Field copied details over to his own map. He left to organise his force whilst Crisp was back on the field telephone, apprising the various units of the new support available, call signs, and how to best utilise the new assets.
Desandé accepted the two mugs of coffee with a nod and a smile, waiting for his Colonel to finish before handing his over.
“Yowl! For the love of mike, your hands must be asbestos, Louis.”
The Louisiana lawyer grinned.
“Damn, but we needed those RCLs. God must surely be smiling down on us today.”
The two engaged in small talk, driven by Crisp, as he tried to understand how his new man was operating.
Satisfied that the Captain was coping, and would cope, and with coffee consumed, Colonel Marion J Crisp took this leave.
It was then that his God smiled down on him once more.
A jeep in the markings of the 1st Polish Corps bounced round the corner, narrowly missing three deploying RCL jeeps, its roof up and proudly displaying the orange panels that were intended to keep friendly vehicles from friendly attack from the air.
The driver, ‘clearly a man with a death wish’, spun the wheel, missing a telegraph pole by a fraction of an inch, before swinging the back end of the vehicle round in some incredibly extravagant handbrake turn, bringing the lend-lease vehicle to rest, sideways on to, and no further than, two foot from a solid stone wall that could have crushed the vehicle and occupants without any difficulty.
Revving the engine to emphasise his point, the driver, a Polish NCO, spoke excitedly and encouraged his passengers to dismount.
The three men, gingerly handling boxes of equipment, stepped down unsteadily, clearly victims of an epic and exciting journey.
No sooner had the last box cleared the back seat than the jeep was rammed into gear and leapt away, accelerating between two of Field’s jeeps when such a manoeuvre seemed impossible.
The British personnel, they were clearly British to Crisp’s mind, stood in silence, looking at the flying mud as their tormentor disappeared from sight.
The Paratrooper Colonel moved forward to find out what was going on.
The officer looked at him, and looked again in the direction of the disappeared jeep, speaking slowly and with control, his drained white face betraying everything about the journey he and his men had just experienced.
Seemingly unaware of Crisp’s rank, solely his presence, the Lieutenant Commander offered up an opinion, accompanying it with a gesture at the departing lunatic.
“You know… after that… I must confess… I’m surprised any of the buggers make it to adulthood at all. Totally bonkers. Never been so frightened in my… good grief… my apologies, Sir.”
The naval officer came to attention and peeled off a smart naval salute, which Crisp, his face wearing an expression of solid amusement, acknowledged in total silence.
“Bathwick, Lieutenant Commander, His Majesty’s Royal Navy, seconded from HMS Nelson for shore duties, Sir.”
“Lieutenant Commander.”
“Sir, if you can show me where my men and I can best set up, we’ll get ready to help out if the enemy get restless.”
He snapped at the rating who nearly dropped one of the boxes.
“Harrington! Steady, Killick. It survived that nightmare. Don’t bugger it up now.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
“Sorry about that. Sensitive stuff, our equipment, Sir.”
“Stuff?”
“Radio equipment, Sir. We’d be bugger all use to you without it, now wouldn’t we?”
Crisp felt he was being stupid, but he really had no idea what the clearly crazed Englishman was on about.
“Lieutenant Commander Bathwick. I’ve no knowledge of your attachment here, or of what you can do for me.”
The naval officer smiled knowingly.
“Another balls up. Oh well. Colonel, Sir, I can bring down some fire from our vessels at sea to support your defence here. I’ll need to see your maps, tie in with your own radio frequencies, et cetera, et cetera, and,” he looked at his watch, “If all goes tickety-boo, I’ll have everything online for you within twenty minutes or so.”
‘Tickety-boo? Are you goddamn kidding me or what?’
“What sort of support you got for me, Lieutenant Commander?”
“Well, Sir, I’m from the Nelson. She’s a battleship. That’s nine sixteen-inch guns just for starters, and I’ve got a link to our Fleet Air Arm boys as well,” he spared a look for his hapless rating, “Provided that Harrington hasn’t buggered it up with his antics.”
‘Sixteen inch guns. Oh my God.’
Crisp felt like all his Christmases had come at once.
“Lieutenant Commander, I’ve a piece of high ground that’ll suit you just dandy. First Sergeant!”
Hawkes had moved away when the Polish jeep had first approached, and now moved back to his Colonel at the double.
“First Sergeant. Scare up a squad of your boys and help the Lieutenant Commander and his men set up on Point Curahee a-sap.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Hawkes disappeared in search of hapless victims to help in fulfilling the order.
“You’re very welcome, Lieutenant Commander. I’ll come up and see you when you’re all settled in. Meantime, Captain Desandé there,” he pointed at the 2nd Battalion CP, “Will supply you with all unit call-signs and, I daresay, a decent cup of coffee. Ask him to arrange a field telephone for your position. I’ll sort a small security section from my headquarters troops. They’ll be with you directly. Happy with that, Lieutenant Commander?”
“Absolutely, Sir. Thank you.”
“What’s your call sign, so I can let my boys know?”
“Hardy-four, Sir.”
“Right then, let’s shake things up. Uncle Joe’s likely to come calling real soon, and I daresay he won’t be making the same mistakes again.”
Crisp was correct on both counts.
At any time, the unexpected arrival of two senior officers in a battle headquarters is not a cause for celebration.
For Bestov, the commander of the 63rd, it was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back, as he was totally out of his depth.
The senior of the two newcomers posed a direct question.
Bestov’s answer was simply put.
“We’re just about to attack again, Comrade Leytenant General.”
“Cancel the order to attack immediately, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“But, Comrad…”
“Cancel it immediately. All you’re doing is throwing away lives in stupid unsupported frontal attacks. Cancel it and we’ll do it right.”
“But you’re Army. My unit is under direct NKVD control. We’re not Army assigned, Sir.”
“Consider yourself under Army command as of this moment, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“No, I will not, Comrade General. You’ve no authority here and I’ll report this unwarranted interference with internal security matters immediately.”
Bestov picked up the telephone and sought a connection with the head of NKVD forces in Poland.
Despite the fact that both Generals had their own entourage, neither was shy of undertaking the dirty work themselves.
By unspoken agreement, they moved forward, unbuckling their holsters.
Bestov was still waiting for his connection when the muzzle of a Nagant revolver gained his full attention.
“By the orders of Marshal Bagramyan, commander of 1st Baltic Front, and Marshal Vassilevsky, Commander of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe, I, Leytenant General Aleksandr Kudryashev, am appointed to command the forces surrounding the enemy landing, to create order, using any and all land forces available, and suborning all available men and equipment for the purpose of repelling the invader.”