by Colin Gee
Hogg, Ian V
British & American Artillery of World War 2
ISBN 0-85368-242-9
Hogg, Ian V
German Artillery of World War Two
ISBN 0-88254-311-3
Bellis, Malcolm A
Divisions of the British Army 1939-45
ISBN 0-9512126-0-5
Bellis, Malcolm A
Brigades of the British Army 1939-45
ISBN 0-9512126-1-3
Rottman, Gordon L
FUBAR, Soldier Slang of World War II
ISBN 978-1-84908-137-5
Schneider, Wolfgang
Tigers in Combat 1
ISBN 978-0-81173-171-3
Stanton, Shelby L.
Order of Battle – U.S. Army World War II.
ISBN 0-89141-195-X
Forczyk, Robert
Georgy Zhukov
ISBN 978-1-84908-556-4
Kopenhagen, Wilfried
Armoured Trains of the Soviet Union 1917 - 1945
ISBN 978-0887409172
Korpalski, Edward
Das Fuhrerhauptquartier [FHQu], Wolfschanze im bild.
ISBN 83-902108-0-0
Nebolsin, Igor
Translated by Stuart Britton.
Stalin’s Favourite - The Combat History of the 2nd Guards Tank Army from Kursk to Berlin. Volume 1: January 1943-June 1944.
ISBN 978-1-909982-15-4
Poirier, Robert G., Conner, Albert Z.
The Red Army order of Battle in the Great Patriotic War.
ISBN 0-89141-237-9
Read the beginning of the final book in the Red Gambit series now.
I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.
The Book of Revelation - 22:13
CHAPTER 200 - THE CONVERGENCE
1424 hrs, Sunday 8th April 1947, Moscow City Zoo, Moscow, USSR.
It was a zoo in two halves, split down the middle, like a divide between the old and new sections, by the Bolshaya Gruzinskaya, a major Moscow thoroughfare.
The Allied contingent had the opportunity to look around and relax as best they could, albeit under the close attention and watchful eyes of a blizzard of uniformed and non-uniformed intelligence officers.
On the road itself, street sellers peddled their wares, from souvenirs to hot food, the latter attracting the attention of a number of the hungrier members of the group.
With a savoury pastry in one hand and a hot sweet tea in the other, Ramsey could only just manage with his briefcase tucked up under his arm.
Helpfully, his closest observer offered to carry the case but her offer was declined and instead Ramsey offered up the tea and took a firm grip on his case.
It was to be expected, but it didn’t stop the NKVD minder trying.
As was his way, Ramsey started to create a problem with his artificial legs, something he did to allow him to separate from the group on occasion, when other more clandestine duties called.
His personal minders remained close at hand, two men and two women, whilst the rest of the group, headed up by the irrepressible Horrocks, completed their journey across the Bolshaya Gruzinskaya and onto the newest section of the City Zoo.
Ramsey was ushered to a green painted bench.
He sat down heavily and made a great show of rubbing his thighs.
One of the Allied group decided to stay with him and keep the British officer company.
“Playing up, John?”
“Too bloody right, Miguel. Very sore for some reason.”
He continued to rub them as he and the US intelligence officer went through their pre-arranged routine.
“I need to sort the bloody strapping out.”
Lieutenant Colonel Miguel de la Santos USMC looked around, seemingly in search of something, but already knowing just where to look.
He pointed dramatically.
“There’s a head, John. That’ll do, won’t it?”
“Just the job, Miguel. Excuse me, Mayor… I need the toilet…”
He pointed to emphasise his words.
The impassive GRU officer simply nodded and moved aside to let Ramsey stand.
Ramsey offered Santos his briefcase for safekeeping.
It was an exquisite touch, designed to disarm the overseers.
Moving in apparent discomfort, Ramsey made his way across to the toilet and placed a few coins in the dish overseen by a fierce looking old woman who tended the Spartan facility, and whose words of thanks sounded more like a diesel engine starting up on a cold morning.
The GRU Major stopped Ramsey from entering and sent in his number two, who turfed out the two men he found inside before checking the facility, emerging to simply nod at his commander.
Ramsey was allowed to enter.
The cubicle’s false wall swung open.
“Polkovnik... we meet in the strangest of places.”
“General… that we do.”
“It was necessary, I’m afraid, and thank you. No briefcase?”
“No… I don’t need one.”
“But…”
He reached down and unclipped his left leg.
Unscrewing the lower calf, he revealed a large cavity that could take a good size roll of A4-sized paper… similar to a large report file such as was handed over to him.
“What do I have here, General?”
“Vital information that you need to get to your commanders immediately. I vouch fully for its authenticity… and given what it is, you’ll need to impress upon them that it is authentic and requires that they act immediately.”
“I will tell them, general.”
“I came here myself for that reason, and also to explain why… they’ll ask you why, Polkovnik.”
It was all too cryptic for Ramsey’s tastes but he had to accept matters as they were.
“Go on, General.”
“Because we don’t wish this conflict to escalate to something that can no longer be stopped. There’ll shortly be a change in the Motherland’s leadership, and when it happens, you’ll know that we, the new leadership, are serious people who will do what’s necessary to protect our Motherland.”
Ramsey had just been handed a momentous piece of intelligence and was momentarily thrown.
Gathering himself quickly, he reattached his leg.
“I will deliver that message, General.”
“Good… now we must hurry or our people’ll start to wonder what you are doing. Good luck, Comrade Polkovnik Ramsey.”
“And to you, General Nazarbayeva.”
0348 hrs, Tuesday, 10th April 1947, forty kilometres south of Clark’s Harbour, Nova Scotia.
“… And … mark. Down periscope… take us down to 120.”
Kalinin kept his voice low, as did all submariners in time of stress, as if a passing fish might overhear.
Their express orders had been to avoid any sort of contact on their journey across the Atlantic, and that had been successfully done, although passing up big and vulnerable targets was foreign to all, but clearly necessary to preserve the secrecy of the mission.
However, now, as the group of submarines neared the coast of the United States, it was proving more difficult to remain hidden, as the waters grew heavy with the hulls of warships and merchantmen.
The ‘mark’ had recorded the angle of the enemy vessel and Kalinin leant on the map table with the navigator, examining the plot.
“Target, range five thousand, Comrade Leytenant.”
The officer made a mark and together they apprised the tactical situation.
“Come to port… 247 degrees, Comrade Kapitan?”
“Agreed… Starshy Leytenant…”
His first officer was quickly at the table.
“Come to port, steer 247… keep us at this depth until our friend is off the hydrophone then back to normal. Understood?”
“Understood, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Advise the others by Sheptat immediately.”
He referred to the ‘Ger
trude’ underwater communications system that had been stolen from the Americans.
The number one set about discharging his orders, leaving Kalinin a moment to look at the greater picture.
By now, Nobukiyo and his the rest of his group, ‘Soviet Vozmezdiye’ and I-1, would be nearing the final staging point before they closed in to their firing position off Block Island.
‘… if they’re on time and if there’s been no problems…’
Kalinin’s attack group consisted of ‘Soviet Initsiativa’, I-402, and I-14, and the three of them, having rendezvoused off Newfoundland, were now moving gradually southwest, keen not to arrive in the heavily traversed waters ahead of schedule.
Their luck had not been overly tested during their voyage across the Atlantic, but it had certainly been given a full workout once they had arrived within range of land, with aircraft and naval patrol ships plaguing their every hour.
Once, I-1 had been subjected to an attack by a Canadian Liberator, but it had come to nothing.
The RCAF crew’s after-action report was challenged and it was suggested that they had dropped on a pod of whales.
None the less, not to know of the reprieve, the whole submarine group had taken a detour back out towards deep water, one that had used up valuable fuel, although I-353 still trailed the main force by some two hundred miles, ready to provide resources if needed.
Not that the Japanese boats would need them.
They had no plans to return home.
Kalinin handed over command to his first officer and returned to his quarters where, before he grabbed a few hours’ sleep, he again reminded himself of the geography of his own target.
He dropped off to sleep and dreamt…
…of Jamaica…
…of Chelsea…
…of Charles…
…and of Harvard…
1130 hrs, Thursday, 12th April 1947, Timi Woods Camp, Paphos, Cyprus.
Crisp accepted the salutes of his leadership and watched as they sprinted away to get their men aboard the waiting aircraft.
He still had trouble thinking of it as an aircraft, so vast was the Spruce Goose that it promised to defy the very idea that gravity would ever relinquish its grip upon the airframe and permit it to rise into the air.
But, he reminded himself, fly it did.
The vast interior was soon to be crammed with his soldiers. It was already accommodating weapons, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, but the weights had all been calculated and the incredible aircraft gobbled up everything without batting a proverbial eye.
As he observed the loading of his soldiers, he caught sight of Hughes and his band of civilians, dressed in the same uniforms as his soldiers, gesticulating wildly as they argued over weight distribution, fuel consumption, and the plethora of things that seemed to exercise and amuse them on a regular basis.
They had dismissed the warnings about being captured and the likely outcome of having their identities discovered.
Their issue of the uniforms was greeted with boyish howls, almost as if a dressing up party was in the offing.
That the uniforms belonged to the Red Army would be enough to ensure that anyone captured wearing them would be shot, but they were simply essential to the plan to storm Camp 1001, otherwise Crisp would not be wearing one himself.
Crisp relaxed and decided on a cigarette before he took up his place on the Spruce Goose.
He sampled the calming smoke and revisited the minutiae of the plan.
Part of his force had gone on ahead, shoehorned into a number of Curtiss Commandos, their part in the operation to be discharged in a separate place, but just as vital as the main force’s job in many ways.
Shandruk’s force had also already departed, their part in the operation due to commence prior to the arrival of the main force.
The Ukrainian’s role was vital, and could well mean the difference between success and failure in the ground plan.
Undoubtedly, the air plan would succeed, but in succeeding could well mean disaster for Crisp, his men, and those already on the ground.
On other bases, both on airfields or on slipways, aircraft with special roles to play were undoubtedly already being prepared.
The coordination required was incredible, and the original plan developed by Sam Rossiter and his team had been amplified and improved time after time.
Jenkins’ fantastic model had proved to be invaluable in planning the operation, although the complicated structure had now been dismantled and its constituent parts spread around so as to provide no clues as to its purpose.
Rossiter arrived on cue, to wish Crisp luck and shake his hand one more time.
“Can you do it, Colonel?”
“General… I can tell you this. We’re ready and able, trained, and up for the mission. If it can be done, it’ll be done… and if it can’t be done… well I guess the Air Force’ll have to carry the ball.”
Rossiter extended his right hand and grasped that of Crisp.
“The very best of luck to you and your men, Colonel Crisp.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
They saluted as RSM Sunday marched towards them, his bearing as perfect as if he were commanding a review on Horse Guards Parade.
“Sah! Mister Hughes reports that he’s ready to take off. All men are aboard. All supplies aboard and secured.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Major.”
Ten minutes later, the green-painted Spruce Goose, decorated with the markings of an aircraft of Soviet naval aviation, rose slowly from the waters of the Mediterranean, destination Tabruz, on the Caspian Sea.
1207 hrs, Thursday, 12th April 1947, 7th Mechanised Cooperation Training School, Verkhiny Baskunchak, USSR.
The atmosphere was always relaxed, but today it was more so as the final exercises were almost complete, and the unit under training had performed superbly, the joint product of excellent leadership by the experienced commanders and of great teaching by the men in the room.
They had just briefed Colonel Bortanov on the exercise he was expected to undertake the following day, and had let him go to prepare his plans, along with the staff of 218th Tank Brigade.
Accompanying him was Lieutenant Colonel Tob of the 115th Naval Infantry Brigade, also training with Bortanov’s unit prior to being attached to a newly forming Tank Corps, to be based around the 218th.
It was important for the successful final exercise that the staff of 7th Mechanised Cooperation Training School had no exposure to the home force’s planning, as they were to participate as the enemy force.
In just a few weeks, Yarishlov had forged his experienced officers into a solid unit, and 218th Tanks was the second unit to pass out of the three-week training programme far better prepared than when they entered.
As overall commander, Yarishlov had men under him to oversee the various disciplines required for the advanced battle tactics and manoeuvre course that was his to design and deliver.
Colonel Nikolay Zorin, once commander of the veteran 39th Guards Tank Brigade, was his tank commander.
Although they had never served together during either war, Yarishlov held Zorin in high esteem.
He was still thoroughly competent and innovative tank leader, despite the serious wounds he had suffered at Hamburg in the early days of August 1945.
Which was also another reason why Zorin held a special place in his heart; he had fought against his friend John Ramsey, and the pair of them often shared a vodka whilst Yarishlov listened to the stories of the incredible British resistance around the Rathaus and canals of the old Hanseatic League city.
Zorin and Kriks had become thick as thieves as a result, as had Colonel Bailianov and Yarishlov’s senior NCO, partially because of previous experiences together in and around Tostedt in August ’45, and partially because Bailianov and Kriks had a shared passion for chess, and were well matched in ability.
Bailianov’s role with the training establishment was to command the infantry and anti-tank forces
that opposed the units under training, a job in which he constantly outdid himself, much to the exasperation of Zorin and the tank training staff, although good-humouredly so.
He had learned his craft under one of the very best infantry commanders in the Red Army, namely T.N. Artem’yev, and he was rapidly approaching his mentor’s quality.
Last of Yarishlov’s unit commanders was Major Harazan, an engineer by trade and inclination, and a veteran of hard fighting against the SS Legion in the Alsace, where he was wounded.
Subsequently he fought with Chuikov’s Alpine Front, where he sustained another wound, one serious enough that it removed him permanently from front line duties, although many observers failed to realise that he had only one leg, so spritely was he on the prosthetic limb that replaced his lower left leg.
The comradeship Yarishlov felt for his men greatly helped him overcome his daily personal struggle with pain and the after-effects of his horrendous injuries.
“Right… that’s the guests sent on their way with their briefing. Any changes to the normal planning?”
Harazan raised his hand, as he always did, ever conscious of his lower rank and status amongst his fellow officers, and therefore always striving to achieve better and better results.
“Comrade General, I believe that we may profit from advancing our minefields. I’ve noticed that the units tend to deploy into battle formation around here.”
He leant over a detailed model table that covered all of the tank training grounds, from Bataevka on the Astrakhan-Akhtubinsk highway, across to the main base at Baskunchak, a distance of some thirty-five kilometres, running north to south a mean distance of forty-two kilometres.
The Verkhiny Baskunchak facility was, at just under one thousand five hundred square kilometres, the second largest mock battlefield in the whole of the USSR.
Yarishlov examined the idea and found himself flanked by his two colonels.
