“Well General, these are fine words and will inspire not only your country but all the countries aligned with the cause you join.”
Eisenhower arranged the document neatly and placed it on the exquisite cherry wood table, grabbing the arms of his chair. Both generals stood, as if on a silent cue and shook hands firmly.
Reseating himself, Ike picked up a scalding coffee and grimaced as he noticed a mark on the otherwise pristine surface.
Both men drank in comfortable silence.
“We will have to sort out much by the way of logistics, chain of command, a great deal in fact General.”
“Once I have returned to Madrid to reflect our conversation to the Generalissimo I believe he intends to dispatch me here to assist you and act as Liaison, if that is acceptable to you?”
“General Grandes, that would be most acceptable to me indeed.”
Both men grounded their coffees, drained simultaneously, and shook hands for the third and final time that evening.
“Colonel Hood will see to your needs General. I hope you sleep well. I certainly will.”
“Thank you, General Eisenhower.”
“Thank you, General Grandes.”
Once the Spaniard had gone Eisenhower flopped into his chair, lit another celebratory cigarette, and commenced a number of phone calls to his senior generals.
Chapter 47 – THE NIGHT
Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning, but give me a man who has pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing.
The atmosphere was markedly different in SHAEF, partially because news of the Spanish commitment had been a positive boost indeed, but mainly because this morning they were going to do something substantive to the enemy for the first time.
Despite the euphoria brought on by Grandes’ words, Eisenhower had slept soundly for a few hours, waking refreshed and focussed, content that all was how it should be.
Exchanging a quizzical look with Tedder across the grand room, he received a nod of confirmation.
Reaching for his cigarettes, the Supreme Commander closed his eyes briefly and imagined what was about to occur some five hundred miles east of where he stood, and in a number of other places marked in red on his map.
He smiled.
Flight Lieutenant Lawrence Saul watched as another of the friendly predators did its work. The cover they had received so far was excellent and only one of his squadron’s aircraft had succumbed to the Soviet night-fighters.
Approaching the start of his run-in, the sky was perfect for his job that night.
Anti-aircraft fire reached up but was wholly ineffective, badly calculated, and exploded beneath the Lancaster Mk III’s of 460 Squadron R.A.A.F.
The plan was for them and their sister squadrons to make their visit on the Russians and then land at various airfields in Northern France, ready for round two the following night.
Lancaster AR-S was the design culmination of years of bombing experience and it served no purpose other than to destroy. Despite the protestations of the Squadron Adjutant, Saul and his crew had humorously nicknamed their bird after the Squadron letters and his own name. The Squadron Commander let it ride and calmed the Adjutant’s ruffled feathers. It was good for morale and Bomber crews had it tough.
Tonight, S for Sugar was once more in the skies over Germany, having normally carried bombs to wreak havoc on a German City, but this time for a wholly different purpose.
Gently easing the huge craft according to the calm instructions of his bomb-aimer, Saul watched as the anti-aircraft fire grew more accurate and he gripped the stick more firmly in case something burst nearby.
His mid-upper gunner swore loudly and shouted at his Skipper to look to port.
Saul turned and saw the stricken Lancaster AR-N lazily roll over, nose gone from a flak burst. Every member of the crew that could watch did so until the aircraft containing their friends and colleagues fire-balled on impact with the ground fifteen thousand feet below.
Everyone except the bomb aimer, who remained fixed to his bombsight.
“Steady.”
“Call that in Sparks. Confirm N for November gone.”
“Roger skip.”
“Steady.”
A burst on the port side close in moved the bomber to starboard in a small surge.
“Left, left, steady.”
Another Lancaster was hit, this time more spectacularly, main spar giving way, smashed by the explosion within her fuselage, four distinct pieces of aircraft slowly separating and falling to earth.
A pained voice spoke a single word.
“Aaron.”
As the rear section fell, the tail-gunner’s voice lost its emotion, sounding mechanical and detached.
“That’s C for Charlie going down Skipper.”
Silence, oppressive silence, as oppressive as only silence containing real horror and pain can be.
Saul swallowed hard and keyed his mike.
“Roger Den. I’m sorry mate, really sorry.”
A short delay, enough for a man to steady his voice and get control of his emotions once more.
“Roger Skipper. I’m ok.”
Saul looked at the flight engineer, automatically correcting as the bombardiers instructions came in. They nodded at each other.
“Want a spell there Den? Give you some time? Wally will come back.”
No delay this time.
“Negative. I’m fine Skip. Let’s get it done.”
Wally shrugged and resumed his position.
“Roger that Den.”
Saul wasn’t too sure what else he could usefully say to a man that had just watched his twin brother die.
“Bombs gone!”
The aircraft leapt and Saul cursed himself for not hearing the bomb-aimer’s warning as the weight difference caused the bomber to gain height rapidly.
On the target, three different colour flares had been set by the Pathfinders, Mosquitoes of 163 Squadron.
S for Sugar’s crew was an efficient group and their bomb-aimer was one of the best in the business. So provided the 163 Squadron boys had done their job right then the bombs would be on target.
Both groups were on top form and S for Sugar put her cookies right on the money.
Whilst the Soviet night-fighters had proved ineffective and the Flak little better, those on the ground had reason to be thankful for their advance warning and preparations for such attacks.
Had there been none, then the loss of life would have been extreme. As it was, whilst many soldiers and civilians were killed, key personnel were almost unaffected, although the disruption to Soviet military affairs would be considerable.
Schloss Gundorf disintegrated under the pounding of eleven bomb loads, each of twelve thousand pounds of high explosive.
Admittedly, the headquarters of the Red Banner Forces of Europe had planned to move to its forward location the following evening and so some personnel and accoutrements had already moved out, but it could not be denied that the loss of the Schloss was a setback.
Zhukov sat in a special radio truck with his communications staff, briefing his Front commanders on events in Leipzig, receiving news of similar occurrences at half a dozen places behind Soviet lines and, more importantly, sorting out how the following day’s military affairs were going to be managed.
Finally, before returning to the air raid shelter to grab a few hours sleep, he and an NKVD Colonel discussed the untenable position of the Front’s Air Force Commander, Major-General Boris Komarov.