by Colin Gee
“Nazarbaye…”
“I know who you are, Comrade.”
The man chuckled warmly, putting Nazarbayeva strangely at ease.
“Everyone knows who you are.”
He coughed and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away something unpleasant.
Unbidden, he offered up an explanation.
“Lungs are shot… Eastern front in the first war… German gas attack… still killed my fair share of the bastards though.”
He wiped again, as he was racked with another bout of coughing.
“Think the bastards will do for me soon enough.”
The handkerchief disappeared and the conversation died as the engines ran up to take-off power.
Neither of them spoke until the ascent was complete, and the ‘hospital plane’ was set on its course to Rostov-na-Donu.
Gurundov fished in his pocket and brought out a flask of vodka, pouring two measures in the modest silver cups, and offered one to the female GRU officer.
“Let us toast to your successes and victory for the Motherland, Comrade Mayor General.”
Nazarbayeva shook her head.
“To victory, Comrade General Gurundov. My successes have not been great of late.”
“A setback… happens to all of us… but… as you wish… to Victory!”
They knocked back their measures, which amounted to hair of the dog for Nazarbayeva.
“You have done your best for the Motherland. Comrade Nazarbayeva, and Comrade Stalin understands that. Otherwise, why would he permit you and your husband to spend two weeks in his most favourite place in the whole Motherland, eh?”
Nazarbayeva’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Leytenant General, but how do you know that? I only found out myself some hours ago.”
Gurundov chuckled again, holding out his hands, palms first, in a silent admission that he knew what he knew.
He added an explanation to calm the clearly worried GRU officer.
“I work for Comrade Molotov… as an... err… unofficial advisor on military and other matters. I’m not really a General… well… not any more. I was once, but after the war I travelled the world in search of something that would help my lungs.”
He poured another measure for them both and continued.
“I visited many countries, without great success. This brought me to the attention of the Commissariat and I was asked to… um… advise and consult… you could say spy for them.”
Gurundov smiled disarmingly, but Nazarbayeva’s suspicions were aroused.
“But you’re not Comrade Molotov’s official military liaison officer, that’s Com…”
“No… you’re right… I’m not.”
He extended the flask again, and she accepted the refill.
“In many ways, I’m in your line of business. I gather information for Comrade Molotov… on matters that affect foreign policy. I report to no one but him, and owe no affiliation to anyone but him… and, of course, the Motherland.”
“I had no idea, comrade.”
“Excellent. That’s the way I like it, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
“So, why are you travelling to the Black Sea, Comrade Gurundov?”
He knocked back his measure of vodka and considered his words carefully.
“The sea air is good for my lungs, and Comrade Molotov has secured a dacha at Sochi, which he has graciously permitted me to use for a restorative break.”
She waited for the rest of it.
He decided to invest in the woman, to display trust… to remove her suspicions…
He lowered his voice and leant forward.
“Also, I am here to help with part of Project Raduga. I know you are aware of this project.”
Nazarbayeva simply nodded her understanding, although hearing the name of the Soviet Union’s most secret operation whispered by someone she had known for less than thirty minutes was a considerable shock.
“The aircraft will make a quick stop at Novorossiysk, where myself and Captain Kalinin will alight and leave you to continue your journey. My language skills, amongst other of my talents, are apparently needed. I won’t be in Sochi for a few days yet, but I will call on you when I arrive.”
Nazarbayeva’s brain accessed a memory… of a naval officer waiting outside Stalin’s office… and who had accompanied him at the time.
She married the visual recollection with the live image of the Red Navy Captain sat three rows up.
‘Captain Third… no… now Second Rank Mikhail Stepanovich Kalinin… submarine commander… Stalin’s birthday… atomic weapons… what was his name… Nitina… no… Nishina.’
She took a chance.
“Language skills. Japanese, I assume?”
Gurundov smiled without smiling, remembering that the woman in front of him was not to be underestimated.
“Very perceptive of you, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
“So is there a problem with Raduga, Comrade Gurundov? I’ve heard nothing.”
“That’s because it’s only just come to light, Comrade.”
She waited to be enlightened further, but Gurundov did not volunteer anything further.
“Another?”
He produced the flask once more.
“Thank you, Comrade Gurundov. Shall we drink to the success of your mission, whatever it may be?”
He grinned from ear to ear and put her out of her misery.
“Let us drink to our allies, and that they recover their commitment to the cause.”
He went to knock back his vodka, but realised that the woman had not moved.
Even with her urgent whisper toned down, Nazarbayeva failed to mask her concern.
“There’s a problem with their commitment? They’re absolutely essential to the project.”
He waved the empty flask at nobody in particular, solely to highlight the gravity of his next words.
“Yes, they are, and at the moment, Raduga is dead in the water for a number of reasons… one of which is because ‘they’ have doubts.”
“Then we must remove those doubts and reinvigorate them, Comrade. If I can help, then don’t hesitate to ask… please.”
“Thank you, Comrade. We may well need you, but in any case, I’ll see you at the dacha, once my work is done.”
The unequivocal statement was bound to draw a comment.
“That’s twice you’ve said that, Comrade Gurundov, almost like that’s part of your mission.”
His chuckle held less humour third time around.
“In a very real sense it is, but not part of the mission entrusted to me by the GKO.”
She passed back the silver cup, accompanying it with a look that required an answer to the question it posed.
“Comrade General Kaganovich has asked me to spend some time with you, on matters too delicate to be openly observed.”
“Comrade General Kaganovich?”
“But yes… shall we say… err… I don’t just report to Comrade Molotov?”
Some small sense started a fire in her brain, which stoked up to a raging inferno of thought processes, which quickly resolved into a single intense blazing memory fighting its way to the front of her recognition.
“Gurundov? The name is familiar to me for some reason, Comrade General.”
“My brother was Filip Karlovich Gurundov… a hero of the Soviet Union. He was killed by fascist tanks at Kharkov in 1943, along with his oldest son Alexei Filipovich. Perhaps that is where you have heard the name, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”
He noticed the look that fell across her face.
“Comrade?”
“So… you are Vassily Karlovich Gurundov?”
“That is so.”
‘VKG.’
She made her move quickly.
“Have you ever been to Krakow, Comrade General?”
If he recognised the attempted pass phrase, Gurundov hid it expertly behind a mask of confusion.
“I once spent Christmas there. Wonderful
place.”
“There’s nothing like Christmas in Krakow.”
Nazarbayeva hardly dared breathe.
Gurundov nodded.
“Comrade General Nazarbayeva.”
It took her a moment to realise that the words had not come from Gurundov.
“Yes?”
“Peltsov, Commander of the Southern Special grouping. I was wondering if I could pick your brain for any further information about the Allied threat?”
She looked at Gurundov who simply shrugged in acceptance.
“The Motherland’s needs must come before small talk. We will continue our conversation another time, Comrade Mayor General.”
Gurundov moved away as quickly as his damaged body would allow him, and Peltsov dropped into his place.
Nazarbayeva stared at the departing general’s back, willing him to turn and speak, or even simply mouth the response she sought.
‘Except May Day in Moscow.’
Gurundov turned.
‘Go on, old man, speak the words… now… just mouth them…’
The old general smiled and found a seat in which he could silently drop off to sleep.
Peltsov’s enquiries were pertinent, and she answered them as best she could, occasionally stealing a glance at the lolling head, and wondering what he had been about to say.
The plane was diverted from Rostov-na-Donu airfield, for unexplained technical reasons that an Air Force colonel confided were likely to be Allied aircraft visiting the facilities again, and the DC-4 was descending to Novorossiysk before Peltsov had finished his questioning and note taking, leaving Nazarbayeva no chance to renew her conversation with Gurundov.
He left the aircraft without any further chance to speak to Nazarbayeva, save a small nod and goodbye, and the old man made the short walk to the security compound, where he joined the small convoy that would take the road from Novorossiysk to the Vinogradar Young Communists Sailing Club, as it was known locally.
The DC-4 climbed into the air once more, taking a combination of happy military personnel to a well-deserved break in Sochi, and disgruntled military personnel who had yet to arrive at Rostov, their final destination.
Plus one GRU General whose mind whirled with questions and possibilities.
1539 hrs, Monday, 29th July 1946, Grossglockner, Carinthia, Austria.
It had taken some time for the team to reach the area, and even more time for them to find anything resembling a modern transport aircraft.
But they found it, none the less.
There had never been any hope of survivors, for the Grossglockner was a cold and forbidding place, even in summer, so even if a body had been lucky enough to survive the impact, the environment would be bound to triumph.
And so it had proved, as the wreckage, spread over a large area, yielded only the frozen-rigid corpses of those long dead.
The ‘rescuers’ moved quickly around the site, seemingly more concerned about personal possessions and baggage than recovering the mortal remains of the Red Cross personnel.
The leader spoke into his radio.
“C’mon guys, hustle up. The rescue teams are about two hours out, and I want to put plenty of snow between them and us.”
Throughout the area, his men, clad all in white, rummaged through the wreckage and recovered all sorts of material, stowing the contents of their labours in large rucksacks.
Papers, files, containers… anything that had intelligence value.
“Cap’n!”
Morris Snyder turned to the source of the shout.
Farrah, the unit’s radio operator, waved him closer.
“According to our top cover, they’re in the next valley up… closer than we thought, Cap’n.”
Snyder looked around him and worked the problem.
His briefing had been clear.
‘Command’s orders are simple. Get to the wreck as quickly as possible and recover as much intel as possible. Make it as anonymous as possible, but certainly do not get discovered. The possibility of recovering injured has not been discussed and you should use your own judgement. Remember, the mission comes first.’
He looked at the map and confirmed in which valley the recon aircraft had spotted the rescuers.
The aircraft was ostensibly working for the rescue effort, but was actually observing for the small team of experienced skiers and mountaineers from the elite 10th US Mountain Division.
“Green, Red, over.”
“I hear you, Red.”
“We have twelve minutes tops, Green. I want your squad ready to lead off in ten. Clear.”
“Roger.”
William Green drove his men harder.
“Red, Blue, over.”
“Receiving.”
“Blue, hustle ‘em up. You got ten minutes. Check over by that big boulder”, he pointed so that Sergeant Berry could see where he was talking about, “There’s all sort of shit over there, Blue, over.”
“Roger.”
Red Snyder watched as Berry sent some of his men towards the unexplored area, and returned to Farrah.
“Get that info firmed up with the birdmen, Corporal. I ain’t getting jumped by a bunch of civilian do-gooders.”
He lit a cigarette and watched his men redouble their efforts.
Eleven minutes later, the thirty-man group moved off, now also burdened with a lot of materiel from the dead Red Cross party.
Files, briefcases, loose papers… anything that could be of value.
1701 hrs, Tuesday, 30th July 1946, Karup Air Base, Denmark.
It was the hottest day of the year so far, a fact that needed no announcement to the men who disembarked from the C-69 Constellation.
The aircraft, one of the most modern in the USAAF transport fleet, had been crammed full with specialist personnel, enacting a command decision to move the maximum number of qualified bodies, in order to expedite the operations of Composite Group 663, the most secret operational bomber unit in Europe, bar none.
The eight-hour flight had tested the resolve of even the most resilient of men, and the aroma that accompanied them as they stepped down did not go unnoticed by the reception committee.
Colonel Jens Lauridson of the Danish Air Force, base commander at Karup, led the delegation that received the American airmen and ground crew.
“Colonel Banner?”
Behind the sunglasses and huge cigar lay a tired and unhappy man.
None the less, he tried to be polite.
“Colonel Lauridson?”
They shook hands warmly, although the Dane felt unclean from the moment he touched flesh.
“I suggest that we get you and your men cleaned up first, Colonel?”
“You’ll get no goddamned resistance from me on that one, fella.”
“Have your men follow this officer”, he beckoned an Air Force Captain forward.
The man beside Lauridson coughed politely.
“Apologies, Wing Commander. Colonel Banner, this is Wing Commander Cheshire… Colonel Banner.”
The two shook hands.
Banner’s eyes were immediately drawn to the array of ribbons on the man’s tunic, including the highest his country had to offer, but he was also aware that the eyes that assessed him were tired, almost lacking in light.
“You’re my second in command I think, fella.”
“Indeed, Colonel Banner. I command the RAF contingent here. Perhaps we should postpone further introductions until you and your men have a chance to eat and rest.”
“I’m all for that, fella.”
Banner turned to his weary crew.
“Ok, listen up, boys. We’re gonna get ourselves cleaned up and get some chow. This Danish officer will show you the way. No duties for tonight. Just get your gear stowed away. Best behaviour or I’ll know why. I’ll issue orders during the evening. Dismiss.”
Cheshire observed the disorganised display with some disdain, but kept his own counsel, although he caught Lauridson sending him a quiet look.
‘Was this man really the best the Americans had for the mission?’
It would surprise Cheshire no end that he would one day refer to Colonel Gary George Banner as probably the finest officer he had ever met.
Eternal Father strong to save,
Whose arm has bound the restless wave,
Who bids the mighty ocean deep,
Its own appointed limits keep,
O hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in Peril on the sea.
William Whiting.
Chapter 166 - THE STRAW
0934 hrs, Wednesday, 31st July 1946, the docks, Swinemünde, Pomerania.
“Is that wise, Sir?”
“Well, unless you want to get your boys off and make way for proper fighting soldiers, I guess it’s all we have, Crisp.”
There was no insult, only humour, although McAuliffe’s resilience was being tested heavily.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait… see what the navy comes up with, Sir?”
“This withdrawal has been planned down to a tee, Colonel. The Spanish are in your old quarters as we speak. You and the 327th have nowhere to go back to. In any case, the trains’ll be waiting at Lübeck. Waiting for both your troopers and the 327th boys. Navy’s let us down… couldn’t be helped… that’s the way it is, son. If we pack ‘em tight in your boat, we’ll get both of you to the trains and back to Mourmelon a-sap.”
On cue, they both turned to examine the crippled Haskell-class attack transport, USS Allendale, from whose superstructure smoke still rose lazily.
An accidental fire, according to the ship’s captain, but one that deprived units of the 327th Glider Infantry their ticket home.
McAuliffe received a written report with a grunt, read it, and handed it across to Crisp.
“So, navy say they can definitely squeeze you all into Kingsbury. Let’s get it done, Colonel. It won’t be for too long. Just make sure your boys give the ‘Bulldogs’ enough room for them to stand up and cock a leg to pee, ok?”
“I hear that, Sir.”
The 327th had taken a pounding during its time in Pomerania, losing their commander, Bud Harper, injured in the initial stages. They then suffered the loss of the replacement regimental commander to Soviet mortars on the final day of their exposure to front line action.