The two partisan leaders didn’t bother complaining or remonstrating, and both were asleep within a minute.
Pyragius and Mikenas were awoken from their slumber by urgent hissing from the duty guards, and then other sounds rapidly became discernible.
“Air raid!”
Bottomley was organising the movement of people away from the cave entrance, quite wisely, seeing it as the only place where casualties were likely, although more than one of those present glanced earnestly at the stone roof and wondered… or prayed… or both.
The tremors started as bombs fell upon the woods, seeking out the Soviet tank regiment that had been identified as lurking under its green leaves.
Occasionally the odd piece of stone was dislodged and came tumbling down amongst the sheltering partisans, but nothing to cause them real consternation.
Above them, thirteen Lincoln I bombers of 57 Squadron RAF brought fourteen thousand pounds of bombs each to drop on the tank regiment.
The woods were smashed apart by high explosive, as were men, tanks, and all the supporting vehicles that went with half a Guards tank regiment.
Men were killed a dozen times over as their lifeless bodies were picked up and thrown in diverse directions, as dictated by the accurate arrival of five hundred and thousand pound bombs. Tanks weighing many tons were simply swatted aside by the sheer force of so much power.
252nd Guards Heavy Tank Regiment had never seen action, being a new force formed from men drawn from elite units and fleshed out with new recruits.
Part of the regiment was elsewhere and preserved from the destruction, similarly concealed in woods just over a kilometre away, north of Gudžiūnai.
The heavy IS-IIIs and IS-IVs were mostly wrecked beyond use or recovery, and not a single tank from thirty-three escaped damage or was still operational by the time that 57 Squadron turned for home.
The personnel suffered hideous casualties and no single tank or vehicle crew was intact when roll call was taken.
Of the support services, there was simply nothing left, save a few wide-eyed men and women whose total mental breakdown probably meant that their soldiering days were over.
As far as the eye could see, the trees had been stripped or felled, the remains of some decorated with the remains of men, or of vehicles.
One sight drew a number of eyes.
A Gaz tanker lorry had been picked up by the incredible forces and deposited in the middle of a stand of five trees, its tyres pointed to the skies, the fuel load leaking and feeding a raging fire underneath, one that consumed the very trees that held it proud of Mother Earth, where it sat like a kettle above a fire.
Beneath it, the burning fuel had flowed into the cave.
Those who died due to asphyxiation were spared a far crueller death.
The Shield of St. Michael was no more.
1617 hrs, Wednesday, 26th March 1947, Timi Woods Camp, Paphos, Cyprus.
To avoid the organised mayhem surrounding the presence of so many VIPs, Crisp had taken his leadership group off for a stroll on the beach and a private discussion in the cool shadows of the rocks.
They were well into a lively discussion when something distracted them.
“That sounds throaty.”
The officers screwed up their eyes, trying to make out the origin of the deep throb that had started to worm its way into their senses.
“Definitely over there somewhere.”
Hässler pointed in roughly the direction he figured, and many eyes strayed to check his guess.
Nothing.
Bluebear had his eyes closed from the moment he heard the approaching beast, concentrating in the way of his ancestors, absorbing every detail as he occasionally moved his head in fine adjustment.
Crisp shook his head.
“Nah… it’s more over there, whatever it is.”
Again they followed his lead but there was no reward, save an empty blue sky.
Bluebear opened his eyes and smiled.
“It is there.”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, Colonel…it is there.”
Bluebear pointed at sea level and all eyes followed the motion.
And it was… whatever it was.
Coming in low, the aircraft was just visible in the haze.
It grew… and grew… and grew.
“What the fuck’s that?”
There were no suggestions.
Hassler repeated himself.
“What the fuck is that?”
Crisp understood, although he couldn’t offer an accurate response.
“That, gentlemen, is our ride. Guarantee it. Green paint and red paint, remember?”
The ferrets had discovered a large supply of military green paint, with some smaller cans of red, plus stencils.
“Now we know. Whatever that is, we’ll be getting intimately acquainted with it, and it’ll be painted green, that’s for goddamned sure!”
They watched as the aircraft continued to grow larger and larger and finally as it lined up for its landing on the pond-like waters off Paphos air base.
The Spruce Goose touched down and taxied to the long jetty, upon which stood USMC Brigadier General Sam Rossiter of the OSS, Major General William Donovan, the head of OSS, Major General Sir Colin Gubbins, head of SOE, Rear Admiral Sir Roger Dalziel, BNI, and one other, to whom they all deferred.
Despite being fully briefed, the size of the aircraft still took all of them by surprise, even Sam Rossiter who had actually been inside it before.
Assisted by launches, the massive flying boat was manoeuvred into position and secured.
Still the party stood impassively on the jetty, the entourage waiting for some sort of signal or movement from the man who stood as still as a rock, his eyes taking in every detail of the massive aircraft.
Howard Hughes alighted and took a short but seemingly precarious walk along a small wooden walkway that had been made to precise specifications, specifications that proved to be about two foot short of ideal.
He noticed the welcome party, as if for the first time, and walked up extending his hand to grasp the one held out to him.
“Mr Hughes. Welcome. We meet again, Sir.”
“Indeed we do, Prime Minister.
“An impressive beast I must say.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister… and she’ll be up to the job, whatever it is.”
“I hope so, Howard, I really do hope so. Come… let us get you into some semblance of order before dinner. You go on ahead now. I’ll be along directly.”
They shook hands again and Hughes slipped in beside Rossiter at strode off at pace, keen to get the circulation back into his aching limbs.
Donovan edged closer to Churchill.
“I had no idea you’d met Mr Hughes before, Prime Minister.”
“Just the once, General Donovan. Hearst Castle in San Simeon… 1929 it was… he was only a young man then, but still… he had the air of eccentricity… a hint of the ‘devil may care’ about him even then.”
Donovan laughed.
“That’ll come in very handy where he’s going, Prime Minister.”
“Alas, you are right. Let us hope he has luck in abundance too.”
0900 hrs, Thursday, 27th March 1947, Paphos Airfield, Cyprus.
The silence was oppressive.
Rows of soldiers smartly at ease, arranged by company, their different uniforms now disappeared in favour of an identical bland battledress, no matter what the soldier’s origin or unit.
By far the largest group on parade came from Group Steel, now known as the 1st Special Service Force, a name previously used by a joint US-Canadian commando force, the famous Devil’s Brigade.
The reasoning behind employing the old name was simply that if it became known, then the Soviets would have heard of it before and be less likely to become overly inquisitive.