“Lieutenant Garrimore. I want all officers informed immediately. Orders Group at 1200 in lecture room three.”
Garrimore’s objection was silenced swiftly.
“I don’t care if they’re watching Steamboat Willie, just make that room available for twelve-hundred, Lieutenant. Thank you.”
Again he made another connection.
“RSM, can you step into my office now please. Thank you.”
Crisp had come to lean heavily on Ferdinand Sunday, the former Argyle and Sutherland highlander turned Royal Marine.
Only the night before, when he crashed into his pit exhausted by travel and meetings, he’d had a dream… no, a premonition… that he would need all his reliable men in the days to come.
That tingling chill revisited him as he waited for Sunday, and he was sure that it was an omen of bad things ahead.
1200 hrs, Friday, 21st March 1947, lecture room three, Camp Steel, on the Meer van Echternach, Luxembourg.
“Atten-shun!”
Sunday brought the assembly to their feet as Colonel Crisp and his 2IC, Major Constantine Galkin, strode purposefully into the packed room.
“At ease, boys. Light ‘em if you got ‘em.”
He waited whilst the packets rustled and lighters flicked before continuing.
“Boys, we’ve just received orders. The whole unit is on the move…”
The voices started up, some in excitement, some in trepidation, all in enquiry.
Galkin stepped forward.
“As you were, gentlemen!”
The noise went as quickly as it came.
“Thank you, Major… now… we’ll be flying outta Bitburg tomorrow morning. That means I want us ready to move at 0300, and I mean move everything that isn’t nailed down… and half of what is.”
The laughs were modest but unforced.
“Advance party will be led by Major Galkin. Order up is X-Ray, Yankee, and Zebra. My headquarters, except HQ platoon, will accompany Zebra. Between us we’ll hand over the camp to the oncoming unit… we don’t know who they are yet.”
He added as almost an afterthought.
“Whiskey won’t be in this move. No time to get ‘em out so they’re staying and we go light one company. That’s the way it is, boys.”
He stepped back and let Galkin take over and struck up a cigarette of his own.
“Ok boys, listen in. We leave nothing in stores or the armoury. Both loads‘ll accompany X-Ray to the field. Until we get a loading programme, that’ll mean we’ll have people on the ground with the kit until we all get away. RSM Sunday’ll be responsible for security on both counts, and he’ll support HQ platoon in keeping things tight.”
The Lieutenant in charge of HQ Platoon smiled at the RSM, who glared back, leaving the young officer in no doubt who was in charge of who.
“All vehicles will be left at Bitburg, signed over to the base security force… that’ll fall to Zebra to carry out.”
Bluebear nodded his understanding.
“All company officers are responsible for ensuring we leave no trace regarding our nature or purpose. I want us outta here with no one the wiser as to us being an elite bunch… leave it like we were lesser mortals from the infantry.”
“So we gotta crap in the sinks and hide the cutlery, Major?”
The laughter boomed out.
“Whatever floats your boat, Lieutenant Hässler!”
Crisp savoured the moment, enjoying the camaraderie of the elite soldiers.
“Any questions?”
The single question sprang from a dozen throats.
“Where we going, Sir?”
Crisp moved forward.
“Leipzig.”
There was a gasp, partly of relief and partly of disappointment, and, as far as Crisp could make out, the latter held sway.
“And before you say any more, I know as much as you now do. But I tell you this, boys… we’re moving closer to Indian country and I’ve a feeling we’re going to be handed a beauty.”
He had been right and the wave of excitement washed up over him as men smiled and slapped a comrade’s shoulder.
“We’ve been training hard… winter… snow…RCLs… close combat… parachute… demolition… the whole kit and caboodle… so I don’t doubt that Uncle Sam’ll likely send us to the desert soon!”
He waited whilst they laughed at the standard army joke, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette with great care as he pulled his final words together.
“Ok now, boys. Listen in. Whatever we’re going forward to do will be important. We’re a special force, highly trained up to do our masters bidding, so it ain’t guarding supply dumps or bridges. It’ll be in harm’s way, that’s for sure, and I want us fully geared up for whatever is thrown at us. Keep on top of your men. They’re good men, but they are like coiled springs. Keep ‘em exercised and mean, but watch them like hawks. I don’t want anything happening along the way, particularly with the RAF boys at Bitburg.”
He specifically mentioned Bitburg, referring obliquely to an altercation that took place between men in Zebra Company and members of the RAF Regiment stationed at the nearby base.
Whilst he had issued punishments to those concerned, he had also secretly celebrated the fact that eleven of his men had kicked ass against over twice their number.
“Right. I want your briefings ready for me at eighteen hundred hours in this room. Make sure your non-coms are up to speed. No one leaves the camp from this moment without my or Major Galkin’s permission. Let’s get to it, gentlemen.”
“Atten-shun!”
Sunday called them to order.
Salutes were exchanged and the two senior men marched out of the room, leaving the excited officers to start hatching their plans.
1616 hrs, Sunday, 23rd March 1947, Allied Intelligence Special Operations Centre, die Hegerhaus, Horberg Masslau, Germany.
Rossiter had just finished receiving the latest information from Colonel Crisp, and he had to say that the man was everything he had heard him to be.
Not the brash airborne officer type that he had often met, but a quiet, unassuming man with a clear idea of how things were done, and an efficient manner and purpose when doing them.
But there was something else.
The man had the thousand yard stare common to men who had seen things that others would not believe, and experienced the very worst that war can provide, but there was also a something that Sam Rossiter had rarely seen in his service, a something that declared itself when he saw Crisp with his officers, with his NCOs, and with his men.
There was an admiration, a two-way thing going on, with the Colonel absolutely committed to his men, their welfare and well-being, and that being returned by men who clearly had faith in his ability, almost to the point of what seemed to Rossiter as a total blind obedience bordering on worship.
Despite the questions, Rossiter only told Crisp that they were preparing an intelligence folder on a possible target, a place that the paratrooper and his men might be dropped into to perform a number of vital tasks.
It was easy for Rossiter to stall Crisp, given that he had no idea what the mission would be, or indeed, whether there would even be one.
Much depended on the newly arrived team presently working on photo-recon evidence from the costly raid on Akhtubinsk.
Three Liberator aircraft had been lost from the RAF’s 70 Squadron, and two from 1 Squadron RAF, who flew thoroughbred Spitfire XXIs, plus a single accidental loss amongst the Thunderbolts of 261 Squadron RAF.
When Rossiter heard the losses from the raid he had set in motion, he closed his eyes and prayed that it would be worth it.
Time would tell.
‘Oh God… all those British boys lost… please let me be right… in heaven’s name ple…”