by Colin Gee
“Indeed, the battlefield calls you back, so I hear.”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. I’m not designed for clean sheets and comfortable beds.”
“Ah, the call of the field. Muck and mud and the comradeship of men under arms.”
They shared the laugh of professionals who understood each other completely.
The door opened and coffee arrived on cue.
Bagramyan waited until they were alone again.
“Now, any decent officer would have something to sweeten this with.”
Yarishlov understood and retrieved a copy of Lermantov’s ‘A Hero of our Time’ from the window sill.
The pages had been hollowed out and held contraband.
He ‘sweetened’ both mugs with cognac.
“I believe that you have bombarded command with all sorts of requests these last few weeks?”
“I’ve sent a number of requests seeking an assignment, Comrade Marshal.”
“And so far have nothing in return.”
“No, Comrade Marshal.”
“No.”
Bagramyan sipped his scalding hot coffee and grimaced as Yarishlov took a deeper draught of his.
“I am advised that you could profit from a few specialist physiotherapy sessions at the Academy for Medical Science in Moscow.”
“Comrade Marshal, with respect, I get physiotherapy here, and the view is better.”
Bagramyan laughed and slapped his leg.
“Very true. The Academy is not the prettiest of buildings, neither does it have such magnificent countryside, Comrade Yarishlov. But it’ll do you good and hasten your return to fitness.”
Yarishlov had made all the arguments before, successfully, but he sensed he was about to have a card played that he could not counter.
Rank.
He was correct.
“Well, you will attend and that’s that, Comrade Yarishlov.”
Bagramyan drained the last of his coffee and gestured towards Lermantov’s tome.
Yarishlov poured an ample measure and the Marshal waxed lyrical over the fine cognac.
“That’s bloody good… by the mother, that’s very bloody good.”
“Apparently so… it’s Prunier cognac, Comrade Marshal.”
“Really? How in the name of the steppes did you get hold of that in here?”
Yarishlov considered his answer quickly and decided to take refuge in the truth.
“I have an extremely resourceful Praporschik who keeps me well provisioned, Comrade Marshal.”
Bagramyan drained the glass and savoured the contents, allowing the warming liquid to evaporate and warm inside his mouth.
Both men enjoyed the silence brought on by the fine cognac.
Bagramyan ended it with a reluctant final swallow.
“Well, tell your Praporschik that he’s transferred to my personal staff with promotion if he can guarantee a supply of this fine cognac.”
He stood, declining the offer of a refill.
“Can’t sit down for too long. Spent hours in the car getting here. Anyway, Comrade Polkovnik. While you’re in Moscow, you’ll attach yourself to the personal staff of the Commander of Military Training, Moscow Military District. I’m told he needs someone with tank experience.”
Bagramyan shouted towards the door.
“Vlassev!”
The door opened and one of the Marshal’s aides entered on cue.
“Orders.”
The Major produced a set of papers immediately.
“These are your orders for joining, travel documents, and everything that will permit you to reach Moscow and obtain a suitable billet. Also there are details of your therapy schedule the Academy, which I expect you to honour. Are we clear, Comrade Yarishlov?”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal.”
“Now, let’s get you properly dressed. Mayor?”
The Major went to the door and retrieved an officer’s tunic from a pair of hands that magically appeared.
“I believe you’ll find this correct.”
Bagramyan’s aide passed over the tunic of a Major General of Tank troops.
“Congratulations, Comrade Mayor General Yarishlov.”
The Major helped Arkady out of his tunic and into the new one.
He could not help but shoot a look in the mirror as the Major transferred the honorifics across to the new tunic, carefully avoiding wounding the burned man further.
“I read the after-action reports from Naugard. You and Deniken performed magnificently, Comrade Yarishlov. Your promotion is well-deserved, Comrade.”
“Thank you, Comrade Marshal.”
The Major stood back and allowed Bagramyan to examine the newly fledged general.
“Excellent. Now that’s what I call a soldier. Again, congratulations, Comrade Yarishlov. You’ve given so much to Mother Russia. Now, your orders allow for you to remain here for another four days. I have ordered a car to pick you up at midday on the 5th. Good luck with your new assignment. Now, whilst I am here I shall visit some more of our Motherland’s brave soldiers. Take care, Comrade Mayor General.”
With only time to offer a salute, Yarishlov found himself alone with his reflection, the reflection of a man who now had a mission.
A man who, in his own eyes, was once more a useful soldier for his country.
He freshened his own glass with a modest Prunier and raised it to the reflection.
2355 hrs, Thursday, 31st October 1946, Glenlara, County Mayo, Éire.
“Well, God bless ‘em but you’ve to admire their bleedin’ sense of humour if nowt else, Bill.”
O’Farrell’s second in command’s grin was immediately illuminated by the lightning.
“Fucking All Hallows’ Eve. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a night!”
Around them the wind and rain of an Atlantic Storm threw itself against the rocky bastion of the north Éire shore.
“You think they’ll still come, boss?”
“You tell me. Stubborn fuckers from what I can see. Anyways, we ain’t got a choice but stand here getting fucking soaked, have we?”
The whole base had been ready to receive the Soviet submarine since 2200, the earliest time scheduled.
“This shite has gotta slow the sub up for sure. Go and get yourself dry for a while, Bill. Relieve me at one. Now fuck off before I think better of it.”
No sooner had William Parsons left his side than a shadowy figure appeared in front of him.
It quickly materialised into a hobbling Soviet Naval Lieutenant in wet weather gear.
“Ah… Leftenant Vlad. Top of the morning to you.”
They had long since agreed that no matter what, the cover name would be used.
“Leg playing you up now, is it?”
“Just a little. No sign of it yet.”
“It’ll be along directly, don’t you worry yourself. The Sovs won’t let a little thing like an Atlantic gale stop them.”
And yet the sea remained stubbornly empty.
‘Vlad’ pulled his hood around him and struck his lighter, the light illuminating his bearded face even as the wind struggled to destroy the flame before its work was done.
“Least we know those bloody fuel cells won’t disappear in all of this. Your man Lach… stroke of brilliance to think of it, otherwise we’d never have found the bastard things. Wish we’d had more time to practice with the fuelling procedure. That could give us away if we’re not careful.”
‘Vlad’, better known as Shandruk, emerged from under his hood with two lit cigarettes.
“Here.”
With cupped hands, the two smoked quietly.
“I’ve thought about that problem. I think we’re fine. How can a small monitoring team be expected to know how to run the equipment? Plus, the sub’ll bring the expertise with it… err… won’t it?”
“Maybe you’re right. We’ll know soon enough, so we will.”
Bill Parsons had stood his watch and was back in the dry before something broke the surface o
f the roiling sea off Glenlara.
It was 0401 when one of Shandruk’s men spotted the veiled signal lamp flashing the coded two-letter message.
Word spread quickly and soon everyone was ready.
The submarine had surfaced some considerable distance off shore, so took its time drawing in to the anchorage point.
Shandruk was the first to identify it.
“One of the German boats… type twenty-one. Intelligence said the Northern Fleet had got hold of at least one. Seems it’s here. Something to inform our masters of later, eh?”
“Yep. Right… let’s get this done as quick as possible and get the bastards on their way.”
The Soviet crew were nothing if not efficient, and the cargo flowed freely out of every orifice in the submarine.
The choke point was the boats used to bring the crates ashore.
There were five hundred and six of them and the supply overwhelmed the space on the rowboats that O’Farrell’s ‘IRA’ men had on hand.
Two inflatables were deployed from the type XXI, and they helped ease the burden, but the whole process took far too long, and dawn started to show its coat tails before the last crate left the submarine’s deck.
Some of the sub’s crew had come ashore to help secrete the cargo in the store that had been hastily constructed, and the mad scramble to get back to the submarine ended in tragedy.
One seaman slipped as he tried to get back into a boat, pulling another into the water with him.
The swell of a wave pushed the boat sideways and both were crushed between it and the cliff face near the bottom of the loading ramp.
O’Farrell’s men swept them up and onto the ramp.
The young Soviet naval officer in the party swiftly decided that they should stay and be tended on shore, so the boat pushed off two men light.
The two injured men were carried off to the dormitory and the local doctor sent for, or at least that was what the Ukrainian Lach told the submarine officer would happen.
The two were simply placed on camp beds whilst all eyes observed the submarine’s departure.
“Didn’t even want the fucking fuel after all, Vlad.”
“Suits me just fine… just fine.”
The XXI had turned out to sea and was slowly sinking beneath the waves.
“Said he’d be back by the end of the month with the rest.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Right. Take it you’ll deal with our unwanted guests and then meet me in the store. I’ve to see what’s in the crates.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Four minutes later, the two bodies were already dragged outside ready for weighting and sinking, and Shandruk was in the store stood next to a speechless O’Farrell.
“I’m not fucking dreaming, am I? That is what it looks like?”
“Yes. Koorva! It is. Pizdets!”
“I’m not going open any more. I’ve done five… all the same…fuck!”
“All the same?”
“Yep… five hundred and six crates… all the fucking same… Jesus, Joseph, and Mary… it’s incredible, man!”
“The men mustn’t know.”
“Oh too fucking right they mustn’t. We’d have a fucking mutiny on our hands. Everything’d be in flitters, so it would. Mixed guards, two of yours, two of mine, twenty-four hours… not in the room but outside… you’ll need to bring some more men over. You got the uniforms available?”
“I have the uniforms. I’ll organise it as soon as that sub clears the area.”
They both stopped and looked at the contents of the crate one last time.
“Jesus.”
“Koorva”
O’Farrell tapped the lid back in place again and they both left, locking the door behind them, the modest padlock now feeling wholly inappropriate as a guard to the contents of the store.
The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.
Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER 178 - LE BOUDIN
1501 hrs, Friday, 1st November 1946, Karup Air Base, Denmark.
Colonel Banner listened intently, or that was how it seemed anyway.
The Air Commodore finally dropped the volume to a level just below a scream and completed his lengthy diatribe on low-flying B-29s and their effect upon his ground attack squadron’s exercises that morning.
The sound in Banner’s ear stopped so he correctly concluded that the RAF officer had too.
“I agree, Air-Commodore, but I’ll not sanction the three crews involved because they were acting under my direct orders.”
The rant started up all over again and Banner’s face quickly flicked from an ‘imminent heated response’ look back to the previous one he had mastered so well during the initial roasting: that of feigned attentiveness.
“Again, Sir, I can only state that I gave my men detailed orders, which they appear to have followed to the letter. I might also add that there was no filing of an exercise by any of squadrons in and around that area, those under your direct command or any others, as required by an order for Air Officer commanding Denmark.
He had checked up on that immediately the original angry phone call had been terminated.
“Colonel, there is no such order in being and I don’t have to pander to you bloody Yanks if I want to run exercises for my chaps. I run the ground attack squadrons in Denmark, and I don’t expect to find bloody great lumbering bombers running about in my airspace at one hundred feet off the deck. I nearly lost two aircraft, man! I want your men’s guts for garters… do I make myself clear?”
That Wing Commander Cheshire RAF was stood in the room made no difference to the irate officer. He had the whole fiasco tabbed as an American foul up.
“I understand you, Air-Commodore, but again I cannot permit my men to be criticised as they were acting under my orders.”
“Well, I don’t know what sort of useless bunch you have here, or what type of squadron you are, but I assure you that I outrank you… both of you… and I will have my way. I’ll have your head as well if you insist in this ‘under my orders’ approach. Now produce your men or I’ll go over your bloody head and there’ll be hell to pay for insubordination and refusal to obey my direct orders too!”
Despite his best efforts, the other less compliant Banner surfaced.
“Easy now, before you blow yourself a valve, Commodore. I understand that you outrank me, but you ain’t the top dog in the pound by any means. My orders come from those that crow from the top of the dung heap. Here,” he fished a single page document out of the bottom drawer, one that he’d been put in place for moments such as this, “Wind your goddamn neck in, read that, and get off my base pronto, fella!”
The signatures on the document alone let the Air Commodore know he was in a no-win situation.
“Now, as a courtesy to my British Allies, I’ll forget this happened, and forget that your officers failed to file full flight plans and communicate any warnings on aerial activity conducted within my squadron’s practice area, as per the order of August 1st last.”
He placed the appropriate order in the man’s hand, completing his deflation.
The paperwork was returned and the Wing Commander’s brain started to work on a protest.
Banner jumped straight in.
“Listen, Commodore, we gotta work together here. You fucked up, simple as that…”
The RAF officer went purple and opened his mouth, only to find Banner’s pointed finger inches from his face.
“Easy, fella. You fucked up… it happens… no need to get twisted outta shape. It’s our secret. Just make sure you file as required in future, and we’ll say no more about it.”
The RAF officer spun on his heel without exchanging any further words and flounced from the room, muttering words like ‘insubordination’, ‘mutiny’, and ‘treason’.
The door slammed so hard the plaster cracked around the frame.
“Jeez but he has a burr up his arse, Leonard.”
Cheshire could only agree.<
br />
The officer in question was well known as a first-class ass, but Cheshire was unused to such displays between ranking officers, regardless of the lack of merit in one or other’s position.
None the less, he was getting used to Banner’s way, and now found that he liked the less formal way he went about his business, at least in the environment of the special unit at Karup.
“Never liked the chap personally.”
“I can understand why, fella. Now, can you wheel their sorry asses in here and then we can go and have our game as planned.”
Cheshire opened the door warily, checking for impending collapse, and ordered the waiting pilots into the squadron commander’s office.
Banner sat behind the desk, looking far less friendly than he had a moment beforehand.
“Right. Start talking, and make it a goddamn work of art, cos I’ve a chewing out to pass on, which you might’ve heard me getting. My ass is sore and I need victims to assuage my pain…so… what in the name of Hades were you doing flying my birds in vic-formation at one-zero-zero feet in the ground attack zone? That’s one-zero-zero feet which my math tells me is four-zero-zero goddamned feet below mission parameters.”
The senior man, a Captain, spoke up as had been agreed.
“Colonel, you told us to fly formation and spend the last hour flying out of the norm stuff… get a handle on our birds in every way we can. We just wanted to get a head start on next weeks’ itinerary. You did say out of the norm stuff, Sir.”
“Did I say that, Captain?”
“Yes Sir, Colonel. You sure did. So we flew deck-level… we figured you’d get us on it at some time, in fact it is in the training schedule… so we thought ahead.”
The other five men nodded their agreement.
Banner’ face would have been at home in a witches hearing in Medieval England, or in the court of Torquemada.