“Look, son… this has to run as soon as we say run it… the President will give it the go-ahead and when he does… well… we just gotta do the best we can and there’s an end to it. Save all the usual shit for the marines… it’s a bitch of a mission… but it’s our bitch and we’ll do it the best we goddamned can.”
“Of course we’ll do our best, General.”
The angry note in his vote died instantly away.
“How long do we have, Sir?”
Dalziel delivered the bad news.
“We suspect less than a week before the mission has to go ahead.”
“A week?”
“Maybe an extra day of two… two weeks absolute tops… much depends on intelligence received, Colonel.”
“Then there’s no time to lose, Admiral.”
There was little more to be said.
The senior officers left after exchanging salutes.
“Did we do the right thing, Bill?”
Donovan knew precisely what the newly appointed Chief of Military Intelligence for NATO meant.
“We’ll tell them before they fly the mission, Sir Roger. Wiser heads reckon that letting them know everything now might take their minds off training and the mission.”
“But will they do it… will he do it?”
“What, Banner? Sure, he’ll do it. He’ll hate it and curse us for the rest of his days, but he’ll do it, once he’s told, because it needs to be done.”
“Hell of a job, Bill.”
“It sure will be, Sir Roger.”
“I actually meant telling him.”
Donovan grimaced and put his hand on Dalziel’s shoulder.
“I know you did, but one of us is going to have to. Hell, he might even work it out with the brief on Kingsbury that he’s got.”
The Admiral dropped into thoughtful silence.
‘Will he work out what we intend to ask of him? Could he even imagine that we would ask such a thing of him?’
They walked wordlessly back towards their Avro Anson C19 VIP transport, whose crew had started pre-flight checks the moment the two officers moved in their direction.
Dalziel committed himself.
“I’ll do it, Bill. I’ll tell him. That’s the sort of thing that he has to be told face to face by someone who can answer the inevitable questions. I’ll tell him.”
Donovan respected the Englishman’s resolve without envying him the task.
They walked silently towards the waiting aircraft, although they shared the same thoughts.
‘How do you tell a man he’s going to drop a bomb that will probably kill thousands of our own?’
1220 hrs, Saturday, 29th March 1947, Timi Woods Camp, Paphos, Cyprus.
“Sir… there’s something you need to come and look at.”
Crisp, on his way for some chow, fell into step with Galkin and they headed towards the supply section.
“Some uniforms just came in… well… see for yourself, Colonel.”
Galkin ceded the passage to Crisp, who strode into the old hangar that served as their stores.
His first instinct was to grab for his sidearm but he recognised one of the men in the uniform of a Soviet paratrooper and understood Galkin’s problem.
“How many?”
“Eight hundred by docket. We ain’t counted them in yet, Colonel. Something that you haven’t told us?”
Crisp grinned.
“Something they haven’t told any of us I think, Con. Guess we’re going on this one wearing fancy dress, eh?”
Inside, Crisp was fuming, as this sort of foul up made him worry what else might have been missed.
“Well, fuck it anyway. Get ‘em counted and signed for. Keep them safe and sound until I find out what the hell is going on. I’ll find some unsuspecting officer to oversee sizing later.”
For a moment he debated issuing a stern warning to the supply soldiers regarding loose mouths and dismissed it just as quickly.
They were supply soldiers and such a warning was pointless; everyone would know in twenty minutes.
Actually, in less.
Nine minutes later, Crisp was sat at the officer’s dining table when Captain Timmins dropped down opposite him.
“Good afternoon, Comrade Colonel.”
“Afternoon, Captain Cowboy.”
The name had stuck to him, much like the remains of the putrefied cow he had landed in many months previously.
“I hear we’re dressing up as Russians for the mission, Colonel?”
“Soldiers will always gossip, Cowboy.”
“So it is true.”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“You didn’t deny it either, Sir.”
“No. I was too busy thinking about who was going to do a job for me. I need a responsible man to volunteer for a difficult mission. Any ideas?”
“None whatsoever, Colonel Sir… however I’ve an ‘ornery old NCO who needs a run out.”
“Let me guess… Master Sergeant Montgomery Hawkes the Third?”
“Wow! Guess that’s why they made you a Colonel, eh Colonel?”
Everybody knew that Hawkes had a special place in Crisp’s heart, not one that made the NCO off limits, but one that made Crisp vulnerable to army humour and pranks.
Timmins leant back to allow the plate of lamb and vegetables to be slid in front of him.
“Spassiba.”
The orderly grinned.
“Away with you or it’s the Siberian mines for you, corporal.”
The man went way chuckling, at which point Crisp decided he had his man.
“Nope. They made me Colonel cos I can sniff out Captains who like to pick on poor old veterans like the elderly Hawkes, and poke fun at their commanding officer. Report to Major Galkin at the stores hangar after dinner… tell him you’re there to record sizes… he’ll understand.”
Crisp’s grin went from ear to ear.
Timmins took it in good heart and stowed away his lunch with gusto.
“Certainly, Comrade Colonel.”
1200 hrs, Saturday, 29th March 1947, Camerone Division Headquarters, Staszow, Poland.
Knocke examined the hand written document for the third time, taking longer to read it than both previous times put together.
“Who else knows about this, Albrecht?”
“Myself, Celestin, and his man, the author of the report.”
The artillery officer from Alma had been very thorough and very secretive, preparing his report by hand for St.Clair so as not to have an official trail.
“Capitaine Stefan Antal? One of yours?”
“Surprisingly one of yours apparently, mon Général. Karsjarger or something like that.”
“Karstjäger… a Waffen Gebirgsjager division if I recall… anyway…”
Knocke passed the document back to Haefali with exercised care, the Swiss officer’s arm only recently out of plaster and clearly still painful.
“That appears to be a preposterous suggestion.”
Albrecht Haefali went to open his mouth in protest but Knocke continued his assessment.
“But he’s thorough… states what he knows… what he suspects… provides evidence… I inclined to believe it. You?”
“Absolutely, mon General. I spoke at length with Celestin. He agrees. What we don’t know is what to do now.”
Knocke shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“We do nothing.”
“Merde! Mon General, we’ve been handed evidence that proves beyond doubt that the fire we received on the night of March 15th came from our lines… German Army lines to be specific!”
“Yes, we do. We know simply because his unit was exercising at night, in the wrong location I might add, and escaped any attack by the Russian infiltration teams…”