by Gee, Colin
“I will get the rest of these to our assault force, and to Trannel. What help can we hope for from your agent on the night? Can he or she get involved?”
Gehlen had the answer at his fingertips.
“Yes indeed.”
Seeking out one of the photos, he handed it to Rossiter, who was annoyed to see a marking he had missed on first sight.
Sorting out the appropriate recon photo, Gehlen made a similar marking.
“This house is on the edge of the village as you can see. This area here,” Gehlen tapped the open ground, “Is considered suitable for the Achgelis to land. The lights will be on in this building.”
Rossiter looked at the two photos, one in each hand.
“Blackout? Won’t the police be all over them for showing light?”
Gehlen managed not to smile too triumphantly.
“That building is the temporary Police Station. My agent is the local Police Officer.”
Rossiter considered that for a moment.
‘That’s why he could move about freely. Or She obviously?’
“A man?”
“Yes, just so. Recently retired, but reactivated by his sense of duty to the Fatherland, and his association with Savitch..”
‘And my knowledge of his shady past.’
“OK. ‘Sycamore’ is live, and the clock is running.”
There was no more to be said, and so much more to be done.
0857hrs, Wednesday, 3rd October 1945. Headquarters of US Third Army, Albert Ludwig University, Freiburg, Germany.
“Well that’s the bare bones, George, but we can’t possibly start thinking about it until we have sorted out the mess we find ourselves in right now.”
Eisenhower had travelled to Patton’s headquarters to give him the heads-up on the future assault tasking, as well as delivering encouragement to continue in the defence.
He decided to ignore recent events in Southern Germany, where the Third had counter-attacked to mixed results.
“Well, that’s fine, Ike, but still I think the best way to sort out this cluster-fuck is to pull me outta the line completely now, gimme time to sort my formation out, and then slot me back in when I’m ready to kick ass.”
This was typical Patton.
“We are moving units up from Alexander’s command, round Switzerland and into the line here. When I can spare you, the Third will be withdrawn and made ready, ok George?”
He hadn’t meant it to sound like a question, but it did.
Before Patton could take advantage of the slip, the phone on the General’s desk erupted into urgent clamouring.
“Patton.... Kenneth...yes he is...one moment.”
Handing the receiver to his superior, Patton waited for his moment.
It never came.
“I see.”
Eisenhower’s face was like thunder.
“And that is confirmed?”
His free hand became occupied with the extraction and lighting of a cigarette, a pleasure he normally avoided in Patton’s headquarters.
“And when will they deign to make the official announcement?”
The reply was obviously unsatisfactory.
“We’ll find out very quickly, General Strong.”
Inhaling the smoke deeply, Eisenhower nodded unconsciously.
“I would think that is a possibility, wouldn’t you? Get on that, and get some Intel firmed up very quickly Kenneth.”
Taking a final deep draw, the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe made his parting shot.
“Thank you Kenneth. I’m with General Patton, so I’ll brief him personally, but pass that to all other commands immediately. I will contact Alexander myself. Now get me that information, before we find ourselves with a disaster on our hands.”
Replacing the receiver with the utmost care, Eisenhower took a draw on his new cigarette before apprising the Third Army commander.
“George, it seems our Italian Allies are about to go neutral on us. Restricted movements, no over flights, territorial waters et cetera.”
“Yellow sons of bitches, and always have been, Ike.”
“My guess is the Soviets know, or are even party to this.”
Patton lapsed into uncharacteristic silence.
Eisenhower, unused to the lack of fighting talk, concentrated on his cigarette, whilst Patton completed his mental reasoning.
“You think the Commies are coming through Northern Italy sometime soon?”
Exhaling deeply, a light coughing prevented him from answering immediately, during which time Patton rummaged around and pulled out a map of Italy, a relic from his days in Sicily, pinning it to the wall with overly dramatic hand actions.
“George, they have two large formations just sat there”, Ike circled the areas containing the 1st Alpine and 1st South European Fronts.
“We thought they were for screening should the Yugoslavians start playing up, or as feeder formations to replace their losses in Europe. There’s even another, smaller formation here.” He accurately placed Tolbukhin’s small 1st Balkan Front.
“We have been removing formations from the 15th Army Group, feeding them into the line north of Switzerland.”
Patton knew this. Indeed, he had received one of the formations himself.
“15th is down by nearly 40%, and now definitely minus the Italian manpower.”
“They counted for diddly squat anyhow, Ike.”
Patton had met the Italian soldier in Sicily, and immediately developed contempt for his capabilities in the field.
“The Germans are not yet deployed, but I daresay Alexander has them spoken for in some way. All we have new are the Spanish units moving through North Italy, mainly inexperienced, and training on the march.”
Both men dropped into silence, poring over the old map, desperately trying to unlock its secrets.
“Where exactly is the line in the Alps, Ike?”
A marking was made from memory.
Patton thought out loud.
“Plain as day when you look at it right. Sons of bitches have kept this one close since day one, I’ll bet.”
Running his finger along the marking Eisenhower had just made, Patton put into words each man’s thoughts, or more precisely, fears.
“They have pushed through Southern Germany, never turning south. Our Alpine line is secure, we think, as they display no interest. Here, in Austria, they have pinned our units in place, and we have congratulated ourselves for our successful defence.”
Picking up a pencil, Patton drew a cross on the map, his actions leaving no doubt that he had just sorted the problem of where the Russians would come.
“Here is where they will focus, and here is where they will aim at,” the pencil drawing a thick arrow all the way to the sea.
Eisenhower leant forward, his eyes taking in the simple pencil line, his mind already hearing the base sounds of battle, the screams of the dying, and the screams of the living.
“Can you get Alexander on the horn please, George?”
Patton was on the phone in a second, brusquely ordering a connection through to Field Marshal Alexander’s headquarters.
Eisenhower took the proffered receiver.
“Harry, it’s Ike.”
Clearly, Alexander had heard a buzz.
“Yes, I can confirm that to you now. General Strong has just informed me.”
Eisenhower listened politely, not caring to interrupt the Englishman in full flow, using the moment to get another cigarette going, oblivious to Patton’s displeasure.
“I agree. Try this one on for size, Harry. The Soviet reinforcements that have been spotted in Bavaria aren’t reinforcements for the German Front. They are new units with a different purpose.”
Patton opened another two windows, whilst Alexander said his piece.
Eisenhower patiently let the British Field Marshal finish.
“Well, it makes perfect sense to me. They move the new Army up, shaping like a wave of reinforcements, until th
ey are ready. One swift oblique movement, and they fall on the Alps to the south.”
“Just think about it, Harry. We have weakened your forces in favour of Germany, and now the Italians have done an about turn. They will hit you on a broad front, and find a weakness, but our best guess”, he acknowledged Patton with an inclination of the head, “Is that their main axis of advance will be from Innsbruck, Trento, Brescia, aimed at the Mediterranean at Genoa.”
Eisenhower stubbed his cigarette out furiously, unusually irritated by the Field Marshal’s reply.
“Yes, I do know that, Harry, and they are good troops too. But no matter what, that enemy force in Bavaria can turn and descend on Innsbruck before we have a chance to reinforce.”
Alexander clearly wanted his units back.
“No, that’s not possible, Harry. They’re either in harm’s way, or needed. None will be coming back to you. Use the Spanish and the Germans to thicken up your force.”
The conversation was drawing to a natural close until the line went dead, the silence enforced by a sneak air raid on Alexander’s headquarters, one bomb knocking out the telephone communications centre on which 15th Army Group heavily relied.
Eisenhower returned the receiver to its cradle.
“Air raid in progress. Lost the line.”
Eisenhower took another look at the map, almost reminding himself of the precarious nature of the position.
“Ok George, I gotta get back to manage this thing. I will get your men disengaged when I can so that you can sort them out.”
“General, my boys are spoiling for a fight. Hell, so am I. We are sick and tired of running, so just give us a chance to fight back and kick some Commie ass soon!”
The two exchanged formal salutes and Eisenhower returned to his vehicle for the drive back to the airfield, where his aircraft waited to take him back to Versailles.
If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
William Shakespeare
Chapter 88 - THE RESCUE
1732hrs, Thursday, 4th October 1945, with 616 Squadron RAF, Airborne over Bremen, Northern Germany.
616 Squadron RAF, or rather, what was left of it, was airborne on an interception mission. Soviet bombers had been spotted by a returning flight of ground attack aircraft, and the Meteors had been quickly redirected onto an interception course.
Flight Lieutenant de Villiers, the de facto Squadron commander, led his six jet fighters forward into yet another air battle.
His war so far had been exhausting, mission after mission stacking up, sleep and relaxation becoming rarer beasts by the day.
Like the rest of his flight crews, he was tired, but he understood that every Allied pilot was the same. Every Allied flyer also understood that they had to be in the air, because air power was all that was presently holding the Soviets back.
Baines, as usual, spotted the enemy aircraft, flying in close formation at roughly twenty-five thousand feet, some five thousand feet below the rapidly closing Meteors.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, nine bandits at ten o’clock low, four engine bombers, type Polikarpov Eight’s.”
Six pairs of eyes took in the unusual sight of a group of the Soviet Union’s only four engine bombers.
The PE-8’s had been retired before the end of the German War, but the Russians never threw anything away, and so the venerable old birds were brought out to play the greatest game once again.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, Blue-One calling, line astern formation, rear approach. Starboard turn, then port wheel. Attacking now.”
The Meteor responded as de Villiers applied more power, the twin jet engines pushing him in a fast turn to starboard until he reversed stick, and started to haul the fighter round to port. His turn was timed to bring him perfectly in line behind the rear bomber.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, Blue-two. Escort fighters down low. Our Spits are all over them.”
The Meteor’s cannon pumped out their shells as De Villiers pressed the button, every single 20mm missing its target.
The Polikarpov was travelling at less than half the speed of the Meteor.
“Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, second pass, throttle back, speed 300.”
The line of jets circled again, the sky inky and smudged from the smoke of the sole victim of the first pass, still in formation, but full of men who knew they were on borrowed time.
De Villiers lined up on a different aircraft, and was rewarded with pieces of its wing flying off, as the cannon shells exploded on contact.
Circling for a third run, the South African checked the enemy formation, immediately spotting that nine had become seven, three of which were smoking badly.
The Soviet bombers turned, staying tight, but bleeding off height, desperately calling for assistance, as scared pilots tried to find some way of staying alive for another minute.
De Villiers selected the nearest aircraft, smoking badly and clearly in great difficulty.
Enough of his cannon shells hit the lumbering bomber to ensure its death, port wing and engines flying into pieces.
1749hrs, Thursday, 4th October 1945, With 25th Long-Range Guards Aviation Regiment, Airborne over Luneberg Heath, Northern Germany.
“Crew, bail out!”
Voitsev, the pilot, shouted the order, unsure who was still alive, or who was like his co-pilot, so recently transformed into a lump of warm and bloody meat.
The PE-8 had a crew of eleven, and he was determined to hold the dying bird steady long enough for them all to escape.
He knew his own fate was already sealed.
The Flight Engineer had rushed into the rear of the aircraft, and Mladshy Leytenant Voitsev could hear him shouting at the crew above the rush of air through the increasingly numerous holes.
Another attack silenced all sounds of the man, as more 20mm shells hammered through the fuselage, killing and wounding a number of the escaping crew.
Three managed to get out, their white canopies marking their escape. The rest lay dead or incapacitated inside the PE-8.
All except Borlovski, the dwarf, an airman so small that his Comrades had to give him a lift up to get in the large bomber, a fact they kept to themselves for fear of losing their talismanic gunner.
Borlovski knew the Polikarpov was dying, but he was determined to get one last shot off before jumping to safety.
The wheel of jet fighters came round again.
Borlovski was a fine gunner, one of the best in the 25th, and he had learned from his previous misses.
The 20mm ShVAK cannon rattled as he took on the lead Meteor.
1751hrs, Thursday, 4th October 1945, With 616 Squadron RAF, Airborne over Luneberg Heath, Northern Germany.
Everything started to go wrong in the same second.
The noise was instant and loud.
Gauges went bad, airspeed fell away, and controls went sluggish.
De Villiers knew his aircraft was doomed, his peripheral vision registering the surge of yellow on his starboard side, where 20mm cannon shells had smashed into the turbines in the starboard engine, transforming it into shrapnel. Flying metal that, in turn, smashed through more of the engine and escaped the nacelle, only for much of the sharp metal to find a home in the fuselage beyond.
The South African didn’t even feel the two pieces that buried themselves in his right thigh, the white hot metal cauterizing the wounds as they lay in his flesh.
Escaping fuel enlarged the fire in the ruined engine, and the Meteor fell lazily away to starboard, the controls barely giving De Villiers a response, let alone any vestige of control.
Ditching the canopy, the heat from the fire was immediately apparent, and the wounded pilot did not hesitate to part company with the dying plane.
The silk blossomed, and the South African watched with fascination as the rest of his Squadron avenged him, knocking the surviving PE’s
from the sky in two more passes.
De Villiers examined the ground beneath his feet, realising very quickly that it teemed with life, ants moving all over, until, the lower he got, the ants transformed themselves into uniformed men with guns; and lots of them.
1800hrs, Thursday, 4th October 1945, With 25th Long-Range Guards Aviation Regiment, Airborne over Luneberg Heath, Northern Germany.
The damaged aircraft still managed to fly, almost kept in the air by the will of Voitsev and Borlovski.
The gunner had made his way through the fuselage, reaching the cockpit, where he was able to confirm that he and Voitsev were the last living occupants of Silniy-Two-Two.
Responding to the pilot’s request, Borlovski plugged up the holes, stopping the wind whistling in.
In so doing, he ensured his pilot could start to feel his hands again.
He also killed them both.
The ventilation had constantly purged the fuselage of fumes, the fuel tanks being amongst the casualties of the Meteor attacks.
A small fire had been extinguished, but, beneath the grey exterior, smouldering continued.
The fumes from the aviation spirit built up slowly, until the balance of vapours and oxygen was perfect, and all that was needed was a source of ignition.
As the Polikarpov flew low, it occasionally encountered obstructions.
Voitsev did not see the church steeple until very late, and he hauled urgently on the stick, causing the used fire extinguisher to drop off the map table where Borlovski had placed it. It struck the smouldering area, uncovering it, disturbing it, and sending a small, but concentrated, plume of sparks upwards, where the perfect mix of fuel vapour and oxygen waited hungrily for a source of ignition.