It was also moving because of what looked like ants, spilling from hiding places, desperate to find cover away from the storm.
Briefed to look out for the right colour group, it was the radio operator who spotted the green/yellow markers, with the purple to the north-west and red/yellow to the north-east.
Black lined up the aircraft and checked the bombing height was at the correct eighteen thousand feet. Then the bomb-aimer took over.
Experienced pilots knew better than to let their attention wander but not Black, the absence of enemy activity and clarity of vision causing him to miss a vital instrument’s warning.
The bomb-aimer called him from his reverie and Black had control as the bombs dropped from their rails, a full load of 500lb general-purpose cookies and four Small Bomb Containers, each holding two hundred and thirty-six 4lb charges.
The aircraft from 626 Squadron targeted on the area unloaded on top of the intact Soviet 1091st Gun-Artillery Regiment, weapons, vehicles and crew all secreted in a small wood just north of Route 214, to the north-west of Hambühren..
The results were devastating, and the 1091st would take no part in any combat action from that time forward, the few survivors being sent to other units to try and make good some of their losses.
However, Black’s inattentiveness had condemned him and his crew, despite him finally noticing the defective altimeter, now reading fifteen thousand.
He opened the throttles, only to be greeted by sounds of destruction from the starboard inner as something vital came apart under the additional strain.
Correcting the sudden dip of the starboard wing, Black tried to feather the engine, without success. The prop refused to be adjusted, throwing the aerodynamics out, challenging and exceeding the skills of the new pilot.
More height was lost.
The Canadian mid-upper gunner had hardly moved to key his mike when the five hundred pounder he had belatedly spotted, dropped from a sister aircraft that was bombing from the correct height, struck the port wing immediately to the rear of the inner engine.
The bomb did not explode, but carried sufficient energy to remove the engine and bend the wing at the point of impact.
Black ordered his crew to bail out as he struggled with the rapidly falling aircraft.
Three minutes later, Lancaster UM-V added itself to the wasteland below, carrying Pilot Officer Black with it.
The whole crew slowly descended by parachute, but not all survived, as bombs dropped by their colleagues above and vengeful Soviet soldiers below took the lives of all but two of them.
UM-V was one of only seven aircraft lost on the night, the Soviet Air Force being notable only by its complete absence.
Once daylight permitted, Allied photo-recon aircraft took off to record the results of the night raid.
Soviet interceptors rose to meet them but quickly backed down, as swarms of fighters formed a barrier to protect their unarmed charges.
Two small skirmishes ensured, resulting in the loss of two RAF spitfires and no loss to the Soviet Air force, but the RAF and its cohorts owned that bit of airspace and none of the precious photo-recon birds were lost.
On return, the films were hastily processed and the interpretation commenced.
By 1500 hrs it seemed clear enough that a large part of the Soviet assault formations of the 1st Red Banner Central European Front had been ravaged in the raid. Undoubtedly, those that had survived would be very shaken up, and it seemed likely that no large scale offensive operations would be carried out by 1st Red Banner for the foreseeable future.
Chapter 70 – THE FARM
A good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan executed next week.
The dispatch rider had brought a great deal of paperwork from units all around the Army headquarters at Baden-Baden.
Important mail, particularly that destined for senior officers, made its way quickly to the right hands.
The general mail was passed into the system, sorted and either sent out to be delivered by hand, or placed in pigeon holes for the appropriate person to pick up at leisure.
One nondescript letter sat in the slot dedicated to Major Kowalski, a standard military envelope addressed to Major Kowalsky. Such an error was understandable and would draw no comment or suspicion whatsoever, which was precisely why the Russian had instructed Knocke to change the last letter to a ‘Y’ if he was prepared to act to save his wife.
The letter contained a formal response to Kowalski’s fictitious enquiry, Knocke had the presence of mind to continue the spelling within, supplying some nondescript administrative information and inviting the ‘Pole’ to revisit the Legion unit as soon as possible, complete with a signed special pass to assist his passage.
Pausing at the orderlies’ station, he asked for lunch to be delivered to his room at one o’clock, figuring that would give him enough time to prepare his report for his GRU superiors.
A familiar face betrayed no emotion as Kowalski discussed the luncheon menu options with the attentive orderly, hearing but not openly acknowledging the simple request for an additional bread roll, which coded phrase told the orderly that there was important information to be passed.
She was an unremarkable vessel, at least at her launch in 1928, merely solidly built, destined as she was for trade routes in cold climes.
It was the fervent hope of every man aboard her now that she retained her unremarkability, even after weeks of alterations and conversions, creating an ugly swan from an ugly duckling.
At her launch, the mother of the local party chief had named her ‘Dmitry Karbyshev’, after a Lieutenant-General of the same name, a hero of the Great War.
As the darkened hull had slipped her Murmansk moorings and departed, she left the persona of ‘Karbyshev’ behind, the dawn light casting its rays on the Swedish merchant vessel ‘Golden Quest’, or at least a passable effort to look like the soon to be launched Scandinavian ship.
The real ship was intended to ply its trade between Sweden and North America, which latter destination was exactly where the heavily-laden Soviet vessel intended to make its second landfall.
Soviet Naval aviation had scored few triumphs thus far, but this mission was intended to announce their presence in style.
Intending to draw resources away from the attack aircraft, Soviet regiments noisily demonstrated against allied positions on the west coast of Denmark and Northern Germany, sideshows that claimed the lives of twenty airmen and half as many valuable aircraft.
But they worked, and the attack force slipped through unnoticed, skimming at wave top height towards their target.
HMS Queen was already recovering her aircraft, circling as they were, anxious to land after a sortie in support of 7th Armoured Division below the Danish border.
HMS Argus, steaming in line less than a mile to the starboard was burning and landing had ceased until the fires were extinguished.
A Fairey Firefly had made a total dog’s breakfast of its approach and was now a funeral pyre for her crew, along with three naval ratings who had bravely tried to extricate the unfortunates.
Two explosions had already been witnessed by Queen and her escorts, and a third drew their attention as yet another of the unexpended rocket munitions exploded.