by Colin Gee
The others in the room looked at surprisingly good clarity shots and were surprised, allowing that surprise to mask what the film contained.
Not so Jenkins and her assistant, who made notes and, when the short film had ended, compared them.
The assistant, a male Sergeant, removed the film from the projector and took it away to make some copies of still frames that they had selected during the show. A small suitcase contained everything they would need, Wijers showing the Sergeant to a suitable dark place.
The room had been set up to her requirements, so Jenkins moved across to the table, spread with white paper, and started to draw her map.
The others in the room gathered round, careful not to get between her and the maps and photos.
The speed and accuracy with which she worked was seriously impressive and, before their eyes, a map of the whole IRA camp started to appear.
The Sergeant reappeared, holding some of the images selected from the movie. In the manner of specialists throughout the services, he enjoyed his moment in the limelight, taking the main map and annotating it with the reference number of one of the new pictures.
Two in particular were of great note, and Jenkins moved between her hand drawn map and the new photographs, comparing and adjusting.
Wijers was the first to voice doubts.
“Officer Jenkins, these two positions here… and here… the new ones… they are not in these photographs.”
Megan smiled, knowing that not everyone could grasp the science of photo interpretation.
“Here, Sir, these are from the movie. When we watched,” she indicated the smug looking Sergeant, “Both of us saw a flash, small, but there for sure. The new pictures prove it. The flashes were caused by reflections… something moving in the light, such as a window, a mirror, a glass, anything like that.”
She moved back to the original photos and selected one that covered the new ‘position’ nearest the water’s edge.
“Here. If you look carefully, that flash would come from this point here. See?”
He didn’t.
“Look here, Sir. Here is a shadow band. The sun is to the south east, so this shadow is on the northern edge of the position. The bushes muddy the waters a little… and I’ll have to study them a lot closer, but my experience tells me that this position is roughly eleven foot tall from ground level.”
Wijers looked at her and the photograph without comprehension.
“To be honest, Sir, I’m a little annoyed that I didn’t see it first time. Still, got it now.”
The Dutchman still didn’t see it.
Neither did Sam Rossiter, head of OSS Europe.
Michael Rafferty, top man in Northern Ireland’s Special Branch couldn’t either.
Much to his surprise, the last officer in the room could see it perfectly.
Turning his attention back to the hand drawn plan, he found himself well satisfied.
“Offizier Jenkins, can you put everything down on this map here. Find every position and put it here?”
“Yes, of course, Major. You tell me what you want, I will put it there.
De facto Sturmbannfuhrer and leader of the OSS’s special Ukrainian force but, for the purposes of Megan Jenkins, Major Shandruk of the US Army, nodded to Rossiter.
“More than enough, Colonel.”
He turned his eyes back to the plan, his mind already assessing how the job would be done and how, at the end of the operation, Glenlara would be nothing but a wasteland.
Revenge is barren of itself; it is the dreadful food on which it feeds; its delight is murder, and its end is despair.
Friedrich Schiller.
Chapter 128 - THE WASTELAND
1627 hrs, Monday, 30th December 1945, Lough Erne, Northern Ireland.
In the short period of time available, they had moved the proverbial mountain.
Having a friendly RAF base commander with a vested interest in the mission’s success had helped a lot.
The close availability of the necessary assets was also instrumental in making the rapidly constructed mission possible.
Set close to Castle Archdale, the uninhabited Inishmakill Island, with its western side bay, had proved perfect for the task, and an old facility there was, after a little work, sufficient for temporarily housing a group of forty men. The thick woods that covered the whole area provided both shelter and cover, guaranteeing secrecy.
There could be no second photographic run over Glenlara, so Megan Jenkins and her Sergeant worked over and over again on the evidence to hand, bouncing interpretations off each other, adding to the map, and building the fullest possible picture of the layout of base, and what problems might present themselves to those tasked with its destruction.
On Inishmakill, the assault group quickly reconstructed the old metal structure, adding their own embellishments, and made themselves comfortable, spending their time working on the weapons, sharpening the more silent tools of death, checking battery packs and personal equipment.
Alerted by a brief radio transmission, six of the men were at the water’s edge when one of 201 Squadron’s motor boats grated ashore.
Three passengers leapt onto dry land, and four bags were handed over by the RAF boat crew. A helpful shove freed the keel, and the small craft disappeared back into the descending night.
1633 hrs, Monday, 30th December 1945, OSS base, Inishmakill Island, Northern Ireland.
Fig# 120 – Forces involved at Glenlara, Monday, 1st January, 1946.
Jenkins and Viljoen were impressed, although both also felt a little out of their depth, surrounded, as they were, by men who looked like their sole purpose in life was to kill. The uniforms and weapons also told them that Shandruk and his men were not as had been presented.
The Ukrainian group had been smuggled onto Inishmakill on the night of the 28th, and had remained hidden since then.
Shandruk, who had made the short journey over from Castle Archdale with the two RAF officers, had called his men to order and a quiet circle formed.
Viljoen was introduced and swiftly went through his part in matters. His cooperation had never been in doubt, given the death of his brother. In fact, it had taken direct intervention from Sam Rossiter to hold him in check, so enthusiastic was he for revenge.
The flight plan was simple, and there were no questions for him to answer.
Jenkins’ presentation was more detailed, and had required more setting up.
Four oil drums and some planks made up a table, on which a large plan was unrolled, and various box-like structures were added to show where buildings lay, so that the circle of men could better appreciate the wall plan that Jenkins used. Shandruk, a broom handle in hand, mirrored Jenkins’ brief with his own movement over the table model.
Whilst the photo reconnaissance mission had been rushed, the interpretation had been excellent, and the secrets of Glenlara were laid bare in front of the watching group.
Building usage was an issue, but, again, experience came to the fore, and the interpreters made a good case for which ones were store areas, barracks, et al.
Even so, some buildings and bunkers had no purpose that could even be guessed at, which had added complication to the planning.
Jenkins and Viljoen sat back, ready to answer any questions that might arise, as Shandruk and Kuibida, his senior non-com, swung rapidly into the tactical plan.
Surprise was key.
Silence was key.
Speed was key.
The plan was simple and straightforward, as all such plans should be, but, as in all plans, they expected things to change, so contingencies were discussed.
There had already been one forced change. The Ukrainian’s medic had tripped and broken his ankle whilst they were setting up the island base.
He was already back at Camp 5a, and a replacement present for the briefing at the Inishmakill camp. The fit 63 year old man wore nondescript white camouflage clothing, which neatly matched his hair.
When the question had been po
sed to him, Doc Holliday had leapt at the chance, glad to be able to get involved in the operation that would avenge the slaughtered men of 201 Squadron.
It would not be his first time in combat either.
When he was a much younger man, he and his comrades had landed on W Beach at Cape Helles, Turkey; part of the ill-fated Gallipoli landings.
His venerable Webley Mk V service pistol, his constant companion since his first day in uniform, had drawn some ribbing from the Ukrainians, although they knew a cared-for piece when they saw one, and none underestimated it, knowing that such a weapon was still a lethal thing.
Fig# 121 – Joint IRA-Soviet Naval Camp, Glenlara, Eire.
The whole force, forty-two strong, was split into five groups, each commanded by an officer or NCO, and equipped with two SCR-536 handie-talkies [HT].
On landing, each group had tasks that required it to split up into smaller sections; taking out guard posts, providing security, and setting up the specialist kit.
Once the initial phase was complete, the group would come back together and, on the order, make the assault.
Shandruk’s headquarters group, with the only main scheme radio, was where the orders would come from; four men strong, including the venerable Holliday. In close support, but initially uncommitted, would be a larger group of ten, under the command of Kuibida, acting as a reserve if things changed.
‘For when things changed’.
A four man section, each soldier expressing open disappointed as he was selected, was tasked with providing security at the rear, to ensure no surprises.
The remaining twenty-four men were equally split into three groups, each one tasked with the silent killing of the occupants of Glenlara.
Occasionally, Shandruk ceded the floor to Jenkins, needing her to clarify a point for one or other of his men.
Although her Welsh accent and strong looks had long since captivated her listeners, it was her professionalism that they respected most.
Shandruk again took the lead, emphasizing the group mission.
“Comrades… we take no risks to get prisoners here. Any risk, they die. If we can secure a Soviet officer, then our masters will be happy.”
He turned to the board and, with a definite flourish, pinned two pictures up.
“Now then.”
Pointing at each in turn, he announced their names.
“Reynolds… Brown…”
Catching Viljoen’s eye, he nodded his silent agreement to the RAF man’s earlier plea.
“If you can take these two alive, then do it. The Intelligence Services want them very much. Our Air Force friends also have business with them, which will take priority.”
They all knew what that was. At first, the story had been an ugly rumour, until the combination of Holliday and an excess of Irish Whisky had laid bare the full horror of what had happened to the Sunderland’s crew. Each of the Ukrainians understood perfectly, and made an unspoken promise to the RAF officer.
‘If it’s possible, you’ll have your revenge, comrade.’
The briefing complete, the group waited on the one essential piece of information not yet made clear.
“Boys… we go tomorrow. All in order for 2300. Clear?”
It was.
“Happy New Year.”
2358 hrs, Tuesday, 31st December 1945, Lough Erne, Northern Ireland.
The three Sunderland Flying boats had dropped anchor in the small bay at the west end of Inishmakill, where they silently waited for their human cargo to arrive.
Quietly transferred by RAF tenders, the assault force climbed aboard the dark, silent aircraft, and each man was immediately ushered to a specific position within the airframe, to ensure good weight distribution for take-off.
Each Sunderland carried only a partial crew of six, and no heavy munitions, all to allow the aircraft to cope with the additional weight of the Ukrainian soldiers and their kit.
There had been only one opportunity for a practice take-off, and that was without the full weight that now resisted the straining Wasp engines, as the leading Mk V full-throttled westwards across the lough.
Reluctantly, NS-F, Viljoen’s aircraft, rose into the night, followed, at one minute intervals, by the remaining two flying boats. Second to take off was NS-D, its crew given the opportunity, at their request, as it was they that had made the gruesome discovery off the coast of Éire. Lastly, NS-J, crewed by more angry men, all with friends amongst the dead of NS-X.
0000 hrs, Wednesday, 1st January 1946, Glenlara, County Mayo, Eire.
“Happy New Year!”
Discipline and good sense ensured that some of the Soviet marines remained sober and alert at their posts.
The same had been intended of a dozen IRA men, but their personal need to celebrate took priority, and only two of the men posted on lookout remained in situ, the others having sought comfort and companionship in the main barracks blocks, where the stoves glowed hot as the fires were stoked up, and where the alcohol flowed freely.
Potchine, that most Irish of drinks, made from potatoes, and vodka, sometimes both in the same container, oiled throats that sung familiar tunes in unfamiliar tongues; Russian, English, and Gaelic speakers combining to welcome in the new year.
Some were already collapsed on their bunks, the ushering in of 1946 wasted on them in their unconscious state.
Belching before speaking, Dudko leant forward conspiratorially.
“You will understand, Comrade Reynolds, that I, as a true communist, can’t be seen to observe religious festivals of any kind… but,” he looked around to make sure his point was noted by only the one pair of ears, “We’re in your country, so it’s only proper.”
“That it is, Dmitri, that… it is!”
Clinking bottle to bottle, Reynolds and Dudko sealed their agreement on the important point.
So, a second night of revelry was set in place, this one for the Gregorian calendar’s Orthodox New Year on 14th January.
Looking around at the men around them, Reynolds frowned with mock severity.
“Let’s hope we can replace the booze in time!”
The bottles clinked again, and both men drank their fill, as around them an excess of alcohol stood victor over many a man’s efforts to party long into the night, replacing raucous laughter and singing with the gentler snores of the happy drunk.
0034 hrs, Wednesday, 1st January 1946, airborne over the Atlantic, 35 miles north of Llandavuck Island.
Viljoen leant across to his passenger, removing his face mask so that the soldier could hear him clearly.
“The weather’s a problem, Major. Wind’s whipping up the surface fierce, man.”
Shandruk eased the weapon at his shoulder and brought his mouth closer to the pilot’s ear.
“Are we off?”
Ordinarily, Viljoen would probably have waved the mission off, but this was not ordinarily. He needed no time to think.
“No, we’re still on, bloke. Just warn your boys that the run in will be... ,” he smiled in the way that professionals smile when describing difficulties, “…Interesting.”
Shandruk disappeared back down the ladder, already anticipating one hell of a landing.
Clipping his mask back on, Viljoen spoke briefly.
“Pilot to crew. Make sure our guests are secure, and then brace yourselves. Pilot to Nav, give me a course for touchdown point. Pilot to tail gunner, send standby to execute.”
The flurry of orders brought about responses throughout the Sunderland.
In the rear turret, the gunner flashed his Aldus lamp, sending the agreed signal in the direction of the two barely visible shapes in NS-F’s wake, which, in turn, sent their brief acknowledgements.
With the new course ready, Viljoen gave his last command.
“Pilot to tail. Send execute.”
NS-F and her two companions turned due south, and headed towards the Irish coast and a bloody rendezvous with the occupants of Glenlara.
0049 hrs, Wednesday
, 1st January 1946, off the North coast of Eire.
NS-F had been the least fortunate of the three, slamming into a rising sea as hard as a brick wall, or at least that’s how it felt to the men inside. One of the Ukrainians was spark out and minus three front teeth.
Of greater concern was the condition of the radio that had removed them, the casing clearly heavily deformed by the impact.
A quick check by Shandruk’s radio man was sufficient.
“No good, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
No use moaning about it, and besides, the planning had allowed for a spare.
Shandruk smiled.
‘Correction. That was the fucking spare.’
“Check the other set, Wasco.”
The man moved off quickly, hampered by the wallowing movement of the flying boat.
Two men had already summoned up the contents of their stomachs, much to the disgruntlement of those around them.
Shandruk moved to the ladder, climbed halfway and shouted up into the glasshouse.
“How long before we go?”
Quickly making the calculations, Viljoen extended three fingers, receiving a nodded acknowledgement before thumbing his mike.
“Pilot to crew. Standby portside hatch.”
The Ukrainian commander moved amongst his men as they readied their weapons, unhappy when one of the vital T3 carbines was found unusable following the heavy landing, its infrared lamp more closely resembling a waxing moon than a full circle.
Slapping the unfortunate infantryman on the shoulder, Shandruk laughed the matter off.
“You’ve still got your pistol, Yuri. That’ll have to do.”
The man produced one of the US Army blades that equipped many of the group.
“And my knife, Sturmbannfuhrer!”
Ruffling the young man’s hair, Shandruk looked around his men, who were clearly in good spirits, showing confidence in their faces, as they grinned back at Shandruk in response to his unspoken inquiries.
