ISBN 978-0-81173-171-3
Stanton, Shelby L.
Order of Battle – U.S. Army World War II.
ISBN 0-89141-195-X
Forczyk, Robert
Georgy Zhukov
ISBN 978-1-84908-556-4
List of units mentioned within ‘Red Gambit’ that have been awarded the Presidential Unit Citation since 6th August 1945
100th [Nisei] Infantry Battalion — Germany
101st US Cavalry Group — Germany
11th US Armored Division — Germany
16th US Armored Brigade — Alsace
1st GAVCA, Forca Aerea Brasileira — Germany
1st Provisional Tank Group — China
26th US Infantry Division — Germany
2nd Ranger Battalion — Alsace
312th Fighter Wing USAAF — China
416th Night-Fighter Squadron USAAF — Germany
4th US Armored Division — Germany
501st Parachute Infantry Regiment — Germany
501st Parachute Infantry Regiment — Holland
506th Parachute Infantry Regiment — Germany
63rd US Infantry Division — Germany
712th US Tank Battalion — Germany
736th US Tank Battalion — Germany
808th US Tank-Destroyer Battalion — Germany
83rd US Infantry Division — Germany
90th US Infantry Division — Germany
94th Combat Bombardment Wing — Germany
9th US Infantry Division — Germany
‘Counterplay’ – the story continues.
Read the opening words of ‘Counterplay’ now.
Chapter 126 – THE ANNIHILATION
1317 hrs, Wednesday, 25th December 1945, airborne above North-West Éire.
Smoke poured from the two outboard engines, leaving parallel lines in the sky as the crippled B24 Liberator tried to make the nearest friendly territory.
Despite the obviously fraught situation, everyone aboard the Coastal Command aircraft was calm, and there was even laughter amidst the serious activity of their real mission.
It fell to the navigator to bring failure or success, for his skill would bring the Liberator directly to the precise point where they would achieve the task set them… or they would fail.
There could be no repeats, so it was imperative that the B24 hit its mark right on the button.
He thumbed his mike.
“Navigator, Pilot. Come left two degrees, Skipper, course 89°.”
“Roger, Nav.”
After a short delay, the navigator, sweating despite the extremely cold temperatures, spoke again.
“On course, Skipper. Estimate seven minutes to game point.”
“Roger, Nav. Bombs?”
“I’m on it, Skipper.”
The bombardier shifted to one side of the modified nose and checked for the umpteenth time that the internal heating circuit was functioning.
“Bombs, Pilot. Ready.”
The pilot looked across to his co-pilot.
“Time for you to play.”
It was Christmas Day, and most of those still asleep bore all the hallmarks of heavy encounters with the local brews, Russian and Irishmen alike.
A few, an unlucky few, had literally drawn short straws and found themselves sober and alert, providing the security whilst others spent the day acquainting themselves with their blankets or, in the case of a few, the latrines.
Seamus Brown was one of the selected few, and it was he who first heard the sounds of an aircraft in trouble.
The staccato sound of misfiring engines and the drone of their fully working compatriots mingled and grew loud enough to be a warning in their own right.
The camp was occasionally overflown, so there were procedures for this moment, and Brown instigated them immediately.
A large bell was rung, only a few double blows from a hammer were needed to warn the base what was about to happen. It was a question of keeping out of sight for most, but balancing that with having a few bodies in sight so as not to make the place seem deserted which, quite reasonably, they had all agreed might make the camp suspicious, even though half of it could not be seen from the air.
Brown dropped his rifle into a wheelbarrow and started to move across the central open area, his eyes searching the sky for the noisemaker.
“Nav, Pilot. Twenty seconds.”
“Roger. Bombs, over to you.”
The Bomb Aimer looked through the unfamiliar sight and decided that he could proceed.
The finger hovered above the button, pressed down hard, and the shooting commenced.
Brown kept walking, his eyes taking in the smokey trails from two of its engines, his ears adding to the evidence of his eyes.
‘The fucking bastards are in trouble’.
“Crash, you fucking English shites! Go on! Merry fucking Christmas, you bastards!”
A couple of his men chuckled and shared the sentiment, although not quite as loud as Brown.
His raised voice brought a response from some of those aching from the night’s exertions and windows were opened, the oaths and curses directed his way not always in Irish brogue.
He heard the window open behind him and knew the stream of Russian was for his ears, but he kept his attention firmly on the dying aircraft, shouting louder to make sure his new allies were even more agitated.
“Die, you fucking bastards, die!”
The Liberator, for he was sure that was what it was, kept dropping lower in the sky, and eventually flew below his line of vision.
In his mind, he enjoyed the image of the mighty aircraft nose-diving into some Irish hillside and promised himself that he would find out what happened at some time.
Turning to the nearest open window, that of a small hut hidden under a camouflage of turf roof and adjacent shrubs, Brown tackled the verbal aggressor.
“I don’t know what the fuck you are saying my little Russian friend, but if you don’t fuck off, I’ll shoot you in the fucking balls.”
The words were said as if he was apologising for waking the Soviet marine; his smile was one of sincere regret.
The Matrose nodded and closed the window, happy that the stupid Irishman would not repeat his error.
The Liberator continued on for some miles before the navigator gave another change of course, this time turning northwards and out to sea.
Once clear of land, the smoke generators were turned off, the flight engineer corrected his engine settings, and the B24 resumed its journey to RAF Belfast. There it was met by two members of the SOE Photo interpretation section, specially flown in from the Tempsford base to look at the stills and movie footage shot by the special duty crew as they passed precisely over the IRA base at Glenlara.
Wijers helped the female officer carry her equipment from the car into the lecture room.
Section Officer Megan Jenkins, and one assistant, had been rushed from RAF Tempsford to RAF Belfast, where they joined up with the film produced by the B24 Liberator pass over Glenlara.
The stills were easier to produce quickly, so Megan Jenkins had already examined them and found a great deal of information that would be of use to those present.