Opening the cockpit door, the horror continued.
The pilot resembled beef mince from the waist up, the navigator and radio operator being somewhat more intact, although still unrecognisable.
Grieves, the co-pilot, was making some deep animal noise, as his body struggled against the wounds, his instincts to try and fly the surprisingly responsive aircraft.
The smell of smoke made itself known to Walker, although Grieves was too far withdrawn into his world of pain to bother with the sense of smell.
“Skipper… we’re fucked… “
Grieves interrupted him.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Terry, Skipper.”
“Terry, I can’t see… can’t do anything ‘cept hold it straight and level… get ’em out… no idea where we are but get ’em out. Not sure how…,” he coughed producing a heavy gobbet of blood from an injury unseen.
“I don’t know how long we’ve got… so get ’em out now!”
Walker put his hand on his co-pilot’s shoulder.
“Forget me, Terry. I’m fucked anyway. Just get ’em out safely… then out with yourself.”
The extent of Grieves’ wounds convinced Walker.
“Good luck, Skipper.”
Moving back through the fuselage, Walker separated a Thompson and some ammo from something that bore a faint resemblance to the British liaison officer he had been talking to a few minutes beforehand.
Pausing for one final look at the human abattoir, he launched himself out into the blackness.
Eight minutes later, F for Freddie and its tragic load found a resting place in the soil of Pomerania, perhaps serving a greater purpose in death than it did in life.
“Govno! Brake! Brake!”
Captain Ursha of the 167th Guards Rifles was riding in the locomotive, enjoying the warmth generated by the boiler’s fire, when the world in front of the train went from black to yellow in an instant.
His warning was unnecessary, as the residual fire illuminated the fact that the track had been destroyed by the impact of the aircraft.
The driver had reacted swiftly and the screech of metal was already piercing and uncomfortable. Reversing the wheels’ direction gave slightly more purchase, but Ursha knew they would not stop in time.
The TY2 locomotive almost made it, but ran into the section where the rails parted, smashing sleepers and carving lines in the ground underneath.
The fireman screamed as the engine canted wildly to the left, his body catapulted into one of the protruding brass control wheels, leaving him bleeding and scared.
The lean increased as the engine started to take the downbank leading to the adjacent road.
Some subterranean object proved a momentary obstruction, and the shudder was sufficient to loosen Ursha’s grip and he dangled precariously from the side entranceway, his left arm flailing in an effort to grab something solid.
The TY2 came to a reluctant halt, canted over to more than 45˚. The driver fought his way back to the controls and did what needed to be done, all the time conscious of his bleeding companion.
Dangling from the side of the engine, Ursha looked beneath his feet and realised that he was no more than three feet from the road, so let go and dropped onto the hard surface, the snap of his ankle lost in the shouts and orders as officers and NCOs took command of the situation.
Lying on the cold road, Ursha composed himself and accepted the pain, as he brought his heart rate down and made an appreciation of the situation, taking in the surroundings, illuminated by numerous fires of what was definitely a crashed aircraft.
Along the length of the train, soldiers were deploying in a professional manner, and Ursha felt his chest swell with pride, as his boys responded well to the unexpected disaster.
Second in command of the 3rd Battalion, 167th Guards Rifle Regiment, Panteilmon Ursha had seen many battles in the German War and survived without a scratch.
His war ended as eighty-four tonnes of locomotive lost its battle to stay upright and rolled onto its side, settling flat on the road, despite the modest resistance offered by a human body.
The Major in charge of the 3rd Battalion contacted those units following on, informing them that the railway was blocked, and to detrain at Naugard.
1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division would not make its destination at Köslin where, even as the Major spoke into his radio, Polish paratroopers and glider troops were making a difficult night landing on zones prepared, marked, and illuminated by expectant members of the First Polish Army.
The downside for the attacking forces was that the 1st Guards, not part of any Allied planning, would now all be centred around Naugard.
The red light shone in Crisp’s face as he was buffeted by the air racing past the door.
Checks complete, the stick of paratroopers from the 101st US Airborne Division stood ready to jump, a scene repeated throughout the sky over Pomerania, as the Allied forces prepared to take the fight to the enemy.
Closing his eyes, Lieutenant Colonel Marion Crisp, commander of the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, sought to confirm his relationship with his God.
‘Dear God, keep me safe, keep me alive, so that I may go home. Lord, look after m…’
He launched himself out into the dark instinctively, the slap from the dispatcher sufficient to interrupt his thoughts.
Beneath the stream of transports, soldiers of the Polish Army had turned night into day, using anything and everything that came to hand to bathe the ground in light.
Elsewhere, landing zones had been set up to accept the gliders that would bring the heavier support weapons of the division, as well as the glider infantry elements.
Everything was going according to plan, which in itself was new to Crisp.
His experience of war was similar to the old adage that no plan survives the first engagement.
‘Maybe this will be different.’
He considered that proposition as he floated to the ground.
‘Yeah, fucking right it will be.’
Lieutenant Colonel Marion J Crisp was the first man of his regiment to touch down in the fields surrounding Konnegen, twenty-three miles northwest of Naugard.
Part of the 101st, including Crisp’s Regiment,, were committed to defending the eastern edge of the Stettin Lagoon and the banks of the Dziwna River, prioritising the capture and retention of the bridges at Wollin.
The other part, the larger part, was assigned to the areas around Gollnow, from Schwente and Fürstenflagge in the west, Czarna Łaka and Rurzyca in the south, and Buddendorf to the east, all used as drop zones, the latter less than three kilometres south-west of Naugard.
The German 2nd Fallschirmjager Division, not fully formed but stacked with experienced paratroopers, landed in and around Bärwalde.
The three Allied airborne groupings were assigned to support the initial cordon organised by the 1st Polish Army, a cordon to ensure that the men and vehicles approaching the northern coast would land with a minimum of trouble.
Out of twenty-one DFS-230 gliders, two had been totally wrecked on landing, and a further one had been destroyed in flight.
Only one man of those carried on the three, out of a total of thirty men, including the pilots, was saved.
His glider had skidded across the landing zone and into the cold waters of the Vistula. A group of Polish soldiers had thrown themselves into the fast flowing river, only for two of them to get into difficulties and be carried away into the night.