by Colin Gee
“What happened to ‘nothing you won’t tell us’, eh… General?”
Rossiter flushed at the accusation, more so because the bloody Greek Major was absolutely correct.
“I’m still not supposed to have told you. You must understand that such missions are classified beyond your wildest dreams. You cannot share that information with your men… you simply cannot!”
He grabbed the pointer off Crisp and moved next to the map of Southern Russia.
“The air attack will be in two waves. The first will be using earthquake bombs to open up the ground and destroy as much of the facility as possible. The second wave will drop an atomic device, destroying everything for a radius of four miles. Everything.”
He passed the pointer back and moved forward into the group that had gathered closer.
“That’s where we’re at, boys. This site’s crucial and has to go. We want to give our prisoners the best possible chance, and we can combine that with an intelligence grab… but we can’t leave anything salvageable for the commies to continue with their research. That will be the President’s call, but don’t mistake me. He will make that call.”
The silence was laden with meaning, and heavy with unfavourable portents.
Crisp decided to grab the bull by the horns.
“To hell with it. We’re gonna make this work, cos we’re gonna do it or die trying. Move on, gentlemen.”
And that ended the doubts and objections, at least those spoken… at least until the mess table called them before they returned to continue with their planning… and at least until they flopped into bed exhausted by their labours, leaving the bones of the initial plan partially covered with substance.
Over the coming days, more and more of the plan was developed, assisted greatly by a fantastic scale model created by the indomitable Jenkins and her staff, combining the certainties of the above ground with the possibilities of what lay below.
The engineer section, supplied with willing hands from the rifle companies, created a reflection of the model in real scale, using anything from tarpaulins, to wooden frames, all to provide the best possible training to their men.
The Spruce Goose lay at anchor close in shore and parties attended in relay to learn about boarding and disembarking, and also so that Hughes and his band of merry men could develop the loading plan to ensure the best weight distribution.
Priorities changed as more information arrived and further assets became available, or in the case of the Curtiss Commando transport aircraft, were transferred from the Pacific by direct order of President Truman in the face of resistance by none other than MacArthur himself.
A USAAF liaison officer made recommendations, and a further group of Air Force officers arrived, all to put together the distraction, escort, and extraction planning, which snowballed in size and complexity the more minds were set to solving the issues.
One man arrived to act as an observer and answer questions, as far as he could, specifically related to his unit’s part in the mission.
Wing Commander Leonard Cheshire was rarely approached, often avoided, almost as if his unit was seen as the great relentless evil in the process.
Their part of the Viking mission, the ground attack and extraction, was given a name, one that Crisp suggested; a name that held great meaning for a number of those present.
Operation Kingsbury, named for a ship on the bottom of the Baltic, a ship in which many of his beloved troopers still lay unrecovered.
1154 hrs, Saturday, 29th March 1947, Karup Air Base, Denmark.
He recovered from his surprise and relaxed from his salute.
“General Donovan, Vice-Admiral, please.”
Banner gestured the two senior men towards some functional seating.
“How may I be of service, Sir?”
Donovan cleared his throat and pressed ahead.
“At this moment in time, this is for your ears only. Wing Commander Cheshire has been briefed in on the mission as far as I am about to brief you.”
He took the folder that Dalziel held out, a folder drenched in the signs of the highest secrecy.
Neither man knew that Rossiter had felt honour bound to be indiscrete with Crisp and his men and neither, pursuant to the marine’s earnest request, would ever learn that the men of the 1st SSF knew nearly as much as they did already.
“The mission has been developed further. The overall mission is Operation Viking. The air mission that you will be flying is part of that. The insertion group goes under the name of Operation Kingsbury. I have included the basic brief on Kingsbury for you. You’ll understand why. Admiral Dalziel’s man’ll be remaining with your unit as direct liaison and he’ll bring further details to you as they become known. The contents of this folder will be known only to you, and you will keep it secure under lock and key at any time it is not in your immediate possession. Is that clear?”
“Yes, General.”
Donovan accepted another copy from Sir Roger Dalziel, and the three read the information therein, two for the umpteenth time, one for the very first.
Both senior men knew that there would be a reaction, but not how bad it would be.
“You have gotta be fucking kidding, General?”
Donovan had been pre-warned about Banner’s approach to such matters, but still felt his anger rise.
“That’s the mission, Colonel… and if you don’t want it I’ll find someone who can handle it.”
Banner’s look conveyed every essence of contempt he could muster.
He took a deep breath and spoke much more calmly than he felt.
“General, it’s not a question of want. It’s a question of practicalities… in the first instance anyways.”
As if by silent agreement, both men relaxed back into their chairs.
“Go on, Colonel.”
“Sir, I’ve only two crews trained… actually training with the Jasper I have one, plus my own crew. I say training. We’ve still a long way to go before I can declare that delivery side combat ready. Plus just one aircraft converted to Jasper… SOP requires a stand-by bird at the very least… plus the forward air base, acclimatisation, specialist ground crew, the whol…”
“I understand that, Colonel. But this is all about window of opportunity and speed… and SOPs’ll be going to hell in a handcart.”
“That sort of shit gets folks killed, General.”
Donovan understood what the man meant… and wholly agreed.
“The mission is critical, Colonel.”
“They’re all goddamned critical in one way or another, General. Ain’t never been sent out on anything that wouldn’t shorten the war or save countless lives.”
Donovan chuckled inadvertently and the act removed much of the tension in the room, allowing Dalziel to speak.
“Colonel Banner, let me be frank. This site represents the enemy’s atomic resources, as best as we can ascertain. We simply have to deprive them of the means to retaliate in kind. The mission as described offers us the best opportunity to prevent the deployment of Soviet weapons for years to come.”
“With all due respect, Admiral… the mission as described is a FUBAR… a fuck up of monumental proportions… in my honest opinion, rushing something like this is only going to get men killed.”
“There’s no choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Admiral.”
Donovan stood up and moved to the window, stopping the two others in their tracks.
He took in the airfield, the lumbering bombers… the men going about their normal duties… a scene of relative normality...
Donovan pulled himself back from his thoughts.
“Colonel, I can tell you that this mission’s the most important operation with which I’ve been associated in my long career.”
Banner understood that, if Donovan was being genuine and not blowing smoke up his ass, then that meant something.
The general turned back to the room.
“This mission will fly. Men w
ill die, some by design, some because the mission is a FUBAR… but this mission will fly. Your outfit is in this because you’ve the skills and experience to deliver your ordnance on the target… and from what I’ve heard… the balls!”
He moved back to the table and picked up a folder, holding it like a preacher of old would hold the Bible to demonstrate a point.
“The British 9 Squadron will do their part because they have the skills, and yes, some of them will die.”
Banner adjusted his position, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
“Group Steel and Kingsbury… well… a lot of those boys are not coming home… but they’re going anyway… all volunteers... and yes… they know your part in this before you say anything.”
It was not the lie he supposed it to be.
Donovan dropped the folder on the table and waited for the sharp crack to die away before continuing.
“Colonel Banner, I know your reputation as a maverick, but I also know you… I’ve known men like you for my whole career… some real types in the old Rainbow Division I can tell you… hell, I was once like you myself!”
He leant forward with hands opened in concession.
“Look, son… this has to run as soon as we say run it… the President will give it the go-ahead and when he does… well… we just gotta do the best we can and there’s an end to it. Save all the usual shit for the marines… it’s a bitch of a mission… but it’s our bitch and we’ll do it the best we goddamned can.”
“Of course we’ll do our best, General.”
The angry note in his vote died instantly away.
“How long do we have, Sir?”
Dalziel delivered the bad news.
“We suspect less than a week before the mission has to go ahead.”
“A week?”
“Maybe an extra day of two… two weeks absolute tops… much depends on intelligence received, Colonel.”
“Then there’s no time to lose, Admiral.”
There was little more to be said.
The senior officers left after exchanging salutes.
“Did we do the right thing, Bill?”
Donovan knew precisely what the newly appointed Chief of Military Intelligence for NATO meant.
“We’ll tell them before they fly the mission, Sir Roger. Wiser heads reckon that letting them know everything now might take their minds off training and the mission.”
“But will they do it… will he do it?”
“What, Banner? Sure, he’ll do it. He’ll hate it and curse us for the rest of his days, but he’ll do it, once he’s told, because it needs to be done.”
“Hell of a job, Bill.”
“It sure will be, Sir Roger.”
“I actually meant telling him.”
Donovan grimaced and put his hand on Dalziel’s shoulder.
“I know you did, but one of us is going to have to. Hell, he might even work it out with the brief on Kingsbury that he’s got.”
The Admiral dropped into thoughtful silence.
‘Will he work out what we intend to ask of him? Could he even imagine that we would ask such a thing of him?’
They walked wordlessly back towards their Avro Anson C19 VIP transport, whose crew had started pre-flight checks the moment the two officers moved in their direction.
Dalziel committed himself.
“I’ll do it, Bill. I’ll tell him. That’s the sort of thing that he has to be told face to face by someone who can answer the inevitable questions. I’ll tell him.”
Donovan respected the Englishman’s resolve without envying him the task.
They walked silently towards the waiting aircraft, although they shared the same thoughts.
‘How do you tell a man he’s going to drop a bomb that will probably kill thousands of our own?’
1220 hrs, Saturday, 29th March 1947, Timi Woods Camp, Paphos, Cyprus.
“Sir… there’s something you need to come and look at.”
Crisp, on his way for some chow, fell into step with Galkin and they headed towards the supply section.
“Some uniforms just came in… well… see for yourself, Colonel.”
Galkin ceded the passage to Crisp, who strode into the old hangar that served as their stores.
His first instinct was to grab for his sidearm but he recognised one of the men in the uniform of a Soviet paratrooper and understood Galkin’s problem.
“How many?”
“Eight hundred by docket. We ain’t counted them in yet, Colonel. Something that you haven’t told us?”
Crisp grinned.
“Something they haven’t told any of us I think, Con. Guess we’re going on this one wearing fancy dress, eh?”
Inside, Crisp was fuming, as this sort of foul up made him worry what else might have been missed.
“Well, fuck it anyway. Get ‘em counted and signed for. Keep them safe and sound until I find out what the hell is going on. I’ll find some unsuspecting officer to oversee sizing later.”
For a moment he debated issuing a stern warning to the supply soldiers regarding loose mouths and dismissed it just as quickly.
They were supply soldiers and such a warning was pointless; everyone would know in twenty minutes.
Actually, in less.
Nine minutes later, Crisp was sat at the officer’s dining table when Captain Timmins dropped down opposite him.
“Good afternoon, Comrade Colonel.”
“Afternoon, Captain Cowboy.”
The name had stuck to him, much like the remains of the putrefied cow he had landed in many months previously.
“I hear we’re dressing up as Russians for the mission, Colonel?”
“Soldiers will always gossip, Cowboy.”
“So it is true.”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“You didn’t deny it either, Sir.”
“No. I was too busy thinking about who was going to do a job for me. I need a responsible man to volunteer for a difficult mission. Any ideas?”
“None whatsoever, Colonel Sir… however I’ve an ‘ornery old NCO who needs a run out.”
“Let me guess… Master Sergeant Montgomery Hawkes the Third?”
“Wow! Guess that’s why they made you a Colonel, eh Colonel?”
Everybody knew that Hawkes had a special place in Crisp’s heart, not one that made the NCO off limits, but one that made Crisp vulnerable to army humour and pranks.
Timmins leant back to allow the plate of lamb and vegetables to be slid in front of him.
“Spassiba.”
The orderly grinned.
“Away with you or it’s the Siberian mines for you, corporal.”
The man went way chuckling, at which point Crisp decided he had his man.
“Nope. They made me Colonel cos I can sniff out Captains who like to pick on poor old veterans like the elderly Hawkes, and poke fun at their commanding officer. Report to Major Galkin at the stores hangar after dinner… tell him you’re there to record sizes… he’ll understand.”
Crisp’s grin went from ear to ear.
Timmins took it in good heart and stowed away his lunch with gusto.
“Certainly, Comrade Colonel.”
1200 hrs, Saturday, 29th March 1947, Camerone Division Headquarters, Staszow, Poland.
Knocke examined the hand written document for the third time, taking longer to read it than both previous times put together.
“Who else knows about this, Albrecht?”
“Myself, Celestin, and his man, the author of the report.”
The artillery officer from Alma had been very thorough and very secretive, preparing his report by hand for St.Clair so as not to have an official trail.
“Capitaine Stefan Antal? One of yours?”
“Surprisingly one of yours apparently, mon Général. Karsjarger or something like that.”
“Karstjäger… a Waffen Gebirgsjager division if I recall… anyway…”
Knocke passed the document back to Ha
efali with exercised care, the Swiss officer’s arm only recently out of plaster and clearly still painful.
“That appears to be a preposterous suggestion.”
Albrecht Haefali went to open his mouth in protest but Knocke continued his assessment.
“But he’s thorough… states what he knows… what he suspects… provides evidence… I inclined to believe it. You?”
“Absolutely, mon General. I spoke at length with Celestin. He agrees. What we don’t know is what to do now.”
Knocke shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“We do nothing.”
“Merde! Mon General, we’ve been handed evidence that proves beyond doubt that the fire we received on the night of March 15th came from our lines… German Army lines to be specific!”
“Yes, we do. We know simply because his unit was exercising at night, in the wrong location I might add, and escaped any attack by the Russian infiltration teams…”
He left that hanging as the two men understood the lie in the statement, and corrected himself.
“… by the infiltration teams. He’s handed us tracking data, numbers, times, everything we need to prove that we were fired on by Allies… Germans… in my case, my own countrymen. This is proof that we’ve been taken back to another war, not by the Communists, but by a faction on our side… our side, hah!”
Haefali nodded but remained quiet.
“So, what would you have me do with this information, eh?”
Again, Haefali’s mouth remained tightly closed.
“What would Celestin have me do? Eh? To whom do I go? We have a war going on all around us? Do I create a storm that causes us to come apart? The Allies fall out and then bang! We open the way for another wave from the East? Is that what I do?”
“Well no… I understand… I think.”
“You think, Albrecht? It’s simple, man. This cannot be allowed to come out as it will doom the Allied cause and hand Europe to the Communists… you can see that surely?”
“Yes… I see that clearly now, mon Général. So what do we actually do?”
“We hide it… keep it safe… fight on and win… and then, and only then, we make sure it gets into the right hands so that those responsible can be brought to justice.”
