by Colin Gee
“Koorva!”
He looked at his watch, and knew it was going wrong. He attracted the radio operator’s attention.
“Wasco, tell Shark to hold.”
Shark was an integral part of the escape, and could not be risked to a failing plan. Shandruk had decided to keep the vessel out at sea a while longer.
Other reports had come in, and only ‘Seven’ was left to purge, at least, as far as the west side of the track was concerned.
“Brat, twelve and fourteen empty, over.”
Shandruk welcomed the advantage that offered, but the professional in him felt disgusted that his enemy was so inept as to leave important positions unmanned, no matter what the circumstances.
“Dedushko, Seven, over.”
‘Excellent’.
He toyed with the idea of sending ‘Sestra’ to sort the stone buildings out, but checked the thought, knowing that Building ‘Seventeen’ was still an issue.
Instead, he kept ‘Sestra’ and ‘Dedeshko’ holding in place, and moved himself forward.
“All units, Tato moving to Nine, out.”
He reasoned that he could best use the MG42’s cover from ‘Nine’ if there was an issue with either the farm buildings or the final wooden structure at ‘Seventeen’.
Shandruk simply didn’t realise that the new locations, recently discovered by Kuibida’s force, would be in his line of sight.
The snow crunched gently underfoot as the teams moved forward, this time seemingly more loud than before, their senses enhanced by the known presence of an enemy.
Evancho, his infra-red goggles revealing everything, found the sleeping sentry with ease, and he gestured his knifemen forward. Inside the small building, voices were mumbling, not in alarm, but seemingly in quiet conversation.
The sentry’s SVT-40 clattered noisily onto the wooden verandah, causing those inside to abruptly stop talking.
Recovering his knife, the lead killer moved quickly to the doorway, part of his mind registering metal bars on the windows, the other part indignant that the door was padlocked and resistant to his attempt to enter.
Evancho saw the problem from his cover position, and gestured at his companion, who placed his silenced Winchester on the snow and started looking through the dead sentries’ pockets.
“Here.”
The keys were tossed to one of the waiting knifemen, but he missed the catch, the distraction of something landing in the snow in front of him proving too much.
Evancho reacted the quickest and threw himself forward, landing on top of the grenade as it exploded.
Whilst he muffled the explosion, and protected his men, the dull noise rolled through the silent camp, and redoubled as the sound of automatic fire followed the grenade.
“Bastards! There’s fucking English bastards in the camp, lads! Wake up, you fucks! Wake up!”
The Irish voice summoned the camp to arms, although the owner didn’t realize that he was mainly calling to dead men.
Three of Evancho’s group were down hard; Evancho and the key catcher were both dead. The Winchester man had taken a round in the shoulder, and was screaming in the red snow.
Scrabbling around at his feet for the dropped key, the surviving Ukrainian unlocked the padlock and sought cover inside, his pistol readied for any problems.
A chair leg, swung by a very muscly and tattooed arm, felled him immediately, and a pair of hands grabbed the inert figure, dragging him inside before pulling the door closed.
One occupant, who had been subjected to regular beatings, was in no fit state to offer resistance, but the other was fighting fit, and ready to take advantage of whatever was going on around him, as the camp burst into frenzied life.
Shandruk realized his positional error and quickly shifted the MG42 to where it could flay Hut ‘Seventeen’.
Surprise was just a distant memory now, but most of the work had been completed, although there had yet to be any sighting of the two specific targets, ‘Kolobok’ and ‘Ryaba’, or Brown and Reynolds as they were known to their peers.
“Wasco, get Shark moving again. Tell ‘em not to worry about silence.”
He spoke rapidly into the HT as his radio operator passed the message to the RAF rescue trawler, HMS Robert Hastie.
“Bird, Tato, stage two, out.”
Busy taking in the tactical situation, part of Shandruk’s brain registered the sound of aero engines bursting into life, as the three Sunderlands responded to his order.
To his front, Kuibida had flanked Building ‘Seventeen’, coming at it from the east side, where it was set against the trees and bushes, and where there were no openings.
The MG42 was spitting bullets at any part of the structure that showed signs of movement.
Across the track, part of ‘Dedushko’ had joined in the firefight, whilst the other part had teamed up with ‘Sestra’, and that joint force was closing on the stone farm buildings at speed.
With part of the group covering, the rest of the attack force pressed hard on the farmhouse they knew as Building ‘Twenty’.
It seemed they had got there without problems until a burst of fire from a downstairs window put two of the attacking Ukrainians down, sparking a firefight with the covering force.
Back at ‘Seventeen’, Kuibida was in position.
“Mama to all, no fire on Seventeen. Assaulting now, out.”
Whilst all stations received the message, Shandruk made sure the 42 team fully understood, and took the opportunity to check their fire.
“Tato, Sestra… report… over.”
Nothing.
“Tato, Dedushko… report… over.”
“Dedushka, Tato, Sestra inside Twenty… there is resistance… at least four men down… waiting, over.”
“Tato, Dedushko… leave Sixteen to us… stay away, out.”
The MG42 was given another target and started peppering the windows of building ‘Sixteen’.
Back at ‘Seventeen’, Kuibida’s assault was heralded by grenades. It also came in from the south side, whilst the IRA defenders were oriented west and north.
One Irishman, a veteran of the Great War, realised the presence of enemy to their rear, but died as the first of six grenades exploded inside the wooden hut, setting fire to a number of flammable items, and bathing the area with an intense orange light in seconds.
The Ukrainians swept in and over the stunned defenders, shooting the wounded and stunned survivors without mercy.
“NO!”
Kuibida’s shout rang through the hut, giving everyone a moment’s pause.
“Not him,” he pointed at the unconscious man who had been about to travel to his maker at the hands of Konstantin Lach.
“Him, we want, Konstantin. He’s your responsibility. Make sure he gets back alive.”
Lach took the order for what it was, realising this was a man whose face he should have recognised. He tried to kick the unconscious man awake, without success.
“Gimme a hand.”
He and another dragged the large man outside and dumped him in the snow, where the cold brought him round quickly.
Kuibida watched as the man was helped to his feet and taken away.
“Mama, Tato. Kolobok, over.”
The message was received by a number of listeners, but none welcomed it more than the listener on NS-F.
“Skipper.”
Viljoen, concentrating on moving his Sunderland around the island and down to the Glenlara slipway, grunted to show that he could hear.
“From the lads ashore… Kolobok.”
For the first time in many days, Viljoen smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
‘Seventeen’ had been bloodily cleared, the IRA men inside wiped out almost to a man, and that surviving man was being escorted away to the slipway, the effects of blast, shock, and alcohol all combining to ensure that he didn’t comprehend that the doors of hell had just swallowed him whole.
In ‘Twenty’, ‘Sestra’ h
ad cleared the building, but not without further cost. The farmer, the same as had killed one of Bryan’s agents by running him over with a tractor, had used a shotgun to defend himself, spreading one of the Ukrainians up the wall of the staircase. His resistance had earned him little respite, and he and his family were slaughtered in their bedrooms, the screams of young and old ignored by men with specific orders and no mercy in their hearts.
‘Dedushko’ had rolled through ‘Nineteen’, the two men inside so incapacitated by alcohol as to both be slaughtered like lambs, and with as much comprehension of events.
“Tato, Dedushko…report.”
“Dedushko, Tato, Nineteen cleared…over.”
Shandruk could see the muzzle flashes from the windows of the last farm building and instantly made the call.
“Tato, Dedushko… attack Sixteen immediately, out.”
“Tato, all units, fire on upper floors of Sixteen only…repeat…upper floors only…out.”
As he studied the position, the rush of feet to his left gave him a moment’s concern. He turned and saw Wijers and the ‘Shark’ contingent at the wooden boats, setting their part in motion.
‘Dedushko’ was inside the final building now, and the group leader called for a ceasefire from the supporting groups, until only an occasional shot and flash came from with the dark stone shape.
The conversation, like all their conversations, was in Russian.
“What the hell are they speaking?”
Through battered lips, his cell mate spoke one word.
“Ukrainian.”
That made Sveinsvold think hard, and he spoke his thoughts out loud, as his hands moved over the senseless form, seeking identification.
“Well… judging by what’s going on out there, no way are they buddies with the Irish… or your lot.”
He pulled open the man’s snowsuit.
“What the fuck’s that?”
The camouflage was unknown to him, but then, the Navy wasn’t strong on camouflage.
Nazarbayev couldn’t see properly in the dull, almost quarter-light, provided by the oil lamp and the orange glow of a nearby fire penetrating the sacking at the windows. Scrabbling over on all fours, he looked hard and gasped, suddenly pulling the camouflage jacket aside and searching for what he suspected was round the man’s neck.
And, even though Nazarbayev half expected it, the metal oval was still a shock.
“Blyad! German soldier’s metal tag.”
“German?”
“Yes, Bee,” the Marine had long since given up trying to pronounce his fellow prisoner’s name.
“German… here?”
Suddenly, feet crunched across the snow-covered wooden decking and, just as suddenly, came to an abrupt halt.
Nazarbayev acted on instinct, and shouted in Russian.
“We’re prisoners here. No guns. We surrender!”
Outside a whispered conversation took place, as Kuibida weighed up the pros and cons of letting his man throw the grenade inside. Clearly the men were prisoners, hence the locked door.
But…
“Lev?”
It was a fair guess that the voice outside was speaking to the insensible lump on the floor of the prison.
Sveinsvold tried his own Russian language skills.
“We’re prisoners in here. Your man… we’re sorry…we hit him… he’s unconscious… he’ll be alright but… we didn’t know what to expect… sorry.”
The muzzle of an ST44 made itself known as the door creaked opened, permitting more light to enter the cell.
Half a head appeared behind it, the single eye calculating and unblinking down the sights.
The half head spoke in Russian.
“Talk fast.”
Sveinsvold took up the offer.
“I’m an American sailor… US Navy.”
Grasping his companion by the shoulder, he continued.
“My friend is a Soviet marine… a prisoner. He’s been badly treated, as you can see.”
The calculating eye flicked between the two men as the brain that received the information made its decision.
Relaxing, Kuibida stepped backwards, but maintained a line of sight on the two men.
“Then this is your lucky day, Comrade.”
A nod was sufficient for his back-up to swoop forward and help both men away. As the Soviet prisoner staggered past, the NCO snatched a familiar object from the man’s neck.
Pausing to scan the cell for a final time, Kuibida noticed the merest hint of a uniform jacket in the straw that had been the men’s mattress. He shook the chaff clear and took in the sight. On instinct, he ran his hands through the pockets, liberating the standard Soviet ID book and a not so standard brown leather wallet. A quick look disappointingly revealed it to be a Communist Party membership. Slipping the items inside his pouch, he elected to rip one interesting part of the Russian’s jacket away, and quickly followed his men.
0142 hrs, Wednesday, 1st January 1946, Building Nine, Glenlara, Cork, Eire.
Kuibida arrived at the temporary command post with two wounded men and unexpected news.
Holliday examined the more seriously wounded man and helped him inside the building.
Shandruk grasped his NCO’s shoulder in welcome as the HT brought messages from ‘Sestra’ and ‘Brat’, confirming the occupation of ‘Twenty-one’ ,‘Twenty-two’, and ‘Thirteen’, none of which had an enemy presence, and no sign of any men running from the scene.
“Sturmbannfuhrer, Kolobok and two others are prisoners. Herr Wijers men are looking after them for now. Charges being laid, timed for 0230.”
“Two others?”
“Yes, Sturmbannfuhrer. They were prisoners under guard, so I kept them alive. One is an Amerikanski, or so he says.”
Shandruk’s attention focussed.
“Amerikanski? Is he?”
Kuibida made a gut call.
“I think so, Sturmbannfuhrer. He speaks pretty good Russian though… but I think he’s what he says he is. The other doesn’t say much. He’s been badly beaten.”
The NCO held out the necklet he had snatched from around the beaten man’s neck.
“I took this off him.”
The Soviet Army did not have dog tags as such, rather favouring a small vessel with a hand-written note inside, a poor system that ensured that many a dead Soviet soldier remained unidentified after a battle.
“Haven’t opened it. The American is doing enough talking for the two. From what he says, seems the other one’s a Soviet Naval officer.”
Kuibida removed his last finds from his overalls, passing over the ID book and party wallet, and then fishing out the epaulette of a Captain-Lieutenant of Soviet Marines.
The two shared the briefest of silent moments before all three items disappeared from view again.
“Very good, Oleksandr. We’ve exceeded our wildest dreams tonight. How many?”
Kuibida shrugged, mentally listing those comrades who were already stiffening in the snow.
“Can’t speak for ‘Sestra’ and ‘Dedushko’ yet, but we have three dead and three wounded amongst the rest of us, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Both knew the final count would be higher.
The HT made a final announcement.
“Dedushko, Tato, Sixteen. Ryaba… over.”
The exhilaration ran through both seasoned veterans, pulsed like an electric shock through the Ukrainian force, and coursed through the veins of the RAF Sunderland crews.
Turning to Wasco, Shandruk could not conceal his triumph.
“Send full house… full house… clear?”
Wasco was, and had the message on the airwaves in seconds.
In a small Irish fishing village called Bundoran, two quiet men shook hands and silently toasted the message with a nip from a hip flask. Back in Castle Archdale, men from a range of interested organizations celebrated and patted each other on the back, as the stunning news arrived. Reynolds and Brown, Ryaba and Kolobok respectively, were in han
d, and would soon understand that their lives were very precariously balanced.
The capture of two Soviet officers was a definite bonus.
Back at Glenlara, men swept through the silent huts, picking up anything that looked like it could conceivably have intelligence value. Sacks of papers, letters, maps, and books, were piled at the top of the ramp, ready to make the short journey to the trawler.
The three wooden boats were already down at the bottom, their keels wet, each with an experienced brace of crew members from the Robert Hastie to guide the passengers through the short journey.
Holliday collected the more grievously wounded, ready for transfer to the Robert Hastie, on which waited two RN medical ratings and a hold space converted for surgery and higher level medical intervention.
The Ukrainian’s lighter casualties were respectfully handled aboard with the sacks, and made the journey to the nearest Sunderland.
Once the cargo was transferred, the launch pulled away and was quickly replaced by the next in line.
Again, the HT was in brief use.
“All stations, Tato… recover… recover…out.”
Across the wasteland that was Glenlara, the Ukrainians moved swiftly backwards, all focused on the top of the slip way.
The ‘Sestra’ group, assisted by the men of ‘Dedushko’ struggled back with their dead and wounded.
The boat waited at the bottom of the ramp as next came the prisoners, both the healthy and the injured. Kuibida detailed three men to provide security, although each man was securely bound. Doc Holliday was also aboard, fearing that the wounded Dudko was not long for this world.
With them went another of the boats, with the badly wounded soldiers and a few men for extra security on the trawler.
Shandruk spoke softly to his senior man.
“Eight of our brothers are dead, Oleksandr. A high price.”
Kuibida nodded and passed a small flask, encouraging his leader to take a draught.
“Irish. It warms nicely.”
Both men took a slug before it disappeared back under the layers that were keeping Kuibida warm.