by Gee, Colin
Bradford his decision.
“Mister Scientist, I’m gonna have to put her down in the wet while I’ve got some engine power left.”
“He’s dead.”
His head jerked around, taking in the wide staring eyes of the man who had been his best friend.
He concentrated on the aircraft again, using the moment to deal with the pain of his loss.
Ahead, through the tears, he saw something that offered hope.
“Mister, you better tie yourself into that seat, ‘cause God just offered us some hope.”
He nodded at the pilot’s seat, and watched as the scientist made a right hash of the buckles.
Once the man was secured, Bradford briefed him on what he intended to do.
“Look ahead there… see… an island. I’m gonna try and beach the ‘Jenni Lee’, or ditch her as close as possible, so we got a chance to swim or wade ashore, ok?”
The civilian’s terror knew no limits, and he started to rock uncontrollably.
“You’ll be alright, Mister. Now, sit back… and enjoy the ride!”
‘Jenni Lee’ descended until she was almost kissing the Baltic.
1304 hrs, Friday, 13th December 1945, approaching Baltiysk Airfield, USSR.
A dozen Yak-9’s had happened on the scene and an air battle ensued, the result of which, quite surprisingly, was in the balance. Four from each side had been knocked out of the sky, leaving the Soviet Fighter regiment with a two aircraft numerical advantage.
It also meant that the US fighter squadron had no inclination to chase Djorov further, so his approach to Baltiysk was unhindered, except for the fact that the Schwalbe was failing fast.
“I can’t get through, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Unsurprising, not that they knew it, for Djorov’s radio pack looked like Norwegian Jarlsberg.
The base commander was now in the control tower, the excitement and anticipation having filtered through to his office and broken into his traditional afternoon nap.
He had eyed the pile of roubles with suspicion at first, but allowed them to remain there, conscious that life for the tower crew had little excitement.
Or at least hadn’t had until today.
The small smudge on the horizon had started to grow, and it could only be Djorov returning.
“Get the fire tender moving.”
The Sergeant moved swiftly, conscious of the fact that the money had been spotted, and keen to keep the base commander happy.
The ancient fire truck moved off within a minute, its bell ringing for all its worth, the old men who comprised its crew trying desperately to remember which end of the hose was which. Baltiysk was a very quiet backwater, and their skills, such as they were, were rarely needed. In fact, never needed, until today.
The ME 262 was closer now, and clearly in a great deal of trouble.
Down by the runway, the officers and men of the 2nd Guards gathered to witness their leader’s return.
“Job tvoyu mat!”
The undercarriage refused his reasonable order to lower and engage. The hydraulics had been another victim to the heavy .50cal rounds that had ravaged his aircraft.
The balance between bleeding off speed, and not falling from the sky like a lead balloon, was consuming his attention, and Baltiysk was approaching fast.
There would be no chance of a second effort.
Djorov held the stick firmly, sensing the aircraft through its vibrations, adjusting as his instincts came more into play.
The Schwalbe dropped lower, and he applied a little more engine power.
The port turbofan changed tone dramatically, protesting at some unseen problem.
‘Blyad.’
However, the extra knots he had coaxed from it did the job, and the aircraft steadied for sufficient time.
He started humming something faintly musical. Nothing he had heard before, just a few mixed notes suggested by a mind more occupied with deep concentration.
‘The runway’s closing fast.’
He adjusted throttle.
‘The Schwalbe’s going too fast.’
The angle of the stick altered slightly in response.
‘The runway is nearly underneath me.’
More stick.
‘The Schwalbe is going too fucking fast!’
Less throttle…watch stall.
‘The runway is…’
He cut the power and placed the engine pods on the concrete surface as a tender lover places his hand on the shoulder of his woman.
Gently, softly, like a caress.
‘Yes!’
The sound was excruciating. The light cowlings disintegrated, bringing both engines into contact with the runway.
Both engines came apart bit by bit.
Suddenly, the Schwalbe angled and the tail bit into the concrete, ripping off a sizeable portion instantly.
The port engine started to bite harder and the ME 262 swung to that side, feinting towards the trees before the starboard engine dug in and the port engine broke away with half the wing, the spectacular ignition of aviation spirit causing more than one of the old firefighters to consider immediate desertion.
The veteran fire tender labored towards the oncoming aircraft, careful to avoid any possible clash.
Djorov clung to the stick, leaning one way then the other, moving the controls from side to side in a useless attempt to steer his blazing aircraft.
Before he knew it, the sound of tortured metal had gone and the Schwalbe was stationary.
He pushed on the canopy and felt the full heat of the fuel fire on his left cheek.
Rolling out to the right, he fell onto the concrete, the hand he put out to steady his fall doing nothing more than striking the runway first, dislocating his little finger before the rest of his body hit hard.
Two puffing firefighters dashed in and dragged the aching pilot clear, whilst the others, surprisingly swift in their work, applied foam to the spreading fire.
Djorov dragged himself to his feet and brushed himself down, the dislocated little finger suddenly announcing its presence when he caught it in his lifejacket.
Examining the destroyed aircraft, he marveled at the number of holes he could see.
The Superfortress gunners had hit him hard, and he knew he was lucky to be alive.
Members of his regiment started to arrive and more than one offered up a cigarette or a canteen of fiery liquid.
Questions about the enemy contact were greeted with confirmation of damaging the enemy leviathan so severely that Djorov doubted it would make it home.
The spirits lifted, and many a swig of something non-regulation was taken in celebration.
Now that he had seen that his commander and friend was uninjured, Djorov’s second in command strolled around the peripheries, making a great play of looking at the runway, up and down, grabbing his chin and looking thoughtful.
Captain Oligrevin was not only the second in command of 2nd Guards; he was also a notorious clown.
Djorov moved over, a gaggle of his men moving in his wake, keen to listen in.
“So, Comrade Oligrevin, are you not happy to see me safe and sound?”
The Major look at Djorov as if it was the first time he had noticed him.
“Of course, I’m delighted by your survival, Comrade PodPolkovnik, truly I am.”
Djorov, his hands trembling a little as the shock started to work on his system, understood the false mocking tone for what it was.
“Come on, man, spit it out. Did you see promotion and command as I came fluttering by, eh?”
“Well, Comrade, you know me. Always the man for the mission.”
Behind Djorov, men lifted by their commander’s survival started to grin.
“You are a model second in command, Comrade Mayor.”
“I know, Sir. So may I be the first to congratulate you on completing your mission.”
Djorov suddenly got it, as did a few of the others. He decided not to spoil Oligrevin’s moment.
“Comrade PodPolkovnik, I believe you achieved the allocated task in approximately… eight hundred metres.”
The roars were genuine, as was the heavy slap that Djorov.
Djorov actually found himself checking the distance.
“Not quite what the Rodina expected of you, Comrade PodPolkovnik, but I’m sure your report will do your efforts justice.”
“I’m also sure it will, Comrade Mayor. And to honour your efforts, you get to drive the other Swallow tomorrow.”
All pretence gone, the two men hugged and kissed as only Russian men who have shared great dangers could do.
1304 hrs, Friday, 13th December 1945, approaching Østerkær Island, Sweden.
The Superfortress skimmed the ice-cold water with her left wing but Bradford exerted all his strength and recovered just in time.
Straightening the wounded beast, he assessed the distance to the shoreline and decided that now was the time.
“Brace yourself, Mister.”
He angled the fuselage, and immediately the rear end started to bump on the water.
In the rear, the rest of the crew, unaware of Bradford’s plans, panicked.
The shoreline approached as the friction started to rob the ‘Jenni Lee’ of momentum.
One last effort on the stick kept the aircraft ‘airborne’ for a few more seconds, before the fuselage dropped and started to skim, all the while the propellers on the starboard side turning, lashing the water, bending and starting to destroy themselves.
The feathered port props created drag themselves.
There was no control now, and Bradford could only watch, almost in slow motion, as the nose hit the water and a virtual tidal wave was scooped up and thrown at the two men in the pilot’s seats.
He couldn’t see and couldn’t breathe, his mask ripped off and the weight of water pushing him into the seat.
He used his other senses, and realized the aircraft was slowing considerably now.
In his mind he had the picture of where he was, and what he hoped would happen.
Medal of Honor holder or not, he was scared of water, and had tried to ensure that ‘Jenni Lee’ would slide onto the low beach and he would walk off as dry as a bone.
Dry he certainly wasn’t, but the thump and then scream of tortured metal told him the Superfortress had reached the beach, and he felt relief beyond measure.
The beach was quite flat, slightly angled up from the water’s edge, with only two obstructions, large rocks, to possibly impede the progress of the ‘Jenni Lee’.
The shattered nose hit the larger of the two rocks and folded, the impact slowing the forward rush until there was nothing but the sound of water dripping and gurgling within the cockpit area.
The civilian engineer retrieved himself from the fantasy world in which he had cocooned himself to avoid the terrors of his approaching death.
He checked himself out, first mentally, and then physically, his hands finding everything where it should be and no damage of note.
The gurgling sound that he had heard actually wasn’t water at all.
It was Bradford.
In the final impact, a piece of aluminium strut had been pushed forward like a lance, and caught him in the lower throat, raising him up out of the seat by two feet and holding him firmly in place.
The blood dripped down the metal, combining with the fuel and water mixture that started to drain out of the holes and gaps that the fight and crash had created.
From outside, the red streaks could be seen running freely from holes, as blood drained from a number of bodies, those in the back of the Superfortress having all died in the crash.
The gurgling stopped, which left only the civilian and the seagulls to survive the cold night to come.
If you kill enough of them, they stop fighting.
Curtis Lemay
Chapter 122 - THE CHARGE
0904 hrs Sunday, 15th December 1945, Headquarters of the Manchurian Red Banner Forces, Pedagogical Institute, Chita, Siberia.
In the north of China, the cold weather was having a negative effect upon the military plan, but only slowing it, not bringing it to a halt. That was partially because the Red Army and Japanese soldiers were performing brilliantly, and partially because the Chinese Nationalist enemy was greatly weakened.
Central China was relatively inactive now, most main objectives taken, and the enemy being held in place without any difficulty, although further advances were on hold, pending the resolution of the difficulties in the south.
Marshall Vassilevsky was in pensive mood.
The central and southern areas were solely staffed by Japanese forces and, whilst their military ability was unquestioned, their technical capability and logistic issues were causing major problems, even to the point where Chinese and American counter-attacks were starting to show successes.
His paratrooper operations, previously cancelled, were converted into a major relocation of Soviet airborne forces, landing infantry units, lock, stock and barrel, in the southern force zone, where they could add to the Japanese efforts and, hopefully, restart the advance.
The heavier weapons, tank, artillery and vehicles, would come by train.
A new force, the Third Red Banner Army, was created around four key units; 31st Rifle Corps, 1st NKVD Parachute Brigade, 4th Tank Corps, and 2nd Guards Rocket Barrage Division. Other smaller support units would be attached and sent south as transport capacity became available.
His CoS, Colonel-General Lomov, was already having issues with the transport plan. The senior Japanese Liaison officer, Major General Yamaoka, was screaming down the phone to some unfortunate officer whose job was to sort out the difficulties at Nanjing, where two trains, containing tanks from the 4th Tank Corps, had come off the rails, paralysing the network, and requiring following units to redirect through other, longer routes.
That would have been enough to exercise all three men as it was, without the newly arrived report from Jingjiang, where US naval aviators had taken down the road and rail bridges over the Yangtze, further complicating the logistics of the Soviet move.
US warships sailed virtually unchallenged off the coast. The Japanese air assets were held back by the Imperial Command to support the new assaults and to protect vital assets.
Without an element of humour, Vassilevsky had quite reasonably stated to Yamaoka that a rail bridge over the Yangtze could quite reasonably be seen to be vital.
“Nikolai Andreevich, make a note. Ask our esteemed comrades in Pacific Fleet Command... and our esteemed allies of the Imperial Navy and Air Force,” Lomov swallowed noisily, betraying his anger with the situation, “And ask nicely,” Vassilevsky knew his CoS could be quite abrupt at times, “Tell them we need them to do something about the enemy carrier force in the East China Sea. Matter of importance and urgency et cetera, et cetera. Explain the reasons. Send it from me.”
Vassilevsky, waiting on a new batch of fresh coffee, caught the eye of his CoS and raised an eyebrow in warning. Colonel-General Lomov accepted the admonishment with a shrug.
“Now, gentlemen, we need to make sure that Okamura knows of the delays and acts accordingly. General Yamaoka?”
“At once, Marshal Vassilevsky.”
The Japanese officer strode from the room, intent on phoning Yasuji Okamura direct.
In the absence of a decent drink, Vassilevsky fell back on his trusty pipe.
“So, the NKVD brigade is there... and it’s complete?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“One full division of the 31st Rifle Corps, without heavy weapons.”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal?”
“And nine tanks from the 4th?”
“Err, no, Comrade Marshal. The reports were in error. Six of our tanks arrived. The other three are the last German vehicles we had retained. They were shipped separately, but arrived at the same time, destined for use by our friends.”
“Three months was all we expected, so I suppose we can’t complain.�
��
“No, Comrade. I admit... I’m impressed by their achievements.”
A secret Soviet study, not for general circulation, and definitely not for the sight of any Japanese officer, had predicted that the captured German vehicles would have an operational life of three months at the maximum. It had reasonably suggested that a lack of spares, combined with an anticipated decline in the numbers of qualified mechanics, would add to losses sustained in combat, and that the areas in which the vehicles might operate were not wholly suitable, also contributing to losses.
The Japanese forces had done extremely well, although the numbers of vehicles had declined across the range of units. Even so, advance elements of the Japanese 63rd Special Army were now only sixty kilometres from Nanning.
Coffee arrived and the Marshal set aside his pipe in favour of a large mug of the steaming hot liquid.
“Sort out this logistical shit storm and we should be fine.”
Lomov wondered whether that was for his benefit, or whether the Marshal was trying to convince himself.
Vassilevsky, mug in one hand, ran his finger steadily down the map, following the run of Route 487, all the way to Nanning.
1229 hrs Sunday, 15th December 1945, 3rd Imperial Special Obligation Brigade ‘Rainbow’, Route 487, Luoliao, China.
Captain Nomori Hamuda was praying in the ‘Way of the Gods’, as Shintoism was sometimes translated.
The war had taken its toll on ‘Rainbow’ and left scars on all of its soldiers, be they physical or mental.
One of their running mates, the 2nd ‘Moon’ Brigade, had been erased from the order of battle in three days of heavy fighting, the handful of unwounded soldiers transferred to the 1st ‘Sun’ Brigade to fill in the huge gaps there.
Hamuda finished his devotions and arched his back, his aching body the victim of relentless miles in a hard steel shell.