The DC-4 climbed into the air once more, taking a combination of happy military personnel to a well-deserved break in Sochi, and disgruntled military personnel who had yet to arrive at Rostov, their final destination.
Plus one GRU General whose mind whirled with questions and possibilities.
It had taken some time for the team to reach the area, and even more time for them to find anything resembling a modern transport aircraft.
But they found it, none the less.
There had never been any hope of survivors, for the Grossglockner was a cold and forbidding place, even in summer, so even if a body had been lucky enough to survive the impact, the environment would be bound to triumph.
And so it had proved, as the wreckage, spread over a large area, yielded only the frozen-rigid corpses of those long dead.
The ‘rescuers’ moved quickly around the site, seemingly more concerned about personal possessions and baggage than recovering the mortal remains of the Red Cross personnel.
The leader spoke into his radio.
“C’mon guys, hustle up. The rescue teams are about two hours out, and I want to put plenty of snow between them and us.”
Throughout the area, his men, clad all in white, rummaged through the wreckage and recovered all sorts of material, stowing the contents of their labours in large rucksacks.
Papers, files, containers… anything that had intelligence value.
“Cap’n!”
Morris Snyder turned to the source of the shout.
Farrah, the unit’s radio operator, waved him closer.
“According to our top cover, they’re in the next valley up… closer than we thought, Cap’n.”
Snyder looked around him and worked the problem.
His briefing had been clear.
‘Command’s orders are simple. Get to the wreck as quickly as possible and recover as much intel as possible. Make it as anonymous as possible, but certainly do not get discovered. The possibility of recovering injured has not been discussed and you should use your own judgement. Remember, the mission comes first.’
He looked at the map and confirmed in which valley the recon aircraft had spotted the rescuers.
The aircraft was ostensibly working for the rescue effort, but was actually observing for the small team of experienced skiers and mountaineers from the elite 10th US Mountain Division.
“Green, Red, over.”
“I hear you, Red.”
“We have twelve minutes tops, Green. I want your squad ready to lead off in ten. Clear.”
“Roger.”
William Green drove his men harder.
“Red, Blue, over.”
“Receiving.”
“Blue, hustle ’em up. You got ten minutes. Check over by that big boulder”, he pointed so that Sergeant Berry could see where he was talking about, “There’s all sort of shit over there, Blue, over.”
“Roger.”
Red Snyder watched as Berry sent some of his men towards the unexplored area, and returned to Farrah.
“Get that info firmed up with the birdmen, Corporal. I ain’t getting jumped by a bunch of civilian do-gooders.”
He lit a cigarette and watched his men redouble their efforts.
Eleven minutes later, the thirty-man group moved off, now also burdened with a lot of materiel from the dead Red Cross party.
Files, briefcases, loose papers… anything that could be of value.
It was the hottest day of the year so far, a fact that needed no announcement to the men who disembarked from the C-69 Constellation.
The aircraft, one of the most modern in the USAAF transport fleet, had been crammed full with specialist personnel, enacting a command decision to move the maximum number of qualified bodies, in order to expedite the operations of Composite Group 663, the most secret operational bomber unit in Europe, bar none.
The eight-hour flight had tested the resolve of even the most resilient of men, and the aroma that accompanied them as they stepped down did not go unnoticed by the reception committee.
Colonel Jens Lauridson of the Danish Air Force, base commander at Karup, led the delegation that received the American airmen and ground crew.
“Colonel Banner?”
Behind the sunglasses and huge cigar lay a tired and unhappy man.
None the less, he tried to be polite.
“Colonel Lauridson?”
They shook hands warmly, although the Dane felt unclean from the moment he touched flesh.
“I suggest that we get you and your men cleaned up first, Colonel?”
“You’ll get no goddamned resistance from me on that one, fella.”
“Have your men follow this officer”, he beckoned an Air Force Captain forward.
The man beside Lauridson coughed politely.
“Apologies, Wing Commander. Colonel Banner, this is Wing Commander Cheshire… Colonel Banner.”
The two shook hands.
Banner’s eyes were immediately drawn to the array of ribbons on the man’s tunic, including the highest his country had to offer, but he was also aware that the eyes that assessed him were tired, almost lacking in light.
“You’re my second in command I think, fella.”
“Indeed, Colonel Banner. I command the RAF contingent here. Perhaps we should postpone further introductions until you and your men have a chance to eat and rest.”
“I’m all for that, fella.”
Banner turned to his weary crew.
“Ok, listen up, boys. We’re gonna get ourselves cleaned up and get some chow. This Danish officer will show you the way. No duties for tonight. Just get your gear stowed away. Best behaviour or I’ll know why. I’ll issue orders during the evening. Dismiss.”
Cheshire observed the disorganised display with some disdain, but kept his own counsel, although he caught Lauridson sending him a quiet look.
‘Was this man really the best the Americans had for the mission?’
It would surprise Cheshire no end that he would one day refer to Colonel Gary George Banner as probably the finest officer he had ever met.
Chapter 166 – THE STRAW
“Is that wise, Sir?”
“Well, unless you want to get your boys off and make way for proper fighting soldiers, I guess it’s all we have, Crisp.”
There was no insult, only humour, although McAuliffe’s resilience was being tested heavily.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait… see what the navy comes up with, Sir?”
“This withdrawal has been planned down to a tee, Colonel. The Spanish are in your old quarters as we speak. You and the 327th have nowhere to go back to. In any case, the trains’ll be waiting at Lübeck. Waiting for both your troopers and the 327th boys. Navy’s let us down… couldn’t be helped… that’s the way it is, son. If we pack ’em tight in your boat, we’ll get both of you to the trains and back to Mourmelon a-sap.”
On cue, they both turned to examine the crippled Haskell-class attack transport, USS Allendale, from whose superstructure smoke still rose lazily.
An accidental fire, according to the ship’s captain, but one that deprived units of the 327th Glider Infantry their ticket home.