by Colin Gee
Deniken had briefed the assembled unit commanders in silence, save for the odd gasp that accompanied the order to move the other way to that expected, namely into Poland.
Fortunately, they had an abundance of suitable maps, acquired for future training exercises, and now they would prove invaluable in combat.
A few quick questions established that no one had any first-hand knowledge of the area, the division not having been near the area during the German war.
Now that the division might be advancing to close on enemy positions entailed a change in the logistics, and the leading echelon was changed to be more infantry heavy, in order to secure the railhead at Köslin.
There had also been another decision made, which Deniken now shared with the rest of his officer group.
“Here... at Naugard... there’s a Polish fuel dump. I want it seized for our use, clear?”
Fuel was a thorny issue for every mechanised unit and, even though seemingly a favourite of those in command, the 1st GMRD was no different in having a low supply.
Nodding at one of his regimental commanders, Deniken outlined his plan.
“Comrade Antinin, I want one of your companies dropped off at Naugard. Secure the station and the surrounding area. I want to make sure we can get that fuel to Köslin.”
Lieutenant Colonel Mikhail Antinin mentally assigned one of his units to the task and nodded his understanding.
“I want the rest of the 167th to get on the road now, but take only what can move fast and move now. The rest will take its place on the railway according to the shipping schedule. Seize that fuel dump… intact… and without violence.”
They all knew that might prove to be difficult.
“Make our Polish Allies understand that it’s needed by our vehicles as a matter of utmost urgency, Comrade.”
His tone hardened perceptibly
“But we must have that fuel, regardless, so if they hinder you, you may act as you see fit to discharge my order.”
Antinin was a no-nonsense officer who had survived the German War. He was also wise enough to know that Deniken had handed him a hot potato, but he accepted his commander’s apologetic look with good grace.
Deniken returned to the major issue as he saw it.
“I don’t like running across the front of a potential enemy position on a train, and that’s a fact, but orders are orders and I hope we can get through to Köslin before any attack... and still under cover of night.”
All agreed with that. Whilst the 1st Guards had only been lightly affected, stories of the maulings received by other units at the hands of Allied air power abounded and required no embellishment.
“Comrade Yarishlov, will you be able to get your tanks off whilst we still have darkness on our side?”
Yarishlov had already worked out the implications of distance, time, and the new order of movement.
“Comrade Deniken, my tanks and support vehicles are now more towards the end of the column, which means we may be running it tight. I’ve no idea what facilities there are at Köslin, but I’m prepared to drive my tanks straight off the trucks if it will get them in cover by daylight, and to hell with the railway timetable!”
Faces split with smiles, knowing full well that Yarishlov saw his tanks as the priority at all times.
“Right, Comrades. New order of march. Get your units sorted and get them moving onto the rolling stock immediately. If we can go sooner, then we’ll do so. This whole thing stinks of panic, and I want to make sure we survive whatever’s ahead. Good luck to you all, Comrades.”
2201 hrs, Monday, 25th March 1946, 1002nd Mixed Air Regiment, Pütnitz-Damgarten airbase, Germany.
“Then get it fucking fixed, for the fuck’s sake! It’ll fly tonight or I’ll shoot you myself.”
Starshina Jurgen Helmutevich Förster was an ex-Luftwaffe volunteer serving with the Red Air Force.
Product of a German father, a Spartacist who fell in the strife of the early twenties, and a Russian mother, he was a life-long communist and had made himself available once he had been released from Swiss captivity.
His ME-110 had crashed in Switzerland in early 1941 and he had been interned, spending the bulk of the war kicking his heels whilst both his nations knocked hell out of each other on the Eastern Front.
At first, such volunteers were treated with scepticism, but the awful casualties inflicted on the Red Air Force gave ‘the powers that be’ an imperative they had not previously had, and so experienced flyers with ‘acceptable’ political credentials were integrated into the Soviet air regiments, mostly placed together under robust supervision, just in case. Most often, Luftwaffe volunteers were matched with captured aircraft, which was how Förster came to be assigned to fly a German night-fighter that night. He had been selected to convert to and master the He-219A7 ‘Uhu’ night fighter, a late-war aircraft that had great potential but had been produced in too small a number to make a difference.
The other 219 and four of the unit’s Bf-110g night-fighters were already on their way to the picquet line, part of the Red Air Force’s attempts to make a decent challenge to the Allied bombers who owned the night skies.
Only, much to Förster’s upset, his aircraft was going nowhere, as its starboard engine simply refused to turn over.
His first operational flight had brought three Allied aircraft under his guns, but he returned without a kill and counting himself lucky to have escaped the enemy night-fighters that swarmed over him in an instant.
He had promised himself that this time would be different.
But for now, there was no ‘next time’, and the crew decided to stretch their legs.
The aircrew climbed out of the Heinkel, eased their backs, then sat on the bench that the mechanics used when waiting to receive the aircraft after a mission. Förster sat in angry silence, smoking his pipe and stroking the tethered dog, a Dalmatian that was his pride and joy. Hans Braun, his radar operator, was sufficiently aware of his pilot’s mood as to not indulge in the normal pre-mission small talk.
The senior mechanic was soon back with a face that betrayed the stupidity of it all.
“Comrade Starshina, we have located the issue. A disconnected wire on the starter circuit. I am sorry.”
Whilst they were the same rank, the ground crew NCO knew he was decidedly in the shit for this omission, and much would depend on how the pilot handled matters from now on.
Förster was calmer now.
“That’s not acceptable, Iosef, and you know it. I hope you chew the useless bastard out who fucked up.”
Horolov nodded, although he would need no encouragement.
“You write this up as you see fit... I’ll just report the event, not the cause. But, I want the connections checked... all connections... and I want your assurance on that before I take-off. Understood, Comrade?”
Förster was actually being more than fair, and Horolov accepted immediately, turning and shouting at his ground crew, determined to harangue them into a good job, and beyond that point, until he discovered which bastard had let him down.
At 2253 hrs, nearly an hour behind schedule, Förster’s Uhu disappeared into the black sky, seen off by a relieved and angry Starshina Horolov, who then turned on the hapless Corporal who had been responsible for the simple error.
By the time he was finished, the newly created Private felt himself lucky to be alive, all despite having, unwittingly, done his Motherland a huge service.
I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery.
Aeschylus
[Author’s note. Of necessity, this chapter deals with one specific set of events, and is out of synchronisation with those chapters that have gone before. My apologies.]
Chapter 138 – THE REVELATION
After escaping the loss of Hamburg, Krystal Uhlmann-Schalburg, sister to Uhlmann of the Legion, had continued her work with British Intelligence.
After some combined work on a project wit
h other secretive agencies, the sister of one of the Legion’s best German officers was spotted and headhunted by SOE.
In December 1945, Krystal became a fully-fledged WAAF sergeant, a uniformed cover for her membership of the Special Operations Executive.
She moved quickly through the various courses and disciplines, on her way to becoming a field agent.
1002 hrs, Friday, 22nd March, The Thatched Barn, Borehamwood, England.
The building had started life as a den of iniquity, where the famous could meet the opposite sex and have a sense of security, away from the prying eyes of press and public.
The venture had not lasted long, and ownership passed to Billy Butlin, who intended it to be his first hotel.
However, the German War, in the shape of SOE, transformed it once again, this time into Station XV, the section dealing with such diverse matters as camouflage, codes, clothing, booby-traps, and bombs.
Krystal Uhlmann-Schalburg, now known as Christine Mann, arrived with three other female agents, mainly to be fitted out with suitable attire for their upcoming missions, as well as to become acquainted with some of the devices and secret equipment produced at ‘The Barn’.
Normally, a group of four girls, pretty ones too, would have meant that they had the undivided attention of the Station chief, James Elder Wills.
But not today.
Their visit coincided with SOE’s latest attempts to calm the ruffled feathers of MI6, which organisation often viewed the other with a distrust bordering on hatred.
A visit had been organised, so that a senior member of MI6 could do the rounds of various SOE establishments and develop a greater understanding of how the organisation worked and, more importantly to SOE’s leader, Sir Colin Gubbins, appreciate that it was not a threat and could be an important ally organisation in the fight against communism.
His opposite number in MI6, Sir Stewart Menzies, was also army, and the two found a cordial solution as to which one of Menzies’ men would receive the red carpet treatment.
The man selected was actually a former member of SOE, serving as a propaganda expert at the Beaulieu station, which made him eminently acceptable to Gubbins. His commitment to MI6 and diligence made him acceptable to Menzies.
J. Elder Wills greeted the important visitor personally, renewing a passing acquaintance from the other’s short period in SOE.
“Good morning, Harold, So nice to see you again.”
They shook hands and moved quickly inside out of the rain and wind.
“Good morning, James. Nice to see you again too. Please, do call me Kim.”
After a warming cup of tea and the exchange of a few memories, Wills took his guest on the grand tour.
Their mentor, known only as Jasper, herded the girls out of the way, as word of the approach of the Station Chief reached his ears.
“Come on, my lovelies. We don’t want to get under the Director’s feet, today of all days.
Wills was known as the director because of his work as a film art director and his excellent movie connections, connections that he had exploited to attract over half the men who worked at the Barn, using their stage art skills to good effect for the war effort.
Lucinda, the plainest of the group, exercised her female curiosity.
“Why not today of all days, Jasper?”
“Top dog from another organisation has come to nose around. Can’t have him exposed to you horrible lot, can we? What would he think of us if he saw you raggedy bunch, eh?”
Jasper received four playful taps from the girls, but they moved away all the same, but not fast enough to avoid seeing the pair arrive to view the selection of hollow false tree trunk storage containers.
Jasper quickly leant around Christine, pushing the door shut.
“Come on now, girl. Quit gawking and let’s get down to the canteen for an early lunch.”
Lunch was a humorous and noisy affair, so much so that the three women and one man laughing loudly and making the noise failed to notice that one of their number was not fully joining in.
She was racking her brain, trying to put a name to a face.
1945 hrs, Friday, 22nd March 1946, SOE Headquarters, 64 Baker Street, London, England.
Christine Mann stepped into the office in response to the gruff invitation.
“Ah, Sergeant Mann, isn’t it? Do sit down now.”
The occupant’s hands appeared from behind a desk that, whilst unquestionably organized with military precision, was full to overflowing with paperwork, ushering her to a large chair that had undoubtedly seen better days.
“I hear you’re doing rather well. A natural, so the gossip says, what?”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“So, what brings you into my den at this unearthly hour?”
Gubbins stood dramatically.
“Where are my manners? My abject apologies, Sergeant Mann. May I offer you tea?” he gestured towards the fine bone china teapot.
“No, thank you, sir.”
Topping up his own cup, the head of SOE returned to his seat, carefully sliding two sets of files to one side to permit him a better view of the woman in front of him.
“Fire away then, Sergeant.”
“Sir, it may be nothing, but I think that it is quite important.”
Sir Colin Gubbins occasionally pursed his lips, steepled his fingers, or sipped his tea, but generally remained silent as ‘Christine Mann’ went through the story of a chance encounter in Wandsbeck, Hamburg, during June 1945. She had been walking with one of the MI6 officers, prepared to act as interpreter for a clandestine meeting with a German ‘businessman’, when the Captain had spotted something strange going on between another member of MI6 and a known Soviet NKVD officer.
She described how the Intelligence Officer had quickly moved into the shadows, dragging her with him.
They had both observed an animated verbal exchange between the two, during which the Russian had appeared to take the lead, almost, as her British companion stated at the time, like a man giving orders to a subordinate.
The NKVD officer had the last word and left abruptly, leaving the other man to walk away, passing the place where Christine and her companion had hidden.
She emphasized to a curious Gubbins how she had had the clearest view of the man’s face.
His curiosity grew when she identified the man as the same one she had seen in the ‘Thatched Barn’ during her recent visit there.
“And this was reported at the time, of course.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Captain Chivers did write a report. He didn’t include me in it as my presence might have brought on some… err… awkward questions for him… it was not an official meeting we attended, you see.”
“I understand fully, Sergeant. Who was the MI6 officer you saw today…err… and in Hamburg?”
“A man called Philby, Sir.”
Alarm bells went off inside Gubbins’ head.
“Please, do go on.”
“Captain Chivers died two days later.”
Gubbins’ eyes narrowed.
“Who was the NKVD officer?”
“I can’t remember the name I’m afraid, but Herbert, sorry, Captain Chivers, was very agitated and he recognized him immediately.”
Gubbins left it at that for now.
“Please continue.”
“Pleske, the businessman, was never seen again, Sir.”
“Obviously, the report would have named the NKVD man, but did the report name this Pleske, do you know?”
The head of SOE’s interest had been greatly aroused.
“No, Sir, Chivers told me he’d just said something like a local Wandsbeck black-marketeer… but Pleske was not the only such ‘businessman’ to disappear at that time. In fact, the Military Police were running around for weeks afterwards, as bodies turned up all over Hamburg, all of them Wandsbeck men with a reputation as ‘suppliers’.”
Mann waited for a response from across the desk.
“So, let me see what it is that you think. Chivers’ report was seen by someone, who then took steps to protect something of value, which would seem to be either the NKVD officer or Philby. Chivers and anyone who fitted the description of ‘black-marketeer’ was quietly done away with… how did Chivers die?”
“Fell under a Hamburg tram in front of a hundred witnesses, Sir.”
“Fell.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Fell?”
He knew she had something more to say on the matter.
“Chivers was extremely fit, very sure on his feet. I didn’t think about it at the time… I was upset… he was a lovely man, married with three strong boys… but now, my mind wonders, Sir.”
“Quite.”
Gubbins checked the clock and found the result agreeable, moving quickly to the decanter and pouring two modest whiskies.
Mann accepted hers with the nod of her head.
“The thing is, if, let’s just say if… if the NKVD were prepared to purge Wandsbeck of all the black-marketeers, that is no small matter, and would only be done to protect something extremely valuable.
“Yes, Sir.”
“The NKVD officer possibly…”
“Chicky…Chacky…”
His brain analysed her attempts to summon the name and immediately married them to a name indelibly engraved on his own.
“Ivan?”
“Yes, Sir… Ivan Chicky…”
“Ivan Chichayev?”
“That’s the name, Sir.”
“Colonel Ivan Andreyevich Chichayev… also known as Vadim…”
He downed the whisky in one and stood, offering Mann his hand.
“You were absolutely right to bring this to me, Mann. Now, I must ask you not to speak of this again. I’ll investigate this as a matter of urgency, and I will discuss what I find with you. But I think the very fact that you know these things places your life at risk.”
