by Colin Gee
“Really? You thought ahead?
“And it’s in the training schedule?”
“Yes, Sir… err… not yet…err… next week, Colonel.”
“No… not yet… next week… and I told you out of the norm stuff, did I?”
“Yes, Colonel, Sir. We all heard it, didn’t we boys?”
The rumbles of agreement disappeared under Banner’s close scrutiny.
He stood sharply, causing his assembled victims to rock backwards like a wave of hot air had hit them in the faces.
“Well then I guess you were acting under orders, just like I told our gallant RAF ally. Now, get your goddamned faces out of my sight before I start to chew on your sorry asses, and don’t move outside the agreed flight parameters again. Move!”
The six men almost competed to be first out of the door.
Banner lit a cigar and puffed away the last of his annoyance.
“Can’t fault their keenness, Leonard… not at all. They’ve taken to all the training… despite the fact that we don’t want to do the mission… not ever!”
“I certainly don’t, Colonel, but train for it we must, eh?”
“Amen to that, old boy.”
Banner choked at the end of his impersonation, the rich cigar smoke catching his throat.
“You really should give them up, Colonel.”
“All in good time… say… when I’m ninety or so.”
They shared a laugh.
“So, next week we start a fortnight of low flying exercises, and then pack to practice drops until December, when Jasper practice bombs will arrive. Have you picked your crews for Jasper yet, Colonel?”
Banner laughed out loud.
“Natural selection has just taken place, Wing Commander. And you?”
The three crews involved in today’s near miss would be the US crews designated to learn the art of dropping the Jasper, Barnes-Wallis’ latest creation.
“Excellent. I’ve picked three good sets of lads. All of which have some sort of Tall Boy experience, which should stand them in good stead.”
Cheshire had the advantage on Banner, as he had been in 617 Squadron, one of the RAF’s super heavy bomb trained units.
However, even he was chastened by the thought of dropping a Jasper.
A new concept, Barnes Wallis had designed a super penetrating bomb similar to the Grand Slam and Tall Boy weapons, only Jasper had a much greater sting.
An atomic sting.
Cheshire picked up his racquet and made a practice stroke.
“Now, if you will, Colonel. I need the money.”
Two hours later, Cheshire struck the winning backhand volley and was one English pound richer.
1509 hrs, Friday, 1st November 1946, beside Route 106, southeast of Prosecnice, Czechoslovakia.
The man froze in the middle of the road.
‘I hear something… a vehicle… fuck, fuck, fuck… hide… hide quickly…Adonai preserve me…’
“If I thought for one moment that you were deliberately driving into the potholes, I’d have you transferred to the Russian Front!”
“Beg your pardon, Oberführer, but we’re on the Russian Front already.”
Jorgensen, accompanying Knocke on his return trip to the division, failed to stifle a laugh.
“I meant further forward, you stupid ass! Like bloody Moscow”
They shared a roar of laughter, which was punctuated by a violent thump as the Krupp’s back wheel found a pothole.
“Right, that’s it. Pull over, Hässelbach… quickly… before I soil myself. We’ll speak more on this matter once I’m two litres lighter.”
The Krupp came to a swift halt and Knocke alighted, already fumbling with his flies.
Jorgensen decided to take the opportunity and soon both men were unburdening themselves with audible sighs of relief.
Sergent-Chef Hässelbach got out of the vehicle and stood to one side, ST-44 held ready, just in case, for Czechoslovakia was a dangerous place, even to the new liberators.
Alert as he was, he was unprepared for the sudden shouts from his two officers.
The appearance of a pistol in Jorgensen’s hand caused him to bring the ST-44 up to his shoulder and ready himself for whatever threat was about to visit itself upon them.
Knocke emerged from the bushes with a ragged man, half dragging, half assisting the man up the gentle slope to the road.
Jorgensen relaxed as the emaciated man, wrapped in what looked like rough sacks, was clearly no threat. The return of his pistol to its holster signalled a reduction of tension in the group, although Hässelbach decided to retain his weapon in hand for now as he surveyed the area around them, just in case.
“Some water, Hässelbach.”
The NCO looked sheepishly at his commander.
“Oh really? What do you have then?”
The water bottle arrived in Knocke’s hands, and he swiftly smelt the contents.
“What in the name of Brunhilda’s knickers is that?”
“Some sort of Slivovitz, Oberführer. A fruit drink.”
Knocke ignored the attempt at humour and extended the bottle to the desperately thin man.
“Here… drink… slowly… a sip.”
The man warily took the bottle, his senses sharpened by months on the run from the authorities, and confused by the clash of French uniform and German medals.
Jorgensen rummaged in his pack and took out a salami and some bread.
“Here, Oberführer. I daresay the man can use some food to soak the fruit juice up.”
The food stayed in Knocke’s hands for the briefest of moments before it was scooped up and forced between cracked and bleeding lips.
“Who are you? Czech? Pole? German?”
There was something about the rags under the sacking that suggested some organisation… some official group…
“Czech… Bohemien…”
The man spoke in German, or as best he could through a rapidly moving mass of bread and sausage.
“Sudeten?”
“Ja.”
“We’re German soldiers here.”
The man said nothing, but was clearly still weighing up how to proceed.
Knocke played the matter softly.
“We were in the German Army but now fight with the French Foreign Legion against the communists.”
“Army?”
“Yes,” Knocke replied semi-truthfully.
“He called you Oberführer. That’s not army.”
Knocke inclined his head by way of contrition.
“In one sense, perhaps not. We were soldiers of the Waffen-SS. And you?”
“I’m a Jew.”
“You are safe wi…”
The rags under the sacks suddenly metamorphosed into something that jolted Knocke’s mind.
“…from a camp?”
“Ja. Theresienstadt, Herr Offizier.”
“And you escaped when?”
“I don’t know, Herr Offizier. The SS went, the Russian came. Nothing changed.”
He stopped only to cram more of the food in his mouth.
Knocke accepted the cigarette offered by his procurement specialist and waited for the rest of the story.
“The Russian was about to leave and started killing again.”
The food induced a heavy belch.
“I ran… weeks ago… maybe months… I’ve been running ever since.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mandl… Ahron Mandl. I was… am… a journalist”
The man was staring with pure hunger at the cigarette pack in Hässelbach’s hand.
“Well, you’re safe now, Ahron Mandl, journalist.”
Hässelbach placed a lit cigarette in Mandl’s hand and the three watched as he alternated between chomping on the bundle of food in one hand, and dragging on the cigarette in the other.
Conscious of the darkening skies, Knocke made a decision.
“Why don’t you come with us, Mandl? We can have you looked at by ou
r doctor, and you get to sleep in clean sheets for the first time in quite a while I expect.”
With less reluctance than had been expected, the emaciated form of Ahron Mandl, former Sonderkommando at Theresienstadt, slid into the Krupp.
Ten minutes later the vehicle made a hurried stop as Mandl summoned up the whole contents of his stomach, his system having rebelled against such comparatively fine fare.
He then proceeded to snore his way through the journey back to Camerone’s headquarters.
0237 hrs, Saturday, 2nd November 1946, a field, two kilometres southeast of Baltrušaičiai, Lithuania.
The signal pots had been lit at 0230 as had been arranged, coinciding with the sound of aero engines in the night.
The partisan group were facing out, ringing the drop zone, securing it in case the NKVD were prowling in the night.
Only Mikenas and the heavily pregnant Luistikaite were looking towards the illuminated space.
Normally, Luistikaite would not have been there, but SOE had insisted that one of theirs was present when the ‘packages’ arrived. After all, this was the first insertion into Lithuania since the ‘peace’ had been agreed, and the British were rightly nervous.
Mikenas had progressed to operational command of ‘the Shield’, as Pyragius, the de facto commander, fought a continuing battle against the infections in his old wounds, despite Greim’s radio message and the subsequent air-dropping of medical supplies.
Suspicions had long departed, and both Greim and Luistikaite were full and unequivocal members of the group.
The latter pointed into the air.
“Here’s the first.”
Mikenas couldn’t see anything, and marvelled, not for the first time, at the night vision of her comrade.
“Where?”
She looked down Renata’s arm and immediately spotted the round parachute. It seemed to be descending at considerably above what she thought would be safe for the man dangling underneath.
He slammed into the ground and rolled as he had been trained to do.
“Damn and blast it!”
A second pair of feet came into view and the next man came to ground in a similar fashion some fifty metres further away.
Mikenas watched as five men touched down, all within her field of vision.
‘These men know what they’re doing for sure!’
“Round them up, Sarnt!”
“Sah, You heard the Major. Speed your arses up, lads!”
The men were battling to organise their parachutes into a portable bundle.
The Major moved towards the double light, which marked the direction they would leave the drop zone, as well as where he would encounter the reception committee.
He didn’t get there before an urgent voice reached his ears.
“One missing, Sah.”
“Who?”
“Just checking, sah… Joy… it’s Joy, sah.”
“Damn and blast. Move them to the exit point, Sarnt.”
Bottomley decided to discuss the missing man with the partisan leader, rather than go off half-cocked.
He was surprised to discover that Mikenas was a woman, but didn’t let it show, greeting her and Luistikaite with a handshake.
“Bottomley, Major, SAS. We’ve lost a man somewhere. Do you have sufficient men to look for him?”
Renata translated his comments, but he understood the nod without any problems, and recognised Mikenas’ authority as she barked out orders to some of the partisans, who quickly moved off.
Cookson brought up the rest of the party and they took a knee, just as one of the partisans extinguished one of the twin fires, a signal to the circling aircraft that it could come in lower and deposit its other cargo in the centre of the ring.
The details had been sorted out previously, and another group of partisans were ready to rush out onto the drop zone and recover the canisters containing all sorts of items with which to hurt the enemy, as well as a few items to make life easier for the Lithuanian freedom fighters.
The good news and the bad news arrived together.
The SAS soldiers watched as the canisters were dragged past them, and as the body of Lance-Corporal Kevin Joy was carefully laid out near Bottomley.
His radio pack, such as it was, was placed next to him.
Cookson, one of the SAS’s rare Lithuanian speakers, translated for the benefit of his boys.
“They found him outside the zone. Chute had only partially opened. Bounced off a tree. Probably broke his back. Fuck and abhorrence.”
He looked around, anticipating Bottomley’s orders.
“Tappers, Choc… you bring Smiler along, nice and gentle like. OK?”
Corporal Tappett and Trooper Cadbury said nothing but moved off ready to pick up the gruesome burden.
“I’ll grab the radio. Boozy, you’re point. Suprasti?”
“Lay off the bleedin’ Lithuanian, Sarnt. I’m Polish.”
“All the same to me, now move yer narrow ass up front and wait ‘til I give the signal.”
Trooper Bouzyk took up position, ready to lead the small SAS group off.
Cookson dropped down beside Bottomley.
“I’ve got the lads organised for when you’re ready, Sah.”
“Excellent, Sarnt. Shame about Smiler. Radio’s u/s.”
“I’ll bring it along with me. Can’t leave it here and it may be useful for spares.”
“Indeed.”
They both looked at a modest exchange between three partisans.
“Fuck me, she’s up the duff and then some!”
“She’s one of ours, Sarnt. Anyway, looks like we’re ready for the off.”
Mikenas nodded and made a gesture to her group, all of whom rose and moved off in the direction she pointed.
“Righty ho, Sarnt. Let’s move.”
Within two minutes the large field was silent and dark, clear of beacons, canisters, and personnel.
The only possible tell-tale of their presence was next to a large Birch tree, where a studious eye could possibly find an indentation in the ground that was roughly the same size as a man.
1417 hrs, Sunday, 3rd November 1946, Urakami First Hospital, Nagasaki, Japan.
Ordinarily, Takeo would be on a day off but his section chief had asked him, although it had seemed more like an order, to replace a man who was sick.
The explanation was fair, so Takeo agreed, especially as the interrogation was in Nagasaki itself.
The subject, an IJN Lieutenant Commander, had only recently come to the attention of the authorities as he had been incarcerated in a civilian hospital following a bombing raid on Nagasaki towards the end of the war.
Too ill to move and close to death, it had been decided to get as much information from the man before he went to his ancestors, hence the dispatching of two men across the city on a Sunday.
The questioning was supposed to be undertaken by Royston Waynes, a USN lieutenant, with Takeo translating both question and answers.
Both men took notes, a procedure to ensure that everything was recorded although, by his own admission, the lieutenant’s Japanese was barely up to the basic of communication.
The dying man, transferred to the Sasebo dockyard following the sinking of his old ship, had a good memory of events and, under direction from the new Japanese authorities, cooperated fully.
The whole interrogation was easy, almost dreary in its simplicity.
Until the moment that Takeo did a double-take on one answer.
Without seeking permission, he spoke over his superior.
“Kagesawa-san, surely you mean ‘Special Type, Submarine?”
Kagesawa shook his head, bringing on pain and a bout of coughing.
“No. It is as I say.”
Waynes kept his mouth shut and gave Takeo his head.
The Hawaiian quickly scribbled in Japanese and showed it to the man, who examined it with his good eye.
‘特型潜水艦’
“As I said, special ty
pe submarine. One of the big ones built in secret.”
“Big ones built in secret?”
“Yes, Takeo-san. There were a number being built, but two only went to sea. That’s who the guns were for. I oversaw delivery personally.”
Takeo raised a hand to silence the questions about to spring from his companion’s lips and pressed Kagesawa further.
“So, Kagesawa-san, that notation meant that the equipment was not of a special type for submarines, but actually meant for use on the special type submarines?”
“Hai.”
“Why special?”
“They have two hulls.”
“What?”
The coughing started and Kagesawa used his good hand to dab at the blood spots on his lips.
“Two hulls, Takeo-san. They’re very big.”
“Do you want some water, Kagesawa-san?”
“No, arigato.”
“Then please go on.”
“Just that. They’re very big… long… wide… more guns… more hangar space… nearly one hundred and fifty men…”
“Hangar space… like the AMs?”
“Much more. Room for three aircraft, Takeo-san.”
“Three aircraft?”
“Hai.”
The two Americans exchanged looks.
“What happened to them, Kagesawa-san?”
“They both left for Kannonzaki at the same time. 4th June. Left during the night. I remember they’d gone that morning.”
“4th June. Are you sure of that date?”
“Yes, Takeo-san. It’s my birthday.”
“Kannonzaki. Are you sure?”
“Yes, Takeo-san. A faulty part on one of the Type 36s had to be replaced. I redirected it to a base code that I recognised as Kannonzaki… plus that was where the secret base had been constructed, so it made sense.”
Both men scribbled furiously.
“Anything else you can tell us about these Special Type Submarines?”
“Not really. I supplied the weapons. One 11th Year, three triple mounts, and a single mount Type 36 for each. I did ask some of the officers about their mission, but Rear-Admiral Sasaki Hankyu made it clear it was not for me to know.”
“He was there in person?”
“Yes, Takeo-san, often. Throughout the fitting out, Rear-Admiral Hankyu was a regular visitor to the yard overseeing his special project.”