Horrocks and his party had been invited to a presentation ceremony at the Kremlin and had accepted, but not without some serious thought.
After all, those being honoured were men and women who had fought against the Allied forces.
Two senior members of the delegation requested to be excused, but the rest attended to witness the ceremony in the magnificent vaulted hall, its ornate stone and gold leaf a throwback to an older, less austere age.
The Allied party had a very prominent position at the front of the right aisle, which would enable them to see the General Secretary up close… close but yet so far.
Since the events surrounding the attempted assassination, something the Allies had generally been unaware of until a Soviet aide let the details slip the day before, security had been tightened up, and more armed personnel added to the force inside the hall, something that inadvertently lent more power to the whole occasion.
The entire room rose as the members of the GKO assembled, followed by Stalin, who took the central position in front of the carefully selected audience.
The Kremlin band struck up the national anthem, and the assembly set about singing it with great vigour, save for the members of the Allied party who remained tight lipped but respectfully silent.
As always, the incredible harmonics of the great hall massively added to the patriotic fervour of the anthem.
An immaculately dressed and bemedalled NKVD colonel stepped forward to a small lectern, prepared to read each of those to be presented in turn, complete with a small resume of their career and reasons behind their award.
The recipients would be individually marched up in parade fashion, their steps echoing off the walls, despite the carpet on which they marched to protect the ornate floor.
As ever, the presentation was carefully stage managed, but this time there was a difference, in that the last man to receive an award was unable to properly march, something that had prevented him from being the first to receive his medal, the normal protocol for one of his rank, given the high honour he was to receive.
The flow of brave soldiers ended, each presentation having been marked by the hanging of a medal and kisses from Stalin.
The last man had been granted a seat at the back of the hall and he rose from it on cue and marched forward as best he could.
What was unusual about this presentation was the growing soft but audible gasps from those assembled as they caught sight of the horrendously wounded man.
The gasps rumbled throughout the hall, causing those at the front to turn and witness the apparition of a horrendously burned man painfully trying to bring as much military bearing as possible to his procession.
He came to the mark and assumed a position of attention.
The NKVD colonel’s voice rose over the hubbub.
“Mayor General of Tank Troops Arkady Arkadyevich Yarishlov to receive his second award of Hero of the Soviet Union…”
The rest of the words were lost on Ramsey as he looked closely for some indication that the figure to his left was indeed the man he had met twice before, although he only remembered the once.
Yarishlov’s eyes remained focused straight ahead as he listened to the story of his service and the reasons behind his new award.
The words hardly scratched the surface of what he and his men had achieved in Pomerania all those months previously.
On cue, he walked forward as Stalin took the Hero Award from a red cushion.
The medal was set in place but Stalin, briefed on the likely effect on the burned officer beforehand, did not hug and kiss the apparition in front of him, for which Yarishlov was grateful for more than one reason.
Instead, Stalin offered his hand and whispered words of congratulations in the tank officer’s ear, his own sensibilities unusually outraged by the hideous injuries inflicted on a son of Russia.
The curled lips, lack of facial hair, reduced nose, and absence of anything that could really be called ears, all set on a skull covered with tightly stretched pink and white skin, created an impression of horror and pain in unimaginable quantities.
Stalin stepped back and clapped his hands in genuine admiration.
The applause outshone all previous efforts, ringing around inside the building, the sympathy in their hearts lending strength to their hands.
Yarishlov saluted and turned right to march towards the exit but checked himself… in spite of himself…
One of the visiting Allied delegation stepped forward and turned, came to full attention and offered an immaculate salute.
Yarishlov recognized the British colonel immediately and his joy doubled in an instant.
He returned the salute, ignoring the pain in his arm.
Stalin beckoned an aide over but the man was unable to answer his question so he tackled the new recipient of the Hero Award.
“Mayor General Yarishlov. Do you know this man?”
“I most certainly do, Comrade General Secretary. He and I once shared friendly words, and later fought each other in a terrible battle. He’s a real soldier… and a friend.”
The British officer moved forward, indifferent to the hands that tightened on weapons as the guards sensed a threat to their leader.
Yarishlov was aware of the sudden risks to his friend, and moved forward as quickly as he could, extending his gloved hand to a man he had last seen in pieces and near death on a bloody mound at Barnstorf.
“Colonel Yarishlov. Fate has brought us together again in the most unexpected of places.”
“Major Ramsey. Indeed it has.”
With studied care, the two men gently, and for Ramsey unexpectedly, embraced, momentarily indifferent to the surroundings and the wide-mouthed dignitaries that wondered about the story behind the friendly reunion.
The ceremony closed and the two men were summoned to a meeting with the Premier of the Soviet Union.
Over tea and cigarettes, at Stalin’s direction, Yarishlov and Ramsey related the story of their meeting and the battle in and around Barnstorf.
Ramsey also contributed the story of the receipt of Yarishlov’s note, and the Victoria Cross that resulted.
As a result of the meeting, Ramsey found himself in a privileged position, with special dispensation authorised by Stalin himself that allowed him to move around the Moscow area, albeit with plenty of ‘official’ company, including opportunities to spend time with Yarishlov, both in and out of his official duties.
It was an incredible opportunity for an old soldier who was, unknown to Horrocks, more than that stated on his official attribution.
Ramsey had long since found useful employment as a clandestine member of MI6, reporting to others in London at the behest of his mentor, Sir Stuart Menzies.
0901 hrs, Wednesday, 20th November 1946, twelve nautical miles due south of Sumba Point, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
They had closed up to actions station in record time.
“Sparks, make to Admiralty, in contact with confirmed submarine target. Give our position. Will engage if no satisfactory response. ROE of 18th last will be applied. End.”
The captain swivelled to his second in command.
“Check again, Number One, and be bloody quick about it.”
Whilst the man was away confirming Admiralty communications with the chart room and wireless department, Commander Hamilton Ffoulkes RN ran the present rules of engagement through his brain.
“Sonar, report.”
“Skipper, target is at five hundred. Speed… six knots… zero degrees, changing depth but not deviating. Think he’s coming shallower.”
“Roger, Sonar. All ahead slow.”
The telegraph clanged, sending the order for speed reduction to the engineers below.