Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  He pulled the plug on the voice pipe, identifying himself brusquely.

  “Captain Sir, I think there is something below us. I definitely heard clear metallic sounds but now they have gone.”

  The apparatus lost efficiency when dealing with targets immediately underneath the vessel.

  Boothroyd considered the man on the other end of the pipe, putting his pipe to his lips, tapping his teeth in an indistinct rhythm.

  Charles Maitland, very much a ‘hostilities only’ new navy man, a Sub-Lieutenant recently out of naval school system, trained up to run the ‘garfangled box of tricks’ and thrown aboard the Sequoia to learn his trade.

  A trade he had mastered in spades by all standards the crew and himself applied.

  None the less, he had to question further.

  “Come on there, Subby, give me more than that.”

  “Sir, there was a low but regular metallic sound, which was then replaced by a single deeper sound, also metallic in nature. My belief is we are sitting on a submarine.”

  Boothroyd had not asked for his guess, but he accepted it in any case.

  “Light it up, Subby, active search.”

  Turning to the bridge crew, he did what was necessary.

  “Action stations depth charge, Number One.”

  The ship’s bells rang immediately, the Lieutenant having readied himself, knowing what was coming.

  “Full speed ahead, Jacko.”

  The bridge was suddenly filled with the sound of asdic returns, drowning out the quartermaster’s response, bouncing back from something solid, something that should not be there.

  Boothroyd already knew there were no friendly submarines in the area, his search area considered a weapons-free zone.

  “Talk to me Sub.”

  “Contact dead ahead Skipper, range four hundred yards, depth one-fifty feet, identify as definite submarine.”

  Instant decision.

  Moving to another pipe, he blew and received an immediate response, the depth charge crews still at their posts following the drill session.

  “Thompson, get ‘em set for one-fifty, and do it fast. We are almost on top of the bastard. Two and two, Sub, two and two.”

  “Aye aye, Skipper.”

  “Subby, the old lady can’t make full speed. You understand, lad?”

  The reply was slightly delayed, but none the less, firm.

  ”Understood, Skipper. Good luck, Sir.”

  ‘And to thee, young ‘un.’

  Sequoia’s crew were top notch, despite the air of informality and relaxation that so exasperated the ‘real’ Navy men, marking her and her crew as a target for career naval officers ashore.

  The Number One was now on the voice pipe, receiving information from Maitland, passing on the relevant parts as the excited young officer brought the trawler down on the unsuspecting submarine.

  “Lost signal, Skipper!”

  A sure sign that the undersea killer was beneath their keel.

  “Very well, Number One.”

  Standing by the ship’s horn, Boothroyd calculated all the factors in the equation.

  ‘Wait.’

  The tension on the bridge was extreme.

  ‘Wait.’

  The boy coughed, the strain apparent as he cradled the rifle to him, seeking its comfort and support.

  ‘Now.’

  He pulled the small handle, summoning a single blast of the ship’s horn, spurring the depth charge crews into action. The system also had the advantage of giving the rest of the ship’s company advance warning of what was about to happen.

  Thompson, at the rear of the vessel, counted off the first depth charge, watching it roll down the metal frame and drop into the sea beneath the stern.

  Not trusting his free counting, so watching his timepiece closely, he counted down, raising his hand on a count of six and dropping it on the nine.

  The second depth charge followed suit.

  In the water were four type D charges, each containing three hundred pounds of deadly amatol explosives.

  On the bridge, Boothroyd decided to stay silent. No use in troubling the boy, and the others all knew that the depth charges were going to be too close at their reduced speed, and would probably mortally wound them too.

  The Number One made the only possible comment.

  “Brace yourselves!”

  “Commander! Splashes in the water, close by!”

  Yanninin acted immediately, trying to picture the surface vessel and its movements.

  “Emergency speed, steer starboard 20, make depth one hundred.”

  It was a good effort, but ultimately, a wasted one.

  Three of the charges exploded in as many seconds, the first two causing nothing but boiled water, either side of the 307.

  The third charge detonated six feet behind the port propeller, bending the blades. The shockwave rammed the bent shaft back into the stuffing boxes and gears, causing catastrophic damage to the port engine.

  Water started to pour in through ruined seals, immediately making the boat rear-heavy.

  The secondary shock waves sprung the main air intake valve, adding to the inrush of the sea.

  Yanninin knew his ship was dying.

  “Blow all tanks, surface, gun action surface.”

  His words were punctuated by another huge explosion, this time the charge detonated off the port bow.

  The remaining bulbs shattered, plunging the control room into temporary darkness, swiftly dispersed by torches.

  The damaged bow cap gave way, not totally, but enough to permit an inrush of water.

  The partially drained torpedo tube offered a space for the water to build momentum, the mass striking the welded tube door hard.

  The Senior Starshina understood he was watching his doom unfold, the pinpoint high-pressure leaks springing around the failing door weld.

  The following shock waves caused the door to fail and the tube was opened to the sea.

  None of the torpedo room personnel had any time to do anything but scream as the cold water rushed over them.

  In the control room, things went from bad to worse, the first officer virtually trepanned when he smashed into the periscope stand. Yanninin was trying to ignore his broken wrist, snapped in an instant as he had reached out to steady himself and missed.

  Others also lay dead and bleeding, victims of the two charges.

  Shch307 would not rise, the bow now heavier than the stern.

  The depth gauge, functioning as it was designed, steadily altered, showing their accelerating fall into the depths.

  The charts indicated a depth of roughly three hundred and thirty metres under their keel, a distance well past the crush depth of their hull.

  Calls to the torpedo room were not answered, and the survivors started to understand that their deaths were but a few heartbeats away.

  At two-hundred and ninety-eight metres, the damaged hull gave up the struggle.

  Thompson was dying. The fourth and nearest shockwave displaced a ready-use depth charge, which rolled into him, crushing him against the ship’s side and almost severing his legs.

  Two members of his depth charge gang had already gone to meet their maker, dashed against unforgiving hard surfaces by the blasts. The rest were unconscious.

  Sequoia would not long survive her vanquished foe, the leaks so severe in her propeller shaft and engine spaces that Higginbotham had quit the boiler room without permission, saving most of his gang by the skin of their teeth.

  The trawler was already down by the stern, and noticeably sinking deeper by the minute.

  The boy was nearing the end of his journey, his injuries not obvious, his body broken on the inside. He had been thrown against the wheel, two handles driving hard into him, one catastrophically rupturing his liver, the other his spleen.

  “Easy now, boy, easy. We’ll get the doc to thee, and thou’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  Boothroyd stroked the boy’s hair, his tears betraying th
e lies.

  “Did we get him, Skipper?”

  “Aye, boy, we got him fair and square.”

  A cough brought forth a gout of crimson fluid.

  “Rest easy, boy. Thy duty’s done.”

  Seemingly drifting away, the teenager rallied one final time.

  “Tell Mum it didn’t hurt, and tell her I was a good sailor.”

  Boothroyd looked up as Higginbotham entered, the engineer’s face betraying the horror of what he had stumbled upon.

  “Oh Jesus Christ, George!”

  He rushed forward, one hand on the dying child, the other on the man who had been his best friend since memories began.

  Holding the boy’s hand tight, the ship’s captain made his pledge.

  “That I will, boy, that I will. Now, rest easy, and know that I’s proud of thee.”

  “Dad...”

  The boy died.

  The crew abandoned ship, pulling away in the undamaged boats, putting a little distance between themselves and the rapidly sinking trawler.

  Higginbotham had tried, as had others, but all failed. So they obeyed the last order of their Captain, the man who now stood motionless on the port bridge of the Sequoia, sixty feet away.

  The crews stopped rowing and watched, no one in the two boats turning away, all rigidly facing front as a mark of respect to their crewmates and their ship.

  HMT Sequoia accelerated her descent, the rising water claiming her hull and superstructure in one violent, foaming minute, Captain Boothroyd disappearing from view in a whirl of white.

  And then she was gone.

  At one hundred and fifty feet, hydrostatic valves started to click, the depth charges doing what they had been asked to do by Thompson.

  Eight of thirty charges had been armed and ready for use.

  Eight charges exploded in short order.

  HMT Sequoia and her crew became just a memory.

  Forty men, plus one boy.

  2109hrs, Friday, 21st September 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.

  Colonels Ferovan and Atalin had been extremely busy, and their reports had enabled Malinin to supply the answers to Zhukov’s direct questions.

  “So, am I to believe that both of these considerable losses are as a result of coincidence and nothing more?”

  The responsible Front Commanders had already supplied their own reports, but it was all so close to his briefing regarding the importance of their supplies that the reports were challenged and his own officers sent out into the field to check.

  “Yes, Comrade Marshal.”

  Zhukov slid one of a stack of folders out of the pile and opened it.

  “Start with Ingolstadt then, Comrade.”

  Ingolstadt had been the main deposit of supplies for the assault armies in Western Bavaria. From the initial reports, ‘had’ was apparently an excellent description.

  “Comrade Marshal, the report you received has been confirmed. Colonel Atalin has inspected a number of bodies, two of which had blood group tattoos on their left arms, in accordance with the SS practice.”

  “Atalin’s report details firm evidence of a considerable fire fight on the western edge of supply area, where the immediate guard force was wiped out to a man.”

  A grunt from Zhukov was all the recognition that the outnumbered guard force would get at this time.

  “Reaction elements of the guarding infantry regiment acted swiftly, and prevented the partisans causing excessive damage.

  The word ‘excessive’ drew a look from the Commander in Chief.

  The CoS shrugged.

  “Comrade Marshal, it could have been so much worse.”

  “Continue Mikhail”, the olive branch offered up quickly.

  “The arrival of another force, a motorized company of NKVD troops, forced the German saboteurs to call of their attack.”

  Turning the page, Malinin continued.

  “The NKVD force acted in exemplary fashion, restricting the movement of the partisans, and it seems they are responsible for most of the casualties that were inflicted upon them.”

  The initial report had detailed twenty-seven enemy dead and three prisoners.

  Malinin moved quickly into that area.

  “Atalin confirms the numbers, and that GRU and NKVD interrogators are hard at work.”

  That statement carried a lot of meaning and needed no amplification.

  “It would appear that the fires started by the partisans were responsible for attracting the attention of enemy aircraft.”

  Turning the page again, Malinin waited for his commander to follow suit, checking the original report against the Colonel’s independent version.

  “From the timings that Colonel Atalin has recorded during his interviews with survivors, the air attacks first started at 2342hrs, when there was still fighting on the ground. Further attacks come in, building in intensity. Atalin deduces, correctly in my view, that enemy controllers became more organised and brought more aircraft in, encouraged by the secondary explosions on the ground.”

  Another grunt, not one of acknowledgement, but one of annoyance, did not discourage Malinin from continuing.

  “It would appear that over two hundred Allied aircraft attacked the site.”

  Bending forward to closely study an item not so well printed, he struggled to make out the name.

  “Mayor Stryabin? Skryabin? Shryabin? Whoever he is, he is the NKVD commander on the ground, and he reported the final air attack ending at 0459hrs. This differs from Pod-Polkovnik Zhuvashikin of the security regiment, who reports the final attack fully one hour earlier. Atalin suspects this discrepancy may have come about because of explosions on the ground.”

  He looked up at Zhukov.

  “In any case, Atalin states that he highlights this as it is the only discrepancy he has discovered between his and the Front report we were given.”

  A loud resigned exhalation indicated Zhukov’s opinion.

  “So Comrade, do the losses marry up?”

  Turning to the final page, Zhukov waited.

  The Colonels report made its way over, and he placed them side by side.

  “Really?”

  “He was relying on figures given him by supply officers, but they had the benefit of some extra time to do their checks.”

  The losses were markedly less than those first feared, but still reflected nearly a third of the ammunition, and a quarter of other consumables.

  With one exception.

  “122mm shells again? Are the Allies psychic?”

  Just under forty-six percent of the stock of 122mm shells had been damaged or destroyed.

  “This will have an effect, Comrade Marshal, but it is not as bad as we feared, and my preliminary planning had already looked at reducing expenditures, so I believe we may be able to cope with this loss.”

  There was a silence, both men thinking along the same lines.

  ‘Provided there are no more disasters!’

  “Let us leave Ingolstadt for now. Your report will be ready when?”

  Malinin thought swiftly.

  “One hour from when we finish up here, Comrade Marshal.”

  “Excellent. Now, Lauenbruck.”

  “A different tale, Comrade Marshal.”

  Both men selected their reports, Zhukov again with the front Commanders submission alongside to identify any differences.

  “A force of enemy soldiers, identified as Canadian troops, attacked the airfield and supply depot. We have a count of twenty-eight enemy dead and captured.”

  Flicking over the page, Malinin sneezed.

  Zhukov watched in amusement as the Chief of Staff gathered himself for the traditional repeat.

  It came, shaking Malinin to the core.

  “Gesundheit,” the German saying slipping badly from Zhukov’s tongue.

  “NKVD Polkovnik Cyrichov, the security force commander, reports his belief that the whole group of raiders was destroyed in the attempt. Ferovan i
s less forthright in his opinion, but does say that NKVD security forces have found no further trace of the partisans movements post-raid.”

  “Then we will leave it at that. Losses in equipment and munitions. Any discrepancies?”

  There was none of note, the hastily prepared version tallying almost exactly with Colonel Ferovan’s submission.

  Losses in men, equipment and munitions were almost mirrored, the sole difference being in an extra two firefighters dead, both having succumbed to their injuries, one less Yakolev-9 fighter destroyed, and an additional four thousand hand grenades unusable, declared unstable by a senior munitions officer.

  “The losses in engineer equipment are high, Mikhail. The Armenian already wails and asks for replacements.”

  That was something that needed no discussion. There were none to be had at the moment, despite the promises and protestations of those back in the Motherland.

  “Ferovan makes an observation on the pre-disposition of Front Supply Officers for stockpiling. The reasons are sound normally, but the advantage of concentrating our supplies was, on this occasion lost. The secondary detonation of munitions on the ground seems to have caused more damage than the enemy attack itself. Even though some allied aircraft arrived, they spent more time and effort attacking the destroyed airfield and burning wrecks than the supply facility.”

  Zhukov wondered when a Commander might consider the loss of an elite fighter regiment and its crews an advantage to the loss of supposedly replaceable supplies.

  ‘I will take that exchange every time until the damn problem is sorted.’

  The thought did not make him uncaring; it just meant he was a General, with a General’s problems.

  “Your thoughts, Mikhail?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the reply, obviously already carefully considered, came tumbling out.

  “Comrade Marshal, we have the manpower to guard our dumps effectively, and the AA capability to protect them from air attack no less than we did before.”

  That statement was a simple truth, although the Allied capability to interdict their supplies and transport routes was much higher than had been anticipated.