy down there. Cheeky bastards, movin' in broad daylight like they're back at 'ome."
"Big bastards too." Roughley was already peeling his Ostrich over into a dive. He did not doubt that the crews of the armored vehicles below had seen the formation of aircraft and were preparing the appropriate response. Behind him, the other three Ostriches in his flight were already making the wingovers needed to follow their leader in the 40-degree attack dive that was supposed to give the best impact profile for the VYa cannon.
Below him, Roughly could count ten of the biggest vehicles he had ever seen and a dozen or more half-tracks. “What ta hell are those thin's?”
He reached down and squeezed the firing triggers for the four cannon and eight machine guns. The recoil of the wing-mounted machine guns was lost in the powerful recoil of the heavy cannon in the nose. The Ostrich was shaking from the very abrupt functioning of the firing and reloading mechanisms that often caused jamming. That had been one of the reasons the Russians had disliked the gun since being wing-mounted in the IL-2 meant it could not be unjammed in mid-air. That wasn’t the case with the nose-mounted installation on the Ostrich.
The stream of tracers from the cannon and machine guns terminated in a brilliant shower of flashes and sparks as the steel-cored APIs struck the armor plate of the huge vehicles below and disintegrated or ricocheted off, Roughley pulled back in the stick, feeling the nose rise slowly as he pulled out of the dive and walked his gunfire along the column of vehicles. With a sickening sense of fear, he believed he had left the pull-out too late and would commit the newbie’s blunder of flying into the ground. “Watch it, mates, pull out early. The nose of these sheilas lifts fair dinkum blue.”
Roughley winced at the exaggerated and stereotyped Australian slang. A word from the Partisans had been that even English-speaking fascist intercept officers found understanding Australians difficult, so the 6 Group pilots had been instructed to go way over the top when using the local vernacular.
The sky seemed full of tracers by then; the fascist quad-twenty guns were firing and the streams of ammunition from them rose like a torrent. Roughly heard the thuds as the shells bounced off the double layer of armor plate under the cockpit. If the flak crews had been firing armor-piercing ammunition as well, he knew EH-C would be crippled and dying from the impacts. Fortunately, the fascists still used the thin-walled minengeschoss shells that crumpled against the heavy protection of the allied aircraft. The explosions looked impressive but did little real damage against the armor plate.
The stream of fire from the Ostrich’s guns had walked over a second one of the huge vehicles giving another impressive shower of flashes and sparks that did little or no damage. In something close to desperation, Roughley picked off the two five hundred pound bombs under his belly and the four under his wings in the hope that the blast from the high explosive filling would do some damage to the monsters. He was already too low to use his rockets but he saw the two aircraft at the rear of the formation had seen the ineffectual cannon fire and shot their rockets at the rearmost of the huge armored vehicles.
By then, Roughley was passing over the lead assault gun and closing on the half-tracks at the head of the formation. Now, at last, his VYa cannons had a target they were capable of handling and their shots shredded the lightly-armored half-tracks, sending balls of orange flame and thick black smoke skywards. His Ostrich erupted through the rising smoke, still spewing tracers from its guns, then ceased firing as it vanished over the tree line. The other three aircraft followed, two trailing smoke from were some, at least, of the anti-aircraft fire had struck home.
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
“Losses?” Major Otto Carius stood on the road by his command Jagdtiger. His column was halted while the dead and wounded were cleared out of the destroyed half-tracks and the wrecks pushed out of the way. The attack had lasted barely twenty seconds but he found the resulting carnage deeply distressing.
“All ten Jagdtigers are operational and ready to move.” Only one of the four companies of Jagdtigers forming the 653rd was with this convoy. The other three were following separate routes. They would join up at the assembly point – or so the plan went. Hauptmann Rudolf Kern had very little faith in plans after three years in Russia. “We lost two scout vehicles from the reconnaissance section, four 20mm quad half-tracks, and four half-tracks from the engineer section.”
“How many of our men?” Carius was impatient. All his men were skilled veterans and their loss was irreplaceable. Especially the engineers and mechanics; the losses in engineering and maintenance troops had left the Army desperately short of skilled mechanics. Damn the Amis and Ivans. Their continuous air attacks on our rear areas are bleeding us white.
“Fifteen dead, 20 wounded. None of the tank destroyer crews suffered any losses, nor did the men in the tank recovery vehicles. It could have been much worse, Major. We will be moving again in twenty minutes at the most.”
Carius nodded. “And then? Just how much longer will this insanity be going on? We get hit by air attacks almost every day now.”
Kern shook his head. “Two years ago I’d say we’d have been home by Christmas. We had the Ivans on the ropes. But now? The Amis are here in force and they flood every battlefield with their aircraft. I can’t see an end to this. I was planning to become an architect but now? What did you want to do after the war, Sir?”
Carius laughed sadly. “Be alive? You might laugh Rudi, but I have always wanted to be a pharmacist. My dream was to start my own apothecary business so I could hand it on to my children.
The laughter from Hauptmann Kern echoed off the armored vehicles surrounding them. “Look on the bright side, Otto, you may get to hand on your Jagdtigers instead. Perhaps you ought to call them the Tiger Apotheke.”'
"I don't think that's a bright side, Rudi. Probable but not a cheerful thought. Now, get these vehicles moving before those jabos come back."
416th Bombardment Group, Airfield 46, Letneozerskiy, Archangel’sk Front, November 1944
“That long thing sticking out of the nose is a 75mm semi-automatic cannon. It fires a 26-pound shell at a rate of one shot every two seconds. The armor-piercing round will penetrate four inches of armor. This gun is your primary weapon but your top-priority targets are not fascist armored vehicles. Instead, the primary operational task of the 416th and its A-38s will be to hunt down and destroy enemy anti-aircraft positions.”
Colonel Walter Brown looked across at the crewmen assembled in the hangar. He couldn’t help thinking how much things had changed since the early days in 1943 when American units in Russia had used derelict airfields, deliberately made to look abandoned to escape German air raids. Now, the airfields had concrete runways and full hangars for the aircraft. It was an overt message 'bring it on.' The fascists had tried raids on a few American airfields in Russia but the combination of radar surveillance, American fighters, and Russian anti-aircraft guns had made the experience a harrowing one for the enemy.
“There is a question being asked in Washington right now. ‘How effective are Hitlerite air defense systems at actually preventing ground support?’ Do they make it impossible for our aircraft to support Allied ground troops? We already have an answer to that; no they do not although they do make it more costly for us to do so. The analysts say that it is between five and six times as dangerous to destroy a Hitlerite aircraft on the ground than in the air. Fascist flak is the reason for that. Much of their flak is mobile; single 37mm guns or quad twenties mounted on their half-tracks and old tanks. We are now getting reports from the Kazan area of a new vehicle, a modified Mark IV with two 30mm guns mounted in a fully-protected turret.”
Brown paused and measured the effect his words were having on his audience. “The truth is that these mobile anti-aircraft guns have created havoc with the aircraft that were assigned to ground support and had to fly into the areas covered by such defenses. Earlier in the war, this played very heavily against the Russians since they concentrated on supporting the front-line troops and the fascists could concentrate their light flak into the threatened areas. When we arrived, our doctrine of flying ground attack missions over a wide area including hundreds of miles behind the front line caused the fascist flak to lose a lot of its bite since the coverage density went way down. Now, the fascists are responding by building a lot more of those vehicle-mounted anti-aircraft guns.
“So far, the boys in the P-47s and P-38s flying ground attack missions have been carrying out flak suppression missions and they are becoming a vital part of fighter sweeps. At the moment, a squadron of 16 planes will fly twelve at low altitude doing the sweep with four more flying high cover above and behind them. They spot where flak is coming from and dive-bomb the positions with rockets and bombs. The problem is, with the fascists deploying more and more quad-twenties and automatic 30mm guns replacing the semi-automatic 37mms, our birds have to run the gauntlet of enemy fire before they can take out the enemy guns with their .50s.
“Now, the Beechcraft A-38 gives us an answer to that problem. We will be flying our Grizzlies in groups of four aircraft ahead of the main strafing groups to locate flak positions. Then we will engage them from outside the range of their guns with our 75mms."
"Wait a minute, Colonel. You're asking us to do walk-down duels with flak guns?"
In the back of the hangar, the Russian liaison officers instinctively winced. Even the 18 months that had elapsed since the Americans had arrived in force had not accustomed them to the essential American irreverence for authority. They'd learned something even more stunning; an American pilot or crew could refuse to go on a mission at any time. A Russian pilot who tried that would be shot on the spot. Instead, his American equivalent would be taken off flight status and given a ground job. It was commonplace for such pilots to resume flight status after a week or more of ground duty.
"Murphy, are you telling me that a good Texan like you can't shoot faster and straighter than a fascist?" The hangar was filled with laughter and war-whoops. Lieutenant 'Tex' Murphy had been telling everybody who would listen and most who tried to avoid doing so that everything from Texas was bigger and better than anything from anywhere else.
"Hey, Tex, looks like you think the fascists are better shots than any Texican." The cat-call came from the back of the hangar. Murphy spun around trying to spot the person who had insulted his beloved state.
"Yeah, they've probably got a bigger 'gun' than him as well." That call had come from the opposite side of the hangar so that Murphy's back was to the speaker. He spun around again and nearly tripped over his own feet to the great delight of everybody present. That included the Russians who by now knew the Americans well enough to know that Murphy would be determined to come back with a copious list of flak gun kills to redeem himself in the eyes of his comrades.
"Quiet, people." Brown looked around at the assembled Grizzly crews once more. "Those anti-aircraft guns have got to go. The Jug pilots are doing their best but the aircraft isn't designed for the job. The A-38 is, so let's get to it."
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
"There's an attack coming." General Lesley J. McNair had finally achieved his ambition, a combat command in the face of the enemy. He had thought he would spend the war stuck with training Army Ground Forces in the United States. However, the developing threat on the Northern Front and the possibility that the enemy might endanger the vital Archangel'sk port had resulted in American support troops being shifted to that part of the front. It wasn't quite a combat command but the position was vital in ensuring that American and Russian forces were operating together smoothly.
"There is always an attack coming tovarish." General Rodion Yakovlevich Malinovsky had bounced from one crisis point to another, always facing a full-blooded assault from the invading fascists. He was known as the master of defense, always staging his withdrawals at the last possible moment so that he bled the enemy while preserving his forces. Privately, McNair thought that of all the senior Russian officers, Malinovsky was the most like an American commander. Now, he was in charge of the 42nd Army, charged with defending Archangel'sk against the inevitable assault.
"This one, though, we have solid evidence for. One of our heavy bombardment groups hit the fascist bridgehead at Amosovskaya. Their lead bomber saw an underwater bridge there and got some pictures of it. Copies arrived a few minutes ago. Here."
McNair put the pictures on the table and saw the Russians lean in to see them. Malinovsky was nodding as he put his finger on the pale line that marked shallow water over the bridge. He turned to the Cheka officer with him. "There it is. Well-placed to support an assault from the bridgehead."
"Then it is fortunate the Army crushed the bridgehead. With the assistance of our American brothers of course." Chekist Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov was careful to credit the Americans with the devastating punch they had provided to aid the 93rd Rifle Division in its attack on the town. In private Cheka briefings, the instructions were very clear; everybody must know that the Americans fight alongside us and shed their blood to aid us in the Rodina's hour of need. The message to our people must be 'See, we are no longer alone!' Napalkov had been involved with the Americans since the fighting around Kazan and Ulyanovsk the previous year and had destroyed the largest fascist spy ring yet discovered. His reputation had soared to new heights with the associated bad news that he got progressively harder missions as a result. The quality of the pictures concerned him though. The American reconnaissance aircraft were everywhere and the pictures they brought back had allowed the American cartographers to produce excellent maps of the front. Napalkov didn't like excellent maps, they told too much to too many people.
"Also, an Australian squadron hit a Hitlerite convoy moving in daylight. They bombed and strafed it and they sent us pictures from their gun cameras. Take a look at these."
The pictures were blurry, a tribute to the speed of the aircraft they had been taken from and the bouncing around they had received from anti-aircraft fire. Nevertheless, the big tank destroyers in the pictures were easily recognizable.
"Jagdtigers. We have a problem." Malinovsky spoke with awe at the sight of the massive vehicles. "Seventy-five tones, 128mm gun, armor 250mm thick. We haven't seen them up here before."
"Only two fascist units have Jagdtigers. The 512th Heavy Tank Destroyer Battalion and 653rd Heavy Tank Destroyer Battalion. They are both fire brigade units the Hitlerites rush to whatever section of the front is critical. You are right, tovarish, there is indeed an assault coming. We must make preparations before it is too late." Napalkov looked solemnly at McNair and Malinovsky. "This city must not fall!"
Ostrich EH-C, 101st Squadron Royal Australian Air Force, west of Onega. November 1944
"Keep your eyes peeled, mates. The Sweeney is reported ta be movin' a heap of kit up ta the front." Flight Lieutenant Nathan Roughley turned the Ostrich south to try and locate any fascist units unwise enough to move in daylight.
"How's she flyin', Nate?" Roughley's radio operator and the rear gunner were fascinated by their new aircraft. 101 Squadron had only just received its Ostriches, straight from the Government Aircraft Factory at Fisherman's Bend near Melbourne. For their first six months in Russia, they had been flying Beauforts, mostly on standard medium bomber missions and always within range of heavy fighter protection. As the only Beaufort unit in Russia, they had been top of the list for re-equipment when the first Ostriches had arrived. The other three squadrons in Six Group had received Beaufighters before coming to Russia and could wait for the new aircraft.
"Fair ta bloody," Roughley grunted. "Nose heavy and she snakes a bit. Heavy on ta controls too."
"Wit' four anti-tank guns in ta nose, what ta yoos expect? Along with all the other American, Australian and Canadian pilots who had seen the guns, Sergeant Mitchell Kepert was mightily impressed with the Russian-made 23mm Volkov-Yartsev guns. Four of them formed the primary armament of the Ostrich. The eight .303-inch machine guns in the wings, the six five hundred pound bombs, and eight 5-inch rockets under the wings, all were bonuses. It was the VYa 23mm guns that separated the Ostrich from its older and less-powerful Beaufighter cousin. Those guns and the heavy armor protected the crew, the engines, and the fuel tanks from anti-aircraft fire. The Ostrich was designed to do one thing superbly well. Provide close air support to the troops on the ground. The odd thing was that the Russians had regarded the VYa as a failure and had been intending to scale back production in favor of 37mm guns. That had been abandoned since the Americans and Australians were taking every VYa the Russians could produce and charging them against the Lend-Lease accounts.
"See nothin' down there, Mitch?" Roughly called the question back. Kepert was a sorely-overworked man. He had to operate the radio, man the .303 machine gun that was supposed to provide rear defense, and keep a keen eye on the ground below for targets. One job he didn’t have was to manhandle the 80-round drums of ammunition for the 20mm Hispano guns that armed the Beaufighters. The 23mm guns were belt-fed. The bad news was that because the Russian guns didn’t need reloading in flight, the crew member tasked with that work had been deleted. On the other hand, that had allowed the addition of another hundred pounds of armor.
"Wait a minute, Nate, there's somethin' happenin' down on the ground. Bloody convoy down there. Cheeky bastards, movin' in broad daylight like they're back at 'ome."
"Big bastards too." Roughley was already peeling his Ostrich over into a dive. He did not doubt that the crews of the armored vehicles below had seen the formation of aircraft and were preparing the appropriate response. Behind him, the other three Ostriches in his flight were already making the wingovers needed to follow their leader in the 40-degree attack dive that was supposed to give the best impact profile for the VYa cannon.
Below him, Roughly could count ten of the biggest vehicles he had ever seen and a dozen or more half-tracks. “What ta hell are those thin's?”
He reached down and squeezed the firing triggers for the four cannon and eight machine guns. The recoil of the wing-mounted machine guns was lost in the powerful recoil of the heavy cannon in the nose. The Ostrich was shaking from the very abrupt functioning of the firing and reloading mechanisms that often caused jamming. That had been one of the reasons the Russians had disliked the gun since being wing-mounted in the IL-2 meant it could not be unjammed in mid-air. That wasn’t the case with the nose-mounted installation on the Ostrich.
The stream of tracers from the cannon and machine guns terminated in a brilliant shower of flashes and sparks as the steel-cored APIs struck the armor plate of the huge vehicles below and disintegrated or ricocheted off, Roughley pulled back in the stick, feeling the nose rise slowly as he pulled out of the dive and walked his gunfire along the column of vehicles. With a sickening sense of fear, he believed he had left the pull-out too late and would commit the newbie’s blunder of flying into the ground. “Watch it, mates, pull out early. The nose of these sheilas lifts fair dinkum blue.”
Roughley winced at the exaggerated and stereotyped Australian slang. A word from the Partisans had been that even English-speaking fascist intercept officers found understanding Australians difficult, so the 6 Group pilots had been instructed to go way over the top when using the local vernacular.
The sky seemed full of tracers by then; the fascist quad-twenty guns were firing and the streams of ammunition from them rose like a torrent. Roughly heard the thuds as the shells bounced off the double layer of armor plate under the cockpit. If the flak crews had been firing armor-piercing ammunition as well, he knew EH-C would be crippled and dying from the impacts. Fortunately, the fascists still used the thin-walled minengeschoss shells that crumpled against the heavy protection of the allied aircraft. The explosions looked impressive but did little real damage against the armor plate.
The stream of fire from the Ostrich’s guns had walked over a second one of the huge vehicles giving another impressive shower of flashes and sparks that did little or no damage. In something close to desperation, Roughley picked off the two five hundred pound bombs under his belly and the four under his wings in the hope that the blast from the high explosive filling would do some damage to the monsters. He was already too low to use his rockets but he saw the two aircraft at the rear of the formation had seen the ineffectual cannon fire and shot their rockets at the rearmost of the huge armored vehicles.
By then, Roughley was passing over the lead assault gun and closing on the half-tracks at the head of the formation. Now, at last, his VYa cannons had a target they were capable of handling and their shots shredded the lightly-armored half-tracks, sending balls of orange flame and thick black smoke skywards. His Ostrich erupted through the rising smoke, still spewing tracers from its guns, then ceased firing as it vanished over the tree line. The other three aircraft followed, two trailing smoke from were some, at least, of the anti-aircraft fire had struck home.
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
“Losses?” Major Otto Carius stood on the road by his command Jagdtiger. His column was halted while the dead and wounded were cleared out of the destroyed half-tracks and the wrecks pushed out of the way. The attack had lasted barely twenty seconds but he found the resulting carnage deeply distressing.
“All ten Jagdtigers are operational and ready to move.” Only one of the four companies of Jagdtigers forming the 653rd was with this convoy. The other three were following separate routes. They would join up at the assembly point – or so the plan went. Hauptmann Rudolf Kern had very little faith in plans after three years in Russia. “We lost two scout vehicles from the reconnaissance section, four 20mm quad half-tracks, and four half-tracks from the engineer section.”
“How many of our men?” Carius was impatient. All his men were skilled veterans and their loss was irreplaceable. Especially the engineers and mechanics; the losses in engineering and maintenance troops had left the Army desperately short of skilled mechanics. Damn the Amis and Ivans. Their continuous air attacks on our rear areas are bleeding us white.
“Fifteen dead, 20 wounded. None of the tank destroyer crews suffered any losses, nor did the men in the tank recovery vehicles. It could have been much worse, Major. We will be moving again in twenty minutes at the most.”
Carius nodded. “And then? Just how much longer will this insanity be going on? We get hit by air attacks almost every day now.”
Kern shook his head. “Two years ago I’d say we’d have been home by Christmas. We had the Ivans on the ropes. But now? The Amis are here in force and they flood every battlefield with their aircraft. I can’t see an end to this. I was planning to become an architect but now? What did you want to do after the war, Sir?”
Carius laughed sadly. “Be alive? You might laugh Rudi, but I have always wanted to be a pharmacist. My dream was to start my own apothecary business so I could hand it on to my children.
The laughter from Hauptmann Kern echoed off the armored vehicles surrounding them. “Look on the bright side, Otto, you may get to hand on your Jagdtigers instead. Perhaps you ought to call them the Tiger Apotheke.”'
"I don't think that's a bright side, Rudi. Probable but not a cheerful thought. Now, get these vehicles moving before those jabos come back."
416th Bombardment Group, Airfield 46, Letneozerskiy, Archangel’sk Front, November 1944
“That long thing sticking out of the nose is a 75mm semi-automatic cannon. It fires a 26-pound shell at a rate of one shot every two seconds. The armor-piercing round will penetrate four inches of armor. This gun is your primary weapon but your top-priority targets are not fascist armored vehicles. Instead, the primary operational task of the 416th and its A-38s will be to hunt down and destroy enemy anti-aircraft positions.”
Colonel Walter Brown looked across at the crewmen assembled in the hangar. He couldn’t help thinking how much things had changed since the early days in 1943 when American units in Russia had used derelict airfields, deliberately made to look abandoned to escape German air raids. Now, the airfields had concrete runways and full hangars for the aircraft. It was an overt message 'bring it on.' The fascists had tried raids on a few American airfields in Russia but the combination of radar surveillance, American fighters, and Russian anti-aircraft guns had made the experience a harrowing one for the enemy.
“There is a question being asked in Washington right now. ‘How effective are Hitlerite air defense systems at actually preventing ground support?’ Do they make it impossible for our aircraft to support Allied ground troops? We already have an answer to that; no they do not although they do make it more costly for us to do so. The analysts say that it is between five and six times as dangerous to destroy a Hitlerite aircraft on the ground than in the air. Fascist flak is the reason for that. Much of their flak is mobile; single 37mm guns or quad twenties mounted on their half-tracks and old tanks. We are now getting reports from the Kazan area of a new vehicle, a modified Mark IV with two 30mm guns mounted in a fully-protected turret.”
Brown paused and measured the effect his words were having on his audience. “The truth is that these mobile anti-aircraft guns have created havoc with the aircraft that were assigned to ground support and had to fly into the areas covered by such defenses. Earlier in the war, this played very heavily against the Russians since they concentrated on supporting the front-line troops and the fascists could concentrate their light flak into the threatened areas. When we arrived, our doctrine of flying ground attack missions over a wide area including hundreds of miles behind the front line caused the fascist flak to lose a lot of its bite since the coverage density went way down. Now, the fascists are responding by building a lot more of those vehicle-mounted anti-aircraft guns.
“So far, the boys in the P-47s and P-38s flying ground attack missions have been carrying out flak suppression missions and they are becoming a vital part of fighter sweeps. At the moment, a squadron of 16 planes will fly twelve at low altitude doing the sweep with four more flying high cover above and behind them. They spot where flak is coming from and dive-bomb the positions with rockets and bombs. The problem is, with the fascists deploying more and more quad-twenties and automatic 30mm guns replacing the semi-automatic 37mms, our birds have to run the gauntlet of enemy fire before they can take out the enemy guns with their .50s.
“Now, the Beechcraft A-38 gives us an answer to that problem. We will be flying our Grizzlies in groups of four aircraft ahead of the main strafing groups to locate flak positions. Then we will engage them from outside the range of their guns with our 75mms."
"Wait a minute, Colonel. You're asking us to do walk-down duels with flak guns?"
In the back of the hangar, the Russian liaison officers instinctively winced. Even the 18 months that had elapsed since the Americans had arrived in force had not accustomed them to the essential American irreverence for authority. They'd learned something even more stunning; an American pilot or crew could refuse to go on a mission at any time. A Russian pilot who tried that would be shot on the spot. Instead, his American equivalent would be taken off flight status and given a ground job. It was commonplace for such pilots to resume flight status after a week or more of ground duty.
"Murphy, are you telling me that a good Texan like you can't shoot faster and straighter than a fascist?" The hangar was filled with laughter and war-whoops. Lieutenant 'Tex' Murphy had been telling everybody who would listen and most who tried to avoid doing so that everything from Texas was bigger and better than anything from anywhere else.
"Hey, Tex, looks like you think the fascists are better shots than any Texican." The cat-call came from the back of the hangar. Murphy spun around trying to spot the person who had insulted his beloved state.
"Yeah, they've probably got a bigger 'gun' than him as well." That call had come from the opposite side of the hangar so that Murphy's back was to the speaker. He spun around again and nearly tripped over his own feet to the great delight of everybody present. That included the Russians who by now knew the Americans well enough to know that Murphy would be determined to come back with a copious list of flak gun kills to redeem himself in the eyes of his comrades.
"Quiet, people." Brown looked around at the assembled Grizzly crews once more. "Those anti-aircraft guns have got to go. The Jug pilots are doing their best but the aircraft isn't designed for the job. The A-38 is, so let's get to it."
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
"There's an attack coming." General Lesley J. McNair had finally achieved his ambition, a combat command in the face of the enemy. He had thought he would spend the war stuck with training Army Ground Forces in the United States. However, the developing threat on the Northern Front and the possibility that the enemy might endanger the vital Archangel'sk port had resulted in American support troops being shifted to that part of the front. It wasn't quite a combat command but the position was vital in ensuring that American and Russian forces were operating together smoothly.
"There is always an attack coming tovarish." General Rodion Yakovlevich Malinovsky had bounced from one crisis point to another, always facing a full-blooded assault from the invading fascists. He was known as the master of defense, always staging his withdrawals at the last possible moment so that he bled the enemy while preserving his forces. Privately, McNair thought that of all the senior Russian officers, Malinovsky was the most like an American commander. Now, he was in charge of the 42nd Army, charged with defending Archangel'sk against the inevitable assault.
"This one, though, we have solid evidence for. One of our heavy bombardment groups hit the fascist bridgehead at Amosovskaya. Their lead bomber saw an underwater bridge there and got some pictures of it. Copies arrived a few minutes ago. Here."
McNair put the pictures on the table and saw the Russians lean in to see them. Malinovsky was nodding as he put his finger on the pale line that marked shallow water over the bridge. He turned to the Cheka officer with him. "There it is. Well-placed to support an assault from the bridgehead."
"Then it is fortunate the Army crushed the bridgehead. With the assistance of our American brothers of course." Chekist Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov was careful to credit the Americans with the devastating punch they had provided to aid the 93rd Rifle Division in its attack on the town. In private Cheka briefings, the instructions were very clear; everybody must know that the Americans fight alongside us and shed their blood to aid us in the Rodina's hour of need. The message to our people must be 'See, we are no longer alone!' Napalkov had been involved with the Americans since the fighting around Kazan and Ulyanovsk the previous year and had destroyed the largest fascist spy ring yet discovered. His reputation had soared to new heights with the associated bad news that he got progressively harder missions as a result. The quality of the pictures concerned him though. The American reconnaissance aircraft were everywhere and the pictures they brought back had allowed the American cartographers to produce excellent maps of the front. Napalkov didn't like excellent maps, they told too much to too many people.
"Also, an Australian squadron hit a Hitlerite convoy moving in daylight. They bombed and strafed it and they sent us pictures from their gun cameras. Take a look at these."
The pictures were blurry, a tribute to the speed of the aircraft they had been taken from and the bouncing around they had received from anti-aircraft fire. Nevertheless, the big tank destroyers in the pictures were easily recognizable.
"Jagdtigers. We have a problem." Malinovsky spoke with awe at the sight of the massive vehicles. "Seventy-five tones, 128mm gun, armor 250mm thick. We haven't seen them up here before."
"Only two fascist units have Jagdtigers. The 512th Heavy Tank Destroyer Battalion and 653rd Heavy Tank Destroyer Battalion. They are both fire brigade units the Hitlerites rush to whatever section of the front is critical. You are right, tovarish, there is indeed an assault coming. We must make preparations before it is too late." Napalkov looked solemnly at McNair and Malinovsky. "This city must not fall!"
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Five
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
It was only mid-afternoon yet dusk was already falling and, with it, the temperature was dropping steadily. The days here on the Archangel’s Front were short; barely five hours of full daylight although the two and a half hours of twilight extended that a bit. Already the temperature was below zero and it showed no sign of bottoming out yet. Across the northern sky, dense, blue-black clouds were piling up, bringing with them the promise of snow. That meant the visibility would be falling again. Already, the other bank of the Onega 1,500 meters away could only be dimly seen in the gathering gloom. That made the bright muzzle flash from the German positions across the river all the more obvious. Two years at war had made Pakholkov familiar with the sight of fascist anti-tank guns firing at dusk. The red blob seemed slow and lazy as it started from its source on the opposite bank of the river but it streaked past the roof of his SU-85 with terrifying speed. There was no point in firing back; the enemy across the river was almost certainly another tank destroyer and it would have started to move as soon as it had fired. There was no point in firing a shot that would only serve to give another fascist gunner a target.
One of the T-34/85s off to the right wasn’t so discrete. A new crew, in the Regiment for less than three days, saw the muzzle flash across the Onega and were inexperienced enough to return fire. Their own 85mm gun cracked out a round, sending its own blob of red fire outwards towards the Hitlerites. This time the perception was reversed; to Pakholkov, the shot seemed to streak out at first but then slow down as it neared its target. There was no shower of sparks to be seen; the effect of one high-velocity steel round hitting thick steel armor was unmistakable but absent. Nor did Pakholkov hear the demented shriek as the shot hit armor. The fascist return shot was not so ineffective. As he had suspected, there was a second tank destroyer lurking in ambush, waiting for an inexperienced crew to give away their position. The drugs in their T-34 had fallen for it and now they died as a result.
The fascist shot tore straight through the front of their tank, exploding the ammunition and sending the turret spiraling through the air. A roaring blast of brilliant red and white flame towered skywards as everything flammable in the tank ignited in an inferno of heat and light. Pakholkov knew from his own experience that there would be nothing left to bury when the fires finally subsided. If a tank was hit, the crew either bailed out in the first split second or they burned in their vehicle. The drugs hadn’t the experience to know that either.
“That was an 88. The long-barreled one.” Bessonov had materialized beside SU-85. “Nothing else can rip through a tank like that.”
“Our 122 is as good.” Pakholkov was very reluctant to admit that anything the fascists had was better than its Russian equivalent. Especially to Bessonov; the bad days of the all-powerful tyrannical zampolit were supposed to have gone but a wise man watched his tongue still.
“The 122 is a club. It will blow the turret off a Tiger – if it hits. The long 88 is a rapier.” Bessonov was interrupted by a scream as another armor-piercing shot slashed across the Russian position. The fascists knew well how the Russians would keep to the book and that the spacing between the tanks was likely to be the distance specified by the book, no more, no less. It had nearly worked; the shot had missed the next tank in the line by only a meter or two. Bessonov looked carefully along the line of ten SU-85s, all darkened and silent. The line was irregular, the distances between the assault guns varying and some being significant to the rear of the rest. “Well done, Misha. Experience shows. Your men should be grateful.”
The probing fire continued for a few minutes but then slackened off. The night up near Archangel’sk might be long but the day would return and when daylight came, it would bring with it the American fighter-bombers. They would hunt for anything that moved, far behind the fascist lines. The Hitlerites had learned the bitter lesson that the only supplies that could be relied upon were the ones that were already in their hands. Those that they used might be replaced, but they might not. And so, they were careful with their ammunition and expended as little as possible.
“There are those who say that the SU-85 is obsolete now that the T-34 tank has the same gun,” Bessonov spoke carefully, not wishing to be misunderstood. “As a skilled and experienced commander of assault guns, how would you answer that?”
Pakholkov thought about that and replied with great care. “This may be controversial, but I can say that I prefer the SU-85 self-propelled gun to the T-34/85 tank, for it is 30 centimeters lower and lighter by one ton. That means we can go places the tank cannot and as we have seen this night, it is easier for us to conceal our positions. Much depends on circumstances and in a mobile battle, the limited traverse gun is a serious problem. When the SU-85 was introduced, the tankists had 76mm guns. Perhaps now they have 85mms like us, we should go to something more powerful.”
“That would be logical. Perhaps such things may come.” Bessonov knew very well that a new tank destroyer with a 100mm gun was coming to the Russian artillerists, just as the Americans were answering the new, heavier fascist tanks by their tank destroyers armed with 90mm guns.
“Bratishka, we have received orders from Division.”
A message runner had arrived while Pakholkov and Bessonov were speaking. Pakholkov took the paper from the messenger and read it quickly. “Bratishka, we have been ordered to hold the line here at Amosovskaya until we receive reinforcements. Everyone is to exercise utmost vigilance! Encounters with fascist units attempting to recover their bridgehead are not excluded. Tovarish Zhenya, you are requested to organize reconnaissance in neighboring areas and patrols both within and outside the regiment’s location. You are reminded that commander for political affairs Vasilyev is to continue conducting educational work with the personnel and the local population.”
Bessonov thought carefully about that. Buried within the words was the real information; another fascist attack was expected and that preparation should be made for the formation of Partisan units if the Army had to retreat. Winter might be arriving but the war showed no signs of ending.
Next to him, Pakholkov had come to the same conclusion. He looked at the message and was surprised to see the ink had blotted in one place. That was when he looked up and saw the first flakes of snow coming down.
Martin B-33B Maverick Silver Swan 483d Bombardment Group, Approaching Kargopol, Vologda Front
“BUFFALO, this is Axe. Authenticating 643. Warning, hostile fighter activity detected. Danger imminent. Expect blow-jobs.”
“I knew it was too good to last. We’re a long way further south than usual. All gunners you heard that. Company on its way in, fast. Get ready.” Douglas flipped his transmit switch off.
“I hate blow-jobs.” Donaldson cut in from the forward upper turret.
“Speak for yourself.” Newman in the rear-upper turret. “They say we’ll all be getting blow jobs soon.”
“Not down here we won’t.” Sergeant Bill Hughes in the ball turret was squeezed into the tiny space with his feet almost tucked under his chin and only two .50 machine guns to keep him company.
“Clear the intercom. The speed those jets come in, we haven’t time for chatter.” Douglas knew that it was a hopeless task to stop the crew from talking on the intercom. Until the Me-262s arrived of course, then the crew was too busy to worry about anything other than fighting them off.
“There go our little friends.” Above the B-33 formations, the escorting Thunderbolts were peeling away to intercept the inbound fascist fighters. They stood relatively little chance of shooting the jets down, but the intention was to break up the formations and prevent the 262s from launching a coordinated assault. In that, they succeeded. Sometimes. The truth was that the Thunderbolts still had a margin of superiority over the fascist piston-engined fighters but against the jets, they were outclassed.
“Blow-jobs sighted.” Cody, in the rear turret, had spotted the inbound jets first. “They’re curving in now; I think they’re going for the low box.”
Douglas had already guessed that would be the case. The low combat box was the most vulnerable of the three operated by the 483rd. It always had been the most hazardous of the boxes which were why the squadrons of the 483rd took it in rotation. His aircraft was in the medium box and so it was their job to help cover the low box just as the low and high boxes covered the medium-altitude combat box. The high-altitude box was only covered by the medium formation but the B-33s had two upper turrets and that made a big difference. All those permutations ran through his mind while he watched the black dots of the Nazi jets sweep down. Sure enough, they’re going for the low box.
“The fascists are doing the roller-coaster for a tail attack. Set up the zone.” The jets came in so fast that it was impossible for the gunners in their power-operated turrets to track them. So, now the doctrine was for all the aircraft that could bring their guns to bear to fire on the area the fighters would have to pass through and fill it with bullets. Hopefully, it would mean enough of those bullets would bite to bring down a 262 or at least slow one down enough for the P-47s to corner him and send him spiraling down to earth. It worked. Sometimes. “Stand by for the fireworks. Donaldson, keep your eyes on those inbounds. Let me know the moment they let fly.”
There were five jets in the attack; split into a group of three and a second pair slightly behind them. Douglas heard the hammering as Silver Swan opened up with her tail guns at the trailing jets as they passed behind her. The Me-262s had come in high, then dived through the defending P-47s, slicing through the fighter formation without loss. Then they had continued their dive to below the low box and swept up to bleed-off speed.
“Here they go.” Cody had seen the black cloud of smoke from under the wings of the lead trio of fighters. The Hitlerites had started using rockets fired from their jets as a way of supplementing their firepower. “Why in the hell do they bother with those things?”
The black cloud of smoke had resolved into streaks lashing out from the attacking fighters. The only problem, from the fighter’s point of view at least, was that they were scattered across the sky in a chaotic mass of intertangled lines. Douglas saw some of them corkscrewing others were swerving, sometimes through 90 degrees or more, forcing the other aircraft in the formation to take evasive action which threw their rockets into even wilder and more inaccurate patterns. Some of the reports on recent rocket attacks claimed that at least some of the 262s had shot each other down when their rockets went wild. Douglas guessed that the three fighters must have fired at least seventy or more rockets between them and not one had come within two hundred yards of the low box let alone any aircraft within it. The B-33s appeared to fly serenely on although Douglas knew that the crews had to be bracing themselves for the coming attack. Their new rockets might be laughably ineffective but once the jets had unloaded them and closed in to use cannon fire, they were deadly dangerous.
Tracer fire arced upwards from the leading three-jet element, surrounding Madeline, the rear-low aircraft in the combat box. That had always been the most dangerous, least protected position and, just as the low box position was rotated between the squadrons, the rear-low position was totaled between individual aircraft. Getting that position for a milk-run like an attack on Amosovskaya two days before was a cause for real celebration. This time, the occupant of the position wasn’t so lucky. Most of the initial fire went low but the pilots lifted their noses to correct their aim and the B-33 was suddenly surrounded by black and white smoke, punctuated by the black specks of wreckage falling away. Douglas knew that the damage wasn’t quite as severe as it seemed; the thin-cased Minengeschloss shells usually exploded on contact, blowing away portions of skin but rarely inflicting lethal damage. Yet, if enough shells hit, there would be enough deep penetrations to do lethal damage and the target would go down. That was happening to Madeline. The 262s had closed in and even the slow-firing, low-velocity 30mm shells from the 262s were accurate enough at that range. Black smoke and orange flame gouted from the two inner engines on the B-33 and it started its long arc downwards.
“Tail gunner’s out.” The litany had started as the crew on Silver Swan tried to confirm the crew bailing out of the stricken aircraft. “Three more out from the aft section.”
“Two out of the front.” Douglas knew that the pilot wouldn’t be one of them. It was his job to keep the aircraft under control while the rest of the crew bailed out. If they can. Then, time ran out and Madeline disappeared in a ball of orange flame.
Behind her, the two Me-262s in the tail element had closed in on another bomber. Once again, a B-33 was savaged by the Mk.108 cannon. This time, though, the target aircraft suddenly jerked to one side, leaving the protection of the combat box formation. Watching it, Douglas guessed that the pilot had been hit by shell fragments and temporarily lost control. The sudden change though had a completely unexpected result. One of the 262s had pressed its attack into very close range to offset the drooping trajectory of the low velocity 30mm guns. Then, it had to rear away in a sharp, climbing turn to avoid colliding with its target. As it did so, there was a clearly-audible bang from one of its engines, and flame sheeted forward and backward as the compressor stalled.
Now, the tables were turned; the 262 was beneath the Thunderbolts, it was stuck in a climb with one of its engines out and it was already known that the jets had grave difficulties with restarting a stalled engine. One of the things the Thunderbolt did well was to dive and that was precisely what six of the escorting fighters were doing. The other four 262s were well away from the fight so it would take them time to return. The P-47s had the jet trapped. The fascist pilot attempted to reverse his turn and dive away but the Thunderbolts had moved quickly to box him in. Whichever way he went, he would expose his aircraft to raking fire from the deadly eight-gun batteries on the P-47s.
Watching the battle, Douglas thought of the time back home in Georgia when he had seen a pack of dogs take on a wild boar. Individually, the dogs were no match for the boar but the pack had discipline and strategy. As the boar had turned to take on one of the dogs, it would dance away while its pack-mates closed in from the flanks and rear. Now, the same thing was happening while the damaged B-33 returned to its position. It was flying shakily, Douglas guessing that the cockpit was a mess with people trying to help the wounded pilot while the copilot kept the aircraft under control. Meanwhile, the P-47s were methodically snapping bursts of .50 caliber machinegun fire into the trapped 262. Unlike the jetfighter’s 30mm cannon, the American .50s were ideally suited to fighter-vs-fighter combat. Without the jet being able to use its speed to escape, this was a fight it couldn’t win. The end was inevitable; the pilot of the jet made a mistake and gave a Thunderbolt the chance of a long, raking deflection shot. The sparkling flashes of .50 caliber armor-piercing incendiaries marched along the fuselage from the nose, enveloped the cockpit, and tore the tail section to shreds. The 262 somersaulted, nose over the tail, and then broke up in a comet of flame and debris.
Douglas could hear the cheering of his crew at the destruction of one of the hated jetfighters. The bombers in his combat box were waggling their wings in congratulations as the Thunderbolts returned to their escort positions. Douglas made his salute but he had noticed something that he thought was significant. Not one of the fascist pilots turned back to help their comrade. If an American or Russian pilot was trapped like that, everybody in sight would have turned to help cover him. Are they under orders not to engage fighters or is their morale finally cracking?
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
“This is the critical point, here. The Onega Corridor.” General Malinovsky tapped the map of the area. The Onega Corridor was a strip of land approximately 15 miles wide that ran west from the defenses of Severodevinsk and Archangel’sk, along the coast of the White Sea until it met the Allied defenses of the Kola Peninsula. From there, the front ran due south to Lake Onega. It marked the point where the German 1944 summer offensive had failed to break through to the White Sea. The result had been a long finger of fascist-occupied land between the Onega river and the eastern shore of Lake Onega
The Onega River, runs from the Gulf of Onega, then to the city of Onega, and finally to Lake Onega. I wish the Russians would be more imaginative with their names. General McNair looked at the map carefully. I bet the fascists call their corridor northwards the Onega Corridor as well. The two form a T and I am certain their generals are thinking what we are thinking. There has to be a way to use this situation. “We’ve cleared the fascists out of Amosovskaya. Why don’t we pre-empt any fascist attack and push south to clear Medvedevskaya? We can use the underwater bridge the fascists built back at them. If we can do that, we can clear down to Lake Lebash and set up a solid defense line for the winter.”
Malinovsky blinked and tried to work out where McNair meant. The problem was that the Americans mispronounced everything and invented their own names for places if using the Russian original was too much hard work. He stared at the map. Ahhh, Ozero Bol’shoye Lebyazh’e. That does make sense. That group of three lakes would make a good anchor point for the winter defenses. “Yes, bratishka, that would indeed be a good move. It would widen the Oneda Corridor by almost a third, clear the road and rail lines through from Archangel’sk to the Kola Peninsula, and give us a solid front to defend.”
“It would also seriously outflank the fascist bridgehead around Korelskoye.” McNair didn’t like that bridgehead, the largest one the fascists held on the east bank of the Onega. “They only have the one bridge supplying it, the original assault bridge they laid down when they made the crossing. Unless there are underwater bridges there we haven’t spotted yet.”
“They won’t last long if they have. The Onega will be freezing soon and the ice will wreck any bridge that isn’t solidly built of stone. We have a window here, bratishka, the cold is freezing the mud but the snows are only just starting. For three weeks, perhaps four, we will be able to maneuver freely but after that, the snows will shut everything down.”
“We have another problem.” McNair had his logistician hat on now. “We are short of 130 octane fuel for our aircraft and it’s limiting the number of missions we can fly. And with what aircraft; we’re having to limit the sorties flown by P-47s and B-33s in favor of aircraft with the more economical Allison engines. We’re going to have to ask that Russian groups take over a portion of the ground support missions. We’ve got an abundance of the 87 octane fuel your aircraft use. With the German jets around, we need all the performance we can get.”
“Can’t your aircraft fly on our fuel?” Malinovsky frowned, realizing how much the war against the fascists was coming to depend on the massive armada of American aircraft.
“No, we’ve tried but it just doesn’t work for the high-performance aircraft and we daren’t put 87 octane fuel in the transports. We’ve got more 87 octane fuel than we can use right now.” McNair also understood just how dependent the allies were on the air superiority they had so painfully won over the last 18 months. The American oil companies had experts hard at work in the Russian oil refineries, trying to improve their output and increase supplies of aviation fuel in general and 130 octane avgas in particular. It was a hard struggle though. The truth was, 130 octane was the lifeblood of the Allied war effort and the blood bank was looking very thin.
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
It was only mid-afternoon yet dusk was already falling and, with it, the temperature was dropping steadily. The days here on the Archangel’s Front were short; barely five hours of full daylight although the two and a half hours of twilight extended that a bit. Already the temperature was below zero and it showed no sign of bottoming out yet. Across the northern sky, dense, blue-black clouds were piling up, bringing with them the promise of snow. That meant the visibility would be falling again. Already, the other bank of the Onega 1,500 meters away could only be dimly seen in the gathering gloom. That made the bright muzzle flash from the German positions across the river all the more obvious. Two years at war had made Pakholkov familiar with the sight of fascist anti-tank guns firing at dusk. The red blob seemed slow and lazy as it started from its source on the opposite bank of the river but it streaked past the roof of his SU-85 with terrifying speed. There was no point in firing back; the enemy across the river was almost certainly another tank destroyer and it would have started to move as soon as it had fired. There was no point in firing a shot that would only serve to give another fascist gunner a target.
One of the T-34/85s off to the right wasn’t so discrete. A new crew, in the Regiment for less than three days, saw the muzzle flash across the Onega and were inexperienced enough to return fire. Their own 85mm gun cracked out a round, sending its own blob of red fire outwards towards the Hitlerites. This time the perception was reversed; to Pakholkov, the shot seemed to streak out at first but then slow down as it neared its target. There was no shower of sparks to be seen; the effect of one high-velocity steel round hitting thick steel armor was unmistakable but absent. Nor did Pakholkov hear the demented shriek as the shot hit armor. The fascist return shot was not so ineffective. As he had suspected, there was a second tank destroyer lurking in ambush, waiting for an inexperienced crew to give away their position. The drugs in their T-34 had fallen for it and now they died as a result.
The fascist shot tore straight through the front of their tank, exploding the ammunition and sending the turret spiraling through the air. A roaring blast of brilliant red and white flame towered skywards as everything flammable in the tank ignited in an inferno of heat and light. Pakholkov knew from his own experience that there would be nothing left to bury when the fires finally subsided. If a tank was hit, the crew either bailed out in the first split second or they burned in their vehicle. The drugs hadn’t the experience to know that either.
“That was an 88. The long-barreled one.” Bessonov had materialized beside SU-85. “Nothing else can rip through a tank like that.”
“Our 122 is as good.” Pakholkov was very reluctant to admit that anything the fascists had was better than its Russian equivalent. Especially to Bessonov; the bad days of the all-powerful tyrannical zampolit were supposed to have gone but a wise man watched his tongue still.
“The 122 is a club. It will blow the turret off a Tiger – if it hits. The long 88 is a rapier.” Bessonov was interrupted by a scream as another armor-piercing shot slashed across the Russian position. The fascists knew well how the Russians would keep to the book and that the spacing between the tanks was likely to be the distance specified by the book, no more, no less. It had nearly worked; the shot had missed the next tank in the line by only a meter or two. Bessonov looked carefully along the line of ten SU-85s, all darkened and silent. The line was irregular, the distances between the assault guns varying and some being significant to the rear of the rest. “Well done, Misha. Experience shows. Your men should be grateful.”
The probing fire continued for a few minutes but then slackened off. The night up near Archangel’sk might be long but the day would return and when daylight came, it would bring with it the American fighter-bombers. They would hunt for anything that moved, far behind the fascist lines. The Hitlerites had learned the bitter lesson that the only supplies that could be relied upon were the ones that were already in their hands. Those that they used might be replaced, but they might not. And so, they were careful with their ammunition and expended as little as possible.
“There are those who say that the SU-85 is obsolete now that the T-34 tank has the same gun,” Bessonov spoke carefully, not wishing to be misunderstood. “As a skilled and experienced commander of assault guns, how would you answer that?”
Pakholkov thought about that and replied with great care. “This may be controversial, but I can say that I prefer the SU-85 self-propelled gun to the T-34/85 tank, for it is 30 centimeters lower and lighter by one ton. That means we can go places the tank cannot and as we have seen this night, it is easier for us to conceal our positions. Much depends on circumstances and in a mobile battle, the limited traverse gun is a serious problem. When the SU-85 was introduced, the tankists had 76mm guns. Perhaps now they have 85mms like us, we should go to something more powerful.”
“That would be logical. Perhaps such things may come.” Bessonov knew very well that a new tank destroyer with a 100mm gun was coming to the Russian artillerists, just as the Americans were answering the new, heavier fascist tanks by their tank destroyers armed with 90mm guns.
“Bratishka, we have received orders from Division.”
A message runner had arrived while Pakholkov and Bessonov were speaking. Pakholkov took the paper from the messenger and read it quickly. “Bratishka, we have been ordered to hold the line here at Amosovskaya until we receive reinforcements. Everyone is to exercise utmost vigilance! Encounters with fascist units attempting to recover their bridgehead are not excluded. Tovarish Zhenya, you are requested to organize reconnaissance in neighboring areas and patrols both within and outside the regiment’s location. You are reminded that commander for political affairs Vasilyev is to continue conducting educational work with the personnel and the local population.”
Bessonov thought carefully about that. Buried within the words was the real information; another fascist attack was expected and that preparation should be made for the formation of Partisan units if the Army had to retreat. Winter might be arriving but the war showed no signs of ending.
Next to him, Pakholkov had come to the same conclusion. He looked at the message and was surprised to see the ink had blotted in one place. That was when he looked up and saw the first flakes of snow coming down.
Martin B-33B Maverick Silver Swan 483d Bombardment Group, Approaching Kargopol, Vologda Front
“BUFFALO, this is Axe. Authenticating 643. Warning, hostile fighter activity detected. Danger imminent. Expect blow-jobs.”
“I knew it was too good to last. We’re a long way further south than usual. All gunners you heard that. Company on its way in, fast. Get ready.” Douglas flipped his transmit switch off.
“I hate blow-jobs.” Donaldson cut in from the forward upper turret.
“Speak for yourself.” Newman in the rear-upper turret. “They say we’ll all be getting blow jobs soon.”
“Not down here we won’t.” Sergeant Bill Hughes in the ball turret was squeezed into the tiny space with his feet almost tucked under his chin and only two .50 machine guns to keep him company.
“Clear the intercom. The speed those jets come in, we haven’t time for chatter.” Douglas knew that it was a hopeless task to stop the crew from talking on the intercom. Until the Me-262s arrived of course, then the crew was too busy to worry about anything other than fighting them off.
“There go our little friends.” Above the B-33 formations, the escorting Thunderbolts were peeling away to intercept the inbound fascist fighters. They stood relatively little chance of shooting the jets down, but the intention was to break up the formations and prevent the 262s from launching a coordinated assault. In that, they succeeded. Sometimes. The truth was that the Thunderbolts still had a margin of superiority over the fascist piston-engined fighters but against the jets, they were outclassed.
“Blow-jobs sighted.” Cody, in the rear turret, had spotted the inbound jets first. “They’re curving in now; I think they’re going for the low box.”
Douglas had already guessed that would be the case. The low combat box was the most vulnerable of the three operated by the 483rd. It always had been the most hazardous of the boxes which were why the squadrons of the 483rd took it in rotation. His aircraft was in the medium box and so it was their job to help cover the low box just as the low and high boxes covered the medium-altitude combat box. The high-altitude box was only covered by the medium formation but the B-33s had two upper turrets and that made a big difference. All those permutations ran through his mind while he watched the black dots of the Nazi jets sweep down. Sure enough, they’re going for the low box.
“The fascists are doing the roller-coaster for a tail attack. Set up the zone.” The jets came in so fast that it was impossible for the gunners in their power-operated turrets to track them. So, now the doctrine was for all the aircraft that could bring their guns to bear to fire on the area the fighters would have to pass through and fill it with bullets. Hopefully, it would mean enough of those bullets would bite to bring down a 262 or at least slow one down enough for the P-47s to corner him and send him spiraling down to earth. It worked. Sometimes. “Stand by for the fireworks. Donaldson, keep your eyes on those inbounds. Let me know the moment they let fly.”
There were five jets in the attack; split into a group of three and a second pair slightly behind them. Douglas heard the hammering as Silver Swan opened up with her tail guns at the trailing jets as they passed behind her. The Me-262s had come in high, then dived through the defending P-47s, slicing through the fighter formation without loss. Then they had continued their dive to below the low box and swept up to bleed-off speed.
“Here they go.” Cody had seen the black cloud of smoke from under the wings of the lead trio of fighters. The Hitlerites had started using rockets fired from their jets as a way of supplementing their firepower. “Why in the hell do they bother with those things?”
The black cloud of smoke had resolved into streaks lashing out from the attacking fighters. The only problem, from the fighter’s point of view at least, was that they were scattered across the sky in a chaotic mass of intertangled lines. Douglas saw some of them corkscrewing others were swerving, sometimes through 90 degrees or more, forcing the other aircraft in the formation to take evasive action which threw their rockets into even wilder and more inaccurate patterns. Some of the reports on recent rocket attacks claimed that at least some of the 262s had shot each other down when their rockets went wild. Douglas guessed that the three fighters must have fired at least seventy or more rockets between them and not one had come within two hundred yards of the low box let alone any aircraft within it. The B-33s appeared to fly serenely on although Douglas knew that the crews had to be bracing themselves for the coming attack. Their new rockets might be laughably ineffective but once the jets had unloaded them and closed in to use cannon fire, they were deadly dangerous.
Tracer fire arced upwards from the leading three-jet element, surrounding Madeline, the rear-low aircraft in the combat box. That had always been the most dangerous, least protected position and, just as the low box position was rotated between the squadrons, the rear-low position was totaled between individual aircraft. Getting that position for a milk-run like an attack on Amosovskaya two days before was a cause for real celebration. This time, the occupant of the position wasn’t so lucky. Most of the initial fire went low but the pilots lifted their noses to correct their aim and the B-33 was suddenly surrounded by black and white smoke, punctuated by the black specks of wreckage falling away. Douglas knew that the damage wasn’t quite as severe as it seemed; the thin-cased Minengeschloss shells usually exploded on contact, blowing away portions of skin but rarely inflicting lethal damage. Yet, if enough shells hit, there would be enough deep penetrations to do lethal damage and the target would go down. That was happening to Madeline. The 262s had closed in and even the slow-firing, low-velocity 30mm shells from the 262s were accurate enough at that range. Black smoke and orange flame gouted from the two inner engines on the B-33 and it started its long arc downwards.
“Tail gunner’s out.” The litany had started as the crew on Silver Swan tried to confirm the crew bailing out of the stricken aircraft. “Three more out from the aft section.”
“Two out of the front.” Douglas knew that the pilot wouldn’t be one of them. It was his job to keep the aircraft under control while the rest of the crew bailed out. If they can. Then, time ran out and Madeline disappeared in a ball of orange flame.
Behind her, the two Me-262s in the tail element had closed in on another bomber. Once again, a B-33 was savaged by the Mk.108 cannon. This time, though, the target aircraft suddenly jerked to one side, leaving the protection of the combat box formation. Watching it, Douglas guessed that the pilot had been hit by shell fragments and temporarily lost control. The sudden change though had a completely unexpected result. One of the 262s had pressed its attack into very close range to offset the drooping trajectory of the low velocity 30mm guns. Then, it had to rear away in a sharp, climbing turn to avoid colliding with its target. As it did so, there was a clearly-audible bang from one of its engines, and flame sheeted forward and backward as the compressor stalled.
Now, the tables were turned; the 262 was beneath the Thunderbolts, it was stuck in a climb with one of its engines out and it was already known that the jets had grave difficulties with restarting a stalled engine. One of the things the Thunderbolt did well was to dive and that was precisely what six of the escorting fighters were doing. The other four 262s were well away from the fight so it would take them time to return. The P-47s had the jet trapped. The fascist pilot attempted to reverse his turn and dive away but the Thunderbolts had moved quickly to box him in. Whichever way he went, he would expose his aircraft to raking fire from the deadly eight-gun batteries on the P-47s.
Watching the battle, Douglas thought of the time back home in Georgia when he had seen a pack of dogs take on a wild boar. Individually, the dogs were no match for the boar but the pack had discipline and strategy. As the boar had turned to take on one of the dogs, it would dance away while its pack-mates closed in from the flanks and rear. Now, the same thing was happening while the damaged B-33 returned to its position. It was flying shakily, Douglas guessing that the cockpit was a mess with people trying to help the wounded pilot while the copilot kept the aircraft under control. Meanwhile, the P-47s were methodically snapping bursts of .50 caliber machinegun fire into the trapped 262. Unlike the jetfighter’s 30mm cannon, the American .50s were ideally suited to fighter-vs-fighter combat. Without the jet being able to use its speed to escape, this was a fight it couldn’t win. The end was inevitable; the pilot of the jet made a mistake and gave a Thunderbolt the chance of a long, raking deflection shot. The sparkling flashes of .50 caliber armor-piercing incendiaries marched along the fuselage from the nose, enveloped the cockpit, and tore the tail section to shreds. The 262 somersaulted, nose over the tail, and then broke up in a comet of flame and debris.
Douglas could hear the cheering of his crew at the destruction of one of the hated jetfighters. The bombers in his combat box were waggling their wings in congratulations as the Thunderbolts returned to their escort positions. Douglas made his salute but he had noticed something that he thought was significant. Not one of the fascist pilots turned back to help their comrade. If an American or Russian pilot was trapped like that, everybody in sight would have turned to help cover him. Are they under orders not to engage fighters or is their morale finally cracking?
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
“This is the critical point, here. The Onega Corridor.” General Malinovsky tapped the map of the area. The Onega Corridor was a strip of land approximately 15 miles wide that ran west from the defenses of Severodevinsk and Archangel’sk, along the coast of the White Sea until it met the Allied defenses of the Kola Peninsula. From there, the front ran due south to Lake Onega. It marked the point where the German 1944 summer offensive had failed to break through to the White Sea. The result had been a long finger of fascist-occupied land between the Onega river and the eastern shore of Lake Onega
The Onega River, runs from the Gulf of Onega, then to the city of Onega, and finally to Lake Onega. I wish the Russians would be more imaginative with their names. General McNair looked at the map carefully. I bet the fascists call their corridor northwards the Onega Corridor as well. The two form a T and I am certain their generals are thinking what we are thinking. There has to be a way to use this situation. “We’ve cleared the fascists out of Amosovskaya. Why don’t we pre-empt any fascist attack and push south to clear Medvedevskaya? We can use the underwater bridge the fascists built back at them. If we can do that, we can clear down to Lake Lebash and set up a solid defense line for the winter.”
Malinovsky blinked and tried to work out where McNair meant. The problem was that the Americans mispronounced everything and invented their own names for places if using the Russian original was too much hard work. He stared at the map. Ahhh, Ozero Bol’shoye Lebyazh’e. That does make sense. That group of three lakes would make a good anchor point for the winter defenses. “Yes, bratishka, that would indeed be a good move. It would widen the Oneda Corridor by almost a third, clear the road and rail lines through from Archangel’sk to the Kola Peninsula, and give us a solid front to defend.”
“It would also seriously outflank the fascist bridgehead around Korelskoye.” McNair didn’t like that bridgehead, the largest one the fascists held on the east bank of the Onega. “They only have the one bridge supplying it, the original assault bridge they laid down when they made the crossing. Unless there are underwater bridges there we haven’t spotted yet.”
“They won’t last long if they have. The Onega will be freezing soon and the ice will wreck any bridge that isn’t solidly built of stone. We have a window here, bratishka, the cold is freezing the mud but the snows are only just starting. For three weeks, perhaps four, we will be able to maneuver freely but after that, the snows will shut everything down.”
“We have another problem.” McNair had his logistician hat on now. “We are short of 130 octane fuel for our aircraft and it’s limiting the number of missions we can fly. And with what aircraft; we’re having to limit the sorties flown by P-47s and B-33s in favor of aircraft with the more economical Allison engines. We’re going to have to ask that Russian groups take over a portion of the ground support missions. We’ve got an abundance of the 87 octane fuel your aircraft use. With the German jets around, we need all the performance we can get.”
“Can’t your aircraft fly on our fuel?” Malinovsky frowned, realizing how much the war against the fascists was coming to depend on the massive armada of American aircraft.
“No, we’ve tried but it just doesn’t work for the high-performance aircraft and we daren’t put 87 octane fuel in the transports. We’ve got more 87 octane fuel than we can use right now.” McNair also understood just how dependent the allies were on the air superiority they had so painfully won over the last 18 months. The American oil companies had experts hard at work in the Russian oil refineries, trying to improve their output and increase supplies of aviation fuel in general and 130 octane avgas in particular. It was a hard struggle though. The truth was, 130 octane was the lifeblood of the Allied war effort and the blood bank was looking very thin.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Six
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Phillips 66 Oil Terminal, Tremley Point, New Jersey.
“Goodbye, darling. Take good care of yourself.” Darlene Young hung on to her husband’s arm, unwilling to let go for she knew that this might be the last time she would ever see him. They had had eight hours together, starting with a meeting at the Union to make sure that all the arrangements for her support had been in place and properly authorized. The allotment she would be receiving had both impressed and worried her. Impressed because the amount would allow her to live in comfort and make sure she had everything her baby would need. Worried because that same amount was proof that this was going to be a dangerous run. But, she had said nothing and made sure that the last few hours of his leave ticket were as perfect as possible.
“I’ve got a good ship, Dar. Look at all the guns we have. Look, see the 20mm in front of the bridge? That’s my gun. Anyway, we’re fast. Everybody knows the submarines can’t hit fast ships so they concentrate on the slow ones.”
She smiled bravely but she could see the fault in that argument. Convoys traveled at the speed of the slowest ship.
“But, if she burns . . . .” Like all New Yorkers, Darlene remembered the terrible sight of the Enterprise burning off Sandy Hook the day she had been torpedoed and the cavalcade of terribly burned men being rushed to hospital in the hope of saving their lives. The pall of black smoke and the stink of roasted flesh had hung over the city for days.
“That was Avgas burning. Mrs. Young. We’re carrying diesel. Diesel doesn’t burn like that.” Captain Brady was waiting by the gangplank, checking his crew on board and passing out last-minute words of encouragement to his men and comfort to their families. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a Captain’s job, but Brady was a staunch believer in the saying that a happy ship was an efficient ship. “In the unlikely event we do get hit, the crew will have plenty of time to get to safety.”
As it happened, his words were true. Shawnee was loaded with diesel fuel to help keep the tanks and tank destroyers running. She was the only one of the six 24-knot tankers in the convoy to be carrying diesel though. All the others were carrying 130 octane avgas. To all intents and purposes, they were floating bombs. Brady coughed gently. The time was approaching when he would have to get his ship underway.
“I’ll write every day, darling.” Darlene’s voice was desperate. She was trying to hide her misery at parting from her husband but was failing badly.
“So will I. We can send mail from the ship can’t we, Captain?”
“Sure we can. Ask the radio room; they’ll tell you how to send a radiogram letter. It’ll go to our escorting destroyers and they’ll send them out. It takes a few days and they go in batches so don’t be worried if you go a few days without getting one.” Brady wasn’t exactly lying; facilities did exist to send letters out but they were strictly rationed and their dispatch was 'subject to the exigencies of the war effort'. On the other hand, the US Navy made it a point of honor that mail from home always got through with minimum delay.
Once again, Darlene Young smiled bravely and kissed her husband goodbye. Then, she finally summoned up the nerve to let go of his arm and watched him head up the gangplank to the great gray tanker that was going to take him away from her.
She stood there, the cold rain whipping around her as the tanker came to life. She heard the words “Let go forward, let go aft” echoing from the loudspeakers on the bridge. The throb of her engines seemed to pick up the pace and she very slowly started to move forwards, the tugs clustering around to help her leave the docks behind. The white foam around her stern seemed to pick up in size and speed as the ship’s twin screws churned away. As Shawnee started to move out into the channel, she waved frantically at her, suddenly convinced that if she could only wave hard enough, long enough, the ship would certainly return to New York safely with her husband on board. To her amazement, she saw a figure on the bridge wave back. It was her husband, she knew it in her heart, and she took some small comfort from that.
Now she was at sea and on her way, Shawnee was no longer a single ship. Now, she was a part of Convoy NCF-21, on her way from New York to Churchill in Nova Scotia. From there she would join up with other ships to form the main convoy, CWF-17, from Churchill to the White Sea.
That didn’t matter to Darlene Young and wouldn't have done, even had she known it. All that mattered to her was that she watched Shawnee going down the channel, past Carteret, until she was lost in the rain and mist. Only then did she allow herself to start crying as she walked back to where the bus, provided by Phillips 66 for crew members’ families, was waiting to take her and the other wives to their homes.
Debriefing Room, 483rd Bombardment Group, Airfield 97, Syloga, Archangel’sk Front
Douglas liked the debriefing room. He had thankfully downed the shot of whisky provided by Uncle Sam after every mission and was now enjoying a cup of fresh coffee.
"So, only the lead element of three Me-262s carried R4Ms?" The Air Force intelligence officer was taking notes as Douglas described the jet attack.
"R4Ms?"
"Sorry, that's what the fascists call those rockets. We think they give them to their least experienced jet pilots while the more experienced ones rely on their cannon."
"Yes, Sir. Tell me is it true monkeys throw their crap at their enemies?"
"It is, yes." The Intelligence officer could see where this was going but kept quiet.
"Well, the Luftwaffe has trained monkeys to fly jets then. Those . . . . R4Ms . . . . are crap. They go everywhere. Luckily for us. Our rockets don’t do that do they?"
"The five-inchers? Not as badly. All unguided rockets are pretty inaccurate but we don’t use ours air-to-air. Alex, you used unguided rockets air-to-air didn't you?"
The Russian Army Air Force liaison officer looked up. "RS-82s, yes. The same problem, they went everywhere but towards the target. The fighters stopped using them in the end. Penalties outweighed the benefits. The Sturmovik still use them against ground targets although they usually use the bigger RS-132 these days."
"Well, the lead three blowjobs fired off their rockets, scared the hell out of some chickens on the ground, then dived through the low-box formation. I didn't see them score any cannon hits. The second pair were different; they closed right in to offset the poor trajectory of their guns. One of them took Madeline out, we saw six of the eleven crew bailout, and the other damaged Miss Fortune. She swerved, I think the pilot must have been hit and forced the blowjob to make a sharp turn. Something happened to one of its engines and the Jugs got him. Boxed him in and one of them got it with a neat deflection shot."
"Compressor stall; force a 262 to turn too tight and the airflow to the engine on the inside of the turn gets disrupted. It's a bit like a backfire in a car. The fascists can't sort it out and they have problems restarting an engine in flight. Miss Fortune did exactly the right thing by forcing that jet to turn the way it did. The brass is already thinking about whether using large, tight formations is the way to go when fighting jets."
"I suppose we won’t get jets until we sort the problem out."
"We already have. Both of them." Douglas looked up sharply, that was the first positive confirmation he'd heard that American jets were coming. The intelligence officer gave him a sly smile. "Be that as it may, did you get the Jug's name?"
Douglas thought about that. "Glamorous something. Glen? Does that make sense?"
"Ahh, Yeager. We'll tell the 357th that his kill is confirmed. It's his second blow-job by the way."
Douglas did a double-take at that. "Tell him that he won't be allowed to buy his vodka here in the future."
The intelligence officer laughed. "You'd better hurry up and buy him his drinks. Hot-shots like that don't last long out here."
U-491 At Sea, off Fehmarn Island, Baltic.
"Prepare to surface." Kapitänleutnant Johann-Heinrich Fehler swung the periscope around; checking for unannounced surface ships. The sonar hadn't indicated U-491 had company but for any submarine, coming to periscope depth was a big deal. For an ungainly boat like 491, they needed not to be at risk. "Exact position?"
"160 kilometers from the target zone at Peenemunde, Captain. Target zone is on bearing 92 degrees."
Fehler glanced at his chart. And so we have a mirror image of our war shot. We will be 160 kilometers due east of New York and we will fire our Kirschkerns on a course of 270 degrees. The engine will be set to cut off at 160 kilometers and the missile will drop on the heart of the city. Only, today we will fire our missile east, not west. A perfect mirror image and the range will tell us exactly where our missile lands. Thus, we can work out what part of New York we would have hit.
"Proceed with test launch. Assume course zero-nine-two, bring her to the surface, and launch a missile." Fehler felt the submarine shifting under his feet as she was brought to the correct bearing and started edging to the surface. He already had his stopwatch running since the crew needed to be able to get their missiles on the way before American anti-submarine defenses came down on them. The sound effects as U-491 surfaced were quite unlike any submarine Fehler had served on; a combination of a rippling, bubbling effect where the cylindrical hangar met the existing hull lines and a drum-like boom as the waves impacted on the hangar.
One of the changes in the design of U-491 was that the fin had been modified to include an enclosed bridge. As soon as U-491 was running on the surface, Fehler climbed up to the conning station and looked through the windows. The bows themselves were pushing through the seas, causing spray to arc upwards and run back along the upper deck, intermittently submerging the catapult. Behind the spray, though, the semi-circular scoop-like doors of the hangar were already swinging open as the crew started the process of getting their missile ready for launch. It was a dangerous process; U-491 had already seen one of her crew badly injured as an ill-time roll had caused the man to reach out for support and slip under the missile trolley. The doctors had saved his leg but he wouldn't be going to sea for a long time.
With the doors open, the work in the hangar picked up pace. First, the Fi-103 had to be shifted forward until it was clear of the hangar. This meant that the clips and restraints that prevented it from shifting in the hangar had to be removed. As that happened, it would be lowered onto the trolley and rolled up to the end of the catapult. Then, its wings would be unfolded and locked into place and the covers removed from the leading edges of its wings and the intake that fed its pulse-jet engine. Once the missile was assembled, two booster rockets would be removed from a special magazine built into the deck and attached to the fuselage under the wing roots. The last stage in preparation was to crank the trolley cradle down so the Fi-103 sat on the catapult. Once again, the crew descended on it, making sure that the missile was properly seated on the launcher. The trolley was rolled backward to receive the second missile and the hangar doors were closed to protect the contents from the blast of the first missile being fired. At that point, inside the hangar, the second missile would normally be lifted, ready to be wheeled out and assembled. This time, though, only a single missile would be fired.
"Missile ready to fire, Sir." The report from the foredeck came over the speaker in the conning station.
"Fire when ready." Fehler still had one eye glued on his stopwatch and the other on the missile now perched on the hull. That was when the reason for the enclosed conning position became apparent. As the catapult fired, punching out its cloud of black smoke, the two boosters ignited, sending streams of white smoke backward to envelope the whole conning tower. By the time it had cleared, the missile was already off the rail and heading east. Fehler was just in time to catch the catapult frame detach from the missile and fall into the sea. “Dive, dive, dive.”
Once U-491 was safely submerged, Fehler looked at his stopwatch and grimaced. The entire surface, launch, and dive process had taken a shade under seventeen and a half minutes. That meant firing both missiles would take almost half an hour with a gap of at least 15 minutes between them. Getting off the first shot would be reasonably secure, assuming luck wasn’t horribly bad. The problem was that firing the first missile would be a ruler-straight pointer to his position. That was not good. The Americans would project backward and have aircraft on their way to attack the position within minutes. Attacking New York this way would quickly become very dangerous. Fehler found his nagging doubts about the whole project becoming stronger.
Bird-hunter’s Hide, Fehmarn Island, Baltic.
Jakob Andreasson folded his naval binoculars and shuddered slightly. The way the U-boat had surfaced, fired its missile, and then submerged again had been more than sinister. He carefully packed up his equipment, cleared the hunter’s hide of any trace he had been there, and left. His photographs needed to get to his superiors. They will know what to do about this. Within 48 hours he would be back in Stockholm and word of the new Nazi secret weapon would start to spread. Now, all he had to do was to meet up with the submarine Drakon for a ride back to Sweden.
Pe-2T “For Galina”, off Saaremaa Island, Eastern Baltic.
“Four ships and an escort. That’s what the briefing said.” Captain Vladimir Stepanovich Markov had his maps folded on his lap while he peered out of the cockpit of the aircraft, searching the darkness for the fascist supply ships. A life-long resident of Petrograd, he took it as a personal affront that the Hitlerites dared to use his beloved Baltic as a supply route for the troops besieging his home city. His pilot, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin was doing the same. Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel was too busy scanning the skies for fascist night-fighters to search for surface targets. Onboard the other three Pe-2Ts in the formation, the crews were doing the same. A fascist convoy was a magnet for their night-fighters. Once they’d dropped their torpedoes, the Pe-2 could outrun almost all of the fascists but until they had unloaded, they were vulnerable, even to the twin-engined Messers.
“I wish we flew when the full moon was out.” Vyazigin altered course slightly, more on the basis that it was never safe to fly straight and level too long than for any other tactical reason.
“That is why the Hitlerites stay in port on those nights, Mikhail Vasilyevich. And they put up the single-engine Messers on bright nights as well. Let us try closer inshore. If I was in that convoy, I would use the strait between Saaremaa and the mainland.”
Vyazigin grunted and swung the nose over to the left, bringing the formation of Pe-2s around so they could search the strait. “We’ll have to watch it. Too far one way and we will catch fire from the mainland, too far the other and we will catch it from the island.”
“You mean, that I will have to watch it. Because if we get killed, you will never let me forget the poor navigation.”
“But of course bratishka. What else could a loyal pilot do?” Vyazigin suddenly leaned forward. “I think I see something. Ahead, close to the island?”
“A shadow, it looks like a ship. The right size at least. Bratishka, we are at excess altitude for a torpedo attack.”
Vyazigin had already begun the descent, and the engines on the Pe-2 throttled right back to mute the noise as far as possible. That was when Markov realized that they had made a bad mistake; the muted moonlight had played tricks on their eyes and the shadows were a lot further away than they had seemed. The Pe-2 had started losing altitude too early, its speed was falling dangerously low and the engines were cooling down too much. Its Klimov M-105 engines were very reluctant to restart if they did that and even suddenly pushing the throttles forward when they were idling would cause them to choke and fail. There was only one thing to do and Vyazigin knew it. He had to steadily increase the engines to maximum power and extend the angle of his approach to the target.
As Markov had feared, the swelling noise of the engines attracted the attention of the searchlight operators. Their beams stabbed out and caught the approaching Pe-2 as it leveled out, 200 meters above the sea. To his relief, the anti-aircraft fire was heavy but the gunners were off their game that night and instead of concentrating on one of the torpedo bombers, the streams of tracer were dispersed between the four Pe-2s. “Damn, we are in the wrong place! We are behind the ships!”
“Then we must try again.” Fires were blazing in various parts of the strait; the rapid flashes of the light guns, and the belch of orange flame from the heavy 88s. It was chaos; the convoy was swinging wildly as the Pe-2s closed in on the ships. Markov knew the crews were praying for the second they were able to drop and peel away, a moment that would mark the end of the bombing mission. For everybody but Markov, Vyazigin, and Khmel. They had swerved away, running at full power to overtake the convoy and make a second pass from another direction, one that would give their torpedo a better chance of a hit.
This time the attack went right. Shamed by his previous failure and aware that his error has put his crew at risk, Vyazigin had planned the descent perfectly. He had cut the engines to idling again, allowing the aircraft to glide downwards. Markov felt that it was strange to be sitting in a gliding plane while a battle was going on. He could feel enveloped by a kind of mysterious calm; one that was orchestrated by the hissing of air in the propellers and over the wings. He could see the fascists that sullied the surface of his sea, his Baltic, were still concentrating on the stern quarter of the convoy where the other three Pe-2s had made their runs. Technically, they were within the anti-aircraft fire and searchlight zone but they were unseen and untouched. it was as if they were invisible, even though there were white beams stretching up from the sea and fanning across the sky where the heavy shells burst seemingly at random.
Markov got the distinct feeling that his aircraft was crawling towards its target. He remembered when he had been a child how a cat had stalked a mouse, stealing up to it before pouncing. Quite unaware of it, his voice had dropped to a whisper while giving course corrections to Vyazigin. He realized how ridiculous that was when his pilot suddenly shouted, ‘Why are you whispering, Vova?"
Sergeant Khmel took time from constantly scanning the sky to whisper "For the same reason you were a moment ago."
Markov made a special point of giving the next turn order in a normal voice. The Pe-2 was now on an attack course that, by happenstance meant that it was approaching from the shadows of the land. One of the shadows out at sea took on a concrete form, a large superstructure amidships, an even larger funnel just aft of it. As the Pe-2 closed in, Markov could see the top hamper of the ship beginning to emerge out of the gloom. Vyazigin was making small adjustments to the aircraft's course, lining up for the torpedo drop. He was approaching the ship from the bow quarter when Markov dropped their torpedo. As soon as his pilot felt the aircraft lurch upwards, he hit the throttles and pulled the Pe-2 around in a tight turn. The ships in front realized only then that they were under attack from an unexpected quarter. The searchlight beams all swung around, trying to scan for a target while the twinkling flashes from the anti-aircraft guns filled the air with exploding shells. Nevertheless, the Pe-2 had achieved complete surprise and all of the defensive fire was off target, disorderly, and chaotic.
For Galina was climbing already hard when a blast from behind them revealed that her torpedo had run straight and true. Markov twisted around in his seat, peering backward at the ship he had just hit. It seemed to him that there was a lot of anti-aircraft fire coming from that one ship and that its masts looked very heavy. He dismissed that from experience, knowing that the light from an explosion and shipboard fires distorted everything and made accurate visual impressions near-impossible.
Most of the anti-aircraft fire was going low; the gunners probably assumed that the Pe-2 was running at maximum speed while holding low altitude. Once the Pe-2 had reached an altitude of about 1,000 meters, it seemed as if it was passing out of the danger zone marked by the streams of tracer fire. Vyazigin abruptly revved up to the limit and switched the propellers to low pitch. The engines immediately let out a high-pitched roar and the bomber jerked forwards. The noise immediately attracted the attention of the gunners and the For Galina was caught by at least three searchlights and shell bursts began to burst all around the aircraft. Vyazigin was throwing the aircraft from side to side in a desperate effort to shake off the searchlight beams but they held him pinned in the glare while the anti-aircraft fire got closer and closer. Then suddenly the shooting ceased and there was silence.
The truth dawned on Markov with awful certainty. "Dima, there is a night-fighter out there! Watch the air!" It was too late; the dark gray hulk of a twin-engine Messerschmitt 110 was closing in fast from above. Khmel sent a long burst from his ShKAS machine gun but the light weapon seemed to do nothing. The 110 poured a long burst from its heavy battery of nose guns unto the Pe-2, ripping into its fuselage and shredding the outer skin. Vyazigin cursed in an unending tirade against all things German, living or otherwise while he pushed the nose of his aircraft down and stalled into a steep left turn. The Pe-2 was as agile as most fighters and it turned inside the 110. By the time the night fighter had matched the evasion, the torpedo-bomber had escaped into the darkness.
"How are we doing, bratishka?" Markov was trying to work out a course for home. The nose had been damaged and the wind through shattered panels kept floating his maps away. Ahead, he could see the light reflecting off two areas of sea, either side of a spit of land. That gave him his bearings, they were heading north over Saaremaa Island
"My instrument panel has been smashed to pieces and the center section of the wings is full of holes. The left engine is running roughly and streaming smoke, the right engine seems to be working but is no longer putting out maximum revolutions. The controls have been hit as well and the load on the elevator has grown immensely Misha, do you know what our speed is? Can we stay flying or are we going to crash now? Maybe it’d be better to land somewhere before we crash?"
Markov knew that Vyazigin was babbling out of stress from trying to fly a badly damaged aircraft in almost total darkness. "All right, my instruments here work. Altitude is 200 meters, speed 240. We’ll be fine. I have a course for home. That was when he saw a fire burning on the ground off to the left. "That Messer? It's burning on the ground! Only aircraft burn that way. We got him!"
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Phillips 66 Oil Terminal, Tremley Point, New Jersey.
“Goodbye, darling. Take good care of yourself.” Darlene Young hung on to her husband’s arm, unwilling to let go for she knew that this might be the last time she would ever see him. They had had eight hours together, starting with a meeting at the Union to make sure that all the arrangements for her support had been in place and properly authorized. The allotment she would be receiving had both impressed and worried her. Impressed because the amount would allow her to live in comfort and make sure she had everything her baby would need. Worried because that same amount was proof that this was going to be a dangerous run. But, she had said nothing and made sure that the last few hours of his leave ticket were as perfect as possible.
“I’ve got a good ship, Dar. Look at all the guns we have. Look, see the 20mm in front of the bridge? That’s my gun. Anyway, we’re fast. Everybody knows the submarines can’t hit fast ships so they concentrate on the slow ones.”
She smiled bravely but she could see the fault in that argument. Convoys traveled at the speed of the slowest ship.
“But, if she burns . . . .” Like all New Yorkers, Darlene remembered the terrible sight of the Enterprise burning off Sandy Hook the day she had been torpedoed and the cavalcade of terribly burned men being rushed to hospital in the hope of saving their lives. The pall of black smoke and the stink of roasted flesh had hung over the city for days.
“That was Avgas burning. Mrs. Young. We’re carrying diesel. Diesel doesn’t burn like that.” Captain Brady was waiting by the gangplank, checking his crew on board and passing out last-minute words of encouragement to his men and comfort to their families. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a Captain’s job, but Brady was a staunch believer in the saying that a happy ship was an efficient ship. “In the unlikely event we do get hit, the crew will have plenty of time to get to safety.”
As it happened, his words were true. Shawnee was loaded with diesel fuel to help keep the tanks and tank destroyers running. She was the only one of the six 24-knot tankers in the convoy to be carrying diesel though. All the others were carrying 130 octane avgas. To all intents and purposes, they were floating bombs. Brady coughed gently. The time was approaching when he would have to get his ship underway.
“I’ll write every day, darling.” Darlene’s voice was desperate. She was trying to hide her misery at parting from her husband but was failing badly.
“So will I. We can send mail from the ship can’t we, Captain?”
“Sure we can. Ask the radio room; they’ll tell you how to send a radiogram letter. It’ll go to our escorting destroyers and they’ll send them out. It takes a few days and they go in batches so don’t be worried if you go a few days without getting one.” Brady wasn’t exactly lying; facilities did exist to send letters out but they were strictly rationed and their dispatch was 'subject to the exigencies of the war effort'. On the other hand, the US Navy made it a point of honor that mail from home always got through with minimum delay.
Once again, Darlene Young smiled bravely and kissed her husband goodbye. Then, she finally summoned up the nerve to let go of his arm and watched him head up the gangplank to the great gray tanker that was going to take him away from her.
She stood there, the cold rain whipping around her as the tanker came to life. She heard the words “Let go forward, let go aft” echoing from the loudspeakers on the bridge. The throb of her engines seemed to pick up the pace and she very slowly started to move forwards, the tugs clustering around to help her leave the docks behind. The white foam around her stern seemed to pick up in size and speed as the ship’s twin screws churned away. As Shawnee started to move out into the channel, she waved frantically at her, suddenly convinced that if she could only wave hard enough, long enough, the ship would certainly return to New York safely with her husband on board. To her amazement, she saw a figure on the bridge wave back. It was her husband, she knew it in her heart, and she took some small comfort from that.
Now she was at sea and on her way, Shawnee was no longer a single ship. Now, she was a part of Convoy NCF-21, on her way from New York to Churchill in Nova Scotia. From there she would join up with other ships to form the main convoy, CWF-17, from Churchill to the White Sea.
That didn’t matter to Darlene Young and wouldn't have done, even had she known it. All that mattered to her was that she watched Shawnee going down the channel, past Carteret, until she was lost in the rain and mist. Only then did she allow herself to start crying as she walked back to where the bus, provided by Phillips 66 for crew members’ families, was waiting to take her and the other wives to their homes.
Debriefing Room, 483rd Bombardment Group, Airfield 97, Syloga, Archangel’sk Front
Douglas liked the debriefing room. He had thankfully downed the shot of whisky provided by Uncle Sam after every mission and was now enjoying a cup of fresh coffee.
"So, only the lead element of three Me-262s carried R4Ms?" The Air Force intelligence officer was taking notes as Douglas described the jet attack.
"R4Ms?"
"Sorry, that's what the fascists call those rockets. We think they give them to their least experienced jet pilots while the more experienced ones rely on their cannon."
"Yes, Sir. Tell me is it true monkeys throw their crap at their enemies?"
"It is, yes." The Intelligence officer could see where this was going but kept quiet.
"Well, the Luftwaffe has trained monkeys to fly jets then. Those . . . . R4Ms . . . . are crap. They go everywhere. Luckily for us. Our rockets don’t do that do they?"
"The five-inchers? Not as badly. All unguided rockets are pretty inaccurate but we don’t use ours air-to-air. Alex, you used unguided rockets air-to-air didn't you?"
The Russian Army Air Force liaison officer looked up. "RS-82s, yes. The same problem, they went everywhere but towards the target. The fighters stopped using them in the end. Penalties outweighed the benefits. The Sturmovik still use them against ground targets although they usually use the bigger RS-132 these days."
"Well, the lead three blowjobs fired off their rockets, scared the hell out of some chickens on the ground, then dived through the low-box formation. I didn't see them score any cannon hits. The second pair were different; they closed right in to offset the poor trajectory of their guns. One of them took Madeline out, we saw six of the eleven crew bailout, and the other damaged Miss Fortune. She swerved, I think the pilot must have been hit and forced the blowjob to make a sharp turn. Something happened to one of its engines and the Jugs got him. Boxed him in and one of them got it with a neat deflection shot."
"Compressor stall; force a 262 to turn too tight and the airflow to the engine on the inside of the turn gets disrupted. It's a bit like a backfire in a car. The fascists can't sort it out and they have problems restarting an engine in flight. Miss Fortune did exactly the right thing by forcing that jet to turn the way it did. The brass is already thinking about whether using large, tight formations is the way to go when fighting jets."
"I suppose we won’t get jets until we sort the problem out."
"We already have. Both of them." Douglas looked up sharply, that was the first positive confirmation he'd heard that American jets were coming. The intelligence officer gave him a sly smile. "Be that as it may, did you get the Jug's name?"
Douglas thought about that. "Glamorous something. Glen? Does that make sense?"
"Ahh, Yeager. We'll tell the 357th that his kill is confirmed. It's his second blow-job by the way."
Douglas did a double-take at that. "Tell him that he won't be allowed to buy his vodka here in the future."
The intelligence officer laughed. "You'd better hurry up and buy him his drinks. Hot-shots like that don't last long out here."
U-491 At Sea, off Fehmarn Island, Baltic.
"Prepare to surface." Kapitänleutnant Johann-Heinrich Fehler swung the periscope around; checking for unannounced surface ships. The sonar hadn't indicated U-491 had company but for any submarine, coming to periscope depth was a big deal. For an ungainly boat like 491, they needed not to be at risk. "Exact position?"
"160 kilometers from the target zone at Peenemunde, Captain. Target zone is on bearing 92 degrees."
Fehler glanced at his chart. And so we have a mirror image of our war shot. We will be 160 kilometers due east of New York and we will fire our Kirschkerns on a course of 270 degrees. The engine will be set to cut off at 160 kilometers and the missile will drop on the heart of the city. Only, today we will fire our missile east, not west. A perfect mirror image and the range will tell us exactly where our missile lands. Thus, we can work out what part of New York we would have hit.
"Proceed with test launch. Assume course zero-nine-two, bring her to the surface, and launch a missile." Fehler felt the submarine shifting under his feet as she was brought to the correct bearing and started edging to the surface. He already had his stopwatch running since the crew needed to be able to get their missiles on the way before American anti-submarine defenses came down on them. The sound effects as U-491 surfaced were quite unlike any submarine Fehler had served on; a combination of a rippling, bubbling effect where the cylindrical hangar met the existing hull lines and a drum-like boom as the waves impacted on the hangar.
One of the changes in the design of U-491 was that the fin had been modified to include an enclosed bridge. As soon as U-491 was running on the surface, Fehler climbed up to the conning station and looked through the windows. The bows themselves were pushing through the seas, causing spray to arc upwards and run back along the upper deck, intermittently submerging the catapult. Behind the spray, though, the semi-circular scoop-like doors of the hangar were already swinging open as the crew started the process of getting their missile ready for launch. It was a dangerous process; U-491 had already seen one of her crew badly injured as an ill-time roll had caused the man to reach out for support and slip under the missile trolley. The doctors had saved his leg but he wouldn't be going to sea for a long time.
With the doors open, the work in the hangar picked up pace. First, the Fi-103 had to be shifted forward until it was clear of the hangar. This meant that the clips and restraints that prevented it from shifting in the hangar had to be removed. As that happened, it would be lowered onto the trolley and rolled up to the end of the catapult. Then, its wings would be unfolded and locked into place and the covers removed from the leading edges of its wings and the intake that fed its pulse-jet engine. Once the missile was assembled, two booster rockets would be removed from a special magazine built into the deck and attached to the fuselage under the wing roots. The last stage in preparation was to crank the trolley cradle down so the Fi-103 sat on the catapult. Once again, the crew descended on it, making sure that the missile was properly seated on the launcher. The trolley was rolled backward to receive the second missile and the hangar doors were closed to protect the contents from the blast of the first missile being fired. At that point, inside the hangar, the second missile would normally be lifted, ready to be wheeled out and assembled. This time, though, only a single missile would be fired.
"Missile ready to fire, Sir." The report from the foredeck came over the speaker in the conning station.
"Fire when ready." Fehler still had one eye glued on his stopwatch and the other on the missile now perched on the hull. That was when the reason for the enclosed conning position became apparent. As the catapult fired, punching out its cloud of black smoke, the two boosters ignited, sending streams of white smoke backward to envelope the whole conning tower. By the time it had cleared, the missile was already off the rail and heading east. Fehler was just in time to catch the catapult frame detach from the missile and fall into the sea. “Dive, dive, dive.”
Once U-491 was safely submerged, Fehler looked at his stopwatch and grimaced. The entire surface, launch, and dive process had taken a shade under seventeen and a half minutes. That meant firing both missiles would take almost half an hour with a gap of at least 15 minutes between them. Getting off the first shot would be reasonably secure, assuming luck wasn’t horribly bad. The problem was that firing the first missile would be a ruler-straight pointer to his position. That was not good. The Americans would project backward and have aircraft on their way to attack the position within minutes. Attacking New York this way would quickly become very dangerous. Fehler found his nagging doubts about the whole project becoming stronger.
Bird-hunter’s Hide, Fehmarn Island, Baltic.
Jakob Andreasson folded his naval binoculars and shuddered slightly. The way the U-boat had surfaced, fired its missile, and then submerged again had been more than sinister. He carefully packed up his equipment, cleared the hunter’s hide of any trace he had been there, and left. His photographs needed to get to his superiors. They will know what to do about this. Within 48 hours he would be back in Stockholm and word of the new Nazi secret weapon would start to spread. Now, all he had to do was to meet up with the submarine Drakon for a ride back to Sweden.
Pe-2T “For Galina”, off Saaremaa Island, Eastern Baltic.
“Four ships and an escort. That’s what the briefing said.” Captain Vladimir Stepanovich Markov had his maps folded on his lap while he peered out of the cockpit of the aircraft, searching the darkness for the fascist supply ships. A life-long resident of Petrograd, he took it as a personal affront that the Hitlerites dared to use his beloved Baltic as a supply route for the troops besieging his home city. His pilot, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin was doing the same. Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel was too busy scanning the skies for fascist night-fighters to search for surface targets. Onboard the other three Pe-2Ts in the formation, the crews were doing the same. A fascist convoy was a magnet for their night-fighters. Once they’d dropped their torpedoes, the Pe-2 could outrun almost all of the fascists but until they had unloaded, they were vulnerable, even to the twin-engined Messers.
“I wish we flew when the full moon was out.” Vyazigin altered course slightly, more on the basis that it was never safe to fly straight and level too long than for any other tactical reason.
“That is why the Hitlerites stay in port on those nights, Mikhail Vasilyevich. And they put up the single-engine Messers on bright nights as well. Let us try closer inshore. If I was in that convoy, I would use the strait between Saaremaa and the mainland.”
Vyazigin grunted and swung the nose over to the left, bringing the formation of Pe-2s around so they could search the strait. “We’ll have to watch it. Too far one way and we will catch fire from the mainland, too far the other and we will catch it from the island.”
“You mean, that I will have to watch it. Because if we get killed, you will never let me forget the poor navigation.”
“But of course bratishka. What else could a loyal pilot do?” Vyazigin suddenly leaned forward. “I think I see something. Ahead, close to the island?”
“A shadow, it looks like a ship. The right size at least. Bratishka, we are at excess altitude for a torpedo attack.”
Vyazigin had already begun the descent, and the engines on the Pe-2 throttled right back to mute the noise as far as possible. That was when Markov realized that they had made a bad mistake; the muted moonlight had played tricks on their eyes and the shadows were a lot further away than they had seemed. The Pe-2 had started losing altitude too early, its speed was falling dangerously low and the engines were cooling down too much. Its Klimov M-105 engines were very reluctant to restart if they did that and even suddenly pushing the throttles forward when they were idling would cause them to choke and fail. There was only one thing to do and Vyazigin knew it. He had to steadily increase the engines to maximum power and extend the angle of his approach to the target.
As Markov had feared, the swelling noise of the engines attracted the attention of the searchlight operators. Their beams stabbed out and caught the approaching Pe-2 as it leveled out, 200 meters above the sea. To his relief, the anti-aircraft fire was heavy but the gunners were off their game that night and instead of concentrating on one of the torpedo bombers, the streams of tracer were dispersed between the four Pe-2s. “Damn, we are in the wrong place! We are behind the ships!”
“Then we must try again.” Fires were blazing in various parts of the strait; the rapid flashes of the light guns, and the belch of orange flame from the heavy 88s. It was chaos; the convoy was swinging wildly as the Pe-2s closed in on the ships. Markov knew the crews were praying for the second they were able to drop and peel away, a moment that would mark the end of the bombing mission. For everybody but Markov, Vyazigin, and Khmel. They had swerved away, running at full power to overtake the convoy and make a second pass from another direction, one that would give their torpedo a better chance of a hit.
This time the attack went right. Shamed by his previous failure and aware that his error has put his crew at risk, Vyazigin had planned the descent perfectly. He had cut the engines to idling again, allowing the aircraft to glide downwards. Markov felt that it was strange to be sitting in a gliding plane while a battle was going on. He could feel enveloped by a kind of mysterious calm; one that was orchestrated by the hissing of air in the propellers and over the wings. He could see the fascists that sullied the surface of his sea, his Baltic, were still concentrating on the stern quarter of the convoy where the other three Pe-2s had made their runs. Technically, they were within the anti-aircraft fire and searchlight zone but they were unseen and untouched. it was as if they were invisible, even though there were white beams stretching up from the sea and fanning across the sky where the heavy shells burst seemingly at random.
Markov got the distinct feeling that his aircraft was crawling towards its target. He remembered when he had been a child how a cat had stalked a mouse, stealing up to it before pouncing. Quite unaware of it, his voice had dropped to a whisper while giving course corrections to Vyazigin. He realized how ridiculous that was when his pilot suddenly shouted, ‘Why are you whispering, Vova?"
Sergeant Khmel took time from constantly scanning the sky to whisper "For the same reason you were a moment ago."
Markov made a special point of giving the next turn order in a normal voice. The Pe-2 was now on an attack course that, by happenstance meant that it was approaching from the shadows of the land. One of the shadows out at sea took on a concrete form, a large superstructure amidships, an even larger funnel just aft of it. As the Pe-2 closed in, Markov could see the top hamper of the ship beginning to emerge out of the gloom. Vyazigin was making small adjustments to the aircraft's course, lining up for the torpedo drop. He was approaching the ship from the bow quarter when Markov dropped their torpedo. As soon as his pilot felt the aircraft lurch upwards, he hit the throttles and pulled the Pe-2 around in a tight turn. The ships in front realized only then that they were under attack from an unexpected quarter. The searchlight beams all swung around, trying to scan for a target while the twinkling flashes from the anti-aircraft guns filled the air with exploding shells. Nevertheless, the Pe-2 had achieved complete surprise and all of the defensive fire was off target, disorderly, and chaotic.
For Galina was climbing already hard when a blast from behind them revealed that her torpedo had run straight and true. Markov twisted around in his seat, peering backward at the ship he had just hit. It seemed to him that there was a lot of anti-aircraft fire coming from that one ship and that its masts looked very heavy. He dismissed that from experience, knowing that the light from an explosion and shipboard fires distorted everything and made accurate visual impressions near-impossible.
Most of the anti-aircraft fire was going low; the gunners probably assumed that the Pe-2 was running at maximum speed while holding low altitude. Once the Pe-2 had reached an altitude of about 1,000 meters, it seemed as if it was passing out of the danger zone marked by the streams of tracer fire. Vyazigin abruptly revved up to the limit and switched the propellers to low pitch. The engines immediately let out a high-pitched roar and the bomber jerked forwards. The noise immediately attracted the attention of the gunners and the For Galina was caught by at least three searchlights and shell bursts began to burst all around the aircraft. Vyazigin was throwing the aircraft from side to side in a desperate effort to shake off the searchlight beams but they held him pinned in the glare while the anti-aircraft fire got closer and closer. Then suddenly the shooting ceased and there was silence.
The truth dawned on Markov with awful certainty. "Dima, there is a night-fighter out there! Watch the air!" It was too late; the dark gray hulk of a twin-engine Messerschmitt 110 was closing in fast from above. Khmel sent a long burst from his ShKAS machine gun but the light weapon seemed to do nothing. The 110 poured a long burst from its heavy battery of nose guns unto the Pe-2, ripping into its fuselage and shredding the outer skin. Vyazigin cursed in an unending tirade against all things German, living or otherwise while he pushed the nose of his aircraft down and stalled into a steep left turn. The Pe-2 was as agile as most fighters and it turned inside the 110. By the time the night fighter had matched the evasion, the torpedo-bomber had escaped into the darkness.
"How are we doing, bratishka?" Markov was trying to work out a course for home. The nose had been damaged and the wind through shattered panels kept floating his maps away. Ahead, he could see the light reflecting off two areas of sea, either side of a spit of land. That gave him his bearings, they were heading north over Saaremaa Island
"My instrument panel has been smashed to pieces and the center section of the wings is full of holes. The left engine is running roughly and streaming smoke, the right engine seems to be working but is no longer putting out maximum revolutions. The controls have been hit as well and the load on the elevator has grown immensely Misha, do you know what our speed is? Can we stay flying or are we going to crash now? Maybe it’d be better to land somewhere before we crash?"
Markov knew that Vyazigin was babbling out of stress from trying to fly a badly damaged aircraft in almost total darkness. "All right, my instruments here work. Altitude is 200 meters, speed 240. We’ll be fine. I have a course for home. That was when he saw a fire burning on the ground off to the left. "That Messer? It's burning on the ground! Only aircraft burn that way. We got him!"
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Seven
404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Tower, Pancake ready to take off.” Captain Malcolm Foster settled himself back into his seat. Beside him, sprawled out on the port wing and hanging on to the leading edge as if his life depended on it (which it did), was a Russian member of the airfield ground contingent. His job was to watch the ground ahead of the Thunderbolt and warn the pilot if anybody or anything was in the way. Foster gave him a wave of thanks and gestured backward with his thumb. With a grateful wave, the Russian let go and slid backward off the wing and onto the ground. Only once had a Thunderbolt taken off with its observer still hanging onto the wing and the trouble from that had been epic. After the aircraft had circled and landed, the Russian authorities had wanted to court-martial the man for endangering the aircraft, the American authorities had wanted to court-martial the pilot for endangering the ground crewman. Eventually, the matter had been, by mutual consent, quietly forgotten.
“Pancake, go when you are ready. Syrup, move into position when Pancake is clear.”
Foster checked his aircraft again. For his first mission in a P-47N, he was carrying a formidable load of weaponry. A thousand-pound bomb and six five-inch HVAR rockets under each wing, a 203-gallon drop tank under his belly for a total of 4,800 pounds of assorted death and destruction. He would have preferred a third thousand-pound bomb under his belly, but the mission profile was for a free-chase mission for ground targets after the primary had been hit. The primary target was the Etatochka Bridge at Korovskoye. The significance of this bridge had been made clear during the briefing; it was the only bridge joining the fascist bridgehead on the east bank of the Onega River with the Hitlerite-occupied west bank. Once that bridge was gone, the fascists on the east bank would be cut off without food, fuel, or shelter. In a North Russian winter, it wouldn’t need airstrikes or artillery to condemn such men to death.
“Rolling.” Foster made sure his tailwheel was locked, then he applied engine power, smoothly and carefully. The P-47N rolled down the runway, picking up speed more slowly than he was used to with the D model. He resisted the urge to apply more power, remembering the urgent warnings he had received during conversion training about overstressing the engine. Then, to his intense surprise, the P-47N simply flew off the runway from the three-point tail-down position. That was something he had never experienced before although the pilot’s manual had said it would happen. He pulled up his undercarriage and looked around, seeing the other three Thunderbolts of Pancake Flight forming up beside him.
“That was smooth.” Foster used the radio to pass the praise through to the other three pilots. “She came off the runway like a real baby doll. Hey, that’s a good name. I’ll get Smithy down in the motor pool to paint Baby doll up when we get back. All right, we climb to 16,000 feet, and then we’ll be 110 miles out from our primary.”
“Smooth Operator here.” Lieutenant Glenn Carr was equally impressed by the way the heavily-loaded Thunderbolts had coped with the take-off. The climbing turn led Pancake Flight eastwards, giving the four pilots a sobering view of the endless pine forests that led all the way to the Pacific. Then as they gained altitude and swung on to the westward course, the winding, island-filled vista of the River Dvina came into view. Like the Volga further south, this was Russia’s last line of defense before the Urals mountains far to the East. The difference was, down on the Volga, the Hitlerites were retreating, slowly and painfully but they were retreating. Here, on the Dvina, they still had the initiative and they were still advancing.
They passed over Airfield 896 again, the white concrete runways standing out against the green of the land around them. It had driven the Russians crazy when they found the Americans couldn’t be bothered to camouflage their airfields or hide which ones were operational and which were not. Wearily, the Americans had pointed out that they needed all the airfields they could get, that the pilot of a damaged aircraft needed to find a place to land easily, and, anyway if the fascists came east over Russian-held territory to attack the airbases, their shot down pilots would be permanently lost to them – and the fascists were already very short of skilled pilots. The Russians had shrugged, muttered things under their breath, and carried on doing things their way while the Americans did things theirs.
“Malinka up ahead.” Malinka was an island in the middle of the Dvina. Another difference between the Volga and the Dvina; the northern river was filled with islands separated by channels. The great stretches of broad, unbroken water that had made the Volga an unbreakable defense were absent here. Based on his time with the 356th around Kazan, Foster guessed that the islands were worrying the defenders. The history of fascist amphibious operations had been one long catalog of disasters but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get their act together eventually. Archangel’s was off to his right, the great port one of the primary shipping points for supplies pouring into Russia from America and the Commonwealth. Flying top cover for the convoys, especially during the last run down the White Sea, was one reason why the 404th was up here.
Foster could see the White Sea glistening on the horizon to his right. He could also see the section of the horizon that he knew was occupied by the Hitlerites. That was also the target for the day. The bridgehead on the east bank of the Onega had to go and killing the bridge that fed it was the top priority. Pancake and Bacon flights would dive-bomb the bridge while Syrup and Butter flights attacked the anti-aircraft sites defending it. Then, the survivors of the 16 aircraft would go hunting over the occupied territory for as long as their fuel and ammunition lasted.
“New airfield down there,” Carr observed with a sense of amusement. Counting the airfields visible at any one time was a game all the American pilots played when crossing the Dvina. It had been stuck at three for a month or two, now there was a fourth.
“Katunino.” Second Lieutenant Caesar Cardella was the group expert at reading maps. He’d had to fight hard to stay out of navigator school as a result and only his undoubted expertise as a pilot had saved him from that fate. It had taken him seconds to find the location of the new field. Foster looked at it. It was a major airfield, with concrete runways, of course, all American airfields were after the experience of the Rasputitsa the previous year. The sight of horses up to their bellies in soft, clinging mud had struck a deep chord and now American engineers were working hard to pave as many key roads as they could. The ones east of the Dvina of course. West of the Dvina, roads blocked by the Rasputitsa were a useful aid to a defense. Over to the left, Foster could see a vast brown area where the low-lying ground had flooded and turned into a glutinous trap for men, animals, and vehicles. Now, he knew, that area would be freezing and turning hard with the plummeting temperatures.
“All flights, we’re at IP now.” Beneath the Thunderbolts was a line of finger lakes, orientated north-south and joined by small rivers. They were an invaluable navigation point in a land where once human habitation was too sparse to be obvious, everything looked the same. Truly, the rolling Russian forests go on forever. I wonder if it's true that the fascist troops have mental problems from the vast emptiness of Russia compared with the tight-packed mass of Europe. That might be why we like this place and they don't. “Altitude 16,105, check.”
It was essential to ensure that everybody’s altimeter was reading the same. The great danger with dive-bombing, other than the fascist Flak, of course, was flying into the ground from leaving the pull-out too late. A mis-set altimeter was a major cause of such losses.
“Target in sight. Syrup and Butter, do your thing.” Foster watched as the eight Thunderbolts of Syrup and Butter flights peeled over and their engines started to stream a thin line of black smoke as the pilots went to full throttle with water injection for the attack on the flak sites surrounding the bridge. "Syrup, take the flak on the east bank, Butter the guns on the west bank.”
That had just been a reminder with a caution attached to it. An attack like this could get very confused and could easily end up with both flak suppression flights hitting the same targets while the rest shot up the bridge-busting flights. Repeating assignments did nobody any harm and might save somebody’s life. "Pancake and Bacon, get ready to follow Syrup and Butter in."
Far below him, Foster saw the rippling black streaks from under the wings of the flak suppression aircraft as they unloaded their rockets at the guns they could see. The brilliant flares from the rocket engines flashed towards their targets, ending in the black clouds of explosions as the rocket salvoes blanketed the targets. It had already been noted that the American HVARs flew a lot straighter than the fascist rockets fired from their jets.
"Pancake and Bacon, be advised, there's three bridges down here, not one." Lieutenant Mike Harris, leading Syrup Flight was transmitting the data while strafing the anti-aircraft guns around the target. That was made obvious by the roar of the four .50 machine guns in each wing that was even drowning out the engine noise. The bombing and strafing of the flak guns wouldn't stop until the dive-bombers had made their runs. "Big bridge in the middle, two small ones flanking it."
"Got it, Mike. All Pancake and Bacon aircraft, there are three bridges down there, hit the big one in the middle. Go!"
The four P-47s in Bacon Flight peeled off into wingovers and started their dives down towards the target. Foster counted five seconds and then led Pancake Flight over into its dive. The timing was critical; the longer the gap between the flights, the more the smoke and blast from the previous group's bombs would have cleared but also the more time the flak suppression flights would have to spend dueling with the anti-aircraft guns. And, the more time those guns would have to line up on the dive-bombers.
The Onega and its bridges re-appeared under Foster's nose at his Thunderbolt tipped over into a 70-degree dive. At first, Korelskoye was just a yellow-white patch against the green and brown of the Russian countryside. At nine thousand feet, the individual buildings became visible, at 4,500 the dirt roads were distinct lines. That was a warning sign that his pull-out was imminent. Ahead of him, he could see the plumes of water reaching up as the bombs from Bacon Flight dropped into the river, the white circles in the water telling of thousand-pound bombs that had come close but not quite close enough. A brilliant red and black flash on the embankment revealed a bomb that had fallen short but another, plumb on the road line was on the bridge abutment. At 2,500 feet, Foster dropped his bombs, aiming at the middle of the bridge, just over one of the supports. A hole in the bridge decking could be repaired easily but dropping a pier into the water was something that would take much longer for even the fascist engineers to fix.
By then, he was hauling back on his stick, feeling the Thunderbolt juddering as the dreaded compressibility started to take over. At 1700 feet he saw three long, rectangular buildings buried in the trees. He guessed that they contained engineering equipment and bridge spans ready to repair the damage from the raid. They have got to go. he already had his rockets set to fire in pairs so all he had to do was hold the firing button down as he pulled the nose of his Thunderbolt up. The stream of rockets walked across the nearest of the three buildings. The black, billowing explosions masked the structure for a second, then the site erupted in a mass of red and orange blasts. Secondaries! There was something worth hitting down there. Foster felt the Thunderbolt lurching and shuddering in the blast from the explosions a few hundred feet below him. Once, he had seen a P-39 strafing a train that had, unknown to the pilot, been loaded with ammunition. The blast had taken the wings off the Airacobra and sent it plummeting into the ground.
The Thunderbolt though was made of sterner stuff. It plowed through the clouds of smoke from the explosions and erupted out the other side. Over the river, one of the flak suppression P-47s was trailing a thick black stream of smoke shot through with orange fire. To Foster's experienced eye, it looked as if the flames were coming out of the turbocharger exhaust and that was a death sentence. Get out of there! He willed the pilot to bail out but it didn’t happen. He thought he saw the bubble cockpit begin to slide back but the aircraft exploded before the pilot could jump. The P-47N turned into a comet, spewing fragments as it broke up and arced into the ground.
"Baby doll, you got a problem."
"Damage?"
"Looks like your belly tank is hit. You're streaming fuel from it."
That's bad, very bad. A spark hits that fuel, it flashes back and the tank explodes. Fortunately, he was flying on internal fuel; it was not unknown for a drop tank to detach completely when pulling out of the dive and that was not a good time for the engine to die of fuel starvation. So, wise pilots of a P-47N switched to the new internal wing tanks before going into their dive. Foster punched the release and dropped the damaged tank clear.
That was when he saw something incredible. The 203-gallon tank, still with a third of its fuel inside, wobbled through the air in a shaky ark and hit the ground. The tank was made of compressed papier-Mache and disintegrated on impact but somehow the fuel inside exploded. The fireball raced through the trees before finally subsiding as the fuel was exhausted. It left a trail of burning fuel on the ground with small secondary fires over a hundred-yard long path.
"Did you see that Babydoll?" Carr's voice was awed by the inferno. "I wonder if we can do that on purpose."
Interview Room, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"We lost Jimmy to flak and a couple of birds were shot up but made it home. The rest of us got back OK. I was wrong about the N-ship, Dan, they're good birds. Clumsier than the Ds but tough and smooth. Plenty of fuel too, after I lost my tank, I still had plenty of gas. Talking about that . . . "
"Primary first." The intelligence officer had post-strike pictures. The F-5 Lightning that had taken them had made it home before the P-47s had got back. "I've got bad news I'm afraid, Mal. We scored one hit on the bank next to the abutment, and one on the abutment itself. They cratered the road leading up to the bridge but the fascists were already repairing it when the F-5 went over. The rest of the bombs went into the water alongside the spans. Close alongside but no cigar. The blast has shaken the piers up, probably, but the bridge is still standing. Also, we spotted pre-fabricated bridge decks hidden in the woods. Some are for repairing damage but the rest are for additional bridges. Our photo people say there's evidence the Hitlerites are intending to put five bridges at Etatochka. Including a railway bridge."
"We will ask the Partisans to find out what they can." Their Russian liaison officer was trying to be as helpful as he could. It wasn't just policy although, for a Chekist, policy ruled everything else. It was that the Americans were throwing so much effort into helping the Russians drive the fascists out, that the Russians felt honor-bound to do everything they could to aid them.
"What about the buildings we shot up?"
"Ahh yes. Munitions storage we think. Probably for the anti-aircraft guns. That makes destroying them a big plus. Now, this thing about fuel tanks?"
"Mine got holed when the sheds blew up so I got rid of it before it exploded. It hit the ground and broke up, spewing burning fuel everywhere. It seemed to us that we can exploit that. We've always had problems tackling infantry on the ground. Bombs and rockets work fine against buildings and vehicles but the fascists have learned to disperse when we start strafing. We need a weapon that can take out whole areas. It seemed to us that our drop tanks might do the trick."
"Several other groups have reported the same thing. We've been having drop tanks exploding when they hit the ground ever since we shifted over to using the paper tanks." The Russians had come up with a way of using pine tree pulp, impregnated with glue and compressed, then molded into shape, as a material for drop tanks. Despite disbelief from the Americans, the paper tanks worked as well as the original aluminum ones and didn't use precious raw materials. Also, they didn’t deliver aluminum to the Hitlerites. "The problem is, it doesn’t happen all the time. Sometimes they just burst, sometimes they explode and burn, sometimes they bounce along the ground, spraying burning fuel."
"That's what mine did." Foster was thinking back. "My tank was punctured; perhaps that's why it blew up. The bouncing thing, that happens with a low-altitude drop. We get the same thing with five hundred pounders. Thousands, not so much."
"There's another problem as well. The fuel fireballs look impressive, but they don’t do much damage. The fuel burns off in a single flash fire. If somebody is caught exposed in the flash, they fry, but the burst doesn't last long enough. A cape or tent square will provide enough protection provided the man gets under it and holds his breath. Oh, he'll be singed a bit and scared out of his wits but that's all. Anyway, it's irrelevant. We're desperately short of 130 octane fuel and we can't afford to go dropping it on people. Even Hitlerites. Why do you think we ask you to bring any unused fuel in drop tanks back?"
There was a long silence. It seemed like the idea of bombing the fascists with drop tanks was one of those ideas that sounded good but fell afoul of practicality.
It was broken by Chekist Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov. Very tentatively, for he was an observer and under orders not to interfere except to offer help, he asked the question that confused him. "Why use 130 octane? You will not be putting this into your engines as well. Why not use our 87 octane? We have more than enough of that to spare."
"Gas is gas." Foster suddenly saw hope for his brainchild. "It'll burn still."
"Too fast though."
"There is a trick our bratishka in the rifle regiments use." Maslov spoke very carefully. "when they make Sharashkas to attack fascist tanks . . ."
"Sharaskas?"
"You call them Molotov Cocktails I think." Chekist Maslov looked a little embarrassed and decided to skate over some of the details. "Sharaska means temporary or improvised. Our riflemen mix diesel fuel or tar with the petrol to make it burn hotter and longer. One part of diesel to two parts of petrol. Perhaps we could try that?"
Foster nodded. "It's worth trying, isn't it?"
Colonel Daniel Campbell, sitting quietly to one side, agreed. "I'll order the munitions people to make a couple of test tanks up and we'll drop them tomorrow. Somewhere we can watch and see what happens."
404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Tower, Pancake ready to take off.” Captain Malcolm Foster settled himself back into his seat. Beside him, sprawled out on the port wing and hanging on to the leading edge as if his life depended on it (which it did), was a Russian member of the airfield ground contingent. His job was to watch the ground ahead of the Thunderbolt and warn the pilot if anybody or anything was in the way. Foster gave him a wave of thanks and gestured backward with his thumb. With a grateful wave, the Russian let go and slid backward off the wing and onto the ground. Only once had a Thunderbolt taken off with its observer still hanging onto the wing and the trouble from that had been epic. After the aircraft had circled and landed, the Russian authorities had wanted to court-martial the man for endangering the aircraft, the American authorities had wanted to court-martial the pilot for endangering the ground crewman. Eventually, the matter had been, by mutual consent, quietly forgotten.
“Pancake, go when you are ready. Syrup, move into position when Pancake is clear.”
Foster checked his aircraft again. For his first mission in a P-47N, he was carrying a formidable load of weaponry. A thousand-pound bomb and six five-inch HVAR rockets under each wing, a 203-gallon drop tank under his belly for a total of 4,800 pounds of assorted death and destruction. He would have preferred a third thousand-pound bomb under his belly, but the mission profile was for a free-chase mission for ground targets after the primary had been hit. The primary target was the Etatochka Bridge at Korovskoye. The significance of this bridge had been made clear during the briefing; it was the only bridge joining the fascist bridgehead on the east bank of the Onega River with the Hitlerite-occupied west bank. Once that bridge was gone, the fascists on the east bank would be cut off without food, fuel, or shelter. In a North Russian winter, it wouldn’t need airstrikes or artillery to condemn such men to death.
“Rolling.” Foster made sure his tailwheel was locked, then he applied engine power, smoothly and carefully. The P-47N rolled down the runway, picking up speed more slowly than he was used to with the D model. He resisted the urge to apply more power, remembering the urgent warnings he had received during conversion training about overstressing the engine. Then, to his intense surprise, the P-47N simply flew off the runway from the three-point tail-down position. That was something he had never experienced before although the pilot’s manual had said it would happen. He pulled up his undercarriage and looked around, seeing the other three Thunderbolts of Pancake Flight forming up beside him.
“That was smooth.” Foster used the radio to pass the praise through to the other three pilots. “She came off the runway like a real baby doll. Hey, that’s a good name. I’ll get Smithy down in the motor pool to paint Baby doll up when we get back. All right, we climb to 16,000 feet, and then we’ll be 110 miles out from our primary.”
“Smooth Operator here.” Lieutenant Glenn Carr was equally impressed by the way the heavily-loaded Thunderbolts had coped with the take-off. The climbing turn led Pancake Flight eastwards, giving the four pilots a sobering view of the endless pine forests that led all the way to the Pacific. Then as they gained altitude and swung on to the westward course, the winding, island-filled vista of the River Dvina came into view. Like the Volga further south, this was Russia’s last line of defense before the Urals mountains far to the East. The difference was, down on the Volga, the Hitlerites were retreating, slowly and painfully but they were retreating. Here, on the Dvina, they still had the initiative and they were still advancing.
They passed over Airfield 896 again, the white concrete runways standing out against the green of the land around them. It had driven the Russians crazy when they found the Americans couldn’t be bothered to camouflage their airfields or hide which ones were operational and which were not. Wearily, the Americans had pointed out that they needed all the airfields they could get, that the pilot of a damaged aircraft needed to find a place to land easily, and, anyway if the fascists came east over Russian-held territory to attack the airbases, their shot down pilots would be permanently lost to them – and the fascists were already very short of skilled pilots. The Russians had shrugged, muttered things under their breath, and carried on doing things their way while the Americans did things theirs.
“Malinka up ahead.” Malinka was an island in the middle of the Dvina. Another difference between the Volga and the Dvina; the northern river was filled with islands separated by channels. The great stretches of broad, unbroken water that had made the Volga an unbreakable defense were absent here. Based on his time with the 356th around Kazan, Foster guessed that the islands were worrying the defenders. The history of fascist amphibious operations had been one long catalog of disasters but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get their act together eventually. Archangel’s was off to his right, the great port one of the primary shipping points for supplies pouring into Russia from America and the Commonwealth. Flying top cover for the convoys, especially during the last run down the White Sea, was one reason why the 404th was up here.
Foster could see the White Sea glistening on the horizon to his right. He could also see the section of the horizon that he knew was occupied by the Hitlerites. That was also the target for the day. The bridgehead on the east bank of the Onega had to go and killing the bridge that fed it was the top priority. Pancake and Bacon flights would dive-bomb the bridge while Syrup and Butter flights attacked the anti-aircraft sites defending it. Then, the survivors of the 16 aircraft would go hunting over the occupied territory for as long as their fuel and ammunition lasted.
“New airfield down there,” Carr observed with a sense of amusement. Counting the airfields visible at any one time was a game all the American pilots played when crossing the Dvina. It had been stuck at three for a month or two, now there was a fourth.
“Katunino.” Second Lieutenant Caesar Cardella was the group expert at reading maps. He’d had to fight hard to stay out of navigator school as a result and only his undoubted expertise as a pilot had saved him from that fate. It had taken him seconds to find the location of the new field. Foster looked at it. It was a major airfield, with concrete runways, of course, all American airfields were after the experience of the Rasputitsa the previous year. The sight of horses up to their bellies in soft, clinging mud had struck a deep chord and now American engineers were working hard to pave as many key roads as they could. The ones east of the Dvina of course. West of the Dvina, roads blocked by the Rasputitsa were a useful aid to a defense. Over to the left, Foster could see a vast brown area where the low-lying ground had flooded and turned into a glutinous trap for men, animals, and vehicles. Now, he knew, that area would be freezing and turning hard with the plummeting temperatures.
“All flights, we’re at IP now.” Beneath the Thunderbolts was a line of finger lakes, orientated north-south and joined by small rivers. They were an invaluable navigation point in a land where once human habitation was too sparse to be obvious, everything looked the same. Truly, the rolling Russian forests go on forever. I wonder if it's true that the fascist troops have mental problems from the vast emptiness of Russia compared with the tight-packed mass of Europe. That might be why we like this place and they don't. “Altitude 16,105, check.”
It was essential to ensure that everybody’s altimeter was reading the same. The great danger with dive-bombing, other than the fascist Flak, of course, was flying into the ground from leaving the pull-out too late. A mis-set altimeter was a major cause of such losses.
“Target in sight. Syrup and Butter, do your thing.” Foster watched as the eight Thunderbolts of Syrup and Butter flights peeled over and their engines started to stream a thin line of black smoke as the pilots went to full throttle with water injection for the attack on the flak sites surrounding the bridge. "Syrup, take the flak on the east bank, Butter the guns on the west bank.”
That had just been a reminder with a caution attached to it. An attack like this could get very confused and could easily end up with both flak suppression flights hitting the same targets while the rest shot up the bridge-busting flights. Repeating assignments did nobody any harm and might save somebody’s life. "Pancake and Bacon, get ready to follow Syrup and Butter in."
Far below him, Foster saw the rippling black streaks from under the wings of the flak suppression aircraft as they unloaded their rockets at the guns they could see. The brilliant flares from the rocket engines flashed towards their targets, ending in the black clouds of explosions as the rocket salvoes blanketed the targets. It had already been noted that the American HVARs flew a lot straighter than the fascist rockets fired from their jets.
"Pancake and Bacon, be advised, there's three bridges down here, not one." Lieutenant Mike Harris, leading Syrup Flight was transmitting the data while strafing the anti-aircraft guns around the target. That was made obvious by the roar of the four .50 machine guns in each wing that was even drowning out the engine noise. The bombing and strafing of the flak guns wouldn't stop until the dive-bombers had made their runs. "Big bridge in the middle, two small ones flanking it."
"Got it, Mike. All Pancake and Bacon aircraft, there are three bridges down there, hit the big one in the middle. Go!"
The four P-47s in Bacon Flight peeled off into wingovers and started their dives down towards the target. Foster counted five seconds and then led Pancake Flight over into its dive. The timing was critical; the longer the gap between the flights, the more the smoke and blast from the previous group's bombs would have cleared but also the more time the flak suppression flights would have to spend dueling with the anti-aircraft guns. And, the more time those guns would have to line up on the dive-bombers.
The Onega and its bridges re-appeared under Foster's nose at his Thunderbolt tipped over into a 70-degree dive. At first, Korelskoye was just a yellow-white patch against the green and brown of the Russian countryside. At nine thousand feet, the individual buildings became visible, at 4,500 the dirt roads were distinct lines. That was a warning sign that his pull-out was imminent. Ahead of him, he could see the plumes of water reaching up as the bombs from Bacon Flight dropped into the river, the white circles in the water telling of thousand-pound bombs that had come close but not quite close enough. A brilliant red and black flash on the embankment revealed a bomb that had fallen short but another, plumb on the road line was on the bridge abutment. At 2,500 feet, Foster dropped his bombs, aiming at the middle of the bridge, just over one of the supports. A hole in the bridge decking could be repaired easily but dropping a pier into the water was something that would take much longer for even the fascist engineers to fix.
By then, he was hauling back on his stick, feeling the Thunderbolt juddering as the dreaded compressibility started to take over. At 1700 feet he saw three long, rectangular buildings buried in the trees. He guessed that they contained engineering equipment and bridge spans ready to repair the damage from the raid. They have got to go. he already had his rockets set to fire in pairs so all he had to do was hold the firing button down as he pulled the nose of his Thunderbolt up. The stream of rockets walked across the nearest of the three buildings. The black, billowing explosions masked the structure for a second, then the site erupted in a mass of red and orange blasts. Secondaries! There was something worth hitting down there. Foster felt the Thunderbolt lurching and shuddering in the blast from the explosions a few hundred feet below him. Once, he had seen a P-39 strafing a train that had, unknown to the pilot, been loaded with ammunition. The blast had taken the wings off the Airacobra and sent it plummeting into the ground.
The Thunderbolt though was made of sterner stuff. It plowed through the clouds of smoke from the explosions and erupted out the other side. Over the river, one of the flak suppression P-47s was trailing a thick black stream of smoke shot through with orange fire. To Foster's experienced eye, it looked as if the flames were coming out of the turbocharger exhaust and that was a death sentence. Get out of there! He willed the pilot to bail out but it didn’t happen. He thought he saw the bubble cockpit begin to slide back but the aircraft exploded before the pilot could jump. The P-47N turned into a comet, spewing fragments as it broke up and arced into the ground.
"Baby doll, you got a problem."
"Damage?"
"Looks like your belly tank is hit. You're streaming fuel from it."
That's bad, very bad. A spark hits that fuel, it flashes back and the tank explodes. Fortunately, he was flying on internal fuel; it was not unknown for a drop tank to detach completely when pulling out of the dive and that was not a good time for the engine to die of fuel starvation. So, wise pilots of a P-47N switched to the new internal wing tanks before going into their dive. Foster punched the release and dropped the damaged tank clear.
That was when he saw something incredible. The 203-gallon tank, still with a third of its fuel inside, wobbled through the air in a shaky ark and hit the ground. The tank was made of compressed papier-Mache and disintegrated on impact but somehow the fuel inside exploded. The fireball raced through the trees before finally subsiding as the fuel was exhausted. It left a trail of burning fuel on the ground with small secondary fires over a hundred-yard long path.
"Did you see that Babydoll?" Carr's voice was awed by the inferno. "I wonder if we can do that on purpose."
Interview Room, 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"We lost Jimmy to flak and a couple of birds were shot up but made it home. The rest of us got back OK. I was wrong about the N-ship, Dan, they're good birds. Clumsier than the Ds but tough and smooth. Plenty of fuel too, after I lost my tank, I still had plenty of gas. Talking about that . . . "
"Primary first." The intelligence officer had post-strike pictures. The F-5 Lightning that had taken them had made it home before the P-47s had got back. "I've got bad news I'm afraid, Mal. We scored one hit on the bank next to the abutment, and one on the abutment itself. They cratered the road leading up to the bridge but the fascists were already repairing it when the F-5 went over. The rest of the bombs went into the water alongside the spans. Close alongside but no cigar. The blast has shaken the piers up, probably, but the bridge is still standing. Also, we spotted pre-fabricated bridge decks hidden in the woods. Some are for repairing damage but the rest are for additional bridges. Our photo people say there's evidence the Hitlerites are intending to put five bridges at Etatochka. Including a railway bridge."
"We will ask the Partisans to find out what they can." Their Russian liaison officer was trying to be as helpful as he could. It wasn't just policy although, for a Chekist, policy ruled everything else. It was that the Americans were throwing so much effort into helping the Russians drive the fascists out, that the Russians felt honor-bound to do everything they could to aid them.
"What about the buildings we shot up?"
"Ahh yes. Munitions storage we think. Probably for the anti-aircraft guns. That makes destroying them a big plus. Now, this thing about fuel tanks?"
"Mine got holed when the sheds blew up so I got rid of it before it exploded. It hit the ground and broke up, spewing burning fuel everywhere. It seemed to us that we can exploit that. We've always had problems tackling infantry on the ground. Bombs and rockets work fine against buildings and vehicles but the fascists have learned to disperse when we start strafing. We need a weapon that can take out whole areas. It seemed to us that our drop tanks might do the trick."
"Several other groups have reported the same thing. We've been having drop tanks exploding when they hit the ground ever since we shifted over to using the paper tanks." The Russians had come up with a way of using pine tree pulp, impregnated with glue and compressed, then molded into shape, as a material for drop tanks. Despite disbelief from the Americans, the paper tanks worked as well as the original aluminum ones and didn't use precious raw materials. Also, they didn’t deliver aluminum to the Hitlerites. "The problem is, it doesn’t happen all the time. Sometimes they just burst, sometimes they explode and burn, sometimes they bounce along the ground, spraying burning fuel."
"That's what mine did." Foster was thinking back. "My tank was punctured; perhaps that's why it blew up. The bouncing thing, that happens with a low-altitude drop. We get the same thing with five hundred pounders. Thousands, not so much."
"There's another problem as well. The fuel fireballs look impressive, but they don’t do much damage. The fuel burns off in a single flash fire. If somebody is caught exposed in the flash, they fry, but the burst doesn't last long enough. A cape or tent square will provide enough protection provided the man gets under it and holds his breath. Oh, he'll be singed a bit and scared out of his wits but that's all. Anyway, it's irrelevant. We're desperately short of 130 octane fuel and we can't afford to go dropping it on people. Even Hitlerites. Why do you think we ask you to bring any unused fuel in drop tanks back?"
There was a long silence. It seemed like the idea of bombing the fascists with drop tanks was one of those ideas that sounded good but fell afoul of practicality.
It was broken by Chekist Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov. Very tentatively, for he was an observer and under orders not to interfere except to offer help, he asked the question that confused him. "Why use 130 octane? You will not be putting this into your engines as well. Why not use our 87 octane? We have more than enough of that to spare."
"Gas is gas." Foster suddenly saw hope for his brainchild. "It'll burn still."
"Too fast though."
"There is a trick our bratishka in the rifle regiments use." Maslov spoke very carefully. "when they make Sharashkas to attack fascist tanks . . ."
"Sharaskas?"
"You call them Molotov Cocktails I think." Chekist Maslov looked a little embarrassed and decided to skate over some of the details. "Sharaska means temporary or improvised. Our riflemen mix diesel fuel or tar with the petrol to make it burn hotter and longer. One part of diesel to two parts of petrol. Perhaps we could try that?"
Foster nodded. "It's worth trying, isn't it?"
Colonel Daniel Campbell, sitting quietly to one side, agreed. "I'll order the munitions people to make a couple of test tanks up and we'll drop them tomorrow. Somewhere we can watch and see what happens."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Eight
8th Torpedo Bomber Regiment “Gatchinskaya”, Airfield 17, Kasimovo, North of Petrograd
“Tovarish Captain. You are summoned to attend a Tribunal.” The Deputy Commander for Political Affairs did not indicate that the order was subject to debate. It wasn’t and Markov knew it. A small truck was already waiting with Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin and Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel sitting in the back. Markov swung himself into the back and felt the springs creak as the driver started to drive across the airfield. Buried amongst the trees on the other side of the field was the Regimental headquarters. The truck pulled up by the door and Markov led the way inside. “Captain Vladimir Stepanovich Markov, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin, and Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel are present at your command Tovarish Colonel. We are here to serve the Rodina!”
“We are here to examine events during the battle two nights ago. Reports have been made.” Deputy Commander Petr Grigoryevich Padin managed to put an incredible amount of menace into the last four words. “First, it has been stated that when your formation of aircraft attacked the fascist ships, you turned away from their fire.”
“Tovarish Colonel, this is not so. On sighting the Hitlerites, we saw we were approaching them from the stern. At such an angle, our torpedoes have no chance of a hit. So, we paralleled their course and attacked them from the bow corner. From that position, a hit is almost certain.” Vyazigin sounded almost indignant at the challenge to his airmanship.
Padin grunted and made a note on his pad. “And did you drop your torpedo or just throw it into the sea.”
“Our first approach was faulty, so we made a second, and that time the drop was perfect. We saw the torpedo explode against one of the ships.” Markov took over the explanation. “I am certain it was a supply ship.”
“Our American bratya sent one of their reconnaissance aircraft to photograph the channel. The pictures do show a torpedoed ship. Not a supply ship though.” Colonel Yuri Ilyich Lakhov had the 11 by 17 prints in front of him. They were crystal clear and showed a large ship aground on the Estonian coast. It looked to him as if the crew had despaired of keeping her afloat and had beached her for later salvage. The three senior officers looked carefully at the pictures, gazed suspiciously at the Pe-2 crew, and then examined them again. Eventually, they exchanged nods of agreement. “Very well, there is no blame to apportion here. Now we move to the next report. You claim to have shot down a twin-engined Messer?”
It was Khmel who answered. “I fired upon a Messer that attacked us, tovarish Colonel. Later we saw an aircraft burning on the ground. More than that, I cannot say.”
“It might have been another Pe-2 that you fired on. Now be honest, tovarish Sergeant, the Peshka looks like the Messer 110 does it not? Same tail, similar engines, similar wings? And it was dark.” Padin sounded warm, a true, understanding comrade who knew what reality in the war was like and how mistakes could so easily be made. Nobody present was fooled for a moment.
“They do not look alike when the aircraft is firing on us, its bullets and shells strike or aircraft and wound our pilot!.. tovarish Colonel.” Khmel was angered and his late timing of the address to the Colonel was a masterpiece. Late enough to register displeasure, not quite late enough to be insubordinate.
Again, the three officers conferred, looking suspiciously at the crew and particularly at Vyazigin and his bandaged right arm. He had been hit by fragments from the damaged side of the aircraft but had not said a word of his wounds until he had returned them safely to their base. They conferred, looked again, and conferred again.
Eventually, Lakhov looked up from his papers. “It may be that you fired upon a Messer or possibly a Peshka. One was shot down that night. That Peshka may have been shot down by you or by the Messer. Your aircraft may have been fired on by the Peshka or the Messer. We will never know and we cannot identify the burning aircraft on the ground. Here too, there is no blame to apportion although we cannot confirm your claim of a kill.”
Lakhov broke into a broad smile. Deputy Commander Padin did the same although the unfamiliar exercise of facial muscle groups pained him. “Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin, for bringing home a valuable aircraft despite severe damage and your injuries, you are awarded a medal. Advance to receive the Order of Ushakov, Second class.”
Vyazigin took three steps forward, took the flat box containing his medal, and then snapped to attention. “I serve the Rodina, tovarish Colonel.”
“Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel, for your bravery and attention to duty, you have been awarded a medal. Advance to receive the Order of Glory, 3rd class.”
“I serve the Rodina, tovarish Colonel.”
Lakhov nodded and turned to Markov. “Captain Vladimir Stepanovich Markov, you are promoted to Major, and you are transferred to the 786th Long Range Bomber Regiment to serve as their chief navigator. The Rodina has noted your skills, tovarish major, and wishes to use them to better advantage.”
“I serve the Rodina, tovarish Colonel.”
“Very well. Bratishka, you may all be free.”
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy NCF-21 At Sea, Off Nantucket Shoals
“And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.”
Apprentice Seaman Douglas Young wondered how he could be happy after leaving the wife he loved and the baby that was coming for them behind in New York. He was in his 20mm gun tub, elbows resting on the armored shielding that might, one day, protect him from the strafing that could happen. The rim of the tub offered less protection than it could have since the edge had been cut down to allow the Oerlikon mount to engage aircraft flying lower than the designers had expected and also any surface targets that presented themselves.
“It doesn’t make sense, does it, Doug?” Captain William Brady had been walking around the midship superstructure and had seen Young looking out to sea. He had gone up to make sure the man wasn’t smoking; Shawnee might be loaded with diesel rather than avgas but smoking was still strictly prohibited. Delighted to find that the regulations were being strictly observed, he had stopped for a chat. “Why go out to sea when we could have all we need on land? Especially in wartime when we are the juiciest, fattest target short of a carrier.”
“Masefield had it right, Sir. The sea calls us and it’s a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied. It’s cruel on our wives I guess but it’s part of being a seafaring man I suppose.”
“Back in the days of sail, the life of the women we leave in port used to be called ‘walking the widow’s walk’. Those were the days before Loran and other navigation aids and before the radio allowed messages home. Wives would spend months or years not knowing whether they were wives or widows. All too often their men would never come back; casualties than were a lot higher even than they are now.” Brady looked at the Navy PBJ-1s circling overhead. “We’ve got a lot of help these days.”
“It didn’t help the Enterprise though. I was still in New York the day she went down.” Young shuddered at the memory.
“So was I. We all thought she would sink in the channel and cork up the port. I think that’s what the Nazis were trying for. The crew managed to beach her clear of the main run. Less than a hundred yards off Sandy Hook and still, all those men died. You know civilians were running into the sea to try and pull them out despite all the burning avgas?”
Young nodded slowly in agreement. The day the Enterprise had been torpedoed and sunk off Sandy Hook had been both the saddest and the proudest day in the city’s industry. He remembered Mayor William O'Dwyer had spoken that evening on the radio and how his words had echoed across a stunned city. ‘After today’s tragic event, we now understand one thing beyond any doubt. This evening, the sun sets on a city that knows it is at war.’
“Do you think they are looking for something specific, Sir?” Young pointed at one of the PBJs that seemed to be circling an area to sea, ahead, and to starboard of the convoy.
“I don’t think so, son. If the crew had spotted something, one of our destroyers would be on its way over to help with the search. Our air cover is mostly to keep the fascists down. If they’re underwater, they can’t move fast enough to keep up with us. Given the cloud cover, rain, and sea state, we won’t have to worry about submarines too much today. It’s tonight, we’ll have to keep on our toes. We’ll pick up speed then.”
“Sir, the two mini-cans on our starboard side are detaching.” Brady looked around; sure enough, the two destroyer escorts to starboard, the De Long and the Rudderow were peeling away towards the area where the aircraft was circling. They made a fine sight as their turbo-electric machinery cranked up to full power, pushing them through the waves with a fine bone in their teeth and spray arching backward. “They’ve got the same machinery as us, haven’t they Sir?”
“We’ve both got Combustion Engineering boilers generating steam for Westinghouse turbogenerators and electric motors. We’ve got twice their power though, four boilers and four turbogenerators instead of two. For all that, they’re up to three knots faster than us. They’re slowing down now though, see how one of them is hanging back to keep sonar watch while the other one closes in?”
Young watched while one of the destroyer escorts closed in on something and came to a halt. Its signal lamp started flickering. Captain Brady followed the signal, his lips pursed. “I wish I could read Morse code like that, Captain.”
“You can’t? We’ll have to fix that. I’ll have the radio room set up a training course.” Brady seemed short and upset.
“Bad news, Sir?”
“Lifeboat. Been adrift a long time. The DE is bringing the remains on board for proper burial when we get to Churchill. The boarding crew says the lifeboat was damaged by machinegun fire so that’s probably what killed the survivors on board. Remember that if you ever see U-boat men in the water.” Brady looked at the 20mm gun and the cut-down rim to the gun tub with narrowed eyes. “We’re not living in the old days, that’s for sure.”
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Tovarish Misha, what have you done?" Regimental Zampolit, Evgeni Bessonov looked at Captain Pakholkov and shook his sadly. To his secret delight, he saw Pakholkov pale slightly. It is good to know that the words of a Zampolit can still cause fear.
"Tovarish Yevgeny?" After the success the previous night, Pakholkov had thought things were going well for him.
"Our generals have their eyes on you. The battle we won here has inspired them to try something new. They wish us to do more of the same and it is all your fault!"
The previous night, the fascists had tried to counter-attack the Russian positions around Amosovskaya. Russian doctrine had always been to advance as far and as fast as possible to seize as much territory as they could before the enemy could reorganize and set up a blocking force. The Russian attack here, though, had been limited by the river so, instead of trying to cross and over-extend their forces, the division had dug in and constructed the strongest defense they could manage, the center of which was the ten SU-85s of Pakholkov's company. The fascists had attacked at dusk, expecting a weak and over-extended defense but instead had run into a murderous crossfire from the tank destroyers and their supporting infantry. The results were still there, six Mark IV tanks and four half-tracks were burned out, the smoke from the fires that had consumed them still trickling upwards. It had been a small victory to be sure but every such victory was treasured. All the more so if it was won at little cost.
Bessenov nodded. "Yes, bratishka, your success last night has been noted and your name is mentioned with pride as a true example of a Russian officer. Now, we must try and do the same thing again. We will make a small advance and create a secure defense to hold the ground we have won. Our orders are to advance on Medvedevskaya and clear it of hostile forces. The Hitlerites will counter-attack of course and we will follow your example of last night. We will be dug in and we will break their counter-attack on our defenses. Then, we can edge forward a little more."
Pakholkov opened his map case and spread out his charts of the Onega River and its banks. Like all Russian maps, it was distorted and the great art in its use was to know where and how the changes had been made. The Americans had grumbled greatly about the poor quality of Russian maps in their sector and generated their own using airborne surveys. In Russian eyes, their allies didn’t understand just how dangerous accurate maps could be. Those precisely accurate American maps worried the Russian government. "We can use the underwater bridge to get across here, firstly to the island and then to the west bank. The problem is that we have a three-kilometer advance along the river bank with our flank exposed all the way.”
“Not necessarily.” Bessenkov had seen a few things on his way over that suggested there was more to this plan than just Pakholkov’s attack. “Your orders are to seize the island in the river. That is your primary objective. If you can follow up and seize the headland on the other side of the river, that would be excellent, but you must seize and hold the island."
Pakholkov studied the map again. The east bank of the Onega looked a bit like a fist with the thumb extended backward. The island looked a little like a detached thumbnail, about 400 meters long by a hundred deep. The promontory on the other side was the same width but twice as deep. He guessed that at one time, the two had formed part of a finger of land sticking out into the Onega but one day, perhaps in the spring flood, the river had burst through and the Onega was straighter as a result. And it had another island. "That will put us less than a kilometer from the railway line."
"A very useful railway line." Bessenkov agreed. "Just there it is a railway line with sidings. That will make the fascists think you intend to seize it and speed their counter-attack accordingly. You must be well dug-in when they do, tovarish Misha, for it is essential you hold that island."
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"It is essential that we take Onega before the snow starts to fall." The orders issued to Major Otto Carius had been very explicit. The city of Onega had to be taken so that the German troops to the south would have shelter for the winter. Nobody this close to the White Sea had any illusions about how brutal the coming winter would be. The temperature would drop to below minus thirty degrees with a howling wind to turn a nightmare into something far worse.
The impending winter was driving all of the fighting as, day by day, the thermometer fell. There would come a time when troops couldn't fight anymore, and they would only care about having shelter from the merciless winds and crushing cold. Carius had been ordered to support the break-out of the German forces occupying the small but vital bridgehead at Amosovskaya and spearhead their drive up the Onega valley to the port city. There, they could set up a garrison-fortress to endure the winter. Only, it was too late. The Ivans had moved first, they had crushed the bridgehead and had moved a blocking force in to prevent any attempt to retake it. If they were to be defeated, if the German troops were to have shelter for the winter, that had to change.
The problem was that the Jagdtigers were far too heavy to cross the river without elaborate preparations. Those preparations had been made but they too had fallen to the unexpected counter-attack. The underwater bridges that would have supported the 75-ton tank destroyers were now in Russian hands. Carius knew that there was little hope of recapturing them intact. If previous efforts had been anything to go by, Russian engineers would already have rigged the bridges with enough explosives to blow them to kingdom come. And much further if the Americans had provided them with the explosives. If the Amis have a motto where explosives are concerned, it is 'if some is good, more is better.'
“Otto, I hear aircraft.” Hauptmann Rudolf Kern was listening carefully.
“American or Russian?” Carius had heard the old joke about the Luftwaffe’s invisible aircraft too often for it to be funny anymore. Out here, on the front, it wasn’t a joke but a grim reality. The Luftwaffe fighters were fully committed to trying to prevent the Ami bombers from ravaging the rear areas of the German armies. There were few staffels left over to support the ground troops and they had to run the gauntlet of the ever-increasing numbers of Ami and Ivan fighters.
“Ami, I think.” Kern wasn’t quite sure.
“There they are.” One of the Jagdtiger commanders pointed at two aircraft high overhead.
Kern focused his binoculars on them. “They may be Martins but they don’t look quite right. They’re a bit small and the wrong shape.”
Carius frowned. Neither the Amis nor the Ivans went in for introducing completely new types of aircraft; they concentrated on improving the ones they had. Improved Yaks, improved Lavochkins, improved Bells, improved Thunderbolts, rarely anything new. Always, improved tactics, improved weapons but rarely new types. “Get ready. Everybody non-essential for an air defense, under armor now.”
“Four more, closing fast. We’ve never seen these before.” It was the same lookout who had spotted the first two aircraft.
The four twin-engined aircraft were skimming low over the ground, using the terrain as much as possible to gain cover. That was standard Ami tactics. The Amis would make straight runs backward and forwards over their targets, the Russians will circle us and dive from different angles. If it’s a really bad day, they’ll do it together. Carius saw his 37mm guns on the six half-tracks of his self-propelled flak battery open. The two surviving 20mm quads stayed silent, they were a close-range weapon and a surprise best kept until last. Not least to conceal that 2/3 of his close-range flak guns had been destroyed by the strike the previous day.
The black puffs of 37mm shells seemed to surround the approaching aircraft although Carius knew much of the apparent accuracy was an optical illusion. That was why the brilliant flash from the nose of one aircraft came as a major surprise. For a second he assumed that the guns had scored a lucky hit but the scream of an inbound shell quickly disabused him of that notion. The first shot was very short, the second round was a lot closer to one of the half-track mounted 37mm guns. Then, all four aircraft were firing at the anti-aircraft guns. The hits that came were inevitable; after all the aircraft were moving fast while the flak guns were stationary. By the time the aircraft peeled away, three of the 37mm guns and two more of the engineer vehicles were burning. Carius was convinced they had been hit by accident even though their loss was as crippling.
“Do you see that Rudi, they were concentrating on the flak guns? Once they’d hit the ones that had unmasked, they went away.” Carius shook his head. “I think we have just met the Flakjaegers.”
Kern nodded in agreement. “I think those gunners will cause us a lot of trouble when they get some experience under their belts. At least their arrival proves that our flak is worrying them.”
8th Torpedo Bomber Regiment “Gatchinskaya”, Airfield 17, Kasimovo, North of Petrograd
“Tovarish Captain. You are summoned to attend a Tribunal.” The Deputy Commander for Political Affairs did not indicate that the order was subject to debate. It wasn’t and Markov knew it. A small truck was already waiting with Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin and Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel sitting in the back. Markov swung himself into the back and felt the springs creak as the driver started to drive across the airfield. Buried amongst the trees on the other side of the field was the Regimental headquarters. The truck pulled up by the door and Markov led the way inside. “Captain Vladimir Stepanovich Markov, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin, and Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel are present at your command Tovarish Colonel. We are here to serve the Rodina!”
“We are here to examine events during the battle two nights ago. Reports have been made.” Deputy Commander Petr Grigoryevich Padin managed to put an incredible amount of menace into the last four words. “First, it has been stated that when your formation of aircraft attacked the fascist ships, you turned away from their fire.”
“Tovarish Colonel, this is not so. On sighting the Hitlerites, we saw we were approaching them from the stern. At such an angle, our torpedoes have no chance of a hit. So, we paralleled their course and attacked them from the bow corner. From that position, a hit is almost certain.” Vyazigin sounded almost indignant at the challenge to his airmanship.
Padin grunted and made a note on his pad. “And did you drop your torpedo or just throw it into the sea.”
“Our first approach was faulty, so we made a second, and that time the drop was perfect. We saw the torpedo explode against one of the ships.” Markov took over the explanation. “I am certain it was a supply ship.”
“Our American bratya sent one of their reconnaissance aircraft to photograph the channel. The pictures do show a torpedoed ship. Not a supply ship though.” Colonel Yuri Ilyich Lakhov had the 11 by 17 prints in front of him. They were crystal clear and showed a large ship aground on the Estonian coast. It looked to him as if the crew had despaired of keeping her afloat and had beached her for later salvage. The three senior officers looked carefully at the pictures, gazed suspiciously at the Pe-2 crew, and then examined them again. Eventually, they exchanged nods of agreement. “Very well, there is no blame to apportion here. Now we move to the next report. You claim to have shot down a twin-engined Messer?”
It was Khmel who answered. “I fired upon a Messer that attacked us, tovarish Colonel. Later we saw an aircraft burning on the ground. More than that, I cannot say.”
“It might have been another Pe-2 that you fired on. Now be honest, tovarish Sergeant, the Peshka looks like the Messer 110 does it not? Same tail, similar engines, similar wings? And it was dark.” Padin sounded warm, a true, understanding comrade who knew what reality in the war was like and how mistakes could so easily be made. Nobody present was fooled for a moment.
“They do not look alike when the aircraft is firing on us, its bullets and shells strike or aircraft and wound our pilot!.. tovarish Colonel.” Khmel was angered and his late timing of the address to the Colonel was a masterpiece. Late enough to register displeasure, not quite late enough to be insubordinate.
Again, the three officers conferred, looking suspiciously at the crew and particularly at Vyazigin and his bandaged right arm. He had been hit by fragments from the damaged side of the aircraft but had not said a word of his wounds until he had returned them safely to their base. They conferred, looked again, and conferred again.
Eventually, Lakhov looked up from his papers. “It may be that you fired upon a Messer or possibly a Peshka. One was shot down that night. That Peshka may have been shot down by you or by the Messer. Your aircraft may have been fired on by the Peshka or the Messer. We will never know and we cannot identify the burning aircraft on the ground. Here too, there is no blame to apportion although we cannot confirm your claim of a kill.”
Lakhov broke into a broad smile. Deputy Commander Padin did the same although the unfamiliar exercise of facial muscle groups pained him. “Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Vasilyevich Vyazigin, for bringing home a valuable aircraft despite severe damage and your injuries, you are awarded a medal. Advance to receive the Order of Ushakov, Second class.”
Vyazigin took three steps forward, took the flat box containing his medal, and then snapped to attention. “I serve the Rodina, tovarish Colonel.”
“Sergeant Dmitry Petrovich Khmel, for your bravery and attention to duty, you have been awarded a medal. Advance to receive the Order of Glory, 3rd class.”
“I serve the Rodina, tovarish Colonel.”
Lakhov nodded and turned to Markov. “Captain Vladimir Stepanovich Markov, you are promoted to Major, and you are transferred to the 786th Long Range Bomber Regiment to serve as their chief navigator. The Rodina has noted your skills, tovarish major, and wishes to use them to better advantage.”
“I serve the Rodina, tovarish Colonel.”
“Very well. Bratishka, you may all be free.”
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy NCF-21 At Sea, Off Nantucket Shoals
“And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.”
Apprentice Seaman Douglas Young wondered how he could be happy after leaving the wife he loved and the baby that was coming for them behind in New York. He was in his 20mm gun tub, elbows resting on the armored shielding that might, one day, protect him from the strafing that could happen. The rim of the tub offered less protection than it could have since the edge had been cut down to allow the Oerlikon mount to engage aircraft flying lower than the designers had expected and also any surface targets that presented themselves.
“It doesn’t make sense, does it, Doug?” Captain William Brady had been walking around the midship superstructure and had seen Young looking out to sea. He had gone up to make sure the man wasn’t smoking; Shawnee might be loaded with diesel rather than avgas but smoking was still strictly prohibited. Delighted to find that the regulations were being strictly observed, he had stopped for a chat. “Why go out to sea when we could have all we need on land? Especially in wartime when we are the juiciest, fattest target short of a carrier.”
“Masefield had it right, Sir. The sea calls us and it’s a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied. It’s cruel on our wives I guess but it’s part of being a seafaring man I suppose.”
“Back in the days of sail, the life of the women we leave in port used to be called ‘walking the widow’s walk’. Those were the days before Loran and other navigation aids and before the radio allowed messages home. Wives would spend months or years not knowing whether they were wives or widows. All too often their men would never come back; casualties than were a lot higher even than they are now.” Brady looked at the Navy PBJ-1s circling overhead. “We’ve got a lot of help these days.”
“It didn’t help the Enterprise though. I was still in New York the day she went down.” Young shuddered at the memory.
“So was I. We all thought she would sink in the channel and cork up the port. I think that’s what the Nazis were trying for. The crew managed to beach her clear of the main run. Less than a hundred yards off Sandy Hook and still, all those men died. You know civilians were running into the sea to try and pull them out despite all the burning avgas?”
Young nodded slowly in agreement. The day the Enterprise had been torpedoed and sunk off Sandy Hook had been both the saddest and the proudest day in the city’s industry. He remembered Mayor William O'Dwyer had spoken that evening on the radio and how his words had echoed across a stunned city. ‘After today’s tragic event, we now understand one thing beyond any doubt. This evening, the sun sets on a city that knows it is at war.’
“Do you think they are looking for something specific, Sir?” Young pointed at one of the PBJs that seemed to be circling an area to sea, ahead, and to starboard of the convoy.
“I don’t think so, son. If the crew had spotted something, one of our destroyers would be on its way over to help with the search. Our air cover is mostly to keep the fascists down. If they’re underwater, they can’t move fast enough to keep up with us. Given the cloud cover, rain, and sea state, we won’t have to worry about submarines too much today. It’s tonight, we’ll have to keep on our toes. We’ll pick up speed then.”
“Sir, the two mini-cans on our starboard side are detaching.” Brady looked around; sure enough, the two destroyer escorts to starboard, the De Long and the Rudderow were peeling away towards the area where the aircraft was circling. They made a fine sight as their turbo-electric machinery cranked up to full power, pushing them through the waves with a fine bone in their teeth and spray arching backward. “They’ve got the same machinery as us, haven’t they Sir?”
“We’ve both got Combustion Engineering boilers generating steam for Westinghouse turbogenerators and electric motors. We’ve got twice their power though, four boilers and four turbogenerators instead of two. For all that, they’re up to three knots faster than us. They’re slowing down now though, see how one of them is hanging back to keep sonar watch while the other one closes in?”
Young watched while one of the destroyer escorts closed in on something and came to a halt. Its signal lamp started flickering. Captain Brady followed the signal, his lips pursed. “I wish I could read Morse code like that, Captain.”
“You can’t? We’ll have to fix that. I’ll have the radio room set up a training course.” Brady seemed short and upset.
“Bad news, Sir?”
“Lifeboat. Been adrift a long time. The DE is bringing the remains on board for proper burial when we get to Churchill. The boarding crew says the lifeboat was damaged by machinegun fire so that’s probably what killed the survivors on board. Remember that if you ever see U-boat men in the water.” Brady looked at the 20mm gun and the cut-down rim to the gun tub with narrowed eyes. “We’re not living in the old days, that’s for sure.”
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Tovarish Misha, what have you done?" Regimental Zampolit, Evgeni Bessonov looked at Captain Pakholkov and shook his sadly. To his secret delight, he saw Pakholkov pale slightly. It is good to know that the words of a Zampolit can still cause fear.
"Tovarish Yevgeny?" After the success the previous night, Pakholkov had thought things were going well for him.
"Our generals have their eyes on you. The battle we won here has inspired them to try something new. They wish us to do more of the same and it is all your fault!"
The previous night, the fascists had tried to counter-attack the Russian positions around Amosovskaya. Russian doctrine had always been to advance as far and as fast as possible to seize as much territory as they could before the enemy could reorganize and set up a blocking force. The Russian attack here, though, had been limited by the river so, instead of trying to cross and over-extend their forces, the division had dug in and constructed the strongest defense they could manage, the center of which was the ten SU-85s of Pakholkov's company. The fascists had attacked at dusk, expecting a weak and over-extended defense but instead had run into a murderous crossfire from the tank destroyers and their supporting infantry. The results were still there, six Mark IV tanks and four half-tracks were burned out, the smoke from the fires that had consumed them still trickling upwards. It had been a small victory to be sure but every such victory was treasured. All the more so if it was won at little cost.
Bessenov nodded. "Yes, bratishka, your success last night has been noted and your name is mentioned with pride as a true example of a Russian officer. Now, we must try and do the same thing again. We will make a small advance and create a secure defense to hold the ground we have won. Our orders are to advance on Medvedevskaya and clear it of hostile forces. The Hitlerites will counter-attack of course and we will follow your example of last night. We will be dug in and we will break their counter-attack on our defenses. Then, we can edge forward a little more."
Pakholkov opened his map case and spread out his charts of the Onega River and its banks. Like all Russian maps, it was distorted and the great art in its use was to know where and how the changes had been made. The Americans had grumbled greatly about the poor quality of Russian maps in their sector and generated their own using airborne surveys. In Russian eyes, their allies didn’t understand just how dangerous accurate maps could be. Those precisely accurate American maps worried the Russian government. "We can use the underwater bridge to get across here, firstly to the island and then to the west bank. The problem is that we have a three-kilometer advance along the river bank with our flank exposed all the way.”
“Not necessarily.” Bessenkov had seen a few things on his way over that suggested there was more to this plan than just Pakholkov’s attack. “Your orders are to seize the island in the river. That is your primary objective. If you can follow up and seize the headland on the other side of the river, that would be excellent, but you must seize and hold the island."
Pakholkov studied the map again. The east bank of the Onega looked a bit like a fist with the thumb extended backward. The island looked a little like a detached thumbnail, about 400 meters long by a hundred deep. The promontory on the other side was the same width but twice as deep. He guessed that at one time, the two had formed part of a finger of land sticking out into the Onega but one day, perhaps in the spring flood, the river had burst through and the Onega was straighter as a result. And it had another island. "That will put us less than a kilometer from the railway line."
"A very useful railway line." Bessenkov agreed. "Just there it is a railway line with sidings. That will make the fascists think you intend to seize it and speed their counter-attack accordingly. You must be well dug-in when they do, tovarish Misha, for it is essential you hold that island."
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"It is essential that we take Onega before the snow starts to fall." The orders issued to Major Otto Carius had been very explicit. The city of Onega had to be taken so that the German troops to the south would have shelter for the winter. Nobody this close to the White Sea had any illusions about how brutal the coming winter would be. The temperature would drop to below minus thirty degrees with a howling wind to turn a nightmare into something far worse.
The impending winter was driving all of the fighting as, day by day, the thermometer fell. There would come a time when troops couldn't fight anymore, and they would only care about having shelter from the merciless winds and crushing cold. Carius had been ordered to support the break-out of the German forces occupying the small but vital bridgehead at Amosovskaya and spearhead their drive up the Onega valley to the port city. There, they could set up a garrison-fortress to endure the winter. Only, it was too late. The Ivans had moved first, they had crushed the bridgehead and had moved a blocking force in to prevent any attempt to retake it. If they were to be defeated, if the German troops were to have shelter for the winter, that had to change.
The problem was that the Jagdtigers were far too heavy to cross the river without elaborate preparations. Those preparations had been made but they too had fallen to the unexpected counter-attack. The underwater bridges that would have supported the 75-ton tank destroyers were now in Russian hands. Carius knew that there was little hope of recapturing them intact. If previous efforts had been anything to go by, Russian engineers would already have rigged the bridges with enough explosives to blow them to kingdom come. And much further if the Americans had provided them with the explosives. If the Amis have a motto where explosives are concerned, it is 'if some is good, more is better.'
“Otto, I hear aircraft.” Hauptmann Rudolf Kern was listening carefully.
“American or Russian?” Carius had heard the old joke about the Luftwaffe’s invisible aircraft too often for it to be funny anymore. Out here, on the front, it wasn’t a joke but a grim reality. The Luftwaffe fighters were fully committed to trying to prevent the Ami bombers from ravaging the rear areas of the German armies. There were few staffels left over to support the ground troops and they had to run the gauntlet of the ever-increasing numbers of Ami and Ivan fighters.
“Ami, I think.” Kern wasn’t quite sure.
“There they are.” One of the Jagdtiger commanders pointed at two aircraft high overhead.
Kern focused his binoculars on them. “They may be Martins but they don’t look quite right. They’re a bit small and the wrong shape.”
Carius frowned. Neither the Amis nor the Ivans went in for introducing completely new types of aircraft; they concentrated on improving the ones they had. Improved Yaks, improved Lavochkins, improved Bells, improved Thunderbolts, rarely anything new. Always, improved tactics, improved weapons but rarely new types. “Get ready. Everybody non-essential for an air defense, under armor now.”
“Four more, closing fast. We’ve never seen these before.” It was the same lookout who had spotted the first two aircraft.
The four twin-engined aircraft were skimming low over the ground, using the terrain as much as possible to gain cover. That was standard Ami tactics. The Amis would make straight runs backward and forwards over their targets, the Russians will circle us and dive from different angles. If it’s a really bad day, they’ll do it together. Carius saw his 37mm guns on the six half-tracks of his self-propelled flak battery open. The two surviving 20mm quads stayed silent, they were a close-range weapon and a surprise best kept until last. Not least to conceal that 2/3 of his close-range flak guns had been destroyed by the strike the previous day.
The black puffs of 37mm shells seemed to surround the approaching aircraft although Carius knew much of the apparent accuracy was an optical illusion. That was why the brilliant flash from the nose of one aircraft came as a major surprise. For a second he assumed that the guns had scored a lucky hit but the scream of an inbound shell quickly disabused him of that notion. The first shot was very short, the second round was a lot closer to one of the half-track mounted 37mm guns. Then, all four aircraft were firing at the anti-aircraft guns. The hits that came were inevitable; after all the aircraft were moving fast while the flak guns were stationary. By the time the aircraft peeled away, three of the 37mm guns and two more of the engineer vehicles were burning. Carius was convinced they had been hit by accident even though their loss was as crippling.
“Do you see that Rudi, they were concentrating on the flak guns? Once they’d hit the ones that had unmasked, they went away.” Carius shook his head. “I think we have just met the Flakjaegers.”
Kern nodded in agreement. “I think those gunners will cause us a lot of trouble when they get some experience under their belts. At least their arrival proves that our flak is worrying them.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Nine
HMCS Howe, Churchill Harbor, Nova Scotia.
“NCF-21 is on its way up from New York. They’ll be here tomorrow morning.” Captain Tillett had the list of ships in his hand. Six fast tankers, and 10 equally fast bulk cargo carriers, all protected by eight destroyer escorts. Another twenty-four merchant ships were already in the great harbor at Churchill along with the escorts that had arrived with them. More merchant ships were due to arrive before the convoy left. Sitting just across from Howe was one of the two escort carriers that would be providing close-in air cover. The USS Kazan was one of the new Moskva class escort carriers, essentially the same hull as the T-3 tankers but with a hangar, flight deck, and island. She and her sister ship, the USS Ulyanovsk had a secondary role, to keep the destroyers and destroyer escorts fueled. The two ships might be small aircraft carriers but they had the oil capacity of a tanker and had been fitted to refuel their escorts at sea. “They’ll get 48 hours to get themselves settled in, then we start our run.”
“We’ve heard from the cruisers and destroyers, Sir. The two County class cruisers are ready to go, the four Tribal class destroyers are just finishing getting their stores on board. Bit of a small contingent if you ask me. I thought we’d proved our worth.” McKendrick was resentful. He knew, as did all the Royal Navy officers, how unprepared the U.S. Navy had been for the submarine onslaught that had started in 1942 and run through to mid-1943. They hadn’t just been unprepared, they’d been inept. Without the hard-won experience of the British and Canadians in beating back the Hitlerite submarines, the carnage would have been far worse, impossible as that might seem. Since then, the flood of American warship construction had provided the anti-submarine forces needed and it had been the U-boats who had been swept from the sea. Destroyers converted to fast escorts, destroyer escorts for the medium-speed close-in work, jeep carriers like Kazan and Ulyanovsk, and long-range maritime patrol aircraft, all had combined to return some semblance of security to the sea lanes.
“We have, and the Yanks know it.” Tillett knew two things. One was that the Canadian Navy was now the third-largest in the world, based on the number of ships counted, right behind America and Japan, just ahead of the Free Royal Navy. The other was that the Royal Canadian Navy was stretched just about as far as it could go. “This convoy is critical and it’s late in the year. The ships we’re committing are the ones that can hold high speed in bad weather the best. Notice that the Yank cruisers are conspicuous by their absence.”
“They do roll a bit, don’t they, although those big new eight-inchers are fine ships.” McKendrick was mollified by the comment. “And I suppose our ships will be escorting the slow convoy as well.”
“That they will. Though not the Didos. They’re too small for the Arctic, just like the Atlanta’s. I hear the Didos will be going down to the West Indies and the two Counties there will be joining us up here.” Tillett understood what was happening in a strategic sense. As the U.S. Navy concentrated in the North Atlantic, the Commonwealth navies were taking the strain in the rest of the world. The Australians looked after the Pacific, the Indians, and South Africans in the Indian Ocean. The three battlecruisers, Hood, Repulse, and Renown were all in Singapore already and the armored carriers would be joining them there. The Free British six-inch cruisers and most of the destroyers would be heading that way as well. In contrast, Tillett had heard that the armies were coming the other way, concentrating in Canada for the invasion.
“The covering force is ours as well.” McKendrick was brightening up again. “Anson is with us but the other three new battleships are in the covering group. If there’s a surface fight, we’ll get our licks in.”
“I think you mean kicks.” Tillett was laughing to himself at the way the mercurial McKendrick had cheered up. “In the bollocks. All these new battleships want to give the fascists a good trousering after the way we had to run across the Atlantic. We can all feel it, every time we put to sea.”
“Not just the battleships. The smaller ships as well although the destroyers had the satisfaction of giving the fascist submarines a good thrashing.”
McKendrick paused for a little. “Have you noticed, Sir, how we’re all getting to speak like the Russians? It’s never ‘Germans’ or even ‘Huns’ anymore, it’s always ‘Fascists’ or ‘Hitlerites’. There’s a lot of hate building up; I don’t want to think where it could end.”
“Are you surprised, Greg? It started back in ’42 when that damned fool machine-gunned the crew of the Taney. The massacre at the Kolkhoz Pass last year just confirmed it. The Yanks have blood in their eyes and they want what they call payback. Just go to the cinema and watch their newsreels, hell, go to our cinema and watch them.” Tillett laughed. Howe had been designed with large hangars amidships for seaplanes but the catapult had been removed and replaced by an extra deck with anti-aircraft guns while the hangars had been converted into accommodation and a cinema for the crew. “The words they use are straight from the Russian vocabulary and, of course, they find their way into common usage. Even loaded words like ‘comrade’ or ‘tovarish’ are doing that and I don’t think it’s accidental by the way.”
Scouting Team, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
By a miracle, the fascists hadn't booby-trapped or blown up the underwater bridge that joined Island One to the east bank of the Onega. The bridge itself was two hundred meters long yet only ten or fifteen centimeters underwater, so shallow that even trucks would be able to cross without trouble. Captain Pakholkov and Zampolit Bessonov had slowly made their way across the bridge towards the (presumably) fascist-held island. Despite the shallow water on top of the bridge, their feet were bitterly cold from the near-freezing temperature. Winter is coming, Pakholkov thought, and with it the time to push the Hitlerites back. Once again, General Winter will come to the Rodina's aid. Then he almost yelped as something bumped into his leg. He had thought it might be a floating mine or the firing mechanism on a booby trap but it was just a large piece of ice. The Onega was slowly but surely freezing over. The underwater bridge would not be used for much longer; when the ice was fully-formed, it would be crushed.
Over on the west bank of the river, some 300 meters on the other side of Island One, Pakholkov could see the streaks of tracer as the fascist machine guns were firing short bursts across the river. The riflemen were making a demonstration there, trying to draw the Hitlerites attention away from Island One and towards a different section of the bank. They were trying to make it look as if a raid to seize prisoners was in progress. The deception appeared to be working since illumination flares were soaring into the night sky from the fascist positions. "It is time to be careful, tovarish Yevgeny. Out here on the bridge, we are exposed to enemy fire. If the fascists see us, we are finished."
Bessonov nodded. He had insisted on being part of the scouting party, one motive is to show the riflemen and artillerists that the days when the Zampolit skulked in the rear while real soldiers sacrificed their lives were truly gone. Another was that he wanted to learn as much as he could about soldiering so his advice to the officers could be as valuable as possible. Above both of those though was his personal need to show himself that he was worthy of accompanying the men around him and being considered one of their number. He and Pakholkov had to move forward, slowly and carefully despite the freezing water and dip down low under the light of every flare to avoid the catastrophe of being seen. They had just reached the shore when Pakholkov held up his hand.
"We have done well bratishka but now our troubles start. If our experience of the fascists is any guide, soon there should be a minefield. We must move more slowly now and explore the ground for any hint of mines."
Pakholkov had barely finished his warning when a barrage of flares shot up into the sky, frighteningly close to the scouting team. It forced the team of Russian scouts to go to the ground in the mud of the island bank but it also gave him a chance to look around in their light. What he saw chilled him far more than the icy water of the Onega had done. There were the coils of barbed wire as he had expected but they were behind his team, half-submerged in the waters of the river. The message was obvious; he and his men were already in the minefield planted to protect the end of the bridge from Russians trying to do exactly what the scout team was attempting right then.
"Yebat! We are already in the minefield! The river must have risen during the night. The concertina boundary wire is half-submerged. That means we can't see it and we have no chance of finding our way through the middle of it without being seen. We will have to feel our way through and hope that our felt boots, padded jackets, and pants will keep us safe from the spikes. Resign yourself, bratishka, as soon as we start to feel our way, we will make noise and alert the fascists." Pakholkov stared at the vague shapes in the darkness, trying to work out where the enemy positions were likely to be. Hmm, the ground to the right of us is a little higher than the rest although nothing on this island is more than a meter above the waterline. That's why they call it Island One. The fascists will set up there.
Pakholkov started to lead his men through the wire entanglements but the darkness, usually their friend, betrayed them by concealing the empty tin cans, containing a few stones each, that were tied up to the wire. They rattled when a light brush from one of the men set the wire moving. The sudden noise caused a burst from a machine gun to lash out from the area Pakholkov had already marked down. The bullets plowed into the ground all around them, spraying mud and freezing water into their faces. As the Russian scouts burrowed into the mud, the fascists fired whole strings of illumination flares into the sky in a brilliant cavalcade of light.
That was when the Hitlerites made a bad mistake. Two more machine guns joined in, firing long bursts of tracer bullets across the killing zone. They formed brilliant, bright red snakes that reached towards Pakholkov and his men from the enemy trench. As they buried themselves as deep in the mud as possible, Bessonov realized that a machine gun fired from a distance of 50 meters, made an evil drumming thunder that shook every last millimeter of his body. Yet, knowing what he knew about the plans for this operation, he realized that the fascists were playing into Pakholkov's plans. The red tracer streams were vividly revealing the location of the machine guns to the men waiting on the east bank. They had their 82mm mortars poised and ready to fire as soon as the enemy revealed themselves.
It seemed to take an age before the mortar rounds exploded all over the fascist position. In reality, it had been barely five minutes since the gunfire had started but being under heavy fire did things like that to a man's sense of time. The regimental mortar battery dropped almost fifty rounds on the target, switching to smoke for the last few to give cover for the inevitable infantry assault. Pakholkov gave the order to move forward and his men started to pick their way through the minefield, moving very carefully and very slowly. The points on the coils of barbed wire that threaded through the mined area slashed at the men, leaving them with bleeding hands and cut faces yet they stealthily approached the fascist position through the mud, heading towards the area where the machine gun tracers had come from. When they got there, the mortar fire had ceased but the enemy positions were silent. Bessonov followed the infantrymen as they leaped over the breastwork and quickly made sure there were no survivors from the men who had been there. Then, the scouting group started to move forward again
As they did so Pakholkov was growing steadily more concerned. Island One was as flat and as low-lying as its name suggested. If it was to be defensible, it would need higher ground than was present so that the troops holding it would have a better view of the German positions on the west bank of the Onega. Instead, the rise of the west bank concealed the fascist defenses on a reverse slope and gave them a perfect opportunity to pick off any defenses on the island at their leisure. Looking behind him, he saw that the ground lifted the same way on the eastern bank so that the island sat in a bowl. No matter whether the attack came from the east or west, Island One was indefensible. With a flash of insight, he realized that was why the Hitlerites hadn't bothered to defend it. Except for a corporal's guard who had probably done something to upset their sergeant.
"Tovarish Yevgeny, we have reached our planned location but we cannot stop here. We are out in the open and the ground is too low and too wet for us to dig in. We must take the ridgeline on the west bank before the fascists realize what is happening and reinforce it."
"Then what are you waiting for, Misha? Look!"
The bright moon and the light scattering of snow on the slopes that were shaded from the sun had combined to make night vision abnormally good. What Pakholkov could see told him that the firefight on Island One has served its purpose; it had alerted the fascists that the Russians were moving. Coming over the crest of the ridge that delineated the neck of the oxbow bend was a group of Nazi soldiers. They were an advance guard that was intended to hold the ridge until it could be reinforced properly. The fascists were gambling on the Russians’ reluctance to attack at night.
“Prepare for battle!” Pakholkov ordered. “Get through to headquarters and tell them we have to get the tank destroyers and their tank riders over here right now. Tell them that Island One is indefensible and we must take the ridge on the other side of the river if we are to hold here. The fascists are moving in already; once the tank destroyers arrive, we will cut them all down. We can’t kill them all, not in a night battle, but we can drive them back and be ready for them at dawn.
“It is strange how fortune casts her favors is it not?” Bessonov sounded reflective. “If those flares hadn’t shown us that we were in the minefield, we might still be in the minefield. And the way ahead would be firmly blocked.”
Pakholkov nodded and pointed wordlessly to the east. The ten SU-85s with their tankodesantniki clinging to the hulls were already crossing the submerged bridge on their way to Island One.
Füsilier-Battalion 214, West Bank of the Onega, Opposite Island One, Amosovskaya, Army Group Nord
"The Ivans are crossing the river!" The shout from the observation team snapped Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz out of his torpor. Winter hadn’t yet arrived, not yet, but it was coming and the bitter chill seemed to suck the energy out of those exposed to it. Doing anything required a conscious effort that had to battle a constant lethargy. It was all too easy to simply dismiss vital information because the listener was too cold and tired to realize how important it was. It had almost happened a few minutes ago when the firing had erupted on Onega Insel Eins just a few minutes earlier. It had almost been dismissed as just another patrol action until the underwater bridges crossing the Onega had been remembered and the potential threat realized. Now the threat was becoming reality.
"What? Make a proper report! Right now." Renz was furious with the lookout who had given such a meaningless warning.
"Sir. Ivan tanks, ten at least of them with infantry on their backs. They're on the bridge."
Renz cursed again. Insel Eins was just 300 meters from the west bank of the Onega and, by the time the warning had been received, the lead Ivan tank was already almost three-quarters of the way over. By the time his men had scrambled into position, it was on dry land and was swinging towards the ridge where Renz's handful of men was stationed. They had been assigned to act as a forward picket, no more than that. Everybody knew that the Russians never attacked at night, not with armor anyway, and the main blow would come at dawn. This time "Feldwebel Everybody" had been wrong. His dozen men were facing at least a company of Ivan infantry with ten tanks in support. Assault guns he corrected himself, recognizing the sleek shape of the SU-85s. That was all he saw because the muzzle flash from the 85mm gun destroyed his night vision and he knew it would be minutes before it recovered. And he and his men didn’t have minutes. Explosions from the HE shells fired by the 85mm guns were already scattered across his positions, telling him two things. One was that the Ivans knew more or less where his men were positioned. The other was that it was time to leave. The second was reinforced by a scream from his right as one of the Ivan shells bit home.
Renz's first thought was to drop back behind the crest of the ridge to get cover in the dead ground. The flat trajectory of the 85mm guns meant that even the gentle rise and low ridge would give his men enough protection to hold on. The rapid series of explosions behind him quickly convinced him that the option had gone. The Ivans were using mortars to pound that reverse slope. That left only one series of options open. "Fall back! Get back to the trees behind us."
Ahead of him, the SU-85s had unloaded their tank riders and were now following them up the slope. They were methodically firing on everything that could offer cover to the defenders. They didn’t just have their 85mm guns, they were firing machine guns from the roofs as well. Renz had read a report that the first thing SU-85 crews did when they reached the front was to find a captured MG42 and some ammunition and mount the gun on the roof of their assault guns to provide additional close-in protection. Damn the Ivans, they're shooting at my men with our own guns.
There was another ripple of mortar blasts from behind him, the lighter cracks of the 82mms being supplemented by the heavier blasts from 120mm weapons. This is a serious attack. We need to get word back. Renz took another look at the slow, remorseless advance of the Ivan force and slid backward. It was time to leave. Once over the ridge, the direct fire from the assault guns and infantry was much less of a problem. That only left the mortars and they were firing more or less at random. Renz led the way back until he and his men found a haven in the lee of a dense tree line. "Losses, Hans?"
Oberfeldwebel Hans Hofmann did a quick head-count. "Two men missing, dead for certain. Four wounded."
"Half our men." Renz sounded shocked at the brief, unexpected action. I shouldn’t be, we've been losing men like this ever since the first day of Barbarossa. All the old gang is gone and the men who replaced them. And the ones who replaced those. Every day, one or two faces go, and sometimes they are replaced. "Hans, they're not coming over the ridge. I think they are digging in along it."
Hofmann nodded in agreement. "The Ivans are learning their trade well these days. And so are the Amis."
HMCS Howe, Churchill Harbor, Nova Scotia.
“NCF-21 is on its way up from New York. They’ll be here tomorrow morning.” Captain Tillett had the list of ships in his hand. Six fast tankers, and 10 equally fast bulk cargo carriers, all protected by eight destroyer escorts. Another twenty-four merchant ships were already in the great harbor at Churchill along with the escorts that had arrived with them. More merchant ships were due to arrive before the convoy left. Sitting just across from Howe was one of the two escort carriers that would be providing close-in air cover. The USS Kazan was one of the new Moskva class escort carriers, essentially the same hull as the T-3 tankers but with a hangar, flight deck, and island. She and her sister ship, the USS Ulyanovsk had a secondary role, to keep the destroyers and destroyer escorts fueled. The two ships might be small aircraft carriers but they had the oil capacity of a tanker and had been fitted to refuel their escorts at sea. “They’ll get 48 hours to get themselves settled in, then we start our run.”
“We’ve heard from the cruisers and destroyers, Sir. The two County class cruisers are ready to go, the four Tribal class destroyers are just finishing getting their stores on board. Bit of a small contingent if you ask me. I thought we’d proved our worth.” McKendrick was resentful. He knew, as did all the Royal Navy officers, how unprepared the U.S. Navy had been for the submarine onslaught that had started in 1942 and run through to mid-1943. They hadn’t just been unprepared, they’d been inept. Without the hard-won experience of the British and Canadians in beating back the Hitlerite submarines, the carnage would have been far worse, impossible as that might seem. Since then, the flood of American warship construction had provided the anti-submarine forces needed and it had been the U-boats who had been swept from the sea. Destroyers converted to fast escorts, destroyer escorts for the medium-speed close-in work, jeep carriers like Kazan and Ulyanovsk, and long-range maritime patrol aircraft, all had combined to return some semblance of security to the sea lanes.
“We have, and the Yanks know it.” Tillett knew two things. One was that the Canadian Navy was now the third-largest in the world, based on the number of ships counted, right behind America and Japan, just ahead of the Free Royal Navy. The other was that the Royal Canadian Navy was stretched just about as far as it could go. “This convoy is critical and it’s late in the year. The ships we’re committing are the ones that can hold high speed in bad weather the best. Notice that the Yank cruisers are conspicuous by their absence.”
“They do roll a bit, don’t they, although those big new eight-inchers are fine ships.” McKendrick was mollified by the comment. “And I suppose our ships will be escorting the slow convoy as well.”
“That they will. Though not the Didos. They’re too small for the Arctic, just like the Atlanta’s. I hear the Didos will be going down to the West Indies and the two Counties there will be joining us up here.” Tillett understood what was happening in a strategic sense. As the U.S. Navy concentrated in the North Atlantic, the Commonwealth navies were taking the strain in the rest of the world. The Australians looked after the Pacific, the Indians, and South Africans in the Indian Ocean. The three battlecruisers, Hood, Repulse, and Renown were all in Singapore already and the armored carriers would be joining them there. The Free British six-inch cruisers and most of the destroyers would be heading that way as well. In contrast, Tillett had heard that the armies were coming the other way, concentrating in Canada for the invasion.
“The covering force is ours as well.” McKendrick was brightening up again. “Anson is with us but the other three new battleships are in the covering group. If there’s a surface fight, we’ll get our licks in.”
“I think you mean kicks.” Tillett was laughing to himself at the way the mercurial McKendrick had cheered up. “In the bollocks. All these new battleships want to give the fascists a good trousering after the way we had to run across the Atlantic. We can all feel it, every time we put to sea.”
“Not just the battleships. The smaller ships as well although the destroyers had the satisfaction of giving the fascist submarines a good thrashing.”
McKendrick paused for a little. “Have you noticed, Sir, how we’re all getting to speak like the Russians? It’s never ‘Germans’ or even ‘Huns’ anymore, it’s always ‘Fascists’ or ‘Hitlerites’. There’s a lot of hate building up; I don’t want to think where it could end.”
“Are you surprised, Greg? It started back in ’42 when that damned fool machine-gunned the crew of the Taney. The massacre at the Kolkhoz Pass last year just confirmed it. The Yanks have blood in their eyes and they want what they call payback. Just go to the cinema and watch their newsreels, hell, go to our cinema and watch them.” Tillett laughed. Howe had been designed with large hangars amidships for seaplanes but the catapult had been removed and replaced by an extra deck with anti-aircraft guns while the hangars had been converted into accommodation and a cinema for the crew. “The words they use are straight from the Russian vocabulary and, of course, they find their way into common usage. Even loaded words like ‘comrade’ or ‘tovarish’ are doing that and I don’t think it’s accidental by the way.”
Scouting Team, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
By a miracle, the fascists hadn't booby-trapped or blown up the underwater bridge that joined Island One to the east bank of the Onega. The bridge itself was two hundred meters long yet only ten or fifteen centimeters underwater, so shallow that even trucks would be able to cross without trouble. Captain Pakholkov and Zampolit Bessonov had slowly made their way across the bridge towards the (presumably) fascist-held island. Despite the shallow water on top of the bridge, their feet were bitterly cold from the near-freezing temperature. Winter is coming, Pakholkov thought, and with it the time to push the Hitlerites back. Once again, General Winter will come to the Rodina's aid. Then he almost yelped as something bumped into his leg. He had thought it might be a floating mine or the firing mechanism on a booby trap but it was just a large piece of ice. The Onega was slowly but surely freezing over. The underwater bridge would not be used for much longer; when the ice was fully-formed, it would be crushed.
Over on the west bank of the river, some 300 meters on the other side of Island One, Pakholkov could see the streaks of tracer as the fascist machine guns were firing short bursts across the river. The riflemen were making a demonstration there, trying to draw the Hitlerites attention away from Island One and towards a different section of the bank. They were trying to make it look as if a raid to seize prisoners was in progress. The deception appeared to be working since illumination flares were soaring into the night sky from the fascist positions. "It is time to be careful, tovarish Yevgeny. Out here on the bridge, we are exposed to enemy fire. If the fascists see us, we are finished."
Bessonov nodded. He had insisted on being part of the scouting party, one motive is to show the riflemen and artillerists that the days when the Zampolit skulked in the rear while real soldiers sacrificed their lives were truly gone. Another was that he wanted to learn as much as he could about soldiering so his advice to the officers could be as valuable as possible. Above both of those though was his personal need to show himself that he was worthy of accompanying the men around him and being considered one of their number. He and Pakholkov had to move forward, slowly and carefully despite the freezing water and dip down low under the light of every flare to avoid the catastrophe of being seen. They had just reached the shore when Pakholkov held up his hand.
"We have done well bratishka but now our troubles start. If our experience of the fascists is any guide, soon there should be a minefield. We must move more slowly now and explore the ground for any hint of mines."
Pakholkov had barely finished his warning when a barrage of flares shot up into the sky, frighteningly close to the scouting team. It forced the team of Russian scouts to go to the ground in the mud of the island bank but it also gave him a chance to look around in their light. What he saw chilled him far more than the icy water of the Onega had done. There were the coils of barbed wire as he had expected but they were behind his team, half-submerged in the waters of the river. The message was obvious; he and his men were already in the minefield planted to protect the end of the bridge from Russians trying to do exactly what the scout team was attempting right then.
"Yebat! We are already in the minefield! The river must have risen during the night. The concertina boundary wire is half-submerged. That means we can't see it and we have no chance of finding our way through the middle of it without being seen. We will have to feel our way through and hope that our felt boots, padded jackets, and pants will keep us safe from the spikes. Resign yourself, bratishka, as soon as we start to feel our way, we will make noise and alert the fascists." Pakholkov stared at the vague shapes in the darkness, trying to work out where the enemy positions were likely to be. Hmm, the ground to the right of us is a little higher than the rest although nothing on this island is more than a meter above the waterline. That's why they call it Island One. The fascists will set up there.
Pakholkov started to lead his men through the wire entanglements but the darkness, usually their friend, betrayed them by concealing the empty tin cans, containing a few stones each, that were tied up to the wire. They rattled when a light brush from one of the men set the wire moving. The sudden noise caused a burst from a machine gun to lash out from the area Pakholkov had already marked down. The bullets plowed into the ground all around them, spraying mud and freezing water into their faces. As the Russian scouts burrowed into the mud, the fascists fired whole strings of illumination flares into the sky in a brilliant cavalcade of light.
That was when the Hitlerites made a bad mistake. Two more machine guns joined in, firing long bursts of tracer bullets across the killing zone. They formed brilliant, bright red snakes that reached towards Pakholkov and his men from the enemy trench. As they buried themselves as deep in the mud as possible, Bessonov realized that a machine gun fired from a distance of 50 meters, made an evil drumming thunder that shook every last millimeter of his body. Yet, knowing what he knew about the plans for this operation, he realized that the fascists were playing into Pakholkov's plans. The red tracer streams were vividly revealing the location of the machine guns to the men waiting on the east bank. They had their 82mm mortars poised and ready to fire as soon as the enemy revealed themselves.
It seemed to take an age before the mortar rounds exploded all over the fascist position. In reality, it had been barely five minutes since the gunfire had started but being under heavy fire did things like that to a man's sense of time. The regimental mortar battery dropped almost fifty rounds on the target, switching to smoke for the last few to give cover for the inevitable infantry assault. Pakholkov gave the order to move forward and his men started to pick their way through the minefield, moving very carefully and very slowly. The points on the coils of barbed wire that threaded through the mined area slashed at the men, leaving them with bleeding hands and cut faces yet they stealthily approached the fascist position through the mud, heading towards the area where the machine gun tracers had come from. When they got there, the mortar fire had ceased but the enemy positions were silent. Bessonov followed the infantrymen as they leaped over the breastwork and quickly made sure there were no survivors from the men who had been there. Then, the scouting group started to move forward again
As they did so Pakholkov was growing steadily more concerned. Island One was as flat and as low-lying as its name suggested. If it was to be defensible, it would need higher ground than was present so that the troops holding it would have a better view of the German positions on the west bank of the Onega. Instead, the rise of the west bank concealed the fascist defenses on a reverse slope and gave them a perfect opportunity to pick off any defenses on the island at their leisure. Looking behind him, he saw that the ground lifted the same way on the eastern bank so that the island sat in a bowl. No matter whether the attack came from the east or west, Island One was indefensible. With a flash of insight, he realized that was why the Hitlerites hadn't bothered to defend it. Except for a corporal's guard who had probably done something to upset their sergeant.
"Tovarish Yevgeny, we have reached our planned location but we cannot stop here. We are out in the open and the ground is too low and too wet for us to dig in. We must take the ridgeline on the west bank before the fascists realize what is happening and reinforce it."
"Then what are you waiting for, Misha? Look!"
The bright moon and the light scattering of snow on the slopes that were shaded from the sun had combined to make night vision abnormally good. What Pakholkov could see told him that the firefight on Island One has served its purpose; it had alerted the fascists that the Russians were moving. Coming over the crest of the ridge that delineated the neck of the oxbow bend was a group of Nazi soldiers. They were an advance guard that was intended to hold the ridge until it could be reinforced properly. The fascists were gambling on the Russians’ reluctance to attack at night.
“Prepare for battle!” Pakholkov ordered. “Get through to headquarters and tell them we have to get the tank destroyers and their tank riders over here right now. Tell them that Island One is indefensible and we must take the ridge on the other side of the river if we are to hold here. The fascists are moving in already; once the tank destroyers arrive, we will cut them all down. We can’t kill them all, not in a night battle, but we can drive them back and be ready for them at dawn.
“It is strange how fortune casts her favors is it not?” Bessonov sounded reflective. “If those flares hadn’t shown us that we were in the minefield, we might still be in the minefield. And the way ahead would be firmly blocked.”
Pakholkov nodded and pointed wordlessly to the east. The ten SU-85s with their tankodesantniki clinging to the hulls were already crossing the submerged bridge on their way to Island One.
Füsilier-Battalion 214, West Bank of the Onega, Opposite Island One, Amosovskaya, Army Group Nord
"The Ivans are crossing the river!" The shout from the observation team snapped Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz out of his torpor. Winter hadn’t yet arrived, not yet, but it was coming and the bitter chill seemed to suck the energy out of those exposed to it. Doing anything required a conscious effort that had to battle a constant lethargy. It was all too easy to simply dismiss vital information because the listener was too cold and tired to realize how important it was. It had almost happened a few minutes ago when the firing had erupted on Onega Insel Eins just a few minutes earlier. It had almost been dismissed as just another patrol action until the underwater bridges crossing the Onega had been remembered and the potential threat realized. Now the threat was becoming reality.
"What? Make a proper report! Right now." Renz was furious with the lookout who had given such a meaningless warning.
"Sir. Ivan tanks, ten at least of them with infantry on their backs. They're on the bridge."
Renz cursed again. Insel Eins was just 300 meters from the west bank of the Onega and, by the time the warning had been received, the lead Ivan tank was already almost three-quarters of the way over. By the time his men had scrambled into position, it was on dry land and was swinging towards the ridge where Renz's handful of men was stationed. They had been assigned to act as a forward picket, no more than that. Everybody knew that the Russians never attacked at night, not with armor anyway, and the main blow would come at dawn. This time "Feldwebel Everybody" had been wrong. His dozen men were facing at least a company of Ivan infantry with ten tanks in support. Assault guns he corrected himself, recognizing the sleek shape of the SU-85s. That was all he saw because the muzzle flash from the 85mm gun destroyed his night vision and he knew it would be minutes before it recovered. And he and his men didn’t have minutes. Explosions from the HE shells fired by the 85mm guns were already scattered across his positions, telling him two things. One was that the Ivans knew more or less where his men were positioned. The other was that it was time to leave. The second was reinforced by a scream from his right as one of the Ivan shells bit home.
Renz's first thought was to drop back behind the crest of the ridge to get cover in the dead ground. The flat trajectory of the 85mm guns meant that even the gentle rise and low ridge would give his men enough protection to hold on. The rapid series of explosions behind him quickly convinced him that the option had gone. The Ivans were using mortars to pound that reverse slope. That left only one series of options open. "Fall back! Get back to the trees behind us."
Ahead of him, the SU-85s had unloaded their tank riders and were now following them up the slope. They were methodically firing on everything that could offer cover to the defenders. They didn’t just have their 85mm guns, they were firing machine guns from the roofs as well. Renz had read a report that the first thing SU-85 crews did when they reached the front was to find a captured MG42 and some ammunition and mount the gun on the roof of their assault guns to provide additional close-in protection. Damn the Ivans, they're shooting at my men with our own guns.
There was another ripple of mortar blasts from behind him, the lighter cracks of the 82mms being supplemented by the heavier blasts from 120mm weapons. This is a serious attack. We need to get word back. Renz took another look at the slow, remorseless advance of the Ivan force and slid backward. It was time to leave. Once over the ridge, the direct fire from the assault guns and infantry was much less of a problem. That only left the mortars and they were firing more or less at random. Renz led the way back until he and his men found a haven in the lee of a dense tree line. "Losses, Hans?"
Oberfeldwebel Hans Hofmann did a quick head-count. "Two men missing, dead for certain. Four wounded."
"Half our men." Renz sounded shocked at the brief, unexpected action. I shouldn’t be, we've been losing men like this ever since the first day of Barbarossa. All the old gang is gone and the men who replaced them. And the ones who replaced those. Every day, one or two faces go, and sometimes they are replaced. "Hans, they're not coming over the ridge. I think they are digging in along it."
Hofmann nodded in agreement. "The Ivans are learning their trade well these days. And so are the Amis."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Ten
Test Range, 5 miles South East of Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"We made up the mix, two parts of 87 octane gasoline to one part of diesel in one set of tanks and two parts of gasoline to one part of tar in the other. Both use 203-gallon paper tanks. We've got four Jugs up to do test runs. Sergeant Eiler, over there is talking to them from the radio jeep." Colonel Daniel Campbell gestured to where the ground party was sitting. "We'll do one run with one of each type and then see what happens."
"Sir, Blaze-One is about to do a run now. Target is the old barn in the middle of the field over there." Eiler listened to his radio again. "He's coming in now."
"Blaze-One is Foster. He volunteered to fly today, it’s normally his rest period." Besides Campbell, Maslov nodded. American fighter groups now had four squadrons with three on duty at any one time. The fourth squadron had a day's rest and was also the cadre in case a disaster wiped the rest of the group out. "He's got a gasoline-diesel mix."
The ground party watched as Babydoll made a low-altitude run across the target area. The tanks detached from their wing hardpoints and bobbled downwards towards the old barn. What happened next was a crushing disappointment. The two tanks hit the ground and disintegrated as they bounced upwards, spraying the gasoline/diesel mix in a wide arc. However, there was no ball of flame or explosion of fire. Just the stink of Russian gasoline evaporating. Babydoll arched away and then circled to see the results of the test. The unhappiness at the complete lack of fire was palpable.
"Well, that wasn't good." Campbell looked very unhappy. What had seemed like a good idea was dying in front of his eyes.
"Blaze-Three is making its run now," Eiler shouted the word across from his jeep.
Smooth Operator followed almost the same path as Babydoll and its tanks dropped away in the same wobbling arc downwards. The results were, if anything, even more disappointing. Once again the tanks disintegrated, spraying gasoline/tar mixture around but the area covered seemed to be less and there was still no explosion of smoke and flame. Maslov shook his head, it seemed as if the explosions reported by the Thunderbolt pilots when they dropped their auxiliary tanks were just flukes.
"You know the problem." Campbell was very thoughtful, "There's no ignition source there. I bet when the tanks did explode, there was a fire or another ignition source on the ground. Perhaps tracer fire or something. Tracer fire. Now there's a thought. Eiler, are the Jugs carrying ammunition for their fifties?"
"Yes, Sir. A full load of API. We put it on board in case fascist fighters turned up."
"Good. Tell Blaze-Two to make its run and Blaze-One to follow it and strafe the area the tanks land in."
"Very good, Sir." Eiler paused. "Ahhh, got you. Right."
This time it was the first pair of Thunderbolts that made the run. Slick Chick dropped her tanks in almost the same place as Babydoll had done a few minutes earlier. Following a hundred yards or so behind her, Babydoll unleashed sleet of fire from its eight .50 machine guns. The stream of red tracers lashed across the area being soaked by the contents of the disintegrating paper tanks, sending a ball of exploding fire upwards. It lasted a few seconds and then died away.
"Better." Maslov sounded a touch more cheerful although cheerfulness was not usually a Chekist trait. "It burned."
"Not well enough." Campbell shook his head. "It flashed off too quickly. Take a look at the target, it's singed and the outside is charred but that's all. I'd bet the strafing with API did more damage than the gasoline-diesel mix. Let's see how the gasoline-tar mix does. Eiler, set up the last run please."
The fourth and last pass was almost a repeat of the one before it, Blaze-Four Marybelle dropped her tanks on the target, and Smooth Operator strafed them. The fireball was noticeably smaller than the gasoline-diesel mix although to Campbell's eye it seemed to last a bit longer. The barn was still standing though, albeit looking a bit rocky.
"Not good enough." His verdict was regretted but inevitable. "We'd have done a lot more damage with rockets and bombs. Ah, well. It was worth trying."
He and Maslov got into their jeep and headed back for the base. Behind them Eiler was sitting at the wheel of his, staring at the charred area of grass and wondering what had gone wrong.
U-Boat Pens, F. Krupp Germaniawerft AG, Kiel
“We have the data back from the target range.” Korvettenkapitan Georg Schewe had a cynical grin on his face. “They found where the wretched thing landed and translated the position to a map of New York assuming the Empire State Building was the aiming point. Which it will be.”
“So, where did our Kirschkern land?” Fehler was both curious and had a presentiment that he probably didn’t want to know the answer.
“Well, there is good news and bad news. The good news is, that you would have hit New York, the bad news is the State, not the city. Your Kirschkern would have hit a place called White Plains, some thirty kilometers north of the center of New York. It took us a bit of time to find it, but that’s where it would have landed. If it’s any consolation, there’s a small airport there and your Kirschkern probably did it no good at all.”
“We overshot by thirty kilometers!” Fehler was appalled.
“No. You were firing due east remember. Your Kirschkern was very accurate on the range. The fuel feed to the engine cut off within a kilometer of the specified 160-kilometer range and the glide afterward was exactly as planned. It was bearing that went badly wrong. Your missile went almost ten degrees off course at launch and things got worse from there. The radar track from shore shows the thing was flying in a curve that took it further and further off course.”
“That sounds like a progressive fault with the autopilot. As if it corrected then its sensors didn’t detect the resulting change in the course so it made another. Each took it further off-course.”
“Or a baseline error in the system.” Schewe read the launch report carefully. “Your report says that the sea state at the time of launch was rough. Your boat was rolling and pitching?”
Fehler thought for a second to make sure his memory was accurate. “Yes, we were pitching moderately and rolling to the same extent. The hangar makes the roll worse of course.”
“Pitch will not affect the Kirschkern; it is designed to correct for that. But the catapult is angled upwards. If the submarine rolled as the missile was launched, the catapult would be angled to one side and the missile would be launched with a slight bank. Is that not correct?”
Fehler thought, again very carefully. “A slight bank, yes. But, if the autopilot assumed that its wings were level . . .”
“Which they would be if the Kirschkern had been fired from a land-based catapult.”
“Then the autopilot would detect the drift in the course due to that slight bank and apply a correction – but because of the faulty initial reading that would make the deviance worse, not better.”
“So, it would apply another correction and make the situation worse.” Schewe wrote a note on the report suggesting what might have happened. “I will send this to Fiesler and ask them to investigate further.”
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"Otto, a change in orders has come in."
Carius was concluding that the radio was the worst invention in human history. He couldn't even commune with nature without the wretched things imposing on his tranquility. "Hold it, Rudi. I'll be over in a minute."
As promised, he appeared from the edge of the clearing a minute or two later, finishing the adjustment of his field gray overalls as he did so. "What is happening, Rudi?"
"The offensive at Korelskoye is off. The Ivans have launched an attack up at Amosovskaya and crossed the Onega there. The last report is that they have formed a bridgehead on the west bank. If they push south two kilometers or so, they'll be in a position to roll up our defenses there."
"Hmm," Carius grunted with all the force at his command. "So far no bad thing. The bridges at Korelskoye are barely capable of taking our weight. If we'd crossed the river there, we might not have been able to get back. We'd have to abandon some more vehicles."
It was Kern's chance to grunt. He knew all too well that the Jagdtiger units abandoned far more vehicles due to mechanical breakdown, running out of fuel, or simply not being able to cross bridges than were ever destroyed by enemy action. He wasn't certain if one of the huge Jagdtigers had ever been destroyed by the Ivans or the Amis. He knew of a lot though that had been abandoned and blown up. "The powers that be are intent on us counter-attacking the bridgehead and reducing it. They want the Ivans back across the river."
"Do they now?" Carius was thoughtful as he studied the map spread out on the hull of his Jagdtiger. "We can't get across; there's no bridge there. How did the Ivans manage it?"
"There is an underwater bridge but the Ivans captured it and used that to cross They have a company of SU-85s and the best part of a battalion of infantry in this headland here. According to the infantry, they've dug in across the neck and are holding it. These Ivans fight a different way from before. Instead of plunging ahead, now they seize a little ground and dig in to hold it."
"Clever. I wonder who taught them that."
"I think we did, Otto. The Ivans hold this island in the middle of the river as well. And they have their divisional artillery on the east bank ridge covering the attack."
"This is a job for assault guns, not us. Even if we drive them back, we cannot cross the river. What are the Ivans up to? If they were setting up for the winter, they would be content to remain behind the Onega."
"I think we got the job because we're here, Otto. I know the Amis bombed the bridges we were supposed to have used a day or so ago. They're still up, but I think it was a nasty dose of reality for the top." There was a long silence as they stared at the map. Most of the German front-line troops were convinced that the senior command had no idea of what it was like trying to fight under the paralyzing weight of American airpower. Reconnaissance aircraft that came back, those that did come back, reported that airfields on the eastern bank of the Onega grew more common every day. Now, it was impossible to fly over there without seeing six or more sets of the concrete runways that distinguished the bases used by Americans. Once winter came, those bases would remain operational even when snow closed everything else. It did not auger well.
"We have three anti-aircraft guns left, Rudi?"
"Two 3.7cms and one quad-two. There's no doubt about it, Otto. The Amis are targeting our flak guns. We haven't seen the jabos with the big gun in the nose again though."
"Not yet. Give it a month, there will be hundreds of them. Rudi, what is the moon tonight?"
"New moon, Otto. I'm afraid we are likely to have visitors tonight."
"Damn it." Carius looked up at the sky that was already beginning to darken. The days were short up near the White Sea and when the sun went down, the Night Witches started operations. And that was enough to scare anybody. "All right, we had better get moving. Staying in one place too long is foolish."
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy NCF-21 At Sea, Passing The Ammen Rock, Off Portland, Maine
Young felt the wind changing as the convoy changed heading from north to northeast to southeast. When dusk had come, the convoy had picked up speed and was now holding steady at twenty knots. That alone was judged sufficient to make the task of an attacking submarine almost impossibly difficult but to make sure, the convoy was routed inshore, making it over relatively shallow water. Off Amman Shoals, the water was around 400 feet deep, making this the riskiest part of the run to Churchill in Nova Scotia. All the ships were blacked out completely and even the full moon made them invisible to the eye. That meant they could still be seen on the radar though. If a hunting U-boat dared to use its radar set this close to the American shore, it wouldn’t live long enough to do any damage. That was what all the merchant ship crews had been told anyway. That the aircraft covering them in relays had radar receivers tuned to fascist frequencies so they could get a warning of any attempt to use radar and then home in on the sources.
The faith that the seamen had in that information could be seen on the upper decks of the Shawnee, particularly around the bows. The experienced seamen had all abjured their quarters below in favor of sleeping above. Everybody who had sailed on a convoy knew that when a tanker was torpedoed, she would burn and go down fast. Being above decks when the torpedo hit could easily make the difference between being trapped below when she went down and getting off the sinking ship. Being forward could easily be the difference between abandoning a ship into the water, perhaps even with the luxury of a life-raft, and doing so into a mass of burning oil where a raft would make little difference. On an Avgas tanker, of course, it made little difference. When they were torpedoed, they just blew up.
“Hi Dougie, how are you doing?”
“Steve! Doing fine I guess. Learning how to stand watches and as soon as we leave Churchill, I learn how to handle a 20mm gun.”
Young laughed at that, “Quad 40mm Bofors here. I get the feeling everybody on the ship is learning to handle the guns. Who’s teaching you the watch?”
“The Chief Mate. Mr. Ericsson.”
“You’re lucky, or somebody put in a good word for you. Bit of a privilege being instructed by the Chief Mate although it may not seem like it right now. I guess he’s put you on the lookout?”
“Yeah, he said he wanted a reliable man there.” Young’s comment made Perry smile. The lookout was a navigation watch position that let the Chief Mate gauge the worth of a man for himself. No sensible Chief Mate took the advice of another man where his apprentices were concerned. “What you doing, Steve?”
“Pumpman, as promised.” That made Perry smile; pump men were the best-paid unlicensed engineering men on the ship. The union rate was $4,000 a year and the Shawnee was double-Union. “I’m learning all about the pipelines right now. I never guessed it was complicated down there. At the moment, they’re making me make sure no sludge is accumulating in any of the pipelines and cleaning them out when it starts to build up. The Chief down there tells me it’s so I’ll know the system properly when we have to repair battle damage in the pipeline system.”
His voice faded away as he realized the significance of the ‘when’ rather than the more tactful ‘if’. Young looked grim, he hadn’t missed the significance either. Another realization dawned just a moment later; he was on deck crew and if there was an attack, he would be part of the crew on the 20mm gun forward of the superstructure. Perry would be down in the machinery spaces, well below deck and far aft. His chances of escaping a sinking tanker were far lower.
“How’s your wife doing?” Perry was changing the subject to a happier one. “Everything going well? How’s the kid coming along?”
“Sure is doing well, both of them. We went to the baby doctor the day before we left. He says the baby is doing fine and Darlene’s as healthy as a horse. Did you know, that pregnant women get a special extra milk ration? Dar got the coupons for her extra milk that same day.”
“I hear that one day, the docs will know what the baby is going to be long before its due. Take all the fun out of starting a family that will.”
“It’ll upset the paint companies, that’s for sure. They make a fortune out of parents who paint the baby’s room blue and had to change it to pink. Or the other way around. .”
Both men burst out laughing. On any other ship, they would have lit up cigarettes and shared a friendly smoke. But, Shawnee was a tanker, and smoking was forbidden. Instead, Young looked out to sea, marking how indistinct the horizon was in the gloom. Overhead, he could hear the continuous drone of their escorting aircraft sanitizing the sea around them. He suddenly wondered if the view landwards had the same sharp distinction between sea and sky.
A few feet’s walk took him to the other side of the superstructure where he could see land. To his surprise, he could make out the skyline of the coast of Maine in the distance. Then he saw something else, something that made him run to the bridge. “Mr. Ericsson, there’s a light on the shore.”
A light onshore was a serious thing that could get a careless homeowner accused of helping the Nazis. That was a deadly charge in a seafaring community that had seen so many men lost when their ships were silhouetted against the bright lights of coastal towns. Ericsson took his heavy binoculars and went to the port bridge wing. “Where, Dougie?”
“Just over there." Young pointed at the faint white light on the shore. "Almost directly abeam."
There was a long pause. “Got it. Probably a townie being careless but we’ll report it in. Be another fifty dollars for the war effort.”
Breaking the blackout was a Federal offense and the guilty landsman would be getting a visit from the FBI very soon and a stiff fine shortly after that. The message went to one of the aircraft circling overhead, from there to Naval Air Station Brunswick. They would alert the local FBI office which would send a pair of agents out to investigate. Onboard the Shawnee, the Captain looked at his Chief Mate and nodded. “Sharp eyes that kid.”
“Sure has, Cap’n. And a good head behind them. I’ll try him on the helm as soon as we’re out of Ha . . . out of Churchill. More cross-trained men we have the better.”
Test Range, 5 miles South East of Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
"We made up the mix, two parts of 87 octane gasoline to one part of diesel in one set of tanks and two parts of gasoline to one part of tar in the other. Both use 203-gallon paper tanks. We've got four Jugs up to do test runs. Sergeant Eiler, over there is talking to them from the radio jeep." Colonel Daniel Campbell gestured to where the ground party was sitting. "We'll do one run with one of each type and then see what happens."
"Sir, Blaze-One is about to do a run now. Target is the old barn in the middle of the field over there." Eiler listened to his radio again. "He's coming in now."
"Blaze-One is Foster. He volunteered to fly today, it’s normally his rest period." Besides Campbell, Maslov nodded. American fighter groups now had four squadrons with three on duty at any one time. The fourth squadron had a day's rest and was also the cadre in case a disaster wiped the rest of the group out. "He's got a gasoline-diesel mix."
The ground party watched as Babydoll made a low-altitude run across the target area. The tanks detached from their wing hardpoints and bobbled downwards towards the old barn. What happened next was a crushing disappointment. The two tanks hit the ground and disintegrated as they bounced upwards, spraying the gasoline/diesel mix in a wide arc. However, there was no ball of flame or explosion of fire. Just the stink of Russian gasoline evaporating. Babydoll arched away and then circled to see the results of the test. The unhappiness at the complete lack of fire was palpable.
"Well, that wasn't good." Campbell looked very unhappy. What had seemed like a good idea was dying in front of his eyes.
"Blaze-Three is making its run now," Eiler shouted the word across from his jeep.
Smooth Operator followed almost the same path as Babydoll and its tanks dropped away in the same wobbling arc downwards. The results were, if anything, even more disappointing. Once again the tanks disintegrated, spraying gasoline/tar mixture around but the area covered seemed to be less and there was still no explosion of smoke and flame. Maslov shook his head, it seemed as if the explosions reported by the Thunderbolt pilots when they dropped their auxiliary tanks were just flukes.
"You know the problem." Campbell was very thoughtful, "There's no ignition source there. I bet when the tanks did explode, there was a fire or another ignition source on the ground. Perhaps tracer fire or something. Tracer fire. Now there's a thought. Eiler, are the Jugs carrying ammunition for their fifties?"
"Yes, Sir. A full load of API. We put it on board in case fascist fighters turned up."
"Good. Tell Blaze-Two to make its run and Blaze-One to follow it and strafe the area the tanks land in."
"Very good, Sir." Eiler paused. "Ahhh, got you. Right."
This time it was the first pair of Thunderbolts that made the run. Slick Chick dropped her tanks in almost the same place as Babydoll had done a few minutes earlier. Following a hundred yards or so behind her, Babydoll unleashed sleet of fire from its eight .50 machine guns. The stream of red tracers lashed across the area being soaked by the contents of the disintegrating paper tanks, sending a ball of exploding fire upwards. It lasted a few seconds and then died away.
"Better." Maslov sounded a touch more cheerful although cheerfulness was not usually a Chekist trait. "It burned."
"Not well enough." Campbell shook his head. "It flashed off too quickly. Take a look at the target, it's singed and the outside is charred but that's all. I'd bet the strafing with API did more damage than the gasoline-diesel mix. Let's see how the gasoline-tar mix does. Eiler, set up the last run please."
The fourth and last pass was almost a repeat of the one before it, Blaze-Four Marybelle dropped her tanks on the target, and Smooth Operator strafed them. The fireball was noticeably smaller than the gasoline-diesel mix although to Campbell's eye it seemed to last a bit longer. The barn was still standing though, albeit looking a bit rocky.
"Not good enough." His verdict was regretted but inevitable. "We'd have done a lot more damage with rockets and bombs. Ah, well. It was worth trying."
He and Maslov got into their jeep and headed back for the base. Behind them Eiler was sitting at the wheel of his, staring at the charred area of grass and wondering what had gone wrong.
U-Boat Pens, F. Krupp Germaniawerft AG, Kiel
“We have the data back from the target range.” Korvettenkapitan Georg Schewe had a cynical grin on his face. “They found where the wretched thing landed and translated the position to a map of New York assuming the Empire State Building was the aiming point. Which it will be.”
“So, where did our Kirschkern land?” Fehler was both curious and had a presentiment that he probably didn’t want to know the answer.
“Well, there is good news and bad news. The good news is, that you would have hit New York, the bad news is the State, not the city. Your Kirschkern would have hit a place called White Plains, some thirty kilometers north of the center of New York. It took us a bit of time to find it, but that’s where it would have landed. If it’s any consolation, there’s a small airport there and your Kirschkern probably did it no good at all.”
“We overshot by thirty kilometers!” Fehler was appalled.
“No. You were firing due east remember. Your Kirschkern was very accurate on the range. The fuel feed to the engine cut off within a kilometer of the specified 160-kilometer range and the glide afterward was exactly as planned. It was bearing that went badly wrong. Your missile went almost ten degrees off course at launch and things got worse from there. The radar track from shore shows the thing was flying in a curve that took it further and further off course.”
“That sounds like a progressive fault with the autopilot. As if it corrected then its sensors didn’t detect the resulting change in the course so it made another. Each took it further off-course.”
“Or a baseline error in the system.” Schewe read the launch report carefully. “Your report says that the sea state at the time of launch was rough. Your boat was rolling and pitching?”
Fehler thought for a second to make sure his memory was accurate. “Yes, we were pitching moderately and rolling to the same extent. The hangar makes the roll worse of course.”
“Pitch will not affect the Kirschkern; it is designed to correct for that. But the catapult is angled upwards. If the submarine rolled as the missile was launched, the catapult would be angled to one side and the missile would be launched with a slight bank. Is that not correct?”
Fehler thought, again very carefully. “A slight bank, yes. But, if the autopilot assumed that its wings were level . . .”
“Which they would be if the Kirschkern had been fired from a land-based catapult.”
“Then the autopilot would detect the drift in the course due to that slight bank and apply a correction – but because of the faulty initial reading that would make the deviance worse, not better.”
“So, it would apply another correction and make the situation worse.” Schewe wrote a note on the report suggesting what might have happened. “I will send this to Fiesler and ask them to investigate further.”
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"Otto, a change in orders has come in."
Carius was concluding that the radio was the worst invention in human history. He couldn't even commune with nature without the wretched things imposing on his tranquility. "Hold it, Rudi. I'll be over in a minute."
As promised, he appeared from the edge of the clearing a minute or two later, finishing the adjustment of his field gray overalls as he did so. "What is happening, Rudi?"
"The offensive at Korelskoye is off. The Ivans have launched an attack up at Amosovskaya and crossed the Onega there. The last report is that they have formed a bridgehead on the west bank. If they push south two kilometers or so, they'll be in a position to roll up our defenses there."
"Hmm," Carius grunted with all the force at his command. "So far no bad thing. The bridges at Korelskoye are barely capable of taking our weight. If we'd crossed the river there, we might not have been able to get back. We'd have to abandon some more vehicles."
It was Kern's chance to grunt. He knew all too well that the Jagdtiger units abandoned far more vehicles due to mechanical breakdown, running out of fuel, or simply not being able to cross bridges than were ever destroyed by enemy action. He wasn't certain if one of the huge Jagdtigers had ever been destroyed by the Ivans or the Amis. He knew of a lot though that had been abandoned and blown up. "The powers that be are intent on us counter-attacking the bridgehead and reducing it. They want the Ivans back across the river."
"Do they now?" Carius was thoughtful as he studied the map spread out on the hull of his Jagdtiger. "We can't get across; there's no bridge there. How did the Ivans manage it?"
"There is an underwater bridge but the Ivans captured it and used that to cross They have a company of SU-85s and the best part of a battalion of infantry in this headland here. According to the infantry, they've dug in across the neck and are holding it. These Ivans fight a different way from before. Instead of plunging ahead, now they seize a little ground and dig in to hold it."
"Clever. I wonder who taught them that."
"I think we did, Otto. The Ivans hold this island in the middle of the river as well. And they have their divisional artillery on the east bank ridge covering the attack."
"This is a job for assault guns, not us. Even if we drive them back, we cannot cross the river. What are the Ivans up to? If they were setting up for the winter, they would be content to remain behind the Onega."
"I think we got the job because we're here, Otto. I know the Amis bombed the bridges we were supposed to have used a day or so ago. They're still up, but I think it was a nasty dose of reality for the top." There was a long silence as they stared at the map. Most of the German front-line troops were convinced that the senior command had no idea of what it was like trying to fight under the paralyzing weight of American airpower. Reconnaissance aircraft that came back, those that did come back, reported that airfields on the eastern bank of the Onega grew more common every day. Now, it was impossible to fly over there without seeing six or more sets of the concrete runways that distinguished the bases used by Americans. Once winter came, those bases would remain operational even when snow closed everything else. It did not auger well.
"We have three anti-aircraft guns left, Rudi?"
"Two 3.7cms and one quad-two. There's no doubt about it, Otto. The Amis are targeting our flak guns. We haven't seen the jabos with the big gun in the nose again though."
"Not yet. Give it a month, there will be hundreds of them. Rudi, what is the moon tonight?"
"New moon, Otto. I'm afraid we are likely to have visitors tonight."
"Damn it." Carius looked up at the sky that was already beginning to darken. The days were short up near the White Sea and when the sun went down, the Night Witches started operations. And that was enough to scare anybody. "All right, we had better get moving. Staying in one place too long is foolish."
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy NCF-21 At Sea, Passing The Ammen Rock, Off Portland, Maine
Young felt the wind changing as the convoy changed heading from north to northeast to southeast. When dusk had come, the convoy had picked up speed and was now holding steady at twenty knots. That alone was judged sufficient to make the task of an attacking submarine almost impossibly difficult but to make sure, the convoy was routed inshore, making it over relatively shallow water. Off Amman Shoals, the water was around 400 feet deep, making this the riskiest part of the run to Churchill in Nova Scotia. All the ships were blacked out completely and even the full moon made them invisible to the eye. That meant they could still be seen on the radar though. If a hunting U-boat dared to use its radar set this close to the American shore, it wouldn’t live long enough to do any damage. That was what all the merchant ship crews had been told anyway. That the aircraft covering them in relays had radar receivers tuned to fascist frequencies so they could get a warning of any attempt to use radar and then home in on the sources.
The faith that the seamen had in that information could be seen on the upper decks of the Shawnee, particularly around the bows. The experienced seamen had all abjured their quarters below in favor of sleeping above. Everybody who had sailed on a convoy knew that when a tanker was torpedoed, she would burn and go down fast. Being above decks when the torpedo hit could easily make the difference between being trapped below when she went down and getting off the sinking ship. Being forward could easily be the difference between abandoning a ship into the water, perhaps even with the luxury of a life-raft, and doing so into a mass of burning oil where a raft would make little difference. On an Avgas tanker, of course, it made little difference. When they were torpedoed, they just blew up.
“Hi Dougie, how are you doing?”
“Steve! Doing fine I guess. Learning how to stand watches and as soon as we leave Churchill, I learn how to handle a 20mm gun.”
Young laughed at that, “Quad 40mm Bofors here. I get the feeling everybody on the ship is learning to handle the guns. Who’s teaching you the watch?”
“The Chief Mate. Mr. Ericsson.”
“You’re lucky, or somebody put in a good word for you. Bit of a privilege being instructed by the Chief Mate although it may not seem like it right now. I guess he’s put you on the lookout?”
“Yeah, he said he wanted a reliable man there.” Young’s comment made Perry smile. The lookout was a navigation watch position that let the Chief Mate gauge the worth of a man for himself. No sensible Chief Mate took the advice of another man where his apprentices were concerned. “What you doing, Steve?”
“Pumpman, as promised.” That made Perry smile; pump men were the best-paid unlicensed engineering men on the ship. The union rate was $4,000 a year and the Shawnee was double-Union. “I’m learning all about the pipelines right now. I never guessed it was complicated down there. At the moment, they’re making me make sure no sludge is accumulating in any of the pipelines and cleaning them out when it starts to build up. The Chief down there tells me it’s so I’ll know the system properly when we have to repair battle damage in the pipeline system.”
His voice faded away as he realized the significance of the ‘when’ rather than the more tactful ‘if’. Young looked grim, he hadn’t missed the significance either. Another realization dawned just a moment later; he was on deck crew and if there was an attack, he would be part of the crew on the 20mm gun forward of the superstructure. Perry would be down in the machinery spaces, well below deck and far aft. His chances of escaping a sinking tanker were far lower.
“How’s your wife doing?” Perry was changing the subject to a happier one. “Everything going well? How’s the kid coming along?”
“Sure is doing well, both of them. We went to the baby doctor the day before we left. He says the baby is doing fine and Darlene’s as healthy as a horse. Did you know, that pregnant women get a special extra milk ration? Dar got the coupons for her extra milk that same day.”
“I hear that one day, the docs will know what the baby is going to be long before its due. Take all the fun out of starting a family that will.”
“It’ll upset the paint companies, that’s for sure. They make a fortune out of parents who paint the baby’s room blue and had to change it to pink. Or the other way around. .”
Both men burst out laughing. On any other ship, they would have lit up cigarettes and shared a friendly smoke. But, Shawnee was a tanker, and smoking was forbidden. Instead, Young looked out to sea, marking how indistinct the horizon was in the gloom. Overhead, he could hear the continuous drone of their escorting aircraft sanitizing the sea around them. He suddenly wondered if the view landwards had the same sharp distinction between sea and sky.
A few feet’s walk took him to the other side of the superstructure where he could see land. To his surprise, he could make out the skyline of the coast of Maine in the distance. Then he saw something else, something that made him run to the bridge. “Mr. Ericsson, there’s a light on the shore.”
A light onshore was a serious thing that could get a careless homeowner accused of helping the Nazis. That was a deadly charge in a seafaring community that had seen so many men lost when their ships were silhouetted against the bright lights of coastal towns. Ericsson took his heavy binoculars and went to the port bridge wing. “Where, Dougie?”
“Just over there." Young pointed at the faint white light on the shore. "Almost directly abeam."
There was a long pause. “Got it. Probably a townie being careless but we’ll report it in. Be another fifty dollars for the war effort.”
Breaking the blackout was a Federal offense and the guilty landsman would be getting a visit from the FBI very soon and a stiff fine shortly after that. The message went to one of the aircraft circling overhead, from there to Naval Air Station Brunswick. They would alert the local FBI office which would send a pair of agents out to investigate. Onboard the Shawnee, the Captain looked at his Chief Mate and nodded. “Sharp eyes that kid.”
“Sure has, Cap’n. And a good head behind them. I’ll try him on the helm as soon as we’re out of Ha . . . out of Churchill. More cross-trained men we have the better.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Eleven
A-26B “Ubeyte Zakhvatchikov”, 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment, Airfield 089, Talagi.
"They have fixed the problem with the canopy, sestri." Captain Nadezhda “Nadia” Vasil'yevna Popova looked around her new aircraft with great satisfaction. "When the war is over, I think I will marry tovarish Douglas."
After a year of flying the A-20G Havoc on night intruder missions, the 588th Night Bomber Regiment had been re-equipped with its replacement, the A-26B Intruder. Along with the new aircraft, the Regiment now had a new title, the 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment. Just as when their old Po-2 biplanes had been replaced by the A-20, the new aircraft had been viewed with suspicion by the women who would fly them in action. Only, this time, they had solid grounds for their doubts. The seats had been too big and too low, restricting the vision out of the cockpit. The reason was simple, the A-26B was designed to be flown by men, not Russian women. That was a problem that had been experienced before and a simple fix existed for it. The other problem was much more serious. The powerful engines that gave the A-26 its sparkling performance completely blocked the view down and to the sides. For an aircraft that would be flown low down at night that had been a crippling disadvantage that speed and firepower could not offset.
So, the 46th Guards had continued to fly their old A-20s while the problem was fixed. One day, a group of C-54 transports had arrived with boxes of equipment, teams of ground maintenance men, and crates of power tools. "A present from Mr. Douglas", one of the Americans had joked. Then they had got to work on the A-26s. The old cockpit canopy had been removed and the seats lifted out. Something called "risers" had been fitted to the seat rails and then the pilot and copilot's seats had been replaced. Now, the pilot's head was almost half a meter higher than it had been. Then, the boxes were opened and a new cockpit canopy had been installed. It was bulged upwards at the top and outwards at the sides, giving both crew members on the flight deck greatly improved vision. In Nadia Vasil'yevna's opinion, it looked better as well and the absence of heavy framing further improved vision. The new cockpit opened like a clamshell making getting in and out much easier, something that was important for crews who might have to bail out at low altitudes.
Lieutenant Evgeniya Maksimovna Rudneva looked over her station with pride. She had already decided that the Americans must love navigators but this was something much more. She was on the flight deck, her seat beside that of the pilot with the navigating table and another jump-seat behind her. Now she could see properly and coordinate with her pilot was much easier. Some of the A-26s delivered to American units had glazed noses fitted with a bombardier's station, other American aircraft had a solid nose with eight .50 caliber machine guns. The Russians had decided against both fits and selected a third option offered by Douglas. Their A-26s had two Nudelman-Suranov NS-37 37mm guns in the lower part of the nose and four American .50 machine guns above them. There were six more .50s in the wings and the bomb bay and underwing racks could hold up to 6,000 pounds of bombs and rockets. The A-26 was a much more formidable aircraft than even the A-20 had been.
"Are you ready in the back, Natya?" Nadia Vasil'yevna called to the third member of the crew, Sergeant Natalia Nikitichna Peshkova stationed in the rear compartment. It was a lonely position since she couldn't come forward to join the rest of the crew until the bomb bay was empty. Her role though was vital. Not only did she operate the two remote-controlled twins .50 gun turrets that defended the rear of the aircraft but she had to operate the radar warning receiver that gave them warning of any night fighters that might be hunting them. Given warning, an A-26 could outrun even the fastest fascist night-fighter.
"All systems are operational." Nadia had a problem not laughing at the reply. Natalia Nikitichna had been to the electronics school and had lessons in how to use the equipment in her compartment from an American instructor. Her language reflected that training. Before that, she had been a medic in a tank unit but had been transferred after receiving serious wounds including a bullet through her neck that had left her voice hoarse. She had been highly decorated as well, receiving the golden star of a Hero of the Soviet Union, something the other women in the 46th Guards had only found out by accident. It had taken a direct order from the Regimental commander to make her wear it on her uniform for she had felt that the decoration was undeserved. In her eyes, she had done nothing that her fellow medical orderlies had not done many times before. Of all the parts of the Russian Army, the medical orderlies suffered casualties second only to the front-line infantry.
"We are cleared for take-off. Engines to maximum power." The A-26 started to vibrate as the R-2800 engines picked up, the sound changed from rough coughing to a smooth roar that made the whole aircraft vibrate. Nadia released the brakes and felt her Ubeyte Zakhvatchik surge forward. The take-off run was much shorter than the A-20 she was used to despite the A-26 being a larger and heavier aircraft. She felt the thumps as the undercarriage retracted, then she swung the nose westwards where targets were waiting. "Take us to the fascists, tovarish Evgeniya. We have work to do this night."
Evgeniya Maksimovna nodded at the traditional start to an intruder mission and shifted to her navigator's position. "Set course for two-eight-three. That'll take us to Porog, then we follow the railway line west as far as we can. We must watch especially for Hitlerites moving from Medvedevskaya. If we sight any, we are to engage them and also report their presence."
Nadia Vasil'yevna acknowledged the reminder. She had been at the pre-flight briefing of course, but experience had shown that it never hurt to keep repeating the objectives. Flying low and fast at night too often meant that a crew would focus on the task at hand and forget their primary targets. "Speed, 450 kilometers, altitude 300 meters."
"We should be at Porog in 16 minutes." Evgeniya Maksimovna had the maps and weather reports spread out. "Clear sky, full moon. Good night for us. Crossing the Dvina now."
It would have been hard to see the distinction between the river and the surrounding land without moonlight reflecting off the water. It is hard to decide whether we are on land or the river even while standing down there. When she had first arrived on the Arhangel’sk front, Nadia Vasil'yevna knew had found that the Dvina, like the Onega, was a complex maze of rivers rather than a single waterway. The ground here was flat, the slope very gentle so the water had little force behind it. Instead of flowing to the sea, the river meandered across the countryside, splitting and rejoining as it trickled down to the White Sea. On the way, it deposited all the mud it was carrying to form a rich belt of fertile land. If only the days were longer and the sun shone more strongly, the Rodina could grow much food up here. And yet the same deep, fertile plains make the Rasputitsa even more fierce here than it is to the south. Here, the ground remains frozen deep down and this blocks drainage. When the Rasputitsa strikes, the ground turns to soup for many meters down. The unwary may sink without trace and never be found.
As her eyes accommodated to the darkness, Nadia Vasil'yevna started to see the different patterns on the ground; the dark broken mass of the forests, the smooth patterns of farmland, and the sinister uniformity of the marshes. Soon, all that detail would be lost amid the white of the snow. There were patches down there, ones that on this moonlit shone shine silver. On nights where the state of the moon or thick clouds meant the absence of moonlight, they were black and treacherous.
"Onega coming up." Evgeniya Maksimovna gave the warning. In the back compartment, Natalia Nikitichna scanned her instruments, watching for any sign of fascist radar transmissions.
"There is fighting down there. I hear that our bratishka on the ground have crossed the river and given the fascists a heroic beating." Nadia Vasil'yevna could see the red lines of machinegun tracers on the ground. It was tempting to dip down and strafe the enemy but where were they? What seems clear from up here may be very misleading on the ground. Our comrades could be behind enemy lines and encircling the fascists or be trapped by them. Strafing without being very sure could aid the enemy. On the ground, a massive flash of red followed by a line streaking across the darkened ground spoke of a high-velocity gun being fired. A tank or a tank destroyer? A towed anti-tank gun perhaps? The shot had ended in darkness, not an explosion or a ricochet so whoever was the target had probably escaped. “Keep a watch out, Sestri, those on the ground must know we are up here somewhere.
“Targets on the ground, ahead. On the road out of Medvedevskaya. We were told to watch for these.” Evgeniya Maksimovna had the sharpest eyes of the three crewmembers and had seen the dim square shapes on the fascist-held road that told of a convoy on the move.
“Time to earn our pay, Sestri. Call the sighting in Natya. The Hitlerites are on the move to attack our bratya on the ground.” There was a standard routine for this kind of attack and switching from the A-20 to the A-26 hadn’t changed much. Nadia Vasil'yevna reached down and throttled the two R-2800 engines back so that they were barely whispering. At the same time, she pushed the nose of the A-26 down into a shallow dive. The new aircraft wasn’t just heavier than her old A-20, it was more streamlined and had a low-drag wing as well and reduced drag meant it picked up extra speed in its dive. Despite the engines idling, her aircraft was picking up speed. That saved her crew.
“Radar! Radar! We have enemy radar on the ground! Three sets! Chert voz'mi!” Natalia Nikitichna screamed the warning out, her damaged voice cracking as she did so. She swallowed a couple of times and followed it up with more details. “Flak, they’re gun control radars. Get us out of here!”
A split second before the warning, the only apparent noise in the cockpit had been the whistle of the wind over the airframe. In response to the screamed alert, Nadia had rammed the throttles of her engines forward and heard the two R-2800s roar back into life just as the Hitlerite gunners below opened fire in a deadly flak trap. Their tracers arched upwards, converging just behind the dark brown A-26. The few miles per hour of extra speed resulting from more weight and less drag had made a tiny but crucial difference. The multi-colored tracers streaked past them, seemingly terrifyingly close but always missing, just. Well, perhaps not always. Those deep thrumming noises are 20mm shells hitting the structure. It is fortunate for us that our Amerikanskiye brat'ya builds their aircraft out of armor plate. This is the kind of ambush that has killed so many of our sisters when we were still flying the old Kukuruznik.
There were at least four quadruple 20mm guns firing on them, the streams of tracer tearing up the sky. That worked both ways of course; they were making it difficult for the A-26 crew to concentrate on their attack but they also highlighted the position of the anti-aircraft guns. Nadia Vasil'yevna now knew where the four guns were placed but also that, this night, the gunners on the ground knew their trade. They had guessed which angle the Night Witch would come in from and had arranged the guns so that not one of them was even close to being directly in front of the attack aircraft. She knew that if she pulled her nose around to engage one, it would slow her aircraft down and possibly even cause it to stall into the ground. In the kill-zone of a flak ambush, there was only one sane cause of action, to get out of there as quickly as possible. That thought was emphasized by another deep thrum noise as her aircraft was hit again.
Duty remained; the road and the dark shapes on it, were still in front of her. The A-26 was still picking up speed and was drawing ahead of the fascist anti-aircraft fire coning in on it but the situation was still critical. Nadia Vasil'yevna was unwilling to fire her guns since the recoil of the NS-37s in particular would slow her aircraft down too much. Our rockets, though, that is a different matter. Firing our RS-132s will both hurt the target and also increase our speed. As she had thought the thought, she had selected the three rockets under each wing and let them fly. They streaked through the darkness in pairs, each pair a split second behind the one in front. Their impact points walked across the target area but there were no secondary explosions from the targets on the road. Just the shadows of wood and canvas being thrown skywards. The targets on the roads were decoys, dummies made of sticks and cloth to draw us into the reach of the radar-guided anti-aircraft guns. Damn the fascist pigs!
The A-26 was clear of the ambush now, weaving away through the trees. Behind them the Hitlerites had stopped firing their flak guns at the sky, presumably having lost a radar track on their target. “Natya, any radar signals back there?”
“No, sister, they shut down the radars as soon as the guns ceased fire. We are clear of them. I used our under-belly gun turret to return fire; I may have got close to them.”
Nadia Vasil'yevna had forgotten about the remote-controlled gun turrets aft. It is indeed possible that Natya got in a few shots in return. I hope so. “Fuel status?”
“Eighty percent.”
“Well, then we continue to fly west. Our job is to find anything coming up the railway line and eliminate it.” Slowly, the task of the Night Witches was changing. Where once they had stuck close to the front lines and concentrated on enemy units in the field, now they probed deep into enemy-occupied territory and hunted down the fascists wherever they could be found. We are beginning to use airpower like the Americans. That thought pleased Nadia Vasil'yevna.
Big Moose Island, Schoodic, Maine.
"Well, there is only one candidate." Agent Aaron Foster looked along the length of Schoodic Point Road. A careful bearing measurement from the tanker offshore that had spotted the light plus an accurate read on the ship's position had indicated the light came from the current position just reached by the two FBI agents. Give or take a few hundred yards or so. The margin of error wasn't of great significance; it had become very apparent there was only one building out here. A ramshackle old hut that had a dilapidated porch facing the shore. It was in a sheltered position where a dip in the ground meant the sixty or seventy-foot cliffs that marked the coastline shrank to a mere four or five feet. Probably it had been a fisherman's hut once but had been left to fall derelict or been sold to people who were only here a few days each month at most.
"That's for sure." Agent Paul Hall agreed. "Damn, do they even have electricity out here?"
Foster parked the official-issue Ford they were driving and looked around. The dirt track road continued a bit further up the hill and ended in a loop with a parking space beside it. Hall guessed that before the war, the local kids had used it as a courting area. That had probably ended with the strict gasoline rationing in place. It was a mark of how important the coastal blackout was that he and Foster had been issued with the gasoline needed to check up on breaches of it.
"Let's see if anybody is in." They walked up to the shack, noting that the blackout was complete. As a result, there was no sign the place was occupied. Knocking on the door though, produced immediate activity from inside. The door opened to reveal an elderly, unkempt, and unshaven man in shabby clothes who stared at the two FBI agents suspiciously. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sir, I'm Agent Hall and this is Agent Foster. We're from the FBI."
They produced their shields before continuing. "And you are, Sir?"
"I'm Tom Schmalzer, this is my wife Evie. Can I help you?"
"We've had reports that a light was seen on here, in breach of the coastal blackout. We were wondering if you could help us find out some more information about it?"
Evie Schmalzer's voice came from behind her husband. "Oh, that must be me. Tom was coming home late and I was afraid he'd slip on the path and fall down the cliff. That's happened before you know and the poor man was quite badly hurt. So I put the light on for Tom. I didn't think about the blackout. I'm so sorry."
"I'm going to have to cite you, ma'am. It’s a fifty-dollar fine for breaking the blackout. Tell the judge about the dangerous path and he may give you a breakthrough." Hall wrote out the citation. "You'll get a letter from the court to tell you when the hearing is scheduled. I'm sorry ma'am, our instructions are strict on maintaining the blackout."
The door closed again. Foster was looking at the light bulb, thoughtfully. "Paul, how far is that convoy offshore?"
"Ten miles, perhaps a bit more. Right on the horizon." The two agents kept walking away from the shack.
"That's an old, low-powered bulb on the porch light. You know the type that shines yellow? Nobody can see that from ten miles offshore. And it was pretty old as well. Looked as if it hadn't been used for years."
"Yeah. And how do they power it? I can't see any electricity cables leading here, can you?"
"Not a one. They must have a generator of some sort. But in an old wreck of a shack like this?"
The two agents exchanged highly suspicious glances before Foster made a decision. "Let's have a look around."
They were almost back in their car. Hall swung his flashlight around and stopped where he was. "Ronnie, take a look at this. Be careful, we don’t want to mess this up."
Hall pointed out what looked like three sets of bicycle tracks on the road surface. The dirt road had held them well. Foster got the camera from the car, fitted the flash, and took photographs of them. Meanwhile, Hall had walked a bit further up the road but there were no new tracks to be seen. There were more, lower down the road, but they'd been disturbed by the FBI car driving over them. Foster took pictures of the tracks that were left.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Hall remarked. Foster nodded in agreement; this whole situation was becoming more suspicious by the minute. "You reckon three people on bicycles came out of here?"
"Yeah, but there's no sign of anybody going in. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Let's take a look and keep your guard up. Something bad is going on here."
The two agents swept around the ramshackle hut, keeping well away from it but using their flashlights and the bright moon to check out the area surrounding the building. Close to the low rise that marked the residue of the cliffs, there was a small hut, as ramshackle as the main building. "Now what do we have here, Ronnie?"
"That's an outhouse, Paul." Foster was being sarcastic.
"Long way from the main shack. And it's got a nice seaside view." Hall tried the door only to find it was locked. "And who the hell locks an outhouse? Suppose they get caught short?"
"Somebody who values old newspapers? Oops." Foster took a firm grip and wrenched the door open. The building wasn't an outhouse. The seaward wall had a folding panel in it that dropped down when two hook-and-eye fastenings were released. Behind that was a naval signal lamp, still warm to the touch, and what looked like a hand-cranked generator.
"Take a look at that. Turn that lamp on and the building shields it from being seen except out to sea. I think we have some fifth columnists here. Let's have another talk with that couple."
Now they knew what to look for, Foster and Hall could see that there was a path trodden through the grass from the main shack to the signal lamp building. They were nearing the hut when Foster saw movement on the porch. It had hardly registered before a flash blotted it out. He heard Hall yell out as he went down. "Shotgun! Oh duck, Ronnie, I'm hit."
Foster was quite certain his partner had said 'duck' and took the advice, throwing himself sideways under the cover of some small rocks. He heard Hall firing his revolver at the figure on the porch, but it was long-range for the snub barreled .38s they had been issued with. However, Foster had something much better in addition to his issue pistol, a long-slide M1911 chambered for .38 Super. It had been given to him by his father the day he had graduated from the FBI Academy. Thanks, dad, you came up trumps for me, even though you aren't here. The 6.5-inch barrel gave him the accuracy he needed, and he fired nine quick shots at the figure on the porch. she screamed and went down, dropping the shotgun as she did so.
Foster crouched and ran over to his partner while also changing his magazine. "Paul, how bad is it."
"Pellets hit my legs. I'll be OK but the bastard ruined my suit. Go finish this."
Foster worked his way closer to the figure on the ground by the porch. To his shock, when he got close enough, he could see that it was the old woman. She was moaning and moving feebly. Foster considered shooting her again but decided the old man was still the primary threat. It was the right move; Schmalzer came out of the hut firing a lever-action rifle. His shots never came close and Foster gunned him down before he had made more than a few steps. Then, he went over to the two fifth columnists and took possession of their rifle and shotgun. A quick search revealed another weapon in the hut, a cheap old pistol. He took that into custody as well. By the time the scene was secure, Hall had come limping up and was covering the two badly wounded fifth columnists with his pistol.
"You better call for help Ronnie. I'll watch these two. This is big."
A-26B “Ubeyte Zakhvatchikov”, 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment, Airfield 089, Talagi.
"They have fixed the problem with the canopy, sestri." Captain Nadezhda “Nadia” Vasil'yevna Popova looked around her new aircraft with great satisfaction. "When the war is over, I think I will marry tovarish Douglas."
After a year of flying the A-20G Havoc on night intruder missions, the 588th Night Bomber Regiment had been re-equipped with its replacement, the A-26B Intruder. Along with the new aircraft, the Regiment now had a new title, the 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment. Just as when their old Po-2 biplanes had been replaced by the A-20, the new aircraft had been viewed with suspicion by the women who would fly them in action. Only, this time, they had solid grounds for their doubts. The seats had been too big and too low, restricting the vision out of the cockpit. The reason was simple, the A-26B was designed to be flown by men, not Russian women. That was a problem that had been experienced before and a simple fix existed for it. The other problem was much more serious. The powerful engines that gave the A-26 its sparkling performance completely blocked the view down and to the sides. For an aircraft that would be flown low down at night that had been a crippling disadvantage that speed and firepower could not offset.
So, the 46th Guards had continued to fly their old A-20s while the problem was fixed. One day, a group of C-54 transports had arrived with boxes of equipment, teams of ground maintenance men, and crates of power tools. "A present from Mr. Douglas", one of the Americans had joked. Then they had got to work on the A-26s. The old cockpit canopy had been removed and the seats lifted out. Something called "risers" had been fitted to the seat rails and then the pilot and copilot's seats had been replaced. Now, the pilot's head was almost half a meter higher than it had been. Then, the boxes were opened and a new cockpit canopy had been installed. It was bulged upwards at the top and outwards at the sides, giving both crew members on the flight deck greatly improved vision. In Nadia Vasil'yevna's opinion, it looked better as well and the absence of heavy framing further improved vision. The new cockpit opened like a clamshell making getting in and out much easier, something that was important for crews who might have to bail out at low altitudes.
Lieutenant Evgeniya Maksimovna Rudneva looked over her station with pride. She had already decided that the Americans must love navigators but this was something much more. She was on the flight deck, her seat beside that of the pilot with the navigating table and another jump-seat behind her. Now she could see properly and coordinate with her pilot was much easier. Some of the A-26s delivered to American units had glazed noses fitted with a bombardier's station, other American aircraft had a solid nose with eight .50 caliber machine guns. The Russians had decided against both fits and selected a third option offered by Douglas. Their A-26s had two Nudelman-Suranov NS-37 37mm guns in the lower part of the nose and four American .50 machine guns above them. There were six more .50s in the wings and the bomb bay and underwing racks could hold up to 6,000 pounds of bombs and rockets. The A-26 was a much more formidable aircraft than even the A-20 had been.
"Are you ready in the back, Natya?" Nadia Vasil'yevna called to the third member of the crew, Sergeant Natalia Nikitichna Peshkova stationed in the rear compartment. It was a lonely position since she couldn't come forward to join the rest of the crew until the bomb bay was empty. Her role though was vital. Not only did she operate the two remote-controlled twins .50 gun turrets that defended the rear of the aircraft but she had to operate the radar warning receiver that gave them warning of any night fighters that might be hunting them. Given warning, an A-26 could outrun even the fastest fascist night-fighter.
"All systems are operational." Nadia had a problem not laughing at the reply. Natalia Nikitichna had been to the electronics school and had lessons in how to use the equipment in her compartment from an American instructor. Her language reflected that training. Before that, she had been a medic in a tank unit but had been transferred after receiving serious wounds including a bullet through her neck that had left her voice hoarse. She had been highly decorated as well, receiving the golden star of a Hero of the Soviet Union, something the other women in the 46th Guards had only found out by accident. It had taken a direct order from the Regimental commander to make her wear it on her uniform for she had felt that the decoration was undeserved. In her eyes, she had done nothing that her fellow medical orderlies had not done many times before. Of all the parts of the Russian Army, the medical orderlies suffered casualties second only to the front-line infantry.
"We are cleared for take-off. Engines to maximum power." The A-26 started to vibrate as the R-2800 engines picked up, the sound changed from rough coughing to a smooth roar that made the whole aircraft vibrate. Nadia released the brakes and felt her Ubeyte Zakhvatchik surge forward. The take-off run was much shorter than the A-20 she was used to despite the A-26 being a larger and heavier aircraft. She felt the thumps as the undercarriage retracted, then she swung the nose westwards where targets were waiting. "Take us to the fascists, tovarish Evgeniya. We have work to do this night."
Evgeniya Maksimovna nodded at the traditional start to an intruder mission and shifted to her navigator's position. "Set course for two-eight-three. That'll take us to Porog, then we follow the railway line west as far as we can. We must watch especially for Hitlerites moving from Medvedevskaya. If we sight any, we are to engage them and also report their presence."
Nadia Vasil'yevna acknowledged the reminder. She had been at the pre-flight briefing of course, but experience had shown that it never hurt to keep repeating the objectives. Flying low and fast at night too often meant that a crew would focus on the task at hand and forget their primary targets. "Speed, 450 kilometers, altitude 300 meters."
"We should be at Porog in 16 minutes." Evgeniya Maksimovna had the maps and weather reports spread out. "Clear sky, full moon. Good night for us. Crossing the Dvina now."
It would have been hard to see the distinction between the river and the surrounding land without moonlight reflecting off the water. It is hard to decide whether we are on land or the river even while standing down there. When she had first arrived on the Arhangel’sk front, Nadia Vasil'yevna knew had found that the Dvina, like the Onega, was a complex maze of rivers rather than a single waterway. The ground here was flat, the slope very gentle so the water had little force behind it. Instead of flowing to the sea, the river meandered across the countryside, splitting and rejoining as it trickled down to the White Sea. On the way, it deposited all the mud it was carrying to form a rich belt of fertile land. If only the days were longer and the sun shone more strongly, the Rodina could grow much food up here. And yet the same deep, fertile plains make the Rasputitsa even more fierce here than it is to the south. Here, the ground remains frozen deep down and this blocks drainage. When the Rasputitsa strikes, the ground turns to soup for many meters down. The unwary may sink without trace and never be found.
As her eyes accommodated to the darkness, Nadia Vasil'yevna started to see the different patterns on the ground; the dark broken mass of the forests, the smooth patterns of farmland, and the sinister uniformity of the marshes. Soon, all that detail would be lost amid the white of the snow. There were patches down there, ones that on this moonlit shone shine silver. On nights where the state of the moon or thick clouds meant the absence of moonlight, they were black and treacherous.
"Onega coming up." Evgeniya Maksimovna gave the warning. In the back compartment, Natalia Nikitichna scanned her instruments, watching for any sign of fascist radar transmissions.
"There is fighting down there. I hear that our bratishka on the ground have crossed the river and given the fascists a heroic beating." Nadia Vasil'yevna could see the red lines of machinegun tracers on the ground. It was tempting to dip down and strafe the enemy but where were they? What seems clear from up here may be very misleading on the ground. Our comrades could be behind enemy lines and encircling the fascists or be trapped by them. Strafing without being very sure could aid the enemy. On the ground, a massive flash of red followed by a line streaking across the darkened ground spoke of a high-velocity gun being fired. A tank or a tank destroyer? A towed anti-tank gun perhaps? The shot had ended in darkness, not an explosion or a ricochet so whoever was the target had probably escaped. “Keep a watch out, Sestri, those on the ground must know we are up here somewhere.
“Targets on the ground, ahead. On the road out of Medvedevskaya. We were told to watch for these.” Evgeniya Maksimovna had the sharpest eyes of the three crewmembers and had seen the dim square shapes on the fascist-held road that told of a convoy on the move.
“Time to earn our pay, Sestri. Call the sighting in Natya. The Hitlerites are on the move to attack our bratya on the ground.” There was a standard routine for this kind of attack and switching from the A-20 to the A-26 hadn’t changed much. Nadia Vasil'yevna reached down and throttled the two R-2800 engines back so that they were barely whispering. At the same time, she pushed the nose of the A-26 down into a shallow dive. The new aircraft wasn’t just heavier than her old A-20, it was more streamlined and had a low-drag wing as well and reduced drag meant it picked up extra speed in its dive. Despite the engines idling, her aircraft was picking up speed. That saved her crew.
“Radar! Radar! We have enemy radar on the ground! Three sets! Chert voz'mi!” Natalia Nikitichna screamed the warning out, her damaged voice cracking as she did so. She swallowed a couple of times and followed it up with more details. “Flak, they’re gun control radars. Get us out of here!”
A split second before the warning, the only apparent noise in the cockpit had been the whistle of the wind over the airframe. In response to the screamed alert, Nadia had rammed the throttles of her engines forward and heard the two R-2800s roar back into life just as the Hitlerite gunners below opened fire in a deadly flak trap. Their tracers arched upwards, converging just behind the dark brown A-26. The few miles per hour of extra speed resulting from more weight and less drag had made a tiny but crucial difference. The multi-colored tracers streaked past them, seemingly terrifyingly close but always missing, just. Well, perhaps not always. Those deep thrumming noises are 20mm shells hitting the structure. It is fortunate for us that our Amerikanskiye brat'ya builds their aircraft out of armor plate. This is the kind of ambush that has killed so many of our sisters when we were still flying the old Kukuruznik.
There were at least four quadruple 20mm guns firing on them, the streams of tracer tearing up the sky. That worked both ways of course; they were making it difficult for the A-26 crew to concentrate on their attack but they also highlighted the position of the anti-aircraft guns. Nadia Vasil'yevna now knew where the four guns were placed but also that, this night, the gunners on the ground knew their trade. They had guessed which angle the Night Witch would come in from and had arranged the guns so that not one of them was even close to being directly in front of the attack aircraft. She knew that if she pulled her nose around to engage one, it would slow her aircraft down and possibly even cause it to stall into the ground. In the kill-zone of a flak ambush, there was only one sane cause of action, to get out of there as quickly as possible. That thought was emphasized by another deep thrum noise as her aircraft was hit again.
Duty remained; the road and the dark shapes on it, were still in front of her. The A-26 was still picking up speed and was drawing ahead of the fascist anti-aircraft fire coning in on it but the situation was still critical. Nadia Vasil'yevna was unwilling to fire her guns since the recoil of the NS-37s in particular would slow her aircraft down too much. Our rockets, though, that is a different matter. Firing our RS-132s will both hurt the target and also increase our speed. As she had thought the thought, she had selected the three rockets under each wing and let them fly. They streaked through the darkness in pairs, each pair a split second behind the one in front. Their impact points walked across the target area but there were no secondary explosions from the targets on the road. Just the shadows of wood and canvas being thrown skywards. The targets on the roads were decoys, dummies made of sticks and cloth to draw us into the reach of the radar-guided anti-aircraft guns. Damn the fascist pigs!
The A-26 was clear of the ambush now, weaving away through the trees. Behind them the Hitlerites had stopped firing their flak guns at the sky, presumably having lost a radar track on their target. “Natya, any radar signals back there?”
“No, sister, they shut down the radars as soon as the guns ceased fire. We are clear of them. I used our under-belly gun turret to return fire; I may have got close to them.”
Nadia Vasil'yevna had forgotten about the remote-controlled gun turrets aft. It is indeed possible that Natya got in a few shots in return. I hope so. “Fuel status?”
“Eighty percent.”
“Well, then we continue to fly west. Our job is to find anything coming up the railway line and eliminate it.” Slowly, the task of the Night Witches was changing. Where once they had stuck close to the front lines and concentrated on enemy units in the field, now they probed deep into enemy-occupied territory and hunted down the fascists wherever they could be found. We are beginning to use airpower like the Americans. That thought pleased Nadia Vasil'yevna.
Big Moose Island, Schoodic, Maine.
"Well, there is only one candidate." Agent Aaron Foster looked along the length of Schoodic Point Road. A careful bearing measurement from the tanker offshore that had spotted the light plus an accurate read on the ship's position had indicated the light came from the current position just reached by the two FBI agents. Give or take a few hundred yards or so. The margin of error wasn't of great significance; it had become very apparent there was only one building out here. A ramshackle old hut that had a dilapidated porch facing the shore. It was in a sheltered position where a dip in the ground meant the sixty or seventy-foot cliffs that marked the coastline shrank to a mere four or five feet. Probably it had been a fisherman's hut once but had been left to fall derelict or been sold to people who were only here a few days each month at most.
"That's for sure." Agent Paul Hall agreed. "Damn, do they even have electricity out here?"
Foster parked the official-issue Ford they were driving and looked around. The dirt track road continued a bit further up the hill and ended in a loop with a parking space beside it. Hall guessed that before the war, the local kids had used it as a courting area. That had probably ended with the strict gasoline rationing in place. It was a mark of how important the coastal blackout was that he and Foster had been issued with the gasoline needed to check up on breaches of it.
"Let's see if anybody is in." They walked up to the shack, noting that the blackout was complete. As a result, there was no sign the place was occupied. Knocking on the door though, produced immediate activity from inside. The door opened to reveal an elderly, unkempt, and unshaven man in shabby clothes who stared at the two FBI agents suspiciously. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sir, I'm Agent Hall and this is Agent Foster. We're from the FBI."
They produced their shields before continuing. "And you are, Sir?"
"I'm Tom Schmalzer, this is my wife Evie. Can I help you?"
"We've had reports that a light was seen on here, in breach of the coastal blackout. We were wondering if you could help us find out some more information about it?"
Evie Schmalzer's voice came from behind her husband. "Oh, that must be me. Tom was coming home late and I was afraid he'd slip on the path and fall down the cliff. That's happened before you know and the poor man was quite badly hurt. So I put the light on for Tom. I didn't think about the blackout. I'm so sorry."
"I'm going to have to cite you, ma'am. It’s a fifty-dollar fine for breaking the blackout. Tell the judge about the dangerous path and he may give you a breakthrough." Hall wrote out the citation. "You'll get a letter from the court to tell you when the hearing is scheduled. I'm sorry ma'am, our instructions are strict on maintaining the blackout."
The door closed again. Foster was looking at the light bulb, thoughtfully. "Paul, how far is that convoy offshore?"
"Ten miles, perhaps a bit more. Right on the horizon." The two agents kept walking away from the shack.
"That's an old, low-powered bulb on the porch light. You know the type that shines yellow? Nobody can see that from ten miles offshore. And it was pretty old as well. Looked as if it hadn't been used for years."
"Yeah. And how do they power it? I can't see any electricity cables leading here, can you?"
"Not a one. They must have a generator of some sort. But in an old wreck of a shack like this?"
The two agents exchanged highly suspicious glances before Foster made a decision. "Let's have a look around."
They were almost back in their car. Hall swung his flashlight around and stopped where he was. "Ronnie, take a look at this. Be careful, we don’t want to mess this up."
Hall pointed out what looked like three sets of bicycle tracks on the road surface. The dirt road had held them well. Foster got the camera from the car, fitted the flash, and took photographs of them. Meanwhile, Hall had walked a bit further up the road but there were no new tracks to be seen. There were more, lower down the road, but they'd been disturbed by the FBI car driving over them. Foster took pictures of the tracks that were left.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Hall remarked. Foster nodded in agreement; this whole situation was becoming more suspicious by the minute. "You reckon three people on bicycles came out of here?"
"Yeah, but there's no sign of anybody going in. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Let's take a look and keep your guard up. Something bad is going on here."
The two agents swept around the ramshackle hut, keeping well away from it but using their flashlights and the bright moon to check out the area surrounding the building. Close to the low rise that marked the residue of the cliffs, there was a small hut, as ramshackle as the main building. "Now what do we have here, Ronnie?"
"That's an outhouse, Paul." Foster was being sarcastic.
"Long way from the main shack. And it's got a nice seaside view." Hall tried the door only to find it was locked. "And who the hell locks an outhouse? Suppose they get caught short?"
"Somebody who values old newspapers? Oops." Foster took a firm grip and wrenched the door open. The building wasn't an outhouse. The seaward wall had a folding panel in it that dropped down when two hook-and-eye fastenings were released. Behind that was a naval signal lamp, still warm to the touch, and what looked like a hand-cranked generator.
"Take a look at that. Turn that lamp on and the building shields it from being seen except out to sea. I think we have some fifth columnists here. Let's have another talk with that couple."
Now they knew what to look for, Foster and Hall could see that there was a path trodden through the grass from the main shack to the signal lamp building. They were nearing the hut when Foster saw movement on the porch. It had hardly registered before a flash blotted it out. He heard Hall yell out as he went down. "Shotgun! Oh duck, Ronnie, I'm hit."
Foster was quite certain his partner had said 'duck' and took the advice, throwing himself sideways under the cover of some small rocks. He heard Hall firing his revolver at the figure on the porch, but it was long-range for the snub barreled .38s they had been issued with. However, Foster had something much better in addition to his issue pistol, a long-slide M1911 chambered for .38 Super. It had been given to him by his father the day he had graduated from the FBI Academy. Thanks, dad, you came up trumps for me, even though you aren't here. The 6.5-inch barrel gave him the accuracy he needed, and he fired nine quick shots at the figure on the porch. she screamed and went down, dropping the shotgun as she did so.
Foster crouched and ran over to his partner while also changing his magazine. "Paul, how bad is it."
"Pellets hit my legs. I'll be OK but the bastard ruined my suit. Go finish this."
Foster worked his way closer to the figure on the ground by the porch. To his shock, when he got close enough, he could see that it was the old woman. She was moaning and moving feebly. Foster considered shooting her again but decided the old man was still the primary threat. It was the right move; Schmalzer came out of the hut firing a lever-action rifle. His shots never came close and Foster gunned him down before he had made more than a few steps. Then, he went over to the two fifth columnists and took possession of their rifle and shotgun. A quick search revealed another weapon in the hut, a cheap old pistol. He took that into custody as well. By the time the scene was secure, Hall had come limping up and was covering the two badly wounded fifth columnists with his pistol.
"You better call for help Ronnie. I'll watch these two. This is big."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twelve
Headquarters, 1st Battalion, 503rd Regiment, 47th Rifle Division, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Colonel Alexander Georgiyevich Paramonov knew that his battalion should have nearly 800 men but a full-strength infantry unit in the Russian Army hadn't been seen since April 1941. He considered himself lucky to have 600. His orders were to assemble those 600 men to the rear of the Russian positions at Amosovskaya and await transport. Further orders would come to him then. He didn't resent secrecy, it was the way the Army did business.
"Transport is coming, tovarish Colonel." The whisper came as the sound of the engines made itself heard. By the time the vehicles had arrived, the sight had resolved itself into a column of some thirty large, oddly shaped vehicles that Paramonov had never seen before. They were weird, oddly shaped designs with tracks but a curiously curved front end led to a large, boxy body. Then he knew why they were unfamiliar to him. They were American. The dark olive drab paint made that quite clear. The white stars the American vehicles had sported a year ago had gone, but if one looked carefully, a gray star had taken their place.
A figure jumped down from the lead vehicle. It was the Russian liaison officer that was attached to every American unit serving on the Russian Front. It went without saying that they were all Chekists. "Tovarish Colonel? These vehicles are from the 2nd Assault Amphibian Battalion. They will be carrying you across the river to Medvedevskaya where they will support you in taking the town. Be sure to show them how well the 47th Division can fight for these Marines are veterans of the fighting around Ulyanovsk and our Amerikanskiye brat'ya have learned to expect much of a Russian rifleman!"
The line of vehicles had turned so that they faced away from the assembled riflemen. Why became obvious when they lowered their rear ramps to load the waiting men. The liaison officer spoke quietly with the American crew before addressing the riflemen. "Load by platoon, 20 men in each vehicle. Tovarish Colonel, a quiet word please."
Paramonov drew to one side and the liaison officer joined him. "Mikhail Pavlovitch Farafonov. Alexander Georgiyevich, we have an important mission to carry out. Downriver, the 93rd Rifle Division is staging a demonstration that will draw the fascists there. We are timing your landings so you will go ashore at dawn with the rising sun at your backs. There will be much air support for you as well, Sturmoviks and Thunderbolts. There will also be amphibious tanks covering you, with 75mm guns and flamethrowers. This is a very important mission Alexander Georgiyevich, see to it that we have a secure hold on Medvedevskaya by the close of the day."
"It will be done tovarish Chekist."
Mikhail Pavlovich grinned at him and put his finger to his lips. "Not so loud, our Amerikanskiye brat'ya are not comfortable with the idea of political officers. What they do not know will not upset them."
"Are these men truly veterans?" Paramonov wondered if the Chekist realized that Russian soldiers weren't precisely comfortable with the idea of political officers either.
"These Marines? Very much so. They fought well on the Volga, at Ulyanovsk and Samara. Those vehicles they have, they are called LVT-4s, are a revolution. They can cross even the Volga and deliver troops inland from the riverbank. They have made crossing rivers something that can easily be contemplated."
"Then we had better hope that the fascists do not copy them." Paramonov knew all too well that the difficulty of crossing the great rivers of Russia had bought much time to allow a proper defense to be organized.
"We are ready to leave, tovarish Mikhail Pavlovitch." The American Marine had come in and addressed his liaison officer in English. "Tovarish Colonel, the river is 1,000 meters wide at the point we will be crossing. That means it will take us around six minutes to cross. Once ashore, there is an area of high ground about three hundred meters inland. We will drop your men there; it is a good area to defend and we will also have cut the town in two parts. We can then take each half in turn. Is this agreeable to you?"
The American watched while his liaison officer (whom he knew very well as a member of Cheka and would be the political officer in a Russian unit) translated his comments to the commander of the infantry battalion. There was much-satisfied nodding and the party left for the waiting LVT-4s.
Ten minutes later, Paramonov was beginning to wish that his men had marched to the river and would swim across. The LVT-4 was bouncing badly as it crossed the broken ground between the assembly point and the bank selected as the departure area for the assault. Although nobody was aware of it, the Marine Corps amphibious carriers were following the same route as Pakholkov’s SU-85s had used a week earlier and for the same reason; it was an open patch of ground that led directly to the river bank. The LVT-4s, though were slower than the SU-85s and their suspension was much harder. The result was an intermittent jerking bounce that had everybody on board looking green. Paramonov knew that it would just need one person to throw up and everybody would start.
“Look, everybody, a good omen!” Farafonov pointed to the east. The sun was still below the horizon but only just the reflected light from it was turning the sky red. “Let it be our battle cry. Krasnaya Zarya! The Red Dawn.”
That brought weak cheers from the infantry who forgot their intestinal misery for the moment. The Marines driving the LVTs had timed their drive perfectly; the white disk of the sun was rising over the horizon just as they reached the bank. The dawn was cold, at or just below freezing, and showed no prospect of warming up during the day. But, that meant the air was clear and dry which turned the sun’s glare into a brilliant white fire that made the eyes water just to look at it. The positioning was perfect; the sun was directly behind the LVTs and concealed them from any directed artillery fire.
To Paramonov’s great relief, the LVTs swam much better than they drove overland. The drivers were gunning their engines hard, pushing their amphibians through the water as fast as they could to get their men ashore as quickly as they could. Every second was vital; the Hitlerites needed time to reorganize and react to the shock of seeing the amphibians swimming across the river. Every second, the sun rose higher, and very soon the blinding sun-glare would start to fade and the thin-skinned amphibious would be exposed. Everybody in the landing force had expected the ungainly LVTs to throw up clouds of spray as they forced through the waves. Instead, there was barely a ripple around the bows and little more than that along the sides. Only around the stern ramp was there any great disturbance in the water.
The heavy hammering of machinegun fire erupted through the dawn and rolled across the Onega. For a moment, the Russian infantry thought it was the fascists opening fire at last but then, the more experienced realized that it was the guns on the LVTs opening up, pouring suppressive machinegun fire at likely enemy positions on the shore. In the back of the lead amphibian, Paramonov realized that the feel of the ride had changed again. The blessed smoothness of the ride across the river vanished as the tracks gripped the rocks and hauled the vehicle out of the river onto land. Now, it was bounce and jerk again as the LVT plowed across the open ground towards the hill in the center of Medvedevskaya. The hill was only ten meters high but in this flat alluvial plain, it was a prominent objective.
As the bows of the LVT lifted with the slope, Paramonov glanced back at the river and saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There were three small islands in the middle, barely more than pine trees sticking out of the water but the Marines driving the LVTs had used them as extra cover on the swim across. They hadn’t just relied on surprise and the sun-glare. Then, an almighty great jerk sent everybody staggering off their feet forward, crushing the troops at the front against the bulkhead. That caused much good-natured cursing.
“End of the line! All Change, everybody out!” The words were in English but all the Russians understood when the tail ramp crashed down. A moment’s pause as they collected their wits then the screaming battle cry went up “Krasnaya Zarya!”
All across the center of Medvedevskaya, six hundred Russian infantry were pouring out of the LVTs and fanning out across the hill and the open ground behind the buildings. The LVTs had done their work well; the Hitlerites had believed that if the Russians crossed the river, they would do so in boats and would land on the river bank. So, their defenses were orientated that way. They had watched helplessly as the LVTs unloaded their cargo behind the village and were taking the fascist defenses from the rear. They were supported by the LVTs firing their .50 caliber machine guns at anything likely to hold a defense. Yet, something much more lethal was already coming ashore. Amphibious tanks, tanks that had swum across the river and were now landing on the beach and firing at any opposition with their 75mm howitzers.
The defenses of Medvedevskaya had been heavily reduced to reinforce the defense against the armored landing three kilometers downriver. Yet, the troops that were left were Hitlerites and nobody ever had an easy victory against Hitlerite infantry. The Russians started to fall, in ones and twos and then more as the fascist mortars and machine guns took their toll.
One building was particularly troublesome. Almost all the structures in Medvedevskaya were orientated north-south, perpendicular to the river. This one was east-west and for some reason, the fascists fought hard for it. Until one of the amphibious tanks arrived to support the Russians who were fighting hard for the building. Those Russians had expected the tank to open fire with a 75mm gun but what they saw instead cheered them and lifted their hearts with pride. A huge gout of flame at least a hundred meters long erupted from the turret of the tank and engulfed the entire building in a roaring inferno. There was no chance anybody inside could survive, the structure was green timber and painted with oil-based paint. Even being damp didn’t help the building; the flamethrower jet sent it all up in a pyre of smoke and flame.
Then, the cheering died down and the Russian infantry got back to work in the dour, dogged, unrelenting style that the fascists had learned to dread. For, as the Russian knew, there was much work to do this day.
Colonel Daniel Campbell’s Office, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Sergeant Eiler would like a word, Sir.”
“Ask him to wait five minutes and then send him though.” Campbell apologized to Maslov. They were coordinating the operations of two regiments of Il-2 Sturmovik, his group of P-47s, and a detachment of the new A-38s that would be attacking the fascist flak guns. It was a major deployment of airpower for so late in the year. “If a ground crew chief thinks something is important enough to come to see me about, it’s worth listening to him.”
Maslov privately thought that Russian officers had their enlisted men and NCOs under better control than the Americans. “There is a lot of aircraft in a small area. Collisions will be a danger.”
“We’ve got a Master of Ceremonies up in a C-47. We have our aircraft stacked outside the combat area, the forward air controllers call the C-47 with their requests and he assigns aircraft. Yaks and Lavochkins are deploying further south to stop the fascist fighters from interfering. That way we can keep the number of aircraft over the battlefield at any one time minimized while providing continuous on-demand air support.”
“I have heard from the troops involved in the attack. Both the 47th and 93rd rifles have seized their objectives on schedule. The 93rd is dug in to hold its bridgehead, the 47th has taken the eastern half of Medvedevskaya and is working its way west. The amphibious assault battalion is already lifting another battalion over to Medvedevskaya to reinforce the assault. Soon, the tanks of the 9th Guards Tank Corps be swinging in from the flank to surround the fascists.”
“Looks like the Army are out there swinging some pretty hard punches then. Let’s hear what Eiler has to say.” He thumbed the button on his intercom. “Michael, send Sergeant Eiler in please.”
Either had changed out of his work dungarees for the meeting and was therefore conspicuously clean of oil and grease stains. “Sir, down on the flight line, we’ve been thinking about those tests we did the other day, Dropping fuel tanks? We think we did it wrong. If we want to burn gasoline, we need three things. Gasoline, oxygen so it can burn, and the flash to set it off. We only had one of those. One thing we do have a lot of is those 150-gallon aluminum tanks we don’t use anymore. The Russian-made paper ones are just so much better. To provide oxygen, we partially fill those tanks up and put say a hundred gallons of gasoline/diesel mix in them so there is a lot of air around. Before we fill them up, though, we drill out the nose and put the fuse from a 100-pound bomb in there. We’ve got hundreds of those sitting in the dumps right now, we don’t use 100 pounders anymore either. That way we have a mixture of fuel and air plus a flash to set the whole thing off.”
“Can’t you drill out the nose of a paper tank?”
“No Sir, we tried and the tank falls apart. Its strength is in the continuity of its structure, disrupt that and we just turn the whole thing into a pile of paper Mache. Perhaps if the tanks were molded with a hole for the fuse in place?”
“If it does burn properly, it’ll have to set the aluminum tank off as well. We don’t want to go back to giving refined aluminum to the fascists.”
“No, Sir. But we did a test and the flash from an impact fuse for a 100-pound bomb will ignite gasoline and that’s set the aluminum off. We tried while we were getting rid of some duds.”
“I must arrange deliveries of more 87-octane gasoline for you,” Maslov noted in the background. “And modified drop tanks. Is the nose the best place for the fuse? Would the belly or tail be better?”
“Good questions, Sir. Perhaps we ought to try different placements of multiple fuses?”
“This doesn’t solve the problem of the fuel-burning off too fast though. Nevertheless, well done Eiler. Make up a couple of dozen of the new tanks with varying fuse placements and we’ll see how they work.”
Eiler saluted and left. As he left, he couldn’t help thinking that American NCOs had their officers under better control than the Russians.
Republic P-47N Thunderbolt Babydoll 404th Fighter Group, Approaching Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk
"Basket, this is Chopper. Leather Five has targets for you. TAC-Seven-Two"
Foster thought that ‘Leather Five’ was a bit obvious as the call sign for the Forward Air Controller with the Marines but there was no accounting for taste. “Chopper, this is Basket, acknowledging. Switching to TAC. He flipped his radio to tactical channel five. “Leather, this is Babydoll and some friends. We have 5 inchers, five hundred, and the whole nine yards of fifty-cal. What do you want and where?”
“We’re on the eastern edge of the main town. Fascists are mounting a counterattack on the open ground between the river and the pine trees. Armored support, half-tracks, and assault guns. They’ve retaken the Kolkhoz. We've got a real problem here. We've only got amphibious tanks with 75mm howitzers to handle the enemy armor.”
Foster knew that the FAC on the ground was a fellow pilot; all the forward air controllers were. “All right, we’ll go in with rockets first and take it from there. Stand by.”
It was hard to make out the armored vehicles from the smoke and dust that was shrouding the battlefield but once Foster had seen one, the rest seemed to float into view. Like stars at night; first I can’t see any, then there’s one and soon the sky is full of them. He pushed Babydoll into a wingover that would start the P-47 into the long drive to its target. He'd picked out a group of three half-tracks that were pushing forward from the captured Kolkhoz towards the positions taken an hour or so earlier by the Russian infantry. Behind him, the three other P-47s in his flight were following him down.
"Watch it, Basket. There's mobile flak down there." The warning came over the radio but it was superfluous. Foster could already see the orange balls of tracer beginning to float up towards him. They were large, slow, and well-spaced out, suggesting that they were also 37mm guns, but he couldn't see where they were coming from. What he did see were a pair of A-38s heading low across the ground at roughly right angles to his course. Their noses were erupting in flame as they fired their 75s at something on the ground behind the half-tracks Foster had targeted. Then Foster had it, the A-38s were shooting at two small vehicles a hundred yards or so behind the half-tracks. They were the little utility-tracked vehicles the fascists were bringing in from factories in England. The pair had been equipped with flak guns and were firing at him. Foster took that personally. Accordingly, he felt a vicious glee when he saw one of the weapons carriers explode.
'Thanks, Grizzly. Beers on us."
"Those little bastards are the very devil to hit." The A-38 pilot sounded annoyed. "The half-tracks are one thing but those carriers, they’re as agile as hell."
Inspiration hit Foster. "Next pass, you hit the big vehicles, we'll strafe the weapons carriers."
"Sounds good, Basket. Send the word."
The two A-38s curved away and climbed back to their holding altitude. By then Foster and his P-47s were getting dangerously close to their targeted half-tracks. The machine-gun fire coming up from the vehicles and the odd thrum as one of the bullets hit the airframes told him that. It only took a single squeeze of the firing button to send the ten five-inch rockets under his wings screaming out in pairs towards the vehicles below. They were only a few feet in front of his Thunderbolt when they started to wobble in mid-air, dispersing the stream of rocket fire around the targets instead of into them. He felt Babydoll lurching as fragments of metal and clods of earth from the blast rattled off her armored belly. Then he was clear of the rocket explosions and skimming a few hundred feet above the ground towards the flak gun carriers. A glance in the mirror showed him that the half-tracks were still enveloped in explosions from the rockets but there were no pyres of black smoke or secondaries that might speak of vehicles destroyed. Foster had a feeling that the constant airstrikes destroyed far fewer armored vehicles than he and his fellow pilots were claiming.
He dipped his nose again, taking advantage of his altitude to bring his gun sight to bear on the small gun carriers up ahead. One of the mistakes novices always made was to fly far too low and be unable to depress their guns enough to hit targets on the ground. Foster was far too experienced for that. He was in a ten-degree dive that gave him a good, steady shot on the nearest of the gun carriers. He could see the gun crew on the flat platform at the back, trying to bring their gun to bear on him, the driver sitting in the box-like compartment at the front. The whole vehicle was open-topped, leaving those men completely exposed. Foster felt the Thunderbolt shake as he opened up with his eight wing guns and his ears recorded the road of the machine guns firing. The gun carrier vanished as the impact points of the .50 caliber bullets marched across the ground and seemed to swallow the little vehicle whole. This time, there was no mistake or ambiguity; the rolling black cloud of smoke and the eruption of orange flame told of a vehicle and its crew burning.
"Grizzly, there are three assault guns ahead of us. Want to take them."
"Confirmed, basket. Also, you got those gun carriers; they're all burning. Coming down."
The attack pattern of the A-38s was quite different from that of the Thunderbolts. The attack aircraft were coming down in a 45-degree dive, making their run from behind the platoon of assault guns. Their first shots were from almost three thousand feet and hit the ground behind the fascist armor but the pilots lifted the nose slightly and sent the next shots into the engine hatches and the rear of the casement that housed the assault gun's armament. Once again, clouds of black smoke told of destroyed armored vehicles. Foster shook his head, the 75mm gun on the A-38 was a lot more precise than his rockets had been.
“Chopper to Basket and Grizzly, return to a holding pattern. It’s a clear area for Rodeo.”
The Thunderbolts and A-38s climbed away, their pilots being secretly, but very devoutly, pleased to be out of the continuous anti-aircraft fire. In their place, more than a dozen Il-2s swept in, scattering their cargoes of 50-kilogram bombs over the Hitlerites. By the time the rain of bombs had ended, the fascist attack had been stopped; now it was the turn of the Russian infantry to push forward. The amphibious tanks were following them, firing on any positions that tried to hold out with their machine guns. In the Kolkhoz, one building, apparently a barn or its equivalent, was the centerpiece of the fascist defense. While Foster watched from above, one of the amphibious tanks moved up and let loose a 150-yard jet of fire that doused the entire building. The blast seemed to go on forever and when it was done, the resistance to the Russian recapture of the Kolkhoz had ended.
“You see that people? That’s the stuff we need.”
Headquarters, 1st Battalion, 503rd Regiment, 47th Rifle Division, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Colonel Alexander Georgiyevich Paramonov knew that his battalion should have nearly 800 men but a full-strength infantry unit in the Russian Army hadn't been seen since April 1941. He considered himself lucky to have 600. His orders were to assemble those 600 men to the rear of the Russian positions at Amosovskaya and await transport. Further orders would come to him then. He didn't resent secrecy, it was the way the Army did business.
"Transport is coming, tovarish Colonel." The whisper came as the sound of the engines made itself heard. By the time the vehicles had arrived, the sight had resolved itself into a column of some thirty large, oddly shaped vehicles that Paramonov had never seen before. They were weird, oddly shaped designs with tracks but a curiously curved front end led to a large, boxy body. Then he knew why they were unfamiliar to him. They were American. The dark olive drab paint made that quite clear. The white stars the American vehicles had sported a year ago had gone, but if one looked carefully, a gray star had taken their place.
A figure jumped down from the lead vehicle. It was the Russian liaison officer that was attached to every American unit serving on the Russian Front. It went without saying that they were all Chekists. "Tovarish Colonel? These vehicles are from the 2nd Assault Amphibian Battalion. They will be carrying you across the river to Medvedevskaya where they will support you in taking the town. Be sure to show them how well the 47th Division can fight for these Marines are veterans of the fighting around Ulyanovsk and our Amerikanskiye brat'ya have learned to expect much of a Russian rifleman!"
The line of vehicles had turned so that they faced away from the assembled riflemen. Why became obvious when they lowered their rear ramps to load the waiting men. The liaison officer spoke quietly with the American crew before addressing the riflemen. "Load by platoon, 20 men in each vehicle. Tovarish Colonel, a quiet word please."
Paramonov drew to one side and the liaison officer joined him. "Mikhail Pavlovitch Farafonov. Alexander Georgiyevich, we have an important mission to carry out. Downriver, the 93rd Rifle Division is staging a demonstration that will draw the fascists there. We are timing your landings so you will go ashore at dawn with the rising sun at your backs. There will be much air support for you as well, Sturmoviks and Thunderbolts. There will also be amphibious tanks covering you, with 75mm guns and flamethrowers. This is a very important mission Alexander Georgiyevich, see to it that we have a secure hold on Medvedevskaya by the close of the day."
"It will be done tovarish Chekist."
Mikhail Pavlovich grinned at him and put his finger to his lips. "Not so loud, our Amerikanskiye brat'ya are not comfortable with the idea of political officers. What they do not know will not upset them."
"Are these men truly veterans?" Paramonov wondered if the Chekist realized that Russian soldiers weren't precisely comfortable with the idea of political officers either.
"These Marines? Very much so. They fought well on the Volga, at Ulyanovsk and Samara. Those vehicles they have, they are called LVT-4s, are a revolution. They can cross even the Volga and deliver troops inland from the riverbank. They have made crossing rivers something that can easily be contemplated."
"Then we had better hope that the fascists do not copy them." Paramonov knew all too well that the difficulty of crossing the great rivers of Russia had bought much time to allow a proper defense to be organized.
"We are ready to leave, tovarish Mikhail Pavlovitch." The American Marine had come in and addressed his liaison officer in English. "Tovarish Colonel, the river is 1,000 meters wide at the point we will be crossing. That means it will take us around six minutes to cross. Once ashore, there is an area of high ground about three hundred meters inland. We will drop your men there; it is a good area to defend and we will also have cut the town in two parts. We can then take each half in turn. Is this agreeable to you?"
The American watched while his liaison officer (whom he knew very well as a member of Cheka and would be the political officer in a Russian unit) translated his comments to the commander of the infantry battalion. There was much-satisfied nodding and the party left for the waiting LVT-4s.
Ten minutes later, Paramonov was beginning to wish that his men had marched to the river and would swim across. The LVT-4 was bouncing badly as it crossed the broken ground between the assembly point and the bank selected as the departure area for the assault. Although nobody was aware of it, the Marine Corps amphibious carriers were following the same route as Pakholkov’s SU-85s had used a week earlier and for the same reason; it was an open patch of ground that led directly to the river bank. The LVT-4s, though were slower than the SU-85s and their suspension was much harder. The result was an intermittent jerking bounce that had everybody on board looking green. Paramonov knew that it would just need one person to throw up and everybody would start.
“Look, everybody, a good omen!” Farafonov pointed to the east. The sun was still below the horizon but only just the reflected light from it was turning the sky red. “Let it be our battle cry. Krasnaya Zarya! The Red Dawn.”
That brought weak cheers from the infantry who forgot their intestinal misery for the moment. The Marines driving the LVTs had timed their drive perfectly; the white disk of the sun was rising over the horizon just as they reached the bank. The dawn was cold, at or just below freezing, and showed no prospect of warming up during the day. But, that meant the air was clear and dry which turned the sun’s glare into a brilliant white fire that made the eyes water just to look at it. The positioning was perfect; the sun was directly behind the LVTs and concealed them from any directed artillery fire.
To Paramonov’s great relief, the LVTs swam much better than they drove overland. The drivers were gunning their engines hard, pushing their amphibians through the water as fast as they could to get their men ashore as quickly as they could. Every second was vital; the Hitlerites needed time to reorganize and react to the shock of seeing the amphibians swimming across the river. Every second, the sun rose higher, and very soon the blinding sun-glare would start to fade and the thin-skinned amphibious would be exposed. Everybody in the landing force had expected the ungainly LVTs to throw up clouds of spray as they forced through the waves. Instead, there was barely a ripple around the bows and little more than that along the sides. Only around the stern ramp was there any great disturbance in the water.
The heavy hammering of machinegun fire erupted through the dawn and rolled across the Onega. For a moment, the Russian infantry thought it was the fascists opening fire at last but then, the more experienced realized that it was the guns on the LVTs opening up, pouring suppressive machinegun fire at likely enemy positions on the shore. In the back of the lead amphibian, Paramonov realized that the feel of the ride had changed again. The blessed smoothness of the ride across the river vanished as the tracks gripped the rocks and hauled the vehicle out of the river onto land. Now, it was bounce and jerk again as the LVT plowed across the open ground towards the hill in the center of Medvedevskaya. The hill was only ten meters high but in this flat alluvial plain, it was a prominent objective.
As the bows of the LVT lifted with the slope, Paramonov glanced back at the river and saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There were three small islands in the middle, barely more than pine trees sticking out of the water but the Marines driving the LVTs had used them as extra cover on the swim across. They hadn’t just relied on surprise and the sun-glare. Then, an almighty great jerk sent everybody staggering off their feet forward, crushing the troops at the front against the bulkhead. That caused much good-natured cursing.
“End of the line! All Change, everybody out!” The words were in English but all the Russians understood when the tail ramp crashed down. A moment’s pause as they collected their wits then the screaming battle cry went up “Krasnaya Zarya!”
All across the center of Medvedevskaya, six hundred Russian infantry were pouring out of the LVTs and fanning out across the hill and the open ground behind the buildings. The LVTs had done their work well; the Hitlerites had believed that if the Russians crossed the river, they would do so in boats and would land on the river bank. So, their defenses were orientated that way. They had watched helplessly as the LVTs unloaded their cargo behind the village and were taking the fascist defenses from the rear. They were supported by the LVTs firing their .50 caliber machine guns at anything likely to hold a defense. Yet, something much more lethal was already coming ashore. Amphibious tanks, tanks that had swum across the river and were now landing on the beach and firing at any opposition with their 75mm howitzers.
The defenses of Medvedevskaya had been heavily reduced to reinforce the defense against the armored landing three kilometers downriver. Yet, the troops that were left were Hitlerites and nobody ever had an easy victory against Hitlerite infantry. The Russians started to fall, in ones and twos and then more as the fascist mortars and machine guns took their toll.
One building was particularly troublesome. Almost all the structures in Medvedevskaya were orientated north-south, perpendicular to the river. This one was east-west and for some reason, the fascists fought hard for it. Until one of the amphibious tanks arrived to support the Russians who were fighting hard for the building. Those Russians had expected the tank to open fire with a 75mm gun but what they saw instead cheered them and lifted their hearts with pride. A huge gout of flame at least a hundred meters long erupted from the turret of the tank and engulfed the entire building in a roaring inferno. There was no chance anybody inside could survive, the structure was green timber and painted with oil-based paint. Even being damp didn’t help the building; the flamethrower jet sent it all up in a pyre of smoke and flame.
Then, the cheering died down and the Russian infantry got back to work in the dour, dogged, unrelenting style that the fascists had learned to dread. For, as the Russian knew, there was much work to do this day.
Colonel Daniel Campbell’s Office, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Sergeant Eiler would like a word, Sir.”
“Ask him to wait five minutes and then send him though.” Campbell apologized to Maslov. They were coordinating the operations of two regiments of Il-2 Sturmovik, his group of P-47s, and a detachment of the new A-38s that would be attacking the fascist flak guns. It was a major deployment of airpower for so late in the year. “If a ground crew chief thinks something is important enough to come to see me about, it’s worth listening to him.”
Maslov privately thought that Russian officers had their enlisted men and NCOs under better control than the Americans. “There is a lot of aircraft in a small area. Collisions will be a danger.”
“We’ve got a Master of Ceremonies up in a C-47. We have our aircraft stacked outside the combat area, the forward air controllers call the C-47 with their requests and he assigns aircraft. Yaks and Lavochkins are deploying further south to stop the fascist fighters from interfering. That way we can keep the number of aircraft over the battlefield at any one time minimized while providing continuous on-demand air support.”
“I have heard from the troops involved in the attack. Both the 47th and 93rd rifles have seized their objectives on schedule. The 93rd is dug in to hold its bridgehead, the 47th has taken the eastern half of Medvedevskaya and is working its way west. The amphibious assault battalion is already lifting another battalion over to Medvedevskaya to reinforce the assault. Soon, the tanks of the 9th Guards Tank Corps be swinging in from the flank to surround the fascists.”
“Looks like the Army are out there swinging some pretty hard punches then. Let’s hear what Eiler has to say.” He thumbed the button on his intercom. “Michael, send Sergeant Eiler in please.”
Either had changed out of his work dungarees for the meeting and was therefore conspicuously clean of oil and grease stains. “Sir, down on the flight line, we’ve been thinking about those tests we did the other day, Dropping fuel tanks? We think we did it wrong. If we want to burn gasoline, we need three things. Gasoline, oxygen so it can burn, and the flash to set it off. We only had one of those. One thing we do have a lot of is those 150-gallon aluminum tanks we don’t use anymore. The Russian-made paper ones are just so much better. To provide oxygen, we partially fill those tanks up and put say a hundred gallons of gasoline/diesel mix in them so there is a lot of air around. Before we fill them up, though, we drill out the nose and put the fuse from a 100-pound bomb in there. We’ve got hundreds of those sitting in the dumps right now, we don’t use 100 pounders anymore either. That way we have a mixture of fuel and air plus a flash to set the whole thing off.”
“Can’t you drill out the nose of a paper tank?”
“No Sir, we tried and the tank falls apart. Its strength is in the continuity of its structure, disrupt that and we just turn the whole thing into a pile of paper Mache. Perhaps if the tanks were molded with a hole for the fuse in place?”
“If it does burn properly, it’ll have to set the aluminum tank off as well. We don’t want to go back to giving refined aluminum to the fascists.”
“No, Sir. But we did a test and the flash from an impact fuse for a 100-pound bomb will ignite gasoline and that’s set the aluminum off. We tried while we were getting rid of some duds.”
“I must arrange deliveries of more 87-octane gasoline for you,” Maslov noted in the background. “And modified drop tanks. Is the nose the best place for the fuse? Would the belly or tail be better?”
“Good questions, Sir. Perhaps we ought to try different placements of multiple fuses?”
“This doesn’t solve the problem of the fuel-burning off too fast though. Nevertheless, well done Eiler. Make up a couple of dozen of the new tanks with varying fuse placements and we’ll see how they work.”
Eiler saluted and left. As he left, he couldn’t help thinking that American NCOs had their officers under better control than the Russians.
Republic P-47N Thunderbolt Babydoll 404th Fighter Group, Approaching Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk
"Basket, this is Chopper. Leather Five has targets for you. TAC-Seven-Two"
Foster thought that ‘Leather Five’ was a bit obvious as the call sign for the Forward Air Controller with the Marines but there was no accounting for taste. “Chopper, this is Basket, acknowledging. Switching to TAC. He flipped his radio to tactical channel five. “Leather, this is Babydoll and some friends. We have 5 inchers, five hundred, and the whole nine yards of fifty-cal. What do you want and where?”
“We’re on the eastern edge of the main town. Fascists are mounting a counterattack on the open ground between the river and the pine trees. Armored support, half-tracks, and assault guns. They’ve retaken the Kolkhoz. We've got a real problem here. We've only got amphibious tanks with 75mm howitzers to handle the enemy armor.”
Foster knew that the FAC on the ground was a fellow pilot; all the forward air controllers were. “All right, we’ll go in with rockets first and take it from there. Stand by.”
It was hard to make out the armored vehicles from the smoke and dust that was shrouding the battlefield but once Foster had seen one, the rest seemed to float into view. Like stars at night; first I can’t see any, then there’s one and soon the sky is full of them. He pushed Babydoll into a wingover that would start the P-47 into the long drive to its target. He'd picked out a group of three half-tracks that were pushing forward from the captured Kolkhoz towards the positions taken an hour or so earlier by the Russian infantry. Behind him, the three other P-47s in his flight were following him down.
"Watch it, Basket. There's mobile flak down there." The warning came over the radio but it was superfluous. Foster could already see the orange balls of tracer beginning to float up towards him. They were large, slow, and well-spaced out, suggesting that they were also 37mm guns, but he couldn't see where they were coming from. What he did see were a pair of A-38s heading low across the ground at roughly right angles to his course. Their noses were erupting in flame as they fired their 75s at something on the ground behind the half-tracks Foster had targeted. Then Foster had it, the A-38s were shooting at two small vehicles a hundred yards or so behind the half-tracks. They were the little utility-tracked vehicles the fascists were bringing in from factories in England. The pair had been equipped with flak guns and were firing at him. Foster took that personally. Accordingly, he felt a vicious glee when he saw one of the weapons carriers explode.
'Thanks, Grizzly. Beers on us."
"Those little bastards are the very devil to hit." The A-38 pilot sounded annoyed. "The half-tracks are one thing but those carriers, they’re as agile as hell."
Inspiration hit Foster. "Next pass, you hit the big vehicles, we'll strafe the weapons carriers."
"Sounds good, Basket. Send the word."
The two A-38s curved away and climbed back to their holding altitude. By then Foster and his P-47s were getting dangerously close to their targeted half-tracks. The machine-gun fire coming up from the vehicles and the odd thrum as one of the bullets hit the airframes told him that. It only took a single squeeze of the firing button to send the ten five-inch rockets under his wings screaming out in pairs towards the vehicles below. They were only a few feet in front of his Thunderbolt when they started to wobble in mid-air, dispersing the stream of rocket fire around the targets instead of into them. He felt Babydoll lurching as fragments of metal and clods of earth from the blast rattled off her armored belly. Then he was clear of the rocket explosions and skimming a few hundred feet above the ground towards the flak gun carriers. A glance in the mirror showed him that the half-tracks were still enveloped in explosions from the rockets but there were no pyres of black smoke or secondaries that might speak of vehicles destroyed. Foster had a feeling that the constant airstrikes destroyed far fewer armored vehicles than he and his fellow pilots were claiming.
He dipped his nose again, taking advantage of his altitude to bring his gun sight to bear on the small gun carriers up ahead. One of the mistakes novices always made was to fly far too low and be unable to depress their guns enough to hit targets on the ground. Foster was far too experienced for that. He was in a ten-degree dive that gave him a good, steady shot on the nearest of the gun carriers. He could see the gun crew on the flat platform at the back, trying to bring their gun to bear on him, the driver sitting in the box-like compartment at the front. The whole vehicle was open-topped, leaving those men completely exposed. Foster felt the Thunderbolt shake as he opened up with his eight wing guns and his ears recorded the road of the machine guns firing. The gun carrier vanished as the impact points of the .50 caliber bullets marched across the ground and seemed to swallow the little vehicle whole. This time, there was no mistake or ambiguity; the rolling black cloud of smoke and the eruption of orange flame told of a vehicle and its crew burning.
"Grizzly, there are three assault guns ahead of us. Want to take them."
"Confirmed, basket. Also, you got those gun carriers; they're all burning. Coming down."
The attack pattern of the A-38s was quite different from that of the Thunderbolts. The attack aircraft were coming down in a 45-degree dive, making their run from behind the platoon of assault guns. Their first shots were from almost three thousand feet and hit the ground behind the fascist armor but the pilots lifted the nose slightly and sent the next shots into the engine hatches and the rear of the casement that housed the assault gun's armament. Once again, clouds of black smoke told of destroyed armored vehicles. Foster shook his head, the 75mm gun on the A-38 was a lot more precise than his rockets had been.
“Chopper to Basket and Grizzly, return to a holding pattern. It’s a clear area for Rodeo.”
The Thunderbolts and A-38s climbed away, their pilots being secretly, but very devoutly, pleased to be out of the continuous anti-aircraft fire. In their place, more than a dozen Il-2s swept in, scattering their cargoes of 50-kilogram bombs over the Hitlerites. By the time the rain of bombs had ended, the fascist attack had been stopped; now it was the turn of the Russian infantry to push forward. The amphibious tanks were following them, firing on any positions that tried to hold out with their machine guns. In the Kolkhoz, one building, apparently a barn or its equivalent, was the centerpiece of the fascist defense. While Foster watched from above, one of the amphibious tanks moved up and let loose a 150-yard jet of fire that doused the entire building. The blast seemed to go on forever and when it was done, the resistance to the Russian recapture of the Kolkhoz had ended.
“You see that people? That’s the stuff we need.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Thirteen
Railway Yard, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
“We have two more captured Nashorns.” Lev Izrailevich Gorlitsky looked at the train with great satisfaction. Not just because of the equipment it carried but because of the change the railway marked. What had once been a single-track railway was now at least double-tracked for every kilometer, all the way from Vladivostok to Kazan. A branch line ran south through Persia to the ports on the Gulf. Another branch line was being built through Afghanistan to India and yet more warm-water ports. “Is their sighting equipment intact?”
“Yes, Tovarish Chief Designer. A stereoscopic rangefinder, completely intact. These two were captured at Amosovskaya on the Onega. Our tankists did well that day."
Gorlitsky smiled with delight at the news. There was a great debate going on over the new SU-100 tank destroyer. Long-range anti-tank gunnery was becoming ever more essential and that meant the old-style sighting equipment was obsolete. The fascists had stolen a lead when they had introduced the Nashorn. Not just because it had the long-barreled 88mm gun but because that gun had been linked to a stereoscopic rangefinder. The Nashorn was the armored equivalent of a sniper’s rifle, capable of killing an enemy tank before the latter even knew it was in danger. For months the Nashorns had been racking up an ever-increasing toll of Russian and American tanks. So, it had been decided that the replacement for the SU-85 should also have a rangefinder. But what type? To copy the fascists and use a stereoscopic system or follow their own path and use a coincidence rangefinder?
Already, the workmen were starting to dismantle the captured vehicles. Every part would be studied for lessons that could be incorporated in future designs or for weaknesses that could be exploited by the men in the field. It wasn't just captured fascist vehicles that were analyzed this way. Across the yard, one of the American M-18 Hellcat tank destroyers was also being taken apart and examined. The results would be both the same and very different. Certainly, lessons from American vehicles could be, indeed were already being, included in Russian designs but the long, detailed reports were also being sent back to the Americans on what the Russian engineers thought of the vehicles they had inspected. Weaknesses that should be corrected, lest the enemy exploit them and, in Russian eyes, there were a lot of them.
The M-18 was a case in point. When a lend-lease M-18 had arrived, the Urals engineers and designers had noticed with pride that several features that they had criticized in earlier American vehicles had been fixed. The SU-100 had been another. The prototypes had been completed back in May but some visiting American engineers had made a series of suggested improvements. Not all had been practical but some had been adopted. New, larger hatches for the crew with strong torsion bars to allow them to be opened faster. A redesigned position for the commander that gave him somewhere comfortable to put his legs. A second ventilation unit to improve airflow through the vehicle and scrub fumes better. Small details to be sure but taken together they made the life of the crews much easier and that made the new tank destroyer more popular with the soldiers who operated it than its predecessors.
Gorlitsky had some drawings with him that had arrived just a few hours ago. The Americans had been playing with rangefinders for tanks and tank destroyers as well and they were coming down strongly in favor of the coincidence type. The report Gorlitsky had just received explained why. The drawing showed a projected installation of a coincidence rangefinder on the SU-100. It ran completely across the casement that contained the gun and was as wide as the vehicle itself. According to the paperwork, it would give the 100mm gun an accurate range of 3,000 meters against a tank-sized target. The technical-tactical requirement document issued by the Russian Army had stipulated a range of at least 2,000 meters.
'Tovarish Gennady, have you seen these plans? Are they practical?"
Gennady Fedorovich Drabkin had another copy of the rolled plans. "They are a start. We must simplify them of course. The Americans over-design everything. Of course, in doing so, they make it easy to fix. The big problem will be the fighting compartment. With the rangefinder, it will be too short. We will have to lengthen the hull."
Gorlitsky shook his head. "That will mean a complete retooling. We cannot do that. The SU-100 is needed at the front. Let me see those diagrams again."
There was a long silence as the Chief Designer studied the plans and the suggested American rangefinder installation. Suddenly he looked at one of the prototype SU-100s, then back at the plans. "Bratishka, there is a much simpler way we can do this. The front armor of the SU-100 is angled at 55 degrees. If we reduce that angle to, say, 50 degrees, the fighting compartment will be lengthened where we need it."
"That will reduce the protective value of the frontal armor though."
"Not necessarily; the more erect plate will be shorter so it will also be lighter. We can use that weight saving to thicken it slightly."
Drabkin thought it over. He was the production man, the designer who was responsible for turning the theoretical plans of the primary design office into practical concepts. He looked at the SU-100 as presently configured and at the changes, Gorlitsky was proposing. Eventually, he nodded. "You are right, Tovarish Chief Designer. We will not need to retool. And the vehicle will be practical even if the rangefinders are in short supply. A tankist can always find something to put in any extra space we provide."
"Vodka of course." Gorlitsky was a supremely practical man who knew the men who drove the tanks he designed very well.
"Of course." Drabkin agreed. "But there will be other priorities as well."
"More vodka."
"Exactly." Behind them, there was a cheer as the last bolt was removed and the 88mm L71 gun was extracted by crane from the first Nashorn. The fascists used long-barreled guns firing a relatively small shell while the Russians preferred lower velocities coupled to a heavier shell. The captured gun would be used to compare the two and confirm that the Russian choice was the right one. Or not. That brought a thought to Drabkin's mind. "The prototype JSU-122 heavy tank destroyer has just been rolled out at the Chelyabinskiy Kirovskiy Zavod. Perhaps we ought to go there and see what our bratishka have achieved."
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
“The assault goes well.” General Malinovsky looked at the spreading liberated area on the west bank of the Onega. Medvedevskaya had been cleared completely of fascist troops after hard fighting and much use of air support. The bridgehead there and the one further east hadn't linked up yet but they would. By then, the 9th Guards Tank Corps would be launching their assault from Ponga to drive east and take the fascist line at Korelskoye in the rear. Technically, it would only be a 30-kilometer advance before the 9th Guards would reach the Onega again but against the fascists, such achievements were never easy.
“Are there any signs of the fascists moving up their reserves yet? Assuming they have some.” McNair had seen the latest intelligence reports and they made it appear as if the German line was becoming very thinly stretched.
Malinovsky shook his head. “There is only the 653rd Heavy Tank Destroyer Battalion. They were heading for Korelskoye but when the 93rd Rifle Division crossed the river, they were diverted to engage them. They’re closing on the 93rd now. Under heavy air attack of course.”
The problem is that our aircraft have nothing that can hurt a Jagdtiger. The rockets and bombs aren’t accurate enough and the rockets just bounce off anyway. Even a five hundred pounder needs a direct hit to hurt one of those monsters. The .50s don’t even scratch the paint and the cannon isn’t any better. Perhaps the 75s on the Grizzlies might do better. McNair didn’t feel hopeful on that point.
786th Long Range Bomber Regiment, Airfield 23, Zolotitsa, Arkhangelsk Oblast.
One hundred kilometers north of Archangel, snow was already coating the ground and the bitter cold was but a harbinger of what was to come. The B-25 Mitchell bomber had already been whitewashed for winter operations but the nose art was still vivid. It was a bear's head mounted on an eagle's wings. Not a friendly teddy bear but a snarling vicious head with the teeth bared, enlarged, and blood-stained. The eyes were fixed, staring, and filled with almost tangible hatred. They told the world that the aircraft crews took the war against the fascists personally, something that the simple words under the artwork drove home. "For Melba." The B-25 belonged to the world-famous "Flying Bears," although it was a bit questionable who The Flying Bears belonged to. Technically, they were part of the Russian Army but they were volunteer regiments, paid for by the Americans and equipped with American aircraft. Ranks might be Russian but the discipline was American. The crews came from everywhere; Americans ineligible for the regular armed forces for some reason, Poles, Czechs, British, French, Irish, Norwegians, Dutch, and Danes. Anybody whose hatred for the Hitlerites was strong enough to overcome any reluctance to fight under a foreign flag. There were even Japanese Flying Bears and it was whispered that not all of them came from California.
The entry hatch opened and a figure hauling a kitbag climbed out. "Spasebo, tovarish Lieutenant."
"Pozhaluysta, tovarish Major." Looking out through the side window, Lieutenant Caleb O'Brien looked down at his passenger and gave him a friendly wave. He had been ferrying a B-25 from its reception point over to one of the Flying Bear bases near Syktyvkar and giving a stranded Russian officer a lift had seemed a sociable thing to do.
On the taxiway, Markov returned the wave and set off to walk over to the airfield buildings. He was, now, well aware that on an American airfield, a jeep would have been sent to pick him up but that was out of the question here. The walk did give him a chance to look at his new station and the aircraft in which he would soon be flying. There was good news; the runways were long and built out of smooth concrete that already had its coat of white paint. Even though the airfield was well behind friendly lines, there were still revetments carefully concealed in the woods. The attitude of concealing everything still dominated Russian thought, contrasting sharply with the “bring it on” attitude of the Americans.
Markov heard the roar of engines behind him and saw ‘his’ B-25 taking off behind him. He waved and saw the aircraft waggle its wings in response before turning south. Then he turned his attention back to the revetments. He recognized the aircraft there, the thick gull wings and twin tail were distinctive enough. So were the twin engines although the cowlings were different. The big change was the cockpit. The single-seat canopy offset to the left had been replaced by a wide assembly that allowed the navigator and pilot to sit side-by-side. The bomb-aimer’s position in the nose still had a single machine gun but the belly gun had gone. At least the mid-upper turret is still there. Markov thought the aircraft was pitifully poorly armed compared with the gun-studded American bombers. It also looked primitive compared with the B-25 he had been occupying just a few minutes before. The tailwheel undercarriage made it look strangely awkward.
"Welcome, Tovarish Major Markov." The voice came from behind him, making Markov turn around quickly.
"Tovarish Colonel, I am here to serve the Rodina."
"And your presence is most welcome, Vladimir Stepanovich. I am Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov. We are in great need of proper navigational training for missions at night. You were looking at our aircraft?"
"The Yermolaev Er-2. I remember these well from navigational school. I did not know any of these were still in active service."
"These are new production. Five crew members, not four with a navigator sitting beside the pilot. Most importantly, it is powered by diesel engines. We have almost the same range as the American B-29."
"Speed, tovarish Colonel? And bombload to that range?"
"We cruise 150 kilometers per hour slower than the B-29. And we lift five hundred kilos of bombs to that range." Tomasov sounded embarrassed as well as he might. The performance he had just quoted was vastly inferior to the B-29 although it was remarkable for a twin-engined aircraft.
Markov shook his head. "I am sorry, Viktor Alexandrovich, it cannot be done. At that speed, the fascist fighters will cut our aircraft to pieces. Even the B-29s and B-33s will not go beyond the range of fighter escort yet. We will be far beyond such escort and the slow speed will put us over enemy territory, unescorted, for hours."
"I agree, bratishka, that is why we will have to make our raids at night. Winter is coming, the nights will be very long. We can go far in the darkness if our navigation is good. That is why you have been assigned to us."
"The Hitlerites have night fighters, tovarish Colonel, with radar. Even the Night Witches are at risk from them now. They have an organized a belt of command centers behind the lines here and radar direction ships to cover the Baltic." Markov stopped suddenly, seeing the smile on Tomasov's face.
"Bratishka, do you know which ship it was that you torpedoed?" Markov shook his head. "It was the Togo, the fascist night fighter direction ship in the Baltic. They only had two; one is laid up in Hamburg with severe mechanical problems and you sank the other. The Baltic is wide open to us and is a highway to the fascist lair itself."
Markov's jaw dropped. There was only one city that was habitually called the fascist lair. "Berlin? We are to bomb Berlin?"
"If we can find a way, yes. The American bombers have the power and the numbers. We cannot match them in those. But if we manage to drop bombs on Berlin itself, no matter how few or at what cost, then we can hold our heads high knowing we carry our share of defending the Rodina.
The Colony Diner, Gouldsboro, Maine
"Strangers." Bill Reese gave the warning quietly. Three men had just ridden up on bicycles and were getting off them, obviously on their way inside for breakfast. Despite the earliness of the hour, they looked tired and dusty from a long ride.
The three sat down at the bar and gathered themselves around a single menu. Jennifer Perry wrinkled her eyebrows slightly at the sight, then picked up her pad. "What can I get you guys?"
"Three hamburgers and three cups of coffee, please. We have our ration books here."
"No need. The two-ounce burgers are outside the ration, and so is coffee when we have it. You're in luck, we just had a fresh delivery. Want the works?"
"I am sorry?" The man who was the leader of the little group seemed confused.
"The works, on your burger. Onions? Cheese? Ketchup? Mayo?"
"That sounds good, yes."
She called the order in, poured out the coffees then busied herself with getting her breakfast bar cleared and tidy. By the time it was as neat as she liked, the meals were ready. She watched very curiously as the men took their knives and forks and started to eat. She'd never seen hamburgers eaten with knives and forks before.
Eventually, they had finished. Perry put the check in front of them. "That will be dollar eighty please."
The man who had placed the order put a crisp new five-dollar bill on the counter. The package containing their larger bills was stowed away in their packs. "Please keep the change."
Then they left, got back on their bicycles, and pedaled off. Perry and Reese exchanged glances. Reese broke the silence with a thoughtful, "Now that is odd."
"Three-dollar tip on a two-dollar check? You bet your life it is. And not knowing what the works are?"
"I was thinking about their bikes. They didn't lock them up before they came in. Everybody locks up their bikes these days."
"And who cuts up a burger with a knife and fork? Come to think of it, who doesn’t know that the diner burgers are exempt from rationing? And they all used the same menu? That's a European thing."
There was another silence. Then Perry went to the telephone and picked up the receiver. "Hannah, could you put me through to the FBI field office in Brunswick. Yeah, that's right."
When she came back she was unsteady and her voice shook slightly. "The FBI is sending two agents right away. They want you and everybody else around here to stay put until they get to talk to us. Seems there was a shoot-out last night between two agents and some fifth columnists. Upon the Moose."
Reese shook his head. "That's twelve miles away from here."
"Well, them strangers looked pretty tired didn’t they." Perry looked at the bill left on the counter. "And this is a crisp, new note. How many of them have we seen recently?"
It took thirty minutes for the FBI to arrive, something that caused grumbles for one or two people who had to get to work. They had quietened down quickly when the magic words “don’t you know there’s a war on?” were used. In any case, two passing kids had been given a dime each to go to the places where the men worked and explain why they would be a little late. Once again, “for the war effort” had been a magic phrase. It only took a few words, and everybody knew that this minor incident was seriously important.
Railway Yard, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
“We have two more captured Nashorns.” Lev Izrailevich Gorlitsky looked at the train with great satisfaction. Not just because of the equipment it carried but because of the change the railway marked. What had once been a single-track railway was now at least double-tracked for every kilometer, all the way from Vladivostok to Kazan. A branch line ran south through Persia to the ports on the Gulf. Another branch line was being built through Afghanistan to India and yet more warm-water ports. “Is their sighting equipment intact?”
“Yes, Tovarish Chief Designer. A stereoscopic rangefinder, completely intact. These two were captured at Amosovskaya on the Onega. Our tankists did well that day."
Gorlitsky smiled with delight at the news. There was a great debate going on over the new SU-100 tank destroyer. Long-range anti-tank gunnery was becoming ever more essential and that meant the old-style sighting equipment was obsolete. The fascists had stolen a lead when they had introduced the Nashorn. Not just because it had the long-barreled 88mm gun but because that gun had been linked to a stereoscopic rangefinder. The Nashorn was the armored equivalent of a sniper’s rifle, capable of killing an enemy tank before the latter even knew it was in danger. For months the Nashorns had been racking up an ever-increasing toll of Russian and American tanks. So, it had been decided that the replacement for the SU-85 should also have a rangefinder. But what type? To copy the fascists and use a stereoscopic system or follow their own path and use a coincidence rangefinder?
Already, the workmen were starting to dismantle the captured vehicles. Every part would be studied for lessons that could be incorporated in future designs or for weaknesses that could be exploited by the men in the field. It wasn't just captured fascist vehicles that were analyzed this way. Across the yard, one of the American M-18 Hellcat tank destroyers was also being taken apart and examined. The results would be both the same and very different. Certainly, lessons from American vehicles could be, indeed were already being, included in Russian designs but the long, detailed reports were also being sent back to the Americans on what the Russian engineers thought of the vehicles they had inspected. Weaknesses that should be corrected, lest the enemy exploit them and, in Russian eyes, there were a lot of them.
The M-18 was a case in point. When a lend-lease M-18 had arrived, the Urals engineers and designers had noticed with pride that several features that they had criticized in earlier American vehicles had been fixed. The SU-100 had been another. The prototypes had been completed back in May but some visiting American engineers had made a series of suggested improvements. Not all had been practical but some had been adopted. New, larger hatches for the crew with strong torsion bars to allow them to be opened faster. A redesigned position for the commander that gave him somewhere comfortable to put his legs. A second ventilation unit to improve airflow through the vehicle and scrub fumes better. Small details to be sure but taken together they made the life of the crews much easier and that made the new tank destroyer more popular with the soldiers who operated it than its predecessors.
Gorlitsky had some drawings with him that had arrived just a few hours ago. The Americans had been playing with rangefinders for tanks and tank destroyers as well and they were coming down strongly in favor of the coincidence type. The report Gorlitsky had just received explained why. The drawing showed a projected installation of a coincidence rangefinder on the SU-100. It ran completely across the casement that contained the gun and was as wide as the vehicle itself. According to the paperwork, it would give the 100mm gun an accurate range of 3,000 meters against a tank-sized target. The technical-tactical requirement document issued by the Russian Army had stipulated a range of at least 2,000 meters.
'Tovarish Gennady, have you seen these plans? Are they practical?"
Gennady Fedorovich Drabkin had another copy of the rolled plans. "They are a start. We must simplify them of course. The Americans over-design everything. Of course, in doing so, they make it easy to fix. The big problem will be the fighting compartment. With the rangefinder, it will be too short. We will have to lengthen the hull."
Gorlitsky shook his head. "That will mean a complete retooling. We cannot do that. The SU-100 is needed at the front. Let me see those diagrams again."
There was a long silence as the Chief Designer studied the plans and the suggested American rangefinder installation. Suddenly he looked at one of the prototype SU-100s, then back at the plans. "Bratishka, there is a much simpler way we can do this. The front armor of the SU-100 is angled at 55 degrees. If we reduce that angle to, say, 50 degrees, the fighting compartment will be lengthened where we need it."
"That will reduce the protective value of the frontal armor though."
"Not necessarily; the more erect plate will be shorter so it will also be lighter. We can use that weight saving to thicken it slightly."
Drabkin thought it over. He was the production man, the designer who was responsible for turning the theoretical plans of the primary design office into practical concepts. He looked at the SU-100 as presently configured and at the changes, Gorlitsky was proposing. Eventually, he nodded. "You are right, Tovarish Chief Designer. We will not need to retool. And the vehicle will be practical even if the rangefinders are in short supply. A tankist can always find something to put in any extra space we provide."
"Vodka of course." Gorlitsky was a supremely practical man who knew the men who drove the tanks he designed very well.
"Of course." Drabkin agreed. "But there will be other priorities as well."
"More vodka."
"Exactly." Behind them, there was a cheer as the last bolt was removed and the 88mm L71 gun was extracted by crane from the first Nashorn. The fascists used long-barreled guns firing a relatively small shell while the Russians preferred lower velocities coupled to a heavier shell. The captured gun would be used to compare the two and confirm that the Russian choice was the right one. Or not. That brought a thought to Drabkin's mind. "The prototype JSU-122 heavy tank destroyer has just been rolled out at the Chelyabinskiy Kirovskiy Zavod. Perhaps we ought to go there and see what our bratishka have achieved."
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
“The assault goes well.” General Malinovsky looked at the spreading liberated area on the west bank of the Onega. Medvedevskaya had been cleared completely of fascist troops after hard fighting and much use of air support. The bridgehead there and the one further east hadn't linked up yet but they would. By then, the 9th Guards Tank Corps would be launching their assault from Ponga to drive east and take the fascist line at Korelskoye in the rear. Technically, it would only be a 30-kilometer advance before the 9th Guards would reach the Onega again but against the fascists, such achievements were never easy.
“Are there any signs of the fascists moving up their reserves yet? Assuming they have some.” McNair had seen the latest intelligence reports and they made it appear as if the German line was becoming very thinly stretched.
Malinovsky shook his head. “There is only the 653rd Heavy Tank Destroyer Battalion. They were heading for Korelskoye but when the 93rd Rifle Division crossed the river, they were diverted to engage them. They’re closing on the 93rd now. Under heavy air attack of course.”
The problem is that our aircraft have nothing that can hurt a Jagdtiger. The rockets and bombs aren’t accurate enough and the rockets just bounce off anyway. Even a five hundred pounder needs a direct hit to hurt one of those monsters. The .50s don’t even scratch the paint and the cannon isn’t any better. Perhaps the 75s on the Grizzlies might do better. McNair didn’t feel hopeful on that point.
786th Long Range Bomber Regiment, Airfield 23, Zolotitsa, Arkhangelsk Oblast.
One hundred kilometers north of Archangel, snow was already coating the ground and the bitter cold was but a harbinger of what was to come. The B-25 Mitchell bomber had already been whitewashed for winter operations but the nose art was still vivid. It was a bear's head mounted on an eagle's wings. Not a friendly teddy bear but a snarling vicious head with the teeth bared, enlarged, and blood-stained. The eyes were fixed, staring, and filled with almost tangible hatred. They told the world that the aircraft crews took the war against the fascists personally, something that the simple words under the artwork drove home. "For Melba." The B-25 belonged to the world-famous "Flying Bears," although it was a bit questionable who The Flying Bears belonged to. Technically, they were part of the Russian Army but they were volunteer regiments, paid for by the Americans and equipped with American aircraft. Ranks might be Russian but the discipline was American. The crews came from everywhere; Americans ineligible for the regular armed forces for some reason, Poles, Czechs, British, French, Irish, Norwegians, Dutch, and Danes. Anybody whose hatred for the Hitlerites was strong enough to overcome any reluctance to fight under a foreign flag. There were even Japanese Flying Bears and it was whispered that not all of them came from California.
The entry hatch opened and a figure hauling a kitbag climbed out. "Spasebo, tovarish Lieutenant."
"Pozhaluysta, tovarish Major." Looking out through the side window, Lieutenant Caleb O'Brien looked down at his passenger and gave him a friendly wave. He had been ferrying a B-25 from its reception point over to one of the Flying Bear bases near Syktyvkar and giving a stranded Russian officer a lift had seemed a sociable thing to do.
On the taxiway, Markov returned the wave and set off to walk over to the airfield buildings. He was, now, well aware that on an American airfield, a jeep would have been sent to pick him up but that was out of the question here. The walk did give him a chance to look at his new station and the aircraft in which he would soon be flying. There was good news; the runways were long and built out of smooth concrete that already had its coat of white paint. Even though the airfield was well behind friendly lines, there were still revetments carefully concealed in the woods. The attitude of concealing everything still dominated Russian thought, contrasting sharply with the “bring it on” attitude of the Americans.
Markov heard the roar of engines behind him and saw ‘his’ B-25 taking off behind him. He waved and saw the aircraft waggle its wings in response before turning south. Then he turned his attention back to the revetments. He recognized the aircraft there, the thick gull wings and twin tail were distinctive enough. So were the twin engines although the cowlings were different. The big change was the cockpit. The single-seat canopy offset to the left had been replaced by a wide assembly that allowed the navigator and pilot to sit side-by-side. The bomb-aimer’s position in the nose still had a single machine gun but the belly gun had gone. At least the mid-upper turret is still there. Markov thought the aircraft was pitifully poorly armed compared with the gun-studded American bombers. It also looked primitive compared with the B-25 he had been occupying just a few minutes before. The tailwheel undercarriage made it look strangely awkward.
"Welcome, Tovarish Major Markov." The voice came from behind him, making Markov turn around quickly.
"Tovarish Colonel, I am here to serve the Rodina."
"And your presence is most welcome, Vladimir Stepanovich. I am Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov. We are in great need of proper navigational training for missions at night. You were looking at our aircraft?"
"The Yermolaev Er-2. I remember these well from navigational school. I did not know any of these were still in active service."
"These are new production. Five crew members, not four with a navigator sitting beside the pilot. Most importantly, it is powered by diesel engines. We have almost the same range as the American B-29."
"Speed, tovarish Colonel? And bombload to that range?"
"We cruise 150 kilometers per hour slower than the B-29. And we lift five hundred kilos of bombs to that range." Tomasov sounded embarrassed as well as he might. The performance he had just quoted was vastly inferior to the B-29 although it was remarkable for a twin-engined aircraft.
Markov shook his head. "I am sorry, Viktor Alexandrovich, it cannot be done. At that speed, the fascist fighters will cut our aircraft to pieces. Even the B-29s and B-33s will not go beyond the range of fighter escort yet. We will be far beyond such escort and the slow speed will put us over enemy territory, unescorted, for hours."
"I agree, bratishka, that is why we will have to make our raids at night. Winter is coming, the nights will be very long. We can go far in the darkness if our navigation is good. That is why you have been assigned to us."
"The Hitlerites have night fighters, tovarish Colonel, with radar. Even the Night Witches are at risk from them now. They have an organized a belt of command centers behind the lines here and radar direction ships to cover the Baltic." Markov stopped suddenly, seeing the smile on Tomasov's face.
"Bratishka, do you know which ship it was that you torpedoed?" Markov shook his head. "It was the Togo, the fascist night fighter direction ship in the Baltic. They only had two; one is laid up in Hamburg with severe mechanical problems and you sank the other. The Baltic is wide open to us and is a highway to the fascist lair itself."
Markov's jaw dropped. There was only one city that was habitually called the fascist lair. "Berlin? We are to bomb Berlin?"
"If we can find a way, yes. The American bombers have the power and the numbers. We cannot match them in those. But if we manage to drop bombs on Berlin itself, no matter how few or at what cost, then we can hold our heads high knowing we carry our share of defending the Rodina.
The Colony Diner, Gouldsboro, Maine
"Strangers." Bill Reese gave the warning quietly. Three men had just ridden up on bicycles and were getting off them, obviously on their way inside for breakfast. Despite the earliness of the hour, they looked tired and dusty from a long ride.
The three sat down at the bar and gathered themselves around a single menu. Jennifer Perry wrinkled her eyebrows slightly at the sight, then picked up her pad. "What can I get you guys?"
"Three hamburgers and three cups of coffee, please. We have our ration books here."
"No need. The two-ounce burgers are outside the ration, and so is coffee when we have it. You're in luck, we just had a fresh delivery. Want the works?"
"I am sorry?" The man who was the leader of the little group seemed confused.
"The works, on your burger. Onions? Cheese? Ketchup? Mayo?"
"That sounds good, yes."
She called the order in, poured out the coffees then busied herself with getting her breakfast bar cleared and tidy. By the time it was as neat as she liked, the meals were ready. She watched very curiously as the men took their knives and forks and started to eat. She'd never seen hamburgers eaten with knives and forks before.
Eventually, they had finished. Perry put the check in front of them. "That will be dollar eighty please."
The man who had placed the order put a crisp new five-dollar bill on the counter. The package containing their larger bills was stowed away in their packs. "Please keep the change."
Then they left, got back on their bicycles, and pedaled off. Perry and Reese exchanged glances. Reese broke the silence with a thoughtful, "Now that is odd."
"Three-dollar tip on a two-dollar check? You bet your life it is. And not knowing what the works are?"
"I was thinking about their bikes. They didn't lock them up before they came in. Everybody locks up their bikes these days."
"And who cuts up a burger with a knife and fork? Come to think of it, who doesn’t know that the diner burgers are exempt from rationing? And they all used the same menu? That's a European thing."
There was another silence. Then Perry went to the telephone and picked up the receiver. "Hannah, could you put me through to the FBI field office in Brunswick. Yeah, that's right."
When she came back she was unsteady and her voice shook slightly. "The FBI is sending two agents right away. They want you and everybody else around here to stay put until they get to talk to us. Seems there was a shoot-out last night between two agents and some fifth columnists. Upon the Moose."
Reese shook his head. "That's twelve miles away from here."
"Well, them strangers looked pretty tired didn’t they." Perry looked at the bill left on the counter. "And this is a crisp, new note. How many of them have we seen recently?"
It took thirty minutes for the FBI to arrive, something that caused grumbles for one or two people who had to get to work. They had quietened down quickly when the magic words “don’t you know there’s a war on?” were used. In any case, two passing kids had been given a dime each to go to the places where the men worked and explain why they would be a little late. Once again, “for the war effort” had been a magic phrase. It only took a few words, and everybody knew that this minor incident was seriously important.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Fourteen
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, East of St Pierre & Miquelon
"General Quarters! All hands to General Quarters. Air action is imminent. All gunners man your weapons." The speaker mounted on the bridge blared out the message along with the whooping of the sirens. Young scrambled out through the hatch and ran to his 20mm gun. By some bizarre coincidence, the alert had come just as his training on the 20mm Oerlikon Mark 2 was about to start.
A member of the Navy Guard, long retired but returned to the colors after the Taney massacre, was already there, shaking his head. "That's not the way the Navy does it. Well done, kid, you got here first so you’re appointed the crew gunner and get to shoot the Oerlikon. You got your wits about you. Now, do you know how to cock this gun?"
"Yes, Sir. We . . ."
"Gunny, not Sir. I work for a living. Try again."
"Gunny, I lower the carriage to its lowest position and then elevate the gun to the vertical position and lock it in place. Then I attach one end of the cocking rope to the left end of the breech block cotter and train the gun so that the other end of the cocking rope is in line with the cocking rope bracket near the lower end of the mount." Young was interrupted by the roar of two FM-2 Wildcats flying overhead. They'd just been launched from the USS Ulyanovsk but the pair were the only ones sortieing out from the Convoy. Four more FM-2s and a quartet of TBM Avengers were circling overhead but they remained on station.
"Relax kid, we got plenty of time. What do you make of them?"
Young thought about that. "Alone recon aircraft, si . . Gunny. Howe sent them out to scare her off. Get her if possible."
"You'll do. Now, back to cocking this here gun."
"Gunny, the next thing to do is to raise the carriage slightly until the rope is taut, being sure the rope is in the groove in the sheave. Then, I should unlock the gun cradle, grasp the handgrips or shoulder rest, and depress the gun until it reaches an almost horizontal position. This action will pull the breech block mass backward and the gun mechanism will be cocked when the breech block pawls can be heard to click over the parallelogram bottom levers. Then, I should ease the recoiling mass-forward slowly to the latched position by elevating the gun."
"Perfect, kid, straight out the manual. Now do it."
Young went through the drill, exactly as described in the manual he had spent hours memorizing and made a complete mess of it. He went bright red and swore under his breath, making the Gunny laugh. "First lesson kid, reading a manual is one thing, actually doing it with a real gun is another. And you need to be careful with this here Oerlikon. She's a mean bitch and will take off your fingers given half a chance. Now, we'll do it together step by step."
The Gunny glanced up and noted that the two FM-2s were already on the way back. They announced that the alert was over and that the ship could secure from General Quarters. Nevertheless, he and Young carefully went over the drill for cocking the 20mm gun. The reason for the system was apparent almost immediately; the recoil spring was so strong it was beyond the ability of any man to compress it unaided. One the gun was cocked and ready to fire, they went through the decocking process and saved the weapon, in as much as, the Gunny was determined to drive home, any 20mm Oerlikon was ever safe. Then they did it again.
By the end of an hour, Young was exhausted but he had the art of cocking and uncocking the 20mm gun down to a smooth process. The instructor dismissed him, told him to get something to eat and rest, then went to the bridge.
“How did Young do, Gunny?” The Captain was reading the signal from Howe.
“Good for a newbie. Did we get the snooper?”
Brady shook his head. “He saw the fighters coming and made a run for it. Pity, he was a sweet target, a Junkers 390. The six-engined one. You know the problem of course?”
The gunny nodded. “Yeah, now they know where we are.”
A-26B “Ubeyte Zakhvatchikov”, 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment, Approaching Airfield 089, Talagi.
“I think we are being followed.” Natalia Nikitichna had spotted the aircraft behind them and was training her upper remote-controlled turret on it.
“Is it displaying navigation lights?” Nadezhda Vasil'yevna knew that following a Night Witch home to base was something the fascists tried quite regularly. Their plan had always been to get into the landing circuit when the Russian aircraft was low, slow, and helpless. Occasionally it had worked and there was a set plan to deal with it. Displaying the dim red and green navigation lights on the last part of the flight was the start. Any aircraft not displaying them was presumed hostile. The next step was that Nadia started a slow, gentle turn to port. It would look like she was entering the final approach pattern and any aircraft that continued to follow her would also be presumed hostile. A Russian aircraft would know that the turn was a test and continue to fly straight on.
“He’s turning,” Natya reported as the aircraft behind swung onto the new course.
“All right. He’s a fascist. Let’s see how he likes this.” Nadya pushed the nose of the A-26 hard down and boosted the engines to maximum power. The A-26 Intruder accelerated fast, heading for the pine forests below. The surge of power also meant that its exhausts would be visible to the Hitlerite behind but that mattered little. At this altitude, the A-26 was over 20 kph faster than the most common fascist night-fighter, the Me-110G, and could equal their fastest, the He-219.
“He’s coming in fast,” Natya called out the fact calmly with the same tone she had once used to spot fascist tanks.
“What? This is new.” Nadya pulled hard on the controls, blessing the smooth, light movements that controlled the A-26. When women tried to fly the Pe-2, it took two of the Sestri to pull on the stick to get the aircraft to lift off. In the A-26 she barely noticed the effort yet the light bomber stood on its wingtip and lurched around in a tight circle. The fighter behind them couldn’t match the turn and passed behind them.
Natya tried a burst from the twin machine guns in her lower turret but couldn’t see if they were anywhere close. None of the Night Witches used tracer ammunition. What she did see was the massive orange-red flare of the aircraft’s exhaust. “Sestri, it’s a jet! The fascists are using their jets as night fighters!”
“Well, it is nice to know we are making them that angry.” Evgeniya Maksimovna sounded droll but she was hard at work trying to sketch the outline of the jetfighter. It had flown above them and she had got a good but fleeting glance at it as it went past. The intelligence people would want to know all about this encounter and she wanted the details on paper before they faded.
“He’s looking for us, he’s got radar.” Natya had left her machine guns and was looking at the display of her radar detector. The warning made Nadya drop her A-26 even lower into the treetops. Now, the aircraft was just skimming over the sea of pine trees, and hitting one that stood up above its fellows was a real possibility. She eased the throttle back; the A-26 might be fast for a bomber but it was almost 250 kph slower than the jet. Now, agility was the primary demand, not sheer speed. Ironically, in this situation, she and her crew would have been better off in the old Po-2 Kukuruznik. In the little biplane, she could have turned inside the jet all night. “He’s transmitting one point six-meter band. He’ll have a bad time picking us up low down.”
“Where is he relative to us?” Nadezhda Vasil'yevna needed to know so she could put as much distance between her and the jet as quickly as possible.
There was a long silence from Natya’s compartment aft before she came back on the intercom. “I can see him, or I can see his engine exhausts. He’s behind us and to the left. I’d say three or four kilometers away. We're pushing towards the outer edge of his radar now."
"Watch him. If he turns this way, tell me where he is coming in from."
"The exhausts make him easy to see as long as he's heading away. He's doing that. He must be assuming we'll head east. He's turning away. The range is opening. I've lost him." Natya glanced down at her radar warning display. "No trace of his radar."
"We will stay down here, sestri. The mighty ones will want to know of this." Nadya got her breathing back under control and settled down to her controls again. She'd been a lot more scared than she had let on. The jet was faster and more heavily armed than anything she had come across before. She knew all too well that her survival had been more a matter of sheer luck than anything else.
How much more than just luck was made clear a few minutes later. There were four burning wrecks on the ground under the approach pattern. Nadya had a dreadful premonition as to what she would hear when she shut off her Intruder's engines and her crew descended from their stations. They were met by the Regiment commander who was weeping. "Sestri, we were all afraid we would not see you again. I must tell you that ten of our sisters, Anna, Vera, Galina, Dunia, Katya, Kira, Maya, Nina, Olga, and Rada, have all given their lives in service to the Rodina. A fascist night fighter got into the landing pattern and shot them down before our sestri even knew he was there. They were all too low and too slow to escape. We thought he would get you as well."
"He nearly did. We evaded him." Nadya's voice was shaking. Nearly a quarter of the Regiment had been shot down and killed in a few minutes. It was the worst night for casualties the unit had ever suffered.
Füsilier-Battalion 214, West Bank of the Onega, Gribanikha
“Incoming!” Every soldier knew how to tell the difference between inbound and outbound artillery fire in his first week on the front line. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be around for the second week. After a month or two, the survivors could even tell approximately where the artillery fire was going to land. This time, the sound told Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz that they were coming straight for him. Only a few seconds had passed since the warning was shouted but the sound of the shells rushing overhead seemed to dominate everything. It reminded Renz of his childhood in the woods when a sudden, unexpected gust of strong wind would rustle the treetops yet this time they were in open meadows, not the pine forests of home. Sometimes, that rustle had been warning of rain about to fall but this time it was the ominous sound of dozens of incoming shells. The Russian artillerists had used their hours waiting for the assault to dial their guns in and now their massed batteries were firing for effect.
It seemed to take only an instant for the rushing sound to change into a terrible roar yet Renz knew that even that brief second was an exaggeration and that time was slowing down as it always did when danger was extreme. His handful of men was hurling themselves into their trenches and foxholes, taking what cover they could find in the split second they had before the shells blanketed their position. Then the concussion of the shells exploding around them started, squeezing the air from their lungs and seeming to crush their heads. The infantrymen pressed their noses into the dirt and covered their heads with their hands. That was when Renz realized something strange. By a quirk of fate, the luck of war, or the mercy of God, depending on what the individual soldiers believed, not a single shell had landed within their lethal radius of the German positions. Some landed just a few meters short, some to the left or right, others flew overhead and loudly exploded 100 meters behind the trenches but not one dropped precisely on them. The rolling hillside, once a mixture of brown winter grass and the muddy white of snow was rapidly turning into the black earth, as the shells churned the soaked and half-frozen ground into a morass of shell craters. The patterns of shells, dozens of them every minute, were sending geysers of earth shooting into the air all around Renz and his handful of soldiers yet he knew that they were safe. He knew the Ivan artillery barrages were static things that pounded a beaten zone with terrible force and an unending thunder of explosions yet would not move from its aiming points.
As bad as the artillery barrage had been, the silence that followed it was worse. Not just because it meant that the Ivan assault would soon be coming but it meant that the massed guns were shifting to a new target. The job of artillery support would be taken over by the mortars and heavy machine guns and there was no guarantee that they would spare the positions that had been overlooked by the artillerists. Also, the tanks and riflemen would be supported by assault guns firing their 122mm howitzers in direct-fire mode against any target that unmasked itself. The sudden quiet also meant that Renz and his men could hear the roar of diesel engines as the tanks and assault guns moved into the assault. Then, they burst out of the woods opposite and started to cross the open ground towards the ridge held by Renz and his men.
Renz was concentrating so heavily on the Russian attack that was forming up before his eyes that he almost missed the roar of engines behind him. Four Brentragers, the small weapons carriers that had been designed for the British Army but were now being built in Occupied Britain for the Heer had pulled up and the men they carried were piling out to reinforce the position. Each man had a Panzerschreck rocket launcher and either a machine gun or one of the new sturmgeschutz rifles with the long, curved 30-round magazines that gave them the name of banana guns. Renz had heard of them but he had never seen one before. They were only given to SS units and the fast-reaction platoons of Heer divisions.
The two dozen new arrivals had spread out along the defensive line while two men remained with each Brentrager. There was an odd cage-like structure on the back of the vehicles. Renz realized it was a six-round Panzerschreck launcher. A platoon of Brentragers each with a half-squad of infantry and the multiple launchers for Panzerschrecks were being substituted for a platoon of towed anti-tank guns in line divisions.
“We cannot stay long, Heini. We’ll see the Ivans off here, then we must move on to help wherever else we are needed.” The newly-arrived Oberleutnant bit his lip. “I am sorry but . . . .”
Renz shook his head, knowing that these small mechanized units were being rushed from one crisis point to another with the associated brutal casualties. The Brentrager unit had originally been six vehicles, now it was four. “It is the same all over. Too much front, too few of us. We all do what we must.”
By the time the Russian attack had closed to within 200 meters of the German trenches, the Russian mortar crews had joined in with the machine guns on the T-34s and SU-122s to lay down intense suppressive fire. This time there was no mistake, no accidental void in the fireplace. The hammering barrage of mortar rounds started to explode all around Renz’s position, forcing his men to the ground. Behind him, he heard another roar as the Brentragers fired their Panzerschrecks in salvo over the heads of the defenders. The Panzerschreck was an enlarged copy of the American bazookas that had given the Heer a hard time the year before. Like all rockets, they were wildly inaccurate beyond a hundred meters or so but firing six simultaneously meant that the launchers could lay down a pattern that had a good chance of knocking out a tank. Even if they did not, the salvo of rockets had a good chance of taking down much of the infantry support the tanks relied upon.
There had been seven T-34/85s in the attack. By the time the salvo of rockets had finished landing, two of them were burning while a third had its suspension on one side at the front destroyed. The crews were bailing out, something that to Renz’s eyes at least, seemed to be easier for them than it had a year before. The roar of automatic gunfire from the German position was intense; four MG-42 machine guns and eight StG-44s laid down a lot of fire. More rockets streaked out from the trenches, one SU-122 taking a hit in the side of its casemate that set the vehicle ablaze. That time, there was no sign of the crew escaping. The SU-122 burned for a few seconds before it exploded in a ball of flame that was so bright it hurt Renz’s eyes to look at it. Despite the losses, the Russian assault group was still pushing forward although the tanks and assault guns were moving steadily ahead of the supporting infantry as the automatic fire pinned the groups of men down.
Renz saw that the German line was beginning to fold as the hail of fire from the armored vehicles took its toll. One of the Brentrager had already been destroyed by a T-34/85. He began crawling over to the small knot of his men who were trying to hold off the Russian tankodesantniki with their bolt action rifles. If they had banana guns, they might stand a chance as it is all they can do is fall back while trying to delay the Russian advance. He made his way through the defense line, trying to avoid the terrible machine-gun and mortar fire, trying to link up with the Brentrager group and the men around it. He was aware that the intense rifle and machinegun fire had slowed so he lifted his head to see what was happening.
The Russians had gone to the ground, forced into cover by the volume of automatic fire directed at them. The tanks and assault guns had stopped advancing as well and they were searching for the German positions from outside the range of the Panzerschrenks. While Renz tried to understand the picture, he saw the Russian riflemen rise to their feet again in a dense line and begin to advance with their shouts of ‘Urrah! Urrah!’ still audible despite the intense gunfire. That was when Renz saw what was happening. The Ivans have shifted their attack from the center to moving around our right flank. If they carry on like that, they’ll catch us while we are still crawling through their damned mortar fire. Once they are close enough, they’ll have the advantage with their submachine guns, and they’ll cut us to pieces. Once they’ve done that they’ll break through our thin lines and chase us back to Medvedevskaya.
By the time Renz reached the Brentragers, the commander of the little group was on the radio to the battalion command net. “We’ve got to have mortar fire right now, right on top of us. 200 meters from Kilo, drop four 120s, then battery fire for effect!”
Renz knew that a desperate call for help like that would get routed through to the regimental mortar battery. He could hear the firing getting closer as the Russian attack started to drive in the right flank. It seemed like hours before the roar overhead spoke of the first 120mm mortar rounds arriving. They exploded right among the attacking Russian infantry, scything down the riflemen as they tried to break through the German line. As far as Renz could see, the majority of the Ivans were killed; the rest began quickly crawling back to their trench with the armored vehicles backing up to support them. The Russian attack had, by the thinnest of margins, been repelled.
Renz looked around at the scene of the conflict. Of the 24 men who had unloaded from the little Brentragers just ten minutes earlier, fourteen men have been killed or wounded. The rest crawled safely back into the German earthworks where they lay in the glutinous mud, filthy and exhausted from running and worn out by fear, sprawled on the bottom of the trench. “Heini, we’ve got to go. The Ivans are hitting another platoon a couple of kilometers to the east. Can you get my wounded back to the field hospital?”
The Oberleutnant in command of the Brentrager unit looked stunned and exhausted by the fight. All Renz could do was nod and watch while he and his surviving men loaded up and moved out. As he did so, there was another howling overhead. The Russian breakout might have been repelled but their artillery had resumed its fire.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, East of St Pierre & Miquelon
"General Quarters! All hands to General Quarters. Air action is imminent. All gunners man your weapons." The speaker mounted on the bridge blared out the message along with the whooping of the sirens. Young scrambled out through the hatch and ran to his 20mm gun. By some bizarre coincidence, the alert had come just as his training on the 20mm Oerlikon Mark 2 was about to start.
A member of the Navy Guard, long retired but returned to the colors after the Taney massacre, was already there, shaking his head. "That's not the way the Navy does it. Well done, kid, you got here first so you’re appointed the crew gunner and get to shoot the Oerlikon. You got your wits about you. Now, do you know how to cock this gun?"
"Yes, Sir. We . . ."
"Gunny, not Sir. I work for a living. Try again."
"Gunny, I lower the carriage to its lowest position and then elevate the gun to the vertical position and lock it in place. Then I attach one end of the cocking rope to the left end of the breech block cotter and train the gun so that the other end of the cocking rope is in line with the cocking rope bracket near the lower end of the mount." Young was interrupted by the roar of two FM-2 Wildcats flying overhead. They'd just been launched from the USS Ulyanovsk but the pair were the only ones sortieing out from the Convoy. Four more FM-2s and a quartet of TBM Avengers were circling overhead but they remained on station.
"Relax kid, we got plenty of time. What do you make of them?"
Young thought about that. "Alone recon aircraft, si . . Gunny. Howe sent them out to scare her off. Get her if possible."
"You'll do. Now, back to cocking this here gun."
"Gunny, the next thing to do is to raise the carriage slightly until the rope is taut, being sure the rope is in the groove in the sheave. Then, I should unlock the gun cradle, grasp the handgrips or shoulder rest, and depress the gun until it reaches an almost horizontal position. This action will pull the breech block mass backward and the gun mechanism will be cocked when the breech block pawls can be heard to click over the parallelogram bottom levers. Then, I should ease the recoiling mass-forward slowly to the latched position by elevating the gun."
"Perfect, kid, straight out the manual. Now do it."
Young went through the drill, exactly as described in the manual he had spent hours memorizing and made a complete mess of it. He went bright red and swore under his breath, making the Gunny laugh. "First lesson kid, reading a manual is one thing, actually doing it with a real gun is another. And you need to be careful with this here Oerlikon. She's a mean bitch and will take off your fingers given half a chance. Now, we'll do it together step by step."
The Gunny glanced up and noted that the two FM-2s were already on the way back. They announced that the alert was over and that the ship could secure from General Quarters. Nevertheless, he and Young carefully went over the drill for cocking the 20mm gun. The reason for the system was apparent almost immediately; the recoil spring was so strong it was beyond the ability of any man to compress it unaided. One the gun was cocked and ready to fire, they went through the decocking process and saved the weapon, in as much as, the Gunny was determined to drive home, any 20mm Oerlikon was ever safe. Then they did it again.
By the end of an hour, Young was exhausted but he had the art of cocking and uncocking the 20mm gun down to a smooth process. The instructor dismissed him, told him to get something to eat and rest, then went to the bridge.
“How did Young do, Gunny?” The Captain was reading the signal from Howe.
“Good for a newbie. Did we get the snooper?”
Brady shook his head. “He saw the fighters coming and made a run for it. Pity, he was a sweet target, a Junkers 390. The six-engined one. You know the problem of course?”
The gunny nodded. “Yeah, now they know where we are.”
A-26B “Ubeyte Zakhvatchikov”, 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment, Approaching Airfield 089, Talagi.
“I think we are being followed.” Natalia Nikitichna had spotted the aircraft behind them and was training her upper remote-controlled turret on it.
“Is it displaying navigation lights?” Nadezhda Vasil'yevna knew that following a Night Witch home to base was something the fascists tried quite regularly. Their plan had always been to get into the landing circuit when the Russian aircraft was low, slow, and helpless. Occasionally it had worked and there was a set plan to deal with it. Displaying the dim red and green navigation lights on the last part of the flight was the start. Any aircraft not displaying them was presumed hostile. The next step was that Nadia started a slow, gentle turn to port. It would look like she was entering the final approach pattern and any aircraft that continued to follow her would also be presumed hostile. A Russian aircraft would know that the turn was a test and continue to fly straight on.
“He’s turning,” Natya reported as the aircraft behind swung onto the new course.
“All right. He’s a fascist. Let’s see how he likes this.” Nadya pushed the nose of the A-26 hard down and boosted the engines to maximum power. The A-26 Intruder accelerated fast, heading for the pine forests below. The surge of power also meant that its exhausts would be visible to the Hitlerite behind but that mattered little. At this altitude, the A-26 was over 20 kph faster than the most common fascist night-fighter, the Me-110G, and could equal their fastest, the He-219.
“He’s coming in fast,” Natya called out the fact calmly with the same tone she had once used to spot fascist tanks.
“What? This is new.” Nadya pulled hard on the controls, blessing the smooth, light movements that controlled the A-26. When women tried to fly the Pe-2, it took two of the Sestri to pull on the stick to get the aircraft to lift off. In the A-26 she barely noticed the effort yet the light bomber stood on its wingtip and lurched around in a tight circle. The fighter behind them couldn’t match the turn and passed behind them.
Natya tried a burst from the twin machine guns in her lower turret but couldn’t see if they were anywhere close. None of the Night Witches used tracer ammunition. What she did see was the massive orange-red flare of the aircraft’s exhaust. “Sestri, it’s a jet! The fascists are using their jets as night fighters!”
“Well, it is nice to know we are making them that angry.” Evgeniya Maksimovna sounded droll but she was hard at work trying to sketch the outline of the jetfighter. It had flown above them and she had got a good but fleeting glance at it as it went past. The intelligence people would want to know all about this encounter and she wanted the details on paper before they faded.
“He’s looking for us, he’s got radar.” Natya had left her machine guns and was looking at the display of her radar detector. The warning made Nadya drop her A-26 even lower into the treetops. Now, the aircraft was just skimming over the sea of pine trees, and hitting one that stood up above its fellows was a real possibility. She eased the throttle back; the A-26 might be fast for a bomber but it was almost 250 kph slower than the jet. Now, agility was the primary demand, not sheer speed. Ironically, in this situation, she and her crew would have been better off in the old Po-2 Kukuruznik. In the little biplane, she could have turned inside the jet all night. “He’s transmitting one point six-meter band. He’ll have a bad time picking us up low down.”
“Where is he relative to us?” Nadezhda Vasil'yevna needed to know so she could put as much distance between her and the jet as quickly as possible.
There was a long silence from Natya’s compartment aft before she came back on the intercom. “I can see him, or I can see his engine exhausts. He’s behind us and to the left. I’d say three or four kilometers away. We're pushing towards the outer edge of his radar now."
"Watch him. If he turns this way, tell me where he is coming in from."
"The exhausts make him easy to see as long as he's heading away. He's doing that. He must be assuming we'll head east. He's turning away. The range is opening. I've lost him." Natya glanced down at her radar warning display. "No trace of his radar."
"We will stay down here, sestri. The mighty ones will want to know of this." Nadya got her breathing back under control and settled down to her controls again. She'd been a lot more scared than she had let on. The jet was faster and more heavily armed than anything she had come across before. She knew all too well that her survival had been more a matter of sheer luck than anything else.
How much more than just luck was made clear a few minutes later. There were four burning wrecks on the ground under the approach pattern. Nadya had a dreadful premonition as to what she would hear when she shut off her Intruder's engines and her crew descended from their stations. They were met by the Regiment commander who was weeping. "Sestri, we were all afraid we would not see you again. I must tell you that ten of our sisters, Anna, Vera, Galina, Dunia, Katya, Kira, Maya, Nina, Olga, and Rada, have all given their lives in service to the Rodina. A fascist night fighter got into the landing pattern and shot them down before our sestri even knew he was there. They were all too low and too slow to escape. We thought he would get you as well."
"He nearly did. We evaded him." Nadya's voice was shaking. Nearly a quarter of the Regiment had been shot down and killed in a few minutes. It was the worst night for casualties the unit had ever suffered.
Füsilier-Battalion 214, West Bank of the Onega, Gribanikha
“Incoming!” Every soldier knew how to tell the difference between inbound and outbound artillery fire in his first week on the front line. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be around for the second week. After a month or two, the survivors could even tell approximately where the artillery fire was going to land. This time, the sound told Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz that they were coming straight for him. Only a few seconds had passed since the warning was shouted but the sound of the shells rushing overhead seemed to dominate everything. It reminded Renz of his childhood in the woods when a sudden, unexpected gust of strong wind would rustle the treetops yet this time they were in open meadows, not the pine forests of home. Sometimes, that rustle had been warning of rain about to fall but this time it was the ominous sound of dozens of incoming shells. The Russian artillerists had used their hours waiting for the assault to dial their guns in and now their massed batteries were firing for effect.
It seemed to take only an instant for the rushing sound to change into a terrible roar yet Renz knew that even that brief second was an exaggeration and that time was slowing down as it always did when danger was extreme. His handful of men was hurling themselves into their trenches and foxholes, taking what cover they could find in the split second they had before the shells blanketed their position. Then the concussion of the shells exploding around them started, squeezing the air from their lungs and seeming to crush their heads. The infantrymen pressed their noses into the dirt and covered their heads with their hands. That was when Renz realized something strange. By a quirk of fate, the luck of war, or the mercy of God, depending on what the individual soldiers believed, not a single shell had landed within their lethal radius of the German positions. Some landed just a few meters short, some to the left or right, others flew overhead and loudly exploded 100 meters behind the trenches but not one dropped precisely on them. The rolling hillside, once a mixture of brown winter grass and the muddy white of snow was rapidly turning into the black earth, as the shells churned the soaked and half-frozen ground into a morass of shell craters. The patterns of shells, dozens of them every minute, were sending geysers of earth shooting into the air all around Renz and his handful of soldiers yet he knew that they were safe. He knew the Ivan artillery barrages were static things that pounded a beaten zone with terrible force and an unending thunder of explosions yet would not move from its aiming points.
As bad as the artillery barrage had been, the silence that followed it was worse. Not just because it meant that the Ivan assault would soon be coming but it meant that the massed guns were shifting to a new target. The job of artillery support would be taken over by the mortars and heavy machine guns and there was no guarantee that they would spare the positions that had been overlooked by the artillerists. Also, the tanks and riflemen would be supported by assault guns firing their 122mm howitzers in direct-fire mode against any target that unmasked itself. The sudden quiet also meant that Renz and his men could hear the roar of diesel engines as the tanks and assault guns moved into the assault. Then, they burst out of the woods opposite and started to cross the open ground towards the ridge held by Renz and his men.
Renz was concentrating so heavily on the Russian attack that was forming up before his eyes that he almost missed the roar of engines behind him. Four Brentragers, the small weapons carriers that had been designed for the British Army but were now being built in Occupied Britain for the Heer had pulled up and the men they carried were piling out to reinforce the position. Each man had a Panzerschreck rocket launcher and either a machine gun or one of the new sturmgeschutz rifles with the long, curved 30-round magazines that gave them the name of banana guns. Renz had heard of them but he had never seen one before. They were only given to SS units and the fast-reaction platoons of Heer divisions.
The two dozen new arrivals had spread out along the defensive line while two men remained with each Brentrager. There was an odd cage-like structure on the back of the vehicles. Renz realized it was a six-round Panzerschreck launcher. A platoon of Brentragers each with a half-squad of infantry and the multiple launchers for Panzerschrecks were being substituted for a platoon of towed anti-tank guns in line divisions.
“We cannot stay long, Heini. We’ll see the Ivans off here, then we must move on to help wherever else we are needed.” The newly-arrived Oberleutnant bit his lip. “I am sorry but . . . .”
Renz shook his head, knowing that these small mechanized units were being rushed from one crisis point to another with the associated brutal casualties. The Brentrager unit had originally been six vehicles, now it was four. “It is the same all over. Too much front, too few of us. We all do what we must.”
By the time the Russian attack had closed to within 200 meters of the German trenches, the Russian mortar crews had joined in with the machine guns on the T-34s and SU-122s to lay down intense suppressive fire. This time there was no mistake, no accidental void in the fireplace. The hammering barrage of mortar rounds started to explode all around Renz’s position, forcing his men to the ground. Behind him, he heard another roar as the Brentragers fired their Panzerschrecks in salvo over the heads of the defenders. The Panzerschreck was an enlarged copy of the American bazookas that had given the Heer a hard time the year before. Like all rockets, they were wildly inaccurate beyond a hundred meters or so but firing six simultaneously meant that the launchers could lay down a pattern that had a good chance of knocking out a tank. Even if they did not, the salvo of rockets had a good chance of taking down much of the infantry support the tanks relied upon.
There had been seven T-34/85s in the attack. By the time the salvo of rockets had finished landing, two of them were burning while a third had its suspension on one side at the front destroyed. The crews were bailing out, something that to Renz’s eyes at least, seemed to be easier for them than it had a year before. The roar of automatic gunfire from the German position was intense; four MG-42 machine guns and eight StG-44s laid down a lot of fire. More rockets streaked out from the trenches, one SU-122 taking a hit in the side of its casemate that set the vehicle ablaze. That time, there was no sign of the crew escaping. The SU-122 burned for a few seconds before it exploded in a ball of flame that was so bright it hurt Renz’s eyes to look at it. Despite the losses, the Russian assault group was still pushing forward although the tanks and assault guns were moving steadily ahead of the supporting infantry as the automatic fire pinned the groups of men down.
Renz saw that the German line was beginning to fold as the hail of fire from the armored vehicles took its toll. One of the Brentrager had already been destroyed by a T-34/85. He began crawling over to the small knot of his men who were trying to hold off the Russian tankodesantniki with their bolt action rifles. If they had banana guns, they might stand a chance as it is all they can do is fall back while trying to delay the Russian advance. He made his way through the defense line, trying to avoid the terrible machine-gun and mortar fire, trying to link up with the Brentrager group and the men around it. He was aware that the intense rifle and machinegun fire had slowed so he lifted his head to see what was happening.
The Russians had gone to the ground, forced into cover by the volume of automatic fire directed at them. The tanks and assault guns had stopped advancing as well and they were searching for the German positions from outside the range of the Panzerschrenks. While Renz tried to understand the picture, he saw the Russian riflemen rise to their feet again in a dense line and begin to advance with their shouts of ‘Urrah! Urrah!’ still audible despite the intense gunfire. That was when Renz saw what was happening. The Ivans have shifted their attack from the center to moving around our right flank. If they carry on like that, they’ll catch us while we are still crawling through their damned mortar fire. Once they are close enough, they’ll have the advantage with their submachine guns, and they’ll cut us to pieces. Once they’ve done that they’ll break through our thin lines and chase us back to Medvedevskaya.
By the time Renz reached the Brentragers, the commander of the little group was on the radio to the battalion command net. “We’ve got to have mortar fire right now, right on top of us. 200 meters from Kilo, drop four 120s, then battery fire for effect!”
Renz knew that a desperate call for help like that would get routed through to the regimental mortar battery. He could hear the firing getting closer as the Russian attack started to drive in the right flank. It seemed like hours before the roar overhead spoke of the first 120mm mortar rounds arriving. They exploded right among the attacking Russian infantry, scything down the riflemen as they tried to break through the German line. As far as Renz could see, the majority of the Ivans were killed; the rest began quickly crawling back to their trench with the armored vehicles backing up to support them. The Russian attack had, by the thinnest of margins, been repelled.
Renz looked around at the scene of the conflict. Of the 24 men who had unloaded from the little Brentragers just ten minutes earlier, fourteen men have been killed or wounded. The rest crawled safely back into the German earthworks where they lay in the glutinous mud, filthy and exhausted from running and worn out by fear, sprawled on the bottom of the trench. “Heini, we’ve got to go. The Ivans are hitting another platoon a couple of kilometers to the east. Can you get my wounded back to the field hospital?”
The Oberleutnant in command of the Brentrager unit looked stunned and exhausted by the fight. All Renz could do was nod and watch while he and his surviving men loaded up and moved out. As he did so, there was another howling overhead. The Russian breakout might have been repelled but their artillery had resumed its fire.
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Fifteen
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Captain Pakholkov and Zampolit Bessonov stood side-by-side in front of the assembled SU-85 crews, looking at the survivors of ten days of hard fighting. Seven SU-85s and their 28 crewmen were left from the ten guns and forty artillerists that had started the battle. Pakholkov coughed and started to read formally from the message that had been sent to him by way of Bessonov. “Tovarish Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova you have been awarded a medal.”
Kabakova stepped forward, made a perfect face left, and marched along the line of men until she stood before the table. Then, she faced right and brought her hand up in a picture-perfect salute. “Tovarish Captain, I serve the Rodina!”
“Tovarish Sergeant, Stavka has noted the skill with which you drive your SU-85. Your tank destroyer never lags behind your regimental comrades and when it comes to storming a Hitlerite position, you drive with confidence avoiding enemy fire and crushing the fascists beneath your tracks. Yet, although your fearlessness in engaging the fascists is legendary, so is your care in driving through the pine forests of our beloved Rodina. It has been noted how you maneuver around the trees, even though they are sometimes so close together they scrape along with the side armor. When striking a tree is inevitable, you always depress the main clutch pedal, thus saving your transmission from damage. As a result of your attention to duty, your SU-85 requires less maintenance than any other vehicle in our Regiment. For this achievement and your bravery in battle destroying at least two enemy tanks last week, you are awarded The Order of Glory, Third Class.”
Kabakova was still holding her salute while Pakholkov pinned the medal to her uniform jacket. “Congratulations, Fainachka, soon I hope to see you awarded the Second Class. Already, it is richly deserved.”
He returned her salute and watched while she was about-faced and returned to her position surrounded by cheers of 'Urrah' from her brothers-in-arms. Behind her, Pakholkov heard a cough. “Tovarish Captain Pakholkov, Stavka has seen how your skillful organization and conduct of operations have enabled your objectives to be met despite the numerical superiority of the enemy. They have seen your tenacity in repelling enemy attacks from the air, land, or sea, and how you have created conditions for conducting subsequent offensive operations. So in recognition of your achievements, by order of Stavka, you have been awarded a medal. As a special privilege granted to me, for which I am truly most grateful, I have been asked to present you with the Order of Kutuzov, 3rd class.”
Pakholkov flushed slightly as the survivors of his unit erupted into the traditional ‘urrah’ as he made the equally traditional reply "I serve the Rodina". Around the small ceremony, photographers from the Russian newspapers and a handful of correspondents from American and Canadian newspapers took pictures of the parade, their flashbulbs reminding the artillerists of gunfire. The Americans and Canadians were clutching English language press releases, written by Cheka of course, and portraying the recipients in a suitably heroic proletarian light. That was when a motorcyclist arrived with formal orders for the next stage of the offensive.
“Bratishka, we have our orders. We are to advance upon the kolkhoz of Gribanikha. It lies only two kilometers in front of us but the forests stand in the way. The fascists have mined all the forest tracks, fire-breaks, and clearings suitable for tank movement. Therefore, we must force our way through the trees. We are cautioned to watch out for other obstructions and anti-tank barriers. We can expect to see horizontally-laid, thick logs fastened to tree trunks at turret height by cables and clamps. Most of all we must watch for the Hitlerite anti-tank units. They have small tracked vehicles that can maneuver easily between the trees and strike from unexpected directions. They may be small but they have a lot of firepower and every man carries a Panzerfaust or Panzerschreck and a machinegun. If you see one such unit, destroy it but be wary. They are like the Karakurt, a spider that is small and hard to see but full of a dangerous poison.”
Pakholkov watched his men break ranks and run for their SU-85s. Kabakova's vehicle was the first to start its engine, the cloud of blue and black smoke temporarily enveloping it. By the time the vehicle had turned out of line, its tankodesantniki had already clambered on board and were in their assigned positions. It suddenly occurred to him that the scene had made for an impressive series of pictures and possibly even a film sequence. Nobody had ever suggested that Cheka missed an opportunity. Any opportunity. He boarded For Oksana, edging himself into the cramped and uncomfortable commander's position before looking at the map included with his orders. It was well-detailed, showing the barriers that had been erected in the trees and the positions of at least some of the minefields. The scouts were out last night, preparing the way for us. I hope they got some medals as well.
The map made it clear how dense the defensive preparations were. Because of the mines and barriers, Pakholkov knew that his SU-85s would have to advance through the forest avoiding all the normal openings and paths and that meant breaking and uprooting trees if necessary. That would also mean that the crews would have to keep the hatch covers on their SU-85s closed. Combined with the all-pervading growling of their engines and the sound of trees cracking and falling, their situational awareness was going to be very limited. He was glad of the tankodesantniki riding behind the casemate who would keep watch for them and warn them of the threats. Yet, there were problems there too since sometimes the trees being knocked down would fall at unpredictable angles, striking the vehicles and endangering the men clustered on top. The great danger was a fascist tank appearing from their flank where the trees would stop them from turning to engage it.
Yet, Pakholkov's fears were unwarranted. The woods were deserted and the defenses were not covered by fascist gunfire. That was strange, every commander knew that obstacles of the sort that filled these woods were only effective if they were covered by fire. The Hitlerites might be unspeakably evil but they are not stupid. Anybody who thinks they are is likely to get a rude surprise. His thoughts were disturbed by a series of blasts from around his unit. Three T-34/85s from the company on his left had hit mines and come to a halt. One of them was burning and its crew members were wasting no time in bailing out. The other two were just halted but were not going anywhere. Nevertheless, their crews had taken the precaution of bailing out as well. As was well known to tankists, "The '34' is built to serve the interests of the state, not of its crew."
What held Pakholkov's attention was that two of his SU-85s had also hit mines. Neither was burning but one of them was Fainachka’s. Her crew and it was hers no matter what the official table said, had also bailed out. The commander may make the decisions in each vehicle but who ran the vehicle was a matter of the crew alone. Now the four were clustered around the front quarter and were already removing the wrecked roadwheel and damaged track links. Their tankodesantniki had wasted no time in jumping off the vehicle and forming a perimeter around it so the artillerists could work on their vehicle undisturbed. They knew well that if these defenses had been covered the way they should have been, they would all have been machine-gunned as they bailed out.
Ahead, now visible through the trees that were thinning, at last, the initial objective could be seen. It was a complex of small huts and other buildings, probably maintenance shops for the railway behind the dachas. The fascist positions were apparent but they also seemed deserted. Pakholkov was getting very suspicious. Fighting the fascists was never this easy. He could see that the buildings clustered around the railway stop were made partially of bricks and wood. There were about a dozen of the buildings in all, but the three nearest the railway tracks were already engulfed in fire, the pyres of interlaced black smoke and crimson flames billowing across the railway tracks. Behind them, he could see Hitlerites, trying to use the smoke for concealment while they ran for the southern outskirts of the complex on the other side of the railway line, apparently panicking at the unexpected appearance of the SU-85s.
Ahead of him, he couldn't help but be skeptical about the apparent harmlessness of a wooden building, either a garage or a warehouse by the tracks. It seemed to be . . . tank-sized and was only made of wood. "Zhenya, see that building, wooden, about two o'clock? Put a pickle into it, about midway down its length. Under where the turret would be if there was a tank in there."
Pakholkov heard his gunner shouting "PICKLE!" followed by the slam as the loader slid an armor-piercing round into the 85mm gun. Then there was the clang of the breech closing and the loader's response of "UP!" Then the crash of the 85mm going off drowned out everything else. The gun leaped backward, its movement absorbed by the recoil mechanism while the breech opened and ejected the spent shell casing. Without needing the order, the loader grabbed a shell from the ready-use rack and slammed it in.
The shot had hit the building exactly where Pakholkov wanted it to go, The explosion that resulted was impressive; the whole of the front of the building seemed to blow out as a ball of fire erupted from inside. A fascist T4 tank, already on fire from the hit lurched forward, splintering the doors and hurling fragments across the muddy road. Pakholkov was intensely proud of his crew right then. His gunner already had the 85mm pointing right at the fascist tank, his loader had already got the right round into the gun. The T4 had barely begun to move its turret when a second armor-piercing shot tore through its side and detonated its ammunition. A great white flare seemed to rise from the commander's hatch in the turret, followed by a massive explosion that blew the tank turret clean off the hull and sent it spiraling into the air.
As he had suspected, the fascists had set a trap. They had hoped the sight of the men running away would lure the Russians into charging into the kolkhoz where Hitlerite tanks and assault guns were using the streets and alleys as fire lanes. If it had worked as planned, the '34s' would have been hit in their vulnerable flanks while the SU-85s would have been unable to turn to bring their guns to bear. Only, the ambush had been detected and now the ambushers themselves were in trouble. Over to his right, Pakholkov saw a T-34/85 that had seen the T4 being destroyed and was now firing its own 85mm guns into the buildings. One of the brick-built huts was burning as well and he saw the fascist defenders trying to escape the flames. The T-34 was giving them no quarter and was relentlessly firing both its machine guns at them as they tried to escape down an alleyway. They didn’t get far; the long bursts from the bow and coaxial machine guns sent them tumbling into the mud.
Pakholkov quickly took stock of his position. Just to the right of him, Starshina Tokarev had brought his '85' up and was firing his trophy MG-42 at the buildings in front of them. Sergeant Berdan had moved up to the left and was taking a position in a grove of fruit trees. Between the three of them, they were well-placed to support the tankodesantniki as they moved forward to clear Gribanikha. They didn't get very far. The fascists had positioned an MG-42 nest on top of the water tower by the railway tracks and now its long bursts of fire were pinning down the submachine-gunners as they tried to get into the town. Pakholkov considered destroying the tower with a cucumber, a high-explosive shell, but his '85' was a tank destroyer and only a small number of cucumbers were available. It was too early in the battle to start using them. On the other hand, we do have a trophy MG-42 each. Time for them to serve their new masters.
He nestled the butt of the MG-42 beside his cupola into his shoulder, carefully sighted on the water tower, and opened up. The first tracers were short but he corrected upwards and lashed at the nest. The other two SU-85 commanders saw what he was doing and joined in with their own trophy machine guns. With three streams of tracer fire converging on the tower, the end was inevitable. A dense cloud of brick dust erupted from the tower walls and the fascist machine guns fell silent.
"Bratischka! See how the fascists fear the touch of an expert!" It was the Sergeant commanding his squad of tankodesantniki that had yelled up to him. Pakholkov gave him a wave in acknowledgment of how much more praise from one's comrades meant than formal words from high-ranking superiors. With the machine gun nest suppressed, the Russian infantry began to advance step by step, methodically clearing every building from attic to cellar. The blasts of hand grenades and the ripping sounds of sub-machine gun fire gunfire across the kolkhoz marked the steady progress of the men as they carried out the grim work. Pakholkov saw the fascist tanks beginning to pull back as the infantry closed in on them. They did so while exchanging shots with the waiting '34s' and '85s'. As was common in moving engagements like this, especially in poor light, nearly all the shots were missed.
The short December day was waning, and a gentle fall of snow was covering the ground by the time a runner came up from the infantry. "Tovarish Captain, the town is ours. The handful of fascists that were here has either died or retreated across the railway line. The Hitlerite bastards have mined all the alleys and streets. We are clearing them now for you, but it will be the night before you can bring your tanks into the town."
Pakholkov nodded to acknowledge the message. With five SU-85s in position and two more due to come up as soon as they were repaired, his unit was able to cover the infantry clearing Gribanikha from the west while the T-34 company could do the same from the east. The big danger was a fascist counterattack. Trying to see any sign of it materializing, he started scrutinizing the other side of the railway tracks through his panoramic sight, that was when he saw the fascist half-tracks moving along the Hitlerite’s defense line. Normally, they would have been screened by the pine trees but the snow had served the Russians well and revealed them. As he watched, he saw the half-tracks stopping from time to time. He'd seen that before; the vehicles were dropping off their infantry ready for an assault to regain the village. That was something that he did not intend to allow.
"Zhenya, that line of trees dead ahead. To the left of the ruined hut. There's a half-track. Feed it a cucumber." Pakholkov heard the quick repetition of the litany. Cucumber . . . Up …. Shoot! The 85mm gun crashed out its shot, the muzzle flash seeming to dispel the pre-dusk gloom that was covering the scene. The high explosive shell left a red trail as it streaked across the open ground to explode squarely against the side of the half-track. The vehicle seemed to stagger under the impact before bursting into flames. As the fire took hold, the shells in its back began to explode, illuminating the trees and buildings around it with a brilliant white glare. That revealed one thing that chilled Pakholkov to his bones. There were tanks in the woods, tanks with sloped armor and very long-barreled guns. T5s. Panthers. At least six of them.
The hardened, battle-tested veterans who had invaded the Rodina three and a half years earlier were almost all gone now. They had died hard, fighting bitterly to the end and taking down a substantial bodyguard with them. But they had died, under the guns of the tanks and tank destroyers, artillery, and most recently under the swarms of American aircraft that swamped the battlefields. Their replacements had died as well and the replacements of the replacements. Now, the crews of the Panthers were inexperienced youngsters of sixteen or seventeen, most joining the army straight from school. Yet the traditions were there and there were just enough of the veterans remaining to make sure the traditions stuck.
The crews of the six Panthers reacted to the shot that had destroyed the half-track at almost the same instant that shell struck. Pakholkov’s SU-85 only survived because of its low silhouette, the deceptively poor light, and the falling snow. One 75mm shot ricocheted off the ground directly in front of the tank destroyer and went screaming into the gathering darkness. A second one struck a nearby tree, bursting into a huge fireball and sending long wooden fragments scything across the open ground. A third one, skimmed along the side of the casemate, frightening Pakholkov’s crew with its berserk, demonic scream, glanced off the right side, destroying the box containing the spare parts and tools. A fourth shot hit squarely on the front of the glacis but by some chance, perhaps the inexperience of the fascists in the tank, divine intervention, the shell was an explosive round. The thick armor of the SU-85 saved the crew from the direct hit, but the whole fighting compartment was illuminated with the flame of the explosion.
“Chert, tank gorit!” The loader, Viktor Fedorovich Volopa, was the most junior member of the crew and had the hardest route out of the vehicle. He had his hatch but to use it he had to wait until the gunner cleared his way out.
“No it isn’t but it will be if we stay here.” Pakholkov knew just how lucky he had been to survive the salvo of shots. Normally a 75 from a T5 went in through the front and out the back. “Sasha, get us out of here or we’ll burn up for sure. Back up and swing left, stop in the bushes!”
The move was just in time. Armor-piercing shells streaked through the previous position only seconds after the SU-85 backed clear. The margin was so slight that Pakholkov was sure he felt the wind from the 75mm shot as it passed over his open commander’s cupola. He hadn’t even time to think over what to do next when he felt a massive impact on the front, just underneath the 85mm gun mantle. The shock hurled him backward against the rear of the hatch, smacking his head against the edge of the open hatch. His vision blacked out for a second and then he seemed to be surrounded by bright lights. For a moment he thought it was the ‘light’ that dying people sometimes spoke of but then he realized it was something much simpler. For Oksana was already beginning to burn and he had only a second or two to get out. To his intense surprise, he was able to shake his head while diving out of the cupola.
It was fortunate that they had moved; while abandoning his vehicle the crew had dived into a depression that shielded them from the machinegun fire that was lashing the crippled tank destroyer. It rocked again as another 75mm shot hit it and turned the fire into an inferno. He knew that was it, For Oksana was gone. A damaged tank could be repaired but once they had burned, they were fit only for scrap.
“Who got out?” He had his first duty now, to find what had happened to his crew.
“Sasha and I escaped.” Zhenya, the gunner seemed both relieved and guilt-stricken “We could do nothing for Viktor, the first hit killed him in his seat. The poor drug had the makings of a good loader as well.”
“He was our brother, a brat, Zhenya. He loaded the rounds that killed that first T4.” Zhenya looked abashed at Pakholkov’s words and nodded in agreement.
To Pakholkov’s clearing mind, this was a strange conversation to be having only a few yards from where For Oksana was burning. Do tanks scream when they are hit? Are they frightened when they know they are dying?
There was another scream of high-velocity shot and the shriek of shot hitting armor. Pakholkov chanced a look over the rim of the crater he and his crew had taken shelter in. Tokarev’s SU-85 had been knocked out and Berdan’s had been driven back into cover. Yet neither had been the cause of the scream and crash that had made him take the chance. It was one of the Panthers that was burning, taken square in the side by a shot from Kabakova’s SU-85 Yebat Tvoya Mat. Another SU-85 was alongside the '85' and the two had pulled off a perfect flanking maneuver. Pakholkov watched the five surviving Panthers pulling back into the dusk, smoke, and steadily thickening snow. He knew very well that if they’d stayed and fought, they would almost certainly have won but it was obvious the fascists had decided the potential price was too high for the little that was at stake.
Once night had fallen, the Russian attack force regrouped and secured Gribanikha. That meant the tanks and tank destroyers that hadn’t burned could be recovered. Still, the 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment was now down to just four operational SU-85s out of their original sixteen. Therefore, it was no surprise to Pakholkov when Zampolit Bessonov took him to one side. “Tovarish Captain. Your artillerists have done all that the Rodina can ask. You will hand your surviving vehicles over to the 1434th while your crews will be withdrawn to the rear to rebuild your unit. A special assignment awaits you there.”
SU-85 “For Oksana”, 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Captain Pakholkov and Zampolit Bessonov stood side-by-side in front of the assembled SU-85 crews, looking at the survivors of ten days of hard fighting. Seven SU-85s and their 28 crewmen were left from the ten guns and forty artillerists that had started the battle. Pakholkov coughed and started to read formally from the message that had been sent to him by way of Bessonov. “Tovarish Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna Kabakova you have been awarded a medal.”
Kabakova stepped forward, made a perfect face left, and marched along the line of men until she stood before the table. Then, she faced right and brought her hand up in a picture-perfect salute. “Tovarish Captain, I serve the Rodina!”
“Tovarish Sergeant, Stavka has noted the skill with which you drive your SU-85. Your tank destroyer never lags behind your regimental comrades and when it comes to storming a Hitlerite position, you drive with confidence avoiding enemy fire and crushing the fascists beneath your tracks. Yet, although your fearlessness in engaging the fascists is legendary, so is your care in driving through the pine forests of our beloved Rodina. It has been noted how you maneuver around the trees, even though they are sometimes so close together they scrape along with the side armor. When striking a tree is inevitable, you always depress the main clutch pedal, thus saving your transmission from damage. As a result of your attention to duty, your SU-85 requires less maintenance than any other vehicle in our Regiment. For this achievement and your bravery in battle destroying at least two enemy tanks last week, you are awarded The Order of Glory, Third Class.”
Kabakova was still holding her salute while Pakholkov pinned the medal to her uniform jacket. “Congratulations, Fainachka, soon I hope to see you awarded the Second Class. Already, it is richly deserved.”
He returned her salute and watched while she was about-faced and returned to her position surrounded by cheers of 'Urrah' from her brothers-in-arms. Behind her, Pakholkov heard a cough. “Tovarish Captain Pakholkov, Stavka has seen how your skillful organization and conduct of operations have enabled your objectives to be met despite the numerical superiority of the enemy. They have seen your tenacity in repelling enemy attacks from the air, land, or sea, and how you have created conditions for conducting subsequent offensive operations. So in recognition of your achievements, by order of Stavka, you have been awarded a medal. As a special privilege granted to me, for which I am truly most grateful, I have been asked to present you with the Order of Kutuzov, 3rd class.”
Pakholkov flushed slightly as the survivors of his unit erupted into the traditional ‘urrah’ as he made the equally traditional reply "I serve the Rodina". Around the small ceremony, photographers from the Russian newspapers and a handful of correspondents from American and Canadian newspapers took pictures of the parade, their flashbulbs reminding the artillerists of gunfire. The Americans and Canadians were clutching English language press releases, written by Cheka of course, and portraying the recipients in a suitably heroic proletarian light. That was when a motorcyclist arrived with formal orders for the next stage of the offensive.
“Bratishka, we have our orders. We are to advance upon the kolkhoz of Gribanikha. It lies only two kilometers in front of us but the forests stand in the way. The fascists have mined all the forest tracks, fire-breaks, and clearings suitable for tank movement. Therefore, we must force our way through the trees. We are cautioned to watch out for other obstructions and anti-tank barriers. We can expect to see horizontally-laid, thick logs fastened to tree trunks at turret height by cables and clamps. Most of all we must watch for the Hitlerite anti-tank units. They have small tracked vehicles that can maneuver easily between the trees and strike from unexpected directions. They may be small but they have a lot of firepower and every man carries a Panzerfaust or Panzerschreck and a machinegun. If you see one such unit, destroy it but be wary. They are like the Karakurt, a spider that is small and hard to see but full of a dangerous poison.”
Pakholkov watched his men break ranks and run for their SU-85s. Kabakova's vehicle was the first to start its engine, the cloud of blue and black smoke temporarily enveloping it. By the time the vehicle had turned out of line, its tankodesantniki had already clambered on board and were in their assigned positions. It suddenly occurred to him that the scene had made for an impressive series of pictures and possibly even a film sequence. Nobody had ever suggested that Cheka missed an opportunity. Any opportunity. He boarded For Oksana, edging himself into the cramped and uncomfortable commander's position before looking at the map included with his orders. It was well-detailed, showing the barriers that had been erected in the trees and the positions of at least some of the minefields. The scouts were out last night, preparing the way for us. I hope they got some medals as well.
The map made it clear how dense the defensive preparations were. Because of the mines and barriers, Pakholkov knew that his SU-85s would have to advance through the forest avoiding all the normal openings and paths and that meant breaking and uprooting trees if necessary. That would also mean that the crews would have to keep the hatch covers on their SU-85s closed. Combined with the all-pervading growling of their engines and the sound of trees cracking and falling, their situational awareness was going to be very limited. He was glad of the tankodesantniki riding behind the casemate who would keep watch for them and warn them of the threats. Yet, there were problems there too since sometimes the trees being knocked down would fall at unpredictable angles, striking the vehicles and endangering the men clustered on top. The great danger was a fascist tank appearing from their flank where the trees would stop them from turning to engage it.
Yet, Pakholkov's fears were unwarranted. The woods were deserted and the defenses were not covered by fascist gunfire. That was strange, every commander knew that obstacles of the sort that filled these woods were only effective if they were covered by fire. The Hitlerites might be unspeakably evil but they are not stupid. Anybody who thinks they are is likely to get a rude surprise. His thoughts were disturbed by a series of blasts from around his unit. Three T-34/85s from the company on his left had hit mines and come to a halt. One of them was burning and its crew members were wasting no time in bailing out. The other two were just halted but were not going anywhere. Nevertheless, their crews had taken the precaution of bailing out as well. As was well known to tankists, "The '34' is built to serve the interests of the state, not of its crew."
What held Pakholkov's attention was that two of his SU-85s had also hit mines. Neither was burning but one of them was Fainachka’s. Her crew and it was hers no matter what the official table said, had also bailed out. The commander may make the decisions in each vehicle but who ran the vehicle was a matter of the crew alone. Now the four were clustered around the front quarter and were already removing the wrecked roadwheel and damaged track links. Their tankodesantniki had wasted no time in jumping off the vehicle and forming a perimeter around it so the artillerists could work on their vehicle undisturbed. They knew well that if these defenses had been covered the way they should have been, they would all have been machine-gunned as they bailed out.
Ahead, now visible through the trees that were thinning, at last, the initial objective could be seen. It was a complex of small huts and other buildings, probably maintenance shops for the railway behind the dachas. The fascist positions were apparent but they also seemed deserted. Pakholkov was getting very suspicious. Fighting the fascists was never this easy. He could see that the buildings clustered around the railway stop were made partially of bricks and wood. There were about a dozen of the buildings in all, but the three nearest the railway tracks were already engulfed in fire, the pyres of interlaced black smoke and crimson flames billowing across the railway tracks. Behind them, he could see Hitlerites, trying to use the smoke for concealment while they ran for the southern outskirts of the complex on the other side of the railway line, apparently panicking at the unexpected appearance of the SU-85s.
Ahead of him, he couldn't help but be skeptical about the apparent harmlessness of a wooden building, either a garage or a warehouse by the tracks. It seemed to be . . . tank-sized and was only made of wood. "Zhenya, see that building, wooden, about two o'clock? Put a pickle into it, about midway down its length. Under where the turret would be if there was a tank in there."
Pakholkov heard his gunner shouting "PICKLE!" followed by the slam as the loader slid an armor-piercing round into the 85mm gun. Then there was the clang of the breech closing and the loader's response of "UP!" Then the crash of the 85mm going off drowned out everything else. The gun leaped backward, its movement absorbed by the recoil mechanism while the breech opened and ejected the spent shell casing. Without needing the order, the loader grabbed a shell from the ready-use rack and slammed it in.
The shot had hit the building exactly where Pakholkov wanted it to go, The explosion that resulted was impressive; the whole of the front of the building seemed to blow out as a ball of fire erupted from inside. A fascist T4 tank, already on fire from the hit lurched forward, splintering the doors and hurling fragments across the muddy road. Pakholkov was intensely proud of his crew right then. His gunner already had the 85mm pointing right at the fascist tank, his loader had already got the right round into the gun. The T4 had barely begun to move its turret when a second armor-piercing shot tore through its side and detonated its ammunition. A great white flare seemed to rise from the commander's hatch in the turret, followed by a massive explosion that blew the tank turret clean off the hull and sent it spiraling into the air.
As he had suspected, the fascists had set a trap. They had hoped the sight of the men running away would lure the Russians into charging into the kolkhoz where Hitlerite tanks and assault guns were using the streets and alleys as fire lanes. If it had worked as planned, the '34s' would have been hit in their vulnerable flanks while the SU-85s would have been unable to turn to bring their guns to bear. Only, the ambush had been detected and now the ambushers themselves were in trouble. Over to his right, Pakholkov saw a T-34/85 that had seen the T4 being destroyed and was now firing its own 85mm guns into the buildings. One of the brick-built huts was burning as well and he saw the fascist defenders trying to escape the flames. The T-34 was giving them no quarter and was relentlessly firing both its machine guns at them as they tried to escape down an alleyway. They didn’t get far; the long bursts from the bow and coaxial machine guns sent them tumbling into the mud.
Pakholkov quickly took stock of his position. Just to the right of him, Starshina Tokarev had brought his '85' up and was firing his trophy MG-42 at the buildings in front of them. Sergeant Berdan had moved up to the left and was taking a position in a grove of fruit trees. Between the three of them, they were well-placed to support the tankodesantniki as they moved forward to clear Gribanikha. They didn't get very far. The fascists had positioned an MG-42 nest on top of the water tower by the railway tracks and now its long bursts of fire were pinning down the submachine-gunners as they tried to get into the town. Pakholkov considered destroying the tower with a cucumber, a high-explosive shell, but his '85' was a tank destroyer and only a small number of cucumbers were available. It was too early in the battle to start using them. On the other hand, we do have a trophy MG-42 each. Time for them to serve their new masters.
He nestled the butt of the MG-42 beside his cupola into his shoulder, carefully sighted on the water tower, and opened up. The first tracers were short but he corrected upwards and lashed at the nest. The other two SU-85 commanders saw what he was doing and joined in with their own trophy machine guns. With three streams of tracer fire converging on the tower, the end was inevitable. A dense cloud of brick dust erupted from the tower walls and the fascist machine guns fell silent.
"Bratischka! See how the fascists fear the touch of an expert!" It was the Sergeant commanding his squad of tankodesantniki that had yelled up to him. Pakholkov gave him a wave in acknowledgment of how much more praise from one's comrades meant than formal words from high-ranking superiors. With the machine gun nest suppressed, the Russian infantry began to advance step by step, methodically clearing every building from attic to cellar. The blasts of hand grenades and the ripping sounds of sub-machine gun fire gunfire across the kolkhoz marked the steady progress of the men as they carried out the grim work. Pakholkov saw the fascist tanks beginning to pull back as the infantry closed in on them. They did so while exchanging shots with the waiting '34s' and '85s'. As was common in moving engagements like this, especially in poor light, nearly all the shots were missed.
The short December day was waning, and a gentle fall of snow was covering the ground by the time a runner came up from the infantry. "Tovarish Captain, the town is ours. The handful of fascists that were here has either died or retreated across the railway line. The Hitlerite bastards have mined all the alleys and streets. We are clearing them now for you, but it will be the night before you can bring your tanks into the town."
Pakholkov nodded to acknowledge the message. With five SU-85s in position and two more due to come up as soon as they were repaired, his unit was able to cover the infantry clearing Gribanikha from the west while the T-34 company could do the same from the east. The big danger was a fascist counterattack. Trying to see any sign of it materializing, he started scrutinizing the other side of the railway tracks through his panoramic sight, that was when he saw the fascist half-tracks moving along the Hitlerite’s defense line. Normally, they would have been screened by the pine trees but the snow had served the Russians well and revealed them. As he watched, he saw the half-tracks stopping from time to time. He'd seen that before; the vehicles were dropping off their infantry ready for an assault to regain the village. That was something that he did not intend to allow.
"Zhenya, that line of trees dead ahead. To the left of the ruined hut. There's a half-track. Feed it a cucumber." Pakholkov heard the quick repetition of the litany. Cucumber . . . Up …. Shoot! The 85mm gun crashed out its shot, the muzzle flash seeming to dispel the pre-dusk gloom that was covering the scene. The high explosive shell left a red trail as it streaked across the open ground to explode squarely against the side of the half-track. The vehicle seemed to stagger under the impact before bursting into flames. As the fire took hold, the shells in its back began to explode, illuminating the trees and buildings around it with a brilliant white glare. That revealed one thing that chilled Pakholkov to his bones. There were tanks in the woods, tanks with sloped armor and very long-barreled guns. T5s. Panthers. At least six of them.
The hardened, battle-tested veterans who had invaded the Rodina three and a half years earlier were almost all gone now. They had died hard, fighting bitterly to the end and taking down a substantial bodyguard with them. But they had died, under the guns of the tanks and tank destroyers, artillery, and most recently under the swarms of American aircraft that swamped the battlefields. Their replacements had died as well and the replacements of the replacements. Now, the crews of the Panthers were inexperienced youngsters of sixteen or seventeen, most joining the army straight from school. Yet the traditions were there and there were just enough of the veterans remaining to make sure the traditions stuck.
The crews of the six Panthers reacted to the shot that had destroyed the half-track at almost the same instant that shell struck. Pakholkov’s SU-85 only survived because of its low silhouette, the deceptively poor light, and the falling snow. One 75mm shot ricocheted off the ground directly in front of the tank destroyer and went screaming into the gathering darkness. A second one struck a nearby tree, bursting into a huge fireball and sending long wooden fragments scything across the open ground. A third one, skimmed along the side of the casemate, frightening Pakholkov’s crew with its berserk, demonic scream, glanced off the right side, destroying the box containing the spare parts and tools. A fourth shot hit squarely on the front of the glacis but by some chance, perhaps the inexperience of the fascists in the tank, divine intervention, the shell was an explosive round. The thick armor of the SU-85 saved the crew from the direct hit, but the whole fighting compartment was illuminated with the flame of the explosion.
“Chert, tank gorit!” The loader, Viktor Fedorovich Volopa, was the most junior member of the crew and had the hardest route out of the vehicle. He had his hatch but to use it he had to wait until the gunner cleared his way out.
“No it isn’t but it will be if we stay here.” Pakholkov knew just how lucky he had been to survive the salvo of shots. Normally a 75 from a T5 went in through the front and out the back. “Sasha, get us out of here or we’ll burn up for sure. Back up and swing left, stop in the bushes!”
The move was just in time. Armor-piercing shells streaked through the previous position only seconds after the SU-85 backed clear. The margin was so slight that Pakholkov was sure he felt the wind from the 75mm shot as it passed over his open commander’s cupola. He hadn’t even time to think over what to do next when he felt a massive impact on the front, just underneath the 85mm gun mantle. The shock hurled him backward against the rear of the hatch, smacking his head against the edge of the open hatch. His vision blacked out for a second and then he seemed to be surrounded by bright lights. For a moment he thought it was the ‘light’ that dying people sometimes spoke of but then he realized it was something much simpler. For Oksana was already beginning to burn and he had only a second or two to get out. To his intense surprise, he was able to shake his head while diving out of the cupola.
It was fortunate that they had moved; while abandoning his vehicle the crew had dived into a depression that shielded them from the machinegun fire that was lashing the crippled tank destroyer. It rocked again as another 75mm shot hit it and turned the fire into an inferno. He knew that was it, For Oksana was gone. A damaged tank could be repaired but once they had burned, they were fit only for scrap.
“Who got out?” He had his first duty now, to find what had happened to his crew.
“Sasha and I escaped.” Zhenya, the gunner seemed both relieved and guilt-stricken “We could do nothing for Viktor, the first hit killed him in his seat. The poor drug had the makings of a good loader as well.”
“He was our brother, a brat, Zhenya. He loaded the rounds that killed that first T4.” Zhenya looked abashed at Pakholkov’s words and nodded in agreement.
To Pakholkov’s clearing mind, this was a strange conversation to be having only a few yards from where For Oksana was burning. Do tanks scream when they are hit? Are they frightened when they know they are dying?
There was another scream of high-velocity shot and the shriek of shot hitting armor. Pakholkov chanced a look over the rim of the crater he and his crew had taken shelter in. Tokarev’s SU-85 had been knocked out and Berdan’s had been driven back into cover. Yet neither had been the cause of the scream and crash that had made him take the chance. It was one of the Panthers that was burning, taken square in the side by a shot from Kabakova’s SU-85 Yebat Tvoya Mat. Another SU-85 was alongside the '85' and the two had pulled off a perfect flanking maneuver. Pakholkov watched the five surviving Panthers pulling back into the dusk, smoke, and steadily thickening snow. He knew very well that if they’d stayed and fought, they would almost certainly have won but it was obvious the fascists had decided the potential price was too high for the little that was at stake.
Once night had fallen, the Russian attack force regrouped and secured Gribanikha. That meant the tanks and tank destroyers that hadn’t burned could be recovered. Still, the 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment was now down to just four operational SU-85s out of their original sixteen. Therefore, it was no surprise to Pakholkov when Zampolit Bessonov took him to one side. “Tovarish Captain. Your artillerists have done all that the Rodina can ask. You will hand your surviving vehicles over to the 1434th while your crews will be withdrawn to the rear to rebuild your unit. A special assignment awaits you there.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Sixteen
Füsilier-Battalion 214, Outside Medvedevskaya, West Bank of the Onega
“Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz Reporting, Sir. From Füsilier-Battalion 214. We have been moved from Gribanikha to provide the infantry support for your attack.”
“Ah yes, I was told of your assignment.” Maior Rüdiger Kohlhase was reasonably happy. He had his Panther tanks (except one that had fallen through a bridge and was still being pulled out of the stream underneath) ready to move forward and he had been given a Füsilier-Battalion to act as close support. That was good news even though the so-called battalion was a couple of companies strong at best. The Füsilier-Battalion units were trained to act as the spearhead of an attack, working closely with the tanks and assault guns. “Have you been briefed on what we are going to do here?”
“Yes, Sir. We will accompany the assault guns in until we take Ridge-12, 100 meters from the building, and then move in to clear the defenders out from the defenses in Ring Wood. We will engage Medvedevskaya-West first and then roll up the defenses.”
“Very good. Get your men into position and we’ll roll as soon as the artillery has done its job. We don’t think there is Ivan armor in there but we can’t be sure. All that’s been reported are American amphibious tanks and they are no great problem.”
For you, perhaps, Herr Major with your thick armor and long-barreled 75s. But I and my men have a rifle and our greatcoats. For us, any kind of tank is a problem. “Sir, what about artillery from the other side of the river? Our briefing said nothing about that.”
“Because the simple answer is, we just don’t know.” Overhead the howl of outbound artillery drowned out the rest of his comments. The explosions walked across the small cluster of six barns and houses that formed the westernmost edge of Medvedevskaya, shattering the buildings into splinters and setting the barns on fire. A second salvo was already on its way and the crashes the shells made as they exploded in the target area were immensely satisfying. Renz found the sound immensely satisfying but didn’t have time to relish the sound of the artillery bombardment. It was scheduled to last for ten minutes and he had to have his part of the battalion ready and in position by then. He was under no illusions about the thin margin on which this battle was being fought. A badly- understrength Füsilier-Battalion, a platoon of four StugH assault guns, and seven Panthers. With a preparation barrage fired by six field guns for ten minutes. There had been a time when this would have been the support given to a minor skirmish.
The last explosion was marked by a blast of whistles as the First Company of the Füsilier-Battalion started to move forward from the positions it had held in the tree line some two hundred meters from their initial objective. That was Ridge-12, a two-meter high ridge that was the forward skirmish line for a fortified wood another hundred meters behind it. That fortified wood provided the flank cover for the troops defending the western part of Medvedevskaya. The second and third companies of the battalion were already moving out to assault Medvedevskaya itself. The problem was that if Renz’s group hadn’t taken the woods, the rest of the battalion would come under a lethal crossfire. That was why First Company had the StugHs in support.
The first fifty meters were easy enough; the ground had a slight slope upwards before leveling off at ten meters. The men were running up that slope in a pronounced crouch, trying to get as much cover from the rise as possible. As they crossed the crest of the rise, the Russian machine gunners opened up from Ridge-12. The German infantry immediately went to the ground, splitting up into two rifle sections and a machine-gun section. What happened then was a well-trained, very well-practiced drill. The machine-gun sections started raking the Russian positions along the ridge with streams of fire from their MG-42s., the idea was, to pin down the Russian gunners while the rifle sections tried to move forward into more favorable positions. Then they would take the Russian machine guns under fire while the MG-42 team moved up. Then the whole process would be repeated.
Renz noted that the Russians were fighting differently now. Once, they had spent their time engaging the rifle sections, believing them to be the most serious threat. In the last few months, they had changed tactics and now concentrated on killing the German machine-gun teams, realizing that once they were gone, the German platoons had lost most of their strength. Increasingly, infantry battles were evolving into duels between opposing machine gun teams until something else turned up to break the deadlock.
In this case, it was the StugH assault guns. They were following the advance line of infantry by some fifty to a hundred meters. Again tactics had changed. Once they had been in amongst their infantry, providing instant close support with their 105mm howitzers. Those days had ended when the Americans had arrived with their bazookas. The battlefields in the Chuvashskaya were littered with the burned-out wrecks of tanks and assault guns that had got too close to the American positions and been picked off by the bazooka teams. So, tactics had changed again and now the assault guns were held back, out of range of the rockets.
Renz knew that the main impact of the change had been on coordination between the infantry and the assault guns; the latter were as effective at 250 meters as they had been at 50. He’d also heard it claimed that the assault gun crews could provide better support further back since they had a wider view of the fighting and could spot threats better. His infantry wasn’t convinced.
Nevertheless, the support from the assault guns arrived on time on target. Renz was sure that he had felt the wind of the shells passing overhead as the gunners spotted the Russian machine-gun nests and engaged them. The high explosive rounds were followed by smoke that covered the crest of Ridge-12 and screened the Füsiliers as they rose from cover and sprinted forward. Stunned by the fire from the 105s and blinded by the smoke, the Russian skirmish screen, what was left of it, pulled back, surrendering the ridgeline to the attackers.
“Well, that was the easy bit.” Renz’s call met with laughter. There were about a dozen dead Ivans on the ridge, almost all victims of the fire from the assault guns. In contrast, only a handful of German bodies were left behind their advance and from the work of the medics, it was apparent that most of them were wounded rather than killed. Ironically, the only reported death so far had been one of the wounded who had been run over by a StuH. Despite the low butcher’s bill so far, his comment had been true. This had been the easy part. That was emphasized by another series of explosions along the crest of Ridge-12. These were much smaller than the blasts of the 105s fired by the assault guns and the pattern was irregular. He bet that they were 75mm pack-howitzers although he didn’t rule out 82mm mortars. Either way, it’s time we got out of here.
Once again, the whistles sounded, once again the Füsiliers swarmed over the ridge, such as it was, and started their leapfrog advance on the Russian defenses. This time, though, they faced something much more formidable than a thin skirmish line along a shallow ridge. Ahead of them, barely fifty meters away, was a standard Russian two-up, one-back defense. The main defensive position was the Ring Wood, a circular wood, shaped a bit like an engagement ring with a thin circular line of trees to the front and a heavy patch of forest to the rear. In front of it were two smaller patches of woods, much lighter and probably traversable by armored vehicles. They would be more lightly defended and were garrisoned so any direct attack on the main position would be brought under a cross-fire.
The plan had been to concentrate on the forward left-hand position, for two reasons. One was that the trees in it were dispersed and offered less protection to the troops stationed there. The other was that there were two strips of smooth, clear ground to its left, strips that looked suspiciously like runways. Why they haven’t been investigated during our occupation I don’t know but now amongst all the other things we have to do is check those woods for signs of dispersed aircraft revetments. That could have been an old Russian airfield before we occupied the area.
It was less than 50 meters from the ridge crest to the first trees in the left-hand outpost. This time, the assault guns stayed where they were; they were already in range of bazooka fire from the Russian position and discretion was the watchword here. Instead, they had nuzzled up to the two-meter-high ridge and positioned themselves so that just their superstructure gun casemate showed. That way they had the least exposure to the rockets while being able to fire on enemy positions ahead.
Renz’s men were already taking fire from both the defensive outposts, blasts of machine-gun fire from directly ahead, and a lower sustained fire from the right flank. Already, the well-practiced assault drill was being put into practice with the MG-42 teams trying to pin down the Russian defenses. Once again, Renz was sure that he could feel the wind as 105mm shells from the assault guns passed millimeters over his head and he knew that the fire support he was getting was dangerously close to the minimum safety limits. Why does the figure of 30 meters keep running around inside my head? And why does the instructor’s advice that if we’re not taking casualties from our artillery, we’re not following it closely enough seem so discouraging when I’m one of the possible casualties?
The blasts of the German shells exploding in the woods seemed to be pounding Renz’s eardrums flat. There was a foxhole ahead of him, one where the machine-gunner was firing on a target off to Renz’s left. Again, this was a well-practiced, almost automatic drill. He had a stielhandgranate stick grenade in one hand, ready for throwing. It needed only a quick pull on the activation string and it was ready to go. Renz yelled “Grenade” and threw it, seeing the awkwardly-shaped grenade arch through the air and land in the weapons pit some twenty meters in front of him. The blast inflicted more punishment on his long-suffering eardrums but it also silenced the machine gunner in front of him.
“Position up ahead!” The warning shout seemed to come from a long way away. Renz saw what the problem was. There were three square redoubts in the woods, each a U-shaped earth bank with one end open. Aircraft revetments! This was an airfield once. I can strike that off my list.
“Mortars! Bring up the mortars.” Renz gave the orders quickly. The mortar crews had stayed back with the assault guns, not least because their weapons had a minimum range and even with this level of separation, dropping the mortar bombs into the targets would need skill and fine judgment. Once, such things had been commonplace in the Heer, but these days not so much, and those that still had them were carefully hoarded. Renz read out the ranges and bearings to the targets and prayed the mortar crews were on the ball. The one consolation was that they knew they had to overshoot, not undershoot if they wished to remain popular with the rest of their unit.
The 81mm mortars did their work exceedingly well. The first salvo did indeed overshoot but that had the effect of showering fragments into the open ends of the revetments. A quick correction had brought the rounds a little closer in, along with a warning that they were pushing the elevation gear to its limits. The mortar round though had one huge advantage over the stielhandgranate Renz had thrown earlier. Its casing developed a truly vicious amount of fragments that were contained by the earthen walls. By the time the last round had exploded, Renz was already leading his men in a charge through the trees to the smoking fortresses. It took an urgent leap and a few scrabbles but he was able to roll over the top and drop down the other side with a pistol in hand. One Russian soldier less than a meter away from him was moaning from the fragmentation injuries he had received. Renz fired two shots from his P-38 into the man’s head and then sprinted across the open ground. Quite apart from anything else, the open rear of the revetment made it possible for the remaining defenders elsewhere to fire in.
The Füsiliers had made short work of the defenders; the survivors of the mortar attack had been swiftly bayoneted or shot. That meant the left-hand outwork was now firmly in the battalion’s hands and at least half their task was done. The assault guns were already bombarding the two remaining defensive positions and the Ivans occupying them had more to worry about now than the attack developing to the west of their position. Behind him, Renz heard the flat double-crack of a Panther’s long 75mm and the scream of a shot hitting armor plate. The attack on western Medvedevskaya was underway.
Panzerkampfwagen V Panther 314, Outside Medvedevskaya, West Bank of the Onega
Lieutenant Ivan Jaeger was using his commander’s sight to try and locate the targets he knew had to be there. The problem was that he had a narrow field of vision, even on low magnification but his gunner had an even narrower one. Panther 314 didn’t even have a rooftop periscope sight. It made locating and zeroing in on targets problematic. Despite the Panther’s reputation, assiduously promoted by German propaganda, as the ideal battle tank, Jaeger was not impressed by the vehicle. It had good armor and a wonderful gun but it was unreliable and a swine to maintain. A final drive change, something that had to be done every 1200 kilometers, was a two-day job that left everybody in the crew exhausted. Worse than that though, it was poorly arranged internally, and getting out in a hurry was a real challenge. When a Panther burned, it usually took most of its crew with it.
“Pauli, see the white building with the three small outhouses? To the left of that. One of those American amphibious tanks.”
“Got it, Ivan. Range 450 meters, loading a 39/42.”
There was a pause while the loader got the round, maneuvered it into position, and slammed it into the breach. “Up.”
“Ready to fire.”
“Take him.” Jaeger’s voice was terse.
The 75mm gun crashed and there was a brilliant red streak across the battlefield that ended in the side of an American LVT(A)-4. The effects of the hit were spectacular; the LVT exploded in a ball of flame as the APCBC-HE shot ripped through the thin armor and exploded inside the vehicle. Watching through his commander’s sight, Jaeger saw pieces of the vehicle flying through the air and had to assume at least some of the debris were the last mortal remains of the crew. “Poor Ami bastards. That thing doesn’t belong on a battlefield with real tanks. Pauli, front row of buildings, about 15 degrees right, another white building? There is another one of those things there. Take him out.”
“Got him, Ivan. Range 480 meters, load a 39/42.”
“Up.”
There was another crash, another streak across the battlefield, and a second LVT(A)-4 exploded with the same lethal ferocity as the first. “Good shot, Pauli. Chris, get us moving and keep up with the infantry. Just stay a hundred yards behind them, we don’t want a rocket up our ass. Max, load a HE round, that’ll do for those amphibious tanks as well as the APHE rounds and if there’s any resistance, it’ll be from the buildings. Pauli, the first sign of gunfire, blow the building it came from apart.
The howl from overhead was deafening even inside the Panther. By the time Jaeger had struggled with his hatch and got it open, the sound had almost gone but he could see what had caused it. Four Ami Thunderbolts were making an attack run on the attacking tanks when a pair of Me-262s assigned to provide top-cover had swept in. Their engines had been the sounds. Jaeger watched at the jets slashed in on the Thunderbolts, their 30mm cannon surrounding the aircraft with red tracer streaks. It seemed to take forever to get a hit but when it happened, the effects were spectacular. One of the Thunderbolts lost a wing and, streaming an orange-red fire, crashed into the woods just beyond the battle area. A second turned away, black smoke and flames pouring from its underbelly, and headed north, the pilot obviously trying to get to Russian-held territory.
He didn’t make it, not quite. The Thunderbolt hit the river a little short of the other bank, skipped across the water, and came to a halt just a few meters short of the bank. Four figures ran out from the woods, though his commander’s sight, Jaeger could see they wore the brown of the Russians, not American olive drab. Despite the machine-gun fire and mortar rounds hitting all around them, they were pulling the pilot out of the wreck and dragging him to the shore. To Jaeger’s surprise, they made it back through the gunfire to safety before the Thunderbolt blew up. Jaeger felt like cheering for them.
“They’re coming back!” The warning came out over the company radio command circuit. Jaeger looked out of his cupola and saw the two remaining Thunderbolts were coming in side-by-side, their machine guns blazing at the infantry on the ground in front of them. He saw the bombs under the wings wobble-free and the rockets streaking out towards the vehicles. Then, he saw the two jets above and behind them closing fast. The Thunderbolts had seen them too because they split apart, curving away in different directions. Behind them, the 262s saw their turn and they tried to follow the two aircraft. As soon as they did so, the Thunderbolts reversed their turns and converged on each other. That was when Jaeger saw the deadly trap they had laid. If the 262s continued their pursuits, each would be exposed to raking deflection fire from the Ami fighters. If they did not. Then they would fly between them and be exposed to fire from both. The Luftwaffe pilots selected the second course, accelerated, and flew through the web of fire, using their speed to escape. They climbed away, leaving the Thunderbolts floundering behind them.
“So it's true.” Jaeger sounded reflective.
“What is Ivan?” Pauli in the gunner’s seat hadn’t seen the last maneuver.
“Germany really does have a Luftwaffe after all.”
“314? The Second and Third companies of the Füsilier-Battalion are clearing western Medvedevskaya now. Get ready to swing east and support them as they advance. Watch out, StugHs and First Company of the Füsilier-Battalion are coming in from your right. Do NOT engage them. What the hell . . . .”
Major Kohlhase had broken transmission in shock. Over on the extreme left, one of the Ami amphibious tanks had been flushed from cover. Instead of trying to run or get back into a covered position, the crew had turned and opened fire on the Panther engaging them. And, open fire was quite literally correct for the LVT(A) in question was a flamethrower tank. The brilliant, dark red, and an utterly evil-looking jet of flame arched out from its turret and bathed the Panther in the fire. Normally, flamethrowers fired in short bursts but this one went on and on, dousing the burning tank with more and more of the burning liquid. Jaeger realized the amphibian crew knew they had no chance of survival and the gunner was simply holding his finger on the flame gun trigger until they were killed or the tank of fuel ran out.
“Pauli, engage left, now! Kill that thing before it comes after us.”
Jaeger had been right, the LVTs had armor so thin that it could be punctured by a well-swung pickaxe. The HE round from the 75mm blew the vehicle apart, sending it onwards in a spectacular ball of fire. He knew though that wouldn’t help the crew of the Panther though. The vehicle was jet black overall, every single flammable material on the outside was burning, even down to the rubber tires on the road wheels. The crew was dead, roasted alive inside their tank. 212, Jaeger thought, we ‘ve drunk together, chased girls together, and were good soldiers together. Now they are gone, burned up by those . . . those things. What the hell do the Amis do to their fuel to make it burn like that? Is it true they run their vehicles on aviation fuel?
“All vehicles, Medvedevska West is clear, the Ivans are retreating east along the river bank. Follow them in close support. And kill those Ami amphibs on sight. We can’t lose another tank like that.”
Headquarters, 1st Battalion, 503rd Regiment, 47th Rifle Division, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Alexander Georgiyevich, we are getting the LVTs ready, if we can’t hold them, we will go in and pull your men off the beach.” Colonel Clyde Connors had run into Colonel Paramonov’s headquarters uninvited.
“Thank you Tovarish Colonel but we cannot ask that of you. The fascists have Panthers; they have already destroyed more than half your amphibious tanks, they will chop your personnel carriers to pieces.”
“Alex, I’m a Marine. We have just one unbreakable rule. We never leave a man behind. I took your boys over, we’ll go and get them back.”
“Thank you, my friend. But I do not think that will be necessary. See here, just ahead of the advancing fascists? The forest comes right down to the river with a gap of, at most fifty meters. The forest is impassible, full of debris that has floated down the river in the summer. Even men on foot cannot get through there. We have mined the gap very thoroughly and it is covered with fire from tank destroyers and artillery on this side of the river. We have lost Medvedevska West but we will hold the east until the force upriver breaks out and joins us. Then we will drive the fascists out again.” Paramov paused and blinked back tears. “Your pilot, is he safe?”
“Yes, thank you, Alex. A bit singed and as mad as hell at those jets but he’ll be back in the cockpit in a few days. Your men are very brave to have gone after him like that.”
“What else could they do?” Paramov shook his head. “Perhaps you can send them some cases of Spam as a thank-you. They’ll prefer that to medals. Now, excuse me for I have an artillery bombardment to arrange. Tell your pilot, it will be a big one in his honor.”
Füsilier-Battalion 214, Outside Medvedevskaya, West Bank of the Onega
“Oberleutnant Heinrich Renz Reporting, Sir. From Füsilier-Battalion 214. We have been moved from Gribanikha to provide the infantry support for your attack.”
“Ah yes, I was told of your assignment.” Maior Rüdiger Kohlhase was reasonably happy. He had his Panther tanks (except one that had fallen through a bridge and was still being pulled out of the stream underneath) ready to move forward and he had been given a Füsilier-Battalion to act as close support. That was good news even though the so-called battalion was a couple of companies strong at best. The Füsilier-Battalion units were trained to act as the spearhead of an attack, working closely with the tanks and assault guns. “Have you been briefed on what we are going to do here?”
“Yes, Sir. We will accompany the assault guns in until we take Ridge-12, 100 meters from the building, and then move in to clear the defenders out from the defenses in Ring Wood. We will engage Medvedevskaya-West first and then roll up the defenses.”
“Very good. Get your men into position and we’ll roll as soon as the artillery has done its job. We don’t think there is Ivan armor in there but we can’t be sure. All that’s been reported are American amphibious tanks and they are no great problem.”
For you, perhaps, Herr Major with your thick armor and long-barreled 75s. But I and my men have a rifle and our greatcoats. For us, any kind of tank is a problem. “Sir, what about artillery from the other side of the river? Our briefing said nothing about that.”
“Because the simple answer is, we just don’t know.” Overhead the howl of outbound artillery drowned out the rest of his comments. The explosions walked across the small cluster of six barns and houses that formed the westernmost edge of Medvedevskaya, shattering the buildings into splinters and setting the barns on fire. A second salvo was already on its way and the crashes the shells made as they exploded in the target area were immensely satisfying. Renz found the sound immensely satisfying but didn’t have time to relish the sound of the artillery bombardment. It was scheduled to last for ten minutes and he had to have his part of the battalion ready and in position by then. He was under no illusions about the thin margin on which this battle was being fought. A badly- understrength Füsilier-Battalion, a platoon of four StugH assault guns, and seven Panthers. With a preparation barrage fired by six field guns for ten minutes. There had been a time when this would have been the support given to a minor skirmish.
The last explosion was marked by a blast of whistles as the First Company of the Füsilier-Battalion started to move forward from the positions it had held in the tree line some two hundred meters from their initial objective. That was Ridge-12, a two-meter high ridge that was the forward skirmish line for a fortified wood another hundred meters behind it. That fortified wood provided the flank cover for the troops defending the western part of Medvedevskaya. The second and third companies of the battalion were already moving out to assault Medvedevskaya itself. The problem was that if Renz’s group hadn’t taken the woods, the rest of the battalion would come under a lethal crossfire. That was why First Company had the StugHs in support.
The first fifty meters were easy enough; the ground had a slight slope upwards before leveling off at ten meters. The men were running up that slope in a pronounced crouch, trying to get as much cover from the rise as possible. As they crossed the crest of the rise, the Russian machine gunners opened up from Ridge-12. The German infantry immediately went to the ground, splitting up into two rifle sections and a machine-gun section. What happened then was a well-trained, very well-practiced drill. The machine-gun sections started raking the Russian positions along the ridge with streams of fire from their MG-42s., the idea was, to pin down the Russian gunners while the rifle sections tried to move forward into more favorable positions. Then they would take the Russian machine guns under fire while the MG-42 team moved up. Then the whole process would be repeated.
Renz noted that the Russians were fighting differently now. Once, they had spent their time engaging the rifle sections, believing them to be the most serious threat. In the last few months, they had changed tactics and now concentrated on killing the German machine-gun teams, realizing that once they were gone, the German platoons had lost most of their strength. Increasingly, infantry battles were evolving into duels between opposing machine gun teams until something else turned up to break the deadlock.
In this case, it was the StugH assault guns. They were following the advance line of infantry by some fifty to a hundred meters. Again tactics had changed. Once they had been in amongst their infantry, providing instant close support with their 105mm howitzers. Those days had ended when the Americans had arrived with their bazookas. The battlefields in the Chuvashskaya were littered with the burned-out wrecks of tanks and assault guns that had got too close to the American positions and been picked off by the bazooka teams. So, tactics had changed again and now the assault guns were held back, out of range of the rockets.
Renz knew that the main impact of the change had been on coordination between the infantry and the assault guns; the latter were as effective at 250 meters as they had been at 50. He’d also heard it claimed that the assault gun crews could provide better support further back since they had a wider view of the fighting and could spot threats better. His infantry wasn’t convinced.
Nevertheless, the support from the assault guns arrived on time on target. Renz was sure that he had felt the wind of the shells passing overhead as the gunners spotted the Russian machine-gun nests and engaged them. The high explosive rounds were followed by smoke that covered the crest of Ridge-12 and screened the Füsiliers as they rose from cover and sprinted forward. Stunned by the fire from the 105s and blinded by the smoke, the Russian skirmish screen, what was left of it, pulled back, surrendering the ridgeline to the attackers.
“Well, that was the easy bit.” Renz’s call met with laughter. There were about a dozen dead Ivans on the ridge, almost all victims of the fire from the assault guns. In contrast, only a handful of German bodies were left behind their advance and from the work of the medics, it was apparent that most of them were wounded rather than killed. Ironically, the only reported death so far had been one of the wounded who had been run over by a StuH. Despite the low butcher’s bill so far, his comment had been true. This had been the easy part. That was emphasized by another series of explosions along the crest of Ridge-12. These were much smaller than the blasts of the 105s fired by the assault guns and the pattern was irregular. He bet that they were 75mm pack-howitzers although he didn’t rule out 82mm mortars. Either way, it’s time we got out of here.
Once again, the whistles sounded, once again the Füsiliers swarmed over the ridge, such as it was, and started their leapfrog advance on the Russian defenses. This time, though, they faced something much more formidable than a thin skirmish line along a shallow ridge. Ahead of them, barely fifty meters away, was a standard Russian two-up, one-back defense. The main defensive position was the Ring Wood, a circular wood, shaped a bit like an engagement ring with a thin circular line of trees to the front and a heavy patch of forest to the rear. In front of it were two smaller patches of woods, much lighter and probably traversable by armored vehicles. They would be more lightly defended and were garrisoned so any direct attack on the main position would be brought under a cross-fire.
The plan had been to concentrate on the forward left-hand position, for two reasons. One was that the trees in it were dispersed and offered less protection to the troops stationed there. The other was that there were two strips of smooth, clear ground to its left, strips that looked suspiciously like runways. Why they haven’t been investigated during our occupation I don’t know but now amongst all the other things we have to do is check those woods for signs of dispersed aircraft revetments. That could have been an old Russian airfield before we occupied the area.
It was less than 50 meters from the ridge crest to the first trees in the left-hand outpost. This time, the assault guns stayed where they were; they were already in range of bazooka fire from the Russian position and discretion was the watchword here. Instead, they had nuzzled up to the two-meter-high ridge and positioned themselves so that just their superstructure gun casemate showed. That way they had the least exposure to the rockets while being able to fire on enemy positions ahead.
Renz’s men were already taking fire from both the defensive outposts, blasts of machine-gun fire from directly ahead, and a lower sustained fire from the right flank. Already, the well-practiced assault drill was being put into practice with the MG-42 teams trying to pin down the Russian defenses. Once again, Renz was sure that he could feel the wind as 105mm shells from the assault guns passed millimeters over his head and he knew that the fire support he was getting was dangerously close to the minimum safety limits. Why does the figure of 30 meters keep running around inside my head? And why does the instructor’s advice that if we’re not taking casualties from our artillery, we’re not following it closely enough seem so discouraging when I’m one of the possible casualties?
The blasts of the German shells exploding in the woods seemed to be pounding Renz’s eardrums flat. There was a foxhole ahead of him, one where the machine-gunner was firing on a target off to Renz’s left. Again, this was a well-practiced, almost automatic drill. He had a stielhandgranate stick grenade in one hand, ready for throwing. It needed only a quick pull on the activation string and it was ready to go. Renz yelled “Grenade” and threw it, seeing the awkwardly-shaped grenade arch through the air and land in the weapons pit some twenty meters in front of him. The blast inflicted more punishment on his long-suffering eardrums but it also silenced the machine gunner in front of him.
“Position up ahead!” The warning shout seemed to come from a long way away. Renz saw what the problem was. There were three square redoubts in the woods, each a U-shaped earth bank with one end open. Aircraft revetments! This was an airfield once. I can strike that off my list.
“Mortars! Bring up the mortars.” Renz gave the orders quickly. The mortar crews had stayed back with the assault guns, not least because their weapons had a minimum range and even with this level of separation, dropping the mortar bombs into the targets would need skill and fine judgment. Once, such things had been commonplace in the Heer, but these days not so much, and those that still had them were carefully hoarded. Renz read out the ranges and bearings to the targets and prayed the mortar crews were on the ball. The one consolation was that they knew they had to overshoot, not undershoot if they wished to remain popular with the rest of their unit.
The 81mm mortars did their work exceedingly well. The first salvo did indeed overshoot but that had the effect of showering fragments into the open ends of the revetments. A quick correction had brought the rounds a little closer in, along with a warning that they were pushing the elevation gear to its limits. The mortar round though had one huge advantage over the stielhandgranate Renz had thrown earlier. Its casing developed a truly vicious amount of fragments that were contained by the earthen walls. By the time the last round had exploded, Renz was already leading his men in a charge through the trees to the smoking fortresses. It took an urgent leap and a few scrabbles but he was able to roll over the top and drop down the other side with a pistol in hand. One Russian soldier less than a meter away from him was moaning from the fragmentation injuries he had received. Renz fired two shots from his P-38 into the man’s head and then sprinted across the open ground. Quite apart from anything else, the open rear of the revetment made it possible for the remaining defenders elsewhere to fire in.
The Füsiliers had made short work of the defenders; the survivors of the mortar attack had been swiftly bayoneted or shot. That meant the left-hand outwork was now firmly in the battalion’s hands and at least half their task was done. The assault guns were already bombarding the two remaining defensive positions and the Ivans occupying them had more to worry about now than the attack developing to the west of their position. Behind him, Renz heard the flat double-crack of a Panther’s long 75mm and the scream of a shot hitting armor plate. The attack on western Medvedevskaya was underway.
Panzerkampfwagen V Panther 314, Outside Medvedevskaya, West Bank of the Onega
Lieutenant Ivan Jaeger was using his commander’s sight to try and locate the targets he knew had to be there. The problem was that he had a narrow field of vision, even on low magnification but his gunner had an even narrower one. Panther 314 didn’t even have a rooftop periscope sight. It made locating and zeroing in on targets problematic. Despite the Panther’s reputation, assiduously promoted by German propaganda, as the ideal battle tank, Jaeger was not impressed by the vehicle. It had good armor and a wonderful gun but it was unreliable and a swine to maintain. A final drive change, something that had to be done every 1200 kilometers, was a two-day job that left everybody in the crew exhausted. Worse than that though, it was poorly arranged internally, and getting out in a hurry was a real challenge. When a Panther burned, it usually took most of its crew with it.
“Pauli, see the white building with the three small outhouses? To the left of that. One of those American amphibious tanks.”
“Got it, Ivan. Range 450 meters, loading a 39/42.”
There was a pause while the loader got the round, maneuvered it into position, and slammed it into the breach. “Up.”
“Ready to fire.”
“Take him.” Jaeger’s voice was terse.
The 75mm gun crashed and there was a brilliant red streak across the battlefield that ended in the side of an American LVT(A)-4. The effects of the hit were spectacular; the LVT exploded in a ball of flame as the APCBC-HE shot ripped through the thin armor and exploded inside the vehicle. Watching through his commander’s sight, Jaeger saw pieces of the vehicle flying through the air and had to assume at least some of the debris were the last mortal remains of the crew. “Poor Ami bastards. That thing doesn’t belong on a battlefield with real tanks. Pauli, front row of buildings, about 15 degrees right, another white building? There is another one of those things there. Take him out.”
“Got him, Ivan. Range 480 meters, load a 39/42.”
“Up.”
There was another crash, another streak across the battlefield, and a second LVT(A)-4 exploded with the same lethal ferocity as the first. “Good shot, Pauli. Chris, get us moving and keep up with the infantry. Just stay a hundred yards behind them, we don’t want a rocket up our ass. Max, load a HE round, that’ll do for those amphibious tanks as well as the APHE rounds and if there’s any resistance, it’ll be from the buildings. Pauli, the first sign of gunfire, blow the building it came from apart.
The howl from overhead was deafening even inside the Panther. By the time Jaeger had struggled with his hatch and got it open, the sound had almost gone but he could see what had caused it. Four Ami Thunderbolts were making an attack run on the attacking tanks when a pair of Me-262s assigned to provide top-cover had swept in. Their engines had been the sounds. Jaeger watched at the jets slashed in on the Thunderbolts, their 30mm cannon surrounding the aircraft with red tracer streaks. It seemed to take forever to get a hit but when it happened, the effects were spectacular. One of the Thunderbolts lost a wing and, streaming an orange-red fire, crashed into the woods just beyond the battle area. A second turned away, black smoke and flames pouring from its underbelly, and headed north, the pilot obviously trying to get to Russian-held territory.
He didn’t make it, not quite. The Thunderbolt hit the river a little short of the other bank, skipped across the water, and came to a halt just a few meters short of the bank. Four figures ran out from the woods, though his commander’s sight, Jaeger could see they wore the brown of the Russians, not American olive drab. Despite the machine-gun fire and mortar rounds hitting all around them, they were pulling the pilot out of the wreck and dragging him to the shore. To Jaeger’s surprise, they made it back through the gunfire to safety before the Thunderbolt blew up. Jaeger felt like cheering for them.
“They’re coming back!” The warning came out over the company radio command circuit. Jaeger looked out of his cupola and saw the two remaining Thunderbolts were coming in side-by-side, their machine guns blazing at the infantry on the ground in front of them. He saw the bombs under the wings wobble-free and the rockets streaking out towards the vehicles. Then, he saw the two jets above and behind them closing fast. The Thunderbolts had seen them too because they split apart, curving away in different directions. Behind them, the 262s saw their turn and they tried to follow the two aircraft. As soon as they did so, the Thunderbolts reversed their turns and converged on each other. That was when Jaeger saw the deadly trap they had laid. If the 262s continued their pursuits, each would be exposed to raking deflection fire from the Ami fighters. If they did not. Then they would fly between them and be exposed to fire from both. The Luftwaffe pilots selected the second course, accelerated, and flew through the web of fire, using their speed to escape. They climbed away, leaving the Thunderbolts floundering behind them.
“So it's true.” Jaeger sounded reflective.
“What is Ivan?” Pauli in the gunner’s seat hadn’t seen the last maneuver.
“Germany really does have a Luftwaffe after all.”
“314? The Second and Third companies of the Füsilier-Battalion are clearing western Medvedevskaya now. Get ready to swing east and support them as they advance. Watch out, StugHs and First Company of the Füsilier-Battalion are coming in from your right. Do NOT engage them. What the hell . . . .”
Major Kohlhase had broken transmission in shock. Over on the extreme left, one of the Ami amphibious tanks had been flushed from cover. Instead of trying to run or get back into a covered position, the crew had turned and opened fire on the Panther engaging them. And, open fire was quite literally correct for the LVT(A) in question was a flamethrower tank. The brilliant, dark red, and an utterly evil-looking jet of flame arched out from its turret and bathed the Panther in the fire. Normally, flamethrowers fired in short bursts but this one went on and on, dousing the burning tank with more and more of the burning liquid. Jaeger realized the amphibian crew knew they had no chance of survival and the gunner was simply holding his finger on the flame gun trigger until they were killed or the tank of fuel ran out.
“Pauli, engage left, now! Kill that thing before it comes after us.”
Jaeger had been right, the LVTs had armor so thin that it could be punctured by a well-swung pickaxe. The HE round from the 75mm blew the vehicle apart, sending it onwards in a spectacular ball of fire. He knew though that wouldn’t help the crew of the Panther though. The vehicle was jet black overall, every single flammable material on the outside was burning, even down to the rubber tires on the road wheels. The crew was dead, roasted alive inside their tank. 212, Jaeger thought, we ‘ve drunk together, chased girls together, and were good soldiers together. Now they are gone, burned up by those . . . those things. What the hell do the Amis do to their fuel to make it burn like that? Is it true they run their vehicles on aviation fuel?
“All vehicles, Medvedevska West is clear, the Ivans are retreating east along the river bank. Follow them in close support. And kill those Ami amphibs on sight. We can’t lose another tank like that.”
Headquarters, 1st Battalion, 503rd Regiment, 47th Rifle Division, Amosovskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Alexander Georgiyevich, we are getting the LVTs ready, if we can’t hold them, we will go in and pull your men off the beach.” Colonel Clyde Connors had run into Colonel Paramonov’s headquarters uninvited.
“Thank you Tovarish Colonel but we cannot ask that of you. The fascists have Panthers; they have already destroyed more than half your amphibious tanks, they will chop your personnel carriers to pieces.”
“Alex, I’m a Marine. We have just one unbreakable rule. We never leave a man behind. I took your boys over, we’ll go and get them back.”
“Thank you, my friend. But I do not think that will be necessary. See here, just ahead of the advancing fascists? The forest comes right down to the river with a gap of, at most fifty meters. The forest is impassible, full of debris that has floated down the river in the summer. Even men on foot cannot get through there. We have mined the gap very thoroughly and it is covered with fire from tank destroyers and artillery on this side of the river. We have lost Medvedevska West but we will hold the east until the force upriver breaks out and joins us. Then we will drive the fascists out again.” Paramov paused and blinked back tears. “Your pilot, is he safe?”
“Yes, thank you, Alex. A bit singed and as mad as hell at those jets but he’ll be back in the cockpit in a few days. Your men are very brave to have gone after him like that.”
“What else could they do?” Paramov shook his head. “Perhaps you can send them some cases of Spam as a thank-you. They’ll prefer that to medals. Now, excuse me for I have an artillery bombardment to arrange. Tell your pilot, it will be a big one in his honor.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Seventeen
Flight Line, 483d Bombardment Group, Airfield 65, Syloga, Arkhangelsk Oblast.
The 180-kilometer flight from Talagi to Syloga had taken just under 30 minutes despite the engines of the A-20 having been detuned to burn 87-octane fuel. The fact that the 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment had a pair of the older A-20s still on strength as their regimental hacks was a tribute to the regard in which the unit was held. Most Russian air regiments had an old Po-2 biplane at most. Nadezhda Vasil'yevna turned off the runway and took station behind the American jeep that had a hastily-written sign saying ‘sledovat’, ‘follow me’ on the back. It led her along the concrete taxiway, between the ranks of parked B-33 bombers towards a revetment at the end of the line. A man jumped out of the back of the jeep and waved her aircraft into the vacant shelter. She made the turn, parked the aircraft, and cut the engines. Behind her, Evgeniya Maksimovna had collected their reports on their encounter with the jet-engined night fighter along with the notes and drawings they had made ready for presentation to the intelligence people. The A-26 crew had received orders to meet with a special intelligence group monitoring the spread of the fascist jets within hours of making their report of the encounter.
“I don’t think we are in the Rodina anymore.” Natalia Nikitichna looked around at the sprawling air base. Their base at Talagi was lost in endless pine forests that marked the far north around Archangel’sk. Apart from a few barely-noticeable tracks and even fewer small forest settlements, their home base was far from any inhabitants and was hard to locate either from the air or on a map. The Russian Air Force had never forgotten the dreadful days in May 1941 when thousands of their aircraft had been lost on the ground to fascists who knew exactly where to go and what to bomb. Ever since then, they had been hidden in the woods or concealed within the farms and villages. At Talagi, the whole 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment was crowded into the wretched, squat huts of a woodlands logging kolkhoz where there had never been electricity or radio before the Night Witches had arrived. The women had been shocked to find that the old people passing their lives in this isolated community had never even heard the whistle of a steam train. The overcrowding was horrendous; the room they lived in was filled with their three bunks and a communal table with a lamp mounted on it. They had made that lamp themselves from a 37mm shell case filled with gasoline and lit by a wick that was clamped into it. That simple feature made their quarters almost luxurious.
Even so, the fascists had found them and ten of their sisters had died.
Here, at Syloga, they were surrounded by concrete and brick buildings linked by hard-surfaced roads on which Willys were moving frequently enough to make the women watch their step. Trucks passed as well, towing long, train-like lines of bomb trailers heading out for the B-33s. The secret to the American’s complete lack of concern about secrecy could be seen from anywhere on the airfield. It was the great radar antennas constantly rotating above their buildings, sending out searching fingers to give warning of any inbound airstrike. Syloga wasn’t just home to the B-33s, there were P-61 Black Widow night fighters and P-63 Kingcobra day fighters stationed there as well. And rings of anti-aircraft guns with radar fire control. It was all part of an air defense system that made any attempt to penetrate Allied airspace hazardous. Looking around, Nadia realized it was very fortunate for the Night Witches that the fascists hadn’t evolved something similar.
“It looks like they have come to stay.” Natya looked around, her voice was cautious. The permanent nature of the base was apparent and raised an obvious question. In accepting the vast amount of American aid that was pouring into the country, has the Rodina simply exchanged one occupier for another? The Americans may be friendly, generous, and genial but are they also just occupiers? What will happen when the war is over? Will they just leave?
“Welcome tovarish.” The voice came from behind them. It was a Russian Army officer wearing the blue hatband that marked him as a member of Cheka. “The base is impressive is it not? I am Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov, an officer of Cheka. You probably noticed the hat already. What do you think of the airbase built by our Amerikanskiye brat'ya?”
“Ours is better.” Nadia came out with the instinctive response of any Russian asked to compare a foreign product with one made in the Rodina. “A tougher nut can always be hit with a larger hammer. A nut that nobody can find remains uneaten. Wait a minute, you said ‘airbase built by our Amerikanskiye brat'ya’. Not American airbase.”
Napolkov laughed. “You are as perceptive as your dossier suggests, Nadezhda Vasil'yevna. Yes, this airbase might have been built by the Americans but it is still ours. There is a Russian commander here and the flag of the Rodina is hoisted every morning. The Americans are our guests and, like any good guest, they came with hands full of valuable gifts. And, as our guests, we give them the best of everything we have. Remember that they are our guests here and all will be well. Now we must go to the briefing room since your report has caused a great amount of interest. This jeep will take us.”
Napalkov swung into the front seat of an American Willys and the three women piled into the back. That was when the Chekist sniffed. “Excuse me, bratishka, but is that Krasnaya Moskva I can detect.”
Nadia chuckled. “It is. Natalia Nikitichna received a bottle as a gift when she left the tanks. She was kind enough to offer us a little since this is a very special visit for us.”
“Ah yes, a gift for a hero. And well-earned.” Napolkov was thoughtful and then shifted to English. “Sergeant, we have a real hero onboard your Willys today. Natalia Nikitichna was a medic in a tank unit when one of the ‘34s’ was hit. It was burning and the driver was too badly wounded to escape. So she jumped onto the front, despite the flames and machinegun fire, and pulled him out. Then dragged him to cover and treated his wounds despite the heavy fire and even though a bullet had already hit her in the neck. For this, she was made a Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Tovarish Sergeant.” The American had mangled the Russian words and pronunciation fearfully but his meaning was obvious enough to make Natya blush with embarrassment.
Briefing Room, 483d Bombardment Group, Airfield 65, Syloga, Archangel'sk Oblast
"Could you show us on the map where this encounter happened please?"
The questioner waited patiently while Evgeniya “Senya” Maksimovna adjusted herself to the large map pinned on the wall. Primarily that was because it was an American map and thus accurate. All the Russian navigational maps were distorted and part of a navigator's training was to recognize and discount those changes. Seeing undistorted air navigation charts were confusing. She compared her notes and her navigation map with the one on display and started muttering under her breath ‘four islands here, then we turned north, a few minutes after our turn we spotted, yes that’s it.’ Eventually, she concluded.
“The fascist started tracking us around here.” She put her finger on a location south of Archangel’sk. “He didn’t stay around long after we sighted him.”
One of the Americans produced a pair of calipers and traced out a circle from the point of interception. “He must have been running short of fuel even before he intercepted you. Looking at this, I think he was departing after shooting down two A-20s and two A-26s. There is only one airbase with concrete runways on the fascist side of the lines and within range of the intercept point. Here at Pudozh. That’s 250 miles, 400 kilometers from where he found you.”
“Is this any help?” Senya pulled out the drawing she had made of the attacking fighter.
The American looked at it and whistled softly. Did you draw this at night, under attack and in a maneuvering aircraft? Wow. It’s very good.”
Napalkov translated the remarks into Russian and added “He’s being very complimentary.”
“I think this is the aircraft that attacked you.” The American pulled out a three-view picture. It was of a Me-262 but instead of the simple one-seat cockpit, it had a much larger two-seat ‘greenhouse’ and an array of stag-like antennas around its nose.
“That’s it!” Senya looked triumphant.
“Me-262B-1a. The fascist crashed a lot of their jets in training, so they built a two-seat operational conversion trainer. Then somebody thought it would be a good night fighter so they gave it this radar set.” The American’s scorn for the forest of antennas was very obvious. "To make room for the electronics, they took out two of the 30mm guns and replaced the other pair with 20mm. The second seat takes the place of one fuel tank so they have a 900km range only. I would say that the pilot hunting you was desperate. The fascists must fear you.”
Once again the women blushed slightly as the praise was translated. Senya looked down at the picture of the jet that had hunted them and her eyes narrowed. “That is more than a combat sketch. Those are official general arrangement drawings. They came from the flight manual.”
“Do they? I wouldn’t know anything about that.” The American officer looked completely innocent which convinced everybody he knew where they came from. They were wrong, he didn’t. “I do know there are only twelve of these Me-262Bs. Now, at least four of them are up here.
“Perhaps we should give them a proper welcome.” Nadia looked at the map thoughtfully. “Could they be operating from another base?”
“Jet aircraft need concrete runways.” The American watched Nadia as suddenly a thought formed in her head. She looked out of the window towards the taxiway and the runway beyond it. The concrete runway beyond it. The American caught her eye and nodded slightly. "And there aren’t many up here. There are two Jagdgeschwader flying jet fighters in this part of the world. 1/JG-26 and 1/JG-52. Each has between 20 and 30 aircraft. Looking at the bases, I would say that one of those two flies from Pudozh along with the night-fighters."
"Can't we just bomb the base into oblivion?" Colonel William H. Blanchard, deputy commander of the 483d Bombardment Group, was sitting quietly in one corner. The 483rd had cut its operations back to a minimum for the last week due to the growing shortage of 130 octane fuel. All available supplies were going to the B-29s and single-engined fighters first, then the twin-engined aircraft. Even the P-47s were having their operations cut back in favor of the more fuel-economic P-63s.
"There's a problem." The intelligence officer was shaking his head. "We tried bombing the airfields around the Chuvashskaya. The problem is that the fascist radar sees us coming and the jets can scramble quickly enough to clear the airfield before we hit it. At best we can smash the airfield but the Hitlerites can fix that in a few hours. It’s the aircraft we want to kill and by the time we get there, they've gone. Or, worse, they're attacking the bombers. We can keep piston-engined fighters away from the big boys but the jets can just zoom past any escort we can put up."
There was a long silence as the meeting stared at the map. It seemed like a simple problem yet it was hard to find the correct solution. Eventually, Nadia looked at Napalkov. "RRAB?"
Napalkov thought about that and nodded, giving permission for Nadia to talk about the weapon to outsiders.
"Suppose the jets can't take off?" Nadia had an operation coming to mind very quickly. "Suppose the concrete runway is blocked and the jets can’t use it?"
"That's easier said than done." Blanchard listened to Napalkov's translation carefully. "The fascists can fix holes in runways very quickly."
"We have a bomb called the RRAB. The rotativno-rasseivayushchaya aviatsionnaya bomba. The rotational-scattering aircraft bomb." Nadia watched with carefully-concealed delight as Napalkov got mixed up with translating the mixture of English and Russian. Even better, he smiled apologetically before she continued. "This is a container for small 2.5 kilogram bombs. As it falls, it rotates and bursts open, scattering the small bombs over a wide area. The Yaks and Il-2s carry a small version of this, the 200 kilogram RRAB-200 containing 60 bombs but there is a larger one for medium bombers. The 500 kilograms RRAB-500 contains 150 bombs. My Intruder can carry four of them in the bomb bay plus one RRAB-200 under each wing. That is 720 small bombs. A mixture of fragmentation, incendiary and delayed action. The delayed action ones have an anti-handling device. Four of us can drop almost three thousand small bombs all over the airfield, especially on that runway."
"That will do it." Blanchard was looking very interested. "You go in an hour before dawn, spread those rab things all over the airfield. We follow you and hit them just after dawn while the airfield is closed down. The full effort, short-range mission like this, both groups of B-33s can throw around 90 aircraft at the target each with 6000 kilos of bombs."
"Flak. Our experience around the Chuvashskaya is that the fascists ring the jet airfields with flak. They'll chew your Intruders to pieces."
"Everybody knows the Night Witches fly very low." Nadia was calculating speed and distance. "We go in at medium altitude for once. We will need to do that anyway for the RRABs to work. By the time the fascists readjust to the different altitude, we will be gone. There is a different problem. If we hit an hour before dawn, the last part of our flight home will be in daylight. That will not be good for us."
"We'll just have to put up fighters to escort you in." The intelligence officer thought about that. This was turning into quite an operation. Two groups of B-33s, at least three or four groups of fighters. On the other hand, giving a fascist jet fighter unit a hammering would be quite a victory. It might even make them more careful and buy time until our jets arrive.
Three hours later what had started as a bare-bones concept had evolved into a fully-fledged operational plan that only needed official approval to become reality. Halfway through the discussions, a mixture of coffee and tea had been brought in with the Americans trying not to notice the Russian women mixing shots of vodka with their tea. There does not appear to be a pre-flight bar-closure deadline in the Russian armed forces Blanchard opined.
Eventually, Napalkov took the Intruder crew outside the briefing room. Blanchard joined them and spoke quickly to the Chekist who translated the message. "The Colonel would like to know if you want to visit the post exchange while you are here?"
"The Post Exchange?" Nadia hadn't heard that term.
"It is a store where military personnel can buy things like chocolate, cigarettes, beer, soap. Personal things."
"Ah, you mean the Pee-ecks! We have heard of this." They had been hoping they would get into something that other visitors to American bases had described as a wonderland.
"Technically it is for Americans only but the Colonel has arranged for you to visit as his guests. You brought money?"
"Only rubles. No dollars." All three of the women had stocked up with every ruble they could find in anticipation of this invitation.
"Doesn’t matter, they will take rubles there."
The PX was indeed a wonderland of luxuries that had been absent from Russia for years even before the war. Nadia, Natya, and Senya drifted around the store in a daze, picking up supplies of chocolates, cigarettes, and other goodies. They would share out the supplies when they got back to their base. Senya tried to pick up some cartons of Chelsea cigarettes but one of the Americans shook his head. "Chelsea plokhoy, Lucky Strike khorosho!"
Senya smiled her thanks for the advice and pointed to herself. "Evgeniya Maksimovna, Senya."
The American officer nodded and pointed to himself. "Frank Douglas. Frank. You a pilot?"
"Navigator. A-26."
"Pilot, B-33. Night Witch?"
Senya nodded. Douglas stepped back and saluted. "You must be a very good flier. You like to fly in a B-33 sometime?"
Although he was reasonably sure that she hadn’t understood what he had said, he could tell by the way her eyes shone that she knew he had said the right thing. Then, he escorted Senya to the cashier and watched her pay in rubles for her loot. What Senya didn’t see was that the store manager was collecting paperwork from some of the Americans. It was only when Napalkov got them back to their aircraft that he explained what had happened.
"Bratishka, there is something you should know. Goods at the Post Exchange are rationed. Some of the Americans gave up their week's ration so you could have what you wanted."
"They just wanted to get into our pants." Nadia sounded cynical which made Napalkov laugh.
"Of course. They are young men far from home and I think they are very lonely in a land that is strange to them. But something we have learned about Americans. Try and take something that is theirs and they will probably kill you. But if you let them give you something, then they will become your good friends. Now good luck and fly well."
Napalkov got back into the Willys and was driven off back to the briefing rooms. Natya watched him leave. "I never thought a Chekist would be like that. He's a nice man."
"No," said Nadia. "A very clever one. And very dangerous."
Flight Line, 483d Bombardment Group, Airfield 65, Syloga, Arkhangelsk Oblast.
The 180-kilometer flight from Talagi to Syloga had taken just under 30 minutes despite the engines of the A-20 having been detuned to burn 87-octane fuel. The fact that the 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment had a pair of the older A-20s still on strength as their regimental hacks was a tribute to the regard in which the unit was held. Most Russian air regiments had an old Po-2 biplane at most. Nadezhda Vasil'yevna turned off the runway and took station behind the American jeep that had a hastily-written sign saying ‘sledovat’, ‘follow me’ on the back. It led her along the concrete taxiway, between the ranks of parked B-33 bombers towards a revetment at the end of the line. A man jumped out of the back of the jeep and waved her aircraft into the vacant shelter. She made the turn, parked the aircraft, and cut the engines. Behind her, Evgeniya Maksimovna had collected their reports on their encounter with the jet-engined night fighter along with the notes and drawings they had made ready for presentation to the intelligence people. The A-26 crew had received orders to meet with a special intelligence group monitoring the spread of the fascist jets within hours of making their report of the encounter.
“I don’t think we are in the Rodina anymore.” Natalia Nikitichna looked around at the sprawling air base. Their base at Talagi was lost in endless pine forests that marked the far north around Archangel’sk. Apart from a few barely-noticeable tracks and even fewer small forest settlements, their home base was far from any inhabitants and was hard to locate either from the air or on a map. The Russian Air Force had never forgotten the dreadful days in May 1941 when thousands of their aircraft had been lost on the ground to fascists who knew exactly where to go and what to bomb. Ever since then, they had been hidden in the woods or concealed within the farms and villages. At Talagi, the whole 46th Guards Night Bomber Regiment was crowded into the wretched, squat huts of a woodlands logging kolkhoz where there had never been electricity or radio before the Night Witches had arrived. The women had been shocked to find that the old people passing their lives in this isolated community had never even heard the whistle of a steam train. The overcrowding was horrendous; the room they lived in was filled with their three bunks and a communal table with a lamp mounted on it. They had made that lamp themselves from a 37mm shell case filled with gasoline and lit by a wick that was clamped into it. That simple feature made their quarters almost luxurious.
Even so, the fascists had found them and ten of their sisters had died.
Here, at Syloga, they were surrounded by concrete and brick buildings linked by hard-surfaced roads on which Willys were moving frequently enough to make the women watch their step. Trucks passed as well, towing long, train-like lines of bomb trailers heading out for the B-33s. The secret to the American’s complete lack of concern about secrecy could be seen from anywhere on the airfield. It was the great radar antennas constantly rotating above their buildings, sending out searching fingers to give warning of any inbound airstrike. Syloga wasn’t just home to the B-33s, there were P-61 Black Widow night fighters and P-63 Kingcobra day fighters stationed there as well. And rings of anti-aircraft guns with radar fire control. It was all part of an air defense system that made any attempt to penetrate Allied airspace hazardous. Looking around, Nadia realized it was very fortunate for the Night Witches that the fascists hadn’t evolved something similar.
“It looks like they have come to stay.” Natya looked around, her voice was cautious. The permanent nature of the base was apparent and raised an obvious question. In accepting the vast amount of American aid that was pouring into the country, has the Rodina simply exchanged one occupier for another? The Americans may be friendly, generous, and genial but are they also just occupiers? What will happen when the war is over? Will they just leave?
“Welcome tovarish.” The voice came from behind them. It was a Russian Army officer wearing the blue hatband that marked him as a member of Cheka. “The base is impressive is it not? I am Ivan Mihailovich Napalkov, an officer of Cheka. You probably noticed the hat already. What do you think of the airbase built by our Amerikanskiye brat'ya?”
“Ours is better.” Nadia came out with the instinctive response of any Russian asked to compare a foreign product with one made in the Rodina. “A tougher nut can always be hit with a larger hammer. A nut that nobody can find remains uneaten. Wait a minute, you said ‘airbase built by our Amerikanskiye brat'ya’. Not American airbase.”
Napolkov laughed. “You are as perceptive as your dossier suggests, Nadezhda Vasil'yevna. Yes, this airbase might have been built by the Americans but it is still ours. There is a Russian commander here and the flag of the Rodina is hoisted every morning. The Americans are our guests and, like any good guest, they came with hands full of valuable gifts. And, as our guests, we give them the best of everything we have. Remember that they are our guests here and all will be well. Now we must go to the briefing room since your report has caused a great amount of interest. This jeep will take us.”
Napalkov swung into the front seat of an American Willys and the three women piled into the back. That was when the Chekist sniffed. “Excuse me, bratishka, but is that Krasnaya Moskva I can detect.”
Nadia chuckled. “It is. Natalia Nikitichna received a bottle as a gift when she left the tanks. She was kind enough to offer us a little since this is a very special visit for us.”
“Ah yes, a gift for a hero. And well-earned.” Napolkov was thoughtful and then shifted to English. “Sergeant, we have a real hero onboard your Willys today. Natalia Nikitichna was a medic in a tank unit when one of the ‘34s’ was hit. It was burning and the driver was too badly wounded to escape. So she jumped onto the front, despite the flames and machinegun fire, and pulled him out. Then dragged him to cover and treated his wounds despite the heavy fire and even though a bullet had already hit her in the neck. For this, she was made a Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Tovarish Sergeant.” The American had mangled the Russian words and pronunciation fearfully but his meaning was obvious enough to make Natya blush with embarrassment.
Briefing Room, 483d Bombardment Group, Airfield 65, Syloga, Archangel'sk Oblast
"Could you show us on the map where this encounter happened please?"
The questioner waited patiently while Evgeniya “Senya” Maksimovna adjusted herself to the large map pinned on the wall. Primarily that was because it was an American map and thus accurate. All the Russian navigational maps were distorted and part of a navigator's training was to recognize and discount those changes. Seeing undistorted air navigation charts were confusing. She compared her notes and her navigation map with the one on display and started muttering under her breath ‘four islands here, then we turned north, a few minutes after our turn we spotted, yes that’s it.’ Eventually, she concluded.
“The fascist started tracking us around here.” She put her finger on a location south of Archangel’sk. “He didn’t stay around long after we sighted him.”
One of the Americans produced a pair of calipers and traced out a circle from the point of interception. “He must have been running short of fuel even before he intercepted you. Looking at this, I think he was departing after shooting down two A-20s and two A-26s. There is only one airbase with concrete runways on the fascist side of the lines and within range of the intercept point. Here at Pudozh. That’s 250 miles, 400 kilometers from where he found you.”
“Is this any help?” Senya pulled out the drawing she had made of the attacking fighter.
The American looked at it and whistled softly. Did you draw this at night, under attack and in a maneuvering aircraft? Wow. It’s very good.”
Napalkov translated the remarks into Russian and added “He’s being very complimentary.”
“I think this is the aircraft that attacked you.” The American pulled out a three-view picture. It was of a Me-262 but instead of the simple one-seat cockpit, it had a much larger two-seat ‘greenhouse’ and an array of stag-like antennas around its nose.
“That’s it!” Senya looked triumphant.
“Me-262B-1a. The fascist crashed a lot of their jets in training, so they built a two-seat operational conversion trainer. Then somebody thought it would be a good night fighter so they gave it this radar set.” The American’s scorn for the forest of antennas was very obvious. "To make room for the electronics, they took out two of the 30mm guns and replaced the other pair with 20mm. The second seat takes the place of one fuel tank so they have a 900km range only. I would say that the pilot hunting you was desperate. The fascists must fear you.”
Once again the women blushed slightly as the praise was translated. Senya looked down at the picture of the jet that had hunted them and her eyes narrowed. “That is more than a combat sketch. Those are official general arrangement drawings. They came from the flight manual.”
“Do they? I wouldn’t know anything about that.” The American officer looked completely innocent which convinced everybody he knew where they came from. They were wrong, he didn’t. “I do know there are only twelve of these Me-262Bs. Now, at least four of them are up here.
“Perhaps we should give them a proper welcome.” Nadia looked at the map thoughtfully. “Could they be operating from another base?”
“Jet aircraft need concrete runways.” The American watched Nadia as suddenly a thought formed in her head. She looked out of the window towards the taxiway and the runway beyond it. The concrete runway beyond it. The American caught her eye and nodded slightly. "And there aren’t many up here. There are two Jagdgeschwader flying jet fighters in this part of the world. 1/JG-26 and 1/JG-52. Each has between 20 and 30 aircraft. Looking at the bases, I would say that one of those two flies from Pudozh along with the night-fighters."
"Can't we just bomb the base into oblivion?" Colonel William H. Blanchard, deputy commander of the 483d Bombardment Group, was sitting quietly in one corner. The 483rd had cut its operations back to a minimum for the last week due to the growing shortage of 130 octane fuel. All available supplies were going to the B-29s and single-engined fighters first, then the twin-engined aircraft. Even the P-47s were having their operations cut back in favor of the more fuel-economic P-63s.
"There's a problem." The intelligence officer was shaking his head. "We tried bombing the airfields around the Chuvashskaya. The problem is that the fascist radar sees us coming and the jets can scramble quickly enough to clear the airfield before we hit it. At best we can smash the airfield but the Hitlerites can fix that in a few hours. It’s the aircraft we want to kill and by the time we get there, they've gone. Or, worse, they're attacking the bombers. We can keep piston-engined fighters away from the big boys but the jets can just zoom past any escort we can put up."
There was a long silence as the meeting stared at the map. It seemed like a simple problem yet it was hard to find the correct solution. Eventually, Nadia looked at Napalkov. "RRAB?"
Napalkov thought about that and nodded, giving permission for Nadia to talk about the weapon to outsiders.
"Suppose the jets can't take off?" Nadia had an operation coming to mind very quickly. "Suppose the concrete runway is blocked and the jets can’t use it?"
"That's easier said than done." Blanchard listened to Napalkov's translation carefully. "The fascists can fix holes in runways very quickly."
"We have a bomb called the RRAB. The rotativno-rasseivayushchaya aviatsionnaya bomba. The rotational-scattering aircraft bomb." Nadia watched with carefully-concealed delight as Napalkov got mixed up with translating the mixture of English and Russian. Even better, he smiled apologetically before she continued. "This is a container for small 2.5 kilogram bombs. As it falls, it rotates and bursts open, scattering the small bombs over a wide area. The Yaks and Il-2s carry a small version of this, the 200 kilogram RRAB-200 containing 60 bombs but there is a larger one for medium bombers. The 500 kilograms RRAB-500 contains 150 bombs. My Intruder can carry four of them in the bomb bay plus one RRAB-200 under each wing. That is 720 small bombs. A mixture of fragmentation, incendiary and delayed action. The delayed action ones have an anti-handling device. Four of us can drop almost three thousand small bombs all over the airfield, especially on that runway."
"That will do it." Blanchard was looking very interested. "You go in an hour before dawn, spread those rab things all over the airfield. We follow you and hit them just after dawn while the airfield is closed down. The full effort, short-range mission like this, both groups of B-33s can throw around 90 aircraft at the target each with 6000 kilos of bombs."
"Flak. Our experience around the Chuvashskaya is that the fascists ring the jet airfields with flak. They'll chew your Intruders to pieces."
"Everybody knows the Night Witches fly very low." Nadia was calculating speed and distance. "We go in at medium altitude for once. We will need to do that anyway for the RRABs to work. By the time the fascists readjust to the different altitude, we will be gone. There is a different problem. If we hit an hour before dawn, the last part of our flight home will be in daylight. That will not be good for us."
"We'll just have to put up fighters to escort you in." The intelligence officer thought about that. This was turning into quite an operation. Two groups of B-33s, at least three or four groups of fighters. On the other hand, giving a fascist jet fighter unit a hammering would be quite a victory. It might even make them more careful and buy time until our jets arrive.
Three hours later what had started as a bare-bones concept had evolved into a fully-fledged operational plan that only needed official approval to become reality. Halfway through the discussions, a mixture of coffee and tea had been brought in with the Americans trying not to notice the Russian women mixing shots of vodka with their tea. There does not appear to be a pre-flight bar-closure deadline in the Russian armed forces Blanchard opined.
Eventually, Napalkov took the Intruder crew outside the briefing room. Blanchard joined them and spoke quickly to the Chekist who translated the message. "The Colonel would like to know if you want to visit the post exchange while you are here?"
"The Post Exchange?" Nadia hadn't heard that term.
"It is a store where military personnel can buy things like chocolate, cigarettes, beer, soap. Personal things."
"Ah, you mean the Pee-ecks! We have heard of this." They had been hoping they would get into something that other visitors to American bases had described as a wonderland.
"Technically it is for Americans only but the Colonel has arranged for you to visit as his guests. You brought money?"
"Only rubles. No dollars." All three of the women had stocked up with every ruble they could find in anticipation of this invitation.
"Doesn’t matter, they will take rubles there."
The PX was indeed a wonderland of luxuries that had been absent from Russia for years even before the war. Nadia, Natya, and Senya drifted around the store in a daze, picking up supplies of chocolates, cigarettes, and other goodies. They would share out the supplies when they got back to their base. Senya tried to pick up some cartons of Chelsea cigarettes but one of the Americans shook his head. "Chelsea plokhoy, Lucky Strike khorosho!"
Senya smiled her thanks for the advice and pointed to herself. "Evgeniya Maksimovna, Senya."
The American officer nodded and pointed to himself. "Frank Douglas. Frank. You a pilot?"
"Navigator. A-26."
"Pilot, B-33. Night Witch?"
Senya nodded. Douglas stepped back and saluted. "You must be a very good flier. You like to fly in a B-33 sometime?"
Although he was reasonably sure that she hadn’t understood what he had said, he could tell by the way her eyes shone that she knew he had said the right thing. Then, he escorted Senya to the cashier and watched her pay in rubles for her loot. What Senya didn’t see was that the store manager was collecting paperwork from some of the Americans. It was only when Napalkov got them back to their aircraft that he explained what had happened.
"Bratishka, there is something you should know. Goods at the Post Exchange are rationed. Some of the Americans gave up their week's ration so you could have what you wanted."
"They just wanted to get into our pants." Nadia sounded cynical which made Napalkov laugh.
"Of course. They are young men far from home and I think they are very lonely in a land that is strange to them. But something we have learned about Americans. Try and take something that is theirs and they will probably kill you. But if you let them give you something, then they will become your good friends. Now good luck and fly well."
Napalkov got back into the Willys and was driven off back to the briefing rooms. Natya watched him leave. "I never thought a Chekist would be like that. He's a nice man."
"No," said Nadia. "A very clever one. And very dangerous."
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Eighteen
Colonel Daniel Campbell’s Office, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Sir, Sergeant Finnegan, Front main gate security here. We have a Marine Corps Colonel with two trucks carrying drums. He says he’s answering your desperate pleas for help. His words, Sir.” The depth of suspicion in the voice on the telephone was profound.
There was a bang, a crash, and a series of thuds. Then a familiar voice came on the line. “Danny boy. Is this any way to treat a fellow Old China hand? And here am I with gifts aplenty from the old hometown itself.”
“Evans? Why didn’t you call ahead? I’d have the guardhouse alerted.”
“That’s why I didn’t call ahead, Danny boy. Never let people know your movements. Learned that from a Chinese gentleman called Mao Zedong back in the thirties. Especially true out here. Now, can I come in and drink your hooch or do you let one of your charming ladies out here shoot my pecker off? The way she's looking at me, I think she’d prefer to do the latter.”
“Don’t underestimate the Russian women military police. They take rear area security seriously . . . Yeah, I’d guessed you’d already learned that. All right Evans put Sergeant Finnegan on the line. Sergeant, the man you have there is Colonel Evans Carlson.” The gulp on the line was audible. “Yes, THAT Colonel Evans Carlson. Let him right through. Send him, no, on second thoughts ask one of the Russians to escort him, to the 404th Flight Line.”
Campbell pushed down on the telephone cradle and then clicked it for his clerk to pick up. “Samuels? Call Captain Foster and Sergeant Eiler and tell them that I wish to speak with them on the 404th Flight Line. Right now. Tell them it’s Christmas.”
Flight Line 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Campbell’s jeep had pulled to a halt a minute or so before one driven by Airman Samuels with Captain Foster and Sergeant Eiler on board arrived. Foster jumped out and snapped out a salute. “Christmas, Sir?”
Campbell was saved from answering by the arrival of two Diamond-T four-ton trucks, each with a Russian military policewoman standing on the running board, PPsH sub-machine gun at hand. “Tovarish Sergeant, thank you for bringing Colonel Carlson over.”
The stern, forbidding face of the truly proletarian Military Police Sergeant relaxed into an impish smile for a moment and then returned to its previous stolidity. “Tovarish Colonel, I hand these visitors over to your custody.”
She turned to leave, on foot, but Campbell waved to Samuels. “Samuels, drive our bratishka here back to their station and then return to the flight line.”
The two policewomen gave Campbell another quick smile and piled in the back of the jeep. Campbell watched them go and turned to his guest. “Evans, good to see you again. This place is a hell of a difference from China.”
“Not really Danny boy. Different language, different faces, same enemy. You were asking about flamethrowers?”
“Yes indeed. May I introduce Captain Malcolm Foster and Sergeant Mark Eiler? They’ve been working on how to improve our close support capability. Foster, Eiler, this is an old friend of mine. Colonel Evans Carson, Commander of the First Marine Raider Regiment.”
Once courtesies had been exchanged, Carlson got down to business. “All right, Foster. I understand you were asking about the fuel we use for the flamethrowers mounted on the LVT(F)-4 Amtracks?
“Yes, Sir. We have been experimenting with using our drop tanks as incendiary weapons. We noted that if we drop them from a low altitude, they hit the ground and sometimes they explode. We managed to get them to explode all the time but the gasoline burns off too fast to do any real damage. Sergeant, please show the Colonel what we have come up with so far?”
Eiler led the way to a bomb trailer towed behind his jeep. “Sir, we have standardized on the 205 gallon and 106-gallon drop tanks. We have some American ones made out of aluminum and Russian ones. some made out of thin steel others wood pulp. It doesn’t seem to matter much which we use. They all work although we have to use the wood pulp ones right away, they dissolve in a few hours you see. We fit all of them with an impact fuse taken from a 100-pound bomb to ensure ignition. We had problems with fitting the wood pulp tanks with fuses but we got around that. The problem is flare-off. We use 87 octane Russian gasoline, again it doesn’t seem to matter much so we use the most available. We tried mixing it with diesel fuel and tar. We settled on a 50/50 mixture, but it still flares off too fast to be that dangerous. It’s nasty and frightening, but not decisive.”
“Then I saw the LVT-4 flamethrowers fighting around Amosovskaya. The jets of flame were longer than anything we’ve seen before and the burn-off lasted a lot longer. So, we thought we would see what the Marines know that the Army doesn’t.”
“So much, so very, very much.” Carlson sounded deeply sympathetic. “Yeah, the stuff we put in our flamethrowers is a bit different. When we thought we would be fighting the Japanese in the Pacific, we guessed that burning them out of bunkers would be decisive. You read the Thai accounts of the Battle of Phousamang I suppose? They found that using flamethrowers to burn the Japanese out of their defenses was about the only way they could get through. We have found that normal flamethrower fuel won’t do it. We wanted something better, something that would burn slow and hot so it would penetrate right inside and clean out a bunker system.
“Anyway, a chemical company in Michigan came up with an answer for us. They came up with something called Composition N, a mixture of naphthenic and palmitic acids. And some other things, don’t ask me what, I’ve no idea. It comes in standard oil drums. We mix one drum of Composition N with four drums of gasoline and stir vigorously. Then leave it for thirty minutes and it forms a thick, runny liquid. Then fire it through a flamethrower. We have to use it within about 24 hours of mixing, or it goes bad on us, separates, and won’t remix. If you want to try it, I brought forty drums of Composition N. I guessed an airbase wouldn’t be short of gasoline.”
Campbell laughed a bit desperately. “I wish. We’ve got plenty of 87-octane but our birds won’t fly on it. 130-octane is different, we have to measure every damn drop of it right now. Eiler, mix up a couple of 100 gallon and 200 tanks of this stuff and get Wheezing Wanda out of her hangar. We’ll try a drop over at the test range.”
“Danny boy, I got to ask. Who or what is ‘Wheezing Wanda’ when she’s at home?”
“Old P-47C, a razorback. When we re-equipped with N-ships we kept a couple of the old models as hacks. Retuned them to run on 87-octane. We’ll be dropping from Wheezing Wanda to save on 130.”
Test Range 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
An hour later, the reason why Wheezing Wanda had her name was obvious as soon as the aircraft appeared. Instead of the full-throated, menacing roar of the normal P-47s, she sounded choked and asthmatic. It was obvious that her performance was much less than that of the normal Thunderbolts. Carlson looked up at her and shook his head. “I guess you don’t fly her on operations.”
“She’s forty miles per hour slower than a standard P-47D, has significantly reduced range and her throttle response is shot to hell. Pilots have to be specially checked out on her. It’s all too easy to assume they’re flying a standard P-47, ram the throttles forward to get out of a corner, and have the engine choke and die. That’s why the Army doesn’t like us having these around although the 130-octane shortage leaves us no choice.”
Wheezing Wanda was starting her run-in. It was painfully obvious the pilot was being extremely careful not to push the aircraft beyond the detuned engine’s limits and that the pass was a lot slower than was normal for a Thunderbolt. The two 100-gallon tanks under the wings dropped down and started to wobble their way towards the ground. To those who had watched previous attempts to use burning fuel as a weapon, the change made by Composition N was remarkable. Instead of a quick flare covering a relatively limited area for a few seconds, the tanks were blown apart by the fuses, scattering large gobs of burning fuel in a wide arc in front of the bouncing tank debris. Then, the bulk payload of fuel ignited into a rolling ball of fire that blossomed along and upwards covering a path almost a hundred yards long. Watching the inferno, Campbell, Foster, and Eiler felt the heat washing against their faces as the burn path continued to expand. By now, their original drops would have burned off but the Composition N kept the fires burning for much longer than they had ever seen before. The fires themselves were different; they were not a single continuous sheet of flame but seemed to form a complex mass of interlocking fireballs. By the time the fires had died down, everything in the burn area was charred to blackness. Wooden structures had gone completely; even bricks seemed to have been damaged by the heat.
“It’s too hot to go in there right now.” Carlson had seen Composition N used before but only in relatively small quantities from flamethrowers. The ignition of two hundred gallons of the stuff in one concentrated area was new to him and, although he concealed it carefully, he was impressed. “When we do, you’ll see wooden structures like that old hut, have been carbonized. They’ll just go to powder when you touch them. There’s something else as well. The way that stuff burns, it sucks all the oxygen out of the air. Over at Medvedevska, one of our LVT-4 flame tanks was jumped by a Panther. The crew didn’t have any good options at that point so they washed the tank with their flamethrower. Nothing like that of course but it gave that tank a good dousing. Burned everything flammable outside including the rubber rims on the road wheels. A bit later, we found out, never mind how, that the crew had all died in the tank. Not burned, suffocated.”
“That’s a big step in the right direction.” Campbell was nodding slowly. “We’re on the right track here.”
“Sir, we’ve made another batch up. It seemed to me that the reason why Composition N gives a thick but runny liquid was that it had to be forced through a flamethrower. We don’t have to do that so we can use it thicker. Like a jelly. So, we mixed two drums of Composition N with five drums of gasoline/diesel mix. It was setting like Jello when we left for here.”
“I don’t remember ordering that.” Campbell looked at Eiler with a cold and stony gaze.
“Sir, easier to apologize than ask permission, Sir.” From Campbell's glare, Eiler guessed that what happened next would depend very much on how his ‘improved’ formula worked.
Carlson, on the other hand, laughed. “If you get tired of the Army, Sergeant, there’s a place for you in the Marines. Take care though, once you mix Composition N with gasoline the stuff will stick to anything and you can’t wash it off with water. ‘Stick to anything’ includes your hands. Have to use alcohol to get the damned stuff off. We’ve had people set themselves on fire because they weren’t carefully making up the mix and they then touched a flame. Once that happens, it’s all over. Nothing will put that stuff out.”
“We’ll see. It’ll take Wheezing Wanda half an hour to get back and reload. I’ll call our friendly local Chekist, Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov, over. He may want to watch this.” Campbell went to his jeep to send the message.
“Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov.” Carlson said the name thoughtfully.
Exactly why was revealed a few minutes later when Samuels reappeared in his jeep with Maslov on board. He got out and stopped dead when he saw Carlson. Then the two men gave each other a typical Russian bear-hug.”
“Ivan Vladimirovich, you old scoundrel. Long time no see.” Carlson was delighted to meet another old friend.
“Six years I think. I always said I wanted you to come and see my homeland. Especially Siberia with all its wonderful trees that need immediate counting. And now here you are! You see, old friend, we always win in the end.”
Standing nearby, Foster was trying to listen in to the animated conversation between the Maslov, Campbell, and Carlson. It was apparent that they knew each other from China and it suddenly occurred to him that was why Maslov had been given this particular assignment. The exchange of memoirs and personal news, mixed up with many ‘whatever happened to’ questions filled the gap until Wheezing Wanda reappeared overhead.
Once again the Thunderbolt pilot was trying not to push his detuned engine into corners and his approach run was almost circumspect. Watching him, Campbell got the feeling that he had been equally impressed by the results of his first test and didn’t want to take chances. This was very wise since the tanks still wobbled down after release but the explosion and fireball that resulted put the first test to shame. The fires spread further and hotter and they took a lot longer to subside. Even more spectacular were the secondaries; the pine trees were soaked with water after the recent snowfall. In the original drop area, they had been blackened by the first load. The new mix set the trees in the new drop area on fire and gave Campbell a very real fear that they might have a forest fire on their hands. To his relief, those fires too died down before they could start to spread. He got a feeling in the summer things could be very different.
“I think we got it, people. That’s what we want. Well done, Eiler.” The words ‘you’re forgiven, this time’ were unsaid but there.
“We need to fine-tune it a bit. Get the gasoline to diesel ratio nailed. One thing I saw. The faster we drop this stuff the better. We want to make high-speed runs to make sure it’s spread properly.”
“We can’t call it ‘this stuff” and Composition N is the powder, not the product. Any ideas?” Campbell looked around at the group.
Foster had an inspiration. “Colonel Carlson, Sir, you said Composition N was naphthenic and palmitic acids? We take the first part of each and call this napalm. Sounds good to me. It sings.”
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
“The fuel supply issue is patchy. The Kazan, Ulyanovsk, and Samarra Fronts are all right, they are getting their 130-octane fuel directly from the Trans-Siberian railway. The Southern Fronts are mostly using 87-octane and getting it from their own resources. It’s up here in the north that the 130-octane famine is hurting us.” General Malinovsky was looking at the latest supply data. 87-octane fuel was available in quantity so that meant the La-5 and Yak-9 fighters, the Tu-2 and Pe-2 bombers, and the Il-2 ground-attack aircraft were still flying unrestricted numbers of missions. So were the largely Russian ground forces although the handful of American ground units in the northern theater was also operating without any restrictions. It was the American air units with their unquenchable thirst for 130-octane fuel that was the problem. The supplies available for them, and Russian air units equipped with American aircraft, were dwindling at an alarming rate.
“There’s a convoy on its way. Once that arrives and we unload the tankers, we’ll have enough 130-octane to see us through the winter. Until then, we’ll have to ration fuel. The B-33s will have to stand down. They burn enough fuel every mission to keep four fighter groups flying.” McNair shook his head. There were five American fighter groups in the Northern Theater, one with P-61 night-fighters, two with P-47 Thunderbolts, and two with P-63 Kingcobras. The gas-guzzling Thunderbolts were the major burden on the fuel supply, compared with them, the P-63s sipped at their fuel supply.
“We can send the B-33s down to Kazan; they’ll be needed there more than up here. When the winter closes in up here, everybody will be too busy trying to stay alive to worry about launching assaults. Especially now we’ve taken the villages along the Northern Onega.” Malinovsky knew that there were only two groups of B-33s and slow production meant there wouldn’t be anymore.
“Which brings us to another issue.” McNair had the plan for the strike on the jet fighter base at Pudozh in his hands. “The bomber people want to hit Pudozh. They came up with an extravagant plan for the job; the Night Witches hit the base first to close its runways, then both groups of B-33s hammer it flat. All four day-fighter groups providing escort, either for the B-33s or the 46th Guards, as they come back.”
“A-26s. 130-octane.” Malinovsky’s voice sounded doom-laden.
“I agree, it’s impossible. We just don’t have the fuel. This plan has to be rejected. Although it would be good to smack one of those jet fighter units around.” McNair scribbled ‘Rejected’ on the operational plan he had been given and tossed it onto the ‘out’ file. “If we ration the P-47 groups to two missions per week per aircraft, keep the P-63s on full availability and keep the B-27 group down to one mission per week per aircraft, that should stretch the fuel we have out quite a bit.”
“It will. We can absorb some of the missions by giving them to the La-5 and Il-2 regiments. Or, we could provide some of your groups with Tu-2s. That would shift them from 130-octane to 87.” Malinovsky hoped McNair would consider the idea. He desperately wanted to supply the Americans with some equipment in response to the flood of material they had brought to Russia.
“That’s worth thinking about. Even on 87-octane the Tu-2 is a very good aircraft. Could we send come of our people over to a Tu-2 Regiment to see what we can achieve?” McNair saw the delight in Malinovsky’s eyes and guessed what had laid behind the offer. “Oh, by the way, a piece of news for you. On January 1st, 1945, the US Army Air Force will cease to exist. It will become the US Air Force, an independent service equal to the Army and Navy. I doubt if it will make that much difference, to be honest, but the flyboys will be pleased.”
Colonel Daniel Campbell’s Office, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
“Sir, Sergeant Finnegan, Front main gate security here. We have a Marine Corps Colonel with two trucks carrying drums. He says he’s answering your desperate pleas for help. His words, Sir.” The depth of suspicion in the voice on the telephone was profound.
There was a bang, a crash, and a series of thuds. Then a familiar voice came on the line. “Danny boy. Is this any way to treat a fellow Old China hand? And here am I with gifts aplenty from the old hometown itself.”
“Evans? Why didn’t you call ahead? I’d have the guardhouse alerted.”
“That’s why I didn’t call ahead, Danny boy. Never let people know your movements. Learned that from a Chinese gentleman called Mao Zedong back in the thirties. Especially true out here. Now, can I come in and drink your hooch or do you let one of your charming ladies out here shoot my pecker off? The way she's looking at me, I think she’d prefer to do the latter.”
“Don’t underestimate the Russian women military police. They take rear area security seriously . . . Yeah, I’d guessed you’d already learned that. All right Evans put Sergeant Finnegan on the line. Sergeant, the man you have there is Colonel Evans Carlson.” The gulp on the line was audible. “Yes, THAT Colonel Evans Carlson. Let him right through. Send him, no, on second thoughts ask one of the Russians to escort him, to the 404th Flight Line.”
Campbell pushed down on the telephone cradle and then clicked it for his clerk to pick up. “Samuels? Call Captain Foster and Sergeant Eiler and tell them that I wish to speak with them on the 404th Flight Line. Right now. Tell them it’s Christmas.”
Flight Line 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
Campbell’s jeep had pulled to a halt a minute or so before one driven by Airman Samuels with Captain Foster and Sergeant Eiler on board arrived. Foster jumped out and snapped out a salute. “Christmas, Sir?”
Campbell was saved from answering by the arrival of two Diamond-T four-ton trucks, each with a Russian military policewoman standing on the running board, PPsH sub-machine gun at hand. “Tovarish Sergeant, thank you for bringing Colonel Carlson over.”
The stern, forbidding face of the truly proletarian Military Police Sergeant relaxed into an impish smile for a moment and then returned to its previous stolidity. “Tovarish Colonel, I hand these visitors over to your custody.”
She turned to leave, on foot, but Campbell waved to Samuels. “Samuels, drive our bratishka here back to their station and then return to the flight line.”
The two policewomen gave Campbell another quick smile and piled in the back of the jeep. Campbell watched them go and turned to his guest. “Evans, good to see you again. This place is a hell of a difference from China.”
“Not really Danny boy. Different language, different faces, same enemy. You were asking about flamethrowers?”
“Yes indeed. May I introduce Captain Malcolm Foster and Sergeant Mark Eiler? They’ve been working on how to improve our close support capability. Foster, Eiler, this is an old friend of mine. Colonel Evans Carson, Commander of the First Marine Raider Regiment.”
Once courtesies had been exchanged, Carlson got down to business. “All right, Foster. I understand you were asking about the fuel we use for the flamethrowers mounted on the LVT(F)-4 Amtracks?
“Yes, Sir. We have been experimenting with using our drop tanks as incendiary weapons. We noted that if we drop them from a low altitude, they hit the ground and sometimes they explode. We managed to get them to explode all the time but the gasoline burns off too fast to do any real damage. Sergeant, please show the Colonel what we have come up with so far?”
Eiler led the way to a bomb trailer towed behind his jeep. “Sir, we have standardized on the 205 gallon and 106-gallon drop tanks. We have some American ones made out of aluminum and Russian ones. some made out of thin steel others wood pulp. It doesn’t seem to matter much which we use. They all work although we have to use the wood pulp ones right away, they dissolve in a few hours you see. We fit all of them with an impact fuse taken from a 100-pound bomb to ensure ignition. We had problems with fitting the wood pulp tanks with fuses but we got around that. The problem is flare-off. We use 87 octane Russian gasoline, again it doesn’t seem to matter much so we use the most available. We tried mixing it with diesel fuel and tar. We settled on a 50/50 mixture, but it still flares off too fast to be that dangerous. It’s nasty and frightening, but not decisive.”
“Then I saw the LVT-4 flamethrowers fighting around Amosovskaya. The jets of flame were longer than anything we’ve seen before and the burn-off lasted a lot longer. So, we thought we would see what the Marines know that the Army doesn’t.”
“So much, so very, very much.” Carlson sounded deeply sympathetic. “Yeah, the stuff we put in our flamethrowers is a bit different. When we thought we would be fighting the Japanese in the Pacific, we guessed that burning them out of bunkers would be decisive. You read the Thai accounts of the Battle of Phousamang I suppose? They found that using flamethrowers to burn the Japanese out of their defenses was about the only way they could get through. We have found that normal flamethrower fuel won’t do it. We wanted something better, something that would burn slow and hot so it would penetrate right inside and clean out a bunker system.
“Anyway, a chemical company in Michigan came up with an answer for us. They came up with something called Composition N, a mixture of naphthenic and palmitic acids. And some other things, don’t ask me what, I’ve no idea. It comes in standard oil drums. We mix one drum of Composition N with four drums of gasoline and stir vigorously. Then leave it for thirty minutes and it forms a thick, runny liquid. Then fire it through a flamethrower. We have to use it within about 24 hours of mixing, or it goes bad on us, separates, and won’t remix. If you want to try it, I brought forty drums of Composition N. I guessed an airbase wouldn’t be short of gasoline.”
Campbell laughed a bit desperately. “I wish. We’ve got plenty of 87-octane but our birds won’t fly on it. 130-octane is different, we have to measure every damn drop of it right now. Eiler, mix up a couple of 100 gallon and 200 tanks of this stuff and get Wheezing Wanda out of her hangar. We’ll try a drop over at the test range.”
“Danny boy, I got to ask. Who or what is ‘Wheezing Wanda’ when she’s at home?”
“Old P-47C, a razorback. When we re-equipped with N-ships we kept a couple of the old models as hacks. Retuned them to run on 87-octane. We’ll be dropping from Wheezing Wanda to save on 130.”
Test Range 404th Fighter Group, Airfield 896, Korovkinskaya, Archangel’sk Front
An hour later, the reason why Wheezing Wanda had her name was obvious as soon as the aircraft appeared. Instead of the full-throated, menacing roar of the normal P-47s, she sounded choked and asthmatic. It was obvious that her performance was much less than that of the normal Thunderbolts. Carlson looked up at her and shook his head. “I guess you don’t fly her on operations.”
“She’s forty miles per hour slower than a standard P-47D, has significantly reduced range and her throttle response is shot to hell. Pilots have to be specially checked out on her. It’s all too easy to assume they’re flying a standard P-47, ram the throttles forward to get out of a corner, and have the engine choke and die. That’s why the Army doesn’t like us having these around although the 130-octane shortage leaves us no choice.”
Wheezing Wanda was starting her run-in. It was painfully obvious the pilot was being extremely careful not to push the aircraft beyond the detuned engine’s limits and that the pass was a lot slower than was normal for a Thunderbolt. The two 100-gallon tanks under the wings dropped down and started to wobble their way towards the ground. To those who had watched previous attempts to use burning fuel as a weapon, the change made by Composition N was remarkable. Instead of a quick flare covering a relatively limited area for a few seconds, the tanks were blown apart by the fuses, scattering large gobs of burning fuel in a wide arc in front of the bouncing tank debris. Then, the bulk payload of fuel ignited into a rolling ball of fire that blossomed along and upwards covering a path almost a hundred yards long. Watching the inferno, Campbell, Foster, and Eiler felt the heat washing against their faces as the burn path continued to expand. By now, their original drops would have burned off but the Composition N kept the fires burning for much longer than they had ever seen before. The fires themselves were different; they were not a single continuous sheet of flame but seemed to form a complex mass of interlocking fireballs. By the time the fires had died down, everything in the burn area was charred to blackness. Wooden structures had gone completely; even bricks seemed to have been damaged by the heat.
“It’s too hot to go in there right now.” Carlson had seen Composition N used before but only in relatively small quantities from flamethrowers. The ignition of two hundred gallons of the stuff in one concentrated area was new to him and, although he concealed it carefully, he was impressed. “When we do, you’ll see wooden structures like that old hut, have been carbonized. They’ll just go to powder when you touch them. There’s something else as well. The way that stuff burns, it sucks all the oxygen out of the air. Over at Medvedevska, one of our LVT-4 flame tanks was jumped by a Panther. The crew didn’t have any good options at that point so they washed the tank with their flamethrower. Nothing like that of course but it gave that tank a good dousing. Burned everything flammable outside including the rubber rims on the road wheels. A bit later, we found out, never mind how, that the crew had all died in the tank. Not burned, suffocated.”
“That’s a big step in the right direction.” Campbell was nodding slowly. “We’re on the right track here.”
“Sir, we’ve made another batch up. It seemed to me that the reason why Composition N gives a thick but runny liquid was that it had to be forced through a flamethrower. We don’t have to do that so we can use it thicker. Like a jelly. So, we mixed two drums of Composition N with five drums of gasoline/diesel mix. It was setting like Jello when we left for here.”
“I don’t remember ordering that.” Campbell looked at Eiler with a cold and stony gaze.
“Sir, easier to apologize than ask permission, Sir.” From Campbell's glare, Eiler guessed that what happened next would depend very much on how his ‘improved’ formula worked.
Carlson, on the other hand, laughed. “If you get tired of the Army, Sergeant, there’s a place for you in the Marines. Take care though, once you mix Composition N with gasoline the stuff will stick to anything and you can’t wash it off with water. ‘Stick to anything’ includes your hands. Have to use alcohol to get the damned stuff off. We’ve had people set themselves on fire because they weren’t carefully making up the mix and they then touched a flame. Once that happens, it’s all over. Nothing will put that stuff out.”
“We’ll see. It’ll take Wheezing Wanda half an hour to get back and reload. I’ll call our friendly local Chekist, Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov, over. He may want to watch this.” Campbell went to his jeep to send the message.
“Ivan Vladimirovich Maslov.” Carlson said the name thoughtfully.
Exactly why was revealed a few minutes later when Samuels reappeared in his jeep with Maslov on board. He got out and stopped dead when he saw Carlson. Then the two men gave each other a typical Russian bear-hug.”
“Ivan Vladimirovich, you old scoundrel. Long time no see.” Carlson was delighted to meet another old friend.
“Six years I think. I always said I wanted you to come and see my homeland. Especially Siberia with all its wonderful trees that need immediate counting. And now here you are! You see, old friend, we always win in the end.”
Standing nearby, Foster was trying to listen in to the animated conversation between the Maslov, Campbell, and Carlson. It was apparent that they knew each other from China and it suddenly occurred to him that was why Maslov had been given this particular assignment. The exchange of memoirs and personal news, mixed up with many ‘whatever happened to’ questions filled the gap until Wheezing Wanda reappeared overhead.
Once again the Thunderbolt pilot was trying not to push his detuned engine into corners and his approach run was almost circumspect. Watching him, Campbell got the feeling that he had been equally impressed by the results of his first test and didn’t want to take chances. This was very wise since the tanks still wobbled down after release but the explosion and fireball that resulted put the first test to shame. The fires spread further and hotter and they took a lot longer to subside. Even more spectacular were the secondaries; the pine trees were soaked with water after the recent snowfall. In the original drop area, they had been blackened by the first load. The new mix set the trees in the new drop area on fire and gave Campbell a very real fear that they might have a forest fire on their hands. To his relief, those fires too died down before they could start to spread. He got a feeling in the summer things could be very different.
“I think we got it, people. That’s what we want. Well done, Eiler.” The words ‘you’re forgiven, this time’ were unsaid but there.
“We need to fine-tune it a bit. Get the gasoline to diesel ratio nailed. One thing I saw. The faster we drop this stuff the better. We want to make high-speed runs to make sure it’s spread properly.”
“We can’t call it ‘this stuff” and Composition N is the powder, not the product. Any ideas?” Campbell looked around at the group.
Foster had an inspiration. “Colonel Carlson, Sir, you said Composition N was naphthenic and palmitic acids? We take the first part of each and call this napalm. Sounds good to me. It sings.”
Headquarters, 42nd Army, Archangel'sk, Archangel’sk Front
“The fuel supply issue is patchy. The Kazan, Ulyanovsk, and Samarra Fronts are all right, they are getting their 130-octane fuel directly from the Trans-Siberian railway. The Southern Fronts are mostly using 87-octane and getting it from their own resources. It’s up here in the north that the 130-octane famine is hurting us.” General Malinovsky was looking at the latest supply data. 87-octane fuel was available in quantity so that meant the La-5 and Yak-9 fighters, the Tu-2 and Pe-2 bombers, and the Il-2 ground-attack aircraft were still flying unrestricted numbers of missions. So were the largely Russian ground forces although the handful of American ground units in the northern theater was also operating without any restrictions. It was the American air units with their unquenchable thirst for 130-octane fuel that was the problem. The supplies available for them, and Russian air units equipped with American aircraft, were dwindling at an alarming rate.
“There’s a convoy on its way. Once that arrives and we unload the tankers, we’ll have enough 130-octane to see us through the winter. Until then, we’ll have to ration fuel. The B-33s will have to stand down. They burn enough fuel every mission to keep four fighter groups flying.” McNair shook his head. There were five American fighter groups in the Northern Theater, one with P-61 night-fighters, two with P-47 Thunderbolts, and two with P-63 Kingcobras. The gas-guzzling Thunderbolts were the major burden on the fuel supply, compared with them, the P-63s sipped at their fuel supply.
“We can send the B-33s down to Kazan; they’ll be needed there more than up here. When the winter closes in up here, everybody will be too busy trying to stay alive to worry about launching assaults. Especially now we’ve taken the villages along the Northern Onega.” Malinovsky knew that there were only two groups of B-33s and slow production meant there wouldn’t be anymore.
“Which brings us to another issue.” McNair had the plan for the strike on the jet fighter base at Pudozh in his hands. “The bomber people want to hit Pudozh. They came up with an extravagant plan for the job; the Night Witches hit the base first to close its runways, then both groups of B-33s hammer it flat. All four day-fighter groups providing escort, either for the B-33s or the 46th Guards, as they come back.”
“A-26s. 130-octane.” Malinovsky’s voice sounded doom-laden.
“I agree, it’s impossible. We just don’t have the fuel. This plan has to be rejected. Although it would be good to smack one of those jet fighter units around.” McNair scribbled ‘Rejected’ on the operational plan he had been given and tossed it onto the ‘out’ file. “If we ration the P-47 groups to two missions per week per aircraft, keep the P-63s on full availability and keep the B-27 group down to one mission per week per aircraft, that should stretch the fuel we have out quite a bit.”
“It will. We can absorb some of the missions by giving them to the La-5 and Il-2 regiments. Or, we could provide some of your groups with Tu-2s. That would shift them from 130-octane to 87.” Malinovsky hoped McNair would consider the idea. He desperately wanted to supply the Americans with some equipment in response to the flood of material they had brought to Russia.
“That’s worth thinking about. Even on 87-octane the Tu-2 is a very good aircraft. Could we send come of our people over to a Tu-2 Regiment to see what we can achieve?” McNair saw the delight in Malinovsky’s eyes and guessed what had laid behind the offer. “Oh, by the way, a piece of news for you. On January 1st, 1945, the US Army Air Force will cease to exist. It will become the US Air Force, an independent service equal to the Army and Navy. I doubt if it will make that much difference, to be honest, but the flyboys will be pleased.”
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Nineteen
Captain’s Cabin, U-491, U-Boat Pens, Wilhelmshaven
"They're swinging the second missile on now. The first one is already in the lower half of the hangar."
Kapitänleutnant Johann-Heinrich Fehler looked up from his charts at his first officer's report. They were loading war-shot Fi-103s for the first time, complete with an 850kg warhead. Fehler devoutly hoped that the dockyard crane wouldn't drop one. If they did and the warhead went off, there wouldn't be much left of U-491.
"Very good, Oscar. We'll be ready to sail on the tide."
Lieutenant Oscar Hecker quietly closed the door and sat close to his Captain, with the intent of keeping his voice as low as possible. These days, one never knows who is listening. Fehler noted his actions and spoke normally. "Oscar, some music while I read your readiness report?"
He turned the radio on to an armed forces radio station. Fortunately, the typical choice of music at this time of day was bombastic and made a good cover. Hecker leaned forward slightly. "Captain, is what we are about to do a good idea?"
"Our leaders think it is." Fehler gave a tiny shake of his head. "They believe that the Americans will fold as soon as they are threatened at home. That when our missiles explode in New York, the population will rise and force an end to the war."
"And you, captain?"
"I believe that when our missiles explode in New York, the American people will rise all right. Only they'll demand the end of us all. I'm going to try and hit the Marine Ocean Terminal. It's an acceptable military target."
"Our Kirschkerns are not that accurate." Hecker favored the idea in principle at least. The actual mission orders were to fire at the center of New York in the hope that the wildly-inaccurate missiles would hit something of value. "We will be lucky, or more likely very unlucky, if they land anywhere near the city. Or the state come to that. You think that trying to hit the Terminal will mean anything to them?"
Fehler sighed. "All we can do is hope."
Above them, there was a sharp clang as the missile landed on the deck rails followed by a rumble as it was wheeled towards the hangar. The squealing as the hangar doors were closed seemed to have a mournful note about it. Inside the cylindrical hangar, Fehler knew that the crew would be securing the two missiles for the long journey over the Atlantic. Or to be more accurate, under the Atlantic.
"Oscar, we'll be running for three days on the surface. Down the Channel and across the Bay of Biscay. After that, we'll run surfaced when we can, submerged when we must. That will mean all day. We should be off New York in twelve to fourteen days.”
“I’d allow more time than that, Jotun. We’ll have to avoid the Azores and the Canaries. They have Martin flying boats in the Azores and the Canaries too now. Damn Franco, I thought he was on our side.”
“Generalissimo Franco is fervently on the side of Spain and General Franco and I are not sure in which order. I’m not sure the Generalissimo knows in which order. But, it is not the Azores and their Martins that worry me. We will be nearly 700 kilometers from them. What does concern me is that the route brings us within 400 kilometers of Nova Scotia. That is dangerously close to the Canadians and their patrol aircraft. You heard one of them had a dogfight with a Junkers 290?"
Hecker laughed at the thought of two large four-engined patrol aircraft trying to dogfight. "What did they do, fly in parallel exchanging broadsides?"
"I don’t know; nobody does. The Privateer won. At least we think so; the last we heard from the Junkers was that it was being attacked by a Canadian Privateer. Then silence." Fehler shrugged. "Anyway, we'll have to run that section of the approach submerged. I don’t want to have one of their homing torpedoes chasing us. After we've launched, we'll come back a bit more to the south."
Both men stared at the charts. Getting across the Atlantic, especially with one of the older U-boats, was becoming depressingly like threading a needle. The new Klasse XXIs are having an easier time of it now but there were so few of them . . .. "Captain, do you think this missile attack will get us what High Command want?"
"I think it will get us what we deserve."
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"Otto, a change in orders has come in."
"You have got to be joking. How many times is this?"
"Three? Or is it four? Every time we get into position to do one thing, we get orders to go somewhere else and do something different." Kern's frustration was turning into anger at the way 653 was being shifted around while being under constant air attack. "The Ivans have been stopped at Amosovskaya by infantry supported by a Panther unit but a whole Ivan Tank Corps is moving east from Ponga. According to Corps, they'll be funneled into a long gap between two lakes east of Leskhoz. Open ground, ideal for us. At least we won’t have to fight in the forest the way we would at Amosovskaya."
Kern stopped there. The Russian forests were beginning to become an object of almost superstitious dread to the German Army. They went into them but all too often those who went in never came out. It was well known that the partisans lived in those forests along with the occupants of villages that had been destroyed by the invaders. Further west, some of those partisan units were the survivors of Russian Army units that had been surrounded in 1941 yet were still fighting. Even in Belorussia, there were whole tracts of the forests and marshes that were partisan enclaves, areas where the word of the Partisans was law and they acted as if they were a sovereign independent country. German forces, even the specialized partisanjaeger units, never entered those areas. When Kern looked at the seemingly endless pine forests, they appeared to exude a glowering and implacable hostility.
"We still have our ten Jagdtigers and the three Bergepanther armored recovery vehicles." Carius was trying to work out how to get across the battlefield without getting shot to pieces by Allied aircraft. "But the last of the engineer half-tracks have gone and we are down to a single 37mm flak gun."
"The loss of our engineers is bad. Probably worse than losing the flak. If one of the Jagdtigers breaks down on the march, we will have to abandon it." There are more ways of destroying a tank than just blowing it up. Kern thought. Back in '41, we laughed at the Ivans because their tank crews didn’t know how to repair even the simplest fault in their tanks and abandoned vehicles that needed just a few minutes’ work to get back running. Now it is we who abandon their vehicles for the lack of the equipment needed to salvage them. "How far do we have to move this time?"
Carius looked at the map. "About 15 kilometers. It's not far but the problem is that we can't get there from here. There are no roads, we can't take our monsters through the woods and the lakes block most of the obvious ways through. We could follow the railway line that leads through to Ponga and then pick up a road."
'That would destroy the railway line as well." Kern didn't object to that. The railway, once it was working, would be invaluable to the Russians but was almost useless to the Germans. Destroying it has no penalty, keeping it brings no benefit.
"That is not a problem. Anyway, we do not have that many options do we? Tell the men we are on the move again. This time we will be working on the railroad."
Route 296, east of Gouldsboro, Maine
"Ah, Scheisse." It was beginning to dawn on the three travelers that Maine in winter wasn't the best of places to try and ride bicycles. It was also beginning to dawn on them that America was a lot larger than most Europeans ever realized. If they had known that they were over 300 kilometers from their destination, they would have been, individually and collectively, even more upset. If they had further realized that they would have to cover that distance on bicycles over roads that were covered with patches of ice and snow, 'upset' wouldn’t have even begun to cover their level of distress.
Thorben Schipanski, or Thomas Smith as his (forged) identity documents claimed, was quite familiar with snow and ice. He came from Fürstenwalde in Germany, just east of Berlin, where hard winters were a matter of course. He had ridden around town on his bicycle there but conditions in sparsely-populated Maine were different. He had found that out when his front wheel had hit a patch of black ice and suddenly twisted through 90 degrees. That had sent him flying over the handlebars into the sturdy pine supports of a barbed-wire fence. By the time the posts had done a number on his head and the wire had tangled him up, his injuries were enough to force the realization that this was simply not going to work.
"Are you all right, . . . Thomas?" Erik Gersdorf, better known in America (or so he hoped) as Eric Garden, carefully stopped pedaling and went to help. He unhooked 'Smith' from the barbed wire and got him to his feet. This wasn't as easy as it sounded and 'Garden' slipped into the ditch once when his feet lost their grip. The third member of the party, Volker Werner, stopped as well. His identity documents proclaimed him to be 'Victor Walker', an Arc-starter whose vitally important war work had caused him to have the coveted draft exemption of 4-F. All three men had 4-F classifications.
"I think so. My coat is torn though." 'Smith' checked his bicycle and found it was undamaged despite the force of the accident. "Why cannot they clear the roads properly? Back home these roads would have been dug clear by now and covered with salt and grit."
"Perhaps all the workers are in the Army." 'Walker' had the feeling that America was drafting every young man it could find to fill the ranks from the frightful casualty rate in Russia. "We must move on. We have to be at Millbridge soon. Perhaps the road north from there will be better?"
"It cannot be much worse." 'Garden' looked around at the countryside. "This place is so empty."
"Cherryfield is a large town. Perhaps there will be a railway there? That would be better than trying to ride these bicycles." 'Walker' thought that anything would be better than trying to ride these bicycles through the desolate Maine countryside.
"There must be. We will just have to find the station when we get there." With that comforting thought in mind, the three men set off again.
Two miles down the road, it was 'Walker' who managed to fall off his bicycle and end up in a ditch. Although none of them realized it, this worked in their favor. The section of the road where the second fall occurred was located in an area where excessive groundwater meant the ditches were unusually deep to prevent the road flooding. To make matters worse, the bottom of the ditches was filled with thick, glutinous, and semi-frozen mud. 'Walker' had landed in that quagmire and had extreme difficulty in extracting himself. So, his two companions went down the sides of the ditch to help him. While they did so, a car drove past. The presence of an automobile was unusual enough for the three men to stay hidden while it did so and thus they remained undetected by the two FBI agents inside. They had accurate pictures of the men who had stopped in the diner earlier, based on the descriptions they'd been given by Jennifer Perry and her customers. They were very keen to make those men's acquaintance and ask them some pointed questions. As it was, they had no idea that they had passed within a few feet of the men they were trying to find.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, East of Orphan Knoll
Once again the ship's sirens sounded "General Quarters" and the crew of Shawnee poured out from inside their ship to man the anti-aircraft guns. This time, the alert was for a submarine attack but it would do no harm to have the ship ready for any eventuality. In any case, as the more pessimistic members of the crew made clear, if they were manning the five-inchers, 40mm Bofors, and 20mm Oerlikons, they would not be below decks when the torpedoes hit. Overhead, a Canadian Privateer MR Mk.3 was heading south. It was obvious something had been detected.
Douglas Young felt the increasing vibration under his feet as the Shawnee picked up speed. He was already behind his 20mm gun and was swinging the barrel down to make sure the gun was cocked and ready to fire. "Number Two 20mm Oerlikon ready to engage."
In a very limited sense, Young was already a commander. He had a crew of three men to help load and fire his gun and that meant he had a tiny amount of authority. That fact had been recognized when he had been summoned to the Captain's cabin and there, in the presence of Mr. Ericsson, he had been formally advised that he had successfully concluded his apprenticeship and could now consider himself a proper seaman. A very new seaman, he reminded himself, prompted by being thrown against the gun tub of his Oerlikon by Shawnee making a sharp turn to starboard.
“What’s happening?” There was something different about the situation, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was but there was a tension that there hadn’t been before.
“We’re under torpedo attack.” Mr. Ericsson had shouted the reply to save himself having to repeat it. “There’s a submarine out there and it’s just fired a full salvo at the convoy.”
His words were abruptly demonstrated by the concussion wave of an explosion. One of the four Free British destroyers seemed to have been knocked sideways by a massive blast dead amidships. She was obviously in desperate straits; by the time the water from the torpedo hit had subsided, her bows and stern sections were already forming a great V. Within barely two minutes, she had gone, leaving nothing but a patch of oil and debris on the surface. Young had already shown he had keen eyes but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t see any sign of survivors swimming amidst the wreckage. Slowly he realized that he had just watched two hundred men die in the bitterly cold sea. It wasn’t the first time he had seen a ship sunk but the suddenness and completeness of the loss were shocking in the way that other sinking had not been.
A rumble of explosions tore his eyes away from the scene. The Privateer had made its pass over the site of the U-boat and released four depth charges. Now, she was pulling away while four TBM Avengers from the USS Kazan made their passes. They were carrying the small FIDO homing torpedoes that would circle until they picked up the signature of the submarine and then follow the sound of her propellers until they scored a hit. The Privateer and the four TBMs were circling the drop point for what seemed hours until there was a blast and a column of water erupted.
“Got it!” Mr. Ericsson sounded immensely satisfied. “We got some payback for Matabele At least I think we did.”
Young noted how the doubt had crept in towards the end. "We got it though, we saw the explosion."
"FIDO only explodes when it hits something. So that's hopeful. But the fascist down there could have set off a decoy and pumped some debris out of a torpedo tube. We won't know until we see bodies floating up. Possibly not even then, at least one fascist sub had casualties and pumped them out of the tubes as well."
There was more wreckage floating on the surface, more oil bubbling up from the sinking submarine now far below them. Again, despite his acute vision, Young couldn’t see any survivors. Not that it matters. If there were any, the Avengers would be strafing them in the water. So would the Privateer. There’s no mercy for U-boatmen, not after the Taney.
The Avengers had continued circling the scene of the attack but the Privateer pulled away and made for the area where Matabele had gone down. She circled the area twice, then made a straight run across it. Something fell from her bomb bay, making Young think that she was depth-charging the area. Then he saw the object hit the water and unfold into a yellow life-raft. "Mr. Ericsson, there must be survivors there!"
"Some. A few." Mr. Ericsson was being cautious. He knew better than to get his hopes up early. "One of the Canadian destroyers will pick them up. This convoy is too fast for one of the rescue ships to tag along."
They watched as a Canadian destroyer pulled alongside the life-raft and snared it with a tow-line. She had scrambling nets over her side and a handful of men were climbing from their raft up the side of the ship. It would have been easier if she had stopped but bitter experience had taught them that stopped ships, even ones rescuing survivors, got torpedoed.
"Is there another submarine out there, Mr. Ericsson?" Young looked around at the gray sea rolling under a gray, clouded sky.
"Oh yes. They're out there. Only question is, how close?"
Captain’s Cabin, U-491, U-Boat Pens, Wilhelmshaven
"They're swinging the second missile on now. The first one is already in the lower half of the hangar."
Kapitänleutnant Johann-Heinrich Fehler looked up from his charts at his first officer's report. They were loading war-shot Fi-103s for the first time, complete with an 850kg warhead. Fehler devoutly hoped that the dockyard crane wouldn't drop one. If they did and the warhead went off, there wouldn't be much left of U-491.
"Very good, Oscar. We'll be ready to sail on the tide."
Lieutenant Oscar Hecker quietly closed the door and sat close to his Captain, with the intent of keeping his voice as low as possible. These days, one never knows who is listening. Fehler noted his actions and spoke normally. "Oscar, some music while I read your readiness report?"
He turned the radio on to an armed forces radio station. Fortunately, the typical choice of music at this time of day was bombastic and made a good cover. Hecker leaned forward slightly. "Captain, is what we are about to do a good idea?"
"Our leaders think it is." Fehler gave a tiny shake of his head. "They believe that the Americans will fold as soon as they are threatened at home. That when our missiles explode in New York, the population will rise and force an end to the war."
"And you, captain?"
"I believe that when our missiles explode in New York, the American people will rise all right. Only they'll demand the end of us all. I'm going to try and hit the Marine Ocean Terminal. It's an acceptable military target."
"Our Kirschkerns are not that accurate." Hecker favored the idea in principle at least. The actual mission orders were to fire at the center of New York in the hope that the wildly-inaccurate missiles would hit something of value. "We will be lucky, or more likely very unlucky, if they land anywhere near the city. Or the state come to that. You think that trying to hit the Terminal will mean anything to them?"
Fehler sighed. "All we can do is hope."
Above them, there was a sharp clang as the missile landed on the deck rails followed by a rumble as it was wheeled towards the hangar. The squealing as the hangar doors were closed seemed to have a mournful note about it. Inside the cylindrical hangar, Fehler knew that the crew would be securing the two missiles for the long journey over the Atlantic. Or to be more accurate, under the Atlantic.
"Oscar, we'll be running for three days on the surface. Down the Channel and across the Bay of Biscay. After that, we'll run surfaced when we can, submerged when we must. That will mean all day. We should be off New York in twelve to fourteen days.”
“I’d allow more time than that, Jotun. We’ll have to avoid the Azores and the Canaries. They have Martin flying boats in the Azores and the Canaries too now. Damn Franco, I thought he was on our side.”
“Generalissimo Franco is fervently on the side of Spain and General Franco and I are not sure in which order. I’m not sure the Generalissimo knows in which order. But, it is not the Azores and their Martins that worry me. We will be nearly 700 kilometers from them. What does concern me is that the route brings us within 400 kilometers of Nova Scotia. That is dangerously close to the Canadians and their patrol aircraft. You heard one of them had a dogfight with a Junkers 290?"
Hecker laughed at the thought of two large four-engined patrol aircraft trying to dogfight. "What did they do, fly in parallel exchanging broadsides?"
"I don’t know; nobody does. The Privateer won. At least we think so; the last we heard from the Junkers was that it was being attacked by a Canadian Privateer. Then silence." Fehler shrugged. "Anyway, we'll have to run that section of the approach submerged. I don’t want to have one of their homing torpedoes chasing us. After we've launched, we'll come back a bit more to the south."
Both men stared at the charts. Getting across the Atlantic, especially with one of the older U-boats, was becoming depressingly like threading a needle. The new Klasse XXIs are having an easier time of it now but there were so few of them . . .. "Captain, do you think this missile attack will get us what High Command want?"
"I think it will get us what we deserve."
Command Detachment, Schwere Panzerjäger-Abteilung 653, west of Onega.
"Otto, a change in orders has come in."
"You have got to be joking. How many times is this?"
"Three? Or is it four? Every time we get into position to do one thing, we get orders to go somewhere else and do something different." Kern's frustration was turning into anger at the way 653 was being shifted around while being under constant air attack. "The Ivans have been stopped at Amosovskaya by infantry supported by a Panther unit but a whole Ivan Tank Corps is moving east from Ponga. According to Corps, they'll be funneled into a long gap between two lakes east of Leskhoz. Open ground, ideal for us. At least we won’t have to fight in the forest the way we would at Amosovskaya."
Kern stopped there. The Russian forests were beginning to become an object of almost superstitious dread to the German Army. They went into them but all too often those who went in never came out. It was well known that the partisans lived in those forests along with the occupants of villages that had been destroyed by the invaders. Further west, some of those partisan units were the survivors of Russian Army units that had been surrounded in 1941 yet were still fighting. Even in Belorussia, there were whole tracts of the forests and marshes that were partisan enclaves, areas where the word of the Partisans was law and they acted as if they were a sovereign independent country. German forces, even the specialized partisanjaeger units, never entered those areas. When Kern looked at the seemingly endless pine forests, they appeared to exude a glowering and implacable hostility.
"We still have our ten Jagdtigers and the three Bergepanther armored recovery vehicles." Carius was trying to work out how to get across the battlefield without getting shot to pieces by Allied aircraft. "But the last of the engineer half-tracks have gone and we are down to a single 37mm flak gun."
"The loss of our engineers is bad. Probably worse than losing the flak. If one of the Jagdtigers breaks down on the march, we will have to abandon it." There are more ways of destroying a tank than just blowing it up. Kern thought. Back in '41, we laughed at the Ivans because their tank crews didn’t know how to repair even the simplest fault in their tanks and abandoned vehicles that needed just a few minutes’ work to get back running. Now it is we who abandon their vehicles for the lack of the equipment needed to salvage them. "How far do we have to move this time?"
Carius looked at the map. "About 15 kilometers. It's not far but the problem is that we can't get there from here. There are no roads, we can't take our monsters through the woods and the lakes block most of the obvious ways through. We could follow the railway line that leads through to Ponga and then pick up a road."
'That would destroy the railway line as well." Kern didn't object to that. The railway, once it was working, would be invaluable to the Russians but was almost useless to the Germans. Destroying it has no penalty, keeping it brings no benefit.
"That is not a problem. Anyway, we do not have that many options do we? Tell the men we are on the move again. This time we will be working on the railroad."
Route 296, east of Gouldsboro, Maine
"Ah, Scheisse." It was beginning to dawn on the three travelers that Maine in winter wasn't the best of places to try and ride bicycles. It was also beginning to dawn on them that America was a lot larger than most Europeans ever realized. If they had known that they were over 300 kilometers from their destination, they would have been, individually and collectively, even more upset. If they had further realized that they would have to cover that distance on bicycles over roads that were covered with patches of ice and snow, 'upset' wouldn’t have even begun to cover their level of distress.
Thorben Schipanski, or Thomas Smith as his (forged) identity documents claimed, was quite familiar with snow and ice. He came from Fürstenwalde in Germany, just east of Berlin, where hard winters were a matter of course. He had ridden around town on his bicycle there but conditions in sparsely-populated Maine were different. He had found that out when his front wheel had hit a patch of black ice and suddenly twisted through 90 degrees. That had sent him flying over the handlebars into the sturdy pine supports of a barbed-wire fence. By the time the posts had done a number on his head and the wire had tangled him up, his injuries were enough to force the realization that this was simply not going to work.
"Are you all right, . . . Thomas?" Erik Gersdorf, better known in America (or so he hoped) as Eric Garden, carefully stopped pedaling and went to help. He unhooked 'Smith' from the barbed wire and got him to his feet. This wasn't as easy as it sounded and 'Garden' slipped into the ditch once when his feet lost their grip. The third member of the party, Volker Werner, stopped as well. His identity documents proclaimed him to be 'Victor Walker', an Arc-starter whose vitally important war work had caused him to have the coveted draft exemption of 4-F. All three men had 4-F classifications.
"I think so. My coat is torn though." 'Smith' checked his bicycle and found it was undamaged despite the force of the accident. "Why cannot they clear the roads properly? Back home these roads would have been dug clear by now and covered with salt and grit."
"Perhaps all the workers are in the Army." 'Walker' had the feeling that America was drafting every young man it could find to fill the ranks from the frightful casualty rate in Russia. "We must move on. We have to be at Millbridge soon. Perhaps the road north from there will be better?"
"It cannot be much worse." 'Garden' looked around at the countryside. "This place is so empty."
"Cherryfield is a large town. Perhaps there will be a railway there? That would be better than trying to ride these bicycles." 'Walker' thought that anything would be better than trying to ride these bicycles through the desolate Maine countryside.
"There must be. We will just have to find the station when we get there." With that comforting thought in mind, the three men set off again.
Two miles down the road, it was 'Walker' who managed to fall off his bicycle and end up in a ditch. Although none of them realized it, this worked in their favor. The section of the road where the second fall occurred was located in an area where excessive groundwater meant the ditches were unusually deep to prevent the road flooding. To make matters worse, the bottom of the ditches was filled with thick, glutinous, and semi-frozen mud. 'Walker' had landed in that quagmire and had extreme difficulty in extracting himself. So, his two companions went down the sides of the ditch to help him. While they did so, a car drove past. The presence of an automobile was unusual enough for the three men to stay hidden while it did so and thus they remained undetected by the two FBI agents inside. They had accurate pictures of the men who had stopped in the diner earlier, based on the descriptions they'd been given by Jennifer Perry and her customers. They were very keen to make those men's acquaintance and ask them some pointed questions. As it was, they had no idea that they had passed within a few feet of the men they were trying to find.
T3-SE-A4 Tanker Shawnee, Convoy CWF-17 At Sea, East of Orphan Knoll
Once again the ship's sirens sounded "General Quarters" and the crew of Shawnee poured out from inside their ship to man the anti-aircraft guns. This time, the alert was for a submarine attack but it would do no harm to have the ship ready for any eventuality. In any case, as the more pessimistic members of the crew made clear, if they were manning the five-inchers, 40mm Bofors, and 20mm Oerlikons, they would not be below decks when the torpedoes hit. Overhead, a Canadian Privateer MR Mk.3 was heading south. It was obvious something had been detected.
Douglas Young felt the increasing vibration under his feet as the Shawnee picked up speed. He was already behind his 20mm gun and was swinging the barrel down to make sure the gun was cocked and ready to fire. "Number Two 20mm Oerlikon ready to engage."
In a very limited sense, Young was already a commander. He had a crew of three men to help load and fire his gun and that meant he had a tiny amount of authority. That fact had been recognized when he had been summoned to the Captain's cabin and there, in the presence of Mr. Ericsson, he had been formally advised that he had successfully concluded his apprenticeship and could now consider himself a proper seaman. A very new seaman, he reminded himself, prompted by being thrown against the gun tub of his Oerlikon by Shawnee making a sharp turn to starboard.
“What’s happening?” There was something different about the situation, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was but there was a tension that there hadn’t been before.
“We’re under torpedo attack.” Mr. Ericsson had shouted the reply to save himself having to repeat it. “There’s a submarine out there and it’s just fired a full salvo at the convoy.”
His words were abruptly demonstrated by the concussion wave of an explosion. One of the four Free British destroyers seemed to have been knocked sideways by a massive blast dead amidships. She was obviously in desperate straits; by the time the water from the torpedo hit had subsided, her bows and stern sections were already forming a great V. Within barely two minutes, she had gone, leaving nothing but a patch of oil and debris on the surface. Young had already shown he had keen eyes but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t see any sign of survivors swimming amidst the wreckage. Slowly he realized that he had just watched two hundred men die in the bitterly cold sea. It wasn’t the first time he had seen a ship sunk but the suddenness and completeness of the loss were shocking in the way that other sinking had not been.
A rumble of explosions tore his eyes away from the scene. The Privateer had made its pass over the site of the U-boat and released four depth charges. Now, she was pulling away while four TBM Avengers from the USS Kazan made their passes. They were carrying the small FIDO homing torpedoes that would circle until they picked up the signature of the submarine and then follow the sound of her propellers until they scored a hit. The Privateer and the four TBMs were circling the drop point for what seemed hours until there was a blast and a column of water erupted.
“Got it!” Mr. Ericsson sounded immensely satisfied. “We got some payback for Matabele At least I think we did.”
Young noted how the doubt had crept in towards the end. "We got it though, we saw the explosion."
"FIDO only explodes when it hits something. So that's hopeful. But the fascist down there could have set off a decoy and pumped some debris out of a torpedo tube. We won't know until we see bodies floating up. Possibly not even then, at least one fascist sub had casualties and pumped them out of the tubes as well."
There was more wreckage floating on the surface, more oil bubbling up from the sinking submarine now far below them. Again, despite his acute vision, Young couldn’t see any survivors. Not that it matters. If there were any, the Avengers would be strafing them in the water. So would the Privateer. There’s no mercy for U-boatmen, not after the Taney.
The Avengers had continued circling the scene of the attack but the Privateer pulled away and made for the area where Matabele had gone down. She circled the area twice, then made a straight run across it. Something fell from her bomb bay, making Young think that she was depth-charging the area. Then he saw the object hit the water and unfold into a yellow life-raft. "Mr. Ericsson, there must be survivors there!"
"Some. A few." Mr. Ericsson was being cautious. He knew better than to get his hopes up early. "One of the Canadian destroyers will pick them up. This convoy is too fast for one of the rescue ships to tag along."
They watched as a Canadian destroyer pulled alongside the life-raft and snared it with a tow-line. She had scrambling nets over her side and a handful of men were climbing from their raft up the side of the ship. It would have been easier if she had stopped but bitter experience had taught them that stopped ships, even ones rescuing survivors, got torpedoed.
"Is there another submarine out there, Mr. Ericsson?" Young looked around at the gray sea rolling under a gray, clouded sky.
"Oh yes. They're out there. Only question is, how close?"
Re: 1944 - Spiral of Destruction
Chapter Twenty
786th Long Range Bomber Regiment, Airfield 23, Zolotitsa, Arkhangelsk Oblast.
"Tovarish Vladimir Stepanovich, we have orders from STAVKA. We are to carry out our mission to bomb the Lair of the fascist beast by no later than the last day of 1944. Our attack must be announced on January 1st. Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov was very well aware that the message he was delivering was not a welcome one.
Markov shook his head. “We still have a real problem. It is 900 kilometers from our base here to Petrograd. We must thread the needle between the fascists to the north and the Hitlerites to the south. Then we must turn to fly out across the Gulf of Finland until we are clear of both. Another 600 kilometers. Then we must turn to fly down the Baltic, passing south of Bornholm to Stettin. That is 1,200 kilometers. Then we turn south and make the final run to the Lair. 300 kilometers. The total is 3,000 kilometers. 12 hours flying time. Our Er-2s have a maximum range of 5,500 kilometers. We will be two hours short of home when we run out of fuel and by then we will be flying in daylight.”
“We could land at Petrograd on the way back.” Tomasov made the suggestion tentatively knowing that his chief navigator would certainly have thought of that.
“We can; that would mean we could make it to friendly bases but the Er-2s would be running on fumes by the time we landed. It would also assume that we fly at cruising speed all the way there and back, never once going to maximum power. And we would have to fly at our most economic altitude, two thousand five hundred meters. We’ll be asking for, no, depending on, everything to go just right and how often does that happen? An unexpected headwind and our crews are done. We’ll be so far out that we have no idea what the weather conditions will be like over the lair. There could be a wall of thunderstorms out there and we just wouldn’t know until we ran into them.”
"I honestly do not know what we can do about that." Tomasov knew that the weather was the weather and endangered every airman, all the time. "Is there a base near Petrograd we can use?"
“There is always Kasimovo.” Markov had remembered the base just north of Petrograd, where his torpedo-bomber unit had been based. It was almost halfway between Lake Ladoga and the Gulf. It was one of the bases the Russians kept quiet about; too close to the front line for its existence, let alone its location, to be admitted. The Pe-2 torpedo bombers were inflicting great destruction on fascist shipping in the Baltic and logic said that their base would be a prime target. There was another reason as well; the Americans used it occasionally to fly their C-54 transports in with urgently-needed cargo for the semi-besieged city. It was a matter of honor for the Russians that those unarmed transport aircraft and their crews should be kept safe. “It is 750 kilometers from here. We could fly the aircraft in a loose stream from here to Kasimovo, refuel there and head for the Lair. We land there on the way back and refuel again. That will give us a safety margin of a thousand kilometers.”
Markov thought about that very hard. “That will work, just. Night at the end of December will be 18 hours, the longest of the year. If we take off at dusk, we will be over the Lair just after midnight. It won't solve the weather problem of course. I think we will just have to accept that risk. There is one thing though, bratishka, it will be New Year’s night there; they will be celebrating and their guard will be down. By the time dawn comes, we will be home and we can celebrate our own. Yes, this is possible provided we get permission to use Kasimovo.”
“What will be our payload if we do that?”
Markov shrugged. “Five hundred kilos. But, I have had a thought on that. The Night Witches came up with an idea for closing down an airfield using RRABs with time-fused sub-bombs mixed in with the exploding ones. They believed that trying to defuse all those small bombs would cause chaos. The plan was rejected, it would use too much American aviation fuel for too little return. Suppose each aircraft dropped an RRAB on the Lair? Defusing them all would freeze the city for hours or even a day or more. And the fascists would never be sure that they had found them all. What a New Year present for them that would be!”
“If they even knew they had been bombed.” Tomasov knew this was a political operation although he wasn’t certain what the political aim was. This would require real bombs and explosions. He said as much to Markov.
“We have each aircraft carrying an RRAB-200 and three hundred-kilogram bombs. That will be a real air raid for them. If we can get permission to refuel at Kasimovo.”
“There are advantages in reporting directly to STAVKA.” Tomasov smiled grimly. “The worst they can do is say no and then have us all shot. But, I do not think they will. This mission is very important to them. How many RRABs did the Night Witches plan to carry in each of their aircraft?”
“Five, six hundred.” Markov shook his head. Nothing marks the difference between the American aircraft and ours than that. One of their small light bombers carries six times the bomb load of our Er-2s. Still, at least we have the range to get to the Lair; even their B-29s cannot do that yet. Perhaps ours are better after all.
“This mission will work. I will send the plan to STAVKA.”
FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.
“Irene Shapiro, a courier from Yekaterinburg. I have material for the Counter-Intelligence Directorate.” The receptionist looked up and saw the woman smiling at her. Just behind her was a genial-looking elderly man, apparently in his late 50s or early 60s whose sharp, penetrating gaze missed nothing. He was accompanied by a decidedly menacing-looking woman in her late twenties. It was obvious that the two were there to protect Miss Shapiro.
Looking down at the list of expected visitors, the receptionist saw Irene Shapiro’s name written in green ink. That meant she was to be shown straight through to the person she wished to see, bypassing all entry procedures and security checks. It didn’t take a genius to realize that this was no routine or casual visitor and the receptionist was slightly more than a genius. “One of the guards will take you and your companions right up, Miss Shapiro. Could I have the names of your companions please?”
“Henry McCarty and Achillea Foyle.” The receptionist looked down and, sure enough, both names were there, also in green ink.
“Good morning, I'm Agent MacAllister, pleased to meet you, Miss Shapiro, I’ll take your party right up. Did you have a good flight from Yekaterinburg?”
“Came in on a Pan-American C-69B Constellation with a refueling stop at Iceland. Got a standard bag lunch on the aircraft though.”
“Let me guess, cheese sandwich, ham sandwich, an apple, and a yellow liquid claimed to be orange juice.”
“You’ve ridden on Pan-American as well?” ‘Irene’ laughed.
“My brother flies on the Air Bridge. Same bag lunch they give to the troops. Probably the same batch they made in 1943.”
“I think you might be right, Agent. Thank you for the escort.”
‘Irene’ stepped into the office of the Director of Counter-Intelligence and Internal Security. Colonel Timothy Hammond jumped up from behind his desk and hurried forward to greet her. “Igrat, good to see you again. How do you like my new office?”
“Very nice Tim. You transferred to the FBI now?”
“In a way. After that nightmare at Brewster’s a few months back, this division of the FBI was founded and Director Hoover trawled existing agencies to get staff. I was seconded from the Washington Field Office of the War Production Board Investigations Division, to look after the security of our production plants. We’re trying to keep people with suspect reputations out of the war production factories. It's a lot harder than it sounds though and we have to make value judgments all the time. We don’t need another mess like Brewster Aeronautics. I’m still in the Army though.”
“And the Director of Counter-Intelligence and Internal Security?” Igrat asked that for a very specific reason. The package she was carrying was addressed to that person although not by name. One of her most strongly-held operational rules was that she never gave a package to anybody except its designated recipient.
“That’s me, yes.”
“Very well. Here is a package for you from the Vserossiyskaya chrezvychaynaya komissiya po bor'bye s kontrrevolyutsiyei i sabotazhem.” Igrat looked at Hammond innocently. “Better known as Cheka of course. I have words for you as well.”
Hammond looked curiously at her. Working closely with Cheka to confound fascist intelligence and sabotage operations was something that the FBI found difficult to absorb. It was rumored that after speaking with two Cheka investigators and listening to their opinions on ‘due process, the FBI prosecuting attorneys had run screaming out of the building. “What have our friends got to say?”
“The package contains a list of all false identities issued by the Abwehr over the last year. You must treat this with absolute confidentiality and never admit that such a list even exists. You will notice that several names on the list are American. If these people turn up, they should be arrested immediately. You will also note that the identification cards issued to these people have numerous small errors on them to aid in their apprehension. Given the assassinations of General Wavell in Egypt and of Deputy Prime Minister Butler in Britain, you should be attentive to the security of your national leaders. The echoes of the attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler continue to spread.” Igrat continued with her message, her accent, and inflections those of an English-speaking Russian. When she had finished, she opened her eyes “I hope you got all that, I’ll have forgotten it in an hour.”
The telephone on Hammond’s desk rang and he froze to attention while speaking on it. Eventually, he put the receiver down carefully. “That was Director Hoover; he asks if you and your escorts would like to join him and Associate Director Clyde Tolson for an early lunch at the Mayflower Hotel. He says to be upstairs in his office at 11:30. That gives you twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Tim. I think we’re done here. Any questions?”
“Only a personal one. How’s Conrad? I haven’t seen him for months.”
“He’s over in the Vatican working with their authorities to try and improve their security. He'll probably be there for months if not years. After the attack on the Apostolic Palace, the Vatican law enforcement authorities are trying to clamp down on illegals operating in their area as well. As are Mussolini and the rest of the Italian government. Even Spain is doing so and the Vatican provides what help it can. That attack on the Palace has caused Europe-wide problems.”
“We’ve picked up much the same. Now, I’ll take you up to the Director’s office. I hear the Mayflower does a fine off-the-ration lunch. It’s quite a privilege to be invited to join him there.”
I hope so. Director Hoover and the Seer have so much on each other that neither one of them dares offend the other. I wonder if Hoover knows who and what we are? Igrat smiled her thanks to Hammond and, with Henry and Achillea in tow, set off for what promised to be a very interesting lunch.
Railway Yard, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
"Tovarish Artillerists, welcome to Urals Zavod. We are proud to have you here." Lev Izrailevich Gorlitsky spoke the welcome with quite genuine enthusiasm. The survivors of the 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment would become the cadre for a regiment equipped with the new SU-100s. They were at the factory to inspect the prototype vehicles hastily modified with a cross-hull rangefinder. The workers had been on triple shifts to modify the existing vehicles with the revised hull front and rangefinder. By a truly Stakhanovite effort, they had four operational vehicles ready. With twelve more standard SU-100s, there were enough vehicles for the new regiment.
"We are pleased to be here with you, tovarish chief designer." Pakholkov looked around. "All of us on the front line owe our lives to the skill of the designers who produce our tank destroyers and the workers who build them."
He didn't need to add that the trip to Yekaterinburg was a privilege for other reasons. Their families either lived in the town or had been granted permission to come here for a few days. Such privileges were a rarity in a war where some soldiers had been away from their families for four and a half years. If they have survived that long. Nevertheless, Gorlitsky appreciated the sentiment. "Tovarish Captain, could I ask you or one of your soldiers to give a small speech to the workers? To have a frontoviki speaking to them of their experiences in the tanks and tank destroyers our workers build would improve morale greatly."
"I think we can organize that for you. Tovarish Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna, would you care to address the workers here on the experiences of a tank driver?" Pakholkov turned to Gorlitsky and caught a frown crossing his face. "Tovarish Faina is the best tank driver in our regiment and has been decorated for her skill and courage in battle. Just before we got here, her ability to drive and repair her SU-85 in battle allowed her crew to ambush a fascist Panther and blew it up with a single shot. In doing so, she saved my crew and I from the other Panthers in the Hitlerite unit."
"Well, yes, I suppose so. Yes, thank you."
Gorlitsky seemed embarrassed but the secretary of the Communist Party came to his rescue. " Tovarish Sergeant-Driver, are you a Party member?"
"Of course." She reached into the breast pocket of her uniform tunic. "See, here is my Party card, from the pocket where it is closest to my heart. Where every good Party member should keep her card."
"Very good. I am proud to meet you, Tovarish Sergeant-Driver. We will help you prepare your speech if you wish."
"I would be most grateful for that, Tovarish Secretary. I have never spoken to an audience in public before."
"Please, I am Pavel Ivanovich Adianov. Why do we not sit down with one of our writers and tell us of your experiences in that last battle? Our writer will turn them into a stirring speech for you. By the way, Tovarish Captain, how many tanks and assault guns did the 1435th destroy while it was in the line?"
That made Pakholkov think for a moment. "Fifteen tanks, five tank destroyers, and ten assault guns. Confirmed. There were others we were unable to confirm."
"Have you not claimed your money?"
"What money?" Pakholkov was bewildered.
"There are rewards paid for every tank destroyed and a bonus payment for everyone captured in working condition. A thousand rubles for a normal tank or assault gun. One thousand five hundred for a Panther, Tiger, or tank destroyer. Two thousand for a big Tiger. We can award the money to each crew separately or the regiment as a whole and you can divide it between you as you see fit."
Pakholkov looked around at his men. The understanding was instant and unanimous. "Can we divide it between the families of our bratishka who did not make it this far?"
"Of course, tovarish Captain. Just let us know the names, and we will organize them for you. Now, Tovarish Lev Izrailevich, let us show our guests the SU-100."
"Of course Tovarish Secretary." Gorlitsky led the way to where the prototype SU-100 was parked. It hadn’t been painted yet and the triangular metal insert between the original hull sides and the new, less-sloped front was evident. "Here we are. The vehicle is the same as the SU-85 but it has the new D-10S 100mm gun. The APCBC round will penetrate 140 mm of armor angled at 60 degrees at 2,000 meters. APHE will penetrate 150mm at 1,000 meters. With this gun, you can kill a Panther at any range you can see it. We've given you much more armor on the front, 75mm at 50 degrees instead of 45mm at 55 degrees. The hatches are larger and are spring-loaded to help you escape more easily if the vehicle is burning. Tovarish Captain, you can see how we have bulged the side of the casement so you can sit more comfortably. Perhaps, if your crew takes their positions, we can see how the vehicle fits them?"
Gorlitsov watched as the crew boarded the SU-100 with the easy skill of practiced veterans. He particularly watched how Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna swung into her driving position. It seemed as if she had long experience in doing just that, something that made him thoughtful. Then he clambered up on top of the vehicle and spoke down through the open loader's hatch. "Sergeant-Gunner Vasily Andreyevich, you see the binocular sight above your panoramic telescope? Look through that and you will see two images of the target on the other side of the railway yard. Use the wheel underneath the sight to bring the two images together. When they are exactly superimposed, you have the range to the target."
Sergeant-Gunner Kaplin did as he was instructed and gasped. "The image is clear! Range, one thousand, six hundred and seven meters. All we need to do is elevate the gun for that range . . . "
"Already done." Gorlitsov beamed with pride. "As you turn the wheel, the gun elevates to the desired angle for that range. Once the images coincide, the gun is laid to the correct elevation. All you need to do is squeeze the firing switch. You should be able to take your shot very quickly. The Nashorn must elevate its gun manually so you should be able to get in the first shot."
"And he who fires the first shot wins the battle. " Pakholkov was sitting in his command seat, also checking out the optics he had available. "The periscopes up here are superior to those on the '85'. This is a much better vehicle."
"We thought of the rangefinder vehicles as long-range snipers but the system works so well one day we hope to have all SU-100 production equipped with them." Gorlitsov looked around at the yard filled with new vehicles that reflected the lessons of four and a half bitter years. "Everything is changing and, at last, for the better."
786th Long Range Bomber Regiment, Airfield 23, Zolotitsa, Arkhangelsk Oblast.
"Tovarish Vladimir Stepanovich, we have orders from STAVKA. We are to carry out our mission to bomb the Lair of the fascist beast by no later than the last day of 1944. Our attack must be announced on January 1st. Colonel Viktor Alexandrovich Tomasov was very well aware that the message he was delivering was not a welcome one.
Markov shook his head. “We still have a real problem. It is 900 kilometers from our base here to Petrograd. We must thread the needle between the fascists to the north and the Hitlerites to the south. Then we must turn to fly out across the Gulf of Finland until we are clear of both. Another 600 kilometers. Then we must turn to fly down the Baltic, passing south of Bornholm to Stettin. That is 1,200 kilometers. Then we turn south and make the final run to the Lair. 300 kilometers. The total is 3,000 kilometers. 12 hours flying time. Our Er-2s have a maximum range of 5,500 kilometers. We will be two hours short of home when we run out of fuel and by then we will be flying in daylight.”
“We could land at Petrograd on the way back.” Tomasov made the suggestion tentatively knowing that his chief navigator would certainly have thought of that.
“We can; that would mean we could make it to friendly bases but the Er-2s would be running on fumes by the time we landed. It would also assume that we fly at cruising speed all the way there and back, never once going to maximum power. And we would have to fly at our most economic altitude, two thousand five hundred meters. We’ll be asking for, no, depending on, everything to go just right and how often does that happen? An unexpected headwind and our crews are done. We’ll be so far out that we have no idea what the weather conditions will be like over the lair. There could be a wall of thunderstorms out there and we just wouldn’t know until we ran into them.”
"I honestly do not know what we can do about that." Tomasov knew that the weather was the weather and endangered every airman, all the time. "Is there a base near Petrograd we can use?"
“There is always Kasimovo.” Markov had remembered the base just north of Petrograd, where his torpedo-bomber unit had been based. It was almost halfway between Lake Ladoga and the Gulf. It was one of the bases the Russians kept quiet about; too close to the front line for its existence, let alone its location, to be admitted. The Pe-2 torpedo bombers were inflicting great destruction on fascist shipping in the Baltic and logic said that their base would be a prime target. There was another reason as well; the Americans used it occasionally to fly their C-54 transports in with urgently-needed cargo for the semi-besieged city. It was a matter of honor for the Russians that those unarmed transport aircraft and their crews should be kept safe. “It is 750 kilometers from here. We could fly the aircraft in a loose stream from here to Kasimovo, refuel there and head for the Lair. We land there on the way back and refuel again. That will give us a safety margin of a thousand kilometers.”
Markov thought about that very hard. “That will work, just. Night at the end of December will be 18 hours, the longest of the year. If we take off at dusk, we will be over the Lair just after midnight. It won't solve the weather problem of course. I think we will just have to accept that risk. There is one thing though, bratishka, it will be New Year’s night there; they will be celebrating and their guard will be down. By the time dawn comes, we will be home and we can celebrate our own. Yes, this is possible provided we get permission to use Kasimovo.”
“What will be our payload if we do that?”
Markov shrugged. “Five hundred kilos. But, I have had a thought on that. The Night Witches came up with an idea for closing down an airfield using RRABs with time-fused sub-bombs mixed in with the exploding ones. They believed that trying to defuse all those small bombs would cause chaos. The plan was rejected, it would use too much American aviation fuel for too little return. Suppose each aircraft dropped an RRAB on the Lair? Defusing them all would freeze the city for hours or even a day or more. And the fascists would never be sure that they had found them all. What a New Year present for them that would be!”
“If they even knew they had been bombed.” Tomasov knew this was a political operation although he wasn’t certain what the political aim was. This would require real bombs and explosions. He said as much to Markov.
“We have each aircraft carrying an RRAB-200 and three hundred-kilogram bombs. That will be a real air raid for them. If we can get permission to refuel at Kasimovo.”
“There are advantages in reporting directly to STAVKA.” Tomasov smiled grimly. “The worst they can do is say no and then have us all shot. But, I do not think they will. This mission is very important to them. How many RRABs did the Night Witches plan to carry in each of their aircraft?”
“Five, six hundred.” Markov shook his head. Nothing marks the difference between the American aircraft and ours than that. One of their small light bombers carries six times the bomb load of our Er-2s. Still, at least we have the range to get to the Lair; even their B-29s cannot do that yet. Perhaps ours are better after all.
“This mission will work. I will send the plan to STAVKA.”
FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.
“Irene Shapiro, a courier from Yekaterinburg. I have material for the Counter-Intelligence Directorate.” The receptionist looked up and saw the woman smiling at her. Just behind her was a genial-looking elderly man, apparently in his late 50s or early 60s whose sharp, penetrating gaze missed nothing. He was accompanied by a decidedly menacing-looking woman in her late twenties. It was obvious that the two were there to protect Miss Shapiro.
Looking down at the list of expected visitors, the receptionist saw Irene Shapiro’s name written in green ink. That meant she was to be shown straight through to the person she wished to see, bypassing all entry procedures and security checks. It didn’t take a genius to realize that this was no routine or casual visitor and the receptionist was slightly more than a genius. “One of the guards will take you and your companions right up, Miss Shapiro. Could I have the names of your companions please?”
“Henry McCarty and Achillea Foyle.” The receptionist looked down and, sure enough, both names were there, also in green ink.
“Good morning, I'm Agent MacAllister, pleased to meet you, Miss Shapiro, I’ll take your party right up. Did you have a good flight from Yekaterinburg?”
“Came in on a Pan-American C-69B Constellation with a refueling stop at Iceland. Got a standard bag lunch on the aircraft though.”
“Let me guess, cheese sandwich, ham sandwich, an apple, and a yellow liquid claimed to be orange juice.”
“You’ve ridden on Pan-American as well?” ‘Irene’ laughed.
“My brother flies on the Air Bridge. Same bag lunch they give to the troops. Probably the same batch they made in 1943.”
“I think you might be right, Agent. Thank you for the escort.”
‘Irene’ stepped into the office of the Director of Counter-Intelligence and Internal Security. Colonel Timothy Hammond jumped up from behind his desk and hurried forward to greet her. “Igrat, good to see you again. How do you like my new office?”
“Very nice Tim. You transferred to the FBI now?”
“In a way. After that nightmare at Brewster’s a few months back, this division of the FBI was founded and Director Hoover trawled existing agencies to get staff. I was seconded from the Washington Field Office of the War Production Board Investigations Division, to look after the security of our production plants. We’re trying to keep people with suspect reputations out of the war production factories. It's a lot harder than it sounds though and we have to make value judgments all the time. We don’t need another mess like Brewster Aeronautics. I’m still in the Army though.”
“And the Director of Counter-Intelligence and Internal Security?” Igrat asked that for a very specific reason. The package she was carrying was addressed to that person although not by name. One of her most strongly-held operational rules was that she never gave a package to anybody except its designated recipient.
“That’s me, yes.”
“Very well. Here is a package for you from the Vserossiyskaya chrezvychaynaya komissiya po bor'bye s kontrrevolyutsiyei i sabotazhem.” Igrat looked at Hammond innocently. “Better known as Cheka of course. I have words for you as well.”
Hammond looked curiously at her. Working closely with Cheka to confound fascist intelligence and sabotage operations was something that the FBI found difficult to absorb. It was rumored that after speaking with two Cheka investigators and listening to their opinions on ‘due process, the FBI prosecuting attorneys had run screaming out of the building. “What have our friends got to say?”
“The package contains a list of all false identities issued by the Abwehr over the last year. You must treat this with absolute confidentiality and never admit that such a list even exists. You will notice that several names on the list are American. If these people turn up, they should be arrested immediately. You will also note that the identification cards issued to these people have numerous small errors on them to aid in their apprehension. Given the assassinations of General Wavell in Egypt and of Deputy Prime Minister Butler in Britain, you should be attentive to the security of your national leaders. The echoes of the attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler continue to spread.” Igrat continued with her message, her accent, and inflections those of an English-speaking Russian. When she had finished, she opened her eyes “I hope you got all that, I’ll have forgotten it in an hour.”
The telephone on Hammond’s desk rang and he froze to attention while speaking on it. Eventually, he put the receiver down carefully. “That was Director Hoover; he asks if you and your escorts would like to join him and Associate Director Clyde Tolson for an early lunch at the Mayflower Hotel. He says to be upstairs in his office at 11:30. That gives you twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Tim. I think we’re done here. Any questions?”
“Only a personal one. How’s Conrad? I haven’t seen him for months.”
“He’s over in the Vatican working with their authorities to try and improve their security. He'll probably be there for months if not years. After the attack on the Apostolic Palace, the Vatican law enforcement authorities are trying to clamp down on illegals operating in their area as well. As are Mussolini and the rest of the Italian government. Even Spain is doing so and the Vatican provides what help it can. That attack on the Palace has caused Europe-wide problems.”
“We’ve picked up much the same. Now, I’ll take you up to the Director’s office. I hear the Mayflower does a fine off-the-ration lunch. It’s quite a privilege to be invited to join him there.”
I hope so. Director Hoover and the Seer have so much on each other that neither one of them dares offend the other. I wonder if Hoover knows who and what we are? Igrat smiled her thanks to Hammond and, with Henry and Achillea in tow, set off for what promised to be a very interesting lunch.
Railway Yard, Ural Heavy Machinery Factory, Yekaterinburg
"Tovarish Artillerists, welcome to Urals Zavod. We are proud to have you here." Lev Izrailevich Gorlitsky spoke the welcome with quite genuine enthusiasm. The survivors of the 1435th Self-propelled Artillery Regiment would become the cadre for a regiment equipped with the new SU-100s. They were at the factory to inspect the prototype vehicles hastily modified with a cross-hull rangefinder. The workers had been on triple shifts to modify the existing vehicles with the revised hull front and rangefinder. By a truly Stakhanovite effort, they had four operational vehicles ready. With twelve more standard SU-100s, there were enough vehicles for the new regiment.
"We are pleased to be here with you, tovarish chief designer." Pakholkov looked around. "All of us on the front line owe our lives to the skill of the designers who produce our tank destroyers and the workers who build them."
He didn't need to add that the trip to Yekaterinburg was a privilege for other reasons. Their families either lived in the town or had been granted permission to come here for a few days. Such privileges were a rarity in a war where some soldiers had been away from their families for four and a half years. If they have survived that long. Nevertheless, Gorlitsky appreciated the sentiment. "Tovarish Captain, could I ask you or one of your soldiers to give a small speech to the workers? To have a frontoviki speaking to them of their experiences in the tanks and tank destroyers our workers build would improve morale greatly."
"I think we can organize that for you. Tovarish Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna, would you care to address the workers here on the experiences of a tank driver?" Pakholkov turned to Gorlitsky and caught a frown crossing his face. "Tovarish Faina is the best tank driver in our regiment and has been decorated for her skill and courage in battle. Just before we got here, her ability to drive and repair her SU-85 in battle allowed her crew to ambush a fascist Panther and blew it up with a single shot. In doing so, she saved my crew and I from the other Panthers in the Hitlerite unit."
"Well, yes, I suppose so. Yes, thank you."
Gorlitsky seemed embarrassed but the secretary of the Communist Party came to his rescue. " Tovarish Sergeant-Driver, are you a Party member?"
"Of course." She reached into the breast pocket of her uniform tunic. "See, here is my Party card, from the pocket where it is closest to my heart. Where every good Party member should keep her card."
"Very good. I am proud to meet you, Tovarish Sergeant-Driver. We will help you prepare your speech if you wish."
"I would be most grateful for that, Tovarish Secretary. I have never spoken to an audience in public before."
"Please, I am Pavel Ivanovich Adianov. Why do we not sit down with one of our writers and tell us of your experiences in that last battle? Our writer will turn them into a stirring speech for you. By the way, Tovarish Captain, how many tanks and assault guns did the 1435th destroy while it was in the line?"
That made Pakholkov think for a moment. "Fifteen tanks, five tank destroyers, and ten assault guns. Confirmed. There were others we were unable to confirm."
"Have you not claimed your money?"
"What money?" Pakholkov was bewildered.
"There are rewards paid for every tank destroyed and a bonus payment for everyone captured in working condition. A thousand rubles for a normal tank or assault gun. One thousand five hundred for a Panther, Tiger, or tank destroyer. Two thousand for a big Tiger. We can award the money to each crew separately or the regiment as a whole and you can divide it between you as you see fit."
Pakholkov looked around at his men. The understanding was instant and unanimous. "Can we divide it between the families of our bratishka who did not make it this far?"
"Of course, tovarish Captain. Just let us know the names, and we will organize them for you. Now, Tovarish Lev Izrailevich, let us show our guests the SU-100."
"Of course Tovarish Secretary." Gorlitsky led the way to where the prototype SU-100 was parked. It hadn’t been painted yet and the triangular metal insert between the original hull sides and the new, less-sloped front was evident. "Here we are. The vehicle is the same as the SU-85 but it has the new D-10S 100mm gun. The APCBC round will penetrate 140 mm of armor angled at 60 degrees at 2,000 meters. APHE will penetrate 150mm at 1,000 meters. With this gun, you can kill a Panther at any range you can see it. We've given you much more armor on the front, 75mm at 50 degrees instead of 45mm at 55 degrees. The hatches are larger and are spring-loaded to help you escape more easily if the vehicle is burning. Tovarish Captain, you can see how we have bulged the side of the casement so you can sit more comfortably. Perhaps, if your crew takes their positions, we can see how the vehicle fits them?"
Gorlitsov watched as the crew boarded the SU-100 with the easy skill of practiced veterans. He particularly watched how Sergeant-Driver Faina Afanasyevna swung into her driving position. It seemed as if she had long experience in doing just that, something that made him thoughtful. Then he clambered up on top of the vehicle and spoke down through the open loader's hatch. "Sergeant-Gunner Vasily Andreyevich, you see the binocular sight above your panoramic telescope? Look through that and you will see two images of the target on the other side of the railway yard. Use the wheel underneath the sight to bring the two images together. When they are exactly superimposed, you have the range to the target."
Sergeant-Gunner Kaplin did as he was instructed and gasped. "The image is clear! Range, one thousand, six hundred and seven meters. All we need to do is elevate the gun for that range . . . "
"Already done." Gorlitsov beamed with pride. "As you turn the wheel, the gun elevates to the desired angle for that range. Once the images coincide, the gun is laid to the correct elevation. All you need to do is squeeze the firing switch. You should be able to take your shot very quickly. The Nashorn must elevate its gun manually so you should be able to get in the first shot."
"And he who fires the first shot wins the battle. " Pakholkov was sitting in his command seat, also checking out the optics he had available. "The periscopes up here are superior to those on the '85'. This is a much better vehicle."
"We thought of the rangefinder vehicles as long-range snipers but the system works so well one day we hope to have all SU-100 production equipped with them." Gorlitsov looked around at the yard filled with new vehicles that reflected the lessons of four and a half bitter years. "Everything is changing and, at last, for the better."