by Stuart Slade
Two of the three survivors did. The third, the last to get moving, couldn’t quite get out of range fast enough. One Panzerfaust hit it in the tracks. The rocket blew off the forward idler and a road wheel. The track broke and the self-propelled gun spun around and stopped. A second Panzerfaust hit the side of the boxy gun compartment and sent steel fragments howling around inside the structure. Knyaz saw the surviving crew abandon the vehicle. Almost without thinking he and his men opened fire, cutting them down in a hail of sub-machine gun fire.
The self-propelled gun was already starting to burn when a series of blasts turned it into an inferno. The partisans were close enough to throw anti-tank grenades at it. For a brief second, Knyaz actually felt sorry for the gun. It had been stolen from its original owners and brought so far to die in the pine forests of Russia. Then his mind snapped back to more important things. With the fascist flank and rear caving in, the battle was moving into end game. Crushing the fascist pocket completely. The fascists had also come a long way to die in the forests of Russia. Knyaz didn’t feel sorry for them at all.
Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula
It was an odd thing, Asbach mused, that the Night Witches overhead didn’t seem nearly so deadly in daylight. He’d never actually seen one before. All he’d seen were dark shadows flashing overhead or bursts of fire from the darkness. To see the grey jabos circle his position and occasionally dive down to deliver bursts of gunfire, somehow took the mystery away from the feared intruders.
“Colonel, our right flank has caved in, Kolchek tried to disengage but the Siberians had got behind him. There’s only one survivor, a runner he sent out. Captain Lang reports he’s had to disengage from the rear, he was outflanked and had the enemy behind him. Siberians again.”
Siberians, Asbach thought, always the Siberians. “Is Lang still alive?”
“Yes Colonel. He and the two surviving guns are heading here.”
That was it; Asbach saw that the game was over. His command was being squeezed back and would soon be overrun. That would be the end for nobody took prisoners on the Russian Front. Even the Canadians and Americans had given up that custom. Asbach shuddered slightly, in one way it was lucky they were fighting Siberians. Some of the American units had whole battalions recruited from the American Indian tribes, Sioux, Apache, Comanche. The SS had tried to demoralize some of the Apache troops. They had taken a few prisoners in night raids then left their mutilated bodies for the Apache soldiers to find. Only, it hadn’t worked. The Apache had buried their dead and then replied in kind. When the SS had found what had been done to the bodies of the victims, even the hardest of the SS men had vomited in horror. No, it was better to be fighting the Siberians.
Asbach stared at his map. He had one option left. He still had his three Pumas although the 75mm tank destroyers were both gone. He had nine surviving halftracks and the two self propelled guns. Any hope of catching or destroying the last railway gun was gone but he could save what was left of his command. He’d make a panzerkeil, an armored wedge that would drive through the Russian force on his left flank. The Pumas and self-propelled guns would lead. All the surviving men would be in the half-tracks behind. They’d just crash through and keep going. There was a road a little to the south, the one that they’d come in on. Once on that, they’d just keep heading south until they ran out of fuel or they reached safety.
He rapped out the necessary orders, watching the men pull back from the forward positions he’d set up so carefully to stop the train. The devil’s train, he was certain that gun was possessed by the very devil himself. It had won, it had won the battle that it shouldn’t even have fought. Asbach shook his head. There was no way that gun should have survived. It had to be the devil’s own work. Halfway through the hasty preparations, Lang and his guns arrived. Asbach repeated the plan, such as it was, for him.
The partisans and Siberians were already closing in when Asbach’s force launched its attack. There was no pretext of holding ground or seizing anything. This was a breakout and that was all it was. The three Pumas started off the assault. They fired their 50mm cannon at the suspected partisan positions in the woods. Lang’s two remaining 150mm guns joined in and lobbed shells over open sights into the trees. They killed the partisans hidden there and opened the way for the armored vehicles. Then, the armored cars and half-tracks surged forward and sprayed gunfire wildly into the trees.
Surprise, the sudden gunfire and the violence of the attack pulled it off. One of the Pumas blew up when it was hit by a Panzerfaust. A half-track got hung up on a treestump and was grenaded to death but the other vehicles got out. They headed south in a straggling column, determined only to get clear of the death trap that had destroyed their unit.
Behind them, ski-troops and partisans watched them burst out of the trees and run. Some felt tempted to cheer but it was neither the time nor the place. The partisans had lost a lot of their people in this battle. The rest of the bands would have to disperse and hide for the Germans would surely want revenge.
F-61D “Evil Dreams “ Over Letnerechenskiy, Kola Peninsula
Circling overhead, Quayle saw the flurry of explosions. The German column erupted from the woods and headed for the road leading south. Night Mare had already set off back to base, her guns almost empty and her fuel tanks running dry. Quayle reckoned he had enough 23mm ammunition left for one quick pass then he too would have to head home. It was broad daylight and no time for Black Widows to be up. He swung the big fighter over, dropped the nose and made his run. The vehicles filled his gunsight and he pressed the firing button, seeing the red-orange tracers streak out to hit the center halftrack. Then, his guns ran dry and he pulled out of the dive, setting course for home. It was definitely past his bed-time.
Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula
Captain Lang saw the half-track lurch off the dirt track and topple into a ditch. It was already burning, its engine compartment gouted black smoke. In a few seconds, the fire would spread and the vehicle would explode.
“Stop! Now!” His command was definitive, unanswerable and the driver of the self-propelled gun responded instantly. The gun stopped dead, rocking on its suspension, so sharply that the gun behind was barely able to avoid colliding with it. By the time the column had stopped, Lang had grabbed a pry-bar and was running over to the ditched vehicle. He didn’t bother with the driver’s compartment. It was already shot up and on fire. There was no hope for the driver. But there was hope for the men in the back.
The door in the rear was jammed. Lang had expected that. He rammed the pry-bar into the crack between the frame and the door and started to heave. He felt his face reddening from the heat, could smell his eyebrows singing but the door would not shift. Then, another man added his weight to the bar and the door finally sprung open. Lang jumped inside, the smoke making his eyes water. A man was sprawled on the floor by the rear hatch. Lang seized him under the arms and dragged him out. It was Sergeant Heim, burned, unconscious and hit by fragments from the armor but still alive. The other men threw snow over him to put out the smoldering greatcoat wrapped around him.
Lang heard the whumph behind him as the fuel tank on the half-track exploded. The whole vehicle burned, an orange ball spread underneath it as the blazing fuel ran aft. He didn’t think, he didn’t even wonder what to do. He ignored a cry of ‘stop’ from somebody and plunged back into the burning rear compartment of the wrecked halftrack. He had his arm up to give his eyes some protection, but he could feel his skin tightening and cracking as the fire started to do its work. In his mind was the picture of a pig roasting on a spit at one of the staff college rides and in his mind, the pig had his face. He stumbled over the other figure in the back of the half-track, and reached out with one hand to grab Colonel Asbach by the collar.
He didn’t know how he did it, he just kept dragged Asbach backwards until the heat stopped and he could feel the blessed cold of the snow. Then he passed out.
United States Strategic Bombardment Commission, Blair House, Washington D.C. USA.
“The paperwork is here.” Lillith walked in with a pile of papers in her hands and put them on The Seer’s desk. He picked the top one up. His imagination told him that it still smelled slightly of cheese and salami. When he read the synopsis his eyebrows raised slightly.
“This is gold. Important things first. How’s Igrat?”
“In Bethesda. Her nose is very bad, broken in a lot of places. Sir Archibald is looking at it now. She’s very sick, she took a big chance in getting here and now she’s paying for it. Mike Collins is with her, holding her hand and crying. I don’t think anybody has ever seen the Big Fella crying before.”
“Might do him some good. Snap him out of it; he’s been moping around doing nothing in particular ever since he arrived here. Looking after Igrat might give him an aim in life.” He paused for a second, not noting that Lillith’s eyes had narrowed suspiciously. “As for Igrat, as long as she’s still breathing, she’ll be all right.”
“It’s not surviving that will be worrying her Seer. It’s her looks. She doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life with a crushed and twisted nose.”
“And she won’t. Sir Archibald will see to that. He’s the best there is. Now, the microdots, they got through as well?”
“Sure did. We fished the plastic packet they were in out of the cheese and salami, ran them through the machine and we’re printing them out now. They’ll be ready for your three o’clock.”
“Good. Schedule. I’ll be at the Intelligence Committee until 11. Then we all go over to Bethesda and see Igrat. Anybody who wants to go, gets time off to do it. I have to be back for the Dropshot Supervisory Committee at three. Please call Naamah and tell her I need to see her urgently.
Intelligence Supervisory Committee, Senate Conference Room, Washington D. C.
“Gentlemen, the room is secured and no unauthorized personnel are in attendance. The meeting may now proceed. Firstly I’d......”
“We have an important matter to discuss.” Brigadier-General Donovan cut straight across the President, an act that got him a furious glance from President Dewey. Donovan had been one of Roosevelt’s favorites but that state of grace had not transferred to the Dewey Administration. There was no love lost between the two men. “I have been increasingly concerned with the security of intelligence information being brought back from Sweden. The precautions taken in carrying it have been negligent in the extreme. This vital data was entrusted to the carriage of two young woman, both of doubtful character, and an old man. We feared it could have been taken from them at any time. With this last shipment, our fears were justified. The couriers, if they can be called that, were intercepted and the product stolen by German agents. It was only through the efforts of two of my men that it was recovered and it is now on its way back here.”
“Is this true, Stuyvesant?” Dewey stared hard at The Seer.
“No, Sir. It is not.” A gasp ran around the conference room. It wasn’t often that somebody got openly called a liar in this kind of meeting.
Donovan got angrily to his feet waving his hand at the Seer. “I’ve said for years that we should have a centralized intelligence system. Now everybody can see why we need it. You.....”
“Sit down Donovan.” Dewey’s voice cracked across the room. “Stuyvesant, what’s your side of this?”
“Sir. We have been aware for some time that the OSS was unhealthily interested in the pipeline from Geneva. I say unhealthily because it could have attracted attention we didn’t need. On the trip before this one, an OSS man actually tried to harass our people. General Donovan, I believe these are the two men you claim retrieved the allegedly lost information?” The Seer slid two pictures across the table. One was of Frank Barnes, the other of William Schwartz.
“That’s them. How dare you expose their identit....”
“Be quiet Donovan. Carry on please Stuyvesant.”
“Well, in that incident, our courier removed the wallet from the man harassing our operation. General Donovan’s description is quite correct Sir, our courier is indeed a young woman of poor character. Sneaky, devious, underhanded, conniving and rather sly.”
“In that work, those sounds like qualifications.” Dewey was beginning to be amused and he could already begin to see where this was going.
“That’s my opinion too, Sir. She’s also utterly reliable and absolutely loyal.” The Seer didn’t add ‘to me’ although he should have done. “She’s also a first-class, highly skilled thief. She stole this from the OSS man.”
He slid Frank Barnes’ wallet over the table. President Dewey took a glance at the picture in it, then looked very hard at Donovan. “I see. Carry on Stuyvesant.”
“Anyway, this latest trip, our team were aware of the fact they were being followed from early on. They lost the initial tail in a hotel of dubious repute. I’m afraid dubious reputations are rather prominent in this story Sir. That allowed them to make the pick-up. However, they guessed that they would be intercepted on the way out. There are only two ways out of Geneva, one is by train and the other by aircraft. So they broke the usual schedule. Our courier, her name is Igrat Shafrid by the way, acted as a decoy while the intelligence package left another way. When we were speaking of character, did I also mention Miss Shafrid is extremely courageous? She took her part in this knowing full well the risk she was running.
“Anyway, as expected, she was picked up at the train station. Not be the Gestapo or the Abwehr but by General Donovan’s agents from the OSS.”
“That’s a lie!” Donovan was outraged.
“Can you prove that Stuyvesant?” President Dewey was also outraged but for different reasons. He had a sense of when things were right or not and Stuyvesant’s story was ringing true.
“Sir, I can. Miss Shafrid was picked up by two of Donovan’s men as I said. Fortunately, we had preparations in place and she and her abductors were followed from the moment they left the station. The precautions taken by our team left Donovan’s men with a problem. The intelligence package wasn’t on her and they didn’t know where she had got it. So they tried to beat the truth out of her. This is what they did to her.” The Seer laid pictures taken in Geneva’s emergency ward, ones taken before the blood had been cleaned off her and where her nose was still crushed and flattened to one side. “In addition to the injuries you can see here, she was also sexually assaulted.”
“What?” Dewey’s voice was outraged.
“Mister President, I must protest at these allegation...”
“Shut up, Donovan. Stuyvesant, carry on please.”
“Sir, the other two members of the team had followed the abductors to their refuge and, with the assistance of the Swiss Police raided it. In the process of this, the two OSS men who were torturing Miss Shafrid, were both shot dead. You see, Sir, that ‘old man’ is probably the best pistol-fighter I have ever met. The third member of the team is a skilled street-fighter and an artiste with a knife. Anyway, these are official Swiss Police photographs of the bodies.” He reached into his file and laid the two pictures of Frank Barnes and William Schwartz on the conference table. The bullet hole in each forehead showed up clearly. The Seer had thought of bringing the severed heads up to the conference room. Loki had sent them over in a box of ice and there had been a time when The Seer would have produced them. But now, pictures told the story well enough.
“And that’s more or less it Sir. Except
, two things. One is General Donovan said our intelligence packet was being brought over by his two men. Well, that isn’t true. I have it here. And he doesn’t know where it came from. Our source is still secure despite his blundering.”
“That is some comfort Stuyvesant. General Donovan, I must say I am outraged at the story that has unfolded here today. I have no doubt that you acted as you though best but your methods are completely unacceptable. Stuyvesant, this young woman, she is receiving the best possible treatment?”
“Indeed Sir, Sir Archibald Maclndoe is treating her himself.”
“Good. She deserves some recognition for her bravery in this affair. I’ll consult with the appropriate authorities and decide upon a suitable award. Stuyvesant, before we go any further, what is your opinion on the proposal for a unified intelligence service?”
“Sir, I can think of no greater domestic threat to democracy. We have seen one reason here today. Another is that if there is one centralized source for intelligence, there is only one opinion on that intelligence. Decisions are controlled in part by the information on which those decisions are based. If the information is controlled by a small group, so is the decision. We need to have conflicting opinions so those who make decisions can choose the interpretation for themselves.”