Lieutenant Commander Mikhail Kalinin was now discharging his latest orders, ones that required him to take leave of his command and transfer aboard an unknown surface vessel.
At 1500 hrs precisely, B-29 broke the surface and the hatches popped to permit the deck watch to take post, as well as allowing the boat party to prepare themselves for the transfer.
Kalinin had been watching the strange vessel for some time, trying to work out what it was, and failing miserably.
Clearly, it wasn’t anything specifically, although it closely resembled a number of vessels, and he rightly suspected that the ‘Swedish’ ship was not what it tried hard to be.
Aboard the ‘Golden Quest’, eyes took in the sleek lines of the underwater killer, more than one man nervous in case it was not the friend they expected.
Senior Chief Petty Officer Bjarte Sveinsvold had long since been released from the sick bay, his wounds mended, and he was a regular contributor to basic onboard tasks of the seafarer. His ability at splicing lines and welding was second to none, so he often found himself wielding a paintbrush. The nonsenses of military life were the same across the national divides.
He paused and took in the scene as an inflatable boat put out from the submarine and started the short journey across the roiling gap.
By the excited nature of the Soviet seamen and the uniformed presence of a guard of honour of eight Soviet Marines, the new arrival was something of a celebrity.
The man, clearly a senior naval officer, stepped aboard the ‘Golden Quest’ and exchanged salutes with the entourage of officers that had gathered to greet him.
As quick as he arrived, Kalinin disappeared in the direction of the Captain’s cabin, pausing only to throw a magnificent salute in the direction of his former command.
A minute later, the vessel’s number one emerged with orders.
Sveinsvold was to transfer aboard the submarine.
Three minutes later, his few possessions in a small linen bag, the USN Senior Chief was on his way to the B-29.
The submarine, boat crew recovered, began to sink below the waves and the surface vessel increased revolutions, both anxious to discharge their part in Kalinin’s orders, both going in different directions, their paths never to cross again.
On B-29, Sveinsvold needed to be constantly on his guard, but his injuries saved him as he played on them and his ‘loss’ of memory, ensuring his brief voyage would be solely as a passenger.
Enjoying the finest tea he had tasted for a very long time, Mikhail Kalinin listened politely to the Captain’s version of recent world events in general and, specifically, those involving the Red Army in Europe.
“So, Comrade Lipranski. What are your orders regarding me?”
“My apologies, tovarich. You do not know? I had assumed you would know. I’m to make landfall, when you will be met by an officer who will issue you with further instructions.”
Lipranski wasn’t being tedious, he simply didn’t think, but Kalinin had no time for playing games as he had a date with a bunk and a full six hours sleep.
“Where, Comrade Lipranski?”
“Ah, again, my apologies. We’ll dock in La Rochelle as soon as possible.”
Kalinin hadn’t even drawn breath before Captain Lipranski headed him off.
“There… ah… so I believe… the briefing officer was a little indiscrete but he knows me… you and a number of other naval personnel will be transferred to an Italian vessel, in which you’ll complete your journey, Comrade Kalinin.”
The submarine officer was deeply unimpressed but it was a done thing.
Despite close questioning, these was no further information to help work out why on earth Soviet Naval command had taken him from an operational command and set him on a course that would see him kicking his heels at sea for weeks on end.
Later, when Kalinin had safely transferred to the Italian flagged ‘Grosseto’, he was stunned to find out that the destination ahead was Dubrovnik.
His journey was not to stop there.
Over the coming weeks, he was to be smuggled through a still petulant Yugoslavia and into the more friendly Romania, where Kalinin and the others would be able to relax and travel more openly, moving on through the Ukraine, although their NKVD minders would still wish to conceal his identity.
And so, not that he yet knew it, weeks after leaving the B-29 in the Atlantic, Lieutenant Commander Kalinin would finally come to rest in a brand new and decidedly clandestine naval base at Beregovoy, on the shores of the Black Sea.
Chapter 109 – THE LANCERS
The 6th Armoured Division had suffered badly in the few days of the Italian War, much of its sacrifice going unrecognised, as the situation demanded that a part here and a part there was sent to act as a fire brigade in desperate defence.
Units attached to other formations withered and died, their passing lost in the mourning for the larger formation.
However, the totality of it all meant that 6th Armoured had been badly savaged.
The force that had assembled in defence of the vital junction at Arnoldstein was an excellent example of a tactical formation in disarray.
The 26th Armoured Brigade, on paper at least, consisted of three cavalry regiments and a rifle battalion.
The 2nd Lothian and Border Horse was remarkably intact, but miles from Arnoldstein, committed into the front line, south of Innsbruck.
Between them and Arnoldstein lay bits and pieces of the two Lancer regiments, split apart from their parent formation by the necessities of war.
The fighting to the east had been protracted and bitter, the Allied defenders stubbornly clinging to ground soaked in the blood of both sides. What had expected to be captured within days was now a week, sometimes more, behind schedule and the Red Army commanders were in a blue funk.
Soviet casualties had been heavy but the relatively successful defence had, with few exceptions, crippled the Allied divisions defending.
As a result, ad hoc units sprang up everywhere, bits and pieces thrown together in an attempt to form something cohesive with which to resist the enemy’s renewed advances.
Ambrose Force, named for the Brigadier that led it, pulled together bits and pieces of units that had already suffered badly, and combined them to make up an all-arms defensive formation charged with holding Arnoldstein at all costs.
Originally, the relatively sleepy hollow that was Arnoldstein had been occupied solely by a small unit of Churchill tanks, five Mk VII vehicles that had been left behind with an engineering section and their crews some weeks ago, ordered to follow on once repairs had been affected. The men, tankers and mechanics alike, chose to misinterpret their orders, enjoying a safer life behind the lines in relative peace and comfort.
Their peace was shattered by the arrival of Ambrose Force.
The 17th/21st Lancers, equipped with Sherman tanks, and also two Challengers that had appeared from ‘Only God knew where’, represented the smaller contribution to the armoured element. The 16th/5th Lancers, the senior cavalry unit in the brigade, made up the bulk, their twenty-four Shermans of all shapes and sizes more numerous by exactly two to one.