Faces split with smiles, knowing full well that Yarishlov saw his tanks as the priority at all times.
“Right, Comrades. New order of march. Get your units sorted and get them moving onto the rolling stock immediately. If we can go sooner, then we’ll do so. This whole thing stinks of panic, and I want to make sure we survive whatever’s ahead. Good luck to you all, Comrades.”
“Then get it fucking fixed, for the fuck’s sake! It’ll fly tonight or I’ll shoot you myself.”
Starshina Jurgen Helmutevich Förster was an ex-Luftwaffe volunteer serving with the Red Air Force.
Product of a German father, a Spartacist who fell in the strife of the early twenties, and a Russian mother, he was a life-long communist and had made himself available once he had been released from Swiss captivity.
His ME-110 had crashed in Switzerland in early 1941 and he had been interned, spending the bulk of the war kicking his heels whilst both his nations knocked hell out of each other on the Eastern Front.
At first, such volunteers were treated with scepticism, but the awful casualties inflicted on the Red Air Force gave ‘the powers that be’ an imperative they had not previously had, and so experienced flyers with ‘acceptable’ political credentials were integrated into the Soviet air regiments, mostly placed together under robust supervision, just in case. Most often, Luftwaffe volunteers were matched with captured aircraft, which was how Förster came to be assigned to fly a German night-fighter that night. He had been selected to convert to and master the He-219A7 ‘Uhu’ night fighter, a late-war aircraft that had great potential but had been produced in too small a number to make a difference.
The other 219 and four of the unit’s Bf-110g night-fighters were already on their way to the picquet line, part of the Red Air Force’s attempts to make a decent challenge to the Allied bombers who owned the night skies.
Only, much to Förster’s upset, his aircraft was going nowhere, as its starboard engine simply refused to turn over.
His first operational flight had brought three Allied aircraft under his guns, but he returned without a kill and counting himself lucky to have escaped the enemy night-fighters that swarmed over him in an instant.
He had promised himself that this time would be different.
But for now, there was no ‘next time’, and the crew decided to stretch their legs.
The aircrew climbed out of the Heinkel, eased their backs, then sat on the bench that the mechanics used when waiting to receive the aircraft after a mission. Förster sat in angry silence, smoking his pipe and stroking the tethered dog, a Dalmatian that was his pride and joy. Hans Braun, his radar operator, was sufficiently aware of his pilot’s mood as to not indulge in the normal pre-mission small talk.
The senior mechanic was soon back with a face that betrayed the stupidity of it all.
“Comrade Starshina, we have located the issue. A disconnected wire on the starter circuit. I am sorry.”
Whilst they were the same rank, the ground crew NCO knew he was decidedly in the shit for this omission, and much would depend on how the pilot handled matters from now on.
Förster was calmer now.
“That’s not acceptable, Iosef, and you know it. I hope you chew the useless bastard out who fucked up.”
Horolov nodded, although he would need no encouragement.
“You write this up as you see fit… I’ll just report the event, not the cause. But, I want the connections checked… all connections… and I want your assurance on that before I take-off. Understood, Comrade?”
Förster was actually being more than fair, and Horolov accepted immediately, turning and shouting at his ground crew, determined to harangue them into a good job, and beyond that point, until he discovered which bastard had let him down.
At 2253 hrs, nearly an hour behind schedule, Förster’s Uhu disappeared into the black sky, seen off by a relieved and angry Starshina Horolov, who then turned on the hapless Corporal who had been responsible for the simple error.
By the time he was finished, the newly created Private felt himself lucky to be alive, all despite having, unwittingly, done his Motherland a huge service.
Chapter 138 – THE REVELATION
I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery.
[Author’s note. Of necessity, this chapter deals with one specific set of events, and is out of synchronisation with those chapters that have gone before. My apologies.]
After escaping the loss of Hamburg, Krystal Uhlmann-Schalburg, sister to Uhlmann of the Legion, had continued her work with British Intelligence.
After some combined work on a project with other secretive agencies, the sister of one of the Legion’s best German officers was spotted and headhunted by SOE.
In December 1945, Krystal became a fully-fledged WAAF sergeant, a uniformed cover for her membership of the Special Operations Executive.
She moved quickly through the various courses and disciplines, on her way to becoming a field agent.
The building had started life as a den of iniquity, where the famous could meet the opposite sex and have a sense of security, away from the prying eyes of press and public.
The venture had not lasted long, and ownership passed to Billy Butlin, who intended it to be his first hotel.
However, the German War, in the shape of SOE, transformed it once again, this time into Station XV, the section dealing with such diverse matters as camouflage, codes, clothing, booby-traps, and bombs.
Krystal Uhlmann-Schalburg, now known as Christine Mann, arrived with three other female agents, mainly to be fitted out with suitable attire for their upcoming missions, as well as to become acquainted with some of the devices and secret equipment produced at ‘The Barn’.
Normally, a group of four girls, pretty ones too, would have meant that they had the undivided attention of the Station chief, James Elder Wills.
But not today.
Their visit coincided with SOE’s latest attempts to calm the ruffled feathers of MI6, which organisation often viewed the other with a distrust bordering on hatred.
A visit had been organised, so that a senior member of MI6 could do the rounds of various SOE establishments and develop a greater understanding of how the organisation worked and, more importantly to SOE’s leader, Sir Colin Gubbins, appreciate that it was not a threat and could be an important ally organisation in the fight against communism.
His opposite number in MI6, Sir Stewart Menzies, was also army, and the two found a cordial solution as to which one of Menzies’ men would receive the red carpet treatment.
The man selected was actually a former member of SOE, serving as a propaganda expert at the Beaulieu station, which made him eminently acceptable to Gubbins. His commitment to MI6 and diligence made him acceptable to Menzies.
J. Elder Wills greeted the important visitor personally, renewing a passing acquaintance from the other’s short period in SOE.
“Good morning, Harold, So nice to see you again.”
They shook hands and moved quickly inside out of the rain and wind.
“Good morning, James. Nice to see you again too. Please, do call me Kim.”
After a warming cup of tea and the exchange of a few memories, Wills took his guest on the grand tour.
Their mentor, known only as Jasper, herded the girls out of the way, as word of the approach of the Station Chief reached his ears.