Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  Chapter 18

  Yes, Sasha was burning, and Port Dikson was burning soon after. Siberiakov fired her two 76mm guns, but to no avail. Kranke was still well beyond range, and when he realized he would not make a harvest of any signals equipment here, he opened fire. Spouts of water were soon straddling the ship, and she was hit.

  Captain Kacharava had attempted to lay a smoke screen, running for shore as fast as he could, but to no avail. Shell splinters sheared off the mast and radio antenna on the icebreaker, and cut down men on the decks. Sasha’s chief stoker Vavilov was feeding coal to the boilers as fast as he could, and the sound of the ship’s engines was deafening as they labored.

  Admiral Scheer made short work of the icebreaker, and the gasoline on her decks went up like an inferno with Kranke’s third salvo, which set off more explosions on the main deck as the splinters hit the gasoline barrels. Kacharava was struck in the arm, bleeding badly, and soon fell to the deck, lapsing into unconsciousness. Heavy black smoke mushroomed over the ship, and the next German salvo penetrated to the boiler room, stopping Sasha’s fitful engines. Vavilov lay lifeless on the coal dark floor.

  Yet topside, the brave Russian gunners continued to man a 76mm battery, firing impudently at the German ship. Krancke closed the range and his forward turret blasted again, finally silencing the enemy gun.

  Chief Bochurko knew he must not allow the Germans to board the ship, and he worked his way past the licking flames to the radio room. There he found signalman Alexeyev, and radioman Sharshavin gathering up all the maps, weather data, ice floe reports and other code equipment. They threw everything into a rucksack and hauled it out onto the weather deck.

  “No! Don’t throw it into the sea,” shouted Chief Bochurko. “Put it into the fire!” So they heaved the heavy bag down onto the lower deck and watched as it was consumed by the raging gasoline fire. Then the Chief told the two men to get off the ship any way they could, and was last seen taking a ladder down into the dark recesses of the stricken icebreaker. The survivors believed he scuttled the ship, though no one ever really knew what happened to him.

  At 15:00 Sasha gave up one last gasp with an explosion amidships, then rolled into the sea. The hiss of hot metal hitting the water was one of the last sounds the survivors could remember. Then they saw the Germans launching boats to rescue them, but stoker Matveyev would have none of it. He was shivering in one of the few lifeboats that made it away from the ship, but when the German boat came alongside, he threw an axe at the first man that tried to board.

  There passed the first hand to hand combat of the war between Germany and Russia, with stoker Matveyev gunned down by a German officer wielding a luger, and the other crewmen fighting to resist capture. German Naval infantry leapt aboard the Russian boat, clubbing the sailors with the butts of their rifles. Three leapt overboard to avoid capture, braving the icy waters in the hopes of getting away. When it was over Kranke had fourteen prisoners, among them a man named Zolotov, who was being ferried to a distant weather station to deliver the new code books.

  Kranke had his Kriegsmarine Funkaufklärung team interrogated the Russians, but learned nothing of value, so he determined to go after bigger fish, this time by making a raid on Port Dikson to the south. He loitered for a time, then satisfied that there was nothing else to be seen, he moved south, arriving off Port Dikson on July 8th. Little did he know that the course he set would soon bring him afoul of the Russian flotilla that had been hastily dispatched to the region.

  “There will be better pickings ashore,” said Kranke to his executive officer Heintz.

  “Ashore?”

  “Of course, Heintz. We get their maps, weather information, vital data on this northern convoy route, and possibly even their code machines this time. Just you wait!”

  “But sir, we have already sunk two ships here! This will cause a major provocation.”

  “Yes,” said Kranke coolly. “It will.” He smiled, and Heintz immediately knew that there was more in the Kapitän’s orders than he first revealed.

  “That first ship fired on us,” said Kranke. “We fired back. And you saw them train those deck guns on us just now. I took appropriate defensive action, and now we will punish the men ashore who gave the orders to attack the Kriegsmarine in these neutral waters.”

  “These are not neutral waters, sir. We are well within the territorial limit claimed by the Russians.”

  “That is not what the log books will read, Heintz. Get a head on your shoulders! It will be our story against theirs, but none of that matters. The important thing is that we have finally lit the match here, and now the fuse will be burning. Besides, we didn’t start the shooting. The trouble started with U-46 and Oberleutnant Grau.”

  “Yes sir,” said Heintz, feeling just a bit unsettled. “Grau started it, but one day it must have an end somewhere—in either Moscow or Berlin.”

  Kranke raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing more.

  * * *

  The cruiser Kalinin was supposed to have had a sad and lonesome war. In Fedorov’s old history it was built in Siberia, the steel, guns, and all other equipment shipped east on the trans-Siberian rail. Inactive during the war, the ship would later become a floating barracks until it was sold for scrap in 1963. But that history had changed in this new world. Instead the ship’s parts were moved north to Murmansk, and the cruiser was commissioned into the fleet just weeks ago, on the 8th of May, 1940. Designated the flagship of the fledgling Red Banner Northern Fleet, Kalinin’s history would be much more colorful.

  At a whisker over 10,000 tons full load, Kalinin had a respectable battery of nine 180mm guns, a little over 7 inches and somewhat smaller than the typical 8-inch guns on a British heavy cruiser. There were also eight 85mm guns, twenty-two anti-aircraft guns, a pair of triple 21-inch torpedo mounts, fifty depth charges and over 100 mines aboard the ship.

  Captain Koinev commanded the new ship, and he also had a pair of sleek hounds at his side that day, the destroyers Kalima and Saku. Originally meant for the Black Sea Fleet under the Project 20, class, these new designs weighed in at 3200 tons with a main armament of six 130mm guns and nine big torpedoes. They also carried eighty mines, and were perhaps the fastest ships in the world when commissioned into the Northern Fleet on direct orders from Sergie Kirov. The destroyers easily could run at 40 knots, and at trials the Kalima even recorded a 43 knot sprint. They were ships that had never been completed in the world Fedorov knew.

  Now Koinev was pacing on the bridge, impatient in spite of the speed he was making. He was leading the cream of the Northern Fleet out to see about the numerous reports of ships and shore installations coming under fire from what was finally identified as a German raider. The war would not begin on the Polish frontier, he thought. No, it begins here, in the cold north, and this incident will soon be forgotten when the fighting starts on the ground. He knew the situation was very dangerous now, but he was determined to defend the motherland with all the skill he could muster.

  The radio intercepts painted a grim picture by the time he reached the channel near the Port of Amderma after a 600 kilometer run east from Murmansk. The two destroyers had come up from Archangel to join him along the way, and by the time they reached Amderma the news of the loss of Siberiakov, old Sasha, had angered the crew when they heard it. The German raider had slipped away and had not been sighted since, but soon word came in from Port Dikson that a large warship had been sighted rounding Cape Anvil and heading into the port.

  “We are under attack!” came the urgent warning, and the old port had little more to fight back with than three antiquated 152mm siege guns positioned by the quay at the edge of the harbor. There were no reinforced gun emplacements for them, and little ammunition, but the gunners rushed to man them and fired bravely in the hopes of warding the Germans off.

  “Two ships sighted… boats in the water… they are coming!”

  Admiral Scheer was at work again, her 11-inch guns pounding the harbor and providing am
ple cover while a detachment of 180 well armed naval Marines went ashore.

  “Damn!” Koinev swore. “We are not ready!”

  “There’s a good local militia there,” said Rykov, his gunnery officer. “Perhaps they can hold out until we get there.”

  “Yet what are we up against, Rykov? Reports are very scattered. They say the Germans have U-boats and fast cruisers running wild in the Kara Sea, yet not a single ship has been properly identified.”

  “We don’t need to know a ship’s name to put it at the bottom of the sea, sir. Just give me a target, and I’ll drive them off. And let them try to run from Kalima and Saku!”

  Koinev nodded, his confidence returning, but he was still pacing, restless on the bridge when another message came in: Kuibyshev engaged and sinking! S.O.S!

  They had run through the pale Arctic night, still lit by the sun, and cut through the narrow Malygina Strait, heading due east for Port Dikson, but he was too late to stop the Germans. Word came that they had overwhelmed the militia, captured the port command buildings, and looted the place. Then they quickly withdrew, setting buildings afire and blowing up the piers as they went. Kuibyshev was sunk on the way out.

  The watch soon spotted the mast and smoke of a ship, and the alarms sent all the crew to action stations. The Germans were trying to move west into the Kara Sea again, and a race ensued as Koinev turned up his speed and released the two hounds that were leading his flotilla. Kalinin quickly worked up to battle speed at 36 knots, but the new destroyers easily pulled ahead, both at just over 40 knots as they raced to run down the German raider.

  But there were two ships now… The second sighting was called out almost immediately, and Koinev knew he now had a battle on his hands. Ready or not, he whispered to himself, here it starts, and here we come.

  * * *

  Kranke had a long look at the ships approaching off his port quarter. The Germans had pounded Port Dikson, stormed ashore and made off with a rich haul of intelligence, leaving the Northwest Naval Command headquarters there in a shambles. Now he was in the Kara Sea on a northeasterly course that would take him up above the great barrier island of Novaya Zemlya. He could see what looked like a pair of fast destroyers and one larger ship behind them, coming up off his aft port quarter.

  “Those ships are fast,” he said. “We are running at 28 knots and it looks like they will catch us in half an hour.”

  “We could turn northeast, sir,” Heintz suggested. “It would be an hour before they could get close enough to engage.”

  “Too much ice there. We do not run, Heintz. Don’t forget that. We will have them in range soon, but let’s see what we have here before I show them my guns.”

  “It was only a matter of time before they came out to challenge us,” said Heintz. “Soon we will see how the Russian Navy fights.”

  “Come 15 points to starboard. Let’s make them work.”

  The two destroyers were closing on a converging course, exceeding Admiral Scheer’s speed by over ten knots. They were outpacing the bigger ship behind them to the west, obviously with orders to run the German quarry down.

  Kranke signaled Nürnberg to follow him. The light cruiser could run at 32 knots if it had to, but it was clear to Kranke that there was going to be a fight here. The Russian ships seemed much faster, and so he wanted to keep his ships together. The Kapitän slowly pulled on his leather gloves, his jaw set, a determined look on his face.

  “They are requesting name and country of origin.”

  “Tell them to come and find out for themselves.” Kranke was in no mood for the niceties of international protocol. Admiral Scheer remained silent after his curt reply. The next message would be sent with their 11-inch guns. At 11:00 he fired a single warning shot, and then sent a message for his log books: Your intent appears hostile. Break off or be fired upon. This is your final warning. The Russian destroyers replied with their forward deck guns, though the rounds fell well short.

  “Well gentlemen, let us begin.” Kranke nodded to his gunnery officer and Scheer’s turrets rotated into position, their triple barrels training on the target. “Fire!”

  The roar of the guns shook the ship, and even as the rounds began to fall the barrels were elevating to fire again. Kranke saw his spotting salvo was close enough, and now the targets turned slightly and looked to be positioning themselves for a torpedo run. The guns fired again, and this time he saw the tall splashes dollop the waters just ahead of the lead destroyer. The enemy would prove to be a fast and elusive target, zigzagging its way forward, and yet maintaining a speed of 40 knots the whole run in.

  “Such speed!” Kranke exclaimed. “Those ships are faster than anything we have in the fleet. Engage with secondary batteries.”

  The smaller 15cm guns would fire faster and train better at a high speed target, and the Germans were going to need all the gunnery skill this ship and crew would become famous for if it survived this battle. A hit was finally registered on the lead ship, with smoke on the bow marking a small fire.

  “They are firing torpedoes sir!” Heintz was calling from the weather bridge where he had been closely observing the fight. The Russian destroyers were equipped with a 21-inch torpedo, a design started in 1936 after the failure of an earlier model. This version was based on the Italian 533mm torpedo, bought from Fiume in 1932, and it became one of the main Russian torpedoes of World War II. It could range between 4000 meters at 44 knots out to 10,000 meters at 30 knots, but this first salvo had been fired with the jitters of a new ship in combat for the first time, and it was soon clear that the entire spread was going to be in Nürnberg’s wake and miss both German ships badly.

  The destroyers were turning to adjust their course and get a better firing angle when Admiral Scheer’s 11-inch guns found Kalima. Two of the three rounds from Anton turret struck home, one forward where it smashed the second 130mm gun turret, and the second well aft where it exploded right between two torpedo mounts, destroying the torpedo firing director there and sending hot splinters and shrapnel in every direction. The aft mount had just been loaded and one of the torpedoes was struck right on the nose, causing the weapon to detonate, which set off the entire rack. The resulting explosion was catastrophic on the small ship. Kalima was finished.

  Kranke looked at his Executive Officer, smiling. “Now they know who they are dealing with. We are not just another heavy cruiser! Look at that ship burn, Heintz!”

  Kranke gave orders to shift main guns to the Russian cruiser farther west and leave the remaining destroyer to his secondary battery. Seeing the demise of their comrades, Kalinin was now opening fire with all nine 7.1-inch guns, and a running gun battle ensued, with both sides on a rough parallel course.

  Destroyer Saku danced forward, making smoke to foil the gunners and put five torpedoes in the water. All but one would miss badly, and Kranke had to maneuver sharply to avoid the last, which was just astern, thrashing through his broiling wake. But it was Admiral Scheer’s bigger guns that would make the difference. The German gunnery crews were seasoned and their optical sighting second to none. They found the range, put a good hit on Kalinin amidships that blew away her seaplane mount, and another just off the bow that sent the cruiser rocking wildly through the sea spray and dented the hull. Kalinin failed to score a hit, and now Nürnberg began to find the range, scoring twice with smaller 15cm guns.

  When the Russian cruiser was straddled yet again by another salvo from Admiral Scheer, it appeared their Captain had had enough. Kranke saw the Russian destroyer swerve west, dancing through geysers of 15cm rounds with expert skill, but it was running. Moments later the cruiser turned as well, breaking off the fight. The first engagement of the war at sea for Soviet Russia had ended in defeat.

  Heintz came in, congratulating the Kapitän, though he had a strange look in his eye. The shooting war had started and he seemed to have a sense of foreboding about it.

  “Well,” he said, “the madness has begun. What were those destroyers thinking? Any close
r and we could have put rounds right through them.”

  Kranke laughed. “We are all mad men here, Heintz. No sane man would have come to this forsaken place just to kill or be killed here. I’m mad, you’re mad, and the Russians are certainly mad as well. We call it war, but for now our purpose has been accomplished. Now we go home, thumbing our nose at them the whole long way.”

  Part VII

  The Hunter

  “If there is a sacred moment in the ethical pursuit of game, it is the moment you release the arrow or touch off the fatal shot.”

  ― Jim Posewitz

  Chapter 19

  July 10, 1940

  They saw it at a little after 19:00, high in the sky, gleaming with the light of the sun. At first the watchman thought it was a plane, but radar returns showed it to be moving far too slow for that. Kranke had a good laugh with Heintz and his senior gunnery officer, Helmut Schörner.

  “Can you believe it?” he said as he took another sip of Merlot. “They have nothing that can bother us on the sea, so now they send that useless zeppelin!”

  “Perhaps they have nothing else that can fly, Herr Kapitän,” said Schörner. He was a short man, very proper, meticulous in his work and a stickler for cleanliness. Even as the Kapitän spoke he was slowly cleaning his butter knife with the linen napkin at the officer’s dinner table.

  Tonight they were celebrating the successful conclusion of Operation Wunderland. The Kapitän had ordered a nice roast beef with potatoes, peas and carrots. The Merlot was particularly good, vintage 1932, a bottle he had kept in his sea chest for some years waiting for a good night to celebrate.