by Colin Gee
Fiedler waved his arms at the man posted on the corner, who in turn waved forward the next vehicle.
Actually, vehicles.
What, at first, appeared to be a standard 251 half-track, rounded the bend.
The Puma turret was soon recognisable, as was the new armoured structure on the rear compartment.
“We call this one the Antilope, Sir. Initially, we had an issue with top heavy weight, but cut down the additional plate so it’s manageable now.”
Again, the vehicle was graced with a full set of protective mesh screens.
“How many?”
“Five, Sir.”
The second 251, its own screens hung with freshly-cut vegetation, sported a deadly looking weapon, instantly recognisable as the potent 88mm KwK43.
“Don’t know why we didn’t have these when we were fighting the bastards the first time round, Kameraden. Surprisingly easy to shift over from a Nashorne. We have four of these, we call them Hundchen, and I think we may be able to manage another one in time, Sir.”
The marriage looked extremely deadly.
Knocke kept his feet on the ground.
“How much ammunition, Hauptsturmfuhrer?”
Appreciating the instincts of his senior officer, Fiedler could only concede with grace.
“That’s its Achilles heel, Sir. At the moment, we can only safely store fifteen rounds internally.”
That made a difference, but Fiedler hadn’t finished yet.
“However, Sir, we think that by adapting some American jeep trailers, we can store another twenty or so to be towed behind.”
That would make a difference in combat, but would bring its own problems with manoeuvrability.
“Anything else for us, Hauptsturmfuhrer?”
“We’re still working on a combination mount for the 251, Sir. Nebelwerfer hull mount from the Maultier, with additional six wurfrahmen 40 carried, just to up the capability of the support elements.”
“Sounds interesting, Fiedler. Still working on it?”
“Yes, Sir. We have four suitable vehicles lined up but the traversing gear is proving a problem on the prototype. Nothing we won’t solve, Sir.”
“Excellent work, Hauptsturmfuhrer. Pass on our congratulations and thanks to your crews…”
Knocke stopped, understanding that there was more to come.
“Sir, we’ve managed to get five Panthers roadworthy and combat ready. They are ready for your crews to take now. We also acquired some extra vehicles, similarly ready for you to take now.”
The Workshop officer waved at the corner man, who was clearly waiting for this moment.
The roar of something powerful became apparent, as did the cloud of smoke from the twenty-three litre gasoline engine that propelled the Porsche-turreted Tiger II into view.
Three others, all Henschell versions, followed behind, and, at the end of the procession, were the vehicles that Fiedler was clearly the most proud of.
It was Captaine Felix Jorgensen, the ex-Frundsberg Panzerjager officer, who noticed first.
“What’ve you done with that JagdPanther?”
Part of his voice betrayed his disgust that the fine lines of the Panther-based tank destroyer had been messed with, whilst part of his voice recorded the new armament the vehicle carried.
“That, Felix, is the Einhorn, complete with a 128mm. We salvaged the guns from some JagdTigers. We had to increase the space because of the breech and recoil. The speed has dropped a little, but not much. We’ve managed to get forty-one rounds on board her too.”
The Unicorn looked positively deadly.
“Just the one?”
“Three more nearly ready, Felix.”
Knocke interrupted the bonhomie.
“Hauptsturmfuhrer, you have a complete list of vehicles that are ready to hand over to us?”
“Apologies, Brigadefuhrer.”
Fielder removed the top two sheets from his folder and handed them to Knocke.
“Top sheet is what is ready to go now. The second sheet indicates everything that we can put together with the resources we presently possess, Sir.”
Knocke was impressed.
1607 hrs, Wednesday, 6th February 1946, la Mairie, Troisfontaines Moselle, France.
They were all impressed.
The leaders of the command groups had gathered at the temporary headquarters of Leroy-Bessette’s ‘Lorraine’, something they did when circumstances permitted, thus avoiding the interference of headquarters, in the person of Molyneux.
Lavalle asked a very sensible question.
“Training issues, Général?”
Knocke had given this some thought on the short journey from the workshop site.
“Next to nothing over standard familiarisation for most of these vehicles, Sir. My men have used all of it before, just not in these combinations. However, I suspect there’ll be handling issues with the 251 conversions, and I think some driver training’ll be required. There will be issues with the Aardvark and Hyena, if only because the guns are unfamiliar. Hopefully, General Pierce can provide us with some training officers for a short while?”
Pierce nodded and scribbled a quick note.
“I shall send some of my boys over a-sap, Ernst. I assume training will be done near the workshop site?”
A number of eyes fell on the wall map, seeking a suitable spot nearby.
Demarais found it immediately.
“Here.”
A piece of open ground in between large woods to the west of Arzwiller looked perfect.
Lavalle leant forward for a closer examination and grunted in satisfaction.
“We are agreed then?”
The assembled senior officers softly chorused approval and then moved on to the delicate subject of who would secure which vehicles.
1700 hrs, Wednesday, 6th February 1946, Office of the General Secretary, the Kremlin, Moscow.
Immaculate in her dress uniform, save for her cap, Nazarbayeva stood at attention in front of the heavy wooden desk separating her from Stalin.
Flanking the General Secretary were a bandaged Bulganin and, more surprisingly, Molotov. The ever-present Beria sat to one side, working studiously on his glasses.
Whilst Stalin studied a document in total silence, seemingly oblivious to the GRU officer’s presence, the others studied her intently, Beria immediately noting that the holster flap was unclipped, deliberately left so by the security detail that would have searched Nazarbayeva thoroughly, removing her side arm and cap as a precaution against repeats of today’s debacle.
Stalin, in studied fashion, set down the report and filled his pipe slowly, allowing the tension to build.
Running a match down the antique wood, he gently puffed away, drawing the flame into the rich tobacco and filling the room with its aroma.
He deigned to notice the new arrival.
“So, Comrade Nazarbayeva, it seems that I am in your debt for raising the alarm today.”
His eyes burned into her, in a way she had previously neither experienced nor witnessed, a piercing gaze that carried enquiry and malice in equal quantities.
Unexpectedly, it was Molotov that spoke next.
“Comrade General, the Motherland is grateful for your efforts today, but there are some questions that need answering so that we may understand how the situation developed as it did.”
“Comrade Minister, I am relieved that I was in time to prevent harm coming to any person.”
Bulganin coughed.
She produced the file from under her arm.
“If I may, Comrade General Secretary?”
Stalin nodded.
Slipping from her rigid position, Nazarbayeva opened the folder and delivered her honest assessment of how matters had transpired, leaving nothing out.
Molotov tapped his finger on the desk by way of interruption.
“So you are telling us that this traitor was interviewed by our medical services, and GRU and NKVD interrogators, and there was no warning
of this treacherous intent? Nothing?”
Now Nazarbayeva understood why Molotov was taking the lead. Beria was as much in the doghouse as she was.
“What the reports indicate is that we were faced with a hero returning to the Motherland, after months of incredible resistance behind enemy lines.”
Lining up the evidence on the polished top, she touched each in turn as she summarised.
“Army doctor shortly after he made contact with the Shtrafbat.”
Her hand moved on.
“GRU medical examination report… NKVD medical examination report… summary of NKVD debriefing.”
Touching the thickest of the files, she concluded.
“GRU debriefing, conducted over three days.”
She stood back.
Almost as a discard comment, Nazarbayeva regretted the absence of the full NKVD interrogation report.
“Comrade General Secretary, each report, in isolation, brings with it no criticism, no suspicion. The initial medical report states that the General was in surprisingly good medical condition considering. Subsequent reports make no such observations. The GRU debriefing is thorough and there are no gaps. I’ve not had the opportunity to see the full NKVD debrief file on Makarenko.”
Bulganin’s soft comment was very informative.
“Neither have we, as the fucking file’s disappeared.”
Instinctively, every eye switched to Beria, to witness him squirm in discomfort.
In the immediate aftermath of the assassination attempt, Beria had pointed the finger very heavily at the shortcomings and last moment intervention of the GRU officer. The absence of the complete NKVD file on Makarenko quickly ensured that the hunter became hunted. In the NKVD headquarters, men had already been arrested for their part in its inexplicable absence.
Nazarbayeva coughed nervously, understanding that she was about to admit shortcomings in her own department.
“However, Comrade General Secretary, the GRU report was absent an associated file that had been identified as being relevant, and which should have been fully analysed. It would undoubtedly have raised some doubts over the veracity of Makarenko’s story. My office uncovered this just in time, for which I am extremely grateful.”
Her intent was to portray her real relief at interfering with Makarenko’s plans, but the others in the room saw only an officer expressing relief that an error was uncovered in time to save their head.
Molotov again took the lead.
“So how was it that you came upon this shocking dereliction today, eh? … and in such a timely fashion, eh? Almost out of time, eh, Comrade General?”
The normally even voice of the diplomat was very much replaced by the strident tones of a communist party high official in full pursuit of helpless prey, his sudden change in mood taking Nazarbayeva by surprise.
“And you rang Comrade Beria. Why not Comrade Kaganovich, who would be better placed to act, having no part to play in the day’s ceremonies?
“Comrade Minister?”
“The reports you bring to show us are old, and yet today you take an interest in them?”
“I arrived at my desk early, so that I could examine the GRU file before my day staff arrived, Comrade Minister. I rang Marshal Beria in the first instance, and was passed through to his Deputy as the Marshal was absent. That was clearly a mistake on my part, although I did not know that Comrade Beria was involved in the ceremonies.”
“How very convenient, Comrade General, don’t you think? More like you are part of the disease spread by the traitor Pekunin, and you panicked yourself into making an earlier call, rather than one just after the deed had been done, as you obviously intended, eh?”
The look Nazarbayeva gave Molotov would have melted marble, and each of the three men at the desk saw it, and each made his own interpretation of its meaning.
Whichever of the three interpreted her look as defiance and anger had their view confirmed by the hard edge to her voice.
“Comrade Minister, the GRU files on Makarenko contained specific information on an operation from 6th August 1945, in which my son was killed. As a mother, I was seeking information on the death of my child, Vladimir. As it was a personal matter, I went to my office early, in order not to interfere with my schedule. The file would not normally have come to my attention, but for my personal interest.”
Her gaze switched to Stalin, whose own expression remained totally neutral in the face of the GRU officer’s angry delivery.
“Had it not been for that personal interest, I fear the discrepancy would not have been revealed until it was too late. Comrade General Secretary, I give thanks that you were preserved and are unharmed. I also accept a shortcoming by my department in interpretation. I do not accept any accusations regarding any complicity in this event, or doubting my loyalty to the state or party!”
Bulganin went to speak but Stalin’s right hand shot out, silencing him with a single curt gesture.
Another match made its noisy journey down the desk and the pipe burst back into life.
The silence was broken solely by the steady puffing, as the General Secretary held the gaze of the woman in front of him.
She saw his eyes suddenly soften as his inner voices whispered in his ear.
‘Balls of steel, this Tatiana. You’ve always said so!’
An unexpected laugh made everyone look at the dictator.
“Comrade Molotov asks only questions that need to be asked, Comrade General.”
He indicated the spread of files before continuing.
“There have been errors here, by your department… and others… and we’ll soon know the full story. Comrades Molotov and Bulganin will be heading an enquiry, with which you’ll cooperate fully.”
“Of course, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Comrade Nazarbayeva, you are a good and loyal servant of the Motherland and the Party, of that I have no doubt, and again, I thank you for your intervention.”
He placed the pipe on the desk and waved a fatherly finger at his GRU commander.
“But you must understand how this could look,” he softened further, “Both for you and Marshall Beria.”
She nodded as the anger and resentment faded into nothingness.
“You, the woman and mother, have sacrificed two sons in this war… I know this. Such a woman is not a traitor. Such a mother would not turn her back on what her children died for. I know this too.”
He looked at both Bulganin and Molotov before continuing.
“Just cooperate with the enquiry, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Comrade Bulganin’s office will be in contact before you leave.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. For my part, I will order a review of any similar cases to Makarenko’s.”
“We have already taken steps to ensure no repeats. Thank you, Comrade General, you may go.”
The door closed before another word was spoken.
“None the less, Lavrentiy, have her monitored day and night.”
There are no extraordinary men, just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to deal with.
Adm. William F Halsey Jr USN.
Chapter 133 – THE PROTOTYPE
1104 hrs, Saturday, 9th February 1946, on board S-22, off the coast of Sweden.
It was only after the attack that the Captain had worked out the aircraft was a Saab17 of the Swedish Air Force.
They had instantly known that the aircraft was not benevolent, given the total absence of friendlies in the Baltic skies.
S-22 had just surfaced, forced up by an electrical problem that knocked out its motors. Well aware that he was fifteen kilometres off the Swedish coast, east of Simrishamn, Captain 3rd Rank Jabulov harried his engineering crew mercilessly, whilst ordering more defensive firepower to the bridge.
Without the time or ability to dive, S-22, a Stalinec class submarine of the Baltic Fleet, fired a few shots with her 45mm cannon and hand-held MGs, whilst manoeuvring on diesel power to avoid the falling bombs.
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Whilst all four missed, the shock damage was considerable, as leaks were compounded by crew injuries, all set against a backdrop of frequent electrical outages.
Someone, it was suspected one of the MGs, had knocked the Saab down, and its fiery cartwheel into the sea was greeted with a number of relieved cheers.
With diesels hammering at full power, S-22 drove herself away on the surface.
Jabulov, a lifetime spent in Baltic waters, sought out a place where he could hide his stricken vessel from prying eyes whilst repairs were made.
He found what he was looking for in the Christianso group, and, ordering full speed on a course of 134 degrees, he returned to the job of ‘encouraging’ his crew to get S-22 back in shape to dive.
1607 hrs, Saturday, 9th February 1946, Ramenskoye Airfield, USSR.
The men had come from different units, some on transfer, some plucked from hospitals where they were recuperating from wounds sustained in the awfulness that was the lot of the aircrew of the Red Air Force.
The first arrivals had been delivered by truck, picked up from the nearby railway station; men recently discharged from hospital in the main.
Next came three B-25J Mitchell bombers, the last survivors of the now disbanded 890th Bomber Aviation Regiment, touching down in short order on the main runway. The normal complement of eighteen men was swollen to thirty-four, as the three US lend-lease aircraft disgorged flight crew who had no aircraft of their own.
Over the next two days, more aircrew arrived, not only for the newly formed 901st Independent Special Aviation Regiment, but for other special formations based in and around the military airfield that also served as the test field for the Stakhanovo Flight Research Institute.
Presently unemployed, a large number of the 901st’s personnel had been attracted to the strange noises of an unknown aircraft type that made its way to the end of the main runway.
Despite the cold, over twenty men stood and speculated over the nature of the unknown machine.
