by Gee, Colin
‘Perhaps they should be!’
‘That fucking sub could kill hundreds, no, thousands!’
‘And you will kill how many of our own eh?’
The part of his mind that was screaming its objections was close to achieving supremacy, the thought of killing his own so abhorrent to the pilot.
Behind him, the fuselage had fallen quiet.
Parkinson appeared silently by his side, more stoney faced than usual.
“Is Bob alright, Nelly?”
Lionel Parkinson spoke in a matter of fact way.
“Had to clock him one, Skipper.”
No more explanation was required.
Placing his hand on the pilot’s shoulder, the navigator spoke softly, and with feeling.
“It’s a shitty deal, Skipper, so let’s get it done, or that bastard will sink more of our ships. I sent the contact message.”
The Nav was gone before Joy could react, but his message of support remained, clear, and unequivocal.
The screaming in his brain subsided and the professional aviator was dominant once more.
‘Thanks, Nelly.’
Some shells clipped the Canso, but nothing vital was hit, the flying boat inexorably bearing down on its prey.
A part of Joy spotted the frantic attempts by the boats, wasted effort to put life-saving yards between them and the bombs to come.
The Canso lifted, its full load dropped in a ‘total release’ attack.
Six Mark IX Depth Charges, with fuses set for twenty-two feet, left the aircraft and dropped inexorably towards B-27.
None struck her directly, but all were in the sea within fifteen yards of her, the right-hand charge actually clipped the nearest lifeboat on its way down to twenty-two feet.
Two charges continued to the bottom, never to explode.
Another faulty fuse activated two hundred feet down.
Three did the job they had been asked to do, propelling the elektroboote out of the water as they exploded either side of her.
The survivors in the lifeboats died instantly, the horrified waist gunners seeing bodies, and parts of bodies, propelled many feet into the air on a rising crest of white water.
B-27 slipped beneath the water, its integrity compromised, the surviving crew stunned and in shock.
In the sub’s control room, the Commander tried to save his battered ship, but failed, the leak reports too numerous to deal with, overwhelming him.
B-27 struck the bottom, breaking into three pieces, two containing only the drowned.
The third compartment, the main control room, remained watertight. It contained men for whom there was no hope of salvation, and whose only expectation was a drawn out death in the dark.
Parkinson took over from the unconscious Hawkins, relaying news of their success to base, the first known sinking of one of the Russian Elektrobootes.
G for George was holed forward, and Joy decided to beach the aircraft, which was done skilfully.
In celebratory mood, the whole base lined the slipway as the tender brought the crew ashore, but the cheers turned to heavy silence when the red eyes and tear marked faces became apparent.
Joy saluted the base commander and reported, evenly and accurately, those gathered around all silent and straining to hear his words.
As the true horror of their mission was revealed, many turned away, appalled and ashamed, all thankful that it had not fallen to them to do the deed.
The base doctor and padre moved forward, their work about to begin.
1645hrs, Wednesday, 12th September 1945, Mälsåker Castle, Strängnäs, Sweden.
The first leg of the journey had been overt, a routine flight from France to London, the passengers dismounting to go to their various meetings in West End hotels.
The C-47 took to the air once its tanks were topped off, one of many transport aircraft that came and went in the course of a normal day.
Thirty-two uniforms had been observed getting onto the aircraft. The resident communist spy, a medium ranking French police officer, lazily counted them onboard, all from the comfort of his office. If his report was ever compared to that of a similar individual based at RAF Northolt, the numbers would have tallied.
None the less, the C-47 was still able to disgorge two more uniformed figures when it next set down, in bright sunshine, at the RAF Coastal Command base at Banff, Scotland.
Waiting there was a Mosquito Mark VI, in the markings of 235 Squadron RAF. However, Z for Zulu was no ordinary bird, her insides altered to take two passengers and the extra fuel load for long VIP journeys.
Within ten minutes of their arrival, the two officers had changed uniforms and were airborne for the next stop of their complicated journey.
Oslo, murky in a stormy afternoon, offered no respite, as the two were swiftly but quietly driven south, to meet up with their final aircraft of the day, a Northrop N-3PB of the Royal Norwegian Air Force.
The small floatplane launched itself eastwards, crossing into Swedish air space by prior agreement, and coming down to gently kiss the water of Lake Mälaren, before taxiing to the simple pier.
The two men were met informally, and took the brief walk up to the imposing baroque structure that was Mälsåker Castle.
Until recently, it had been leased to the Norwegians, and there were still some Norwegians present, hence the additional subterfuge of the marked aircraft and the uniforms both men had worn since Banff.
However, new ownership had made its mark, and the small party was challenged three times on the short walk to Swedish Military Intelligence’s latest acquisition.
Waiting for them was a man who was, it was said, a myth; no more than a figment of overactive imaginations.
When his adversary was the German, Gehlen, Canaris, and the like would have given an arm to know what he looked like.
Colonel Per Törget was indescribably ordinary and inoffensive looking, which made him truly a dangerous adversary.
Törget was introduced to the other officer by the American. Shaking hands with the new arrivals and ushering them to comfortable seats, he waited expectantly to find out what exactly had brought the head of OSS so far so quickly, and, more importantly, so secretly.
A Swedish army orderly distributed drinks, giving Törget time to assess the German officer, unknown until two hours beforehand, when a personal dossier had been passed to him, with the man’s exemplary service record plain for all to see.
‘Exemplary if you were a Nazi that is,’ had been his only private thought, for Törget was all business.
Rossiter opened his briefcase and passed over a simple folder, unblemished externally, save for the word ‘Sycamore’ in bold print.
Trannel, commander of the Luftwaffe’s 40th Transportstaffel, was taken aback.
The contents of the ‘Operation Sycamore’ folder were known to him, and he was horrified that the entire plan was now in the possession of an unknown entity.
Colonel Törget took his time reading the file, asking a clarifying question here and there, until placing the file on the heavy pine table, left open at a schematic that he would revisit shortly.
“So, Sam. You need us to permit this purely on travel distance grounds?”
“No, but we are allowing for any possible enemy presence that could intercept the operation if it was run from Denmark.”
Trannel shifted slightly, betraying his discomfort.
Yes, there were the fuel issues, but distance also greatly concerned him, despite the stated range of his aircraft.
Switching to perfect German, not textbook, but as it would have been spoken in a bar in Hamburg, Törget tackled the Luftwaffe officer, presently dressed as a Major in the Norwegian Air Force.
“You think otherwise, Herr Oberst? Perhaps you think that distance is also an issue?”
Trannel nodded, whilst Rossiter noted that the Swede had done his homework.
“Yes, Sir. We have been trying to work extra fuel aboard the aircraft, but we may have additiona
l weight on the return journey. The situation is complicated by unknowns.”
Looking at Rossiter, he received an indication to proceed.
“The ‘objects’ we are collecting,” he employed the terminology that had been agreed upon, lest any hint of the plan escape, “Are unknown to us. The weight of fuel we will use en route is set to within 3%, depending on headwinds, which is an issue that could cause us additional problems, as my aircraft are highly affected by adverse wind conditions.”
Törget permitted himself a swift look at the page he had left open before refocusing on the German.
“Our best guess is that the ‘objects’ will weigh in at more than the fuel, but only by a small amount. My unit is presently running tests to check fuel consumption under the weight conditions we anticipate.”
He stopped, taking inboard some fluid, offering the two senior men a similar opportunity.
“At this time, the operation is not feasible from Denmark. It is feasible from Sweden, and time is not on our side.”
The intelligence Colonel nodded, his reaction plainly one of understanding, rather than of agreement.
“My country has had a protocol in place with the Allies since 1944, regarding aircraft landings and routes of flight. What you propose is outside of that arrangement. A mission directly into Soviet territory that is likely to end up in a firefight, or worse. A mission based in a neutral country that has absolutely no wish to become involved in this latest abhorrence!”
Trannel looked away, whereas as Sam Rossiter held his ground.
“Why on earth are you coming to us...no...why on earth are you coming to me with this request? Go to the Government, I can do nothing here.”
“This is why I have come directly to you, Per.”
Rossiter opened his case again, removing a file with a picture of someone intimately known to the Commander of Swedish Military Intelligence. He handed it over and settled back to await the explosion.
Törget spent a moment looking at the photograph of a senior Swedish military figure. Opening the folder, he started to read about his compatriot’s betrayal.
Rossiter revelled in the most overt display of emotion he had ever witnessed from his Swedish friend, small agitated body movements betraying his anger, until he placed the folder carefully on the table, lining it up perfectly with little movements, buying an extra moment to compose himself.
“Bastard.”
Rossiter could only agree, and he knew that, it not only hurt that Sweden’s Naval Commander was a communist spy, it trebly hurt the efficient spymaster, as he had no idea that Swedish High Command had been so massively penetrated.
“I will check all of this, of course, but the times you supply will undoubtedly match the records of meetings that my own service has on file.”
Feeling unexpectedly awkward, Rossiter could only mumble agreement.
The Swede made miniscule adjustments to the folder’s positioning once more
“Bastard.”
Törget was already planning a cosy little chat with Admiral Søderling, a chat in which the pleasure would be all his.
“I understand, Sam. You need access to the military station on the south of Gotland. I can do this in the time frame you suggest, but I will want some of my people there to ensure things go smoothly.”
He recited from memory.
“The refuelling station can easily be set up near Karlskrona; in fact there is a secure area that is perfect for our needs.”
The use of the word ‘our’ was wasted on no one. Törget was fully onboard.
“I will provide medical facilities to welcome the ‘objects’.”
Graciously accepted, Sam Rossiter had expected the cunning spymaster to know exactly what the mission was bringing back.
He waited for the Swede’s conditions, for he knew there would be some.
“This mission must be unattributable to Sweden in any way whatsoever. That is not negotiable. This folder will guarantee the compliance of my government.”
He paused to look again on the face of the traitor staring up at him from the folder, the smiling face antagonising him.
“I insist that the personnel used wear German uniforms, and conduct this under the guise of the old Nazi regime. If it is attributable to the new republic, the Allies, or ourselves, there will be hell to pay.”
“Agreed”, the word slipped Rossiter’s lips so fast that the Swede understood that was already in the planning, and had been omitted from the brief in front of him.
A third folder was placed before him, containing details of the small force of men that would carry out the mission, men who had once worn the hated uniform of the Waffen-SS.
Törget swiftly scanned the personnel details and set the folder aside, the uppermost picture being that of the mission leader, an ex-SS officer, Ukrainian by birth. According to his swift appraisal, the man had been given the Silver Star by Eisenhower shortly after the start of the war.
“He seems an interesting fellow.”
Lassiter could only agree.
“I have great plans for him, Per.”
The Swede retrieved a small silver bell, previously hidden behind the table’s floral display.
Before the sound died, the door opened, and fresh coffee appeared, the orderly retreating before another word was spoken.
“Of course, I must know, the ‘objects’. Who are they, Sam?”
“A family.”
Rossiter answered reluctantly, knowing he was about to be pressed, and knowing that he would give in.
“Which family might that be, I wonder?”
The piercing blue eyes bored into the Marine, seeking clues, finding none.
“Some high-ranking Nazi? Some General?”
Rossiter fished in his case one final time, extracting a folder heavy with notations, keeping the nametag away from Törget’s sight.
He removed two pictures, one recently acquired, and one copied from an original in the possession of a former enemy.
“I do not know these people.”
He studied the new photograph closely.
“But I do know the Russian. NKVD Major Savitch. He has his hands dirty from Katyn onwards. Any special jobs, he is one of those who get the call.”
Passing the photos back, the Swede shook his head.
“If that piece of rubbish is involved, you can rest assured he will have orders to kill them if there is any sign of trouble, and also know that he will do it.”
Rossiter restored the photos to the file.
“So, whoever he is, is he worth the risk we are all taking?”
Strangely, for him, the Marine changed his mind, extracting the photo of a man in uniform.
“Ah! Now I understand.”
The Swede returned the grainy photograph immediately.
“Colonel Knocke, a worthy adversary to you and the Russians, now fighting under the banner of the French, if my information is correct.”
It was not often you got to score a point over Törget, so Rossiter savoured the moment.
“Indeed he is, but he outranks us both now, as he’s a Brigadier-General in the Army of France.”
Törget conceded the point graciously.
Sipping his coffee, he slipped easily to the next point, bringing Oberst Trannel back into the discussion.
“So, Herr Trannel, this,” he twisted his head slightly to quote from the schematic of the unusual aircraft drawing, “This Achgelis. What sort of strange bird is he?”
Trannel, now in his comfort zone, leant forward and spoke confidently.
“The Focke-Achgelis is a helicopter, Herr Oberst.”
The meeting continued for some hours, the operational capability of the Fa233 helicopter taking some time to explain, its specific needs at the landing stations laid out by the Luftwaffe officer.
Colonel Törget stood watching the Northrop from the pier, the small aircraft disappearing into the growing darkness for its return journey to Norwegian air space.
They had set a timescale, and a first possible date for the mission, if all went well. His orders were already flowing, carefully worded, restricted to a few trusted individuals.
His mind was full of SS Colonels, pretty little girls, and helicopters, the intended mission being a challenge for him personally, as well as risking much for his nation.
His mind cleared, focussing on the single folder that was still sitting on the table in the drawing room, and then it became once more absorbed, turning to how best employ the gift he had been given.
Admiral Søderling.
‘Bastard’.
0957hrs, Friday, 14th September 1945, Langwedel Area, Germany.
The force holding Langwedel had been exterminated, Guardsmen from the Guards Armoured Division, stood and fought to the last man, desperate to permit their commanders to establish a strong defensive line on the Kiel Canal, some ten miles to the north-west.
The Soviets had stopped, the darkness preventing them from understanding the completeness of their victory.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, a scratch force was hastily assembled and rushed to fill the gap between the two lakes; Brahmsee to the south-west, and Manhagenersee to the north-east, the distance between the two bodies of water a mere twenty-two hundred feet.
Their orders were simple.
Hold at all costs.
The Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel understood his orders perfectly.
Attack and break the British position as quickly as possible, outflanking and turning the left flank of the solid position at Eisendorf. Open the road to the canal, permitting follow up forces to attack before the British had completed their fortification of the imposing obstacle.
He had been given units from the Army reserve, both of which were impressive on paper, but less so in the flesh.
The tanks of the 249th Tank Regiment had already been badly mauled by the 11th Armoured Division, and were now formed into two platoons equipped with both 76mm and 85mm T34’s.
The 60th Guards Mortar’s were reasonably intact, despite having sustained some casualties from accurate counter-battery fire, the bane of all Soviet artillery units since day one of the war.