Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  It was cut short permanently.

  Two torpedoes struck her at either end of her starboard side, and she went to the bottom in seconds.

  HNoMS Utsira, once a British V Class submarine, had been as lucky as the Lembit had been unlucky.

  At the Baltic Naval headquarters, the incomplete message was interpreted correctly, and Lembit was considered lost, although not in vain, as the radio message gave them a rough area of where the enemy fleet was now.

  The Norwegian submarine, having recently deposited some serious looking men on Mon Island, slipped away towards her assigned station in the Hjelm Bugt, south of Mon.

  Istomin’s regiment was one of those pulled from their own search area and sent towards the Island of Mon, just a few kilometres west of where Lembit had been sunk.

  The latest reports on the commando raids all over Soviet-held Denmark were limited, and often garbled, but were enough to make them believe their own deductions and commit to them.

  Contact between the air forces were expected, and no-one saw anything out of the ordinary in the reports of clashes.

  The Soviet pilots were ordered to bore in on the enemy ships, regardless of loss, the considered naval advice convincing everyone that the destruction of any troop carriers and supply ships was of maximum importance.

  So, being brave men for the most part, that is exactly what they did, accepting the casualties as they drove in hard, all the time searching for their prime targets.

  Aircraft after aircraft splashed into the Baltic, the majority bearing the Red Star.

  Istomin’s Tupolev-2 led the mainly inexperienced men of the 911th Bomber Air Regiment, some of whom felt the pressure for no other reason than they were flying over water for the first time.

  All could hear the reports of combat from an area ahead. None were of contact with the enemy fleet; all described contact with the allied protective aircraft screen.

  Istomin had taken his regiment through the gap between Sweden and Rønne. They looked down, noting a number of the Baltic Fleet’s vessels carving white trenches in the blue water, as they raced towards the growing battle.

  One, he thought it had been a destroyer, exploded and was gone beneath the water, as quick as it took to focus the eye.

  The water betrayed three white lines, the wakes of small vessels, certainly not Soviet, now heading at a very high speed towards the west, and the entrance to the Øresund.

  The Regimental commander’s radio operator called in the details, as the rest of the unit snatched looks at the small but vicious battle that was developing off the shore of Sweden.

  Istomin swept the sky to his front, and saw them high and to his left.

  “Attention! Unknown aircraft, high, bearing 260 degrees. Come right 10 degrees. Increase speed on me.”

  The 911th responded like veterans.

  Casualties amongst the Soviet bomber crews had been extremely heavy since the first day in August, and less than a half of the original aircrew were still flying; the rest were either lying between clean sheets in hospitals or beneath freshly turned soil.

  Those that were left lived by their nerves, senses, and skills.

  Istomin’s senses told him they were in trouble.

  His aircraft recognition skills confirmed it.

  ‘Mosquitoes.’

  Fortunately for the 911th, the Mosquitoes Mk VIs in question, 22 Squadron RAF, were already vectored in on a low-flying group of Tu2s, naval aviation versions equipped with torpedoes.

  Each RAF aircraft sported four Hispano cannons and four .303 Brownings.

  Their firepower was tremendous, and the torpedo bombers suffered badly, five of their number falling in the first pass.

  Istomin focussed his young fliers on their own survival, calling them away from the sight of the fighting that now seemed to be spreading all around them.

  Another Soviet vessel was blazing below them, but only two white wakes were speeding around, indicating that the enemy had been hurt too.

  Excited shouts drew his eyes back to the torpedo bombers, and he saw two Mosquitoes wrapped together, steadily whirling into the sea below.

  He also saw a tell-tale flash.

  “Attention! Unknown aircraft, high, bearing 280 degrees...”

  His mouth stopped working. These aircraft he knew too.

  ‘Germanski bastards!’

  And closing fast.

  “Attention, gain height left, gain height left, stay together, stay tight. Attacking aircraft are Germanski!”

  The distinct FW-190s, D9 versions, were not so efficient at altitude, which the commander of the 911th knew, so he made the decision to gain height.

  3rd Jagdstaffel was a mixed unit, and the FW190s were more than happy for their enemy to go higher, where their other aircraft were waiting.

  The eight Focke-Wulfs drove in hard and managed to pick off two of the Tupolevs with cannon and machine-gun fire, although the flight leader felt his performance drop off as one Soviet gunner put some rounds on target. The FW190 side-slipped away, the Hauptmann watching his gauges with increasing concern.

  3rd Jagdstaffel tore into Istomin’s Regiment from above and below, and ripped it apart.

  “He’s dead, Comrade Mayor. The weapon’s fine.”

  “Stay there and use it, Fyodor. There’s two coming in on your right now. Rolling left.”

  Fyodor Taw pulled the remains of his friend away from the Berezin machine-gun, and took up position, just in time to get off a burst at something he had never seen the like of before.

  It was one of six Dornier 335 Pfiels in the 3rd’s inventory.

  The Pfiel, or ‘Arrow’ as it was better known, was a push-pull aircraft with an engine on each end, capable of speeds in excess of four hundred and fifty miles per hour.

  Two swept past Istomin’s right side, having overshot.

  They found other prey, and employed the lessons of their first attack, the two inexperienced pilots throttling back to ensure that they put much of their cannon fire on target as possible.

  The Tupolev came apart as 30mm and 20mm shells literally destroyed its structure, allowing the wind and forward momentum to do the rest.

  Istomin spared the dying aircraft a quick look, recognising that it belonged to his one surviving crews from the old days.

  “Two more on our tail, Comrade. Ready to roll right... now!”

  The Tupolev responded like the thoroughbred it was, but the pilot still heard and felt impacts.

  The defensive machine-guns hammered out, and immediately squeals and shouts of joy filled his ears.

  An orange shape almost caressed the cockpit as it shot past, the Dornier streaming fire from its wounds. 12.7mm shells had wreaked havoc on the nose area. The German pilot battled with his aircraft, even as the front engine started to tear itself from its mountings. Fuel lines continued to deposit product throughout the area, and the flier realised that his craft was doomed.

  Not soon enough, as the nose came apart, and the engine parted company with the fuselage before coming back into contact with it, the propeller chopping into the right wing and causing it to fail.

  The Dornier, now as aerodynamic as a cardboard box , started to freefall in a gentle spin.

  The pilot could do nothing but sit in his doomed aircraft, and ride it into the Baltic, as the centrifugal forces kept him pressed into his seat and unable to bail out.

  Istomin did not see the Arrow’s end, his own concerns more pressing, as his control column started to shake uncontrollably and the Tupolev inexplicably lost height.

  He checked his instruments.

  ‘Running hot?’

  A quick look confirmed damage on the starboard engine cowling. Closer examination revealed a leak of something vital, possibly coolant, plus extensive damage to the right aileron hinges.

  “Just you and me now, Comrade Mayor. They’re both dead.”

  The Ta-152 version of the Focke-Wulf was designed for high-altitude interception; sleek, deadly, and the ultimate k
iller in the Focke-Wulf series. Its performance at lower altitude was not so good, but it was more than adequate for the task of chopping down an injured Tupolev.

  Unterfeldwebel Feinsterman drifted in behind the wounded Soviet bomber and lined up the shot.

  A stream of tracer from the upper machine gun position angered him, and he shifted his aim, destroying the area with his cannons.

  It was not until he tried to press his pedals that he realised that his right thigh had taken a bullet, and that not all was well with the Focke-Wulf.

  The smell of burning reached his nostrils at the same time as the iron smell of his own blood.

  The smoke came next, and he overshot his target as he struggled to establish what was happening to his aircraft.

  Istomin, following the path of the 152 carefully, decided to manoeuvre upwards in a rapid rise, not realising that the enemy pilot had his mind on other things.

  The tip of his port propeller clipped the rear of the German aircraft, adding to Feinsterman’s misery.

  As he wrestled with the virtually unresponsive aircraft, Istomin also had his own problems, as the rise had unseated part of the starboard aileron. The port propeller also remonstrated against its rough treatment, and started to spin off centre, providing an equally interesting and terrifying problem for a pilot already struggling to keep his aeroplane in the sky.

  A second 152 made an attack, producing many hits and making Istomin’s decision easy.

  He reached for his parachute, but the aircraft bucked without his hands on the controls. He grabbed them again, and slipped into the harness as best he could one handed. Changing hands, he reached around and noticed the third 152 making a beam attack.

  The stream of cannon shells virtually tore the canopy from the Soviet aircraft and Istomin found himself in an icy stream of air, as the front of the aircraft started to disintegrate.

  Snapping the harness lock, he took the opportunity provided, launched himself towards the growing hole, but found the air pressure defeated his attempt.

  Bizarrely, the Tupolev flew more steadily since the major damage, although the loss in height was faster now.

  Istomin felt the jerk as the aircraft pulled up, rising sharply as one part or another of the control surfaces was destroyed by the next attack.

  The Tupolev stalled and provided a moment of suspension; no forward momentum, nothing except a second of calm. That enabled the Soviet pilot to propel himself through the gaping hole, and into free air.

  Once his canopy had opened, he watched in fascination as the bomber slowly fell away into the sea.

  Looking around, he saw the remains of his regiment attempting to flee. The German fighters took them down one by one.

  The last surviving Tupolev simply fire-balled and described an incredibly bright orange arc across the sky, before extinguishing itself in the cold Baltic below.

  The air battle moved away, leaving Istomin to ponder his swimming abilities, and wonder about the enemy pilot dangling from the parachute three hundred metres below him.

  Spectrum Red was more successful than the planners could have hoped.

  The massed Allied fighters, over five hundred in total, consisting of training squadrons, reforming squadrons and just hastily thrown together air units, ripped through the Naval and Air force regiments, greatly assisted by the Soviet orders to press home the attack on a non-existent surface fleet.

  Torpedo boats and submarines enjoyed great success against the little ships of the Baltic fleet, although not without sustaining losses of their own.

  The MTBs, secreted in small bays and coves, dashed out to plant their torpedoes in the innards of passing destroyers and minesweepers, sending eight to the bottom in as many hours, as Spectrum Red continued. There seemed no end to thet supply of fresh fodder thrown at them by desperate men in the higher echelons of the Baltic Naval command.

  USAAF bombers carried out an unhindered attack on the Polish defenders of the First Army, hammering part of their northern shoreline.

  Amazingly, they pulverized a position that General Berling had ordered evacuated only an hour beforehand, and few Polish casualties were sustained. The Polish AA gunners put up a spirited defence, but failed to hit any of the American aircraft.

  A second US group destroyed an NKVD divisional camp just outside of Kolobrzeg, where the reverse was true. The bodies were too numerous to count and, in any case, those who would have counted them lay amongst the dead.

  Yet more USAAF squadrons struck targets across the Northern European coastline, hammering Soviet defensive positions that could oppose a forced landing.

  German infantry of the 264th Division launched an attack on Møn and Falster Islands, linking up with small groups of the SAS and SBS, who had been landed by submarines, tasked to wreak havoc on the Soviet air and AA defences.

  The advance was halted on both islands, short of Allied expectations, mainly because of fanatical resistance by the 40th Guards Rifle Corps.

  The five hundred plus Allied aircraft lost thirty-nine of their number, mainly to other aircraft. They inflicted at least three hundred casualties on the Soviet air forces, as well as sinking numerous vessels of the Baltic Fleet.

  The Naval contingent inflicted its own significant losses on the Soviets, claiming another eight enemy aircraft destroyed, along with fourteen destroyers, eleven minesweepers, and numerous smaller craft.

  One old MTB had been sacrificed to subterfuge, carefully beached and wrecked by a small crew, who ‘fell’ into the hands of Swedish Military Intelligence officers, and were subsequently paraded as aggressors by a Sweden anxious to portray a rigorously enforced neutrality.

  Two smaller Soviet vessels had actually been destroyed by the Swedish defences, so the destroyed MTB was seen as support for the notion that the Swedes did not take sides.

  HMS Rye, one of the minesweepers that had accompanied Force V, was caught by three Ilyushin-4 torpedo bombers and sunk, two torpedoes cutting the old ship in half

  HMS Sabre, an S Class submarine, failed to return home, and it was subsequently discovered that Soviet bombers had sunk her off the Island of Fehmarn.

  As the day turned its back on the sun, the last acts of the tragedy were played out.

  Istomin had tied his life raft to that of the German pilot, producing something that supported both their legs, or at least his, and what was left of his enemy’s.

  Feinsterman’s right thigh was a mess. Five bullets had struck home, mangling the flesh, but missing artery and bone by some lucky chance.

  Another bullet had shattered his ankle and destroyed the nerve endings, which was why Feinsterman had not felt the fire start to consume his toes.

  The cold water continued with its anaesthetising effect, but the German was still in a lot of pain and moaned constantly.

  It had taken Istomin a little while to realise that the enemy pilot had also broken his arm when he hit the water, and so he took over the duty of passing the man water from his supply.

  Extracting a cigarette from his waterproof container, Istomin lit it and slid it between the lips of his recent adversary.

  The man’s eyes responded in thanks.

  The extreme cold played its part, and soon the German was dead, leaving Istomin to try and survive.

  He pulled the jacket from the corpse, wrung it out as best he could, and wrapped himself in it to keep the growing wind away from him.

  The cold gnawed at him, reducing him to a shadow ,and eventually he fell in unconsciousness.

  He did not feel the hands that grabbed hold of him, and lifted him the short distance into the rowing boat.

  The lifeboat, a cutter, the sole boat launched from the stricken destroyer Gremyashchy, contained the sixteen survivors of the dive-bombing attack that had sunk their ship.

  Three men had succumbed to their injuries, and Istomin was laid on their bodies and covered a tarpaulin as the oarsmen took up the stroke once more.

  The commanding officer, an engine room Lieutena
nt, leant over the side and stabbed the life rafts four times each, releasing the air, and letting Feinsterman’s body slip below the waters.

  To the southwest, HNoMS Utsira had moved to the mouth of the Øresund, ordered to watch for any Soviet naval penetration northwards, in pursuit of the retiring Force V.

  Whilst running silently, her crew celebrated the sinking of the Soviet submarine with a bottle of Pils each, specially laid up by the Captain for such an occasion.

  Even as the First officer and the Navigator clinked their bottles together, a low metallic sound rang through the hull.

  Some knew what it was and prayed.

  Others knew what it was and drank their beer.

  The rest died in ignorance.

  L3, or rather one of her mines, claimed the last victim of the day, a day that had destroyed Soviet Naval Aviation in the Baltic, destroyed many Air Force bomber Regiments and, as Vice-Admiral Tributs candidly said shortly afterwards, left the Baltic Fleet just about capable of policing a children’s swimming pool.

  Had it not been for Trieste and the Yugoslavians, Eisenhower and his staff would have been elated.

  0937 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, Karup, Denmark.

  The USAAF Colonel sat comfortably, sharing a coffee and pastries with the Danish Air Force officer.

  “Well, as you said, Oberst Lauridson. The Germans have done much of our work but, that being said, my birds have some very special requirements. Shall we?”

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin and pulled out a large blueprint, unrolling it on the Danish Colonel’s desk.

  “These are the works that’ll need to be completed before the base is considered ready, but they sure don’t amount to a hill of beans, and won’t take more than a month tops, depending on the weather.”

  Quickly considering the sketch work, Lauridson shrugged.

  “Sooner, Colonel. Two weeks at the most... depending on the weather”