by Colin Gee
“General Bradley, what I am saying is that it is my firm belief that Spectrum is not compromised, and there is evidence to support that. We have every asset in place, hours and hours of planning have brought us to this point, and I can find nothing firm by way of evidence that would make me advise the abandonment of tomorrow’s attacks.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing, Sir.”
Bradley looked at his commander, expecting Eisenhower to take up the reins, but all he saw was a man intent on silent thought.
“Thank you, Sir Kenneth. Let me think on this for a while.”
Alone with Bradley, Eisenhower alternated between cigarettes and coffee as he read and reread the intelligence reports, particularly the list of Philby’s activities and the confession that Schofield and Tester had extracted.
There was nothing, no clue as to which course of action he should follow.
He turned to Bradley.
“Well Brad, what’s your take on this?”
The commander of US Twelfth Army Group had his answer prepared.
“It’s a risk. It’s always a risk, but someone has seen fit to pose us a question. Put simply, the risk would appear greater now than it was, but is that sufficient to make us abandon months of planning and to possibly lose the initiative again?”
Eisenhower nodded, inviting his main General on.
“When you made the decision to send our troops ashore at Normandy, the risk was great, but different. Here it isn’t the weather, but the enemy possibly having knowledge of our plans. We are told that probably isn’t a problem, but we cannot be sure.”
Bradley waked over to the huge map, with its notations and markings, the Allies dormant forces displayed for both men to see.
“You presently control the largest Army in history, men from a hundred countries in their thousands… tanks, aircraft, ships, everything in an abundance that we have never dreamed of.”
He finished waving his hands over the silent markers and turned back to his friend.
“We must go. I see no alternative, Ike. If we don’t then what do we do? I say we trust Sir Kenneth’s judgement.”
Eisenhower smiled.
“That is the decision I have reached, Brad.”
The two shook hands.
“Now, best you get back to your own outfit. If there are any issues, you’ll be the first to know.”
Bradley snorted and turned towards the map again, pointing without drama.
“Actually, Sir, I think that they will be the first to know.”
Both men’s eyes fell on the Baltic and North Poland.
“Then let us pray that I am right, Brad. Good luck to you.”
Half an hour later, news of the recovery and return of Philby’s file was delivered by a relieved Rossiter to a decidedly more relieved Eisenhower.
When the Marine left, Ike took a moment to offer silent thanks by way of a prayer to his maker, before moving to the telephone to pass on the good news.
Tomorrow, and for the rest of our lives, we can study history. Today, we will have a chance to write it.
Major General Kazimierz Glabisz,
Officer commanding 4th Polish Infantry division.
Extract from his written address to the men of his division,
26th March 1946.
Chapter 139 - THE LANDINGS
0028 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, the night skies over Northern Europe.
The skies of Europe may well have been dark, but they were alive with aircraft of all sorts, as heavy and medium bombers proceeded on their missions to drop high-explosive, night-fighters swarmed to protect their charges or move off independently to hunt alone in the night, and transports carried their vulnerable cargoes, ready to deposit men and equipment in enemy territory as part of the master plan.
Across Soviet-held Europe, phones were ringing either spreading the alert that had come from headquarters, or reporting more damage and destruction to vital infrastructure and assets in the Soviet rear.
The only Allied night-fighters not airborne that chilly night were those unfit to fly, or for whom there was no crew available, as the Allied Air commanders deployed every last asset available.
The Soviet defence response was cut to pieces in the early stages, as groups of American, British and German killers destroyed everything that came their way, for very little loss.
One DRL crew, flying the advanced JU-388J hunter-killer and tasked with protecting the transports, rounded on a flight of Soviet Bf110g’s, sending three spinning to the invisible earth below in under eight minutes.
Its five companions from 12th NachtJagdstaffel destroyed two more ex-Luftwaffe aircraft, although the sole Soviet-manned He-219A7 killed two of the German Republic’s aircraft before it caught fire and exploded in mid-air.
Elsewhere, exchanges were much more favourable to the Allies, with at least three Allied pilots making ace in just one flight.
The Europe-wide warning initiated by Moscow had the effect of encouraging Air Regiment commanders to send up anything and everything they had, which resulted in a rolling uncoordinated response by the Soviet Air regiments.
In less than an hour, the Soviet night fighter force suffered over sixty percent casualties.
By the time the dawn rose, there were many bases where mechanics and ground crew waited in vain, if only for a single aircraft.
The Allied air forces had delivered a tremendous blow, and Soviet night aviation would never recover, although Starshina Jurgen Helmutevich Förster was yet to find glory and a deserved and unique award.
It was actually the fault of the pilots from the 12th NachtJagdstaffel, who inadvertently strayed away from their assigned area in pursuit of some contacts to the south, opening up a gap between them and the aircraft of the 23rd NachtJagdstaffel.
The gap was small and invisible to the naked eye. The Major in charge of the 12th realised their position and moved part of his squadron back to cover the area. Although unconcerned, he reported the matter to control but, when questioned, was happy to vouch that nothing had broken the cordon.
He was wrong.
“Yes, Comrade Starshina.”
“Will you knock it off with the Russian crap, you idiot.”
“Zu befehl, Herr StabsFeldwebel.”
“One day, Hans, one day I’ll turn thing thing upside down so you fall out, after I’ve taken a shit in your parachute!”
Forster’s laughter died away as he detected only a hummed response from his radar operator.
The man was concentrating.
Hans Braun let the radar repeat its first visual announcement before informing his pilot.
“Achtung! Radar shows numerous contacts ahead... straight ahead, working on height now...”
“Numbers, Hans?”
Silence.
“Anything else. Give me something. Man?”
“Jurgen, the screen can’t cope. There are at least thirty definite contacts... seems like they’re almost travelling in tandem... range three miles... height... scheisse!... fourteen thousand!”
Jurgen Förster pulled gently up on the stick, bringing the advanced night fighter up and above the rapidly approaching stream of aircraft.
A quick radio report notified their base of the approaching problem. On the direct orders of the vector commander, a harassed Air Force Colonel, the operator did not tell them that they were on their own.
Ever a problem for night fighters, friendly flak started to burst around the approaching enemy formation.
In this instance it provided him with the means to identify the aircraft now passing underneath his Heinkel.
“They’re transports and gliders... look... that’s why they registered in tandem... they’re being towed, Hans.”
He banked the aircraft to permit Braun to see clearly.
“Escort?”
“I’ve been looking. Nothing obvious... the streams seem regular... nothing outside…”
“I’m attacking, rear first... vector me i
n on the end of the central stream.”
“Course... 225... maintain height.”
The fox moved silently closer to the chickens.
The aircraft in question, RAF-manned C-47s, were transporting the Polish Parachute Brigade and elements of the British 1st Air-Landing Brigade to their paradrop and glider landing zones in and around Köslin, Poland.
In the centre of the stream, a bright flash marked the direct hit of a flak shell. Those who could see through nearby windows, watched in morbid fascination as the C-47 fireballed and turned slowly over, heading straight as a javelin towards the ground and dragging its Hadrian glider down with it.
The two disappeared into the darkness and no-one observed the fireball as they smashed into the soil of Pomerania below.
Förster was conscious of the death of the aircraft ahead of him, but concentrated more on the steer he was receiving from Braun.
He had decided on attacking with his Schräge Musik in the first instance.
The two 20mm MG-FF’s, the original 30mm Mk108 cannons having been removed because of their shorter range, were set to fire upwards out of the He219, at between 65 to 70 degrees, depending on the crew’s wishes.
Braun talked the 219 into its approach before Förster took over for the final sighting of the weapons.
“Firing!”
The proximity of the weapons to Braun’s position made the warning much more than a courtesy.
As with all uses of the Schrage Musik, the attacking aircraft had to be able to get out from underneath its target quickly, as 20mm explosive cannon shells tended to affect the target’s aerodynamic efficiency quite dramatically.
Above them, the C-47’s left wing detached, its engine still pouring out power, the two parts folding inwards and starting the inexorable drop.
This time the glider crew managed to detach the tow, so only the transport went down.
Braun, always methodical in combat, commenced steering the fighter towards its next target.
Three Allied transports and two more gliders were shot down in short order. Not having realised that they were under attack by a night-fighter, a common problem with interpreting the attacks as ground fire, the transports had not called for support until a bursting flak shell had granted an alert co-pilot a swift glimpse of the servant of the Grim Reaper at work in their midst.
The two transport squadrons yelled out for help and their calls were swiftly answered, as RAF controllers vectored in the two Luftwaffe Geschwader and an experienced Mosquito flight that had been held circling, ready for any problems.
None the less, there was still time for Förster and Braun to slip underneath a final C-47 and pump the last handful of shells into its vulnerable belly.
Förster, in a typical move of bravado, pulled the Heinkel closer to the belly of the nearest glider, flying in its ‘shadow’ less than sixty feet from its wooden fuselage.
The performance of the radar fell off as a result, but Braun was engaged in trying to reload the two cannon, so Mark 1 eyeball was the most efficient warning in the interim.
It produced a result almost immediately, a defective exhaust system on a nearby aircraft revealed that there was something sharing the sky with them.
‘That looks like... a 110...’
“Hans, we have an enemy fighter... bearing 80... how long?”
“Three.”
Reloading the two cannons wasn’t easy on the ground, let alone in the air. More often than not, aircrew didn’t carry spare magazines, but Förster and Braun had decided otherwise.
‘What the... two more... they look like... Mosquitos...’
“Scheisse... Hans... there’s more... sure I saw at least two more trailing the first. Speed up, man.”
“Two.”
“You’ve got to hurry up, Hans.”
The sound of activity behind him grew, as Braun struggled to clip home the final magazine.
Off to his right, the night became day as one of the Mosquitos pumped Hispano cannon shells into its target, with dramatic effect.
The two faint shapes veered off into the night as the burning Messerschmitt plunged to earth.
“Done!”
Förster and Braun had no idea of the screaming and shouting on the Allied radio circuit as a long-standing Luftwaffe night fighter ace was hacked to pieces by friendly RAF planes.
The Allied controller, realising his terrible mistake, called off the two Luftwaffe units, leaving the flight of Mosquitos to deal with the threat to the Polish Paratroopers.
“The bastards have hacked down one of our lads!”
Which was the way it seemed of course, but the kill gave both men impetus to perform.
The Heinkel 219’s nose rose, and Förster used his forward firing weapons to lash out at another C-47, before peeling off to the left, intent on getting some sort of radar picture of the night sky before continuing with his destruction of the transports.
As the night-fighters continued their dance, there was little but the sound of wind racing through holes in the fuselage aboard C-47 F for Freddie.
Förster’s burst had raked the belly of the aircraft and turned the insides into a charnel house.
Unforgiving 20mm shells had chewed through flesh and bone, transforming trained paratroopers into unidentifiable lumps of meat in a microsecond.
The flight crew fared little better, although the co-pilot retained his hold on life, despite the loss of his left arm and being blinded.
At the very rear of the fuselage, Flight Sergeant Terry Walker was in a state of shock.
Pieces of his passengers were everywhere, although much of the contents of the cabin was white silk, the small pieces of shredded parachute whipped by the airflow into something resembling a snowstorm.
His mind started to regain control of itself, and rational thought commenced.
Running his hands over his own body, Walker managed to work out that he was untouched which, giving the storm that had visited itself upon the aircraft, was a total miracle.
He got up and picked his way forward, not bothering to check for any signs of life, as there was little left that could have even been expected to be alive.
Opening the cockpit door, the horror continued.
The pilot resembled beef mince from the waist up, the navigator and radio operator being somewhat more intact, although still unrecognisable.
Grieves, the co-pilot, was making some deep animal noise, as his body struggled against the wounds, his instincts to try and fly the surprisingly responsive aircraft.
The smell of smoke made itself known to Walker, although Grieves was too far withdrawn into his world of pain to bother with the sense of smell.
“Skipper... we’re fucked... “
Grieves interrupted him.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Terry, Skipper.”
“Terry, I can’t see... can’t do anything ‘cept hold it straight and level... get ‘em out... no idea where we are but get ‘em out. Not sure how...,” he coughed producing a heavy gobbet of blood from an injury unseen.
“I don’t know how long we’ve got… so get ‘em out now!”
Walker put his hand on his co-pilot’s shoulder.
“Forget me, Terry. I’m fucked anyway. Just get ‘em out safely… then out with yourself.”
The extent of Grieves’ wounds convinced Walker.
“Good luck, Skipper.”
Moving back through the fuselage, Walker separated a Thompson and some ammo from something that bore a faint resemblance to the British liaison officer he had been talking to a few minutes beforehand.
Pausing for one final look at the human abattoir, he launched himself out into the blackness.
Eight minutes later, F for Freddie and its tragic load found a resting place in the soil of Pomerania, perhaps serving a greater purpose in death than it did in life.
0047 hrs, 26th March 1946, seven kilometres north-west of Naugard, Pomerania.
“Govno! Brake! Brake!”
>
Captain Ursha of the 167th Guards Rifles was riding in the locomotive, enjoying the warmth generated by the boiler’s fire, when the world in front of the train went from black to yellow in an instant.
His warning was unnecessary, as the residual fire illuminated the fact that the track had been destroyed by the impact of the aircraft.
The driver had reacted swiftly and the screech of metal was already piercing and uncomfortable. Reversing the wheels’ direction gave slightly more purchase, but Ursha knew they would not stop in time.
The TY2 locomotive almost made it, but ran into the section where the rails parted, smashing sleepers and carving lines in the ground underneath.
The fireman screamed as the engine canted wildly to the left, his body catapulted into one of the protruding brass control wheels, leaving him bleeding and scared.
The lean increased as the engine started to take the downbank leading to the adjacent road.
Some subterranean object proved a momentary obstruction, and the shudder was sufficient to loosen Ursha’s grip and he dangled precariously from the side entranceway, his left arm flailing in an effort to grab something solid.
The TY2 came to a reluctant halt, canted over to more than 45˚. The driver fought his way back to the controls and did what needed to be done, all the time conscious of his bleeding companion.
Dangling from the side of the engine, Ursha looked beneath his feet and realised that he was no more than three feet from the road, so let go and dropped onto the hard surface, the snap of his ankle lost in the shouts and orders as officers and NCOs took command of the situation.
Lying on the cold road, Ursha composed himself and accepted the pain, as he brought his heart rate down and made an appreciation of the situation, taking in the surroundings, illuminated by numerous fires of what was definitely a crashed aircraft.
Along the length of the train, soldiers were deploying in a professional manner, and Ursha felt his chest swell with pride, as his boys responded well to the unexpected disaster.
