Nobukiyo grinned without a hint of mercy and compassion.
“One more time, I think.”
Kalinin had expected no less.
“FUTATABI, JINYO!”
The shout carried across the secret base, loud enough to be heard by the furthest sailor, and the collective groan of men who had hoped for respite was equally loud.
Officers and NCOs chivvied their sections into order and the task of extracting and erecting a V-2 on the Sen-Toku’s deck began once more.
1100 hrs, Wednesday, 30th October, 1946, Camp Steel, on the Meer van Echternach, Luxembourg.
Camp Rose had long gone, the lack of casualties meaning that the hospital, so long an excellent cover for the goings-on at Camp Steel, no longer embraced and protected the secret base.
The previous commander had created a small ‘supply depot’ to explain the presence of armed soldiers in the woods, but the tarpaulins merely covered empty crates and oil drums, the whole ‘depot’ nothing but a charade for the benefit of the nosier locals.
Zebra Company were presently responsible for manning the gate and general camp security, and were therefore first to discover that the times were changing.
The previous CO had been invalided out, having broken both femurs and shattered his pelvis in a failed practice jump, his partially-opened parachute doing enough to spare his life, but virtually ending it in the same act, as the idea of being in a wheelchair for the rest of his life was as close to death as Colonel Steel could be and still draw breath.
The new CO arrived unannounced in the middle of an inspection by Zebra Company’s Executive Officer, accompanied by one of the unit’s senior NCOs.
“Well that’s just swell! OK, boys… fall in… fall in…”, the first lieutenant encouraged the guard detail into some sort of order whilst his sidekick moved to the gate to back up the young corporal who was in charge.
“Steady on there, Buck. This looks like a man who knows his business.”
The corporal grunted in reply and waited as the jeep slowly came to a halt in front of the pole barrier.
He grunted again as he checked that the .30cal was manned and trained on the jeep by two business-like soldiers.
Rosenberg eased his Thompson a little and resisted the temptation to accompany Buck Polson to the jeep.
He sensed Hässler arrive by his side.
“So this is the new boss… looks like a vet. Catch his name yet?”
“Nope. Figured I’d go by the book and let Buck handle it.”
“Good call.”
The corporal stepped back from the jeep and saluted, the officer in question sending one back in smart but brief fashion.
He stepped out of the jeep and straightened himself and his uniform out.
The full colonel bore ribbons that indicated he was no desk soldier, and had spent a lot of time at the sharp end with a gun in his hand.
Both Hässler and Rosenberg examined the minutiae of his awards before they realised that the details were becoming clearer, for no other reason than the colonel was moving towards them.
They both saluted.
“Sir, First Lieutenant Hässler, Executive Officer, Zebra Company, on guard post inspection, Sir.”
“Sir, First Sergeant Rosenberg, Zebra Company, on guard post inspection, Sir.”
“Thank you. Is everything in order?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
The stereo effect of their replies brought a smile to the senior officer’s face.
He had sought a new command and always been turned down for reasons that no one in authority satisfactorily explained. He had been given this opportunity solely because his predecessor had nearly killed himself in training.
It was great to be back amongst proper soldiers.
As the two men wore solely rank markings, he had no idea that the NCO in front of him was the holder of a DSC and Silver Star plus change, and that the officer held the same honours.
But he did know that they were veteran soldiers, and he felt home again.
For their part, any officer who sported the evidence of a Bronze Star, two Silver Stars, and two DSCs was clearly a competent man with experience of being in harm’s way. He was also airborne, which also counted for a lot.
The Colonel turned to the Corporal of the guard.
“Please inform the camp duty officer that I’ve arrived…”
He swivelled back to the two friends in an easy movement.
“…and if you two’ve finished your inspection, you could walk me round the perimeter of the camp.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
And so it was that Colonel Marion Crisp assumed command of Group Steel.
A command that would provide him with his finest and most tragic hours.
1409 hrs, Thursday 31st October 1946, Makaryev Monastery, Lyskovsky, USSR.
“Allow me to show you to the Comrade Polkovnik’s room, Comrade Marshal.”
The senior nurse stepped aside as the doctor led Marshal Bagramyan and his entourage into the monastery.
Along the way, Bagramyan was feted and saluted, made the subject of squeals of joy and adoration, and offered many a disfigured hand to shake. He had always been popular, and Lyskovsky was not normally on the agenda for Army Marshals to visit, probably because of the horrors it held.
“This is his room, Comrade Marshal. Would you lik…”
“Thank you, Comrade Polkovnik. You may return to your patients.”
The flustered doctor saluted and went on his way, upset that he was not going to be privy to whatever had brought Bagramyan to the door of that particular man.
Behind him he heard authoritative knocking, such as might be made by an extremely senior rank on a door that would normally have been opened for him.
From within came a gruff invitation and Bagramyan strode in to find the object of his visit standing in front of a full length mirror, fiddling with his tunic buttons.
The fiddling stopped immediately, to be replaced by a twitchy nervousness as the Colonel of Tanks tried to decide whether he was dressed to salute, should throw himself on the floor in a position of supplication, or simply stand erect and see what happened next.
“Polkovnik Yarishlov?”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Polkovnik Arkady Arkadyevich Yarishlov, 1st Guards Rifle Division.”
Yarishlov went for the salute and was delighted that the normal pains associated with moving his arm in the officer’s tunic were less than normal, and without his normal lunchtime pain killers too.
Bagramyan had seen a picture of the man in his file, and had also been warned that the burning tank had made certain ‘alterations’ to his appearance, but even then the foreshortened nose, curled lips, and hairless head, sans eyebrows et al, gave him a moment of horror.
Bagramyan moved forward and extended his hand, something that caught Arkady off guard.
The Marshal’s grip was firm and caused him a little discomfort, but Yarishlov kept his face straight, declining to show any reaction.
“How may I assist the Comrade Marshal?”
Yarishlov resumed the attention position and was amazed that Bagramyan moved forward, pulled a chair out from under the modest table, and expected Yarishlov to sit on it.
“Please, Comrade Yarishlov. Sit.”
One of Bagramyan’s aides appeared with a slightly plusher chair for his commander.
The two suddenly found themselves alone.
“So, Comrade Yarishlov, how are your wounds now? I understand that you’ve made excellent progress.”
“Thank you, Sir. I confess, from the position they expected to what I have now, then I have come much further than the experts or myself anticipated. There’s further to go, of course, but I would welcome the opportunity to serve the Rodina once more.”