by Gee, Colin
Moving on before his nemesis could protest, Zhukov slapped the map for the final time.
“3rd Red Banner will aim towards Freiburg, and break into Southern France,” he emphasised the next point by stating each word deliberately slowly, “And Swiss neutrality is to be respected without exception.”
“To aid 2nd and 3rd, I have directed the Front Munitions Officers to liaise, with a view to 1st Southern and 1st Alpine supplying some of the needs of the two Red Banner armies.”
Again, Chuikov and Yeremenko protested, having already helped with transfers of some munitions, the feeling of being second-class citizens completed by the ignominy of losing larger quantities of their carefully hoarded supplies.
“There is no choice here, Comrades,” a reference to the directions he had been given during his frosty meeting with the GKO, “It will be done, and it will be done satisfactorily.”
“There is to be no let-up in our pressure, all along the line, our soldiers must stay in close contact with the enemy. All commanders are to funnel their resources into the focussed attacks, using maskirova to conceal movements and intents.”
Sweetening the bitter pill, Zhukov referred to a document recently received from the communications centre.
“I am having copies of this document made. It details additional resources that are being dispatched from STAVKA reserves, to help you in your successful execution of the plan.”
Zhukov employed the ‘execution’ word that Stalin had used when discussing the depleted state of the Red Army and the need for fresh formations to complete the plan. The word had also been used another time that same meeting, but not in the same context.
“Now, Comrades, our air forces have suffered hideous casualties at the hands of the enemy, as you will know, but we have struck back, dealing a heavy blow to the bomber force of the RAF.”
A few men mumbled, the sounds conveying neither satisfaction, nor discontent. Every man there knew more needed to be done.
“STAVKA have released more air assets. Chief Marshal of Aviation Alexander Novikov is here to tell you how they will be employed, and what new tactics he has developed to help wrest back the aerial advantage.”
There were no illusions about the Air War. The night sky belonged to the Allies, the daylight hours seeing a rough parity constantly gained at the expense of large numbers of destroyed aircraft and dead pilots.
Novikov stepped forward and spoke briefly, outlining tactical changes in such a way as a simple soldier could grasp.
By the time he had finished, most in the room felt buoyed by his words, the emphasis on defending supplies and transport routes being welcome, although the pessimists amongst them assumed the extra vigilance in that regard would mean less direct support to forces in the field.
Vice-Admiral Vladimir Tributs, the commander of the Baltic Fleet, replaced the Air Force Commander, detailing the actions of the submarine war, and revealing just how much enemy materiel was not reaching European shores, thanks to the efforts of a few submarines and a lot of luck.
There was no need for Tributs to state that the luck could not last, had not lasted, as the Soviet navy had lost ten submarines in the North Atlantic in just the last six days.
Finally, Zhukov played his trump card, and an intelligence briefing from Colonel Nazarbayeva of the GRU proved informative, the confirmed neutralising of Italy being a high point, revelations of the Spanish commitment, a low.
She withdrew from the room, her task completed.
Without saying so directly, Zhukov had just ensured that his senior officers had their information from reliable sources, not just the sanitised NKVD reports.
Time to move on to other matters now.
“Comrades,” the low chatter ceased as Zhukov brought them all back to matters in hand, “Permission to restore our released prisoners to the Red Army has been denied.”
Most had heard the rumours, but it did not prevent the mutterings from starting once more.
“However,” he practised the statement in his mind quickly, making sure he got it exactly right, “I see no reason why the lazy bastards should sit around doing nothing whilst they wait for transport back to the Rodina and justice.”
‘Perfect.’
“Your transport officers have rightly made them a low priority for return to the Motherland. I would not encourage a change to that, but I do suggest that you all put the traitors to use while they wait their turn. If they can chop down trees, then give them an axe. If they can carry something for the benefit of the Red Army, give them something to carry.”
He need say no more, the meaning clear to every man that had the benefit of seeing his eyes and hearing the inflection in his voice. Any written report would not have the benefit of his presence or his tone, and would only serve to illustrate his clear agreement with General Secretary Stalin’s stance.
None the less, Zhukov was taking a big chance, and they all knew it.
Unseen, Konev’s eyes glinted maliciously.
None the less, assistance from qualified soldiers was most welcome to the assembled officers, and many minds had already turned to methods of employing them.
Zhukov looked to move on.
“I want complete revisions of your reinforcement and supply policies, in line with Comrade Marshal Novikov’s air plan.”
He put their fears into words.
“There will obviously be an effect upon direct support from the Red Air Force, but that cannot be helped. Our artillery and mortar losses have been murderous, but the relocation of units has been successful. Ensure your artillery forces can support your ground assaults, but follow the new doctrine to the letter.”
In many ways, the Soviets had been guilty of underestimating the Allies, and that was most certainly the case in Artillery tactics. The waning power of the German Heer and Luftwaffe might have lulled them into a sense of false security. Whatever the reason, Allied counter-battery fire was extremely effective, and the Allied ground-attack aircraft also exacted a high price on the supporting artillery and mortar units.
“Comrades, use your Air defence units wisely, and concentrate them to defend your key assets. Spread those assets out if you don’t have the protection, but we are losing too much that is valuable to their bomber and ground attack regiments.”
Uncharacteristically, he hammered his fist on the map table.
“Relocation, Comrades, we must do more of it, and do it much quicker!”
A staff officer slipped quietly into the room, bearing a message for one of the Marshals, his eyes moving from man to man until he saw the commander of the 3rd Red Banner Front.
Zhukov waited whilst the contents were consumed, the rest of the officers falling into whispered general discussion once more.
Rokossovsky finished reading the message and returned it to the Major, directing him to present it to the Commander in Chief.
Reading it for himself, Zhukov felt a moment of elation, before passing it to Malinin, and calling the room to order.
“Comrades, comrades.”
The room came to order, and Zhukov indicated that Rokossovsky should deliver the news.
The Polish officer rose to his feet.
“Comrades, at 0820hrs this morning, elements of the 10th Guards Rifle Corps reached Lindau.”
Suddenly realising that the momentousness of the news was lost on his fellows, Rokossovsky continued.
“Lindau is on the shores of Lake Constance, and looks across into Switzerland.”
For the benefit of those who still did not fully grasp the significance, he went further.
“The Allied forces are now split in two pieces.”
Whilst momentous in itself, the excursion of the 10th Guards was short-lived, a counter-attack by American tanks and armored infantry restoring a narrow corridor between Germany and Northern Italy.
The meeting of the Soviet Commanders broke up just before 1800hrs, the senior officers making their way back to their commands, heads full of orders for the co
ming day.
You do not raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they will turn out to be heroes, even if it is just in your own eyes.
Walter M. Schirra Sr
Chapter 84 - THE TRAWLER
1312hrs, Friday, 21st September 1945, nine miles due west of Fair Isle, North Sea.
She was one hundred and sixty nondescript feet, rusted, and salt stained, but still a valuable part of His Majesty’s Navy, purpose-built as an armed trawler by Smith’s Dock Company Ltd of South Bank on Tees.
Launched in late 1939, HMT Sequoia had seen little of the war, other than the occasional brush with a floating mine or sight of a receding enemy Kondor reconnaissance aircraft.
Except for one horrendously stormy day, December 1st 1944, when she had risked all to rescue the crew of a crashed Catalina off Stronsay Island, plucking the crew from the water in time to save all but one life.
Today she was carrying out her orders in calmer seas, patrolling the gap between the Orkneys and Fair Isle to the north-west.
Or rather, she had been until the tortured sound of metal on metal had penetrated the whole ship, bringing on a period of enforced silence, as the engine room crew laboured to repair the damaged shaft bearing.
Even though helped by the millpond nature of the seas embracing the powerless craft, the engineers were finding the work heavy going, much to the annoyance of the ship’s captain.
The previous day, an enemy submarine had sunk a small vessel to the west of Stromness, and Captain Boothroyd had the feeling that the Russian was coming his way.
So much so that he had his depth charge crews working hard, drilling, and drilling, getting the routine perfected, ready for the inevitable appearance of the underwater killer.
The killer was already there, watching, assessing the situation, before making the kill.
Shch307 had sunk the little steamer off the west coast of Orkney, and then run hell for leather for the open sea, intent on plying her lethal trade off the coast near Grimsby, where Soviet intelligence expected fat pickings.
Defects on the starboard lower tube gave the Captain much cause for concern. The inner cap had been hit by a reload swinging unexpectedly during an underwater surge.
The door and torpedo had been checked and found to be fine. As a precaution, the tube had been vented of air and the seals checked for leaks. There were none.
The torpedo had been loaded and it was this tube that fired the second weapon at the unfortunate steamer. The problems came thick and fast from that point, with the bow cap failing to close properly, and a leak around the seal of the inner door apparent from the moment the tube was fired. The decision was taken to weld the inner door shut as water leaked through the displaced joint at a higher rate with each advancing minute. Wooden shoring was used to press the cap home, and the Engineering officer undertook the welding work.
The submarine’s commander had pronounced himself happy with the work, and added a dedicated watch on the weld, shoring, and leak, to reassure everyone onboard.
None the less, it was not just the torpedo room crew who felt uneasy that the cold sea was only kept at bay by one metal skin.
Kalinin was no longer in charge, ordered to take over the captaincy of B-29. His first officer, Senior Lieutenant Yanninin, was in command, and revelling in the new found freedom of operation.
Keen ears had detected the sounding of hammering, and Shch307 had slowly risen to periscope depth to take a look.
The most difficult decision had been whether the vessel was worth a torpedo.
Yanninin had decided it was not; neither was it worth the risk of surfacing and using the deck gun.
The fact that the enemy vessel was making no noise complicated the situation somewhat, so Yanninin decided to use minimum power on the engines, sufficient to maintain steerage, and drift slowly past the insignificant ship, before heading south to the rich pickings of Grimsby waters.
On the bridge, Boothroyd was enjoying his pipe, sucking greedily at the rich smoke, his eyes examining something indistinct off the port bow.
“Boy, get thee some glasses. See there,” he pointed off to the left, “Port side there. What say thee, boy?”
The ship’s boy did as he was bidden, seeking out the shape that had piqued Boothroyd’s curiosity.
Holding up his hand, preventing the sweaty engineer from speaking, the Captain listened for the boy’s report.
“Skipper, it’s a mine. One of our’n, by the cut of her.”
Boothroyd smiled, the boy’s attempts at seafarer’s talk understandable, but still funny.
“I thought as much. Go and find the Number One and tell him I asked for a rifle on the bridge. Explain why, and bring it here as soon as he issues it. Clear, boy?”
“Aye aye, Captain,” the boy rushed off, charged with important matters.
“So, Obadiah, what news of my engine?”
Higginbotham, the engineer, hawked and spat in the brass spittoon set aside for the Captain’s pleasure, for when smoking was difficult, but chewing tobacco fine.
“The engine is your’n now, Cap’n, but I won’t guarantee her o’er six knot. The bearing’s repaired, for the now, and I have Young Crouch refurbishing the broken section as we speak.”
Higginbotham was an old woman when it came to his precious engine, so Boothroyd automatically added two knots. Sequoia could only steam at twelve knots at the best of times, so eight knots was a reasonable result, especially when the graunching sound had seemed so terminal.
“Thank ye, Chief, and pass that on to your crew there. There’ll be an extra tot for your boys when the sun is over the yardarm.”
The conversation was interrupted by the return of the excited boy, complete an old Lee-Metford rifle, closely followed by Lieutenant Clark, the ship’s Number One. He had kept the ammunition tightly in his hand until he understood what exactly the breathless boy had been on about.
“Carry on, Chief,” the friendly order about as formal as things got onboard Sequoia.
“Ah, Number One, give the boy some bullets there, and let him have a bash at yonder mine. But first, pass the word to the lads, let ‘em know what’s occuring. Don’t want ‘em wetting themsel when it goes bang, do we?”
Clark nodded and blew done some voice pipes, quickly announcing what was about to happen.
Gesturing at the port side, Boothroyd nudged the quartermaster.
“Ahead one third Jacko, steer,” he paused for a second, checking out both the mine and the signs of the sea, “Steer 0-0-5,”
“Ahead one third, steer 0-0-5, aye aye Cap’n.”
The ringing of the telegraph provided a backdrop to the sound of a magazine ramming home into the rifle. The boy, proud of the responsibility he had been given, scurried to the portside bridge to set himself to the task.
“What the hell was that?”
Yanninin asked the question, his ears glued to one side of the headphones.
“Sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil, Comrade Captain.”
He had been there himself, heard the sound before, so he saw the surface vignette with the utmost clarity in the fraction of a second.
“Steer starboard 90, set speed for five knots.”
The sonar operator silently sought an explanation from his commander.
“You use a rifle to shoot at a mine. I think they are trying to...”
The words became unnecessary, as a huge explosion rocked the boot, firing its sound straight into the left ear of the unfortunate sonar operator, the drum instantly ruptured.
‘Mudaks, that’s my fault’, Yanninin chided himself, placing his hand to the mouth of the moaning man.
The shock waves of the explosion came next, jarring the boat.
In the torpedo room, the sound came as a surprise, as did the following shock wave.
One young seaman filled his pants, so complete was the surprise and savage the effect.
“Midships, set speed for three knots, silent running.”
> At the front of the boat, the torpedo room commander, a Chief Starshina on his twelfth patrol, braced himself quickly. Grabbing for solid support, he wedged himself between the starboard lower torpedo tube and the firing assembly, setting himself firmly in place.
The rocking subsided, the faint echoes of the explosion now gone.
Sighs of relief overcame the sounds of fear, the first comments about their unfortunate comrade starting.
The Chief was otherwise pre-occupied, examining his wet hand and the recently welded door, a metallic clicking sound noticeable with every rise and fall in the roiled water.
The experienced Warrant Officer drew a visual image of the area and quickly realised what had happened.
The errant outer door had come loose in the shock wave but, in the course of trying to close it earlier, the system had been strained, leaving a little play.
It was this play, twelve millimetres of movement in total, which was producing the clacking sound as the waters moved the door in a steady rhythm.
Without waiting for orders he grabbed the winding control, and commenced closing the outer door, an act that commenced smoothly, indicting his guess had been right.
The door came shut with a low sound as the two metal surfaces married around their rubber seals.
Checking he had completed the closing procedure, the Chief Starshina contacted the Control room, reporting the change.
Yanninin accepted the report from the Senior Midshipman, the most experienced Warrant officer on the 307, one of his problems solved by accident, although the welding of the tube meant that it would be unavailable until they had time to inspect it from inside and out.
Shch307 moved on silently.
A voice tube whistled, interrupting Boothroyd’s congratulations, the boy openly proud that he had hit the target with every shot and that the third .303 had ignited the floating mine.
It was an incredible feat of marksmanship but one Boothroyd realised he could not overly publicise, lest the thirteen year old was removed from service on his ship.
