by Colin Gee
They both laughed the laugh of the ‘slightly mad but getting decidedly madder’, and the conversation started to flow as each man set aside thoughts of who might come into the hole first and concentrated on staying awake as the soporific effect of their wounds started to kick in.
They laughed at each other, grew angry with each other, shared each other’s histories, and shared pictures of loved ones, and in Nazarbayev’s case, lost ones.
As both men started to drift into unconsciousness, Nazarbayev found the energy to dispute the war in its entirety.
“Well we didn’t start this latest fucking mess, Comrade!”
Czernin coughed his way through a rib-provoking bout caused by the second cigarette.
“I fucking know that, Kapitan.”
Nazarbayev, slowly being carried away on a fuzzy white cloud of blood loss and exhaustion, managed to speak one last time.
“So who fucking did then, Starshina?”
Czernin coughed his way to the edge of unconsciousness as Nazarbayev made the journey first, although the last vestiges of his conscious mind caught Czernin’s reply.
‘… We did…’
1722 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, ad hoc medical facility, Seilunai, Lithuania.
Nazarbayev opened his eyes against his better judgement as his head pounded like there were blacksmiths at work in every corner.
‘Mudaks!’
He rolled to one side and deposited everything he had in his stomach into a conveniently placed enamel bowl.
His stomach convulsions brought pain from every part of his body and he fell back exhausted and drained by his efforts.
His heart sank as he saw a Polish medical orderly walk past with an armful of bloody bandages.
‘I’m a prisoner!’
“Welcome back to us, Comrade Kapitan.”
He focussed on the man in front of him, a lieutenant of the Red Army medical corps.
“Leytenant? What is this place?”
“Temporary hospital, Comrade Kapitan. We’ll have you away to clean sheets in Moscow soon enough.”
“But the Pole?”
“He’ll live. Comrade Kapitan. Just about, anyway. Not the first time he’s seen the inside of a field hospital, but I think it’ll be his last. No more soldiering for him.”
“No… the Pole… the orderly?”
“Ah, you mean Jan… he was captured earlier. He’s helping out here. Good man he is, Comrade Kapitan. Now, please drink.”
The medical officer held out a cup of water for Nazarbayev to sip.
He did, and immediately hung himself over the side of the bed to bring it back up again.
“You must drink, Comrade Kapitan. It’s very important. The sickness will go. Please?”
“The battle?”
“We won… or at least… we stopped them. Hard to think of it as winning, Comrade Kapitan.”
“My men?”
“Mostly still in and around Seirijai, less those that are here… or no longer with us.”
“How many?”
“Short answer is that I don’t know, Comrade Kapitan. What I do know is that I haven’t seen a butcher’s yard like this since Berlin, and that’s a fact. Now drink.”
The effort of a third bout of vomiting drained him so much that he fell back into a deep sleep, assisted by opiates administered by one of the nurses, his mind conjuring up the faces of his men as he slept and recovered…
…Huninin…
…Zvorykin…
…Hubertus…
…Popov…
…Senis Nosis…
…Palenkov…
…Obdurov…
…We did…
1844 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, RAF Photo Interpretation Room, Bautzen Airfield, Germany.
“Yes… yes, I do see what you mean, Sperry.”
The Squadron leader in charge of the section screwed up his eyes and counted the tanks… possible tanks, he corrected himself…
The track marks weren’t there, but then they rarely were, even nowadays, so good were the Soviets at hiding things.
But they had not got it all right, which was why Ruby Sperry had called him over to look at the product of a Spitfire recon mission over Lithuania.
“Right ho, Sperry. I’ll bump this up with my recommendation. I endorse your view that the Degimas woods contain the best part of a Soviet tank regiment. Well done, Sperry. Now go and get yourself a cuppa, take five minutes, and then start on the yield from the Poles’ mosquito please.”
Ruby Sperry enjoyed her tea and cigarette, knowing she had done her job well and that her efforts would soon see a complete tank regiment transformed into scrap.
There are things in Russia which are not as they seem.
Georgy Zhukov.
Chapter 197 - THE REVELATIONS
1130 hrs, Wednesday, 26th March 1947, Degimas Woods, Lithuania.
“There’s no way… simply no way out at all.”
“Damn. So we must sit tight… nothing more to it than that. Just hope that the bastards’ll go away soon.”
The partisan leadership nodded at the SAS officer’s summary of choices available.
Licking their wounds in a well-established underground camp deep in the Degimas Woods, the partisans of the ‘Shield of St Michael’ were surprised and not a little unnerved to learn that a Soviet armoured regiment had also joined them under the deep canopy of leaves.
None the less, they were confident that they would not be discovered; the NKVD had swept the area three times previously without finding any clue as to their presence.
The entrance to their site was a natural hole, no more than two metres wide, hidden in between the trunks of five trees, leading to a single large cave in which the entire group could hide.
The entrance was covered over with a simple lattice of stout wood overlaid with earth and the normal detritus of the forest floor.
Even those who knew it was there often failed to see it until the cover was moved.
Water was in abundant supply, the small pool in the centre of the curved floor constantly fed from a nearby stream: fresh, cold, and plentiful.
It was food that they needed, as the last of their personal rations had been consumed the previous evening, the main supplies being some four kilometres away, guarded by a few of the less able partisans.
“Fuck it then. Set guards. Let’s get some rest, eh?”
Bottomley looked at the two haggard faces in front of him.
“You two grab some kip first then. I’m good for now.”
The two partisan leaders didn’t bother complaining or remonstrating, and both were asleep within a minute.
Pyragius and Mikenas were awoken from their slumber by urgent hissing from the duty guards, and then other sounds rapidly became discernible.
“Air raid!”
Bottomley was organising the movement of people away from the cave entrance, quite wisely, seeing it as the only place where casualties were likely, although more than one of those present glanced earnestly at the stone roof and wondered… or prayed… or both.
The tremors started as bombs fell upon the woods, seeking out the Soviet tank regiment that had been identified as lurking under its green leaves.
Occasionally the odd piece of stone was dislodged and came tumbling down amongst the sheltering partisans, but nothing to cause them real consternation.
Above them, thirteen Lincoln I bombers of 57 Squadron RAF brought fourteen thousand pounds of bombs each to drop on the tank regiment.
The woods were smashed apart by high explosive, as were men, tanks, and all the supporting vehicles that went with half a Guards tank regiment.
Men were killed a dozen times over as their lifeless bodies were picked up and thrown in diverse directions, as dictated by the accurate arrival of five hundred and thousand pound bombs. Tanks weighing many tons were simply swatted aside by the sheer force of so much power.
252nd Guards Heavy Tank Regiment had never seen action, being a new
force formed from men drawn from elite units and fleshed out with new recruits.
Part of the regiment was elsewhere and preserved from the destruction, similarly concealed in woods just over a kilometre away, north of Gudžiūnai.
The heavy IS-IIIs and IS-IVs were mostly wrecked beyond use or recovery, and not a single tank from thirty-three escaped damage or was still operational by the time that 57 Squadron turned for home.
The personnel suffered hideous casualties and no single tank or vehicle crew was intact when roll call was taken.
Of the support services, there was simply nothing left, save a few wide-eyed men and women whose total mental breakdown probably meant that their soldiering days were over.
As far as the eye could see, the trees had been stripped or felled, the remains of some decorated with the remains of men, or of vehicles.
One sight drew a number of eyes.
A Gaz tanker lorry had been picked up by the incredible forces and deposited in the middle of a stand of five trees, its tyres pointed to the skies, the fuel load leaking and feeding a raging fire underneath, one that consumed the very trees that held it proud of Mother Earth, where it sat like a kettle above a fire.
Beneath it, the burning fuel had flowed into the cave.
Those who died due to asphyxiation were spared a far crueller death.
The Shield of St. Michael was no more.
1617 hrs, Wednesday, 26th March 1947, Timi Woods Camp, Paphos, Cyprus.
To avoid the organised mayhem surrounding the presence of so many VIPs, Crisp had taken his leadership group off for a stroll on the beach and a private discussion in the cool shadows of the rocks.
They were well into a lively discussion when something distracted them.
“That sounds throaty.”
The officers screwed up their eyes, trying to make out the origin of the deep throb that had started to worm its way into their senses.
“Definitely over there somewhere.”
Hässler pointed in roughly the direction he figured, and many eyes strayed to check his guess.
Nothing.
Bluebear had his eyes closed from the moment he heard the approaching beast, concentrating in the way of his ancestors, absorbing every detail as he occasionally moved his head in fine adjustment.
Crisp shook his head.
“Nah… it’s more over there, whatever it is.”
Again they followed his lead but there was no reward, save an empty blue sky.
Bluebear opened his eyes and smiled.
“It is there.”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, Colonel…it is there.”
Bluebear pointed at sea level and all eyes followed the motion.
And it was… whatever it was.
Coming in low, the aircraft was just visible in the haze.
It grew… and grew… and grew.
“What the fuck’s that?”
There were no suggestions.
Hassler repeated himself.
“What the fuck is that?”
Crisp understood, although he couldn’t offer an accurate response.
“That, gentlemen, is our ride. Guarantee it. Green paint and red paint, remember?”
The ferrets had discovered a large supply of military green paint, with some smaller cans of red, plus stencils.
“Now we know. Whatever that is, we’ll be getting intimately acquainted with it, and it’ll be painted green, that’s for goddamned sure!”
They watched as the aircraft continued to grow larger and larger and finally as it lined up for its landing on the pond-like waters off Paphos air base.
The Spruce Goose touched down and taxied to the long jetty, upon which stood USMC Brigadier General Sam Rossiter of the OSS, Major General William Donovan, the head of OSS, Major General Sir Colin Gubbins, head of SOE, Rear Admiral Sir Roger Dalziel, BNI, and one other, to whom they all deferred.
Despite being fully briefed, the size of the aircraft still took all of them by surprise, even Sam Rossiter who had actually been inside it before.
Assisted by launches, the massive flying boat was manoeuvred into position and secured.
Still the party stood impassively on the jetty, the entourage waiting for some sort of signal or movement from the man who stood as still as a rock, his eyes taking in every detail of the massive aircraft.
Howard Hughes alighted and took a short but seemingly precarious walk along a small wooden walkway that had been made to precise specifications, specifications that proved to be about two foot short of ideal.
He noticed the welcome party, as if for the first time, and walked up extending his hand to grasp the one held out to him.
“Mr Hughes. Welcome. We meet again, Sir.”
“Indeed we do, Prime Minister.
“An impressive beast I must say.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister… and she’ll be up to the job, whatever it is.”
“I hope so, Howard, I really do hope so. Come… let us get you into some semblance of order before dinner. You go on ahead now. I’ll be along directly.”
They shook hands again and Hughes slipped in beside Rossiter at strode off at pace, keen to get the circulation back into his aching limbs.
Donovan edged closer to Churchill.
“I had no idea you’d met Mr Hughes before, Prime Minister.”
“Just the once, General Donovan. Hearst Castle in San Simeon… 1929 it was… he was only a young man then, but still… he had the air of eccentricity… a hint of the ‘devil may care’ about him even then.”
Donovan laughed.
“That’ll come in very handy where he’s going, Prime Minister.”
“Alas, you are right. Let us hope he has luck in abundance too.”
0900 hrs, Thursday, 27th March 1947, Paphos Airfield, Cyprus.
The silence was oppressive.
Rows of soldiers smartly at ease, arranged by company, their different uniforms now disappeared in favour of an identical bland battledress, no matter what the soldier’s origin or unit.
By far the largest group on parade came from Group Steel, now known as the 1st Special Service Force, a name previously used by a joint US-Canadian commando force, the famous Devil’s Brigade.
The reasoning behind employing the old name was simply that if it became known, then the Soviets would have heard of it before and be less likely to become overly inquisitive.
The Ukrainians of the SOE’s Special Action Group was now officially part of the same unit, making up a fifth company, Victor, to add to Whiskey, X-Ray, Yankee, and Zebra companies of the original Steel group, the former having been transported in only two days beforehand.
Each of the original companies had one hundred and forty men, plus Crisp’s headquarters added a further eighty-five.
With Shandruk’s Ukrainian troopers, the old runway was home for seven hundred and nine men.
Ferdinand Sunday’s voice rang out, bringing every man to a state of readiness for his parade orders.
“Parade… parade… atten-shun!”
As one the men responded, and the differences declared themselves immediately, the attention position for the Ukrainians being wholly different to those of the US soldiers.
The two jeeps drew up and the man that every eye concentrated upon stepped out at a lively pace and mounted the small dais.
Churchill nodded to the immaculate RSM.
“Parade… parade… stand at…ease!”
The feet shot out again and the men prepared for the expected pep-talk.
“Sergeant-Major… have the men gather round, if you please.”
Sunday, taken aback for the merest of moments, saluted the British Prime Minister and brought himself back to the attention.
“Parade… parade… stand easy… gather round… at the double!”
The rigid ranks broke immediately and there was almost a race to be at the front of the group.
“Settle down now! Settle down, you bunch of bast… you lot!”
Churchill grinned.
“Thank you, Sergeant Major. Can you hear me at the back there, men?”
Those furthest back chorused their replies, even the Ukrainians who didn’t understand what he had said and were just following the actions of others.
“Excellent… now, Gentlemen, I know that all of you are wondering what you are doing here on this lovely island. Well, I can answer your question directly, right now.”
He sought eye contact with as many of his audience as possible, sharing a smile or a nod of encouragement with those he was about to order into battle.
“You will shortly be asked to undertake a mission… possibly the single most important mission in the history of warfare… a mission that will bring great dangers… great risks to you all.”
That got their attention.
“Men, the mission will require travel to a place where the enemy is developing weapons similar to those dropped on Japan, the atomic weapons that ended the resistance of the Empire of Japan.”
Immediately, most men grasped the singular importance of the mission.
“We simply cannot tolerate the enemy having these weapons, and we must remove and destroy them in their entirety. Our own use has been controlled, and designed to end conflict, whereas there can be little doubt, following their recent dastardly attack on our forces, that they would intend to employ them to cause the maximum possible damage to the Allied cause.”
Some understood the necessary bullshit that Churchill had just presented.
“The communist foe has other weapons in its arsenal, and we have already experienced their dastardly employment on the battlefields of Europe. We will deal with that awfulness as best we can, and I can tell you that our navies have already successfully prevented a full scale biological attack on the European mainland.”
“We have thus far been lucky, but the threat posed by their atomic programme cannot be underestimated, and it falls to you to be asked to risk everything to save lives in their countless thousands.”
