Winter Warriors

by Stuart Slade

  “Secondary explosions, probably fuel or ammunition going up. Whatever had been down there, we’ve hit something.” He paused a second. “Problems Boss. We’ve got a bandit out here. I’m picking up Lichtenstein emissions and we just gave him the flaming datum to end all flaming datums.” Morton scanned his radar warning equipment.

  There was no indication where the enemy night-fighter was, but it was out there and it had a good idea where the intruder it was hunting could be. Phelan slid away from his observation post and climbed into his gunner’s seat. If they couldn’t find the enemy night-fighter, defending against it would be his job.

  In the cockpit, Quayle was weighing odds. The fighter couldn’t be to the south or west of us, otherwise we ‘d have picked it up. It had to be north and east, probably on its way back to base. And it had to be above us. In daylight that would be a bad disadvantage for Evil Dreams but at night, things were different. The lower aircraft would be hidden against the shadows of the ground; the higher aircraft would be silhouetted against the brighter sky. Provided the differential wasn’t too great, the plane below had the edge. Quayle remembered something else; an urgent intelligence warning that German night-fighters carried upwards-firing cannon. No. Here, now, being below was good.

  As Evil Dreams turned, her radar scanning arc cut across the sky, searching for the hostile night-fighter. The Germans had a radar warning system too; one that could detect the SCR-720. That was probably how they knew Evil Dreams had been in the area.

  “Got him, Boss. He’s turning our way but we’re behind, below and outside his curve. About 5,000 yards ahead. Closing steadily, his speed’s around 200, perhaps 250.” Quayle glanced down, Evil Dreams was doing just over 330 mph. Within two minutes, they should be able to see the target. Theoretically, it was possible to do an entire intercept using radar sightings but nobody ever did. They waited to see their target first.

  “He’s straightening out Boss. Probably going to reverse his turn.” That would make sense, the German pilot would be snaking, trying to expand the search arc of his radar. This time though, the turn would take him right across the Black Widow’s nose.

  “Got him! There he is.” Quayle ran the identification through his mind. Twin radial engines, twin tailplanes, glass cockpit extending to the nose. A Heinkel 219. That was good, they were the best night fighters Germany had and downing one is a real prize. The German fighter was dark against the sky. To cut down shadows, the Germans painted theirs dappled gray. The Americans used a darker slate gray.

  “Turret locked forward, Boss; transferring gun control to you.” Phelan settled back. His turret was now part of Evil Dreams’ forward-firing gun battery.

  The He-219 was already starting her reverse turn. Quayle corrected slightly and started to turn with her. The red pipper on his gunsight moved up the aircraft’s fuselage to a point just forward of its nose. A quick glance to check that he had selected all eight guns. A gentle squeeze on the trigger was all it took.

  There was no stream of tracer. No sensible night fighter crew used the stuff. He could see the shells strike, the brilliant flash of the 23mm shells ripping into the German’s cockpit; the smaller flashes as the 0.5 machine gun bullets danced across the disintegrating mass of metal and plastic. The He-219 was armored, but Evil Dreams’ 23mm guns had been designed to bust tanks. An aircraft was easy meat for them. The American and Australian crews had fallen in love with the V-Ya cannon and they were taking most of the production these days. The Russians preferred the heavier 37mm guns for their ground attack aircraft, so everything had worked out.

  Up ahead of them, the He-219 was a mass of flame. It spun out of control. Quayle ceased fire and throttled back, diving away to get clear of the blazing wreck. The night’s work wasn’t over yet.

  Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula

  There had been no warning. They’d heard the engines of course and knew there was an aircraft up there. They hadn’t known who or what it was. The younger men, those with the sharpest ears, said it was twin-engined. That had seemed right. It wasn’t one of the Russian women in their damned sewing machines. That meant it was either American or German. Everybody knew which way the odds favored in that bet. So they had listened carefully and heard the engines fade away as the unidentified aircraft departed. Lang had almost started to relax when Asbach had suddenly leapt up. “He’s coming back; get down!”

  Lang had obeyed even though he couldn’t work out how Asbach had known. He’d thrown himself flat just as the quiet purr of engines turned into a roar that almost drowned out the whistle of the bombs coming down. Then the sound of both was lost in the explosions. Lang counted them; four, five, six. By the glow that suddenly lit up the night he knew that some of them had bitten. He looked up, cautiously, carefully. One of the buildings around the station was ablaze where a bomb had flattened it. A trio of half-track trucks were a mass of orange-red flame. One of the sub-units had just lost its reserve fuel. Not a great cost. If the unit had been concentrated, it might have been far worse. Asbach insisted they disperse though, and his experience had, once again, paid off.

  “There are two aircraft up there.” The young sergeant was speaking almost to himself. “I think one of them is ours.”

  That would mean a night fighter come to rescue them, probably drawn by the explosions. Lang listened carefully. The young man had been right; there were two aircraft up there. It was a fair bet they were stalking each other. He watched, the time seeming to drag by. A crash and rattle was clearly heard over the sound of the engines. It was to the north of them. Lang swore he could see the muzzle flash of the plane’s guns. There was no doubt about where the other plane was. It exploded into flame, a brilliant red crucifix against the dark night that twisted and fell, distorting as it tumbled from the sky.

  “I wonder who it was?” Lang couldn’t help ask.

  “We’ll never know. Nobody got out of that alive.” There was a crash. The flames seemed to spread out as the destroyed aircraft hit the ground, ten, fifteen kilometers north of them.

  “Everybody get to cover, disperse away from the buildings.” Asbach rapped out the orders. If the American aircraft had survived, it would be coming back.

  F-61D Evil Dreams Over the Southern Part of the Kola Peninsula

  “Going back for them, Boss?”

  Quayle shook his head, then keyed the microphone. “Don’t think so. They’ll be dispersing down there. Anyway, I’ve had a thought. I was wondering why they were grouped around a rail junction.”

  Phelan thought for a second. “They were waiting for something. Supplies.”

  “That’s my guess. They must have moved pretty fast to get here and I bet they’re down on gas. Ammo too, probably. So, they’re waiting for a resupply. Now, since they’re waiting for a resupply by a railway line, doesn’t that mean the supplies are coming.....”

  “.....by train.” Morton finished the sentence off.

  “Right. If we work back along the rail lines, we should find that train. A whole trainload of supplies. Jimmie, plot me a course to follow the railway line west. Don, back to your turret. The guns are yours. That kraut may have had a friend.”

  Evil Dreams fell back into its usual routine. The Black Widow cruised west. When the contact came, there was no mistaking it, a brilliant return whose glow lasted the entire sweep of the scanner. “Boss, we’ve got it. Big train by the radar echo. There’s a lot of metal down there.

  “Any friendlies down there?”

  “We’re far behind enemy lines, Boss. Must be as supply train. Krauts must be desperate to run a train this big. Either that or they’re really short of engines.” That was part of the briefing the night intruder pilots got. The Germans were desperately short of locomotives. They’d started the war short. They’d looted the countries they’d conquered to make up the numbers. That had left them with a mixed fleet it was impossible to maintain. They’d never built, or captured, the heavy cranes and wreckers that were needed to salva
ge damaged or derailed locomotives. The path of the German armies was marked by a trail of rusting locomotives abandoned by the tracks they had left. Then the partisans had displayed incredible imagination in sabotaging what was left and the Americans made busting trains a specialty. All in all, the German railways were in a sad state

  “Check the book anyway, Jimmie.”

  Morton got his briefing notes out. It only took a second to check. “Nothing friendly round here boss. There’s a Navy train getting out but its far to the west of us; other side of the river and heading north by now. This one’s a kraut, no doubt about it.”

  Quayle banked the Black Widow around and headed north before turning down to hit the train side on. Recommended method of hitting trains was to strafe along their length; there was a good bet this train was loaded with ammunition and flying along it was a sure way to get hit by debris. He thought for a second, then selected the twelve five-inch rockets hanging under the outer wing panels. Selector set to two. They would fire of in pairs; each pair a split second after the one before.

  Once again it was the shadows that were his first indication of the target. To his surprise there were three separate trains and he’d blundered; he’d lined up on the last of the train convoy. It was too late to do anything about it. He gunned his R-2800s and made his pass, pouring the rockets at the engine and cars behind it.

  “Gee, look at that secondary!” In the back, Phelan was watching the eruption and fire as the rockets tore into the target. It had been a beautiful pass.

  Curly Battery B, US Navy 5th Artillery Battalion, Kola Peninsula.

  “There’s a plane up there.” Perdue was searching the sky but he could see nothing. The aircraft seemed to have turned away, whatever it was probably didn’t matter too much. Then he heard the faint growl of the engines picking up and he knew it would matter very much.

  It was sheer luck that he saw the twin-boom Black Widow. It streaked across his trains, pouring rockets at the poor little shunter at the end of the line. The orange streaks of rocket fire gave him just enough light to make a tentative guess. The roaring fire as the rockets exploded in the supply of diesel fuel and propellent bags stored in one of the shunter cars confirmed it. A Black Widow night intruder had spotted the trains and decided they just had to be German. Perdue swore to himself, damned Black Widow squadrons hadn’t been informed we have been forced to change their route.

  “What’s the colors? For God’s sake hurry!”

  “Green to white.” The voice was unidentified, unidentifiable in the roaring noise of the inferno that had engulfed the shunter and its consist.

  Perdue grabbed the flare gun and rammed the correct flare into it. Time was short. The Black Widow would already be turning for another pass at the trains underneath. The flare went skywards; burning green, then turning to white. Even before it had completed its burn, Perdue fired a second, then a third. It must have been enough because the Black Widow thundered a few feet overhead without firing.

  F-61D Evil Dreams Over the Southern Part of the Kola Peninsula

  Quayle was lining up on the remaining parts of the train group when the flare exploded almost in front of him. At first he’d thought it was a spiral but it had burned green, turning to white. Two more had followed it.

  “Don’t shoot Boss! It’s one of ours.”

  Morton’s scream of warning stopped Quayle just in time. As Evil Dreams flashed over the trains, he saw the two great guns in their carriages. “Jimmie, that Navy train; was it railway guns?”

  “Sure was, Boss.”

  “Well, it isn’t far to the west of here. We just shot the holy living shit out of it. We’d better warn control, we’ll radio it in.”

  Curly, Battery B, US Navy 5th Artillery Battalion, Kola Peninsula

  The shunter and its consist were a write-off. Eighteen Americans and six Russians had died with it. Perdue was already having their graves dug beside the tracks. It was hard to tell which corpse was which, the combination of diesel fuel and propellant had charred them beyond recognition. Perdue knew he was probably burying Americans in a Russian grave and vice versa, but he guessed it didn’t matter too much. They’d fought together, died together, did it really matter which was which?

  Sickbay, USS Gettysburg CVB-43, Flagship Task Force 58

  The bang and roar shook Captain Christian Lokken out of his uneasy sleep. For one hideous moment, he thought he was back on his shattered Gneisenau, experiencing again the merciless pounding from the Ami jabos. Then he saw lights above him and the instructions on the cabinets. The gray paint; the stenciled note ‘Property of the U.S. Navy.’ Almost as soon as it registered there was another bang and roar directly overhead.

  “Noisy aren’t they Captain?” The voice was professional-cheerful, the one doctors used to critically ill patients whose chance of survival was still in doubt. “Aircraft taking off. We’re launching strikes, hitting targets around Londonderry. Especially the SS barracks and training center there.”

  “A carrier? How?”

  “You were transferred over from the Charles H. Roan last night. The destroyers are doing what they can, but they’re just not equipped to handle casualties like this. You’re a very sick man, Captain.”

  Lokken slumped back into his cot. “My crew, how many survivors? Do you know?”

  “We think a total of fifty three. There may be more in the Faroe Islands; three of your ships made it there. Two destroyers and a cruiser. We think there may be between 2,000 and 2,500 survivors on board them.”

  “And you will be bombing them again.” It was a flat statement. After the nightmare of the day-long assault, Lokken couldn’t believe the Americans would leave those ships afloat. A thought that was emphasized by another bang and roar over his head.

  “I don’t think so. We sent a photo-Corsair to have a look. The cruiser’s on the rocks, finished. The destroyers are Free British prizes. Anyway, Captain, you’ve got pneumonia, frostbite and Lord knows what else. Rest for a while; later I’ll give you some exercises to get the fluid out of your lungs. If you want to survive, it’s critical you follow the instructions I give you. Another thing, don’t even try to leave the sickbay. The change in temperature will kill you. Going for a walk is literally more than your life is worth.”

  The doctor left the sickbay, nodding to the two Marines on guard outside. His words to Captain Lokken had been the absolute truth but not for the reasons he’d given. A lot of Gettysburg’s crew were Irish. The majority of them reckoned they had scores from ‘the old country’ to settle with a convenient German. There was another bang and roar from overhead. More Corsairs on their way to pound the SS units headquartered around Londonderry.

  CHAPTER TEN: ALL THINGS MUST PASS

  1st Platoon, Ski Group, 78th Siberian Infantry Division, First Kola Front

  “A Hitlerite battle group.”

  Knyaz surveyed the railway junction with his binoculars. A few feet away, Noble Sniper Irina Trufanova was doing the same using the PMU telescopic sight on her rifle. At the moment she was under orders not to fire. This was a covert scouting mission after all. If the patrol was spotted, her first job would be to drop anybody giving orders. Still, no sign of that yet.

  There were half tracks scattered around the buildings. Instinctively Knyaz counted them. Almost enough for a full battalion of Panzergrenadiers. There probably had been enough once but there were six bomb craters in the middle of the building cluster and at least two burned-out vehicles. That had to be the work of the Night Witch whose report had caused his patrol to be diverted here.

  “What do you think they’re doing here?” Captain John Marosy was watching as well; rather hoping the force gathered around the junction was too strong for the ski unit to take on.

  “There is one of your naval gun trains west of here.” Knyaz spoke slowly. He hadn’t told the Americans of the radio messages he’d received that morning. A Russian officer told nobody any more than he had to, a hangover from the bad old days. Ski units wer
e more closely knit than most. Even so, operational security was paramount. Not because Knyaz didn’t trust his men; because lifting a man from a unit and getting him to tell everything he knew was a past-time both armies practiced. A few carefully-chosen barbarities and that man would tell whatever he knew. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell. Which could be very tough on the captured man, of course. “It is trying to escape to the North. The original line was cut by bombing, now it must come through here.”

  “So the unit is trying to block it. Can they stop the train?”

  “They do not have to. This junction splits the line two ways. A line to the north that takes the trains, eventually, to Murmansk. The other line goes east but eventually curves back south. Would you like to guess which way those points will have been set?”

  Marosy didn’t like the way this was going. “They’ll be set so the train goes south.”

  “That is so. The combat group is set up so it will stop anybody changing the points. If the train stops, it will be captured. If it does not, it will curve south, go deeper into enemy territory and still be captured.”

  “So we will have to capture the points and change them. Put the train on the right track.” Neither comment was a question, much as Marosy would have liked them to have been. He was very unhappy about this. He’d heard of the horrors of infantry fighting on the Russian Front and that was quite enough.