by Gee, Colin
James laid out the flare pistol and spare flares, ready in case they were needed to attract attention.
The mechanics had shifted everything into the nearest building, and were pleasantly surprised to find clean beds and tinned foodstuffs available.
James stood the two men down whilst he waited for the Chief to return.
The growing wind had a soporific effect on the three survivors and the two mechanics, cosily laid out on the beds, were soon asleep and snoring.
James awoke from his lighter slumber as the door opened, and he adjusted his eyes to take in the figure stood there.
The uniform was unknown to him, but the sub-machine gun told him all he needed to know.
He slowly raised his hands.
Sveinsvold was tiring now, even with the assistance of the incoming tide and the buoyancy offered by the recovered wooden box.
His legs felt numb, all except the wounded thigh, which screamed with every little movement.
He traded time for the absence of pain, permitting the tide to slowly bring him closer to safety.
On the beach he saw two men patiently watching him, two men who bore no resemblance whatsoever to any of his crew.
Both men looked nonchalantly back as the unmistakable sound of firing rose above the howl of the wind.
‘What the fuck?’
His mind was suddenly in overdrive.
As he drifted closer in, the two men moved to the water’s edge.
A third man arrived and received a report from the senior of the two watchers.
The words carried on the breeze, a language Sveinsvold knew well from his time fishing on Lake Michigan with the crews of the various émigré groups, in friendly competition for everything from fish to women.
‘Russian?’
The Russian Marines, for that was what they were, seemed relaxed, and in a moment of clarity Sveinsvold understood.
‘They think I’m from the sub.’
In a moment, he took hold of his dog tags and jerked hard, releasing them to float to the bottom unseen.
The recently arrived Russian chivvied the others into the water, and soon strong hands were grabbing at the exhausted Norwegian, pulling him from the water and up to the beach.
Bjarte had decided to play the wounded man role to the full, in order to buy himself time.
His coarse mumblings in Russian slipped easily from his tongue, learned when the latest Michigan fisherman’s fad had been the ability to insult all others in their own language. They served to reassure the Russians that they had indeed been correct, and that this man was the sole survivor from their supply vessel.
On his arm he bore a tattoo, his wife’s name, and this served to further confirm his ‘friendly’ nature to the Russian marines, for they did not know that Riga was his wife, a pleasant Norwegian-American mother of four, as well as the capital of Latvia.
A blanket appeared and was wrapped round the ivory white body, and he was gently carried up to the road where two bicycles were lashed together to provide a base for a pair of floorboards, which were similarly tied in place, ready for him to lie on.
Sveinsvold suppressed his horror as two corpses were dragged in front of him, the two mechanics shot down by sub-machine guns as they rose from their beds.
The Russians spoke sympathetically to him, kicking one of the dead men to express their sympathy for the loss these Americans had caused.
A group of a dozen Soviet naval marines were now gathered around the centre piece of the bike litter, waiting for the command to set off.
Two more Russians emerged from the tatty building, bringing with them a bloodied James.
Last out was the unit’s commanding officer and owner of the submachine gun that had taken the lives of Sveinsvold’s crew mates.
An NCO reported to the Captain with a salute, indicating the bike litter, which received a nod of approval from the officer.
James, spotting the chief but not understanding the predicament, became agitated, growling sounds coming from his ruined mouth.
“Ah Comrade Submariner, I am sorry for the loss of your comrades.”
Surprisingly, his Russian was more than up to the job of understanding and he decided to risk conversation.
“Thank you, Comrade Kapitan,” grateful to the NCO for speaking the man’s rank earlier, “The Amerikanski fought well and had the luck this time.”
Expecting a torrent of abuse to be aimed at the surviving American, the Captain was confused.
“But they killed all your comrades, and this one’s life is forfeit.”
Sveinsvold made his play.
“It is war, Comrade Kapitan. This time they won, and I will mourn the loss of my comrades while this one,” he pointed an exaggeratedly accusing finger at the now quiet Lieutenant, “Spends the rest of his war as a prisoner.”
The Captain frowned.
“I think not, Comrade Submariner. We have no need for prisoners here. Anyway, we must get back now. Prepare to march.”
Hands took hold of the Chief and gently eased him onto the bike litter, occasionally obstructing his view of James, as the young officer was pushed to his knees between the two dead mechanics.
No sound escaped either man’s lips. Not James’, as the cold muzzle touched his hairline, nor Sveinsvolds’, as part of his Lieutenant’s face detached with the passing of the heavy Tokarev bullet.
As the party swiftly closed down upon the main base, the Soviets pushing the litter assumed that Sveinsvold’s tears were those of pain.
The Captain, actually the second in command of the base security force, sent more men out into the night, tasked with sanitising the scene, and removing any trace of the blimp or its crew before the sun spread its wings once more.
They did an excellent job, with one small exception.
Great men are not always wise.
Job 32:9
Chapter 77 - THE HOUSE.
1055 hrs, Wednesday, 5th September 1945, Hotel de Limbourg, Sittard, Holland.
Crisp dropped heavily into the worn but comfortable armchair and surveyed the town square, acknowledging the arrival of a freshly brewed coffee with the politest of grunts.
Before his eyes was a hive of activity, vehicles and men coming and going, supplies and reinforcements arriving for distribution and allocation, all part of the process of getting the ‘Screaming Eagles’ back on their feet.
The 101st had been withdrawn from the fighting in Southern Bavaria, and had been moved back into the Netherlands, although Sittard was an unfamiliar billet for them.
One in five of the Eagles were still in Germany in one way or another. The casualties amongst the parachute and glider infantrymen had been higher than the other service arms, as they had borne the brunt of the Soviet attacks.
The newly displaced 4th Indian Division slipped into line in their stead, fresh from a forced march from Northern Italy. The 101st gathered themselves up and made the journey back into the reserve, where they could reconstitute and prepare themselves for whatever they were next told to do.
With a professional but exhausted eye, Crisp noted the men jumping down from the back of two 6x6’s, each and every man sporting the patch of the 82nd US Airborne on his arm, their faces wearing the looks of men who had been exposed to hell.
It was these men that Crisp had come to find, as they were to be assimilated into his battalion, trained men to keep his jump qualifications up, but he worried if they were too much like damaged goods inside.
With a burst of energy that he somehow found within the empty recesses of his body, he sprang out of the chair, driving himself out of the bar, down the steps into the square and across to the slowly assembling replacements.
Baldwin and Hawkes noticed the Acting Lieutenant Colonel on his way, and harangued the new arrivals into some semblance of order.
1159 hrs, Wednesday, 5th September 1945, House of Commons Chamber, Palace of Westminster, England.
The members of ‘Hastings’ were present in t
he spectator area, although neither seated together nor acknowledging each other.
Lord Southam’s presence had been noted by more than one of those representatives on the floor below, his unexpected and unusual appearance being put down to the important statement the Prime Minister was just finishing.
The Speaker indicated that the leader of the Opposition could rise, and Churchill did so, to sounds of encouragement from both sides of the house.
Normally, Winston would provide the highlight of the day’s business, and most in the gallery and, indeed, on the floor of the house, listened appreciatively to his summation of Attlee’s delivery, and his dissection of its contents.
Only six people there understood that something momentous was about to happen, and the Speaker only knew part of it to ensure he did what he had to do.
The Member of Parliament for Woodford took his seat again, permitting Attlee to either address or rebuff the concerns raised.
The Prime Minister countered Churchill’s points and reseated himself, prepared to be attacked a second time.
Churchill, being one of the six, decided not to rise again.
Murmurs of discontent grew on the opposition side of the House, the former prime minister clearly, and most unusually, passing off an opportunity to roast the present encumbent
Attlee made an error in interpreting Churchill’s silence, believing that he had won the exchange. Despite the confusion, his confidence received a boost, misplaced as it was, and perhaps contributing to what was to come.
The Speaker gave the floor to Clement Davies, the new incumbent Liberal Party leader, elected in after their recent drubbing at the polls.
He was similarly scathing about the Government’s position on the war.
Those third, fourth and fifth in the know felt their anticipation building, as Davies took his seat to permit Attlee another opportunity for rebuttal.
The Prime Minister concluded his follow-up, still off-balance from Churchill’s response, or lack of it.
The floor was open and, as had been requested, the Speaker called others to speak, before discharging the simple request the head of MI5 had put to him.
“The Honourable member for Wroughton.”
The sixth man stood, receiving the usual recognition and adulation due a man who wore his country’s highest bravery award.
Colonel Sir Fabian John Callard-Smith MP VC coughed gently and composed himself.
“Mr Speaker, I can only agree with my Right Honourable friend, the member for Woodford, and find myself asking the Prime Minister to reassure this house that the spirit necessary for a successful prosecution of this new war still exists in both himself and his cabinet colleagues.”
The Labour benches howled in defence of their man, and Callard-Smith gave way to the rising Attlee.
“Mr Speaker, I can assure the Honourable Member for Wroughton that the Government is fully resolved to ensure the preservation of our Country and the Kingdom of our Sovereign, and that we will not shy away from any measure in order to secure the same. I just gave the same reply to the leader of his party, which reply obviously was acceptable, given the lack of further exchanges.”
Four men smiled ever so gently, one wondered what he had just set in motion. The sixth pursued the plan.
The uniformed MP shot to his feet, and Attlee gave way instantly.
“Mr Speaker, can the Prime Minister clarify that, for the sake of an ill-educated old soldier,” the laughs from both sides creating a more relaxed atmosphere instantly, just as he had intended, “What measures are presently being considered to secure the future of our country?”
Attlee smiled disarmingly.
“Mr Speaker, the House will, of course, understand that I am unable to be open in this setting, but that such matters are diligently discussed during the meetings of the Committee for Imperial Defence. But I can assure the House, and especially the Honourable member for Wroughton, that no stone is left unturned in the preservation of our nation state.”
Callard-Smith pushed again.
“Mr Speaker, I thank the Prime Minister for his assurances thus far, but find myself in need of further clarification.”
Those MP’s with limited attention spans started to mentally drift away, mainly to thoughts of the lunch to come.
Callard-Smith continued.
“Can the Prime Minister confirm that there has been no discussion between the Allied powers regarding any negotiated settlement with the Soviet Union?”
As was the habit of cabinet members giving a swift answer, Attlee slid upright to the stand, gave his reply, and slid back in place on the front bench, all in one movement.
“I can confirm that is the case, Mr Speaker.”
The retired Army officer coughed gently and composed himself.
“Mr Speaker, I would like to thank the Prime Minister for his responses. Might I ask one more question, and seek his report on the progress of the Honourable member for Mortimer’s mission to the Court of Bernadotte?”
Some of those dreaming of lunch did a double-take, processing the question, and coming up none the wiser.
Others who were more attentive saw the Prime Minister pale.
The few that were astute understood that they were in the presence of history in the making.
Four others waited in delicious anticipation.
Attlee’s delay in rising, spoke volumes.
“Mr Speaker, the Honourable member for Mortimer is presently returning from a trade mission to Sweden, and he will be making his own report in due course.”
All in the house now realised that what was about to come to pass would be something special.
The stunned Attlee resumed his seat, his mind in turmoil.
The chamber was as silent as a morgue, no one’s mind on anything but what was going on in front of their eyes. Indeed, people started to arrive as if by magic, the electricity in the air drawing them forward from the outer chambers like fish into a net.
Everyone’s attention was on the Member of Parliament for Wroughton, as they waited for him to rise.
Callard-Smith stood and looked at the waiting Attlee. Very slowly, and with practised theatre, he tugged his jacket into place and slowly examined his VC. The Colonel then seemed to suddenly realise where he was and stiffened, addressing the Speaker, the central figure of authority, but fixing his gaze most firmly on the man across the floor.
“Mr Speaker, can the Prime Minister confirm that the report of the Honourable member for Mortimer will also include the results of his discussions with Soviet Foreign Ministry officials, and that a full transcript of the meeting, recording our tentative offer of a separate armistice, will be made available to this House?”
Every eye, every fibre, every sense, was directed at the Prime Minister, who almost seemed to shrink under the intense scrutiny.
He rose like a fox who knew that the pack had him cornered.
“Mr Speaker, I can confirm to the House that the Honourable member for Mortimer was secretly tasked with exploring certain possibilities, should the war situation become untenable, and that he will be reporting back to me personally on his return. I will then present the results to the Committee for Imperial Defence and, in due course, the King.”
Attlee felt he should admit the fact and try to control it as best he could, not thinking straight, as he had just admitted openly misleading the House on the matter.
The attention again switched to Callard-Smith, by common assent, now appointed as the judge, jury and executioner in the matter.
“Mr Speaker, can the Prime Minister confirm that he acted with the compliance and agreement of the War Cabinet, and that the matter has been,” he searched his memory for the quote and found it instantly, “As he so eloquently stated a few minutes ago, ‘Diligently discussed by the Committee for Imperial Defence?’ ”
Attlee continued to sit, his mind seeking a solution, and Callard-Smith took the opportunity with both hands.
“No, Mr Speaker, the Prime M
inister cannot confirm that. He cannot confirm that because his personal private secretary, the member for Mortimer, was sent to Sweden to negotiate terms for an armistice involving solely this country and our dominions. Without discussion with his Cabinet. Without the knowledge of the Committee for Imperial Defence.”
His third thrust was delivered with open contempt, the sort that only a man of uniform, who has given his all for King and Country, can have for someone he sees as a traitor.
“Without regard to our fighting allies or the indomitable spirit of this island nation!”
The house remained silent, the tension, disgust and anger tangible in the very air they breathed.
With a sense of the dramatic, Callard-Smith picked up the tempo, and the volume.
“Look at his cabinet colleagues. See how appalled they are, the looks on their faces betray the facts of the matter here!”
He pointed at the opposition front benches, filled with horrified-looking men, either heads bowed in anguish or raised and focussed in anger upon the balding leader of the government.
“Without discussion, the Prime Minister has set our country on a path of betrayal from which we will not recover, unless it is stopped right now!”
The House members howled, venting their own pent-up passion at last, concentrating their anger on the same diminutive figure.
The Prime Minister rallied and took to his feet, using the dispatch box as a support, enduring the cries of derision until they faded away and he could be heard.
“Mr Speaker, I asked the Honourable member for Mortimer to meet with a delegation from the Soviet Foreign Ministry, in order explore the possibilities of a separate negotiated peace for the island.”
Again he had to wait for the anger to subside.
“Mr Speaker, I did so in order to gauge the Soviet Union’s stance and reaction, as well to ensure that all options were properly explored.”
This time he did not just stop, but raised his voice over the throng.
“There has been no commitment at all, and there is no harm done.”
