by Gee, Colin
Hawkins, the radio operator, reported to the pilot, presently circling the neutral vessel below.
“Skipper, Sparks. She’s Swedish. Called Golden Quest. They are having some engine difficulties and are heading north to take shelter in the lee of one of the islands while they sort it out.”
“Roger Sparks. Did you inform them?”
A short pause, either because the man had to put his mask back on, or because he was annoyed that his pilot felt he should ask. Or both.
“Yes, Skipper. He’s seen nothing, but he has his own problems in any case. If he sees anything he’ll sing out, over.”
Flying Officer Joy didn’t care for the man, recently arrived from training school to fill the place of his former radio operator, a competent man who had succumbed to some sort of heart problem and been taken off Ops.
“Skipper, Navigator, time to commence turn to port for next leg.”
“Roger Navigator.”
The Canso gently dropped its left wing and eased round ninety degrees to port, almost mirroring the intended course of the Swedish vessel.
The aircraft approached Blanche Island.
“Starboard Waist, Skipper. On the surface at two o’clock low. Huge slick and wreckage.”
All eyes that had a chance to look strained but there was no need. The oily mark was immense.
“Pilot to crew. Going down for a closer look. Stay alert.”
Turning to port, the Canso circled and bled of some height, coming back in over the site at two hundred feet.
“Anyone see anything other than rag and oil?”
There was no reply of note.
The aircraft turned again but this time to starboard, prescribing a figure of eight over the site of something that they suspected was the grave of a submarine.
Joy gave voice to his feelings.
“Pilot to crew. I believe that slick is confirmation that the Blimp killed the sub it was attacking. Anyone disagree?”
The crew, except Hawkins, were all experienced men who had their own U-Boat kill under their belts.
No one challenged Joy, and he determined to say as much in his report.
In any case, Hawkins was distracted by something else entirely.
“Skipper, Sparks. I’ve a radar reading here, heading 027. Picking up weak IFF, over.”
Allied aircraft all carried ‘Identification Friend or Foe’ transponders that marked them as friendly when ‘painted’ by their own side’s radar.
Joy acted immediately and the starboard wing dropped, as the Canso altered course to fly down the line of the signal.
“Pilot to navigator, now flying 027.”
“Skipper, it’s gone, over.”
“Then find it man! I shall circle. Where are we, Nav?”
Squinting at the map, Flying Officer Parkinson thumbed his mike.
“Skipper, directly below us is Cape Negro Island and…”
“Got it, Skipper. It’s back, same heading 027.”
“Roger Sparks.”
Joy’s mind was already working the problem, and he thought he had the solution, especially when Hawkins lost the signal once more.
“Pilot to crew. I think it’s on the island. Low sweep, keep your eyes skinned starboard side.”
The Canso came slowly over the island, running south to north.
There were no sightings of anything of note, but, as per the standing instructions, the starboard waist gunner shot some film for development later.
“Skipper, Sparks. Signal has disappeared over.”
On the island, the transponder, stimulated to reply by the radar signal, drained the last of the residual power and remained silent, the pod and envelope hidden under hastily cut greenery.
Joy made a decision.
‘No wreckage of note, and if the blimp had come down on the island the site would be apparent. Must have been a phantom.’
“Pilot to crew, Log it, radio it in, but we continue with sweep. Navigator, give me a course, over.”
On the ground, many eyes watched the large flying boat as she swept over the island, obviously searching for their now dead comrades.
In the small but functional sick bay, Sveinsvold heard the sounds of his expected rescue slowly fade into the distance, as G for George resumed her search elsewhere.
Smiling back at the rough but caring Russian sailor who was rebandaging his wound, he considered his options, which didn’t take long.
At 1707hrs, a second Canso flying boat made a trip over Cape Negro Island, failing to locate any IFF transmission whatsoever.
Having fulfilled that part of its mission, N for November flew off to its allocated search area, already widening as the hunt for the USN blimp went on.
The presence of the previously reported Swedish steamship was recorded in the flight log.
2157hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945. North West Atlantic, 20 miles south of Cape Sable Island, Nova Scotia.
Pulling smartly away from the small pier, the rowing boat headed for the steep sides of the merchant vessel.
Little of note was aboard for the return journey, the flow of stores and men being nearly all one-way.
Sveinsvold’s wounded leg meant that he could not climb, but the sailors had swung out a rig, and he was swiftly hoisted aboard.
The second man took longer, requiring more careful handling as he was seriously wounded, having tripped and fallen onto sharp rusting machinery on the small dock, three days beforehand.
The delirious Soviet marine was carefully swung aboard and quickly spirited away to the ship’s extensive medical facility.
On the island, the Russian Orthodox cross around Sveinsvold’s neck had attracted some attention, especially as communism and religion were bad bedfellows.
As soon as he was swung aboard one of the Scandinavian crewmembers, all good communists, spotted the Norse amulet that shared his throat with the cross, the latter a gift from his good friend Vassily, in happier times.
Sveinsvold was not so good in Swedish, so he switched to Norwegian, the two men finally settling on Russian as a common language.
The old Swede helped the wounded ‘submariner’ below, as the ‘Golden Quest’ prepared for night to fully descend, before supplying the submarines that were waiting to surface with torpedoes
Her orders had also been changed, and fuel was also to be supplied, to cover the loss of the milchcow.
By morning, the ship was already fifty miles south south west of Cape Negro, an elektroboote in close, but concealed, company.
We fight to great disadvantage when we fight with those who have nothing to lose.
Francesco Guicciardini
Chapter 80 - THE WEREWOLVES
1135hrs, Tuesday 11th September 1945, Skies over Hesse, Germany.
Whilst the RAF’s Bomber Command was licking its considerable wounds, it fell to the USAAF performing daylight missions to take the fight deep into Soviet controlled territory.
Reconnaissance missions were increasingly bearing fruit, as the day skies started to become more friendly, or more accurately, less murderous.
Today’s target had been acquired by a Mosquito PR34 of the RAF’s 540 Photo-Reconnaissance Squadron. The crew had decided to take some extra frames after attracting a few unwanted shots from a large wood, one mile north of Wolfhagen.
Excellent as the Soviet were with their camouflage, the young WAAF’s at ‘Interpretation’ quickly realised that not all was as it seemed, and after more work they had identified four hidden railway spurs from the main line which ran northwards, adjacent to the western edge of the woods.
That the Soviets bothered to conceal them was proof enough of their worthiness for further attention, and the belief that it was likely a clandestine supply dump encouraged a prompt visit.
Although the hilly wooded area would be less than ideal for that purpose, photo interpreters had quickly learned that the Soviet Army did things differently, and was less conventional than their former opponents.
T
herefore, the area of four square miles received the bomb loads of three hundred and twenty-seven heavy bombers, mostly B24 Liberators.
Soviet air defence scrambled numerous air regiments, again an indication that they valued the target.
Casualties amongst the fighters of both sides were murderous, but the Mustangs and Spitfires kept the Soviets at bay, only one B24 lost to interception.
The bravery of the fighter pilots could not prevent the anti-aircraft guns from doing their work, and a score of bombers fell to high-altitude AA guns, mostly those liberated from their former German owners.
The wood was incinerated.
1801hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945. Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.
Zhukov had been a different man ever since he had returned from Moscow on the Thursday night; late, tired and extremely frustrated.
A briefing from Nazarbayeva had done nothing to ease his growing anger at what seemed to be happening behind the lines, an area he had entrusted to others.
The GKO, more importantly Beria, had been prepared and had the answers to all his questions, something he had discussed with Malinin in the privacy of his office later.
They had concluded that one or all of the typists were NKVD spies, and promised to act accordingly in future.
The meat of the matter was simple.
Production was apparently at full tilt but there were difficulties with the increased distances involved in transporting the consumables of war. The reasons were as far apart as the gauge change in railways, from the Soviet Union’s narrow gauge to European wider gauge, to the growing and increasingly successful attacks by partisans and cut-off allied military units.
General agreement was reached on how to address the matters, actions ranging from increased manpower for security or rail works, through to the normal Stalinist solutions of threats and executions.
The reports Zhukov had requested, prior to his Moscow flight, indicated a number of interesting things.
The Soviet Commander was already aware that consumption of everything from bullets to bridges was far higher than had been allowed for, and that casualties amongst his frontline troops were extreme.
That was balanced by a similar bloodletting inflicted upon the Western Allies.
It was the combination of production and transportation figures that troubled him the most, as the two figures seemed to marry up perfectly but not translate into adequate stocks where they were most needed; with the Red Army in the field.
Zhukov drank his tea quietly whilst he waited for Malinin to examine the NKVD figures he had brought back with him, setting them against the figures received from the Fronts.
The CoS leant back in his chair, wiping his face with his left hand, as if clearing his mind for what he was about to say.
“And these figures are the NKVD’s official submission, Comrade Marshal?”
Replacing his cup in the matching saucer, the bald-headed commander of the Red Army responded with a shrug, heavy with his belief in the possibility that all was not how it seemed.
Seeing Malinin’s furrowed brow, Zhukov added the same codicil he had received from Beria.
“Our Chekist comrades acknowledge a possibility of error up to 2% either way.”
Malinin grunted as he brought his own cup to eager lips, sipped, and summarised some more.
“What are admitted in this document are considerable losses in the rear zone, some through air attack, some through partisan attack, and some through accident alone.”
Malinin stood, wiping his wet lips with a handkerchief, moving to look at the map on the wall, not one of the intended advances into Western Europe, but one showing the heart of the USSR, and the lands westwards to Germany.
“Losses and expenditure, once the manpower and supplies are in the forward frontal zones, are heavy, this we know. And we have reliable reports to confirm losses well in excess of what we allowed.”
Neither man needed to remind the other that new allowances were being complied, so that supply and manpower levels could be maintained.
‘Provided...’
“Comrade Marshal, these figures simply do not add up to me.”
It was nice to hear that another senior man also felt the wool was being pulled over the Army’s eyes.
Malinin continued, finger quickly tapping out an indistinct rhythm on the map, marking the major manufacturing zones of the USSR.
“If the production figures are how they are stated, and traditionally, production figures are extremely reliable,” Zhukov conceded that with a brusque nod, “Then what is being produced enters the transport system in the Rodina and only part of it comes out at our end.”
His finger made a single sound as it contacted with the geographic representation of Germany.
“A part which, at first look, would seem to be about a quarter less than it should be.”
The commander in chief took up the baton.
“With losses and expenditures way over expectations, and supplies less than anticipated, we have a serious problem, which is exactly what I told the General Secretary yesterday.”
Part of Malinin marvelled that Zhukov was still here, given Stalin’s propensity for head rolling.
“And how did the General-Secretary decide to resolve the issues.”
Zhukov smiled at his CoS, understanding that the statement was couched in such delicate terms, just in case there was a recording in progress.
“The usual, as I have already said, plus he will be ordering some air assets from other areas, including the Far East, to increase our own ability to destroy Allied assets.”
Both men knew that such an order would send many a mother’s son to his early death, so dangerous was any excursion behind enemy lines at the moment.
“The Navy has been ordered to escalate its submarine attacks as much as possible, obviously making transports a priority to stifle supply.”
“I’m sure the Navy will enjoy that.”
The two shared a professional grin that was devoid of real humour, in the knowledge that the upped tempo would result in ships being lost and more men would die.
Pointing at the chair, indicating Malinin should resume his seat, Zhukov’s voice dropped to a barely audible level.
“I cannot rely on what I am being told by Moscow, not at this time. I need to find out the truth.”
A silent message passed between the two men, ending with both nodding as the senior man picked up the telephone.
“Polkovnik General Pekunin please.”
Zhukov had time to finish his drink before the voice of the GRU commander resonated in his ear.
“Ah yes, and good day to you too, Comrade Polkovnik General. Yes, you may be of service, or rather, we both know someone who can.”
2307hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945, One kilometre south-west of Pörnbach, Germany.
The leader snorted quietly, soft enough to neither trouble any of the sleeping men some thirty metres to his front, nor for the sound to reach the ears of the handful of men patrolling the makeshift camp.
His men, well schooled in the arts of killing, watched as he made his hand signals, dispatching silent killers into the darkness, compromised only by the light of the moon and stars, and the small glow of a light in the single tent at the centre of the clearing.
Behind him, as well as to either side, MG42’s silently waited, ready to turn the woods into a cemetery at a moment’s notice.
Behind him were a handpicked group, twenty men who would be able to undertake the grisly work he had set aside for them, provided the first part went well.
That first part was in process, his experienced eye seeing the subtle change in shadows as his killers drew closer to the dead men walking.
Almost imperceptibly, the darkness around one sentry grew darker and the man disappeared for a second, seemingly reappearing, only slightly taller and thinner, and carrying a PPSh rather than the Mosin rifle he had been idly cradling a moment bef
orehand.
The nearest sentry decided to relieve himself, settling to unzip his fly at the moment that a dirty hand clapped itself hard to his mouth, pulling his head back, his surprise swiftly overtaken by the momentary pain of a blade severing everything of value in his neck.
Another sentry, spooked by something he couldn’t exactly understand, dropped to one knee, looking back across the clearing.
As he watched his two other comrades, apparently patrolling without a care, he relaxed, deciding to drop into the bushes to sample one of the American cigarettes he had taken from the bloated corpse he had found outside of Regensburg, the night before.
His lighter flared, granting him flame for his cigarette and light to see the man who killed him.
The impact knocked the cigarette from his grasp and he fell to the ground, the full weight of his attacker on top of him.
Winded and unable to speak, he tried to stand but the weight increased, and a hand held his mouth tight as he struggled face down in the leaves of the newly arrived autumn.
The Werewolf Kommando rammed his pointed knife into the base of the Russian’s skull, severing the spinal column.
SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Lenz saw the last sentry go down and gestured his assault group forward, the score of killers swiftly passing by, the occasional muffled sound marking their progress until they halted, commencing the grisly work of the night.
SS-Kommando Lenz worked its way through the camp, dispatching the NKVD troopers of the 36th NKVD Convoy Forces Security Division silently and swiftly, employing blades for the most part.
Two of the men stood with silenced pistols, ready should a man awaken prematurely.
They were not needed.
The group spread through the camp, until only the tent had been left untouched, and fifty-seven young men had been brutally slain.
Artur Lenz strolled forward, his body once more accustomed to the rigours of war after weeks on the move avoiding Soviet security forces. Tonight he was making a statement, destroying one such force before swiftly relocating to another area.
