by Colin Gee
Which left Acting Lieutenant Colonel Griffin Field in charge, a man with whom Crisp had an excellent relationship, following the bloody slugfests at Wolin.
“Liaise with Field and get ‘em stowed away so that Kingsbury can get away by midday, Crisp.”
The harbour at Swinemünde was capable of taking only two decent sized vessels, much of the ports facilities having been damaged by the Allies, then the Germans, then the Russians, and finally, the Allies once more.
McAuliffe acknowledged Crisp’s salute and set his mind to the next problem, which had doubled in complication with the damage to APA-127 USS Allendale, which vessel was now occupying one of his two berths.
Determined to put a ‘burr under the arse’ of the ship’s captain, McAuliffe strode off down the dock, followed by harassed staff officers who were better equipped for organising an airborne assault than a seaborne evacuation.
101st had been denied an aerial return, the increased number of Soviet jet aircraft cited as one reason, the constant presence of transports delivering Spanish and Polish units another, although rumours about shortages of transport aircraft through to fuel abounded.
Still, as McAuliffe had quipped to his senior officers, it was a lovely time of year for a cruise.
1017 hrs, Thursday, 1st August 1946, the Oval Office, Washington DC, USA.
Truman stood at the window, his brain full of facts and assumptions, statements of intent and promises, some of which were historical, and some of which had been dramatically set out before him by the small group of men sat silently behind him.
‘Ban the bomb…use the bomb... send more troops… bring the boys home…’
He rammed his hands onto his hips and set his jaw, examined his reflection and scowled at himself.
He turned round and slammed his hand on the desk.
“Goddamned censure? Is he really expecting us to believe that?”
“No way, Mister President, but Governor Arnall is talking about it just the same. Moreover, at the moment, he’s the only one that’s talking openly about it, Mister President, but others are following suit behind the scenes, stirring the pot.”
“Say that again, John.”
“It’s not just Arnall that’s talking up censure as a way of making you use the bomb and bring the boys home. Sure, Georgia’s taking the lead, but South Carolina, California, Florida, Michigan, Virginia, New York, and Texas are close behind. Not counting the few on the other side of the argument, who are also rumbling on the matter… I mean those who are tentatively backing the application of pressure to withdraw… either way, there is a ground swell of heavy muscle that is taking a stance against the way you are running this war.”
“On what grounds?”
“Mister President, on the grounds that you are failing to prosecute the war to the fullest extent and endangering American lives and the safety of the American nation by not so doing.”
“What?”
A session intended to discuss the changing situation in Britain and Canada had become something entirely different.
John R. Steelman, White House Chief of Staff, was the bearer of the bad news.
Truman resumed his seat and looked at each man in turn.
“Gentlemen, before we go any further with this session… has any of you brought me good news?”
The silence was heavy with meaning.
“George?”
George Marshall prepared himself to heap more bad news on top of it.
“Mister President… I have some figures here…”
“One moment, please. Henry?”
“I’m afraid not, Mister President.”
Henry Stimson had anything but good news to deliver.
Truman looked directly at James Byrnes, Secretary of State, and pursed his lips in a silent request.
“No, Sir. I am the bearer of bad tidings.”
Truman heard them all out, taking the latest casualty figures from Europe badly, the total American casualty figures since December 1941 now approaching two million, including a staggering total of six hundred and seventy thousand dead, two hundred and sixty-five thousand in the period commencing on August 6th 1945.
Considerably more than half the number that had died in the previous four years of war.
He winced as Secretary of State Byrnes relayed messages, ranging from concern to outrage, from heads of state or ambassadors, most accompanied by threats to withdraw direct support from the Allied cause.
Stimson and Marshall added to the sense of foreboding with their appreciation of the military situation, and the likely effects of continuing the struggle.
Stimson, in an attempt to be upbeat, played the technology card, talking of new tanks, new guns, new aircraft, all being made available to the boys on the front line, but nothing he said could hide the truth.
The Unites States capacity to wage war was intact, but the political situation was confused, with rival camps wanting peace or use of the bombs, entrenched polar opposites who wouldn’t budge.
Truman spoke to no-one in particular, simply giving voice to the turmoil in his head.
“So, all it’s gonna take is one single thing, one tragedy, one lost battle, one effective speech, one more bloody demonstration on an American street. That’s probably now all that is needed to bring it all crashing down around us, one way or the other.”
“Use the bomb, Mister President.”
Only Byrnes refrained from the call.
Steelman led the baying for its deployment.
“If the Allied nations are going to fall out, then to hell with it. Use the bomb… use it now… stop the rot spreading… stick one on the Communists and we will have all the public support back behind us… talk of censure will disappear because it’ll shut up the ‘go for broke’ lobby… people will see that our boys will prevail. If you prevaricate and the Allies start falling away, that’ll obviously give the anti-war movement steel in their backs and create more issues.”
“No.”
“But Sir, we must d…”
“I said no. We will not use the bombs and fracture the Allied cause. Without a strong Allied group, the Communists will prevail, if not now, then at some time in the future. I will not pass on that legacy to the world. I will NOT! We WILL maintain the Allied grouping at all costs. Am I clear on that point, gentlemen?”
There was little to be unclear about.
The meeting terminated with no further decisions, save to diplomatically massage the Allies, pressurise the Canadians as nicely as possible, and to sympathetically and publically support Churchill in his struggle against public discontent the length and breadth of the United Kingdom and beyond.
It was also decided to review the military plan and reduce US exposure to the barest minimum.
Truman enjoyed a moment’s solitude before the door opened and one of his secret service agents stuck his head around it.
“Sir, your eleven-thirty is still waiting.”
Truman looked at the clock and grinned momentarily.
‘11.50. Let the man wait a while longer.’
Truman grinned at his own thoughts.
‘Petulance isn’t your style, Harry. Let him have his say.’
“Thank you, Raoul. Please have him shown in.”
Thomas Edmund Dewey, Governor of New York, strode in, with the two NY senators, James M. Mead and Robert F. Wagner, close on his flanks.
Truman shook hands with the three men and motioned them towards seating.
“So, my apologies for the delay. How may I help you, gentlemen?
Dewey took the lead.
“That’s simple, Mister President. You can either fight the goddamned war with every weapon God has given you, saving the lives of countless American boys along the way, or you can resign and let someone with the cojones take the lead. Which’ll it be?”
Within fifteen seconds, members of the Secret Service charged into the room, expecting to find a huge mob out of hand, such was the violence of the short conversati
on.
Truman and the three politicians did not part on good terms.
2357 hrs, Thursday, 1st August 1946, eight kilometres northwest of Darsser Ort, the Baltic Sea.
Crisp had been asleep since just after nine pm, the blissful experience of not having to make decisions and not having to worry about the day-to-day business of commanding a parachute infantry regiment, had brought the deepest sleep he had experienced since two nights before the jump into the blackness over Pomerania.
Unusually for the two and a half thousand men shoehorned aboard, sleep took precedence over craps, poker, or simply horsing about, as almost every man, glider infantryman or paratrooper, used the opportunity to store valuable sleep away.
The gentle tenors of the waves lapping at the hull, and the rhythmic sound of the throbbing Westinghouse turbine, brought kind dreams to each and every man, as the USS Kingsbury’s single screw carried them further away from the war.
Four miles ahead, a number of technical problems plagued the commander of HMS Jason, a Halcyon-class minesweeper, as his equipment again failed him.
Acting Lieutenant Commander Harry Layland Dudley Hoare chased his crew in all directions, but they simply could not restore full operation. One of the kites had decided to dive to the bottom, and the winch that could recover it had simply given up the ghost.
Hoare radioed the Commodore, but the man railed against anything that could mean delay, and simply told the minesweeper officer to ‘sort it out’.
The Commodore, anxious to preserve his sailing schedule, ignored Hoare’s recommendation to transfer some north side work to one of the other minesweepers, and decided to press on regardless, citing the complete absence of any mines on the journey to Swinemünde and, thus far, on the return.
Which meant that L3 ‘Frunzenets’, sunk on 10th December 1945, would reach out from her watery grave and claim yet another Allied vessel.
2357 hrs, Thursday, 1st August 1946, eight kilometres northwest of Darsser Ort, the Baltic Sea.
Colonel Marion Crisp was lifted from his bunk and deposited with perfect precision on the bunk on the other side of the cabin, much to the displeasure of the occupant.
Griffin Field moaned in pain and clutched at his stomach, where Crisp’s hard buttocks had announced his soft landing.
Marion Crisp rolled off the injured man and immediately realised that he simply continued to roll across the floor of the cabin, heading back the six feet to the bunk from which he had been thrown.
His hands pushed out, stopping him from clattering into the metal supports.
“C’mon, Griff, move your ass… the ship’s listing.”
He grabbed at the winded Field and virtually dragged him to the door.
It refused to open.
Field, recovering slowly, lent his shoulder to the effort.
The door shifted a little, not enough to permit them to leave, but sufficient for the smoke to enter the cabin.
“Again!”
Crisp threw himself against the unyielding metal and bounced off.
“Again!”
The two men hit it together and the movement encouraged them.
Another three blows brought enough of a gap for Crisp to call a halt.
“Let’s go… you first, Griff.”
The Acting Lieutenant Colonel squirmed through, closely followed by Crisp.
The smoke was denser now, and moved thickly through their throats and lungs, bringing about racking coughs.
“Fresh air… this way… follow me…”
Crisp grabbed Field’s hand and followed the memory image in his head, and found the stairs up immediately.
As the pair climbed towards the next level, a tannoy announcement cut across the growing sounds of men under duress.
Whilst many of the words were somewhat distorted by some sort of damage issue, the message was absolutely clear.
“Attention all hands! Attention all hands! Abandon ship. Abandon ship!”
The two officers emerged into the darkest of nights, now transformed by the severe fire that was claiming the ship around them.
“We’ve got to organise our boys… calm them down and do this orderly… get some control…”
Field nodded and plunged towards a group of his own soldiers massing at the ship’s side.
The Kingsbury shuddered and lurched a few feet further over, enough to send men flying off their feet and hurtling into others, creating more struggling forms.
Searchlights from other vessels also lit up the scene, and help create the surreal sight of soldiers and sailors illuminated in dancing shades of diamond white and orange.
An explosion opened up the deck in front of Crisp, and he was picked up and thrown into dark sky.
His unconscious form dropped into the cool waters, surrounded by men desperate to stay afloat… desperate to survive.
At 0006, before a single rescue ship could get close enough, USS Kingsbury APA-177, rolled over into the Baltic, nine minutes to the second after she had hit ‘Frunzenets’’ mine.
Fig # 212 - The voyage of USS Kingsbury, APA-177.
1847 hrs, Sunday, 4th August 1946, the Guards Club, London, England.
Sir Fabian John Callard-Smith, VC holder, MP for Wroughton, and retired Coldstream Guards Colonel, read the report in silence, seeing familiar names in every paragraph, some alive and soon to be honoured, others lost to the insatiable machine of war.
Across the small table sat his friend and confidante, the Right Honourable Percy Aston Hollander MC and bar, formerly a major in the Irish Guards, who was reading the same document, an insider’s report that recorded the efforts and exertions of the Guards units of His Majesty’s army.
“Good Lord… Bunty’s gone west. Poor Janette… we must go and visit as soon as possible… poor old Bunty.”
Percy Hollander shook his head at the news that another of the old school had lost his life in the new war.
Whilst he hadn’t served with Jacob ‘Bunty’ Hargreaves, he knew of the man by reputation, one often enhanced by anecdotes from Callard-Smith, who had shared a bunker with him for many months on the Western Front in 1917-18.
“All through the last lot, only to die in some crabby corner of Bocheland… damn and blast… damn and blast…”
“Wasn’t he divisional staff, John?”
Callard-Smith nodded and offered up an explanation immediately.
“Never one to sit at the back though. Never. Bound to have been up at the front. Looks like he was with the Coldstreams up the sharp end when he copped it… lots of Coldstreams got the chop on the same day… 28th July… around Parchim… not just Coldstreams either… seems like the Grenadiers got a bloody good dusting too.”
Aston nodded, concern at the loss of so many members of the Guards Brigade written large on his face.
Squires, clubman and an ex-Coldstream Guardsman himself, moved towards the pair as quickly as his disability would allow.
“Colonel Fabian… Major Percy… The Sunday Evening News, sirs.”
He passed each a copy of the London newspaper.
“Dreadful business, Sirs… dreadful.”
The headline screamed at both men.
‘BALTIC DISASTER - THOUSANDS DEAD’
They quickly consumed the bare facts, grimacing at the numbers involved.
“I say, poor sods.”
“Quite, Percy. Squires, two more scotches please, there’s a good chap.”
The clubman nodded and hobbled away to distribute more of the freshly printed newspapers on his way back to the bar.
The murmurs grew in the smoking room, as more eyes acquainted themselves with the disaster.
Percy’s eyes clouded over with painful memories as he read one word.
“Mine, so they say… nasty bloody things. Brother Clarence was lost to the nasty bloody things… on the Irresistible, off Gallipoli in ’15. Nasty blighters.”
“I remember, Percy. Johnny Turk used a lot of the horrible things off the peninsular. Did for
a few of our matelots. So damned impersonal.”
Callard-Smith dropped his gaze again and immediately took a sharp intake of breath.
“I say…101st… those boys saw an awful lot of fighting… an awful lot of fighting.”
Both men dropped their newspapers down so they could look at each other.
“The God of Battle, eh, Percy?
Hollander snorted. A confirmed atheist, he believed in no such thing, but he understood what Callard-Smith meant.
‘All that fighting … from D-Day to Poland… and killed by one of those nasty bloody impersonal things when out of the front line.’
“Tragic way for a soldier to go, Fabian. Bloody tragic.”
“Quite. Still… over two thousand American dead in one foul swoop… that’s certainly not going to go down well on the other side of the pond, is it?”
“Most certainly not. The common American will either want the boys home yesterday, or will be baying for Uncle Joe’s blood like a hound on the scent.”
When the news reached the states, and families from Oregon to Maine became aware that one of their most prestigious units, the 101st US Airborne, had suffered grievous casualties in such a random manner, the result was very much the latter.
Tuesday, 6th August 1946. Editorial piece, First edition, Washington Evening Star.
President Truman’s constant failure to employ the full range of weapons from the armoury of liberty cannot be underestimated. He has cited, on numerous occasions, the need to ensure that the coalition of Allied forces remains cohesive, and names the opposition to further use of certain weapons, prevalent amongst those Allies, as the chief reason for staying his hand.
This publication accepts that the use of those weapons, and we must be clear that we are speaking of the new atomic bombs so recently deployed against the Empire of Japan, will bring about horrendous loss of life and suffering, both at the time of deployment and, it has been suggested, long into the futures of those subjected to its use.
