by Gee, Colin
‘Careful,’ screamed his inner voice.
“By removing the dictator, we risk a similar man in place, set against us because of our own actions, as we do not yet have suitable friendly candidates in place. By using this variation, we can possibly turn him and those who would follow him.”
Stalin puffed gently on the cigarette that had magically appeared in his hand.
“Would the new man not be grateful to us for his, err,” he searched for the right word, “His promotion?”
“These are matters you have previously reconciled, Comrade General Secretary. Your reasoning seemed sound then, and I see nothing substantial has changed to call your decision into question.”
‘Nicely done,’ the voice purred with some smugness.
“As I recall, you championed this change, Lavrentiy, did you not?”
“I represented the facts and options as I saw them, Comrade General Secretary.”
The cigarette was violently stubbed out, sending a deluge of ash across both table and reports.
Another was lit immediately.
“And you have other assets already suitably placed, if things do not go as we expect?
The ‘we’ was not wasted on Beria.
“Another team would be activated immediately you authorised it, Comrade General Secretary.”
Beria knew he had his man.
Stalin promised to discover what other issue was in the man’s mind but, none the less, committed himself.
“We do not have the luxury of time. Send your message, Comrade Marshall. If it doesn’t work we can always do what was first intended later.”
Stalin slid the papers across his desk, both being neatly caught as they slipped off the highly polished top.
The ash cloud he generated settled gently across the lap and arms of the NKVD chief.
Beria indicated the phone and received a nod from the puffing Stalin.
Requesting a connection to his communications officer in the Lyubyanka, he started to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
A distant voice came on the line.
“PodPolkovnik Lemsky.”
“Ah, Lemsky. As discussed earlier regarding file ‘Brutus’, you will present messages ‘B’ and ‘C’ to the Chief Signals Officer for immediate transmission to the stated recipients. Repeat the order.”
“File ‘Brutus’, messages ‘B’ and ‘C’ for immediate transmission to stated recipients, Comrade Marshall.”
“Proceed as ordered.”
Replacing the receiver with studied care, Beria felt nothing for those he had just condemned to die.
Stalin, studying his man, noticed the faint smile and knew he had been right.
Beria was also working to another agenda.
In the major Headquarters on both sides of the line, all was activity. At Nordhausen, the Soviet reinforcements were being realigned with the penetrations, such basic manoeuvres made all the more difficult by the increase in the tempo of allied air raids. Formations that should have been relieved were left to bear the casualties of the attack. Those who should have moved up were contained by destroyed roads and bridges or a lack of the vitals of military movement; a sign of significant ground attack success by Allied aircraft. In short, increasing damage to transport infrastructure was causing huge logistical problems to harassed Soviet staff officers.
Air Force intelligence indicated that some Allied squadrons were presently undertaking up to six sorties a day per pilot, a rate that was consuming both the physical and material reserves of the Allies, as well as grinding the pilots slowly into the ground with exhaustion.
Soviet units were still advancing, but slowly, much slower than the plans allowed for.
The differences between this war and the German War were becoming more defined each hour. The Luftwaffe had been a mighty organ, but it had been eroded by casualties over the years, as well as being constantly divided by the needs of other theatres.
Here, on this battlefield, the USAAF and RAF squadrons were more numerous and focussed solely upon one front.
Also, the allied inventory included numerous highly efficient aircraft designs, many of which had capabilities way beyond those of the Luftwaffe encountered in the skies of Russia.
That was painfully true with the heavy bombers, a force that had been almost disregarded in some ways, and that was now throwing so many plans and timetables into disarray.
More and more of the Soviet Air Force assets were being employed to defend military columns or important communication centres, less and less in support of offensive operations.
Night operations were done at great risk, the Allied night fighter force having chopped most of their counterparts from the sky.
The larger numbers of ground formations overcame some of the problems, carrying territory by sheer weight of numbers, often at a cost made more expensive because of the lack of air cover or associated issues caused by interruptions to supply. Profligate expenditure of anti-aircraft ammunition brought regular rewards in downed airplanes, but air to air victories were growing fewer every day.
It didn’t take a genius to understand that the Soviets were losing the air war.
Certainly their Allied counterparts in Versailles thought that was the case, but the problems of constant withdrawal, and defeat after defeat, were more paramount in their minds.
The important decisions for the Allied ground forces now lay within the remit of officers in faraway places, be they Corps Commanders keeping control on their dwindling resources or battalion CO’s skilfully giving up ground at great cost to the advancing enemy.
In many ways, the battle was out of Eisenhower’s hands, the orders having gone out to Bradley, McCreery and the like, their leadership and generalship skills being tested as they strove to create order from the chaos.
Eisenhower busied himself with providing the means for his Generals to fight.
‘Trying to provide the means’, Ike thought, as he often felt he was failing in that regard.
Newly arriving units were organised and sent forward, savaged units were swiftly reinforced and rested on or nearby to the Rhine.
He harried the Germans and the Spanish, anyone who could provide him with more of the most essential tool of war; manpower.
Politically, he encouraged his civilian leaders to produce and deliver everything from tanks to bread, and more importantly, to get it to Europe in as short a time as possible.
The success of Japanese forces in China and the Pacific undermined his efforts with his own government, and he constantly saw assets he desperately needed dispatched to Slim, Stilwell, Nimitz and MacArthur’s commands. The British were more Europe-focussed but had fewer resources, having been burned out by six years of war.
An innovative approach to the German POW’s in the Americas might prove useful, based on the Council’s suggestion, although again, time played an important part.
Regardless of the momentary joy brought by news of a new formation now available, Eisenhower fully understood a simple truth.
The Allies were losing the war.
182 Squadron’s Blue Flight was on its second sortie of the day, all four aircraft in the air with a full load of rockets, and tasked to take out the bridges and railway in and around Luhdorf.
Flight Lieutenant Johnny Hall and the youthful Pilot Officer Andrew McKenzie each had a new pilot in tow, recently arrived replacements for comrades lost since the 6th August.
Turning to port over Garstedt, enemy light anti-aircraft fire reached up at the RAF ground attack planes, filling the sky with angry metal.
The eight Soviet Lavochkin fighters that had been tasked to overwatch Luhdorf had problems of their own, self-preservation being their only goal, as twelve Mk XVIe Spitfires of 603 Squadron RAF harried them. 603 had been due to disband in Scotland but had reassembled and returned to Europe the day before. Despite being configured as Lf versions for low-altitude work, the needs of the moment detailed 603 to act as interceptor/escort fighters for this o
peration.
The Soviet pilots had been fighting day in day out since hostilities started, and it showed. The fresher RAF pilots hacked three of them from the sky in as many minutes, and knocked important pieces off three more.
182’s Typhoons were unopposed as they approached their target.
The main road bridges running west out of the town were still ruined, having not been repaired since the devastating heavy bomber attack.
The rail bridge to the south of them, and the small bridge two hundred metres below that, were the targets for this raid.
Hall lined up the road bridge and quickly thumbed off his RP-3 rockets, all eight completely missing the bridge and doing nothing but chewing up the riverbanks, soaking Russian anti-aircraft crews desperately serving their weapons.
To add insult to injury, Hall’s Typhoon took a few hits in the port wing as he turned away, inducing a light flutter until he pulled out of his turn.
Pilot Officer Rawlings, former POW and new addition to Blue Flight, went next. He also failed to hit the bridge but inflicted more than a mere soaking on the Soviet gunners.
Two 40mm Bofors positions on the east bank were destroyed in an instant.
McKenzie lined up his target, and was about to fire, when his line of sight was obscured by a Soviet fighter. Hauling hard on his stick and pushing on pedals, the young Canadian skilfully managed to avoid the Lavochkin but almost struck the pursuing Spitfire.
The swift destruction of the Russian followed, but his attack run was ruined and he swept back into line, his rockets still in place.
Sean Dwyer was flying his first mission, having been with 182 for only two days since leaving his training squadron. He lined up the target and drove in hard through the flak, but his attack failed completely as he was unable to release his weapons, the safeties still on as fear and excitement took precedence in his mind.
His comrades were already formed up for a second sweep, but he was so thrown by his failure that he banked right by mistake.
The Russian M1910 Maxim was an old weapon but it was still in use in great numbers, as it was a reliable and effective weapon capable of six hundred rounds per minute. The Russians used them in a number of ways, and one particularly effective method was as the Quad AA weapon mounted on a Gaz truck or similar vehicle.
The Soviet 39th Anti-Aircraft Division boasted a large number of these weapons, of which eight were presently sat on the main highway north of Luhdorf, waiting their turn to cross the river by way of the damaged bridge at Roydorf.
Dwyer had banked right and was now lined up perfectly for the Soviet gunners, who made the most of their opportunity.
The Typhoon slowly disintegrated as scores of bullets struck home. The armour plating kept the aircraft flying, protecting many vital parts but nine bullets were already lodged in the most vital part of the aircraft and, with lifeless hands on the stick, the smoking aircraft rolled lazily into a right hand turn and crashed into the fields two kilometres east of Luhdorf.
Blue Flight commenced their second run, as Hall strafed the flak positions around the road bridge, successfully ripping a gun crew to shreds with his Hispano cannon.
Rawlings bored in and was rewarded with two hits on the bridge, either of which would have doomed the hastily repaired structure.
The remnants collapsed into the frothing water below.
McKenzie held his rockets back, contenting himself with a short burst of cannon fire, before falling back into formation again, ready to attack the second target.
Flight Lieutenant Hall led once more, his cannon again successful, a fixed 20mm quad position, once of Luftwaffe ownership, instantly destroyed with those who crewed it.
Rawlings, elated by his success, shot up the river, churning the water to foam with his cannon shells. Banking left he sustained a few hits from previously silent machine-guns hidden around the hedges and fields, a thousand metres west of Luhdorf.
Mackenzie’s ordnance was already boring in, inexorably eating up the yards before striking the rail bridge in three places.
The structure had been badly damaged during the big raid but had been swiftly and expertly repaired, enabling trains to use it, albeit at slower speeds.
The bridge still refused to die, shrugging off the RP-3 hits, seemingly unscathed, save for the obvious twisted rails reaching dramatically skywards.
Despite hitting his target, McKenzie cursed his failure as he rejoined the flight, taking formation for the journey home.
Stelmakh sat quietly with his crew, listening and watching as the Engineer Captain ripped into one of his Lieutenants.
The unfortunate man had opened fire with a DSHK machine gun, mounting one of Stelmakh’s IS-III’s to shoot at an allied aircraft, and in doing so, encouraged others to open fire too.
Corporal Stepanov spat in contempt and grabbed for a cigarette.
“What’s the fucking point in hiding away if some fucking idiot officer fires off the damn guns and shows the fucking enemy where we are?”
His young CO took the proffered Belomor and lit it before replying.
“These engineers have had the devil of a time with the British air force, Stepanov. Over one in three of them have gone already, and they haven’t seen a ground soldier yet. He just wanted to hit back that’s all. Be kind.”
The tank driver snorted in disgust.
“He missed the fucking thing by a kilometre too!”
“Maybe so, but this time there is no harm done, and he will have learned.”
Both their conversation and the engineer’s admonishment were interrupted by the swift approach of aircraft engines.
Three Spitfires flashed overhead, one trailing a thin wisp of smoke, evidence that they had not had things all their own way with the Lavochkin Regiment.
Stepanov idly played with a Y-shaped scar on the tank’s flank, product of the brickwork collapse during the air raid.
The sound of Spitfires decreased, until the steady patter of raindrops on camouflage nets took over.
“Anyway, Comrade Kaporal, just leave it and keep out of the way. I’m off to see what the new Regimental Commander has in mind for us.”
Hall and McKenzie could do nothing.
A kindly WAAF Lance-Corporal had pressed mugs of tea into their hands, and the obligatory cigarettes had been provided by the remaining members of Yellow flight.
In silence, they all watched as fire crews gradually gained control of the inferno that had engulfed XM-S when it crashed on landing. Unknown to the pilot or his watching comrades, a single bullet had clipped the port tyre. The impact of the aircraft on the tarmac had burst it immediately, throwing the Typhoon violently to the left. The undercarriage gave way, resulting in the aircraft cartwheeling for a hundred yards before coming to rest upside down and exploding.
The brave fire crew fought hard to hold back the flames, and were rewarded as the rescue crew finally broke through into the cockpit area, dragging out the parts of Pilot Officer Rawlings that the fire had not yet consumed.
Alive, but extremely badly burned, the young flier was loaded into the ambulance and whisked away to the base hospital, where the business of saving his life could begin in earnest.
Hall and McKenzie said nothing; there was nothing to say that hadn’t been said a hundred times before by fliers from all sides.
Handing back empty mugs to the horrified WAAF, they went to be debriefed on their mission, suppressing their horror and sorrow at the loss of another comrade.
When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep, and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.
Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.
Tecumseh
Chapter 64 – THE AMBUSH
Thursday, 16th August 1945, 0620 hrs, Palace Hotel, Madrid.
They had all been up since four-forty a.m.
The hotel night receptionist had apolog
etically rung the room two minutes prior to that, waking Mayakov from a light sleep. Explaining, the receptionist said that the caller had been insistent that the message was passed immediately, but the man still baulked at waking paying guests at such ungodly times, especially for a message that could obviously wait until daylight.
None the less, he informed the sleepy voice at the other end of the phone that ‘Señor Juan Flores, with regret, would not be able to join them until Saturday.’
“Is that word for word?”
“Si, Señor. The gentleman made me write it down.”
“Thank you.”
Mayakov immediately roused his team on the basis of this urgent instruction. ‘Juan’ was a confirmation of the plan, as agreed with the Rezident, ‘Flores’ being the imperative of a strike this very morning. ‘Saturday’ referred to the next contact, which would be made at the safe house arranged by the local NKVD station.
‘With Regret’ meant at all costs, the sort of order old men give younger men with monotonous regularity.
The receptionist continued reading the morning paper, still finding Senor Flores’ German accent laughable, despite its hideous strangulation of his mother tongue.
Upstairs, the six spent their time checking the weapons they had checked just a few hours before, making breakfast, and ensuring that each man knew his job for the task ahead. The plan was simple, as are all good plans, with alternatives if required.
Their escape had been laid out by Vaspatin, the NKVD Rezident, the same man who had distributed cyanide capsules to each of them on the orders of Moscow.
By 0625 hrs, the room had been cleaned thoroughly and the group was on its way down the stairs to their vehicles, and a rendezvous with violent death.
At 0635 hrs, two shadowy figures stole into the hotel by a rear entrance and made their way up to the recently vacated rooms.
