by Colin Gee
Wijers had the responsibility for ensuring that every man got away from the raid, one way or another, and he had counted heads as men moved down the ramp and away to safety.
Kuibida gestured to the group huddled next to Building Ten, sending them away past the counting Wijers.
“One more load after that, and then it’s us, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
The excitement of combat was wearing off now, and Shandruk could feel the cold seeping into his legs, despite his layers.
“Koorva.”
He wasn’t angry; it was just surprise, but Kuibida recognized something in the voice.
“Sir?”
Whatever it was that had caused the damage had struck Shandruk in the upper thigh, just a few inches short of the hip.
The cold he felt was the first indication he had been injured, so intense had his concentration been. The sensation was that of his blood starting to chill in the night air.
“Koorva! I’m hit.”
The leg gave way, dropping Shandruk into the snow.
“Wasco, Lach… the boss is hit. Get him on the next boat to the trawler… and make sure he gets seen by the Sanitäts-Offizier. Move!”
Wijers counted off the departing three men, registering the identity of the man leaving the trail of blood as he was carried down the ramp.
“Move to the ramp, comrades.”
The NCO chivvied the Ukrainian soldiers along, wishing to get clear of the Irish coast as soon as possible.
Distant lights caught his eye, and he quickly understood what the source was.
“Vehicle!”
“Next group,” called Wijers, as much to give Kuibida a choice as to get the men away.
The senior NCO made a judgment call.
“Go!”
The RAF trawler, with Shandruk aboard, was already pulling away from Glenlara, heading for a special rendezvous at Bundoran, where Colonel Bryan, head of Irish G2, waited to ensure that the transfer went without hindrance from the local IDF and Garda units.
There were, including Wijers, ten men left ashore from the OSS operation.
Each of them made the calculation of ramp and boat versus approaching lorry.
There seemed little choice.
Kuibida whistled once, drawing attention on himself, and his hands pointed out men and angles, sending three soldiers towards Hut Six, and another three across the stream towards Fifteen.
Checking that Wijers had a torch, he gave the Dutchman an order, and the OSS officer moved quickly to carry it out. It was no time for the niceties of rank.
Settling in behind the MG42 gunner, the NCO held a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder and waited for the right moment.
Behind him, hidden by the curve of the ramp, Wijers played his torch on the rock, its irregular movement teasing, almost inviting the new arrivals forward.
A dozen IRA men, in a truck normally used for picking up milk, moved slowly closer until, as Kuibida judged, it lay in the centre of the triangle formed by the three little groups.
He slapped the gunner’s back and the 42 immediately spewed bullets at the IRA arrivals. Those in the cab were ripped to pieces, the highly effective machine-gun putting its bullets on the money from the off. Those in the back suffered too, and only six survivors touched their feet to ground.
Before they could organize themselves, the two flank parties took them out, and the briefest of affairs was ended, with not one shot fired in return.
A simple hand signal from Kuibida stopped one returning ambush group in its tracks, and they moved over to the smashed lorry to finish off the work, finding two men and a woman who exhibited signs of life, albeit briefly.
Wijers waited to usher the final group down the ramp, having satisfied himself that everyone, living, wounded, or dead, was now away from Glenlara.
None of them were near enough to the camp when the timers ran out, and everything was turned to fire.
The facts about the Robert Hastie.
The HMS Robert Hastie was a very unusual craft, more so for its unique role in World War Two than anything else.
The vessel started life as a nondescript British trawler, SN189, first tasting the salt water of North Shields in 1912. It served as a minesweeper in the Great War.
Returned to civilian control between the wars, the demands of the new conflict saw Robert Hastie again hired to the Royal Navy, when it was converted to an air-sea rescue vessel, and, officially at least, based with the Naval fleet at Foyle, Londonderry, Northern Ireland.
In reality, and with the full agreement of the Irish Government, the joint RN and RAF manned vessel spent most of its time based at Killybegs, Éire, on the condition that the eleven man crew wore no caps, and were kitted out in common working rig, not uniforms.
As the war progressed, cooperation between the Irish and British authorities grew, despite Éire’s official neutral stance, so much so that by the end of hostilities, officially sanctioned journeys from Killybegs to Castle Archdale, and other locations within Northern Ireland, were not unheard of.
My thanks to the website naval-history.net for filling in some of the gaps.
0817 hrs, Wednesday, 1st January 1946, RAF Castle Archdale, Northern Ireland.
At first, the listeners had heard a frenzy, a veritable maelstrom of furious blows and raised voices.
Or rather, one voice, one very angry and merciless voice.
But the noises had slowly subsided until there was a silence that drew them in, and encouraged their minds to speculate.
There was a gentle tapping on the door and, with a nod from Blackmore, the RAF policeman unlocked the cell door, permitting Viljoen to emerge.
Without singling out any specific recipient, the disheveled pilot spoke softly.
“Thank you.”
There was no joy in his heart; no warm feeling of a need for revenge well satisfied, or a brother appropriately avenged.
There was nothing.
Some of them understood, indeed, some had told him beforehand. None the less, Viljoen had wanted his time alone with Brown, and wouldn’t accept anything less.
Initially, he had pummeled Brown, working out the death of his brother on the perpetrator, hurting his hands as he struck blow after blow on the defenceless man.
Then he had stopped, as inside him a different struggle took place, occasionally lashing out as revenge gained the upper hand, more often stood immobile, as his own self-worth triumphed.
Dan Bryan exchanged nods with two others present and stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Viljoen’s shoulder.
“I think we might get these scum away now, Squadron-Leader.”
Viljoen nodded, although Bryan needed no permission.
The division of spoils had been decided well in advance.
Any IRA men taken would enjoy time in the company of earnest men with enquiring minds, all members of Éire’s G2.
Any Soviets would find themselves in the hands of US intelligence services, confronted by a long list of indelicate questions and expectations of honest answers, with no hope of salvation. The death of Dudko had been seen as a problem, until Shandruk revealed that another Soviet Marine officer had been taken, one who would probably have an interesting story to tell.
Any information gained by either side would, where appropriate, be shared.
The physical intelligence haul was to be examined by SOE, and, as with any by-products of the operation, the expected harvest would be shared with any interested party.
By the time that the sun broached the Irish sky, Reynolds and Brown were on their way south, Shandruk was out cold as Holliday operated to remove the two bullets that had struck him a centimetre apart, Nazarbayev and Sveinsvold found themselves again imprisoned, although in a guarded hospital ward with food and proper beds, and Section Officer Megan Jenkins had made the first of a number of startling discoveries.
Diligence is the mother of good luck.
Benjamin Franklin.
Chapter 129 - THE BASES
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br /> 1331 hrs, Wednesday, 1st January 1946, Camp 5A, near Cookstown, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland.
Dalziel had enjoyed precious little sleep, most of which had been during the car journey from Castle Archdale to the OSS camp near Cookstown, but he was awake now, and waiting to hear what had been so important as to rouse him ahead of the allotted hour.
Jenkins, almost out of her feet, had insisted on staying awake to deliver the vital information.
“Bases, Sir, their submarines were being supported from a number of concealed bases.”
‘Blast it! Glenlara wasn’t the only bloody one.’
Jenkins felt Dalziel’s silent anger.
She had a map of the Atlantic out, already marked with the information she had first found some hours ago.
“Here, at Glenlara, we know about. But there are more.”
The pencil, acting as a pointer, moved to east coast America. She stayed silent, allowing the enormity to sink in.
“Bloody hell! I mean to say… bloody hell!”
The normally calm naval officer was overtaken by the thought that Soviet submarines had been supported from a covert base on the American mainland.
He recovered his composure before continuing.
“Our cousins will be rather embarrassed.”
The pencil moved up to Nova Scotia.
“I see. Oh dear…that’s rather closer to home. One for HMG and the Canadians.”
The pencil journeyed across the Atlantic in the briefest time before coming to rest.
“Well, you have to admire their style, if nothing else.”
The base on Renonquet Island was laid bare.
Malpica was next.
“Our Spanish allies will be delighted, I’m sure.”
The final point came to rest at Lisbon.
“How?”
“According to the documents, one vessel… err...,” she looked for the appropriate piece of paper and found it with ease, “… the Doblestnyi, surrendered herself to the Portuguese at the beginning of the war, Sir.”
Dalziel completed the statement.
“Most of the crew interned, I daresay, all except a maintenance group. Enough men to pass supplies and equipment to any nocturnal visitors.”
Jenkins was beyond her comfort zone, but the captured documents suggested that the old destroyer was acting as a supply point, so maybe Dalziel was on the money.
However, she did put forward another suggestion.
“And probably intelligence gathering, Sir?
He frowned, thinking the matter through.
“Hang on. A bloody Russian warship in Lisbon port would have been reported surely? I remember no such reports.”
“The ship is an old Town Class, a familiar sight, and not one to draw too much attention. Not flying the Soviet ensign, I bet, Sir.”
“A fair bet, Section officer. Anything else?”
“Yes, Sir. We have an interesting naval code book.”
“We broke their code some time ago, Jenkins.”
“Not this one, Sir, least I don’t think so anyway.”
She proffered a thick pad with very official looking binding, official government notations on the top edge, covered from top to bottom with a series of five random letters.
Dalzeil swallowed as the Holy Grail was handed to him.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Not really, Sir.”
“Well, unless I’m mistaken, it’s a Vernam’s cypher.”
“Sir?”
“A one-time pad.”
He looked meaningfully at the Soviet radio transmitter sitting proudly on a small table.
“Anyone else know about these pads,” he had already spotted two more with the same impressive binding sat with the priority intel that had been recovered from the radio room.
“Not yet, Sir, but more people will be arriving shortly to document and interpret this haul,” She indicated another six large bags worth of paperwork, spread across the tables of the old mess hall.
“It could take weeks to wring everything out of it all, Sir.”
“Yes it could, couldn’t it?”
As he spoke, Dalziel reached across and added the other two pads to his briefcase.
“Make a note of the frequencies on those dials if you please, Jenkins.”
She quickly made the necessary notes and passed it to the excited naval officer.
“No need to bother anyone about these,” he indicated his briefcase, “Are we clear, Section Officer?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Thank you, Jenkins. Now, get yourself some shut-eye time.”
Her objections fell on deaf ears as the Admiral turned to summon the senior of the three guards.
The door opened and the immaculately dressed MP NCO strode in.
“Ah Sergeant. Section Officer Jenkins is just leaving. Please secure this room, and permit no one to enter without the correct authority or, in the Section Officer’s case, before 1800hrs.”
The USMC officer acknowledged the order and opened the door, allowing the two British personnel to leave, only for them to be replaced by gallons of freezing air.
Solomon Meyer, no more an MP than the two other OSS personnel in USMC uniform, positioned his men, one at each door. Then, as directed by Rossiter, he enjoyed the opportunity offered to rummage through the paperwork, in search of something to confirm his commander’s suspicions about the latest Russian guest, something Rossiter wanted to keep quiet, if at all possible.
Agreement or no agreement, something’s were just too valuable to share.
He had no idea that Dalziel shared that view too.
1355 hrs, Wednesday, 1st January 1946, airborne with 34th Bombardment Group, approaching Prague, Occupied Czechoslovakia.
The New Year marked a new start for Allied air power, and it was being demonstrated across the length and breadth of Europe, as Allied squadrons took to the skies to rain down high explosives on the logistic and communication routes of the Red Army.
The basic principle of the Allied air war was now to apply the maximum possible force as often as possible; whilst avoiding civilian casualties was important, the exiled governments all understood that many of their civilians would die before they could return home.
Across Britain and Western Europe, aircraft of all types and sizes had filled the skies from early morning, all under the ever-watchful eyes of hundreds of fighters. Streams of ground attack aircraft, intent on making the Soviet frontline soldier’s life a misery, followed by more of the same with the light bombers, who visited themselves on reserves and supply dumps behind the lines. The heavy bombers, including RAF units more used to night work, flew deeper into enemy territory, either to level the infrastructure of the enemy war effort, or to undertake intelligence driven missions, requiring the precision placement of tons of bombs on STAVKA reserves.
The US 34th Bombardment Group was one of those fully committed to action.
The 391st Bomb Squadron had taken off from RAF Mendlesham earlier that morning, intent on delivering its payload to the woods north of Weilerswist.
The 391st was also to be the first of the Group’s squadrons to return to a newly assigned home base; Beavais-Tille, in Picardy, France, an old Luftwaffe base that had been heavily extended and refurbished over the past two months, ready to accommodate heavy bombers.
Many of the 34th’s ground crew were flown over from Norfolk by DC-3, and were already working to receive the returning bombers.
Allied planners were now moving many bomber squadrons across the channel and into Europe, ready to extend the range of targets available, and hoping to carry the battle further into the Soviet heartland.
The 391st’s remaining B-17’s, from the 4th, 7th, and 18th Bomb Squadrons, escorted by Mustangs of 2nd and 4th Fighter Squadrons, swept down upon the vulnerable Czech capital, intent on destroying the remaining bridges and railway infrastructure.
Defensive Soviet fighter regiments, already worn down and exhausted, were alm
ost universally brushed aside, and, from the Baltic to the Adriatic, only five Allied bombers were prevented from reaching their targets, with only two of those shot down by interceptors.
Flak defences were more effective and, over Prague, took their toll of the leadership of the three bombardment squadrons.
First to go was the 18th’s senior man. A 105mm shell, fired from a German mount, cut through the lead aircraft’s wing spar.
Whilst many of the crew, including the Lieutenant Colonel, died instantly, those at the two ends of the fuselage were condemned to ride it to earth. The wings folded together and the Flying Fortress dropped twelve thousand feet onto the residential area of Lodénice, obliterating a huge area as the bomb load exploded, spreading flaming aviation fuel across the flammable buildings.
The Colonel leading the 4th Squadron, senior man and mission commander, took a lump of shrapnel in the chest. Despite the flak jacket, the hot piece of metal demolished enough of his vital organs that he died before he could speak, leaving his co-pilot to handle the damaged Fortress to the target and back again.
7th’s commander had fallen out with a serious mechanical problem, and he was already back at the new base, watching his damaged aircraft being unceremoniously towed off the metalled landing strip.
The three bomber squadrons were formed for the attack, and the 4th, leading the group, deposited its high-explosives over the Balabenka district, wrecking the railway lines and sidings.
Behind them, the 7th destroyed their own target, but some bombs went astray, adding the Jerusalem Synagogue and the Prague State Opera House to the list of destroyed buildings.
Bringing up the rear, and south by three miles, the 18th Squadron turned northwards and in behind the lead aircraft, intent on attacking the Štvanice Islands bridges, as well as the road and rail crossings at Vitava, less than a mile north of the island, and also taking out the Bubny railway sidings in between the two.
The 18th successfully took out the main road bridge at Štvanice, and the marshalling yards at Bubny were heavily damaged. The rail bridge at Štvanice remained untouched and, although damaged, the road bridge at Vitava was back in use before the day was out. Again, the rail bridge was unscathed, and the Soviets were able to use both rail bridges to move vehicles, although the damage to rail systems was considerable.
