by Colin Gee
He allowed them a moment to orient themselves.
“The Red Cross were visiting a large camp in the area… and flew back from this airfield here… a mile northeast of Akhtubinsk.”
“The camp they were visiting is here,” he circled a highlighted area between a village and the banks of the Volga.
Rossiter’s eyes smiled in anticipation.
“This village is named Uspenka.”
‘Bingo!’
“That’s it?”
“Yes, Sir, Admiral. That is the place.”
“The prison camp is a sham?”
“No Sir, we actually think not. The Red Cross report from a subsequent visit detailed prisoner numbers, condition, facilities et cetera… it’s kosher. We’ve only got one set of photographs and they were taken during the camp’s construction. I believe we need proper interpretation of these photos, and more ordered a-sap, Admiral.”
Dalziel knew just whom he would call on and he sought Rossiter’s agreement, which was given without words.
The US Brigadier General had also immediately thought of Jenkins and her quiet sergeant.
Their attention had wandered for a moment, something that Cortez had spotted, so he patiently waited for them to refocus on the matter in hand.
“Here we have a tank training facility. We’ve information from our former association that it’s a long-standing camp… in fact there’s a possibility that some Allied officers visited in 1944… we’re on that right now… but there was recently a sniff that it was upgraded as a battle-training camp for tankers and armored infantry.”
The pointer covered the distance from the Nizhniy Baskunchak training camp to Uspenka.
“Around forty miles, which at first sight put it well out of the way but…”
The pointer returned to the middle ground.
“This is where many of the exercises take place, which would make Soviet tanks and armored infantry less than an hour’s hard drive from the Camp… which, by the way, we know is called Camp 1001.”
Cortez continued filling in details on what was known, more to the point, what wasn’t known about Camp 1001 and the area surrounding it.
Rossiter leant across to Dalziel, who responded by coming closer.
“Red Cross have anything more on this, you reckon? Anything not in the report?”
“We can but ask, but we simply must not attract attention with our own attention. I’ll get word to our man immediately… see what he can tell us. 1001 doesn’t jump out at me, so I suspect it’s not on the radar for anything in particular. I’ll get my staff to look through the necessary and see what we can find. Suit you, Sam?”
By the end of the briefing, there were many theories about Camp 1001, all of which needed further investigation.
The following day, a deep penetration reconnaissance mission was devised, one that would conceal the precise point of investigation.
Target-Akhtubinsk.
The Russian town would be bombed, lives lost, both Soviet and Allied, planes shot down, buildings destroyed, all for the need to have one aircraft in the attack fly a course directly overhead of Camp 1001 and Uspenka, its precision cameras recording every single detail, despite the buzzing of enemy fighters around the box of bombers desperately fighting their way home.
1127 hrs, Friday, 21st March 1947, Camp Steel, on the Meer van Echternach, Luxembourg.
“Sir, order, most immediate.”
Crisp was going over the figures given to him by Captain Bluebear, whose company had recently been on operational deployment and were pulled off the line shortly after the whole war kicked off again.
Whiskey Company were back there now and disengaging them was proving to be a major headache for Crisp and his staff.
He had only just flown back from Königsberg, where his units were allocated to the British. Each in turn rotating through their attachment to give them time in the line, and exposure to colder weather conditions.
He dropped the camp roster and picked up the new message.
“Oh shit. Thank you, Corporal.”
The messenger departed as Crisp picked up the telephone.
“Con, get yourself over here right now. We got orders to move.”
Marion Crisp chuckled.
“Yes… the whole shooting match. We’re upping sticks.”
He killed the connection and made another.
“Lieutenant Garrimore. I want all officers informed immediately. Orders Group at 1200 in lecture room three.”
Garrimore’s objection was silenced swiftly.
“I don’t care if they’re watching Steamboat Willie, just make that room available for twelve-hundred, Lieutenant. Thank you.”
Again he made another connection.
“RSM, can you step into my office now please. Thank you.”
Crisp had come to lean heavily on Ferdinand Sunday, the former Argyle and Sutherland highlander turned Royal Marine.
Only the night before, when he crashed into his pit exhausted by travel and meetings, he’d had a dream… no, a premonition… that he would need all his reliable men in the days to come.
That tingling chill revisited him as he waited for Sunday, and he was sure that it was an omen of bad things ahead.
1200 hrs, Friday, 21st March 1947, lecture room three, Camp Steel, on the Meer van Echternach, Luxembourg.
“Atten-shun!”
Sunday brought the assembly to their feet as Colonel Crisp and his 2IC, Major Constantine Galkin, strode purposefully into the packed room.
“At ease, boys. Light ‘em if you got ‘em.”
He waited whilst the packets rustled and lighters flicked before continuing.
“Boys, we’ve just received orders. The whole unit is on the move…”
The voices started up, some in excitement, some in trepidation, all in enquiry.
Galkin stepped forward.
“As you were, gentlemen!”
The noise went as quickly as it came.
“Thank you, Major… now… we’ll be flying outta Bitburg tomorrow morning. That means I want us ready to move at 0300, and I mean move everything that isn’t nailed down… and half of what is.”
The laughs were modest but unforced.
“Advance party will be led by Major Galkin. Order up is X-Ray, Yankee, and Zebra. My headquarters, except HQ platoon, will accompany Zebra. Between us we’ll hand over the camp to the oncoming unit… we don’t know who they are yet.”
He added as almost an afterthought.
“Whiskey won’t be in this move. No time to get ‘em out so they’re staying and we go light one company. That’s the way it is, boys.”
He stepped back and let Galkin take over and struck up a cigarette of his own.
“Ok boys, listen in. We leave nothing in stores or the armoury. Both loads‘ll accompany X-Ray to the field. Until we get a loading programme, that’ll mean we’ll have people on the ground with the kit until we all get away. RSM Sunday’ll be responsible for security on both counts, and he’ll support HQ platoon in keeping things tight.”
The Lieutenant in charge of HQ Platoon smiled at the RSM, who glared back, leaving the young officer in no doubt who was in charge of who.
“All vehicles will be left at Bitburg, signed over to the base security force… that’ll fall to Zebra to carry out.”
Bluebear nodded his understanding.
“All company officers are responsible for ensuring we leave no trace regarding our nature or purpose. I want us outta here with no one the wiser as to us being an elite bunch… leave it like we were lesser mortals from the infantry.”
“So we gotta crap in the sinks and hide the cutlery, Major?”
The laughter boomed out.
“Whatever floats your boat, Lieutenant Hässler!”
Crisp savoured the moment, enjoying the camaraderie of the elite soldiers.
“Any questions?”
The single question sprang from a dozen throats.
“Where we going, Sir?
”
Crisp moved forward.
“Leipzig.”
There was a gasp, partly of relief and partly of disappointment, and, as far as Crisp could make out, the latter held sway.
“And before you say any more, I know as much as you now do. But I tell you this, boys… we’re moving closer to Indian country and I’ve a feeling we’re going to be handed a beauty.”
He had been right and the wave of excitement washed up over him as men smiled and slapped a comrade’s shoulder.
“We’ve been training hard… winter… snow…RCLs… close combat… parachute… demolition… the whole kit and caboodle… so I don’t doubt that Uncle Sam’ll likely send us to the desert soon!”
He waited whilst they laughed at the standard army joke, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette with great care as he pulled his final words together.
“Ok now, boys. Listen in. Whatever we’re going forward to do will be important. We’re a special force, highly trained up to do our masters bidding, so it ain’t guarding supply dumps or bridges. It’ll be in harm’s way, that’s for sure, and I want us fully geared up for whatever is thrown at us. Keep on top of your men. They’re good men, but they are like coiled springs. Keep ‘em exercised and mean, but watch them like hawks. I don’t want anything happening along the way, particularly with the RAF boys at Bitburg.”
He specifically mentioned Bitburg, referring obliquely to an altercation that took place between men in Zebra Company and members of the RAF Regiment stationed at the nearby base.
Whilst he had issued punishments to those concerned, he had also secretly celebrated the fact that eleven of his men had kicked ass against over twice their number.
“Right. I want your briefings ready for me at eighteen hundred hours in this room. Make sure your non-coms are up to speed. No one leaves the camp from this moment without my or Major Galkin’s permission. Let’s get to it, gentlemen.”
“Atten-shun!”
Sunday called them to order.
Salutes were exchanged and the two senior men marched out of the room, leaving the excited officers to start hatching their plans.
1616 hrs, Sunday, 23rd March 1947, Allied Intelligence Special Operations Centre, die Hegerhaus, Horberg Masslau, Germany.
Rossiter had just finished receiving the latest information from Colonel Crisp, and he had to say that the man was everything he had heard him to be.
Not the brash airborne officer type that he had often met, but a quiet, unassuming man with a clear idea of how things were done, and an efficient manner and purpose when doing them.
But there was something else.
The man had the thousand yard stare common to men who had seen things that others would not believe, and experienced the very worst that war can provide, but there was also a something that Sam Rossiter had rarely seen in his service, a something that declared itself when he saw Crisp with his officers, with his NCOs, and with his men.
There was an admiration, a two-way thing going on, with the Colonel absolutely committed to his men, their welfare and well-being, and that being returned by men who clearly had faith in his ability, almost to the point of what seemed to Rossiter as a total blind obedience bordering on worship.
Despite the questions, Rossiter only told Crisp that they were preparing an intelligence folder on a possible target, a place that the paratrooper and his men might be dropped into to perform a number of vital tasks.
It was easy for Rossiter to stall Crisp, given that he had no idea what the mission would be, or indeed, whether there would even be one.
Much depended on the newly arrived team presently working on photo-recon evidence from the costly raid on Akhtubinsk.
Three Liberator aircraft had been lost from the RAF’s 70 Squadron, and two from 1 Squadron RAF, who flew thoroughbred Spitfire XXIs, plus a single accidental loss amongst the Thunderbolts of 261 Squadron RAF.
When Rossiter heard the losses from the raid he had set in motion, he closed his eyes and prayed that it would be worth it.
Time would tell.
‘Oh God… all those British boys lost… please let me be right… in heaven’s name ple…”
He jumped out of his skin as his silent prayers were interrupted by Cortez’s urgent knocking.
“Damn, but I nearly shit myself, Jed. I take it we’ve got something?”
Cortez was grinning from ear to ear and the excitement of the moment was clearly etched on his face.
“You betcha, General, Sir. She’s summat else, like you said. The Admiral’s all over her at the moment but she’s pulled something outta the bag that you need to see right away.”
Rossiter sprang from behind the desk and the two set off at slightly more than a canter, arriving at the entertainment hut, whose projector and blank walls were fully in use.
“Admiral.”
“General. I think you’ll be glad to hear that the mission has proven successful.”
He moved to follow Dalziel to a map of the prison camp, one drawn in the same style as Jenkins had drawn of the IRA camp at Glenlara what seemed a lifetime ago.
Photographs, some from a single shot camera, some selected and lifted from cine film, were strewn around the large table, each with a label and some connected to points on the drawing by pins and cotton.
“What do you have for me, Flight Officer Jenkins?”
“Proof that you’re right, Sir… or at least that the camp holds secrets.”
“Show me.”
The attack had been sent in as early as possible in the morning, and arrived at just after 0900 hrs. Part of the reasoning for this was to give the interpreters shadows to play with. The angle of the sun meant that shadows could reveal things that otherwise might be hidden.
As in many things, timing was everything, and the photos revealed groups of men clearly being herded by others, an extensive prison camp laid out neatly, with row after row of wooden huts surrounded by security fences, towers, and likely more.
The new imaging cameras were state of the art, and their pictures, aided by precision German lenses, were beyond anything that Rossiter or even Dalziel had ever seen.
“Here, Sir.”
The projector threw up a picture that showed a close-up of the camp’s northern edge.
“What am I looking at, Flight Officer?”
“This line here, Sir. It’s wire, complete with towers and mines.”
“Mines?”
“Most certainly. Because it’s sandy and quite windy, you can clearly see the bumps where the wind has blown away the surface… here… here… here… he…”
“Yes, I get your point, thank you. It’s a camp though. Wire is to be expected surely?”
He offered his comment without sarcasm, as he knew the woman was a magician in her field.
“Yes indeed, General. But the point is, it’s here… here… and here… but it’s not here… at least not inward facing like the camp system clearly is… or more exactly inward and outward. This area here is only facing outward.”
He peered and sort of understood what Jenkins was driving at.
“All the way to the river… the wire faces outwards only. See here… the track marks… these lorries,” she handed over a separate photo that showed vehicles arriving at the prison camp, “They don’t stay in the camp… I’m sure of it… they go through the camp and into this area… with only outward facing security. On the riverside there are established posts… you can see them quite clearly here and here… all along the waterfront… I estimate no more than twenty yards apart… backed up by larger bunkers set back and higher up… here and along this line, General.”
He looked and saw, although not with the same clarity and assurance that Jenkins clearly did.
The silent Flight Sergeant who was her constant assistant moved with controlled excitement and shoved a picture under Jenkins’ nose.
In the way of specialists all the world over, Jenkins immediately ignored the senior ranks and moved away to
a separate table.
Something resembling a pow-wow with her NCO and another bespectacled youth ensued, the latter speaking excitedly as he had clearly found something of great import.
Jenkins patted the man’s back in delight and returned, holding the photograph.
“General. We have your answer. There’s a lot more work to do, but I can definitely tell you that all’s not what it seems here.”
She laid the photograph on the projector slab and examined the larger display, smiling with insider knowledge.
“What am I looking at, Flight Officer?”
“Corporal Gentle has found something outside the camp… or rather, that appears outside the camp, but isn’t.”
She moved towards the image, her shadow cutting out part and focussing the two senior men’s eyes on the section that was still brightly displayed.
“Here. This seems to be outside the camp, but it isn’t. There’s a fence, but it’s not an ordinary one.”
Dalziel got as close as he could but failed to spot the things that had caught gentle’s eye.
“Here, Sir… that’s a pack of wolves heading away… here are men… probably security… here is a dead wolf… and here’s another… it’s still smoking if you look closely.”
“Electric fencing? What on earth for? That’s a long way away from the camp.”
“For this.”
She highlighted a dark ‘L’ shape that was set inside the now clearly discernible electric fence.
“Shadow… that’s a structure. It’s square and probably something like thirty yards each side and approaching seven yards high.”
“What the deuce?”
“And there’s more, Sir.”
She nodded to her NCO who took a photo from under Gentle’s nose and brought it to his officer.
“Can I cut these, Flight?”
He nodded and even provided the scissors.
Jenkins laid the two halves side by side, one photo taken a few hours beforehand, the other back when the camp was being constructed.
