Bill Parsons had stood his watch and was back in the dry before something broke the surface of the roiling sea off Glenlara.
It was 0401 when one of Shandruk’s men spotted the veiled signal lamp flashing the coded two-letter message.
Word spread quickly and soon everyone was ready.
The submarine had surfaced some considerable distance off shore, so took its time drawing in to the anchorage point.
Shandruk was the first to identify it.
“One of the German boats… type twenty-one. Intelligence said the Northern Fleet had got hold of at least one. Seems it’s here. Something to inform our masters of later, eh?”
“Yep. Right… let’s get this done as quick as possible and get the bastards on their way.”
The Soviet crew were nothing if not efficient, and the cargo flowed freely out of every orifice in the submarine.
The choke point was the boats used to bring the crates ashore.
There were five hundred and six of them and the supply overwhelmed the space on the rowboats that O’Farrell’s ‘IRA’ men had on hand.
Two inflatables were deployed from the type XXI, and they helped ease the burden, but the whole process took far too long, and dawn started to show its coat tails before the last crate left the submarine’s deck.
Some of the sub’s crew had come ashore to help secrete the cargo in the store that had been hastily constructed, and the mad scramble to get back to the submarine ended in tragedy.
One seaman slipped as he tried to get back into a boat, pulling another into the water with him.
The swell of a wave pushed the boat sideways and both were crushed between it and the cliff face near the bottom of the loading ramp.
O’Farrell’s men swept them up and onto the ramp.
The young Soviet naval officer in the party swiftly decided that they should stay and be tended on shore, so the boat pushed off two men light.
The two injured men were carried off to the dormitory and the local doctor sent for, or at least that was what the Ukrainian Lach told the submarine officer would happen.
The two were simply placed on camp beds whilst all eyes observed the submarine’s departure.
“Didn’t even want the fucking fuel after all, Vlad.”
“Suits me just fine… just fine.”
The XXI had turned out to sea and was slowly sinking beneath the waves.
“Said he’d be back by the end of the month with the rest.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Right. Take it you’ll deal with our unwanted guests and then meet me in the store. I’ve to see what’s in the crates.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Four minutes later, the two bodies were already dragged outside ready for weighting and sinking, and Shandruk was in the store stood next to a speechless O’Farrell.
“I’m not fucking dreaming, am I? That is what it looks like?”
“Yes. Koorva! It is. Pizdets!”
“I’m not going open any more. I’ve done five… all the same…fuck!”
“All the same?”
“Yep… five hundred and six crates… all the fucking same… Jesus, Joseph, and Mary… it’s incredible, man!”
“The men mustn’t know.”
“Oh too fucking right they mustn’t. We’d have a fucking mutiny on our hands. Everything’d be in flitters, so it would. Mixed guards, two of yours, two of mine, twenty-four hours… not in the room but outside… you’ll need to bring some more men over. You got the uniforms available?”
“I have the uniforms. I’ll organise it as soon as that sub clears the area.”
They both stopped and looked at the contents of the crate one last time.
“Jesus.”
“Koorva”
O’Farrell tapped the lid back in place again and they both left, locking the door behind them, the modest padlock now feeling wholly inappropriate as a guard to the contents of the store.
Chapter 178 – LE BOUDIN
The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.
1501 hrs, Friday, 1st November 1946, Karup Air Base, Denmark.
Colonel Banner listened intently, or that was how it seemed anyway.
The Air Commodore finally dropped the volume to a level just below a scream and completed his lengthy diatribe on low-flying B-29s and their effect upon his ground attack squadron’s exercises that morning.
The sound in Banner’s ear stopped so he correctly concluded that the RAF officer had too.
“I agree, Air-Commodore, but I’ll not sanction the three crews involved because they were acting under my direct orders.”
The rant started up all over again and Banner’s face quickly flicked from an ‘imminent heated response’ look back to the previous one he had mastered so well during the initial roasting: that of feigned attentiveness.
“Again, Sir, I can only state that I gave my men detailed orders, which they appear to have followed to the letter. I might also add that there was no filing of an exercise by any of squadrons in and around that area, those under your direct command or any others, as required by an order for Air Officer commanding Denmark.
He had checked up on that immediately the original angry phone call had been terminated.
“Colonel, there is no such order in being and I don’t have to pander to you bloody Yanks if I want to run exercises for my chaps. I run the ground attack squadrons in Denmark, and I don’t expect to find bloody great lumbering bombers running about in my airspace at one hundred feet off the deck. I nearly lost two aircraft, man! I want your men’s guts for garters… do I make myself clear?”
That Wing Commander Cheshire RAF was stood in the room made no difference to the irate officer. He had the whole fiasco tabbed as an American foul up.
“I understand you, Air-Commodore, but again I cannot permit my men to be criticised as they were acting under my orders.”
“Well, I don’t know what sort of useless bunch you have here, or what type of squadron you are, but I assure you that I outrank you… both of you… and I will have my way. I’ll have your head as well if you insist in this ‘under my orders’ approach. Now produce your men or I’ll go over your bloody head and there’ll be hell to pay for insubordination and refusal to obey my direct orders too!”
Despite his best efforts, the other less compliant Banner surfaced.
“Easy now, before you blow yourself a valve, Commodore. I understand that you outrank me, but you ain’t the top dog in the pound by any means. My orders come from those that crow from the top of the dung heap. Here,” he fished a single page document out of the bottom drawer, one that he’d been put in place for moments such as this, “Wind your goddamn neck in, read that, and get off my base pronto, fella!”
The signatures on the document alone let the Air Commodore know he was in a no-win situation.
“Now, as a courtesy to my British Allies, I’ll forget this happened, and forget that your officers failed to file full flight plans and communicate any warnings on aerial activity conducted within my squadron’s practice area, as per the order of August 1st last.”
He placed the appropriate order in the man’s hand, completing his deflation.
The paperwork was returned and the Wing Commander’s brain started to work on a protest.
Banner jumped straight in.
“Listen, Commodore, we gotta work together here. You fucked up, simple as that…”
The RAF officer went purple and opened his mouth, only to find Banner’s pointed finger inches from his face.