Stelmakh was picked up and thrown through the air, crashing back to ground, before rolling up against a concrete plinth, part of the unloading ramp.
His commander, a Major newly arrived from a quiet post on the Iranian border, disappeared in a red soup, as a large piece of tree trunk flew at high speed through the space he occupied.
Despite the splinters of wood sticking in his left arm, Stelmakh raised himself up, calling to Stepanov, who was scrabbling on all fours, firstly in one direction, and then in another, as explosion after explosion disoriented him.
A bomb exploded in Stelmakh’s direct line of sight, presenting him with the awfulness of a dozen men being blown apart and scattered like chaff in the wind.
“Stepanov!”
Finally the confused man heard the voice and raised himself up.
“Stepanov! Here man, here!”
Another bomb exploded, scattering earth and other less savoury detritus over Stepanov, forcing him to drop to the ground again.
A piece of something hard clipped Stelmakh’s forehead, breaking the skin. The small wound bled ferociously, immediately flooding his left eye with blood.
Using his good hand, he wiped as much away as he could.
“Stepanov! Come on… move!”
Pushing himself up, the driver sprinted the last few yards, dropping next to the concrete plinth, facing his officer.
Both men were panting hard, effort and shock causing them to seek oxygen in abundance.
A huge explosion sent a shockwave through both men, and their heads turned automatically.
There was only time for one loud, intense, petrified scream, before the smashed hulk of an IS-II landed squarely on top of them.
The Dutch Mitchell Squadron was one of only two intercepted by Soviet fighters that day. Its intended escort of Spitfires XVIe’s from 322 [Dutch] Squadron failed to be on station due to a navigational error, leaving the La-7s of the 147th Guards Fighter Regiment, recently released from duty with 106th Air Division at Leningrad, to knock a pair from the sky with their first pass.
Frantic calls for help brought 322 Squadron to the right place, but the low-altitude configured Spitfires were not quick enough to stop another three Mitchells spiralling to earth.
The La-7s flew back to base in good order, having achieved a rare air victory.
On the ground, the newly arrived armour had been badly knocked around, both IS-III command tanks and five of the battle tanks destroyed. Four of the IS-IIs and one of the ZSUs had also been lost. The greater problem was finding troops to marry with the surviving vehicles, some of which would need major repair before being capable of combat, as casualties amongst the waiting crews had been extreme.
The very nature of the attack ensured that there were very few wounded, and those that were injured tended to be severely so.
Given the likelihood of a further attack, the site was quickly scoured for survivors.
The plinth had saved them, that and the fact that the tank had come down top first.
Even though the concrete had split under the blow of forty-five tons of metal, it had still held the crushing weight up above the ground, sufficiently to form a safe pocket in which Stelmakh and Stepanov had survived.
The unconscious men were pulled out from under the tank and whisked away to the nearby field hospital, which had prepared to receive many casualties, but was presented with only five men on which to work.
At the same time as the Lavochkin fighters were savaging the Dutch Mitchells, another air combat took place, this time over the icy waters of the Baltic.
Three Saab-21s of the Swedish Air Force were directed onto a radar contact that had announced itself on screen, seemingly coming from the direction of Latvia.
Had the Swedes been privy to the goings-on in the Soviet fighter bases in and around Riga, then they would have known that Russian fighter regiments had responded to the intruder, engaged it, but failed to shoot it down.
The Mosquito Mk XXXIV photo-reconnaissance aircraft was both unusually low and unusually slow and, as it was nowhere near its normal ceiling and speed, the brand new Saab’s intercepted it easily.
The Mosquito lowered its undercarriage, a sign of surrender and that it would comply with instructions from the covering fighter aircraft.
The Fighter controller at Visby indicated that the now identified British aircraft should be forced to land at the Bunge Airbase, which was no surprise to the flight-commander, it being the normal choice for intercepted aircraft.
None the less, he followed his instructions, confirming details to the controller as the Mosquito fell in behind him and his wingmen sat on either quarter, ready to act if any sign of resistance showed in the British plane.
Beside the controller, an army Major stubbed out his cigarette and lifted the telephone, seeking an immediate connection.
In seconds, the man heard a familiar voice.
“Överste, the plane is inbound to you now…wait please.”
He asked a silent question of the controller.
“Ten.”
“Ten minutes, Överste. Yes, sir.”
The Major replaced the receiver and stood, tugging his uniform into place.
“Do I need to remind you of your obligations, Löjtnant?”
They had been made very clear already.
“No sir. You were never here.”
“Good day, Löjtnant.”
“Sir.”
It paid to do what Military Intelligence ordered, so he elected to forget the whole occurrence as quickly as he could.
At Bunge airfield, the Överste stared at the silent handset, just for a second, before slotting it back into the holder.
“Ten minutes.”
Then Törget and Lingstrom sat in silence, waiting patiently, conscious of the dangers of the path they were following, but ready to play their part.
‘The Golden Peace’ restaurant had opened two hundred and thirty-four years previously, and was the oldest establishment of its kind in the Swedish capital. Its cuisine and surroundings were legendary, making it far and away one of the most popular places to eat out, and it was always packed.
Some regular customers, such as the Swedish Lieutenant Colonel of Military Intelligence, did not need reservations, the staff understanding that it would be in their best interests to be as accommodating as possible.
It also suited Boris Lingstrom for another purpose, as it was a contact point for passing on information to his Soviet ‘masters’.
As usual, the members of the Swedish Academy were at dinner, doing whatever they did to decide their Nobel prizes, although Lingstrom couldn’t understand why they were discussing things so far in advance of December’s award ceremonies.
None the less, it was all good cover for what he needed to do, and the waiter was a true professional.
Poring over the wine list, Lingstrom sought the man’s advice and, as normal, he allied a suitable wine to the officer’s choice of dinner, using certain key words to indicate that there was nothing to pass over.
The wine came and a modicum was poured, Lingstrom using the opportunity to comment on its wonderful flavour, repeating himself as he waxed lyrical, clandestinely informing his contact that he had vital information to pass on.
Dinner was excellent, as usual, and the wine complimented it perfectly, as expected.
As was Lingstrom’s habit, he handed the waiter a healthy five krona tip, folded, but easy discernible as currency.
It contained information that would cause a storm in Mother Russia.