by Gee, Colin
Summoning back Blue Flight, the Squadron Commander led his men into a side attack, disrupting the Yak’s and chopping three from the sky before they could properly react.
Below, De Villiers drove his own flight upwards, throttles to the max to get back to his charges.
His eyes focussed on the battle above and he saw the orange blossom of a large explosion, not realising that his commander and a junior Soviet pilot had come together in the melee, both aircraft disintegrating in a fireball, both pilots instantly dead.
Another Meteor was falling from the sky, one wing removed at the fuselage, rotating madly like a sycamore seed pod, a victim of cannon fire. The G forces held the wounded pilot in place all the way to its end.
Two more Yak’s were going down, one falling in a huge fireball to explode two thousand feet above the ground.
De Villiers throttled back and swept in behind a pair of Yaks intent on breaking through to the Lancaster’s of 460 Squadron.
His four Hispano cannons dispatched the first with ease, the heavy shells knocking the tail assembly into pieces, the Yak simply dropping away and rotating uncontrollably all the way to its end.
The second aircraft suddenly slowed, and De Villiers overshot his prey, registering the lowered undercarriage as he went and mentally congratulating his opponent. A steady rattle told the South African that his aircraft had been hit. His controls seemed fine, and he recovered his position in time to watch his wingman dispatch the second aircraft.
Probably a dozen Yaks had now been downed for the loss of two Meteors, plus one further jet staggering away streaming smoke from a damaged engine.
None the less, the Russian pilots drove in hard once more and succeeded in chopping another bomber from the sky before the remaining Meteors reorganised and forced them off again.
A pair of Yaks limped away, smoking badly, damaged and out of the fight, only to be chopped from the sky by a flight of Typhoons returning from savaging the Flak positions around Bahlberg.
Anxious to join in further, the four Typhoons applied power and rose higher, clawing another Yak from the sky before they were spotted.
Their arrival was enough for the Soviet Regimental Commander and he called off the attack, satisfied that his last burst had damaged another of the huge British bombers. The Yaks hauled off and dived away for the relative safety of their own lines.
Flying Officer Baines slid in behind the fighter that had just knocked lumps off a Lancaster and sent a stream of cannon shells into it, transforming the aircraft into a flying junk yard in the briefest moment and killing the pilot instantly.
The now leaderless Soviet Regiment withdrew to lick its wounds.
Realising that he was now the senior man, De Villiers organised his surviving aircraft, positioning the group correctly once more, just in time to watch 460 Squadron drop their bombs and turn for home.
The damaged Lancaster struggled to keep up but fell out of the bomber stream, as more smoke and then flame leapt from its starboard inner engine and wing. AR-L lost height, and De Villiers watched as parachute canopies started to appear.
Fascinated though he was, he dragged his eyes away to survey the sky. With no threat apparent, he returned to the stricken bomber. With detached professional interest, he watched the fire grow and engulf the inner starboard wing. He also counted six canopies floating in the breeze.
The Lancaster bled height as the pilot struggled to land his charge, and all the time the fire developed.
Reaching a critical point, the wing failed and folded at the junction with the fuselage. In the Lancasters, Typhoons and Meteors above, numerous watchers spoke many a word of prayer in recognition of the brave man, who died as the inferno struck the ground and exploded.
Tearing his eyes away from the crash site, De Villiers assessed the mission. Of nine meteors, two had been shot down, including the Squadron Commander. Another two had limped away, leaving a grand total of five, including his own craft. The Typhoons, whoever they were, had not lost an aircraft, which was a positive, but that was balanced by the loss of at least three Lancasters that he knew of.
The enemy had paid a heavy price, with five of the Lavochkins felled and over a dozen of the Yaks destroyed. The numbers were in his favour but he knew the overall balance of forces was not, and Pyrrhic victories were of no use to a hard-pressed allied air force.
The raid’s objectives were to destroy the railway junction at Winsen and to take out the crossing points over the Luhe River. In the former case, the results were disappointing, with only a moderate amount of damage done. However, in the latter cases, save Luhdorf, the results were excellent. Both the recently repaired road and rail bridges at Winsen were obliterated; similarly the two bridges at Bahlburg.
The crossing points at Roydorf were damaged, but not badly so, and with swift efforts by Soviet engineers the bridges were taking traffic within two hours. At Luhdorf, the Halifax Mk VI’s of 347 (French) Squadron FFAF missed the target and dropped their bombs into the centre of the town, killing Russian soldiers and German civilians in equal measure.
1312 hrs Monday 13th August 1945, Luhdorf, Germany
Slowly, Vladimir Stelmakh became aware of his surroundings. The external noises had stopped now but the hammering inside his head continued. By the modest interior light he could see the gunner and loader collapsed over each other, still out for the count.
Stretching out, he kicked the gunners hand and received a reaction, repeating the blow on the loaders dangling leg. Both were alive.
‘Good.’
Extending his arm, he undid the hatch and pushed upwards, not hearing the bricks slide off it but aware of the extra weight.
He cautiously stuck his head out of the hatch and examined his tank.
The IS-III was half buried in rubble and wood from the building it had parked beside, a gay and pleasant Gasthaus on Luhdorf’s Radbrucher Straβe.
‘Was’, he corrected himself, assessing the ruins.
He could see fire and smoke. He could see soldiers and civilians rushing round. He watched as an old house slowly collapsed. He realised he could hear nothing, the bombing having robbed him of that sense. He waggled his finger in his ear and withdrew it, the blood from a burst eardrum apparent on the tip.
He examined the scene further, noting the huge crater to his front, and the ruined carcass of the Regimental Commander’s tank decorating the rim.
Stelmakh stiffened and saluted whatever was left of a man he had admired.
He slowly took in the rest of the surroundings, noting with relief at the obvious closeness of his own demise, the bomb crater to the rear of his tank, this bomb having flipped another of his unit’s tanks on its roof. Again, no-one would have survived, although this tank at least could be recognised for what it once was.
Slowly, Stelmakh climbed out of the turret, becoming aware that his bladder had let go at sometime during the ordeal.
Sat at the front of the IS-III was Stepanov, Corporal, and driver of ‘Krasny Suka’. Vladimir didn’t like the name but it had been the choice of the crew’s previous commander. He had been a popular officer and had died of some medical condition. To change it could undermine crew efficiency, so he was stuck with ‘Red Bitch’ and had to like it.
Stepanov’s mouth moved and he offered up a pack of cigarettes. Stelmakh tapped his ears, and spoke words he could not hear above an internal resonant buzz. Stepanov laughed and indicated his own lack of hearing. Joined by both the gun crew, and sitting on the front of ‘Suka’, Stelmakh drew in the rich smoke and simply enjoyed living the life he thought he had lost an hour beforehand.
Medics found the four there twenty minutes later. A Doctor swiftly examined them and gave each a clean bill of health. The tankers grinned and thanked the doctor, despite the fact that none of the men could hear a word she said.
The medical team moved on and left the crew to themselves.
Stelmakh, gradually recovering his wits, if not his hearing, organised the crew to start
removing the rubble from on and around their tank.
By the time they had finished no hand was free from laceration or bruise, each man having sworn as fingers were crushed, his comrades all buoyed by the fact that the cursing was now apparent, as sound gradually began to filter back into their lives.
It took over two hours to free ‘Suka’ and drive her to the rally point, as designated by the temporary commander of the regiment, who had done the rounds of his surviving troopers.
The IS-III’s were not renowned for their mechanical reliability but Stepanov was a wizard, and the Red Bitch showed her class by starting first time and moving off without problems.
6th [Independent] Guards Breakthrough Tank Regiment had been detached from 12th Guards Tank Corps but had not been incorporated into the new attack, being held back in reserve yet again.
Having not fired a shot in anger in this war, the Regiment now found itself in pieces, leaderless and savaged, casualties particularly heavy amongst the motor riflemen and support troops. Five of twenty-one IS-III’s were total write-offs; another two would need a lot of attention before being declared fit for service.
As ‘Suka’ made her way through rubble strewn streets and past shattered houses, Vladimir Stelmakh examined his thoughts. Without firing a shot, he was now an acting Senior Lieutenant, and commander of the 3rd Company.
The red-faced Colonel was apoplectic with rage.
“No, no, no, no, that’s wrong, Comrade Mayor.”
“I have my orders, Polkovnik.”
“Your orders are incorrect, Comrade. This is all incorrect!”
The hard-faced Major remained outwardly impassive but eased the PPS submachine gun at his side to demonstrate his annoyance.
“Don’t make this worse than it already is, Polkovnik. You will accompany me now.”
“How the fucking hell could I have known they had jet fighters, Comrade Mayor, tell me that?”
As no answer came from the poker-faced NKVD officer, the Colonel kept going.
“The plan was perfect, executed well, and the regiments pushed hard.”
The deadpan face revealed nothing.
“Even then, with the enemy advantage, we have downed three heavy bombers and savaged their jet force for fuck’s sake!”
Silence carries its own menace, especially when accompanied by grim purpose.
“You cannot be serious Comrade. General Sakovnin simply cannot be serious!”
Turning around to the large window looking out over the former Luftwaffe airfield of Wittenberg, he watched as the remnants of his three savaged regiments were put back together by harassed ground staff. The La-5’s had lost five of their number, the two regiments of Yak’s had returned with only fifteen of thirty-one that took off, and four of them were probably write-offs according to first reports.
Turning to his accuser, he went on the offensive.
“The Division needs my attention as you may notice. Tell Comrade General Sakovnin that I will send my report as quickly as I can, but I must get my regiments reorganised.”
The NKVD officer remained unmoved.
“You are dismissed, Comrade Mayor, and I want no more of your nonsense.”
He sat down, making great play of reading a sketchy report on the engagement, all the time concentrating on every sound from the man on the other side of the desk.
He never heard the shots that killed him, dying instantly, executed on the orders of the Chief of Staff of the 15th Air Army. His plan had been good, anticipating an enemy bomber attack and utilising the strengths of his aircraft, but intelligence had failed to notify him of the possibility of enemy jet fighters. A simple, but costly, error. None the less, a scapegoat was needed and Colonel Garinov, Commander of the decimated 315th Fighter Division, was an appropriate choice to save General Sakovnin’s neck.
By the Way of the warrior is meant death. The Way of the warrior is death. This means choosing death whenever there is a choice between life and death. It means nothing more than this. It means to see things through, being resolved.”
Yamamoto Tsunetomo.
Chapter 58 – THE SAMURAI.
0904 hrs Monday, 13th August 1945, Headquarters of the Manchurian Red Banner Forces, Pedagogical Institute, Chita, Siberia.
Marshall Vassilevsky was in high spirits. The plan was proceeding pretty much as planned, with the newly strengthened Japanese Army making big inroads into the Chinese defences centrally and to the south.
His own ground forces were driving deep into Northern China, courtesy of an agreement with the Chinese Communist forces, who stepped adroitly aside, exposing the Nationalist forces to a series of lightning flank attacks.
However, the planned paratrooper deployments had been cancelled. The heavy losses in valuable aircraft were only partially to blame, the success of the ground offensives actually meaning that the majority of the airborne operations were made redundant.
The Chinese and American air forces, possibly lulled into a sense of false security by the decline in Japanese air power, had been dealt significant blows. Main amongst these being the wholesale destruction of the base at Chengtu, along with heavy losses inflicted on the 58th Bomb Wing, recently returned from the Marianas, the 312th Fighter Wing and the 426th Night Fighter Squadron, all of which had called Chengdu home.
Vassilevsky, warmed by the fresh coffee he was consuming, observed his CoS and frowned. Colonel-General Lomov, his briefings normally easy and pain free, was preparing the daily delivery but seemed unduly concerned for the first time. The normally calm officer was in animated discussion with the senior Japanese Liaison officer, Major General Yamaoka.
The Marshall cleared his throat to attract their attention, and both men advanced, one holding a map, the other a newly arrived report from General Yasuji Okamura, commander of the China Expeditionary Army.
“Well, Nikolai Andreevich, what’s causing you such concern?”
“Comrade Marshall, General Yamaoka has received information regarding the US tank force that went missing.”
The map was spread on the large table, the corners held down with pencils, and, in the absence of anything more suitable, Vassilevsky’s pipe and cap.
The area of concern lay in one of the most important areas entrusted to the Japanese Army; the southern assault towards Nanning and Qinzhou, subsequently angled towards the Indo-Chinese border.
Up to now, progress had been spectacularly good, but that had changed.
Lomov’s morning report would have indicated that the enemy resistance had stiffened, and that the advance had come to an abrupt halt.
With the arrival of the new information, it seemed clear that there was a definite possibility of an enemy counter-attack, supported by the US Tank brigade that had so mysteriously dropped out of sight a few days beforehand.
“So, what does Okamura propose to do about it?”
Whilst he mused openly, the question was really a challenge to him, a spur to read the situation and the response.
Yamaoka grabbed a pencil.
“Sir, the 63rd Special Army is now further forward than indicated on the main map,” he gesticulated at the wall behind him, both Soviet officers checking out the last recorded position of the newly-formed and extremely powerful 63rd.
The sound of a pencil on paper drew them back, Yamaoka circling the general area of concern before notating the map with ‘Suwabe’ and ‘Minamori’, the two sub-commands of the 63rd.
“Oh that’s good. That’s very, very good.”
Vassilevsky could see that the enemy would, most likely, run straight into ‘Suwabe’.
‘Unless?’
Standing up straight and loading his pipe, the Marshall descended into silent thought, a process his senior men knew well not to interrupt.
Striking a match, Vassilevsky pulled on the pipe, puffing out the rich smoke that still bothered Yamaoka’s eyes to the point of tears.
“They will come there I think, to the north of the assault forces and the 63rd.”
‘Wuzhou?’
Yamaoka turned and clicked his fingers to an aide, the folder he required made immediately available.
“Sir, at Wuzhou are...”
He tailed off as the shaking head indicated he had missed something vital, the tapping finger returning, this time to a more specific point where the finger waited, ready to describe a route east and then south, bringing the enemy into the flank of the attacking bottleneck.
“I would concern myself more about who is at Gulping than Wuzhou, General Yamaoka, for I think it is they who will have to fight like the devil.”
Both officers could see it clearly now.
The blocking force, causing the attackers to build-up in one area, the mobile tank force smashing hard into the flank of the stacked-up formations.
Add probable enemy aircraft attacks into the mix, and there was a serious problem for the 6th Area Army.
“Do you have anything that can stop them apart from,” Vassilevsky looked at the notations, “The 85th Infantry brigade?”
‘Not that one of your infantry brigades would stop a determined armoured force at any time!’
“Sir, the 85th Brigade has not progressed beyond Tianpingzhen, there being a high sickness rate, some sort of stomach problem, hospitalising many of the men.”
Keen to show that the Japanese Army had its own house in order, Yamaoka quickly spoke again.
“Kempai-tai units are already with the 85th resolving the problem.”
No-one needed any illumination on how the problem was being solved.
“However, Major-General Suwabe sent part of his detachment ahead to the area as a cover, which will now prove very useful to us.”
‘I suppose Gulping is too much to hope for?’
Both Russians shared identical thoughts.
