At that moment, the guns in question were mounted on submarines thousands of miles away in a secret base on the Black Sea.
The very existence of the two Sen-Tokus still remained a secret.
1203 hrs, Wednesday, 2nd October 1946, Dankerode, Germany.
Guderian allowed the binoculars to fall slowly away from his face, which also allowed the smile that creased his weathered features to become apparent to those present.
The exercises had gone superbly well, each force growing in confidence in their own skills, and in those of the men around them.
With the exception of one mistake on road selection by a tank company commander, the week had gone far better than any of the generals or staff could have anticipated.
So much so that Guderian had decided that this would be the last one he would watch, and he promised himself a few days of peace and quiet in Schwangau, his new home.
Something drew his eye and the binoculars flew to his face.
“Mein Gott! Herrlich! Herrlich!”
He looked at the man standing away to the left and exchanged a nodded professional courtesy.
Guderian could not contain himself.
“Tell me. How did that happen?”
He looked at the scene of ‘Red’ team tanks appearing from nowhere, exactly where they shouldn’t be for the ‘Green’ team.
He could imagine the umpires trying to sort out the mayhem of who was dead, and also the indignation of the massacred ‘Green’ soldiers who were no slouches at the art of war themselves.
He continued to watch as the German green force was ‘butchered’ in front of him.
“Incredible, General… I didn’t see a thing before they were all over the grenadiers.”
“Those men learnt the art of camouflage from the very best, Herr Feldmarschal.”
Guderian conceded the point and offered his hand to the Polish general.
“Well done, General… very well done. Please make sure that your commander meets the German force commander and briefs him personally on how his force was dismantled.”
Zygmunt Berling saluted and, grinning from ear to ear, rushed off to radio Wojciech Bewziuk, commander of the 1st Division, in order celebrate the success of their efforts and pass on Guderian’s request. He also, wisely, advised caution in Bewziuk’s dealings with their new German allies, who would undoubtedly be sore about being handed their collective arse by their traditional enemy.
As it happened, the commander of the newly formed panzer-grenadiere division was a professional who understood he had been bested and was keen to learn the lessons so it would not happen again.
Across a range of such sites in Northern Germany, the two armies trained and exercised together, and developed an understanding and comradeship that cut across much of their nation’s history of enmity.
Much… but not all.
1601 hrs, Thursday, 3rd October 1946, the Lighthouse Tavern, Barnatra, County Mayo, Éire.
“God bless all here.”
The two men shook their jackets, sending rainwater in all directions, but there were no complaints or shouts of annoyance.
Everyone in the pub knew who they were.
It didn’t pay to get yourself noticed unnecessarily.
At the far end of the long bar, adjacent to the roaring fire, two other men rose from their table, preparing to welcome the visitors, who moved towards them briskly, as much as to close on the source of warmth as to commence business.
Two other men slipped into the bar, but stayed distant… watching… alert.
Outside, four others endured the rain, maintaining a perimeter within which the two senior IRA leaders could operate.
Brian O’Scanlon and Stephen Wood took the empty chairs as they exchanged handshakes with the two waiting men.
“I’m guessing that you’re O’Farrell?”
“That I am, Mister Wood.”
“So that makes you Lieutenant Ulianov?”
“Indeed so, Comrade Wood.”
Shandruk extended his hand.
The secret base at Glenlara had proved like a gas light to a moth for both the IRA and the Soviet Navy, and both had returned to the facility, albeit the former not necessarily as they thought, and the latter only once.
The Soviets had deposited a team of four men once they had successfully made contact with the local IRA, in the shape of the G2 agent, O’Farrell, who had stepped into the void left by the death of Reynolds.
Eager to get over the loss of so many men in the accidental explosion at Glenlara, which was how the IRA leadership understood the deaths of most of the Mayo brigade’s personnel had occurred, they found a man who was known to them already organising affairs, and had no hesitation in keeping him in place.
Thomas Ryan O’Farrell was the commander of the new Mayo Brigade. He was also Irish G-2’s most valuable asset in the fight against the very organisation he was a part of.
The Soviet naval group had long since been replaced by men from the OSS Ukrainian unit, and everything ran on a day-to-day basis solely for the benefit of Allied intelligence, and against the Soviets and IRA.
“So, down to business, O’Farrell. No problems with your set up on the coast there?”
“Not now, Mister Wood. The accident made one hell of a mess and we basically started from scratch. Still turn up a bit of a body now and again. Poor bastards. Don’t hardly see the Gardaí much at all. We’ve a man on the inside anyhow, so they’ll be no surprises from those cocks. The fucking Brits have been very accommodating in providing materials when we’ve strayed across the border. Most problems we get is from the occasional flight over by their fucking flying boat things. Mind you, some of the locals turn up now and again, looking for a son or a brother. Nothing we can do save tell ‘em a little and assure ‘em that their boy died for the cause. Apart from that, we’re top.”
“Good, good. We’ve something brewing that’ll need you to be extra sharp for a time… not yet mind. For the future, but Brian and I are here to smooth the path and see if there’s anything you need.”
“Such as like what, Mister Wood?”
“Our Russian friends have a plan that’ll put the shit up the English. The Council’s on board with it. Your part’ll be simple as chips, son. Receive two deliveries and store ‘em safely. We’ll arrange for pick-up as soon as possible after, and that’s that.”
“Guns? Explosives? Men?”
“Well, our friends intend to sweeten the deal a little with some weapons and explosives, and they’ll be a share of the guns for you and your boys of course, but the important load will be sealed wooden crates. The contents don’t need to concern you. Council business.”
“No problem with me, so long as I can have some of the explosives for a jaunt across the border.”
It was a statement, not a request, and both the senior IRA men understood it to be such. What more impressed them was that the man simply accepted the situation with the crates.
Independently, the two senior men wondered if O’Farrell was a serious contender for promotion to become a bigger player in the future of the cause.
O’Scanlon slid a piece of paper across the table to Ulianov.
“Your bosses gave us those dates. Make sure you monitor the channels. Our Russian friends are aware of the perils of using radio, so it’ll be kept to the minimum. When you get the message, reply…”, he pointed to the Cyrillic text, “Padanets… three times only, one minute apart.”
Shandruk/Ulianov took the proffered paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket in one easy movement.
“We‘ve one specific request. Our friends want to know about the fuel cells, whatever the fuck that means. They want to know they’re intact. Yes? Can I tell ‘em yes?”