‘They think I’m from the sub.’
In a moment, he took hold of his dog tags and jerked hard, releasing them to float to the bottom unseen.
The recently arrived Russian chivvied the others into the water, and soon strong hands were grabbing at the exhausted Norwegian, pulling him from the water and up to the beach.
Bjarte had decided to play the wounded man role to the full, in order to buy himself time.
His coarse mumblings in Russian slipped easily from his tongue, learned when the latest Michigan fisherman’s fad had been the ability to insult all others in their own language. They served to reassure the Russians that they had indeed been correct, and that this man was the sole survivor from their supply vessel.
On his arm he bore a tattoo, his wife’s name, and this served to further confirm his ‘friendly’ nature to the Russian marines, for they did not know that Riga was his wife, a pleasant Norwegian-American mother of four, as well as the capital of Latvia.
A blanket appeared and was wrapped round the ivory white body, and he was gently carried up to the road where two bicycles were lashed together to provide a base for a pair of floorboards, which were similarly tied in place, ready for him to lie on.
Sveinsvold suppressed his horror as two corpses were dragged in front of him, the two mechanics shot down by sub-machine guns as they rose from their beds.
The Russians spoke sympathetically to him, kicking one of the dead men to express their sympathy for the loss these Americans had caused.
A group of a dozen Soviet naval marines were now gathered around the centre piece of the bike litter, waiting for the command to set off.
Two more Russians emerged from the tatty building, bringing with them a bloodied James.
Last out was the unit’s commanding officer and owner of the submachine gun that had taken the lives of Sveinsvold’s crew mates.
An NCO reported to the Captain with a salute, indicating the bike litter, which received a nod of approval from the officer.
James, spotting the chief but not understanding the predicament, became agitated, growling sounds coming from his ruined mouth.
“Ah Comrade Submariner, I am sorry for the loss of your comrades.”
Surprisingly, his Russian was more than up to the job of understanding and he decided to risk conversation.
“Thank you, Comrade Kapitan,” grateful to the NCO for speaking the man’s rank earlier, “The Amerikanski fought well and had the luck this time.”
Expecting a torrent of abuse to be aimed at the surviving American, the Captain was confused.
“But they killed all your comrades, and this one’s life is forfeit.”
Sveinsvold made his play.
“It is war, Comrade Kapitan. This time they won, and I will mourn the loss of my comrades while this one,” he pointed an exaggeratedly accusing finger at the now quiet Lieutenant, “Spends the rest of his war as a prisoner.”
The Captain frowned.
“I think not, Comrade Submariner. We have no need for prisoners here. Anyway, we must get back now. Prepare to march.”
Hands took hold of the Chief and gently eased him onto the bike litter, occasionally obstructing his view of James, as the young officer was pushed to his knees between the two dead mechanics.
No sound escaped either man’s lips. Not James’, as the cold muzzle touched his hairline, nor Sveinsvolds’, as part of his Lieutenant’s face detached with the passing of the heavy Tokarev bullet.
As the party swiftly closed down upon the main base, the Soviets pushing the litter assumed that Sveinsvold’s tears were those of pain.
The Captain, actually the second in command of the base security force, sent more men out into the night, tasked with sanitising the scene, and removing any trace of the blimp or its crew before the sun spread its wings once more.
They did an excellent job, with one small exception.
Chapter 77 – THE HOUSE
Great men are not always wise.
Crisp dropped heavily into the worn but comfortable armchair and surveyed the town square, acknowledging the arrival of a freshly brewed coffee with the politest of grunts.
Before his eyes was a hive of activity, vehicles and men coming and going, supplies and reinforcements arriving for distribution and allocation, all part of the process of getting the ‘Screaming Eagles’ back on their feet.
The 101st had been withdrawn from the fighting in Southern Bavaria, and had been moved back into the Netherlands, although Sittard was an unfamiliar billet for them.
One in five of the Eagles were still in Germany in one way or another. The casualties amongst the parachute and glider infantrymen had been higher than the other service arms, as they had borne the brunt of the Soviet attacks.
The newly displaced 4th Indian Division slipped into line in their stead, fresh from a forced march from Northern Italy. The 101st gathered themselves up and made the journey back into the reserve, where they could reconstitute and prepare themselves for whatever they were next told to do.
With a professional but exhausted eye, Crisp noted the men jumping down from the back of two 6x6’s, each and every man sporting the patch of the 82nd US Airborne on his arm, their faces wearing the looks of men who had been exposed to hell.
It was these men that Crisp had come to find, as they were to be assimilated into his battalion, trained men to keep his jump qualifications up, but he worried if they were too much like damaged goods inside.
With a burst of energy that he somehow found within the empty recesses of his body, he sprang out of the chair, driving himself out of the bar, down the steps into the square and across to the slowly assembling replacements.
Baldwin and Hawkes noticed the Acting Lieutenant Colonel on his way, and harangued the new arrivals into some semblance of order.
The members of ‘Hastings’ were present in the spectator area, although neither seated together nor acknowledging each other.
Lord Southam’s presence had been noted by more than one of those representatives on the floor below, his unexpected and unusual appearance being put down to the important statement the Prime Minister was just finishing.
The Speaker indicated that the leader of the Opposition could rise, and Churchill did so, to sounds of encouragement from both sides of the house.
Normally, Winston would provide the highlight of the day’s business, and most in the gallery and, indeed, on the floor of the house, listened appreciatively to his summation of Attlee’s delivery, and his dissection of its contents.
Only six people there understood that something momentous was about to happen, and the Speaker only knew part of it to ensure he did what he had to do.
The Member of Parliament for Woodford took his seat again, permitting Attlee to either address or rebuff the concerns raised.
The Prime Minister countered Churchill’s points and reseated himself, prepared to be attacked a second time.
Churchill, being one of the six, decided not to rise again.
Murmurs of discontent grew on the opposition side of the House, the former prime minister clearly, and most unusually, passing off an opportunity to roast the present encumbent
Attlee made an error in interpreting Churchill’s silence, believing that he had won the exchange. Despite the confusion, his confidence received a boost, misplaced as it was, and perhaps contributing to what was to come.
The Speaker gave the floor to Clement Davies, the new incumbent Liberal Party leader, elected in after their recent drubbing at the polls.