The other two men moved in front, armed with edged weapons that would have graced battlefields a thousand years beforehand, and that were still every bit as lethal as their more modern cousins.
Some had selected the Fairbairn-Sykes; the classic Commando knife, but only the British-made version. OSS had initially issued them with the US-manufactured copy that was, simply put, totally inferior. Most of those were at the bottom of the Ballinderry River near Camp 5A, inexplicably ‘lost’ when the British version became available.
A few were content with the M3 Trench Knife.
The handful of KA-BAR USMC knives available, courtesy of Rossiter, were considered the finest for close work of the kind that commenced at the outpost furthest north.
[Author’s note. I have made all references to the bunkers numerical, removing the IRA labels to avoid confusion, except where it is wholly relevant to maintain the Irish code name.]
Two Soviet marines in ‘One’ became the first deaths of 1946; bloody, silent, instant deaths at the hands of men without mercy.
They were followed by two more sons of Russia, both asleep in the vital ‘Three’, the position chosen by Shandruk as his headquarters for the initial assault.
‘Two’ and ‘Four’ were cleared in good time, and one of the assault groups was ready to go, sending a brief message on the HT.
“Sestra, four, clear, over”
The acknowledgement was even briefer.
“Tato, out.”
Shandruk took the report, understanding that Group Sestra was gathered at position ‘four’, and waiting on the order to push forward.
Each of the Sunderlands had their own HT, and the crews followed the progress of the Ukrainian soldiers as the radio spoke in whispers of the fall of each position in turn; the RAF airmen understood that each message represented the deaths of men.
“Babushka, all clear, over.”
“Tato, out.”
The Ukrainian officer could not help but smile, as even the smallest of messages could not conceal the young NCO’s disgust at being in the cover party.
“Brat, clear, over.”
Shandruk raised an eyebrow at that, and spoke softly in reply, silently impressed that the group with the most difficult task had made their initial position in such good time.
‘A pat on the back for Panasuk after this is over.’
Having been sat still for a few minutes now, Shandruk started to realize a simple flaw in his planning.
‘Idiot! How could we forget the cold?’
Without the benefit of activity, it was eating away at him, consuming his energy, the lack of movement allowing the weather its moment of victory.
The same would apply to his men, more so for those who lay outside the bunker positions.
‘Fuck it!’
The HT broke into his doubts.
“Dedushko, two, clear, over.”
Another of the assault groups, one from the second wave, had made good time.
Shandruk made a decision and keyed the HT.
“Mama, time, over.”
Kuibida’s voice responded immediately.
“Four, over.”
‘Time enough. Give the order.’
“All units, Dagga, repeat Dagga.”
Aboard NS-F, Viljoen heard his dead brother’s name without emotion. When a codeword had been needed, ‘Dagga’ had been his suggestion; it seemed only fitting.
On shore, frozen limbs protested as they propelled bodies forward.
First for attention were ‘Five’ and ‘Nine’, earmarked for visits by Dedushko and Brat respectively.
Both huts were full of the sounds of contented snoring, and then they weren’t.
Moving stealthily, the knifemen glided through the positions, terminating lives with simple thrusts and slashes, gloved hands pressing on mouths to stifle any noise that might escape.
‘Five’ was full of IRA men, and the detritus of their excessive drinking. One empty bottle toppled over and rolled across the floor, accidentally knocked over by an eager Ukrainian.
One of the last two living Irishmen in the hut woke up and reacted surprisingly quickly, grabbing for a weapon, an act that earned him a small burst from a silenced Sten. The clacking of the bolt was enough to open the eyelids of the last man, but a commando knife punched through his neck and into his brain, ending Connolly’s interest instantly.
“Dedushko, five, over.”
“Tato, out.”
‘Nine’ contained Soviet submariners, relief crewmen in the main, for whom boredom had lent additional impetus for the drinking session.
One man had already died, frozen to death outside the hut, where his drunken state had led him to believe that a toilet awaited his full bladder.
Nine more perished as the ‘Brat’ group worked away efficiently.
“Brat, nine, over.”
“Dedushko, six, over.”
“Tato, out.”
[Author’s note. This map clearly requires colour to properly interpret. The colour version is available on the web site www.redgambitseries.com free of charge, as are all graphics from the RG series.]
Thinking for just a second, Shandruk decided to move on immediately.
“Tato, moving to five, Mama, move up, out.”
The plan called for every location west of the track, except position ‘Twenty-one’, to be purged of enemy before moving further eastwards.
The plan was going well.
“Sestra, unknown position located, fifty metres west of eight. Delayed, over.”
The plan started to unravel.
On the evening of the B-24’s photo-reconnaissance mission, one of the IRA’s new recruits, formerly a soldier of the Great War, had spotted the fact that the distance between ‘Betha’ and ‘Caitlin’, ‘Twenty-one’ and ‘Four’ respectively, was a definite security problem.
Approaching Reynolds, the man sold the IRA commander on the need for a new position, also commenting on the exposure of Reynolds’ own quarters, and ‘Una’ was born, one of three positions not recorded on the Ukrainian’s maps.
As ‘Una’ was the closest position to the warmth of the kitchen hut, Naval Lieutenant Dudko, having left the snoring Reynolds in his own quarters, selected it for a comradely visit with coffee in hand, an act he felt sure would be spoken of by the grateful men, and his reputation would be enhanced as a result.
He approached, unsteady on his feet, the scalding hot coffee lapping over the edges of the mugs and burning his hands.
Dudko yelped.
Heads swiveled in his direction, and both friendly and murderous eyes made a quick assessment. The former relaxed as the familiar figure of the political officer approached; the latter, narrowed and calculating, made a swift and lethal decision.
A silenced pistol spat four bullets in quick succession, with three finding soft flesh.
The noise of the standard HDM was sufficient to register in the brains of the two Marines, but their main focus of attention was the metallic clang as the errant .22 round deflected noisily off one of the enamel mugs.
The .22 was not a hi-power round, and its killing ability was not brilliant but, none the less, the combination of the three bullet hits suddenly robbed Dudko of his strength, and he dropped to his knees, hardly noticing the pain in his hands as the hot coffee flowed over them.
One of the marines reached for a rifle, the other knew his own weapon was too far away, so his hand sought his bayonet.