by Gee, Colin
The Bomber stream tore the Gardelegen Woods to pieces, destroying acres of trees and occasionally being rewarded with a secondary explosion. Seventeen more bombers were lost but they reported success and the obliteration of the target.
Unfortunately for them and, more importantly, the British and Canadian units in the line at Hannover, the units of 6th Guards Tank Army that had occupied hidden positions in the target area had moved as soon as night descended on the countryside. Apart from a handful of supply trucks and lame duck vehicles, nothing of consequence had been destroyed.
At Ceska Kubice, the results were far better, with the Soviet 4th Guards Tank Corps and 7th Guards Cavalry Corps still laagering, hidden and believing themselves safe. Medium and heavy bombers bathed the area in high explosives, destroying tanks, horses and men in equal measure. It was an awful blood-letting and the survivors were in no mood to take prisoners when the New Zealand crew of a stricken Lancaster parachuted down nearby. Cavalry sabres flashed in the firelight, continuing on when life was long since extinct and the victims no longer resembled men.
On the ground, the results of Soviet attacks on the Allied units were quite devastating, as the Soviet Armies resorted to their normal tactic of concentrating their attacks, focussing on specific points.
Whole battalions were swept away in an avalanche of shells and rockets.
On each of the five chosen focal points breakthrough was achieved swiftly, the leading Soviet units passing through a desolate landscape, tainted by the detritus of what a few minutes beforehand had been human beings and the weapons they served.
Occasionally, a group of shell-shocked troops rallied and fought back, but in the main, only the odd desultory shot greeted the advancing Red Army.
The reports of advances were immediately sent back and within twenty minutes Zhukov knew he had all five breakthroughs ready to exploit, and ordered the operations to go ahead as planned.
Ten minutes after Zhukov’s orders went out, a bleary eyed Eisenhower, woken from his much needed sleep to swiftly throw on his previous day’s shirt and trousers, learned that he no longer had an intact front line and that a disaster was in the making.
Swift telephone conversations with his Army Commanders took place, each man in turn receiving a simple order.
“Reform your line, General, reform your line.”
Each was different, for McCreery had problems contrasting those of Bradley, who had worse problems than Devers et al.
Eisenhower felt like Old Mother Hubbard. He already knew that he had probably just lost the best part of three divisions of good fighting troops and he sought replacements. The cupboard was all but bare.
Some units were coming ashore in France, some in England. A few were already moving forward to their staging areas near the Rhine, ready for operational deployment.
Setting his staff to the problems of logistics, he let them take the strain whilst he sucked greedily on a cigarette and watched the situation map as the disaster unfolded.
Report followed report, problem heaped on problem, as the Red Army moved relentlessly and surprisingly quickly forward.
Ike stubbed out number one having lit number two from its dying butt, spotting the normally dapper but now quite dishevelled Tedder approach, half an eye on his Commander in Chief and half a horrified eye on the situation map.
So shocked was the Air Chief Marshall that he stopped, mouth open wide, watching as blue lines were removed to be replaced by red arrows.
Eisenhower moved to the RAF officer, who seemed rooted to the spot.
“Arthur, they’ve hit us bad and we’re in pieces as you see.”
The Englishman managed a nod accompanied by a grimace as arrows, red in colour, appeared moving north of München.
“I want maximum effort from you, maximum effort. Get everyone in the air that can carry a bomb or a machine-gun. I will get you my list of target priorities within the next hour. Send everyone, Arthur, even those who have been out tonight.”
That drew a dismayed look from Tedder, this time aimed at Ike.
The complaint grew on his lips but withered under Eisenhower’s unusually hard gaze.
“Arthur, I know your boys will be tired, and I know the casualties will reflect that. Send them in later if you must, but send them in, come what may. Are we clear?”
Tedder stiffened.
“Yes, General, we are clear. There will be a turnaround time in any case, so I can rest them, but it is a long time since they have done day ops.”
Eisenhower, both hands extended palms towards his man, spoke softly.
“I know, Arthur. I am asking a lot of them but I think much will be asked of many this day, don’t you?”
The Air Chief Marshall couldn’t buck that at all; especially as he caught the stream of arrows around München grow further out the corner of his eye.
“Very well Sir. I will get them ready for a maximum effort. Target list will be with me by five?”
“I will do my very best, Arthur.”
The man sped away, his mind already full of orders and thoughts of incredulous RAF officers reading them as tired crews touched down at bases all over Europe.
No one was going to be spared on this day.
Four Mosquitoes of 605 Squadron RAF had been tasked with destroying a Soviet engineer bridge laid over the Fuhse River at Groß Ilsede, the main road bridge having been dropped into the water by British demolition engineers some days previously.
The plan was for the lead aircraft to mark with flares to permit the rest of the flight to drop accurately.
Squadron Leader Pinnock and his navigator, Flying Officer Rogers, both knew their stuff inside out and the Mk XXV Mosquito arrived on time and on target, releasing its illumination.
Flight Lieutenant Johar, a Sikh and the squadron’s top bomber, was confused. The landmarks were quite clearly right; the parallel railway, the watery curve, both present and yet it wasn’t there.
Johar streaked over the target area, his bombs firmly on board, closely followed by three and four, equally confused. Navigators did checks and came up with the same result.
“This is the right place, dead on, Skipper, no question” Rogers holding out his handwork for his boss to examine.
“Roger Bill,” Pinnock decided not to bother with the normal banter involving Rogers' name and radio procedure that whiled away hours of lonely flying for the pair.
Thumbing his mike he spoke to the others.
“This is Baker lead, this is Baker lead. Mission abort, say again mission abort. Take out the rail track rather than dump ordnance.”
The bombs rained down, savaging the track running to the east of the Fuhse, rendering it useless for days to come.
605’s professionalism was such that no more was said over the radio until they touched down at Wyton some hours later.
The base adjutant, debriefing the crews, insisted that there must have been a navigational mistake until all four navigators produced their documentation, setting aside his first query.
This raised a rather interesting second one.
"My rule is, if you meet the weakest vessel, attack; if it is a vessel equal to yours, attack; and if it is stronger than yours, also attack."
Admiral Stepan O. Makarov [1849-1904]
Chapter 56 – THE SINKINGS
0603 hrs, Monday 13th August 1945, aboard Submarine B-29, Irish Sea, Two miles north of Rathlin Island.
Somewhere to the north of B-29 lay another Soviet submarine, probably drifting slowly up into a firing position on the unsuspecting enemy vessels. The ex-German type XXI U-Boat, now crewed by Soviet naval personnel, had been pulled from its patrol off the French coast and sent to operate out of Glenlara.
The two boats intended for the Irish Station had only just been tested as seaworthy and the Soviet Naval Command needed a capability in British home waters, and B-29 was it.
The Type XXI’s represented the peak of submarine development, and had the Germans produced them in large
enough numbers things may have turned out differently for the western allies. Soviet submariners were now demonstrating the vessels capabilities off France, America and Ireland, sinking a large number of enemy vessels without loss. Capable of schnorkelling virtually indefinitely, the XXI’s were designed to operate constantly submerged, confounding the enemy AS tactics.
B-29 had been very successful over the last few days, sinking a number of merchant vessels. Even though it had been stressed that naval targets were a secondary priority, Captain 3rd Rank Yuri Olegevich Rybin had been unable to resist the big battleship he thought was the Duke of York, sending her to the bottom of the Atlantic with four deadly torpedoes. The riposte from the escorts was misdirected and B-29 slipped quietly away, popping up twelve hours later to rip open an escort carrier and a large tanker with a six shot spread.
With only five fish left, Rybin chose to drop back closer to shore and the rearming base secretly established at Glenlara in Eire.
His plan did not survive the mouth-watering encounter with the large shapes in the fog. Initially drawn forward to make visual contact by his sonar reports, a snatched look through the periscope promised more gross tonnage than he could have ever dreamed of.
A contact report was sent to headquarters and a swift reply was received, the commander there trying to put B-29 and the arriving ShCh-307 into an ambush position north of Rathlin Island.
This he did with ease, and both submarines now lay in position for the kill.
0629 hrs, Monday 13th August 1945, aboard Submarine Shch-307, Irish Sea, four miles north-north-east of Rathlin Island.
Kalinin had managed to get his submarine a long way, despite being harassed and attacked on a daily basis in the North Sea. He had made a feint towards the northeast coast of England, killed a fishing trawler to draw attention, and then reversed course, slipping around the tip of Scotland and taking the risky route between Skye and Lewis to make up time.
307’s sonar was picking up engine sounds, exciting the operator, who recognised them as belonging to larger, more valuable beasts.
His periscope shot up and down in an instant, but long enough for Kalinin to see little but the fog and a number of dark shapes.
Starting his attack, he repeated the process every two minutes, pleasantly surprised that the shapes were becoming more distinct with each cycle. Information was constantly updated, and his torpedoes prepared for their short but deadly journey.
His scope broke water for the sixth time, and he on this occasion he dwelt long enough to fix two images in his mind.
Bearings revised and computed, he ordered the target book to be made ready at the navigation station. This was once the property of the Kreigsmarine, written in German but with neat, handwritten Russian notations.
‘First, the warship.’
In control of himself, he calmly opened the book at the intended page and was immediately satisfied that he had his quarry.
His officers waited eagerly, the routines observed as normal. Turning the book around so they could see more clearly, he placed a finger on the silhouette of the vessel they were about to kill.
Eyes sought the shape and married it with the bold handwritten Cyrillic text indicating the USS Ranger, aircraft carrier of fourteen thousand, five hundred tons displacement. Aircraft carriers were an exception to the warship rule, mainly because they were being used to transport aircraft reinforcements to mainland Europe, and that had to be prevented at all costs.
Word on the identity of their intended victim spread swiftly through the crew, and it was necessary for some of the older senior ranks to calm their younger crewmates.
For the second target, Kalinin had to go searching, and, as he turned the pages, his officers found other distractions. After all, what could be as good as a juicy Amerikanski carrier?
Kalinin slid a piece of paper in between the pages and moved back to the periscope stand. Opening the book at the mark, he took in the image once more and ordered his scope raised.
Now the vessel was revealed more clearly as the early morning fog had disappeared; what he saw was definitely the shape he had identified in the target book.
“Down scope.”
He opened the book and alternated between examining his prize and looks at his officers, drawing them in as they realised that there was more to be had than an Amerikanski flat top.
“Fortune smiles on us today, Comrades. We have an illustrious guest.”
There was expectant, almost childish schoolboy silence throughout the control room as Kalinin placed the open book down and tapped the image.
“An illustrious guest indeed.”
Gasps of surprise and softly spoken oaths filled the heavy air, as each man identified the RMS Aquitania, a four-funnel liner. A beast of over forty-five thousand tons, she would undoubtedly be carrying many troops, and sinking her would be a huge victory for the Soviet Navy.
“Comrades, we attack.”
A similar scene had been played out three thousand yards to the south-west, where Rybin and his crew had experienced a similar wave of euphoria after identifying the two prime targets lining themselves up in front of his tubes.
Sonar identified a number of smaller craft, escorts flitting around their charges like nervous sheepdogs, hounds that sensed a wolf in the hills.
B-29’s periscope broke the surface again, and more information was relayed for the firing solution.
‘Perfect.’
Rybin manouevred his boat gently on steerage power only, turning her gently into the correct angle.
The excitement in the boat was tangible, the atmosphere heavy with expectation and fear, the ever-present companions of the submariner.
The German contractors, hijacked when they had left Danzig, still remained onboard, but were not now permitted to be at the controls during attacks.
Starshina 2nd Class Mutin, overseeing the planes crew, was as excited as everyone else, but became distracted by it all, watching his captain formulate the attack rather than his own station. One of his planesmen, a young Matrose, sneezed, his eyes watering and his body gathering itself for a repeat. In the act of sneezing, the plane angle altered imperceptibly.
Rybin ordered the scope up for one last check.
A swift look told him that something was wrong and he screamed at the Starshina, the man’s horrified silence quickly giving way to rapped out orders, bringing the vessel back down to its attack depth again.
Incandescent with rage, but sufficiently in control to proceed, Rybin checked bearings and shot, six torpedoes fired and running in short order.
The Starshina was relieved and placed in the custody of the Senior Rating for a later court-martial.
Twenty seconds after B-29 attacked, Kalinin had his own fish in the water, two torpedoes targeted on each of the prime vessels.
Immediately after their release, he had gone deeper and turned west, intending to slip through to Glenlara and the supplies he desperately needed. Maybe another captain might have reloaded his last two torpedoes and gone after the group again, but Kalinin had survived thus far on his judgement, and he judged that he might need them before the coast of Eire offered up its comforts and promise of safe haven.
In the control room, he went into his routine as the stopwatch counted down. His rendition of Tchaikovsky grew in volume, heading unerringly to its intended climax.
The crew of Shch-307 were not disappointed and it seemed all four torpedoes found their mark.
Onboard B-29, things were more subdued. The young Starshina was popular, but no one could deny his guilt and that he had placed the whole crew at risk.
The senior midshipman had the stopwatch and looked confused when explosions started to hammer through the water.
“The other boat, young Alexandrov, the other boat.”
Nodding his understanding, the midshipman returned to his task, using his fingers to bring the count down from five to impact.
His countdown came to naught.
Repeating t
he process, he was again unrewarded.
Rybin remained poker-faced but inwardly seething.
Third time lucky, and the midshipman’s effort was rewarded with a deep rumble, which sound filled the boat and eased the tense situation.
Two more followed in quick succession, but the final fish failed to hit home.
None the less, three hard hits had been achieved and reloading was already underway. B-29 could be back in the attack very soon.
Rybin went to the chart table and looked again at the scenario, trying to find out what went wrong with the attack and the waste of three valuable fish.
The scared sonar operator’s shouted warning rose above the hubbub in the control room, and immediately the submarine was thrown about by a pair of explosions close by.
‘Aircraft dropped depth charges,’ stated the clinical part of Rybin’s mind, which also knew the answer as to how they had spotted B-29.
‘That idiot Mutin.’
After the attack, the XXI had gone deeper and manoeuvred back around to head east, trying to stay in an attack position.
Quickly mapping out the scenario, Rybin ordered a further dive and turn to port, heading in towards the escorts and his previous targets.
More explosions followed as the attacking Sunderland put the rest of its depth bombs on the money. It could not really miss, seeing as the enemy sub was dragging a large white fender with it wherever it went.
Actually, it wasn’t Mutin’s fault at all. Fate had dealt badly with B-29, conspiring to catch a floating fender’s line with the periscope and causing the submarine to pull it along, leaving a very obvious mark on the sea for the Sunderland crew to follow.
Bulbs shattered and joints burst as the vessel was engulfed in the pressure waves. Shaken from stem to stern, the vessel screamed in indignation as German engineering was tested to its fullest degree. Limbs were broken and flesh was torn, as men were dashed against unforgiving surfaces.
