The Bomber stream tore the Gardelegen Woods to pieces, destroying acres of trees and occasionally being rewarded with a secondary explosion. Seventeen more bombers were lost but they reported success and the obliteration of the target.
Unfortunately for them and, more importantly, the British and Canadian units in the line at Hannover, the units of 6th Guards Tank Army that had occupied hidden positions in the target area had moved as soon as night descended on the countryside. Apart from a handful of supply trucks and lame duck vehicles, nothing of consequence had been destroyed.
At Ceska Kubice, the results were far better, with the Soviet 4th Guards Tank Corps and 7th Guards Cavalry Corps still laagering, hidden and believing themselves safe. Medium and heavy bombers bathed the area in high explosives, destroying tanks, horses and men in equal measure. It was an awful blood-letting and the survivors were in no mood to take prisoners when the New Zealand crew of a stricken Lancaster parachuted down nearby. Cavalry sabres flashed in the firelight, continuing on when life was long since extinct and the victims no longer resembled men.
On the ground, the results of Soviet attacks on the Allied units were quite devastating, as the Soviet Armies resorted to their normal tactic of concentrating their attacks, focussing on specific points.
Whole battalions were swept away in an avalanche of shells and rockets.
On each of the five chosen focal points breakthrough was achieved swiftly, the leading Soviet units passing through a desolate landscape, tainted by the detritus of what a few minutes beforehand had been human beings and the weapons they served.
Occasionally, a group of shell-shocked troops rallied and fought back, but in the main, only the odd desultory shot greeted the advancing Red Army.
The reports of advances were immediately sent back and within twenty minutes Zhukov knew he had all five breakthroughs ready to exploit, and ordered the operations to go ahead as planned.
Ten minutes after Zhukov’s orders went out, a bleary eyed Eisenhower, woken from his much needed sleep to swiftly throw on his previous day’s shirt and trousers, learned that he no longer had an intact front line and that a disaster was in the making.
Swift telephone conversations with his Army Commanders took place, each man in turn receiving a simple order.
“Reform your line, General, reform your line.”
Each was different, for McCreery had problems contrasting those of Bradley, who had worse problems than Devers et al.
Eisenhower felt like Old Mother Hubbard. He already knew that he had probably just lost the best part of three divisions of good fighting troops and he sought replacements. The cupboard was all but bare.
Some units were coming ashore in France, some in England. A few were already moving forward to their staging areas near the Rhine, ready for operational deployment.
Setting his staff to the problems of logistics, he let them take the strain whilst he sucked greedily on a cigarette and watched the situation map as the disaster unfolded.
Report followed report, problem heaped on problem, as the Red Army moved relentlessly and surprisingly quickly forward.
Ike stubbed out number one having lit number two from its dying butt, spotting the normally dapper but now quite dishevelled Tedder approach, half an eye on his Commander in Chief and half a horrified eye on the situation map.
So shocked was the Air Chief Marshall that he stopped, mouth open wide, watching as blue lines were removed to be replaced by red arrows.
Eisenhower moved to the RAF officer, who seemed rooted to the spot.
“Arthur, they’ve hit us bad and we’re in pieces as you see.”
The Englishman managed a nod accompanied by a grimace as arrows, red in colour, appeared moving north of München.
“I want maximum effort from you, maximum effort. Get everyone in the air that can carry a bomb or a machine-gun. I will get you my list of target priorities within the next hour. Send everyone, Arthur, even those who have been out tonight.”
That drew a dismayed look from Tedder, this time aimed at Ike.
The complaint grew on his lips but withered under Eisenhower’s unusually hard gaze.
“Arthur, I know your boys will be tired, and I know the casualties will reflect that. Send them in later if you must, but send them in, come what may. Are we clear?”
Tedder stiffened.
“Yes, General, we are clear. There will be a turnaround time in any case, so I can rest them, but it is a long time since they have done day ops.”
Eisenhower, both hands extended palms towards his man, spoke softly.
“I know, Arthur. I am asking a lot of them but I think much will be asked of many this day, don’t you?”
The Air Chief Marshall couldn’t buck that at all; especially as he caught the stream of arrows around München grow further out the corner of his eye.
“Very well Sir. I will get them ready for a maximum effort. Target list will be with me by five?”
“I will do my very best, Arthur.”
The man sped away, his mind already full of orders and thoughts of incredulous RAF officers reading them as tired crews touched down at bases all over Europe.
No one was going to be spared on this day.
Four Mosquitoes of 605 Squadron RAF had been tasked with destroying a Soviet engineer bridge laid over the Fuhse River at Groß Ilsede, the main road bridge having been dropped into the water by British demolition engineers some days previously.
The plan was for the lead aircraft to mark with flares to permit the rest of the flight to drop accurately.
Squadron Leader Pinnock and his navigator, Flying Officer Rogers, both knew their stuff inside out and the Mk XXV Mosquito arrived on time and on target, releasing its illumination.
Flight Lieutenant Johar, a Sikh and the squadron’s top bomber, was confused. The landmarks were quite clearly right; the parallel railway, the watery curve, both present and yet it wasn’t there.
Johar streaked over the target area, his bombs firmly on board, closely followed by three and four, equally confused. Navigators did checks and came up with the same result.
“This is the right place, dead on, Skipper, no question” Rogers holding out his handwork for his boss to examine.
“Roger Bill,” Pinnock decided not to bother with the normal banter involving Rogers’ name and radio procedure that whiled away hours of lonely flying for the pair.
Thumbing his mike he spoke to the others.
“This is Baker lead, this is Baker lead. Mission abort, say again mission abort. Take out the rail track rather than dump ordnance.”
The bombs rained down, savaging the track running to the east of the Fuhse, rendering it useless for days to come.
605’s professionalism was such that no more was said over the radio until they touched down at Wyton some hours later.
The base adjutant, debriefing the crews, insisted that there must have been a navigational mistake until all four navigators produced their documentation, setting aside his first query.
This raised a rather interesting second one.
Chapter 56 – THE SINKINGS
“My rule is, if you meet the weakest vessel, attack; if it is a vessel equal to yours, attack; and if it is stronger than yours, also attack.”
Somewhere to the north of B-29 lay another Soviet submarine, probably drifting slowly up into a firing position on the unsuspecting enemy vessels. The ex-German type XXI U-Boat, now crewed by Soviet naval personnel, had been pulled from its patrol off the French coast and sent to operate out of Glenlara.