by Colin Gee
The best laid plans…..
2259 hrs, Wednesday, 5th February 1947, the Neman River, four hundred metres south of Pupkaimis, Lithuania.
They had taken up an overwatch position during the last of the daylight hours and had been able to watch the last of the barges being secured.
What was immediately apparent was the level of security.
Previous such convoys had sported no more than ten men, but the latest arrival was accompanied by a full platoon of what were clearly alert NKVD troopers.
Pyragius, ever cautious, sent out scouts again, and reports quickly came back about more Russians nearby.
A mechanised platoon in vehicles no one recognised had concealed themselves in the woods just north of Route 141.
Word also reached the Shield that a large force of mechanised infantry had billeted themselves in Pupkaimis for the night.
They had already hidden from a third group of mechanised infantry that had moved westwards towards Raudonė itself.
Bouzyk had sketched the new vehicles as best he could, snatching glances they drove past the concealed SAS unit. The presence of three T-70 light tanks further reinforced the suspicion that the river convoy was more than the norm.
Pyragius held a council of war and nearly called off the operation but the group’s doctor, along to identify certain medicines, convinced him that the needs outweighed the risks.
The decision made, Pyragius made the signal and a group of ‘civilians’ approached the Soviet encampment, bringing with them music and alcohol and, more importantly to the NKVD platoon guarding the barges, women.
A simple hand signal initiated the mission, and the Lithuanian partisan leader watched as the two inflatables slid into the icy water, each manned by two SAS soldiers in Soviet NKVD uniforms.
Those at rest amongst the Soviet platoon were very much at ease, the unexpected arrival of such simple pleasures enough to keep their minds off their charges.
The dozen men who walked the perimeter were kept focussed by their officer, a man who had neither time for wine and song, or women for that matter.
But the night was dark and his efforts were not totally rewarded as patrolling guards spent less time near the cold water and more gravitating towards the sounds of pleasure emanating from around their vehicles.
The target had been chosen before the dinghies had slipped into the Neman, and the four SAS men silently and inexorably homed in on it.
There were three defined ‘bays’ into which the twelve barges had been pulled, one of them slightly irregular, which had dictated that the fourth barge had not been moored as the others, but instead lay side on to the bank and still in the flowing stream of the river.
What they had not counted on was the blizzard that had started as they had put their paddles in the water.
The heavy snow obscured a great deal; the ability to see was reduced to next to nothing in an instant and the noise of it was sufficient to mask the gentle sound of paddles moving water and override much of the noisy revelry from the other bank.
Members of ‘The Shield’ were spread out along the opposite bank, covering with instructions not to fire unless given a direct order.
There was a covering group a hundred metres away, concealed to the west and on the same bank as the convoy was moored, ready to react as Janina dictated. They were supported by the rest of the SAS contingent under Bottomley.
For now, the members of ‘The Shield’ lay low and held their collective breath.
Cookson motioned to the other dinghy and Corporal Tappett mirrored his actions, both men sitting up to tie a holding line in place before grasping the side of the barge and levering themselves upwards, knives at the ready.
The two NCOs swiftly moved around the small craft, but found no sentries.
Cookson nodded to Tappett who took station by the bow mooring line, where there was also a small gangplank.
His job was twofold.
Firstly to provide security as the rest of the small team deployed and secondly, when the time was right, to undo the mooring line.
Cookson moved amongst the cargo, seeing the tell-tale signs of foodstuffs and medical supplies.
‘Fucking jackpot!’
He slipped up to the river-side of the barge and signalled with a shielded red lens torch, which sign was only just recognisable to the waiting partisans through the heavy snow.
Bouzyk and Cadbury were gestured aboard.
They tugged on the small lines secured to the back of the dinghies, signalling the bank that both were now unmanned
Bouzyk took station at the rear mooring and all eyes focussed on Cookson.
He pumped his fist and the lines went slack, undone, not cut.
Cadbury was at the bow and used his paddle to gently steer their barge away from contact with its companion.
The Neman then played its part, applying a gentle force to the barge, which started to move downstream.
All eyes switched back to the moorings, waiting for any sign of alarm.
But there was none.
Careful not to disturb the tarpaulins too much, Cookson was joined by Cadbury and some of the crates were shifted to one side, ready for when they could unload some of their prize into the dinghies or, hopefully, into waiting hands on the bank.
Downriver, Audra Karelis’ group was entrusted with a vital task; that of ‘catching’ the barge.
With one party on the southern bank and one in a small rowing boat, lines were ready to throw out to the SAS soldiers, who in turn would secure them to the barge.
The other end would already be secured to the southern side
Pyragius hoped the barge would be nearer the southern bank, but took no chances, posting another force on the northern side with lines at the ready, just in case.
The barge, fickle and uncooperative, moved into the centre of the river, and remained almost central between the banks as it slowly approached the point where Karelis’ line parties waited.
The river narrowed to about two hundred metres at that point, but even so, the rowers poured with sweat as they juggled to get their small craft near enough to get lines aboard the barge.
They managed… just… and Tappett swiftly wound the line around the bollard, carefully trying to get his fingers out of the way in case the line went taut.
It did, and he didn’t.
Little and fourth finger disappeared between the metal bollard and the line and were immediately crushed.
Tappett added more pain to the mix as he bit his tongue in an effort to control himself.
Bouzyk heard the muffled gasp and reacted with incredible speed.
He grabbed the line and pulled it away from the bollard, allowing a moment’s separation that allowed Tappett to pull his ruined hand out.
The Polish SAS soldier pulled out a bandage and wound it around the hand, leaving the trigger and third fingers exposed.
The two exchanged no words and Bouzyk slipped back to his position, missing Tappett’s nod of gratitude.
By now the barge was nearly at the bank and shapes materialised through the snow, quickly resolving into waiting partisans.
With the hand injury, Tappett’s contribution to shifting some of the load was greatly reduced, and he quickly swapped with Cookson and became the lookout.
It was Cookson who first spotted that not all was as it seemed.
“What the bleeding hell is that?”
Said to no one in particular, it drew both Cadbury and Bouzyk to the gap he had just created.
No one could supply the answer, but the metal drum carried more than enough warning markings indicating a horrible death that none of the three doubted it was something special, and very, very deadly.
Cookson risked a quick look with his red muffled torch and saw that inside the stack of supplies there were ten, possibly twelve such metal drums.
Knowing Bottomley was on the other side of the river, the decision fell to the SAS sergeant, and he swiftly processed the details.<
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“We need one… but fucking carefully does it, boys. Slow and steady.”
Slow and steady became less likely as the night was riven with sounds of automatic weapons, away up river for sure, but still close enough to impart urgency to the recovery process.
The partisans beckoned for more supplies but Cookson stood firm.
“No! We only take a little. They must think it’s lost, not stolen.”
Pyragius arrived and stepped in to the discussion.
“The man is right, my children. We have enough now… we must leav…”
“No, Boss. We can’t yet. We have to take one of these. It’s important.”
“What is it?”
“Haven’t got a clue. Metal drum filled with something very nasty.”
“How big?”
“Hundred litres.”
“We can’t carry that. Come on. Let’s sink the barge and be on our way before whatever that is up there comes down here.”
Pyragius slapped one of his men on the shoulder, encouraging him to pick up one of the boxes with him.
“Come on, my children, let’s get our booty home.”
“I’m not talking about carrying it… the dinghy will take it. We’ll float it away and hide it for now. I need one of your men... just for a few moments.”
The partisan leader calculated the stolen supplies and the hands available.
“Norkus… help them and then follow on. Stay safe.”
He slapped the man on the back and turned back to Cookson.
“Then you’re on your own. See you back at the camp. Let’s move!”
The whole partisan unit disappeared into the night in an instant, leaving the three SAS men to move the drum as Norkus pulled the barge in tighter to one of the dinghies.
“Parbuckle.”
Cookson gave the order and slipped up to the stern where Tappett was watching the east for any signs of what had caused the burst of fire.
“How’s it going, Tappers?”
“Nowt, Sarnt. Nowt at all. Firing stopped a’while back. Now nothing.”
“And yer hand?”
“I’ll have to wank with the left forra while, but I can still fire a gun if that’s what yer asking.”
“Keep sharp. We’ll sink the fuckers shortly. We’re using the dinghies…”
Tappett went to comment but he barely drew breath.
“I’ll explain later. We’re going out by dinghy, and we’re taking something nasty with us. Be ready on my shout, Tappers.”
“OK, Sarnt.”
Cookson slithered back to the waiting pair and saw that the drum was ready to lower.
A parbuckle was a simple use of a line to lower a round object, and the process was quickly initiated, the two men slinging the heavy barrel with relative ease, thanks to the looped line.
The drum sat in the dinghy quite snugly and Cookson dropped gently off the barge onto it, recovering the line from his two men, and using the ends to secure the barrel as best he could.
“Front and back… we’ll tie the other alongside it… it’ll take all of us.”
Bouzyk and Cadbury understood and waited patiently as the two dinghies were secured together.
“Norkus. Throw them the line now. Thank you.”
The partisan undid the securing line and threw accurately. With a simple salute, he disappeared into the snow.
The barge moved along, again under the influence of the flowing river.
Cookson pulled himself back aboard the vessel and hissed at Tappett, who moved back to the bow.
“Choc, you babysit the bloody thing. Tappers, you get yourself in and comfy. For fuck’s sake be careful of whatever that is. Boozy and I’ll spring the boards. Cast off if you think you’re in bother, but I’d rather not go for a dip. Move.”
Whilst the two men slipped over the side and onto the ‘raft’, Bouzyk and Cookson dropped into the bottom of the barge and sought the best way to sink the barge ‘accidentally’.
The drain plug was an obvious target but allowed surprisingly little water in, so they sought other methods, each of which seemed terminally noisy in the circumstances.
A crowbar helped with one of the more rotten members, but the water stubbornly refused to flow through the weakened timbers.
“Fuck it.”
Cookson reached around and pulled out his pistol, a CZ-27, onto which he attached a silencer.
Four shots created a weakness that Bouzyk quickly exploited, disguising the bullet holes.
Water burst in through the damaged hull.
“That’s the fucking boy, Boozy. Over the side with you.”
The water level grew steadily and it was obvious that the barge was doomed.
However, the removal of some crates had made the load less balanced and the barge quickly assumed a lean, one that worked against Cookson’s attempts to climb out of the hold.
As the angle grew worse, part of the load shifted and the barge rolled, allowing the water over the side and into the hold to complete the job.
It sank.
The SAS team had cast off so that the barge didn’t carry them down, but kept a loose hold on the sinking vessel to help get Cookson off.
The sergeant scrabbled up to the edge of the barge, now the only dry part, and rolled over towards the dinghies.
In a moment of petulance, the sinking vessel lurched and opened a gap roughly the size of an SAS NCO, through which Cookson dropped into the freezing cold water of the Neman River.
Rough hands grabbed at the floundering man and brought him upright at the side of the dinghy.
“Fucking hell. Me bollocks have done a runner!”
Laughing softly, Boozy and Choc pulled their leader into the dinghy, the belch of air from the barge signifying the exchange as the river gave up Cookson and claimed the barge.
The NCO’s teeth were already chattering as his soaked body as exposed to the wind that now drove the snow even harder.
The snow burst into a whiter light.
“Flare!”
It was stating the obvious but Bouzyk said it anyway.
More flares rose and the firing started up again, this time closer and decidedly more threatening.
The tell-tale chatter of an MG-42 declared that the north bank group had run into trouble.
The plan had allowed for them to remain in overwatch whilst the barge was looted, and Cookson calculated that they should have already moved off, but the evidence of their continued presence was unequivocal.
“Paddle into the left bank!”
Cookson led my example and his small oar bit into the water.
He explained in between strokes.
“Tappers, keep a sharp lookout on the left. There’s a stream… saw it on the map… drops off the main river… we get into there…”
He stopped as he pondered whether or not the contents of the drum were heavier or lighter than water.
“We either sink the bastard, or hide it. Whatever the fuck… we get outta here sharpish. You got me?”
The heavy breathing men muttered something that Sergeant Cookson took for understanding.
“On the left, Sarnt!”
‘Shit… too close…’
“Paddle like fuck, boys!”
Despite their efforts, it seemed that they had missed the entrance to the small stream, until Cookson threw himself into the icy waters once more and made the short distance to the bank.
He caught the thrown line and quickly tied it to a tree.
Together with the renewed efforts of the two and a half oarsmen, his efforts on the line overcame the flow of the river and the ‘raft’ was pulled back up and into the stream.
Cookson moved quickly along the bank, pulling his men and the barrel after him.
He rounded a sharp left turn in the stream and neatly fell into a concealed hollow, the heavy splash bringing cries of enquiry from his men.
Cookson waved his hand to show he was fine, and quickly reasoned his present bathing area wo
uld be perfect for hiding the barrel, if not in the stream then under the vegetation and snow that had obscured the water.
He could feel himself turning blue so moved appropriately.
“Move… get ‘em undone and I’ll pull the plug on it.”
As Bouzyk and Cadbury undid the ties, Cookson decided to deflate the boat and leave it under the barrel. They only had two and waste was abhorrent to him.
He waited to see if the barrel floated and breathed a mighty sigh when it dropped below the water and settled on the bottom.
Dropping his head beneath the water, his hands ran around the barrel, discovering that it was prevented from rolling by a large piece of wood stuck in the bed.
He quickly pulled the line tight around the barrel, made some knot, something his trainers would probably have lost sleep over, and secured the other end to the base of a small shrub, making sure as best he could that it couldn’t be seen in a casual inspection.
The dinghy had moved a little away, despite the efforts of the paddlers, and Cookson found himself having to swim a few strokes to get back to it, where he was quickly hauled aboard.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Bleeding Esther Williams?”
“Not now, Choc… in fact, not ever… I’m sodding frozen!”
Tappett started rubbing his sergeant’s body violently.
“You need to get moving…. Get out of these clothes, Sarnt. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise fuck all, Tappers.”
The firing had taken on the proportions of a full-scale battle, and Cookson had other priorities.
“Move it… Viking power!”
It was an old joke from an operation they had undertaken in Norway.
The paddles bit into the water at double the pace, and the remaining dinghy carried the four weary men away from whatever was happening.
Cookson wasn’t sure. But he had a feeling that the small stream joined back up with the main river again, and he was delighted to be proved right as the dinghy once again came under the influence of the faster flowing main watercourse.
His original plan had been to move overland back to the river, dinghy in hand, but his luck had held and even the Neman lent a hand, grabbing hold of the four men’s craft and pushing it inexorably towards the north bank.