by Colin Gee
The display of comradeship held sway for the briefest of moments before Shandruk was business again.
“Attention!”
The group became cold killers again.
“Ready the dinghies, comrades.”
Space had dictated that the number of dinghies was limited, and that the assault force would have to be ferried ashore in two stages, but the presence of three wooden boats on the slipway at Glenlara had been noted, and every man was under strict instructions not to damage them.
Plus there would be other help to hand… when the time came.
The first wave of dinghies had discharged their contents, and, already, were nearly back to the waiting flying boats, each crewed by two men from the second wave.
With anchors in place and engines switches off, the three flying boats rose up and down with their silent crews, whilst in the dinghies the sounds of wind and sea were enough to drown out the rapid plunge of oars.
The first party ashore was not idle, fanning out from the small landing area, closing the distance to the outposts that marked the secure perimeter of the Glenlara base.
On a nearby hillock, lying to the west of the landing area, two small positions had been earmarked for immediate neutralization.
Four man groups were used. Two men at the back, one illuminating the area with an infra-red Vampir or T3 carbine, the second with a silenced Sten gun or Winchester M69, ready to silently remove any threat.
Fig# 122 – Glenlara Camp, IRA codenames.
The other two men moved in front, armed with edged weapons that would have graced battlefields a thousand years beforehand, and that were still every bit as lethal as their more modern cousins.
Some had selected the Fairbairn-Sykes; the classic Commando knife, but only the British-made version. OSS had initially issued them with the US-manufactured copy that was, simply put, totally inferior. Most of those were at the bottom of the Ballinderry River near Camp 5A, inexplicably ‘lost’ when the British version became available.
A few were content with the M3 Trench Knife.
The handful of KA-BAR USMC knives available, courtesy of Rossiter, were considered the finest for close work of the kind that commenced at the outpost furthest north.
[Author’s note. I have made all references to the bunkers numerical, removing the IRA labels to avoid confusion, except where it is wholly relevant to maintain the Irish code name.]
Two Soviet marines in ‘One’ became the first deaths of 1946; bloody, silent, instant deaths at the hands of men without mercy.
They were followed by two more sons of Russia, both asleep in the vital ‘Three’, the position chosen by Shandruk as his headquarters for the initial assault.
‘Two’ and ‘Four’ were cleared in good time, and one of the assault groups was ready to go, sending a brief message on the HT.
“Sestra, four, clear, over”
The acknowledgement was even briefer.
“Tato, out.”
Shandruk took the report, understanding that Group Sestra was gathered at position ‘four’, and waiting on the order to push forward.
Each of the Sunderlands had their own HT, and the crews followed the progress of the Ukrainian soldiers as the radio spoke in whispers of the fall of each position in turn; the RAF airmen understood that each message represented the deaths of men.
“Babushka, all clear, over.”
“Tato, out.”
The Ukrainian officer could not help but smile, as even the smallest of messages could not conceal the young NCO’s disgust at being in the cover party.
“Brat, clear, over.”
Shandruk raised an eyebrow at that, and spoke softly in reply, silently impressed that the group with the most difficult task had made their initial position in such good time.
‘A pat on the back for Panasuk after this is over.’
Having been sat still for a few minutes now, Shandruk started to realize a simple flaw in his planning.
‘Idiot! How could we forget the cold?’
Without the benefit of activity, it was eating away at him, consuming his energy, the lack of movement allowing the weather its moment of victory.
The same would apply to his men, more so for those who lay outside the bunker positions.
‘Fuck it!’
Fig# 123 – Glenlara Camp, Ukrainian location codes.
The HT broke into his doubts.
“Dedushko, two, clear, over.”
Another of the assault groups, one from the second wave, had made good time.
Shandruk made a decision and keyed the HT.
“Mama, time, over.”
Kuibida’s voice responded immediately.
“Four, over.”
‘Time enough. Give the order.’
“All units, Dagga, repeat Dagga.”
Aboard NS-F, Viljoen heard his dead brother’s name without emotion. When a codeword had been needed, ‘Dagga’ had been his suggestion; it seemed only fitting.
On shore, frozen limbs protested as they propelled bodies forward.
First for attention were ‘Five’ and ‘Nine’, earmarked for visits by Dedushko and Brat respectively.
Both huts were full of the sounds of contented snoring, and then they weren’t.
Moving stealthily, the knifemen glided through the positions, terminating lives with simple thrusts and slashes, gloved hands pressing on mouths to stifle any noise that might escape.
‘Five’ was full of IRA men, and the detritus of their excessive drinking. One empty bottle toppled over and rolled across the floor, accidentally knocked over by an eager Ukrainian.
One of the last two living Irishmen in the hut woke up and reacted surprisingly quickly, grabbing for a weapon, an act that earned him a small burst from a silenced Sten. The clacking of the bolt was enough to open the eyelids of the last man, but a commando knife punched through his neck and into his brain, ending Connolly’s interest instantly.
“Dedushko, five, over.”
“Tato, out.”
‘Nine’ contained Soviet submariners, relief crewmen in the main, for whom boredom had lent additional impetus for the drinking session.
One man had already died, frozen to death outside the hut, where his drunken state had led him to believe that a toilet awaited his full bladder.
Nine more perished as the ‘Brat’ group worked away efficiently.
“Brat, nine, over.”
“Dedushko, six, over.”
“Tato, out.”
Fig# 124 – Glenlara, Assault.
[Author’s note. This map clearly requires colour to properly interpret. The colour version is available on the web site www.redgambitseries.com free of charge, as are all graphics from the RG series.]
Thinking for just a second, Shandruk decided to move on immediately.
“Tato, moving to five, Mama, move up, out.”
The plan called for every location west of the track, except position ‘Twenty-one’, to be purged of enemy before moving further eastwards.
The plan was going well.
“Sestra, unknown position located, fifty metres west of eight. Delayed, over.”
The plan started to unravel.
On the evening of the B-24’s photo-reconnaissance mission, one of the IRA’s new recruits, formerly a soldier of the Great War, had spotted the fact that the distance between ‘Betha’ and ‘Caitlin’, ‘Twenty-one’ and ‘Four’ respectively, was a definite security problem.
Approaching Reynolds, the man sold the IRA commander on the need for a new position, also commenting on the exposure of Reynolds’ own quarters, and ‘Una’ was born, one of three positions not recorded on the Ukrainian’s maps.
As ‘Una’ was the closest position to the warmth of the kitchen hut, Naval Lieutenant Dudko, having left the snoring Reynolds in his own quarters, selected it for a comradely visit with coffee in hand, an act he felt sure would be spoken of by the grateful men, and his reputation would be enhanced as a result.
&n
bsp; He approached, unsteady on his feet, the scalding hot coffee lapping over the edges of the mugs and burning his hands.
Dudko yelped.
Heads swiveled in his direction, and both friendly and murderous eyes made a quick assessment. The former relaxed as the familiar figure of the political officer approached; the latter, narrowed and calculating, made a swift and lethal decision.
A silenced pistol spat four bullets in quick succession, with three finding soft flesh.
The noise of the standard HDM was sufficient to register in the brains of the two Marines, but their main focus of attention was the metallic clang as the errant .22 round deflected noisily off one of the enamel mugs.
The .22 was not a hi-power round, and its killing ability was not brilliant but, none the less, the combination of the three bullet hits suddenly robbed Dudko of his strength, and he dropped to his knees, hardly noticing the pain in his hands as the hot coffee flowed over them.
One of the marines reached for a rifle, the other knew his own weapon was too far away, so his hand sought his bayonet.
A Ukrainian junior NCO, the foremost of the silent killers, stumbled in his haste to get at the two men, bringing down the man behind, granting the Russians a temporary reprieve.
The Marine rifleman worked his bolt, but the action proved stiff, and the weapon remained silent.
Untangling arms and legs, the two fallen Ukrainians picked themselves up and moved forward, with fatal consequences.
Without warning, the Lance-Corporal sprang forward at the precise moment that the silenced Sten opened fire, perforating the Ukrainian NCO’s back with half a dozen bullets, and dropping him lifeless into the snow.
Shocked at his error, the gunner did not continue to fire, granting a second stay of execution to the Soviet rifleman.
Sergeant Demchuk turned his attention from Dudko to the two marines, placing a pair of his remaining bullets in the side of the nearest man’s head.
Low power or not, the .22’s ripped through delicate brain tissue, killing the man instantly.
The HDM moved to the surviving marine and clicked.
‘Mudaks!’
The Soviet bayonet is not a throwing weapon, but the desperate man got lucky, and the point caught Demchuk in the left eye, burrowing deep enough to drop him instantly to the ground.
Grabbing up his PPSh, the surviving Russian screamed a warning to his comrades, pulling the trigger without a meaningful target in his sights.
Frozen urine, deposited by himself some time beforehand, the act of a man wishing to remain in cover as he exposed his genitals, had virtually cemented the trigger and bolt in place, rendering the weapon useless.
The Sten gunner, now recovered from the shock of his terrible error, ended the marine’s resistance.
The survivors of ‘Sestra’ dropped into the new position and caught their breath.
Corporal Tkachuk, now in charge, was a steady man and rapped out orders.
“Grab the HDM and the HT from our Demchuk, and get him into cover.”
He grabbed an old soldier by the arm.
“Do what you can for him, Roman.”
Lance-Corporal Roman knew exactly what was expected of him.
Tkachuk gestured at the kneeling Russian, softly moaning on the snow path ahead.
“Get that in here out of the way... and kill the fucking bastard.”
Men moved off quickly to do the tasks.
The Corporal accepted the HDM and HT without a word, noting that Roman was not moving the wounded sergeant.
Two men dragged the bleeding Russian by his arms, leaving a small red smear behind all the way to the edge of the bunker.
“Fuck me, Pjotr. This one’s an officer!”
The stroke of luck was accepted, although the price had been high.
“Don’t kill him. Gag the bastard…plug his holes… tie him up… you’ve got a minute.”
His radio message had to convey everything so that Shandruk could make a decision.
“Tato from Sestra. New position taken. Two men dead,” as he spoke, the corpse of his Sergeant was dragged past, confirming his suspicions, “One wounded enemy officer in hand. Over.”
“Tato, out.”
Shandruk carefully placed the HT on the edge of the position, his mind working overtime.
‘There’s no alarm yet… so why change anything?’
The HT was back in his hand.
“Tato, all units. Proceed with plan.”
‘Sestra’ was supposed to be outside number ‘Eight’, the largest building on the site, positioned at the end of a line of structures that were assumed to be barracks. Building ‘Seven’ had been the one whose open door had surrendered the presence of both Reynolds and the Russian officer to O’Farrell’s observation, and was to be visited by ‘Sestra’ after the larger structure.
Improvising, Shanduk contacted ‘Babushka’, and ordered two of the four men providing rear security to double up to ‘Sestra’, and bring up their numbers; ‘Sestra’ was ordered to hold and not move into Building ‘Eight’ until reinforced.
The Ukrainian leader justified the change in timetable in exchange for a full assault team on ‘Eight’.
“Brat. Ten, empty. Ammunition store, torpedoes and such… over.”
“Tato, out.”
Jenkins’ stock went up again, as she and her Sergeant had suggested that, given its location, ‘Ten’ was most likely to be a store for submarine replenishment. That meant that ‘Brat’ would be moving onto ‘Eleven’ more quickly, which Shandruk was happy to permit.
None the less, there was something that was troubling the commander, and he made a decision that went against everything that had been put in place.
“Tato, Mama. New orders… take Twenty-three and Seventeen… send the MG42 to me… over.”
Kuibida was surprised by the order, but acted immediately, dispatching the machine-gun team, and moving his own men up towards building ‘Nine’.
‘Twenty-three’ had not been spotted originally, and its existence was only found when Jenkins’ Sergeant went back over the film evidence for the umpteenth time. Even then it was difficult to be certain, but the ‘whatever-it-was’ got a number, just in case.
“Tato, Brat… did you understand… over?”
“Brat, out.”
Men from the Brat group were already moving into Building ‘Eleven’, where more naval personnel lay ripe for the slaughter.
Dedushko’s silent killers moved on to ‘Seven’, dealing with a half-conscious man in the latrine, before moving through the hut with deadly efficiency.
From the cover of ‘Nine’, Kuibida sent a group of four men forward, their classic group for small and silent assaults, infra-red and silenced weapons covering the two edged weapons leading.
As they approached target ‘Twenty-three’, it materialized into what was very obviously a camouflaged structure. The grass and snow-covered building was suddenly revealed for what it was. The door frame became illuminated from inside as a light was switched on, and the silence was broken by the loudest of belches, as an occupant stirred to answer a call of nature.
Whilst the building was a store room, a guard had been placed in the building to reduce pilferage, and it was the guard commander who had awoken.
The man opened the door, clad in a greatcoat and already exposing his genitals, so as to rid himself of his weighty burden in as short a time as possible.
He saw death approaching and shouted loudly…
... and briefly...
The leading Ukrainian drove the commando dagger home with all his force, knocking the man off his feet. With his assailant lying on top of him, stifling any further noise with his free hand, Lieutenant Masharin died quietly and quickly.
The second attacker leapt over the mass of arms and legs and into small hut, where he stabbed twice into something that was just starting to stir from under thick blankets; fatally so.
Evancho, one of the covering men, laughed loudly, c
reating more noise, but did so deliberately. To add to the consternation in the ‘Mama’ group, the quick-thinking man shouted in Russian.
“Get back in here and shut that fucking door, you clumsy fuck!”
At first, Kuibida wanted to throttle Evancho, the idiot, but quickly understood the man’s reasoning, and nodded his agreement.
Less than sixty metres away, a marine on guard, wrapped in a greatcoat and blankets, was reassured by the outburst. He closed his half-open eyes, cradled his SVT rifle closer, and dropped back off to sleep.
‘Mama’ moved on and immediately ran into another unexpected obstacle.
Kuibida raised his clenched fist and the group melted into the ground.
Whispering to his second-in-command, he gestured at some lumps to the right.
“Blyad. I think there’s actually three locations here, Konstantin. See there? One… two… three?”
“You’re right, Sturmscharfuhrer. Our little bird missed two… look there.”
The keen-eyed man pointed out the smallest wisp of cold breath adjacent to the furthest end lump.
“A guard?”
Kuibida nodded unseen, but added a comment.
“Guarding something… what?”
The light in the hut behind them had long since gone out, and the assault group was reformed.
Kuibida dropped back and pulled his force in around him.
Firstly, he slapped Evancho’s shoulder.
“Good work.”
Pointing back towards the previously unsuspected structures, he whispered his instructions.
“Your group will take the first two,” he touched one of his NCO’s on the arm.
“Watch out for sentries. Something there’s worth guarding so it seems… that position has a man outside. That’s down to your group, Evancho.”
The men prepared to move off.
“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Fifteen and Seventeen.”
The two assault groups slipped away as Kuibida quietly briefed Shandruk on the change.
Completing his brief conversation with his senior NCO, Shandruk waited a moment before cursing.
