Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Operation Gabriel, conceived as a modest area bombing strike to destroy specific enemy units behind the lines, had blossomed into five hundred plus aircraft modern Armageddon, about to fall upon the prime assault units of the 1st Red Banner European Front gathered around Celle.

  Army officers had assisted in the planning, including some German officers from the new German Republican Army, using their hard-won knowledge to assist the target planners, applying their understanding to work out where the Russian would hide and camouflage his materiel.

  Tons of high-explosive were targeted according to their intuition and expertise and if all went to plan then the Red Army would lose a significant part of its forces for little Allied loss.

  0224 hrs, Thursday 23rd August 1945, the night skies of over Northern Germany.

  The Squadron motto was ‘To strive and not to yield’, a sentiment wholly appropriate for a night illuminated by a full and bright ‘bomber’s’ moon when one engine had already packed up and the starboard inner, all important for its contribution to the aircraft hydraulics, playing up and misfiring.

  The crew of UM-V had only recently arrived at the squadron’s home base at RAF Wickenby in Lincolnshire, survivors of a submarine attack on their ship, the Aquitania, which claimed the lives of a number of their comrades.

  Transferred into 626 Squadron RAF to replace heavy casualties, this was their second mission, the first having been a doddle over the area east of Lübeck.

  In the gleam of a brilliant moon, it was easy to spot all sorts of Allied aircraft, flying in one direction, for a single purpose.

  UM-V was a Lancaster Mk I, a venerable aircraft that had seen its fair share of action already, passed airworthy after strenuous tests, and handed to a green crew, fresh from training in Canada.

  626 had been allocated an area immediately north of some green and yellow markers, indicators accurately laid by RAF Pathfinder mosquitoes to indicate the line of Route 214.

  The large area earmarked for the bomber’s attention that night had been divided up into zones, beacons of different colours giving the aircrews a ground visualisation of the plans each aircraft had been issued with, permitting each bomb aimer to understand his target completely.

  Pilot Officer Cecil Black had spent his war on the ground, being a late transferee into flying duties.

  Now he was at eighteen thousand feet over Northern Germany, wrestling with an unresponsive and failing aircraft, desperately trying to get his charge to the right point to release the bombs and then get her home.

  Other aircraft had already attacked, and the ground appeared to be moving, mainly because of the shadows that danced so lively on the earth, stirred to greater efforts by each further explosion.

  It was also moving because of what looked like ants, spilling from hiding places, desperate to find cover away from the storm.

  Briefed to look out for the right colour group, it was the radio operator who spotted the green/yellow markers, with the purple to the north-west and red/yellow to the north-east.

  Black lined up the aircraft and checked the bombing height was at the correct eighteen thousand feet. Then the bomb-aimer took over.

  Experienced pilots knew better than to let their attention wander but not Black, the absence of enemy activity and clarity of vision causing him to miss a vital instrument’s warning.

  The bomb-aimer called him from his reverie and Black had control as the bombs dropped from their rails, a full load of 500lb general-purpose cookies and four Small Bomb Containers, each holding two hundred and thirty-six 4lb charges.

  The aircraft from 626 Squadron targeted on the area unloaded on top of the intact Soviet 1091st Gun-Artillery Regiment, weapons, vehicles and crew all secreted in a small wood just north of Route 214, to the north-west of Hambühren..

  The results were devastating, and the 1091st would take no part in any combat action from that time forward, the few survivors being sent to other units to try and make good some of their losses.

  However, Black’s inattentiveness had condemned him and his crew, despite him finally noticing the defective altimeter, now reading fifteen thousand.

  He opened the throttles, only to be greeted by sounds of destruction from the starboard inner as something vital came apart under the additional strain.

  Correcting the sudden dip of the starboard wing, Black tried to feather the engine, without success. The prop refused to be adjusted, throwing the aerodynamics out, challenging and exceeding the skills of the new pilot.

  More height was lost.

  The Canadian mid-upper gunner had hardly moved to key his mike when the five hundred pounder he had belatedly spotted, dropped from a sister aircraft that was bombing from the correct height, struck the port wing immediately to the rear of the inner engine.

  The bomb did not explode, but carried sufficient energy to remove the engine and bend the wing at the point of impact.

  Black ordered his crew to bail out as he struggled with the rapidly falling aircraft.

  Three minutes later, Lancaster UM-V added itself to the wasteland below, carrying Pilot Officer Black with it.

  The whole crew slowly descended by parachute, but not all survived, as bombs dropped by their colleagues above and vengeful Soviet soldiers below took the lives of all but two of them.

  UM-V was one of only seven aircraft lost on the night, the Soviet Air Force being notable only by its complete absence.

  Once daylight permitted, Allied photo-recon aircraft took off to record the results of the night raid.

  Soviet interceptors rose to meet them but quickly backed down, as swarms of fighters formed a barrier to protect their unarmed charges.

  Two small skirmishes ensured, resulting in the loss of two RAF spitfires and no loss to the Soviet Air force, but the RAF and its cohorts owned that bit of airspace and none of the precious photo-recon birds were lost.

  On return, the films were hastily processed and the interpretation commenced.

  By 1500 hrs it seemed clear enough that a large part of the Soviet assault formations of the 1st Red Banner Central European Front had been ravaged in the raid. Undoubtedly, those that had survived would be very shaken up, and it seemed likely that no large scale offensive operations would be carried out by 1st Red Banner for the foreseeable future.

  A good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan executed next week.

  George S. Patton

  Chapter 70 - THE FARM

  1208 hrs, Saturday, 25th August 1945, French First Army Headquarters, Hotel Stephanie, Baden-Baden.

  The dispatch rider had brought a great deal of paperwork from units all around the Army headquarters at Baden-Baden.

  Important mail, particularly that destined for senior officers, made its way quickly to the right hands.

  The general mail was passed into the system, sorted and either sent out to be delivered by hand, or placed in pigeon holes for the appropriate person to pick up at leisure.

  One nondescript letter sat in the slot dedicated to Major Kowalski, a standard military envelope addressed to Major Kowalsky. Such an error was understandable and would draw no comment or suspicion whatsoever, which was precisely why the Russian had instructed Knocke to change the last letter to a ‘Y’ if he was prepared to act to save his wife.

  The letter contained a formal response to Kowalski’s fictitious enquiry, Knocke had the presence of mind to continue the spelling within, supplying some nondescript administrative information and inviting the ‘Pole’ to revisit the Legion unit as soon as possible, complete with a signed special pass to assist his passage.

  Pausing at the orderlies’ station, he asked for lunch to be delivered to his room at one o’clock, figuring that would give him enough time to prepare his report for his GRU superiors.

  A familiar face betrayed no emotion as Kowalski discussed the luncheon menu options with the attentive orderly, hearing but not openly acknowledging the simple request for an additional bread roll, which coded phrase
told the orderly that there was important information to be passed.

  1402 hrs, Saturday, 25th August 1945, Seven miles north of Magerøya, Barents Sea.

  She was an unremarkable vessel, at least at her launch in 1928, merely solidly built, destined as she was for trade routes in cold climes.

  It was the fervent hope of every man aboard her now that she retained her unremarkability, even after weeks of alterations and conversions, creating an ugly swan from an ugly duckling.

  At her launch, the mother of the local party chief had named her ‘Dmitry Karbyshev’, after a Lieutenant-General of the same name, a hero of the Great War.

  As the darkened hull had slipped her Murmansk moorings and departed, she left the persona of ‘Karbyshev’ behind, the dawn light casting its rays on the Swedish merchant vessel ‘Golden Quest’, or at least a passable effort to look like the soon to be launched Scandinavian ship.

  The real ship was intended to ply its trade between Sweden and North America, which latter destination was exactly where the heavily-laden Soviet vessel intended to make its second landfall.

  1408 hrs, Saturday 25th August 1945, 12 miles west of Heligoland, North Sea.

  Soviet Naval aviation had scored few triumphs thus far, but this mission was intended to announce their presence in style.

  Intending to draw resources away from the attack aircraft, Soviet regiments noisily demonstrated against allied positions on the west coast of Denmark and Northern Germany, sideshows that claimed the lives of twenty airmen and half as many valuable aircraft.

  But they worked, and the attack force slipped through unnoticed, skimming at wave top height towards their target.

  HMS Queen was already recovering her aircraft, circling as they were, anxious to land after a sortie in support of 7th Armoured Division below the Danish border.

  HMS Argus, steaming in line less than a mile to the starboard was burning and landing had ceased until the fires were extinguished.

  A Fairey Firefly had made a total dog’s breakfast of its approach and was now a funeral pyre for her crew, along with three naval ratings who had bravely tried to extricate the unfortunates.

  Two explosions had already been witnessed by Queen and her escorts, and a third drew their attention as yet another of the unexpended rocket munitions exploded.

  All aircraft were now under orders to return with unexpended wing munition, given the shortages some squadrons were experiencing, although the orders did not yet extend to returning with bombs aboard.

  The air patrol, three Seafires from Queen, flew lazily around some miles to the east, but close enough that the pilots could see the trouble experienced by their running mate.

  It also proved a distraction and gave the 51st Mine-Torpedo Regiment aircraft an opportunity to close.

  Despite all the warnings their intelligence officers had issued, the Seafire pilots relaxed at the sight of A20 Bostons in US colours until their attitude and direction burned through the lethargy and made the radio report to their carrier more urgent.

  “Snow White, Snow White, this is Sneezy Red One, ten unidentified aircraft closing your position due east at sea level, ten miles and closing for a torpedo attack.”

  The naval Lieutenant said ‘unidentified’ to save on initial explanations.

  “Roger Sneezy Red One, intercept and identify.”

  Now was the time

  “Roger, Snow White. Aircraft are A20 Boston’s in US markings. Diving now.”

  Some of the aircraft returning from the support mission moved to help, but a combination of good tactics, luck and poor decision making on the part of the Spitfire pilots had put the 51st in prime attacking position, and all ten Bostons put their torpedoes in the water, five for each flat top.

  Three of the Bostons were hammered into the water by fighters, a fourth manoeuvred violently and drove itself into the waves without receiving a hit.

  One of the original air patrol Seafires received a full burst from a dorsal turret weapon, turning the fighter into a funeral pyre that swiftly extinguished itself in the cool waters of the North Sea.

  HMS Trafalgar, a Battle class destroyer, was a design specifically created for anti-aircraft work, from her stabilisers to provide a suitable gun platform, through to her enhanced AA armament of 4.5” and 40mm Bofors.

  Two of the escaping Bostons flew too close and were knocked from the sky simultaneously, their wreckage mingling as they disintegrated on contact with the water.

  The remaining four Boston’s sped away as fast as their Wright Cyclone engines could power them, their turret gunners all shouting joyously as their torpedoes bore fruit behind them.

  The fire caused by the crash on HMS Argus had been all but extinguished but it was of little concern now, as three torpedoes ripped the starboard side open, allowing water to enter and explore the ships vitals, the carrier soon to be betrayed by her origins as a civilian vessel.

  HMS Queen evaded all but two, but they were enough. Her main engine room flooded within minutes and power for fire fighting was lost. Some escorts tried to close and supply water, and HMS Magpie, one of the Black Swan class sloops succeeded.

  The explosion that followed sunk both HMS Queen and HMS Magpie in seconds, bombs and other explosives falling victim to unchecked fires within the carrier’s hull.

  There were fatal casualties on a number of other vessels, with blast effect, pieces of metal, wood and other matter claiming lives up to a thousand yards from the explosion, both at sea level and in the air.

  Nine hundred and sixty-three men had died in a heartbeat.

  The shock wave rocked the Argus too, hastening her end, although her crew were able to escape in numbers, only sixty-four succumbing as the ex-ocean liner swiftly sank beneath the surface.

  Some of the aircraft expecting to land started to ditch, others made for nearby Heligoland or for some other safe haven, eventually adding another twenty-one aircrew to the list of dead.

  Two of the Bostons returned to friendly airspace where one was shot at by friendly flak, killing the turret gunner.

  51st Mine-Torpedo Regiment had been virtually wiped out, but had exacted a huge price on the Royal Navy, sinking two small carriers and a sloop, killing a thousand men and potentially removing four squadrons of enemy aircraft from the Allied inventory.

  Soviet Naval Aviation had indeed announced its presence.

  1500 hrs, Saturday, 25th August 1945, Eggenthal, Germany.

  Allied forces - HQ, E, F, & G Companies of 2nd Battalion, of 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, of 101st US Airborne Division, and I & K Companies of 3rd Battalion, 370th Infantry Regiment, of 92nd Colored Infantry Division, all temporarily attached to French 1st Army, US 6th Army Group.

  Soviet Forces - Mobile Group Virnok, of 4th Guards Mechanised Corps, temporarily attached to 5th Guards Tank Army, of 3rd Red Banner Central European Front.

  The artillery was incredible, accurate and relentless. Eggenthal was already transformed into a wasteland of rubble and shattered wood.

  And yet, every time the Soviet infantry charged forward, troopers from Crisp’s battalion rose up and sent them back, bloodied and torn.

  Seven hundred and one paratroopers had started the campaign. Eggenthal now contained less than four hundred and fifty, the remainder split in equal measure between evacuations to aid stations or left dead upon the field.

  An unexpected boost was received when two companies from the 92nd Colored Division’s 370th Regiment arrived with ammunition just before chow time. The Buffalo soldiers were quickly directed to defensive positions, Item Company to the north, arraigned around Route 12, and King Company in a blocking position approximately half a mile south-west of Eggenthal.

  A line of T34’s took position facing west towards Crisp’s positions and proceeded to batter the village with direct fire, all the time supported by the relentless artillery of the 4th Guards Mechanised Corps.

  Major General Turbin sent orders to Colonel Virnok, dispatching his formations to the
north and south, intending to surround and reduce the pocket and preventing escape.

  Now Crisp’s 2nd Battalion could not evacuate its casualties, the approach roads also being bathed in high-explosives. The aid station, established in the church and appropriately marked, overflowed with damaged bodies, spilling its contents out into the grounds, bringing those close to death alongside those long departed.

  However, red cross markings were notoriously unreliable protection when fighting the Red Army, and such was the case today as shells had already struck the ancient building, partially demolishing the square tower.

  At 1600 hrs, a further attack was repulsed, but the momentum of the Soviet advance had carried it all the way to the American foxholes, and in two cases, beyond.

  Major Crisp called an officers group and passed on his decision to bug out, received with universal relief.

  The first unit out was Crisp’s own George Company, a fast moving point party supported by a business-like support group, the rest of the troopers assisting wounded men to move back.

  The point party came under fire and went to ground, three of its members never to rise again.

  The Russians had closed around behind Crisp’s positions, cutting off the six companies.

  Soviet artillery redoubled its efforts and Eggenthal sank lower into the maelstrom.

  Fig #46 - Relief of Eggenthal - the battlefield.

  Paratrooper Generals are like no other military commander, for the very nature of their command places them in harm’s way in order to be effective, dropping into enemy territory with their men.