by Gee, Colin
Dalziel got that message loud and clear.
Rafferty gave voice to his thoughts.
“Judas?”
“Bound to be, the bastards always stick together.”
“Judas? I don’t understand.”
Blackmore spoke for the rest of the group but his mind was already awakening a memory from a distant briefing.
“Judas Reynolds. A real bad man. He and Brown are bosom pals and where one is... well, the other won’t be far away. According to our intelligence, Judas is head of the IRA’s Mayo Brigade.”
They were all suddenly drawn to the map.
Dalziel was the only one who spoke.
“Glenlara, County Mayo.”
Fig#74 - Éire and the Atlantic 1945 [Full copy]
2142 hrs, Sunday 11th November, Glenlara, County Mayo, Éire.
There was a Mexican standoff, the Soviet Naval Marines with their superior firepower and training lined up in support of their officer, the more numerous IRA group murmuring and threatening their new allies.
Naval Captain-Lieutenant Ilya Nazarbayev stood before the bound and kneeling man, his Tokarev pistol pressed firmly against the sweating temple.
“By the authority of my command and under Soviet Naval Regulations, I find you guilty of murder and I pass a sentence of death, to be carried out immediately.”
The growl rose again from IRA throats, one given more spine by the appearance of Judas Patrick Reynolds, striding purposefully through the snow, fresh from a successful visit to the nearby straipachs, although the young whore who serviced the sexual needs of the senior IRA man was declared strictly off-limits to anyone else and they would be at risk of losing their fleshier parts should they ignore Judas’ warning.
“What the fuck do ya think ya’re fucking doing, Ilya?”
Nazarbayev’s eyes never strayed, did not blink, the barrel of his automatic pressed so hard against Brown’s forehead as to sink into the flesh and leave a dent.
“This...this... whatever it is... has been found guilty of the murder of five English airmen. I am about to carry out the sentence.”
“Oh no ya fucking ain’t.”
Reynolds’ Tommy gun was suddenly levelled at the Marine officer and the danger mounted for all, as both sides tried to support their leader with more aggressive posturing and sounds of encouragement.
“Now, we’ve a situ-fucking-action here, Ilya. You isn’t gonna kill my man; that’s a fact now. You pull tha trigger and you’ll die, as will yer men and many of ma boys. That means no base for yer Navy, no more subs... fuck all, ma son. So put the pistol down, boyo.”
Judas Patrick was an animal, but he was no fool, and he saw resolve in the Marine officer’s eyes.
He tried another tack.
“I will deal with him maself. He’s not under your command... or your fucking regulations for that matter. He’s my man. I’ll deal with it.”
The words found a chink and entered into Yuri’s thoughts and the Tokarev withdrew from the petrified man’s forehead.
“That’s good, Ilya, that’s real good, boyo.”
Unusually for Judas, he made a difficult decision that proved a turning point.
“Ok ma Lads, knock it off now. Back to your beds. Show’s over.”
The IRA men reluctantly started to move away, each second bringing more relaxation to the watching Soviet naval infantry.
Nazarbayev withdrew his pistol completely.
“Stand down, men. Stand down.”
A few men from both sides remained, either out of curiosity or to watch and protect their leader. There was no need. The tension had gone.
Hauling Brown to his feet, Nazarbayev pushed the bound man towards the IRA chief.
“Take him, but I will hold you to your word, Patrick. Punish him for his crime.”
“My word on it, Ilya.”
Nazarbayev left the scene quickly, turning into his quarters before the returning Soviet political officer, still adjusting his trousers after his own pleasures, could interfere with proceedings.
Judas slipped a knife into Brown’s bonds and cut his number two free.
“Make yourself scarce for now, Seamus. Stay up at the Boyson’s til I send for ya.”
Brown rubbed his wrists and spat in the direction of Nazarbayev’s billet.
“What about that bastard then, Patrick, I want 'im, I fucking want 'im bad.”
Reynolds’ eyes settled on the small hut and narrowed as his cunning mind searched for a resolution.
“All in good time, boyo, all in good fucking time.”
1039 hrs, Tuesday 12th November 1945, Headquarters of the 11th Guards Army, the Böhmer Haus, Stadtsee, Sulingen, Germany.
Lieutenant General Kuzma Galitsky was less than delighted with the new operation that was to be entrusted to his already exhausted force.
A true follower of Zhukov, and never a great fan of Konev, he set aside his personal views and assessed the attack with a professional eye.
If it went well, then great rewards would be reaped. If it didn’t...
‘Then there will be a price to pay.’
An aide appeared at his side, a cough announcing his presence.
“Yes, Comrade Mayor?”
“The replacement officers are here, Comrade Leytenant General.”
‘At last, some good news!’
“Excellent! Show them into the dining room and make sure they are given food. I will be there shortly.”
The Major trotted off to herd the gaggle of newly arrived officers into the school’s dining room. He had anticipated his General’s orders and the heavily panelled room was already laid out to provide refreshment to the dozen colonels arriving to fill dead men’s shoes.
Galitsky, accompanied by his Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Semenov, quietly observed the group and make swift judgements.
Ten men, Colonels and Lieutenant Colonels clad in immaculate uniforms, were clearly products of the search for qualified officers mounted across the length and breadth of the Motherland. Men from rear-echelon units, reserve units, or culled from some backwater on the Caspian Sea. Men whose chests bore the awards of service to the State in matters other than the business for which they were now assembled; combat.
Two more Colonels, stood apart from the others, were something completely different. Front line beasts, both of whom wore the Hero Award and more besides, marks of their prowess and, hopefully, competence.
There were vacancies across the range of Galtisky’s formations, as the fighting had savaged his leadership groups.
With the new attack in mind and, in the knowledge of his own planning, he assigned the two smart but worn Colonels to the formation that would bear much of the strain.
On cue, Semenov announced their presence and the room sprang to attention.
Left to right, each man introduced himself as Galitsky welcomed them in turn, listening to a brief resume of each officer’s service. Referring to a clipboard held out by Semenov, the 11th Guards’ commander assigned each man to a vacant slot, once the newcomer’s credentials had been established.
Galitsky turned to the last two Colonels, assessing each in turn and seeing firmness in each man, but also a weariness reserved for those who have spent more than their fair share of time playing with the devil’s horsemen.
He nodded at the first man and returned his salute.
Each man introduced himself in turn.
“Comrade General, Polkovnik Deniken, formerly a battalion commander in 16th Guards Rifle Division of 36th Guards Rifle Corps.”
“Ah yes, I’ve heard of you, Vladimir Vissarionavich. You have performed brilliantly throughout the war and your arrest was totally misplaced. I hope that you weren’t ill-treated, Comrade?”
The truth would serve no purpose, so a lie slipped easily from his lips.
“My treatment was satisfactory, thank you, Comrade General.”
Galitsky knew it for the lie it was.
He took a quick look at the clipboard j
ust to confirm his memory.
“Well, Comrade Polkovnik, I’m afraid that I cannot spare you. Your assignment is not an easy one and you’ll be taking your men in danger’s path again. Competence attracts such tasks, of course.”
Deniken’s silence spoke volumes.
“You’ll assume command of 1st Guards Rifle Division, within the 16th Guards Rifle Corps. I’m having as many of the men of your old unit transferred to you as I can find.”
The sound of Semenov’s pen scratching away on the list followed and Deniken received his written orders, the two officers exchanging salutes by way of terminating the exchange.
Galitsky turned to the last man.
He raised a hand, stopping the Colonel before he could even start.
“You, I know, Comrade Polkovnik. Your reputation precedes you. Again, your arrest was ill-conceived and I'm pleased that the authorities have seen sense.”
He leant in towards the tank officer, lowering his voice and inviting the listener forward and into his confidence.
“From what I understand, we should have been awarding you another one of those stars, rather than holding you accountable for matters beyond your control.”
Both men recovered their poise and Galitsky continued, introducing formality to cover his genuine respect for the man in front of him.
“You, Comrade Polkovnik Yarishlov, you are assigned to command 120th Special Tank Brigade, also part of 16th Guards Rifle Corps, where your undoubted skills will once more be tested in the service of the Motherland.”
Semenov completed the form with a flourish, passed it to Yarishlov and stepped back.
“Now then, Comrades. Go and get settled in with your men. You’ll have only a few days before the Rodina will call on you again. Use the hours wisely.”
Salutes were offered and received and the two Colonels departed.
Galitsky and Semenov followed after a moment’s pause and observed the two soldiers parting on the steps to the old school.
His shrewd eye took in every aspect of the scene.
“Those two are more than comrades, Ivan.”
Semenov grunted.
“Those two are friends; we should use that to our advantage.”
A second grunt.
“Let’s have a look at the plan and see if we can’t bring the 1st and 120th into closer cooperation eh?”
Semenov proffered the clipboard with a smile, the heavy markings clearly joining the two units together and annotated with a single word.
‘Tovariches.’
“Just as well I know you're not after my job, Ivan!”
With a deadpan look, Semenov delivered the coup de grace.
“Not likely, Comrade General. I wouldn’t get a Chief of Staff half as good as you’ve got, would I?”
Since August 1945, the 1st Guards Rifle Corps and 120th Tank Brigade had both suffered horrendous casualties and were now being pieced back together with a hotch potch of men and equipment.
In the case of the former, personnel from destroyed formations were combined with men who had once been incarcerated by the Nazi regime.
The latter was more fortunate, receiving a very high proportion of experienced men from the destroyed 2nd Guards Tank Corps.
No sooner had Yarishlov taken command of the120th Tanks than it ceased to be, by order of STAVKA, assuming the title of a formation immolated in the previous month’s conflict.
Yarishlov found himself in command of the newly elevated 7th Guards Special Tank Brigade, its new elite status bought by the sacrifice of those no longer alive.
True to their gut feelings, Galitsky and Semenov restyled their planning to place the two units in mutual support.
On such whims are the fates of nations decided.
It is absolutely true in war, were other things equal, that numbers, whether men, shells, bombs, etc, would be supreme. Yet it is also absolutely true that other things are never equal and can never be equal.
J. F. C. Fuller
Chapter 107 - THE ALPS
1057 hrs, Wednesday 13th November 1945, Headquarters of 1st Alpine Front, Schloss Maria Loretto, Klagenfurt, Austria.
Chuikov was delighted and yet, in the same breath, expressed disappointment.
The gains made by 1st Alpine were pretty much according to schedule, with the sole exception of Villach, where the British infantry and tanks had stopped his force bloodily, sending the lead formation reeling backwards.
His orders to the Corps Commander had been simple to understand.
‘Attack again and take the position immediately.’
Chuikov was an uncomplicated general.
Unlike his peers in the European sector, he was prepared for the higher than normal expenditures in the necessaries of war, a preparation that had proved more than adequate as the nature and terrain reduced ammunition and fuel use. The additional toll on his men and animals in portering the heavy loads was not factored in.
A telephone discussion with Yeremenko, recently returned from a meeting with Marshal Konev, had proved timely and fruitful, the men finding their discussion revealled a potential issue at the join between their forces, one that was addressed by swift messages to the Army commanders, requiring a tightening up of the front before the Allies exploited the small void.
Yeremenko echoed Chuikov’s experiences, in as much as 1st Southern European Front was seeing very little by way of Allied air activity.
Soviet air regiments, accepting the problems of operating in extreme conditions, seemed to be doing very well in support, although Yeremenko’s Frontal Aviation Commander had reported higher levels of losses to weather and accident than normal.
None the less, both senior men accepted the ramped up losses in air units as an offset for the close support the Red Air Force was providing.
One coup had been the capture of two usable bridges over the Drau, the first at Patemion, the second totally undamaged at Feistritz an der Drau.
The Red Air Force had savaged a half-hearted RAF attempt to destroy the crossings and decimated a counter-attack aimed at recovering Feistritz. That four of the RAF aircraft had already crashed en route to the target had lessened the enthusiasm of the Allied flyers and the appearance of the Soviet LAGG’s had easily dissuaded the Squadron commander from pressing home the attack.
For Chuikov, being able to put forces on the south-western bank of the Drau meant that his plan to capture Villach was greatly assisted. Its capture would trap a good size portion of the British Army against the Yugoslav border.
In a departure from his normal style, Chuikov had ensured that extremely specific orders had been issued and cascaded down to platoon level, stressing the importance of not violating the Yugoslavian boundaries, a brief he was given directly by Konev at each meeting and during each phone call. Yeremenko constantly received a similar instruction in regard to Swiss neutrality and its preservation.
However, Chuikov had additional and very secret orders that required him to orchestrate an attempt to bring the Yugoslavs into the war against the Allies. He was to promote circumstances where the British and Commonwealth units might be forced into some act that would drag Tito’s soldiers into the fight. When he first received the order, his eyes were drawn to Villach and he cut his cloth accordingly. The capture of Villach was seen as an excellent opportunity to bring that about, by way of Allied units violating the borders of Yugoslavia in an attempt to escape being cut off, whilst the Red Army would be able to look innocent of the charge when the Yugoslavian leader started beating his chest.
The lead units of the 1st Alpine plunged south, taking advantage of their unexpectedly intact river crossings, forces either side of the river almost racing down the Drau valley, the important junction at Villach their goal.
0027 hrs, Thursday 14th November 1945, Allied defensive positions at Töplitsch & Puch, Austria.
Fig#75 - Allied forces defending and Puch, Austria, 14th November 1945.
Fig#76 - Töplitsch and Puch, Austria, 0027 hrs, 14th N
ovember 1945.
“It’s so cold, Corp.”
Kearney counted it off mentally.
‘That’s the feckin dozenth time, boyo.’
“That’s cos it’s fucking winter, Nipper.”
“Wasn’t ever this fierce at home, Corp, never.”
Kearney’s exasperation prompted him to mischief.
“Did yer hear that, Nipper?”
The new boy took a breath of the painful air before replying in a whisper.
“No, Corp, not a sausage, Corp.”
The NCO raised an eyebrow in judgement, accompanying the gesture with a shake of the head.
“Blimey. Bloody deaf as well’a two left feet, ya eejit.”
The boy had been with the platoon since June and seemed unable to grasp even the most basic of soldierly qualities. However, Kearney was drawn to his honesty and gullibility in equal measure, hence them pairing up on one of the platoon’s Bren guns.
“Listen harder now, boyo.”
Private Walshe screwed up his eyes and strained his ears, concentrating on imagined shadows and sounds coming from the woods to his front. He failed to see the small motion of Corporal Kearney’s left hand, flicking two stones to one side, one after the other.
“Feck me yes, Corp. Two noises, clear as day they were!”
His whispers sounded like shouts in the still night and Kearney wished he hadn’t started the game, but only for a moment.
“That were the sound of ma balls dropping off, you stupid gobshite!”
The boy’s clear confusion undermined Kearney’s pleasure at the prank.
“Oh feckin hell, nipper! Just slagging ya. Jesus.”
A third voice joined in.
“Shut yer fucking mouth, Kearney, yer fucking header. One more prank like that and I’ll have the fucking stripes off yer... one more fucking time and that’ll be an end to it, y’hear me?”
