by Gee, Colin
The displacement of the 7th Guards changed that once more, and the support role switched to them. The 122mm shells started to fall on the Indian second and third line positions, the intact battalions of Cossacks eagerly calling in fire, and accurately directing it, causing casualties amongst the enemy to their front.
Inside the ‘Gypsy Queen III’, the display on King’s radar set informed him of a problem.
“Cap’n, two separate contacts bearing 110, height 15, distance to us roughly fifteen thousand yards, and closing.”
The Arty/R mission went on the back burner as the Mk VI-F Beaufighter slipped into its more accustomed role as a hunter-killer in the night skies.
The Soviets, in an attempt to gain some sort of inroads into the Allied mastery of the night sky, had devised a simple solution.
During the German War, the Luftwaffe had inadvertently provided the Red Air Force with a lot of quality equipment, left behind by retreating forces or overrun when the red tide swamped the front.
The two blips that were the focus of King’s attention were very dangerous beasts. No longer in their Luftwaffe markings, the two Heinkel 219 A-7’s boasted the simple colour scheme of the Soviet Air force, and their sole purpose in life was to kill enemy night-fighters.
The Soviet aircrew had received a crash course on their new aircraft and were keen to test their skills against the despised Allied night fighter force.
Radars described the battlefield, painting the displays with light, each pinpoint signifying a target, the remainder of the screen dark and insignificant.
The three aircraft closed rapidly.
The lead Soviet pilot caught a movement against the last vestiges of the dying day, and flicked his aircraft into the right angle, sending a stream of 20mm cannon shells at whatever it was that had attracted his attention.
The majority missed, but his excellent reactions bore fruit as three 20mm shells hit the Beaufighter’s starboard wing and engine hard, the final shell striking the propeller, causing one of the blades to immediately detach and spin away.
Clark suddenly had major problems to deal with. He shut the damaged engine down, the distorted propeller causing numerous handling issues until it was feathered.
The three aircraft swept past each other, with only the lead Heinkel engaging.
The Beaufighter was now down on speed, its single Bristol Hercules engine straining to the limit to provide as much assistance as possible for the coming fight.
King called in the enemy positions and Clark manoeuvred to get in a shot. Every time he tried, the faster Heinkel would move away, or the second aircraft would get in a position that threatened the Beaufighter.
The Soviet pilots had learned their lessons well, and the previously unblooded second Heinkel got in a long burst of cannon fire, ripping into the ‘Gypsy Queen III’ from nose to tail.
Shells ruined the radar equipment and much of the Beaufighter's necessary instrumentation. Other shells ripped open sections of the port wing, damaging the fuel tanks and sending the main aileron flying off like a piece of chaff.
The tail area, with its converted dihedral planes, received a lot of damage, but the control surfaces remained functional, a testament to the ruggedness of the design.
King was hit by two shells, explosive 20mm cannon shells, which transformed him into so much butcher’s meat in the blink of an eye.
Clark was hit by only one, and it was one of three shells that did not explode on impact with the USAAF night fighter. Dud or not, the impact of it turned the pilot’s left knee into mincemeat, the unexploded shell held in place by a few intact vestiges of gristle and bone.
The American pilot felt little pain. He had only survival on his mind now, and he struggled with the Beaufighter, expertly milking all the speed he could from the damaged bird.
Some sideslipping provided Clark with the comfort that he would not be an easy target, and he broadcast in clear, calling for help from his fellow nighthawks.
A Heinkel slid down the port side, easily outpacing the stricken Beaufighter.
Trained to be aggressive at all times, he considered attempting a shot, but the speed advantage of the ex-Luftwaffe aircraft was too great.
He could not see behind him, and his attempts to raise the observer had not borne fruit.
It would not have mattered.
A thousand pairs of eyes watching his tail would not have done the job.
One pair of eyes looking down might have.
In the German War, the Luftwaffe devised a weapons system that exploited the major weak spot of Allied heavy night bombers, namely the belly.
With the exception of the Flying Fortress and Liberators of the USAAF, Allied heavy bombers lacked an underside defensive position, or the ability to look below the aircraft with any certainty.
The two Soviet pilots were confident that they had their quarry, and so the leader ordered the concealed attack, treating the fight almost as a training exercise.
The flight leader watched as his second moved in underneath the stricken Allied airplane, the first hints of fire springing from the starboard engine.
The Heinkel 219 was fitted with an oblique firing cannon system, mounted behind the pilot, pointing up at an angle through the canopy.
Two 30mm MK 108 cannons were lined up on the belly of the Beaufighter, the Soviet aircraft throttling back and slipping underneath their quarry.
The pilot fired the Schräge Musik, named after the German nickname for ‘Jazz’.
Shell after shell chewed up the metal framework and spent itself explosively in the destruction of the Beaufighter’s integrity.
Clark was killed by multiple shells smashing through everything of note and turning the cockpit into a bloody Swiss cheese.
The Beaufighter came apart, the port wing folded, and the machine fell from the sky.
Underneath, the Heinkel pilot, elated by his kill, suddenly realised his predicament and rapidly jerked his aircraft to starboard, condemning him and his radar operator to death.
Luftwaffe pilots had learned to manoeuvre slowly in such situations, the high wing loading causing stalls if changes of direction were done too quickly.
The Soviet pilot did not have the benefit of a German’s hard-won experience and the stall proved fatal, the Heinkel falling uselessly away, pursued by the fiery remains of its victim.
The radar operator in the leader’s Heinkel shook his set, willing it to come back to life, his swift indoctrination in its finer points having failed to cover the obvious advice of ‘not to slap it hard when celebrating a victory.’
His enthusiasm had knocked a vital connection loose, and the set plainly refused to fire up.
Had it done so, he might have spotted the approaching avenger. As it was, he had just sixteen seconds before death visited itself upon him and his commander.
‘Warsaw’s Revenge’ opened fire, Radowski having hurried to the scene from his duty station, twenty-five miles to the south, responding to the call of the hapless Beaufighter, as well as the rescue orders of his controller.
The Hispano cannon shells smashed home, causing the tail plane of the Heinkel to lose its integrity and separate, the two sections coming to earth below, exactly three kilometres apart.
It was the Polish-American’s eighth kill of the new war; a war he hoped would overcome the disappointments of the previous conflict and actually liberate his mother country.
His hate was very real, and directed at any group that occupied the lands of his fathers.
Sparing a disinterested gaze at the dark ground below, he noted the funeral pyres of the aircrew that had fought in the air space above that night, and then noticed something else besides.
Talking into the intercom, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the second area of interest.
“Arty/R mission due north,” he nodded towards where he thought Eintümen was, even though his radio operator, Sergeant Devaney Callister, could not see his gesture.
The efficient operator s
wung into action, grabbing his paperwork.
“Radio to Captain. Mission type, over.”
Now there was no light to go by, but it was definitely artillery he was looking at.
‘What type?’
Unbeknown to him, his attention was focussed on the self-propelled guns of the 1814th SP Artillery Regiment.
Making a decision, he called it back to the waiting Callister.
“Make it a Charlie mission.”
He got his call right, opting for the ‘Charlie’ strike designed for hardened artillery.
“Radio to Captain. I have the position now.”
“Send it now, Dev.”
The Black Widow moved leisurely to a suitable safe distance, ready to observe an Arty/R Charlie strike on the SU-122’s of the 1814th.
The whole procedure went like clockwork, and the guns of the Indian Division brought destruction down upon the Soviet SP’s, wrecking nearly a quarter of the unit and, most spectacularly, sending much of its separate ammunition reserve into the night sky.
The 4th Indian Division reformed its line a mile and a half closer to Unterankenreute, without the missing 2nd Gurkha’s ‘B’ Company, ready to start the killing and the dying all over again, once the morning sun was fresh upon the field of battle.
The Supply officer of the 1814th SP Artillery reported his unexpected difficulties to his commander. Refusing to accept the unbelievable statement, the Artillery Colonel made his own visit to the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of the Corps logistics.
Anger abated, transformed into concern, and then in turn was replaced by a resurgent anger. His situation was not helped when the second in command of the 7th Guards Horse Artillery Regiment rang through and secured all the replacement ammunition he needed over the phone.
Quite clearly, the harassed supply officer could not produce 122mm shells from his ass, as the stressed man had put it. However, the system had broken down for only the second time in the Colonel’s considerable army service.
At this time, there were no more shells to be had, and his unit was combat ineffective because of it.
Determining to resolve the issue at the highest level, he took his GAZ off to the Corps headquarters, finding himself in a growing queue of concerned unit commanders, all waiting to lay their issues before an incensed Corps commander.
By 0230hrs, the rising wave of complaints had made their way to the Headquarters of the Red Banner Forces, and the night duty officer placed the bundle of reports on the top of the list for the morning.
Marshal Zhukov awoke to a very different day.
There was never a night or a problem that could defeat sunrise or hope.
Bern Williams
Chapter 79 - THE INSIDER
0801hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945. Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.
The staff officers made themselves small, as the torrent of abuse flew in all directions.
Self-preservation dictated that they should not be noticed, lest they become a target for the wrath of a man recently apprised of a huge problem.
Even Malinin, upon whom had fallen the task of briefing the commander of the Red Banner Forces, retired from the private office as swiftly as possible.
The voice behind the closed door grew in pitch and volume, the unfortunate recipient of the tirade of oaths and threats, the Deputy Supply Officer of the 3rd Red Banner Front, afforded little opportunity to explain the position.
The 3rd’s Chief Supply officer was apparently away in the Motherland on a mission of great importance in the spa resort of Yessentuki, an absence that had already condemned him in Zhukov’s eyes, and guaranteed his execution in the near future.
Rokossovsky had already had his phone call, and was passing on the pain, wreaking his own brand of hell on his subordinates, angered as much by the problem as the fact that he had been apprised of it by his Commander, not his own staff.
Senior heads were beginning to roll throughout Soviet occupied Europe, as the unheralded logistical problem burst from its hidden location into the bright lights of close examination.
The sound of the telephone being rammed into its cradle sounded like a gunshot.
“Malinin!”
The normally cordial and professional relationship between the two men was very obviously on hold, the incensed Zhukov in no mood for niceties.
“Right now, I want Ferovan and Atalin here, right now.”
Malinin made his note, unsurprised that the two colonels had been summoned.
“Immediately.”
Understanding that his normal procedure was not suitable for the moment, the CoS opened the door and gave a clipped order to one of his Majors.
Beckoning to three other officers, he turned back into the office.
“Done, Comrade Marshal.”
Zhukov heard but chose not to answer, his mind full of the necessaries of overcoming the supply issue.
“I want an immediate message to all senior commanders, requiring a full inventory of supplies, discrepancies against normal levels, consumption rates, replacement rates, and losses due to enemy action.”
One of the officers, a young and very keen colonel was given the nod.
“I want the production and transportation reports from our Theatre Supply command”.
Zhukov looked down at his list and saw the error, quickly scratching through one thing and scribbling something else.
“I have relieved the Theatre Supply Officer and he’s on his way here to account for this fuck up.”
Malinin made his own note.
“His deputy’s in charge for now. Ferovan and Atalin will go to the Headquarters and report back to me just exactly what piggery has been taking place here. Organise the usual travel and authorisation documents for my signature.”
Malinin cued a second officer who left with his urgent task.
“I want the latest GRU and NKVD transportation reports today. I want the latest GRU and NKVD reports on partisan attacks today. I want the latest GRU, NKVD, and Air Force reports on the effectiveness of the enemy air attacks on our logistical chain, here, today.”
Uncharacteristically, Zhukov stabbed a finger at his CoS and friend.
“Get them here and get them analyzed, today.”
The final officer, an overawed Captain, disappeared, trying hard to work out how he was to start the process his Marshal had ordered.
Zhukov fell back into his chair, his fury subsiding now that he had taken positive steps to discover what had happened.
He realised he had taken it out on his man.
Indicating the other chair, he encouraged Malinin to sit down.
“I’m sorry, Mikhail.”
Malinin accepted the unexpected olive branch with good grace, understanding the new pressures on Zhukov.
Zhukov passed him the list he had been working on.
The CoS cast an eye over it, seeing the names of walking dead men upon it, some of whom were very good men indeed.
“Keep that safe until things are clear, Comrade.”
Malinin nodded, happy that his commander was not acting so precipitously as to execute some seriously competent officers for guilt by association.
“Before today is done, I want to know the full position so that I can go to the GKO and offer up the correct heads, as well as correct our plans to cover any problems.”
A knock on the door brought a calmer response from Zhukov, his face almost smiling as the tea was placed on the side table, the young orderly retreating at speed.
Malinin poured.
Holding their hot cups, both senior men pondered the problem in silence.
Taking a cultured sip from his vessel, Zhukov shook his head, expressing silent horror at the thought suddenly filling his mind.
“Mikhail, I want to know if we have been deliberately misled by our NKVD colleagues.”
Malinin nodded his understanding of the delicacy of that order.
“Contact Alpine, Southern, and Bal
kan Fronts. Get me some shells moving in from them immediately.”
That went into the notebook.
“Some figures on internal stocks such as Iran units, or anything that can be obtained from our Eastern forces, or our Socialist brother Tito, although the time to transport them here may be a problem.”
As did that.
“Most importantly, I need to know if we are sitting on a disaster here!”
That possibility had been only too apparent from the moment that the reports of a lack of 122mm ammunition made themselves so spectacularly known within 3rd Red Banner Front, and subsequent enquiries revealed a similar problem in its infancy within 1st Baltic.
“I intend to fly to Moscow on Tuesday, and I want to have answers for the General Secretary,” the Marshal’s face darkening slightly as he pondered the meeting ahead, “And some questions for our Comrade, Marshal Beria.”
0917hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945. North West Atlantic, 20 miles south of Cape Sable Island, Nova Scotia.
To the British and Canadians it was a Canso A. To the rest of the allies, and the Russians too, for that matter, it was a Catalina PBY flying boat. Built under licence, the Canso looked precisely like her American parent and was equally businesslike.
G for George of 162 Squadron RAF was on a rescue mission, as were a number of her sisters.
The weather was unfavourable, low cloud and squally showers, all driven along by high winds that were whipping the sea into white-tipped savagery.
None the less, G for George’s twin Wasp engines drove her forward, fighting the resistance, keeping her at a steady 140 mph, eight hundred feet above the roiling water below.
As yet, there was no sign of the missing blimp, or her crew.
Radar had steered them onto a large contact, too large to be wreckage from the blimp.