by Gee, Colin
The commander of the Donauworth airfield, a Colonel old enough to be his grandfather, wrote a report that would accompany him back to his base, once the transport arrived.
Two of the Tupolev’s had already flown on, the crashed aircraft cannibalised to get the other damaged aircraft back to their base.
Whilst Istomin waited for transport, he was accommodated in every way, the whole base treated him like a celebrity for his skill in landing the ravaged aircraft.
A liberated US army jeep was placed at his disposal and his first journey took him back to the equipment shed, where he found his new ‘friends’ and shared the same pleasures as before, but under more relaxed conditions.
Together, the three strolled towards the silent and cold ravaged metal that had once been the sleek Tupolev.
Curiosity took over, and they questioned the evidence of their eyes.
So, the counting started.
Istomin pulled rank, insisting that his total of three hundred and seven would be the official total of holes in his aircraft and his report, the two deferring to him with exaggerated gravity, but continuing to speak of two hundred and ninety-one as the definitive figure.
“Either way Comrades, the lady brought me home safely against the odds.”
A bottle did the rounds, each man toasting the fine aircraft in cherry brandy, although the two Air Force men confessed later that they celebrated her stopping powers in the slide more than her aerodynamic prowess.
“Perhaps, Comrade Starshy Leytenant, perhaps you should write and tell them, eh?”
Momentarily confused, Istomin screwed his face up.
The Serzhant passed over the bottle to the other man and moved to the silent airframe, tapping on each word as he spoke.
“For the Soviet liberation of Oryol from the Fascist hordes, as named by the People of Oryol.”
Istomin hadn’t flown out with the rest of his men because of his head injury, and the problems it had brought with it.
Those problems manifested themselves now as his brain could not comprehend what the Serzhant meant.
“Sir, the good people of Oryol bought and paid for that fine aircraft, and entrusted it to you.”
The fog in Istomin’s mind started to clear.
“Comrade Starshy Leytenant, their efforts gave you a good aircraft, one that brought you home when others wouldn’t have.”
“I understand, Comrade Voronov. You are right.”
The three wise monkeys shared another drink together, pausing only to pour a small amount over the aircraft’s unofficial name.
“To Tanya!”
And with the sound of the tribute ringing in their ears, the three said their goodbyes.
1221 hrs, Tuesday, 4th September 1945, Birkenfeld, Germany.
Casualties among the medical personnel and their wounded charges had been extreme, the targeted attack on the Castle wiping out the sick and the fit in equal measure.
‘Camerone’ suffered few serious casualties in the bombing attack, but five legionnaires were killed by a delayed explosion as they dug deep in the rubble to rescue trapped medical personnel.
The air-raid cut short the exchange between Knocke and Kowalski, the former moving off to attend to his units and organise the rescue efforts with no thought for the GRU officer.
Kowalski, satisfied he had got his message across, departed the area to report to his superiors.
It was sometime before Knocke had an opportunity to discuss the day’s events with De Montgomerie, and specifically report that the GRU probably had another source within the Legion Corps.
2217 hrs, Tuesday, 4th September 1945, Cape Negro Island, Nova Scotia.
The location had proven to be perfect, the sole occupant of the island being a lighthouse keeper for the Canadian government, whose understood that his continued existence was all about his usefulness at keeping the constant white light alive in order to not attract undue attention.
The few families that had once lived on what was actually two small islands joined by a small spit of land had long departed, leaving behind buildings whose apparent dereliction was only cosmetic, the secret Soviet base now flourishing behind peeling paintwork and advancing flora.
The submarines that were savaging the eastern seaboard replenished here, sinking to the bottom during the day, only rising to the surface when darkness hurled its protective cloak over them.
The woods provided more excellent cover, and the base easily accommodated the personnel from the other Soviet mainland base, threatened when a US Army unit moved in dangerously close. Their presence alone forced it to swiftly close, and, as yet, the US had no idea that they had even been there.
What could not be squeezed into the submarines was dragged into the water and sunk, leaving no trace that the base had even existed, save for the deeply buried body of the old man who had so surprised the landing party on the day they arrived.
The disadvantage was clearly the increased travel time to intercept southern state routes, but the undersea wolves found themselves close enough to Boston and New York to ensure that there were rich pickings for everyone.
All was activity once the sun set, the imminent arrival of a supply boat stirring the base into action.
The normal routine was for approaching submarines to surface and use the lighthouse for a bearing, ensuring precise navigation into the small south side harbour.
This evenings visitor was a unique craft, the only one of three sisters to taste the open seas.
Once U-1702, the type XX U-Boat had been a stop-start project for the Kreigsmarine, a project finally brought to completion in a German shipyard under the watchful eyes of Soviet overseers.
She was a ‘Milchcow’, a supply boat, capable of carrying fuel, munitions, fresh foods and any number of the requirements of the clandestine base.
Schnorkel equipped, U-1702, or the Morž as she was now known, had nearly completed her maiden voyage from her Baltic home to the eastern seaboard of the Americas.
Deliberately riding low in the water, her tanks only partially blown, the Morž was being guided into the harbour by her nervous captain, the closeness of the enemy and the vulnerability of his vessel testing his firmness and resolve.
Around the conning tower, the watchers kept watch, eyes glued to binoculars, ears pricked for the sound of an approaching aircraft, all ready to drop into the dark hatch in a moment.
The lighthouse’s constant light drew the Milchcow forward with its promise of safety, the projected Atlantic storm starting to make itself known with the increasing wind and milky grey hue to the moonlit sky.
The Starshina of the watch stiffened, his ears gently suggesting that they had heard something out of the ordinary, such as a buzz of a bee or the hum of an engine, but the suggestion withered as quickly as it arrived, the brain scolding the ears and pointing to the nothingness in the relative silence of the choppy sea.
2219 hrs, Tuesday 4th September 1945, three miles south of Cape Negro Island, Nova Scotia.
K-136 was in some difficulty, one of her engines doing nothing but adding dead weight, even though the mechanics were doing their best to get the dormant lump of metal back on line.
The hint of a storm added to the concerns as K-136 struggled to get back to base.
Naval Lieutenant Carlton E. Wetherbridge was nursing his fragile craft steadily northwards to try and make the emergency base at Barrington, accepting that, for tonight, Yarmouth was beyond him and his crippled charge.
That the approaching storm gave him some advantage and started to give him a push was immediately overridden by the failure of the second engine and the total silence which accompanied its loss.
Running on battery power one of the wireless operators continued his running commentary to the Yarmouth Operations room, the K-136 sinking lower and dropping below the cloud cover and into the surreal grey light of the impending storm.
2223 hrs, Tuesday, 4th September 1945, two miles south of Cape Negro Island, Nova Scotia.
>
“Errr Skipper, there’s something ahead of us. I caught a look in the sweep of the lighthouse.”
The voice belonged to Royston James, the crew’s youngest officer and co-pilot of K-136.
“Come on Roy, you know better than that. Proper report, you know the drill.”
Lieutenant [jg] Royston James kicked himself for not getting it right on his first combat mission as a second-pilot, and composed himself quickly, mentally rehearsing his sighting report.
Wetherbridge, irked by the delay, was about to press the young man’s buttons when the silence was broken by a properly composed report.
“Yeah, sorry skipper. Possible submarine spotted at one o’clock. Range one thousand yards. Low in the water, moving at slow speed.”
As the first words hit the intercom system, the crew started into instant action, the radar operator unable to find the tell-tale blip of the submarine, its partially blown tanks keeping its radar profile out of the detectable range.
Wetherbridge rapped out his commands, preparing the attack.
“C’mon boys, give me those engines, or even just one. I need some manoeuvring here!”
The mechanics understood that all rested on them, and worked quickly to get at least one of the Pratt & Whitney’s turning in time.
“Skipper, Hernandez here. That looks like a U-Boat to me, boss.”
“Roger. Chief, check the reports pronto.”
Senior Chief Petty Officer Sveinsvold swiftly double-checked the movement reports and came up blank.
“Sir, nothing in movement, nothing on submarines, and, this is in a prohibited area, Sir.”
Sveinsvold was unequivocal, and Wetherbridge concurred.
“Captain to crew, standby to attack. Radio Op, message, attacking submarine, confirmed U-Boat, give our position and timings, ok?”
As if to honour the decision, the port engine slowly growled into life, and Wetherbridge felt the response in his control’s immediately.
2225 hrs, Tuesday, 4th September 1945, two miles south of Cape Negro Island, Nova Scotia.
The noise, sudden and terrifyingly near, was heard by ears other those of the Starshina of the watch, and a number of frightened eyes swivelled to scan for the source of what was clearly an engine coming up to full revs.
The rear observer punched out a report.
“Unknown object approaching at eight hundred metres, due south, height one thousand.”
“Job tvoyu mat!”
The captain had joined the watchers and overheard the Starshina’s expletive as his eyes sought to discover what was unknown about whatever it was that was approaching.
“No time to dive, Kapitan! He’s on top of us already!”
His lens filled with something soft and circular, his memory banks stimulated by the sight of a USN Dirigible moving into the attack.
‘Blyad! He’s right! No time to dive!’
“Gun crews close up! General alarm!”
The klaxon sounded and the orders started to fly, men transformed by the imminence of danger.
“Fire!”
The Quad 20mm started to hammer out at the airship, a K-Class Blimp, the slowness of its approach confusing the gunners, whose first shots missed badly.
Machine-guns deployed to the bridge joined in, also without success.
The Blimp approached steadily and the flak gunners adjusted carefully, walking their fire into the attacking craft and being rewarded with obvious damage, closely followed by telltale smoke and flame in the pod slung underneath the gas envelope.
A machine-gun from the Blimp replied, making similar hits on the easier target below.
K-136 was dying, as was Wetherbridge, his stomach punctured by shrapnel from exploding cannon shells, and robbed of his sight by the impact of small pieces of Perspex and metal from his destroyed instrument panel.
James struggled across to help his commander, inhibited by pieces of his former comrades and the slippery nature of their present condition.
Hernandez was unrecognisable, save for the chest tattoo, declaring undying love for a girl called Iolanta, whom he had once courted in Florida long before he had met his present wife, the mother of his five sons.
Sveinsvold had taken a bullet in the thigh, but it didn’t prevent him from pouring fire from his .50cal into the hapless sailors below.
The remaining living members of the crew were the mechanics, their work on the engine forgotten in favour of fire fighting within the pod.
Sveinsvold fired the last of his belt and then quit the post, moving painfully to help knock down the growing fire.
The 20mm crew had been flayed by the last burst, all five men falling around their weapon, some screaming, some forever silent.
The Starshina shouted for medical support and men rushed forward to recover the injured.
Two of the lookouts hung lifelessly in their straps but his attention was split between the descending airship and his dying captain, the noisy coughing accompanied by spouts of blood as his ruined chest let the essential fluid of life escape from his ravaged body.
“Get the Captain below, get the wounded below. Standby to dive!”
One man rushed to the two dead lookouts but was ordered away.
“No time! Get the living below now!”
Submariners live on their wits and their ability to move at high speed, and in seconds the Starshina was alone amongst the dead.
Sparing a last look at the airship, he screamed his command.
“Dive! Dive! Dive!”
Pulling the hatch shut behind him, he made fast the clips and dropped down further, leaving another to seal the lower hatch.
The captain had not survived the hasty evacuation.
The ship’s first officer had taken command, ordering a turn to starboard.
It was of no import.
The fire was out, although it had cost the Norwegian his uniform, his shirt to beat out the flames, his trousers that had caught alight when some cleaning fluid spilled and flared. His white body, bereft of even a hint of a tan line, exposed now in a way that he studiously avoided whenever presented with choice.
A naked man wearing nothing but shoes and socks would have been comical in any other surroundings but the charnel house of the blimp’s control pod.
James was crying, his captain and friends dead around him, the smells of tortured metal mingling with the metallic odour of blood, creating a special hell for the new officer.
Sveinsvold had pulled Wetherbridge’s corpse from the chair and virtually thrown James into his place.
“Shit, they’re diving.”
Turning back to his surviving officer, the wiry Norwegian spoke firmly.
“Fly it Sir, get us over those bastards so we can have some payback.”
Although new to combat, James was composed enough to assess his aircraft, and took her under control as best he could, the obvious rents in her envelope suggesting that a landfall may be beyond them.
He thought quickly.
“Chief, let’s bomb these fuckers and lose some weight. Nearest land is to the east there. I’ll try for that.”
Sveinsvold spared the young man a momentary look, appraising him in the light of his sudden calmness.
“Aye Aye, Skipper.”
The drop would be by eye, the release by emergency hand-pull, as the auto controls had long since ceased to exist.
James, his concentration blotting out everything else, watched and waited, the convenient new holes in the floor making his assessment all the easier.
“Ready, ready...”
Sveinsvold tensed.
“Now Chief!”
Pulling hard on the cables, Sveinsvold was immediately rewarded with all the signs of a successful release, confirmed as James whopped at the immediate gain in height.
“Now, let’s get the lady down on that island, Chief.”
The K-class blimp carried four Mark 47 depth-charges, each stuffed with 350lbs of high-explosive, One on the money would have been
enough to sink the Morž, four proved excessive and the Milchcow succumbed, bent rapidly as explosions either side of her hull exerted irresistible forces, the fractures immediately becoming catastrophic and opening her watertight compartments to the sea.
There were no survivors.
The three men threw what they no longer had use for overboard, gaining precious inches in height. The airship brushed the water and slid slowly up the short beach, bouncing on into the edge of a wood and transfixing herself on branches.
“Well done, Skipper, really well done.”
And Sveinsvold meant every word, for it had been a touch and go thing, James’ hitherto unknown skill saving the day and keeping the four of them out of the water.
Detailing the two mechanics to salvage all they could from the pod, Sveinsvold took in the surroundings.
The Chief had already spotted an old building that seemed fit for purpose, and suitable to ride out the Atlantic storm that was coming ever closer.
The envelope was deflating rapidly, the penetration of the heavy branches proving the final straw.
Suggesting to the young officer that he might like to police up maps and weapons, Sveinsvold checked out the radios, quickly satisfying himself that neither were repairable.
The emergency rations pack had been one thing thrown out, its identity lost in the enthusiastic work to gain height.
Sveinsvold jumped down and screwed up his eyes, seeking out the small wooden box whose contents could make their life bearable if found.
Some items were floating close inshore, and he decided to take advantage of his naked state and go swimming in an attempt to recover the hastily jettisoned foodstuffs.
The cold water closed over him, and he immediately found the leg wound restricted his ability to swim against the incoming tide.