by Colin Gee
“What do you want of me, Reinhard?”
“Do you have anyone in our government who might be able to establish what the hell is going on?”
That was both a huge admission from the Abwehr chief, and a considerable declaration of his own impotence.
“I’ll do all I can to find out for you, Reinhard.”
“Thank you, Kenneth. Thank you so very much.”
History is a lesson for the future based the resolutions of the past.
Marion J. Crisp.
Chapter 177 - THE CRATES
1101 hrs, Sunday, 13th October 1946, Schlosshotel Kronberg, Kronberg im Taunus, Frankfurt, Germany.
“Son of a bitch!”
Bradley looked on with a straight face, determining to say nothing and immediately failing.
“Amphibious operations were once your speciality, Ike.”
Eisenhower shot his friend a murderous look.
“Seem to remember that I sent you into the water. You fancy a repeat, Brad?
“No, Sir, no way, no how.”
Eisenhower’s fury had been put on, for the most part anyway, and he selected another tee and placed a ball on it.
“One more word out of you and I may fill the liaison vacancy in Finland with some well-known Missourian who just happens to look just like you. Kapische?”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
The two laughed and then fell silent as Ike addressed the ball.
The whoosh and crisp click of the club indicated a drive straight down the fairway, and not, as previously, the dreaded tell-tale of a pulled stroke that was condemned to fall into the nearby lake.
“Nice work for an old guy.”
The drive had been ruler straight and would have graced a professional tournament.
“Three years older, that’s all I am… technically two and a half years. Desist, General!”
They laughed as they strolled forward enjoying the warm October sun, their casual relationship on the course as different as chalk to cheese to their formal military relationship.
“101st and 17th Airbornes have been relieved by 82nd finally, Ike. Few stopovers, mainly officers to help ease the new boys in some, but the Eagles are pretty much all on the way back home.”
“God knows they earned it, Brad.”
“Sure did. How’s the 17th Armored settling in? There’s a lot of anxious officers ringing my staff every day.”
Bradley was looking at his ball as he walked forward, and judged a wedge to be most appropriate.
“Well, from the last report, there’s next to nothing left to do. Divisional command is up at the front, getting familiar with their area of responsibility and tapping into the neighbours. Best guess is Wednesday, Ike.”
“Outstanding. That’ll make a lot of boys very happy. The armored boys all wanna be home for Christmas. Also, it’ll reduce our logistics some.”
Bradley went to address his ball but stopped himself, instead leaning back on the club as a support.
“Tell you something though, Ike. It’s not just the refugees who are causing us logistical problems, although that particular nightmare doesn’t go get any better. It’s the Germans. Krauts are chewing up a lot of supplies. Seems like they have a live-fire drill, manoeuvre exercise, or some sort of complicated training almost every day.”
“They’re efficient and want to keep up their skills obviously. You know Guderian, Brad.”
“Yeah, I know, Ike… but them and the Poles are almost living for it. One of my staff discovered they’re working side by side constantly, living and training in the field for days on end.”
“Yeah, I heard summat about that. Old enemies seem to have suddenly found some common ground, eh?”
“You mean a common enemy doth unite?”
“Something like that. You gonna hit that damn thing or am I going to die of old age?”
“Well, now that you mention age…”
“As you were, General!”
They laughed easily.
“Seriously though, those boys are certainly going to be well-prepared and fighting fit if things start up again… heaven forbid!”
“Amen to that, Brad. Like I said, they’re a warrior people, and if they’re ready and willing if the whole mess starts up again, then I, for one, will be grateful of their skills. Now... any chance, General?”
“Move on, old timer.”
Eisenhower walked on a little way and turned just in time to see Bradley perform a beautiful chip.
Both pairs of eyes followed the ball up and down.
“Go on! Yes… yes… go on… hallelujah!”
“You gotta be kidding me!”
Bradley trotted past on his way to retrieve the ball from the cup.
“Make way, old timer… it’s a young man’s game, you know.”
Eisenhower chuckled as he lined up his own riposte.
“I reckon it’d be wise to start learning Finnish, General Bradley. Soon as I get back, I’m cutting your orders!”
Bradley’s reply was lost in the click of Eisenhower’s own chip to the green and the exasperation that immediately followed it flying well past the cup.
“Son of a bitch!”
1312 hrs, Tuesday, 22nd October 1946, Stakhanovo Airfield, USSR.
Sacha Istomin heaved a sigh of relief.
Out of his left-hand windows he watched as the fire crews extinguished the fire in the port outboard engine, whilst his co-pilot watched the same process being conducted on the starboard outboard engine.
“Navigator to pilot. Crew all out. I’m the last one aboard. Leaving now.”
Istomin had ordered his men out as soon as the aircraft came to a halt, and they had obliged at record speed, as no one likes to be in a burning aircraft at any time.
“Come on, Leonid! Let’s get the fuck out of here! Raus, raus!”
Bolkovsky, the experienced co-pilot permitted himself to be chivvied along by the commander of 901st Independent Special Aviation Regiment, the Red Air Force’s special operations bomber squadron.
Both men dropped onto the foamy tarmac one after the other.
Two firefighters dashed forward and pulled the men clear in dramatic fashion, clearly keen to demonstrate their professionalism to the regimental commander.
Istomin was much more interested in the damage to his aircraft, and the damage to future missions that went hand in hand with further problems with the huge bomber.
As if to taunt him, the wreckage of one of his American aircraft lay in direct line of sight, his eyes flicking from the ruined port outer to the charred wreckage of the‘General H.H. Arnold Special’,one of the three B-29s with which he had started the 901st.
The accident had claimed six of his men, as well as writing off the valuable aircraft.
The other aircraft of the original group was ‘Ding Hao’, which along with the recovered pieces of another B-29, ‘Cait Paomat’, which had been salvaged from a crash site in the Sikhote-Alin mountain range, had contributed knowledge to the Soviet Union’s aircraft designers.
They then faithfully reverse-engineered the aircraft and subsequently placed in the Red Air Force’s hands the new Tu-4, a virtually identical copy of the B-29, but one that didn’t suffer from engine problems quite like the R-3350 Wright Cyclones did, but was slightly inferior in speed performance and with considerably less range and bomb load, for reasons no one quite understood. This was offset by greater reliability in the engines, a higher ceiling, and much greater firepower in its defensive armament.
Istomin turned to examine the starboard engine and took time to look beyond where, lined up on the far side of the airfield, were eleven of the brand new Tupolev aircraft, all under his command.
His train of thought was interrupted by Pranic, the base engineering officer, who seemingly prepared to deliver his normal ‘how the fuck was he supposed to keep the fucking Amerikanski bombers flying with no spare parts’ monologue.
“Comrade Polkovnik. I’m glad you are safe.”
Pranic, unusually, waved his hand dismissively at the smoking aircraft.
“Provided the surfaces and mounts are undamaged, the engines won’t be a problem, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Bolkovsky and Istomin both looked in astonishment at the dour officer, who normally only had death to look forward to.
Pranic understood their expressions and smiled warmly.
“Comrades, our friends in the NKVD have been successful in obtaining some replacement engines… apparently from China. I have seven such engines en route… all new, still in their shipping crates. Should be here in four hours.”
Istomin slapped the man on the shoulder and laughed in triumph.
“Excellent, Comrade Mayor of Engineering. I hope to be ready for a test flight by 1400 tomorrow.”
The smile departed from Ivan Pranic’s face and he returned to his normal self.
“I’ll report to you on my findings as soon as it’s cooled down enough to examine, Comrade Polkovnik.”
”Excellent, excellent. I’ll be in the mess sampling some vodka with my valiant co-pilot. Keep me informed, Comrade.”
The group parted with salutes typical of air force personnel the world over.
A small GAZ jeep slipped alongside the two pilots. They dropped into it with practised ease, and sped off towards the distant buildings.
2103 hrs, Tuesday, 29th October 1946, Vinogradar Young Communists Sailing Club, Black Sea, USSR.
Nobukiyo clicked the stopwatch and grunted with satisfaction.
He said nothing and simply showed the watch to the Soviet officer alongside him.
They shared a smile.
“Congratulations, Comrade Commander. The best time yet.”
Nobukiyo had been mercilessly drilling his hangar and deck crews for over a month, devising new routines, improving on existing practices, all with the target of ensuring that his beloved submarine was exposed on the surface for as little time as possible.
Recently promoted to Captain First Rank, a decision made by the High Command once they discovered Nobukiyo’s status, Mikhail Kalinin was extremely satisfied that, when… more like if… the mission was given the go ahead, the Japanese submariners were more than up to the task.
“So, are you calling a halt for tonight, Comrade Commander?”
Nobukiyo grinned without a hint of mercy and compassion.
“One more time, I think.”
Kalinin had expected no less.
“FUTATABI, JINYO!”
The shout carried across the secret base, loud enough to be heard by the furthest sailor, and the collective groan of men who had hoped for respite was equally loud.
Officers and NCOs chivvied their sections into order and the task of extracting and erecting a V-2 on the Sen-Toku’s deck began once more.
1100 hrs, Wednesday, 30th October, 1946, Camp Steel, on the Meer van Echternach, Luxembourg.
Camp Rose had long gone, the lack of casualties meaning that the hospital, so long an excellent cover for the goings-on at Camp Steel, no longer embraced and protected the secret base.
The previous commander had created a small ‘supply depot’ to explain the presence of armed soldiers in the woods, but the tarpaulins merely covered empty crates and oil drums, the whole ‘depot’ nothing but a charade for the benefit of the nosier locals.
Zebra Company were presently responsible for manning the gate and general camp security, and were therefore first to discover that the times were changing.
The previous CO had been invalided out, having broken both femurs and shattered his pelvis in a failed practice jump, his partially-opened parachute doing enough to spare his life, but virtually ending it in the same act, as the idea of being in a wheelchair for the rest of his life was as close to death as Colonel Steel could be and still draw breath.
The new CO arrived unannounced in the middle of an inspection by Zebra Company’s Executive Officer, accompanied by one of the unit’s senior NCOs.
“Well that’s just swell! OK, boys… fall in… fall in…”, the first lieutenant encouraged the guard detail into some sort of order whilst his sidekick moved to the gate to back up the young corporal who was in charge.
“Steady on there, Buck. This looks like a man who knows his business.”
The corporal grunted in reply and waited as the jeep slowly came to a halt in front of the pole barrier.
He grunted again as he checked that the .30cal was manned and trained on the jeep by two business-like soldiers.
Rosenberg eased his Thompson a little and resisted the temptation to accompany Buck Polson to the jeep.
He sensed Hässler arrive by his side.
“So this is the new boss… looks like a vet. Catch his name yet?”
“Nope. Figured I’d go by the book and let Buck handle it.”
“Good call.”
The corporal stepped back from the jeep and saluted, the officer in question sending one back in smart but brief fashion.
He stepped out of the jeep and straightened himself and his uniform out.
The full colonel bore ribbons that indicated he was no desk soldier, and had spent a lot of time at the sharp end with a gun in his hand.
Both Hässler and Rosenberg examined the minutiae of his awards before they realised that the details were becoming clearer, for no other reason than the colonel was moving towards them.
They both saluted.
“Sir, First Lieutenant Hässler, Executive Officer, Zebra Company, on guard post inspection, Sir.”
“Sir, First Sergeant Rosenberg, Zebra Company, on guard post inspection, Sir.”
“Thank you. Is everything in order?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
The stereo effect of their replies brought a smile to the senior officer’s face.
He had sought a new command and always been turned down for reasons that no one in authority satisfactorily explained. He had been given this opportunity solely because his predecessor had nearly killed himself in training.
It was great to be back amongst proper soldiers.
As the two men wore solely rank markings, he had no idea that the NCO in front of him was the holder of a DSC and Silver Star plus change, and that the officer held the same honours.
But he did know that they were veteran soldiers, and he felt home again.
For their part, any officer who sported the evidence of a Bronze Star, two Silver Stars, and two DSCs was clearly a competent man with experience of being in harm’s way. He was also airborne, which also counted for a lot.
The Colonel turned to the Corporal of the guard.
“Please inform the camp duty officer that I’ve arrived...”
He swivelled back to the two friends in an easy movement.
“… and if you two’ve finished your inspection, you could walk me round the perimeter of the camp.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
And so it was that Colonel Marion Crisp assumed command of Group Steel.
A command that would provide him with his finest and most tragic hours.
1409 hrs, Thursday 31st October 1946, Makaryev Monastery, Lyskovsky, USSR.
“Allow me to show you to the Comrade Polkovnik’s room, Comrade Marshal.”
The senior nurse stepped aside as the doctor led Marshal Bagramyan and his entourage into the monastery.
Along the way, Bagramyan was feted and saluted, made the subject of squeals of joy and adoration, and offered many a disfigured hand to shake. He had always been popular, and Lyskovsky was not normally on the agenda for Army Marshals to visit, probably because of the horrors it held.
“This is his room, Comrade Marshal. Would you lik…”
“Thank you, Comrade Polkovnik. You may return to your patients.”
The flustered doctor saluted and went on his way, upset that he was not going to be privy to whatever had brought Bagramyan to the door of that pa
rticular man.
Behind him he heard authoritative knocking, such as might be made by an extremely senior rank on a door that would normally have been opened for him.
From within came a gruff invitation and Bagramyan strode in to find the object of his visit standing in front of a full length mirror, fiddling with his tunic buttons.
The fiddling stopped immediately, to be replaced by a twitchy nervousness as the Colonel of Tanks tried to decide whether he was dressed to salute, should throw himself on the floor in a position of supplication, or simply stand erect and see what happened next.
“Polkovnik Yarishlov?”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Polkovnik Arkady Arkadyevich Yarishlov, 1st Guards Rifle Division.”
Yarishlov went for the salute and was delighted that the normal pains associated with moving his arm in the officer’s tunic were less than normal, and without his normal lunchtime pain killers too.
Bagramyan had seen a picture of the man in his file, and had also been warned that the burning tank had made certain ‘alterations’ to his appearance, but even then the foreshortened nose, curled lips, and hairless head, sans eyebrows et al, gave him a moment of horror.
Bagramyan moved forward and extended his hand, something that caught Arkady off guard.
The Marshal’s grip was firm and caused him a little discomfort, but Yarishlov kept his face straight, declining to show any reaction.
“How may I assist the Comrade Marshal?”
Yarishlov resumed the attention position and was amazed that Bagramyan moved forward, pulled a chair out from under the modest table, and expected Yarishlov to sit on it.
“Please, Comrade Yarishlov. Sit.”
One of Bagramyan’s aides appeared with a slightly plusher chair for his commander.
The two suddenly found themselves alone.
“So, Comrade Yarishlov, how are your wounds now? I understand that you’ve made excellent progress.”
“Thank you, Sir. I confess, from the position they expected to what I have now, then I have come much further than the experts or myself anticipated. There’s further to go, of course, but I would welcome the opportunity to serve the Rodina once more.”
