by Colin Gee
The cheering started from a few throats and soon spread to many.
Churchill set his jaw to prevent any emotion from making itself known, for he believed that many of the men stood in front of him on this warm morning would find eternal rest in the soil of Russia.
As the noise started to subside, he removed his hat and fiddled with the brim as he composed his next words carefully.
“Men, I am compelled to be as honest as I can be, for it is only right that you hear this from my lips, and know that I speak on behalf of President Truman as well.”
A hush fell upon the assembly as the man’s genuine honesty and passion was made apparent by the anguish on his face and in his words.
“This is not a question of ‘you will go’, but one of you being asked to volunteer. No man will be forced, required, ordered… anyone who undertakes this vital mission will have chosen to go of their own free will. There will be no stigma for those who choose to remain… but I ask you… no… I implore you all to think about this and decide to volunteer because you… as I do… believe it is the right thing to do.”
“Soldiers of 1st Special Service Force, understand this. We believe… I believe earnestly that this is the way… the only way… to make you, your families, your loved ones, and those with whom you serve, safe for the future.”
Already, minds turned to the possibility of stepping aside and leaving their peers to take the strain.
The answer was pretty universal.
‘Not a chance.’
“But you must know… must surely understand… that the mission you will go on is difficult and hazardous… but you would not be asked to go were it not of vital importance to the future of the Allied nations… indeed, to the future of the world. I ask this of all of you that volunteer to rise to the challenges ahead and go forth to remove the enemy’s threat… their super weapon… and face the difficulties ahead together with the man stood beside you. I cannot tell you that this will end the war... neither can I tell you that it will bring the end nearer. What I can tell you is that it will ensure that the end of the war comes without the world having been transformed into a wasteland, and will ensure that our cause will triumph in the end. Thank you, gentlemen, and may God go with you all!”
The roar went up from hundreds of throats as men, inspired by Churchill’s rhetoric, committed themselves to the cause he championed.
Shandruk and Crisp had been stood in the second row back and, as if tied together like marionettes, they threw immaculate salutes towards the Prime Minister, and were immediately followed by the men under their command, a wave of arms offering the military honour to Churchill, who was clearly moved by the display.
He replaced his hat with studious care and return the salute briefly, before falling back on his famous V for Victory.
Sunday stood ramrod straight and barked his commands crisply.
“Parade… parade… fall… in!”
The men immediately rushed back to their previous position and arranged themselves in line.
Churchill, accompanied by Sam Rossiter, was introduced to Marion Crisp and Ostap Shandruk, the latter of which he had read about in files so secret that they would never ever see the light of day.
The two officers, with RSM Sunday bringing up the rear and throwing demonic looks at anyone who had a piece of uniform out of place, accompanied Churchill on an inspection of the troops, although none of the men carried any weapon save a sidearm.
The Prime Minister could not help himself but admire the immense presence of a Red Indian soldier the like of which he had rarely seen in all his days of military parades and demonstrations.
Such inspections were a common thing for Winston, but he could see that these men were special in every sense, even the ex-SS soldiers that he thought he should see in a different light for reasons he both understood and failed to comprehend.
He finished his inspection and shook the hands of all three men, much to Sunday’s discomfort.
“So, Colonel Crisp, assuming you yourself will go, how many of these fine men will follow you into Ragnarök?”
“Sir?”
“Ah, my apologies. Ragnarök is a mythical series of events that culminate in a terrible battle. How many will volunteer for this enterprise, do you think?”
Crisp smiled with twinkling eyes and turned to Ferdinand Sunday.
“Let’s ask them, Sir. Sergeant Major?”
Sunday nodded and came to full attention, before marching smartly around the assembly to take post at the front of the parade.
“Parade… parade, listen in! Parade… all those wishing to volunteer for the mission… on my command… one pace forward… parade…” he left his orders hanging whilst the customary translation was rapidly spoken for the Ukrainian contingent,”… Volunteers… by the left, one pace…march!”
Seven hundred and six pairs of feet took one smart pace forward and came back to attention with a crash of their right boot.
Churchill had his answer.
1300 hrs, Thursday, 27th March 1947, Timi Woods Camp, Paphos, Cyprus.
Churchill had left Cyprus at 1240 on the dot, having taken lunch with the leadership of the 1st SSF.
He had spent some considerable time handling the tomahawk and battle knife of Captain Charley Bluebear, and hearing of their history, both from olden times and more recently at Rottenberg.
Rossiter scheduled the first briefing on their mission for 1300 hrs, and the leadership, down to senior NCO level, were all present, as well as four men who were in pseudo military uniform, although clearly not military.
The part that Hughes, co-pilot Dave Grant, and the two flight engineers, Don Smith and Joe Petrali, would play required their presence and input.
Donovan made a statement introducing the four men, and then stepped aside to leave Rossiter as the main briefer…
‘… or harbinger of doom…’
On a nod from the Marine general, the covers were pulled back on two maps, one showing a detailed area of Southern Russian, the other a painstakingly hand drawn map of a facility near Uspenka.
Rossiter left the men a few moments in which to absorb the information and to let off a little steam.
He looked Crisp directly in the eyes as the hubbub died away and understood that the paratrooper colonel immediately understood that he had been handed a real hot potato.
He would have not been surprised at Crisp’s thoughts.
‘Jesus H…the biggest bastard of a fucked up mission in the history of bastard fucked up missions!’
Rossiter spoke to the man in the front row of seats.
“You ready, Colonel?”
‘How about fucking never?!’
“Good to go, Sir.”
Crisp suddenly realised that Rossiter was referring to the new unit insignia he had passed to Crisp, ready to hand out prior to the briefing.
A positive measure that Rossiter hoped would help ease the pain of what was to come.
“Ok, listen in, Gentlemen.”
Crisp produced the box that Rossiter had given him and held aloft a unit insignia.
Two U’s superimposed on a yellow background, with red, white, and blue stripes as a border.
“This is our new badge. A U for the Ukraine… and one for the good old US of A… yellow for the land on which we will first fight, and with a red, white and blue border for the RSM and his boys.”
They all laughed and then, as each man looked at Sunday’s face, stopped laughing immediately.
“Take one and pass the box on. There are others to take back to your boys. All badges of rank and unit insignia to be sown on uniforms before reveille tomorrow morning.”
Crisp passed the box to Shandruk who took his badge and moved the box on its rounds.
Crisp quickly moved over to Hughes and his crew, and handed over four badges, accompanied with handshakes, symbolising the inclusion of the civilians in the group.
For their part, the four men were clearly delighted by the gesture
.
The Marine officer nodded to himself.
‘That was well done, Colonel… very well done.’
“Let us begin.”
Rossiter pointed at the map of Southern Russia.
“You’ll fly from here to Talesh, where you will refuel, before flying north and into the Soviet Union.”
He let that sink in for a moment.
“This is the great city of Stalingrad… here is the town of Akhtubinsk… the River Volga… village of Uspenka… and here, gentlemen, is the prize… Camp one thousand and one.”
He moved across to the second display.
“This is… sorry, was… as far as we were concerned, a POW facility for Allied prisoners. It is that and more, boys. This schematic shows you the layout of that prison camp… we estimate enough accommodation for approaching two thousand prisoners. We’re still trying to get recent figures from Red Cross sources.”
The pointer swept over other points on the diagram.
“We also estimate that the guard force consists of a full guard battalion here… a mobile company based here… plus…”
He moved back to the main map.
“Here… right there’s a Red Army training facility… tank training facility... probably at regimental strength.”
The low groan escaped no one’s ears.
“And there are two airfields… the complex here at Akhtubinsk and here…at Butyrki. This is a small strip that is also the main Stalingrad-Astrakhan highway and appears to have nothing stationed there, so it’s assumed to be an emergency runway and little more.”
Rossiter coughed.
“However, the main complex here is home to at least three squadrons of aircraft, most of which are fighters.”
Crisp looked off to his right and saw that Shandruk’s eyes were boring in to him, and he wasn’t sure if they were angrier or more incredulous than his.
He gave the slightest of shrugs and turned back to Rossiter, who in turn was looking directly at him.
“Colonel Crisp, gentlemen, your mission is to liberate the prisoners in this camp and to take over the secret facility that lies beneath it, remove certain items of note… any scientists too…demolish whatever you cannot carry, and evacuate… all within one hour maximum.”
The hubbub of voices was immediate as the enormity of the basic mission was laid bare.
“Bullshit!”
Crisp leapt to his feet and his eyes swept the room, although he had recognised the voice immediately.
“Whoever you are, you’ll can that sort of talk, soldier.”
Crisp resumed his seat and Rossiter resumed without further comment.
“That’s the idea, and we have to put meat on the bones of it. There is so much that I don’t know… can’t tell you. There’s nothing I won’t tell you if I know it… I owe you all that much. I have dedicated and skilled people working all hours, trying to get more information, but for now, all I can tell you is this.”
He moved back to the schematic of the camp and pointed at some unlabelled parts,
“We believe these are vents… entrances… for an underground complex that holds the Soviet atomic programme. We believe that they have been assisted greatly by equipment and expertise from Japan, and have made startling progress. We believe that this facility holds the greatest threat to our cause… and our freedom… and that’s why we’re sending you to destroy it.”
“They have the bomb or are developing the bomb?”
“I cannot say for sure how advanced they are now, Colonel Crisp, but I can say as sure is eggs are eggs that this is where it’s being developed and that we do know, from other sources, that they’re much further along than we’d given them credit for.”
“And you can’t bomb it because of all our prisoners.”
Crisp made it a statement, and Rossiter’s unexpected reply made his jaw drop.
“On the contrary… we intend to bomb it.”
There was what almost amounted to an outcry amongst the assembled soldiers.
“The planning done thus far gives us a window of one hour from the time the operation is initiated… that’s one hour to liberate the camp and get as many of the prisoners out of harm’s way as possible. We cannot allow more than that. There must be no opportunity for then to remove or salvage anything of value.”
“So, let me get this right, General Rossiter.
Crisp strode to the front of the room and touched the map at each place as he made his points.
“We fly from here to… Talesh… and then onto Camp 1001… where we make an assault against a full battalion of infantry plus change… not far from a tank regiment’s training facility, all under the umbrella of about three Soviet air squadrons. We liberate the entire camp and then go underground, where it’s just possible we might find more enemy soldiers… find something, we know not what, grab it, kidnap a few men in white coats, set a few charges, police up the POWs and hightail it before you start dropping bombs all over the place… all in one hour.”
Crisp’s face was red with the effort of controlling himself.
“Look here, General… we volunteered for this mission but by God, no one can have imagined it was going to be anything like this. It’s a suicide mission!”
Rossiter composed himself and turned to the rest of the room.
“This is not an easy mission… far from it… but it’s not a suicide mission… we can plan this to make the timetable work. And that timetable is set in stone, make no mistake. The follow up bombers have an hour to get in for the attack, and even then it could be cutting it fine. Any longer than that and the Soviet air responses will be more than air force can handle.”
“Colonel Crisp is rightly concerned, but we haven’t yet started to iron out the issues and get our operational plan in place.”
Disbelief was written large on every man’s face, and Rossiter simply couldn’t blame them for their doubts. It was a true monster of a mission.
“Let us plan the mission, gentlemen… get everything sorted as to the best of our abilities. Then, if it’s impossible, we call your part off.”
“Our part?”
“Yes, Major Shandruk… just our part. No matter what, the bombers will go in.”
“But your men… sorry… our men… our prisoners… you intend to bomb anyway and kill them all?”
Rossiter had been prepared for this question, although he was as yet unprepared to order the mission itself, the idea of killing thousands of Allied soldiers caused so much turmoil, despite the necessity of closing 1001 down.
“That’s the bottom line of it, Major Shandruk.”
The sound that emanated from a dozen throats spoke of anguish, mixed with disgust, and not a little hatred.
“’Scuse me, General.”
“Lieutenant?”
“So… if we go, we get one hour to get as many of our boys out of Dodge as possible… and then you bomb. If we don’t go… you bomb the poor fuckers anyway?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, that’s the size of it.”
Hässler mouth worked but no sound came out. The reply was furnished by Bluebear.
“This is some fucked up mission!”
Those who knew him understood such words didn’t ever trip from his mouth, but such was his incredulity. The noise level rose as men voiced their objections in simple soldierly terms.
Crisp took centre stage again, but he contented himself with eyeballing Bluebear and no more.
Holding his hands out, he called the room to order. The men fell into grudging silence.
“Gotta agree with Captain Bluebear… this is one fucked up mission for sure… but… we’ve yet to work on our plan so let’s apply ourselves and see what we can come up with.”
Turning to the diagram, he patted the prison camps lines as he spoke.
“I for one ain’t gonna have the blood of these boys on my hands, so I’m going, come what may… just to give them the best chance of survival.”
Rossiter nodded in agreement and
also in thanks for the paratrooper’s straightforward words.
“Right, let’s get started now. General, what assets can we call on here?”
Relieved to be on firmer ground, Rossiter produced a list of transport and fighter aircraft that could be made available.
It was a start, although Crisp could already see that there was nowhere near enough room to bring back all the men and prisoners.
The group started to throw in suggestions.
Some were pie in the sky, whereas others had true merit.
It was Crisp who suggested taking weapons to arm the prisoners…
…Shandruk who suggested a way to open the camp up.
…Hughes who ventured an idea to get them closer.
…Galkin who swiftly formed an operation outline that pulled everything together.
…Rossiter who dropped the name of Oberst Trannel of the DRL into the pot, offering a vague solution to the tank regiment issue. Even though he hadn’t even broached the matter with the German officer yet, as their European ally was under such heavy suspicion.
It was Bluebear that asked a question that changed everything, dragging an answer out of Rossiter, who revealed something he had wished not to reveal.
“What’s safe distance for when the bombers come in, General?”
Many eyes looked at the map, assessing circles of increasing diameter.
“No closer than eight miles.”
“Goddamned air force can’t drop ‘em more accurately than that!”
Galkin’s comment brought on a modest wave of laughter, except for those who had grasped exactly what Rossiter’s words implied.
Those who understood turned their eyes to Crisp whose mouth was twisted in anguish.
“Goddamnit, General! So we gotta go in, come what may!”
He turned to his men and spoke with total certainty.
“According to the debriefing documents I have studied, our atomic bombs damaged buildings and wounded people up to eight miles from the point of explosion. The air force are gonna put an atomic on the place. If we don’t go in and get some of those poor bastards out… well, they’re all gonna die.”
