The two shared the briefest of silent moments before all three items disappeared from view again.
“Very good, Oleksandr. We’ve exceeded our wildest dreams tonight. How many?”
Kuibida shrugged, mentally listing those comrades who were already stiffening in the snow.
“Can’t speak for ‘Sestra’ and ‘Dedushko’ yet, but we have three dead and three wounded amongst the rest of us, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Both knew the final count would be higher.
The HT made a final announcement.
“Dedushko, Tato, Sixteen. Ryaba… over.”
The exhilaration ran through both seasoned veterans, pulsed like an electric shock through the Ukrainian force, and coursed through the veins of the RAF Sunderland crews.
Turning to Wasco, Shandruk could not conceal his triumph.
“Send full house… full house… clear?”
Wasco was, and had the message on the airwaves in seconds.
In a small Irish fishing village called Bundoran, two quiet men shook hands and silently toasted the message with a nip from a hip flask. Back in Castle Archdale, men from a range of interested organizations celebrated and patted each other on the back, as the stunning news arrived. Reynolds and Brown, Ryaba and Kolobok respectively, were in hand, and would soon understand that their lives were very precariously balanced.
The capture of two Soviet officers was a definite bonus.
Back at Glenlara, men swept through the silent huts, picking up anything that looked like it could conceivably have intelligence value. Sacks of papers, letters, maps, and books, were piled at the top of the ramp, ready to make the short journey to the trawler.
The three wooden boats were already down at the bottom, their keels wet, each with an experienced brace of crew members from the Robert Hastie to guide the passengers through the short journey.
Holliday collected the more grievously wounded, ready for transfer to the Robert Hastie, on which waited two RN medical ratings and a hold space converted for surgery and higher level medical intervention.
The Ukrainian’s lighter casualties were respectfully handled aboard with the sacks, and made the journey to the nearest Sunderland.
Once the cargo was transferred, the launch pulled away and was quickly replaced by the next in line.
Again, the HT was in brief use.
“All stations, Tato… recover… recover…out.”
Across the wasteland that was Glenlara, the Ukrainians moved swiftly backwards, all focused on the top of the slip way.
The ‘Sestra’ group, assisted by the men of ‘Dedushko’ struggled back with their dead and wounded.
The boat waited at the bottom of the ramp as next came the prisoners, both the healthy and the injured. Kuibida detailed three men to provide security, although each man was securely bound. Doc Holliday was also aboard, fearing that the wounded Dudko was not long for this world.
With them went another of the boats, with the badly wounded soldiers and a few men for extra security on the trawler.
Shandruk spoke softly to his senior man.
“Eight of our brothers are dead, Oleksandr. A high price.”
Kuibida nodded and passed a small flask, encouraging his leader to take a draught.
“Irish. It warms nicely.”
Both men took a slug before it disappeared back under the layers that were keeping Kuibida warm.
Wijers had the responsibility for ensuring that every man got away from the raid, one way or another, and he had counted heads as men moved down the ramp and away to safety.
Kuibida gestured to the group huddled next to Building Ten, sending them away past the counting Wijers.
“One more load after that, and then it’s us, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
The excitement of combat was wearing off now, and Shandruk could feel the cold seeping into his legs, despite his layers.
“Koorva.”
He wasn’t angry; it was just surprise, but Kuibida recognized something in the voice.
“Sir?”
Whatever it was that had caused the damage had struck Shandruk in the upper thigh, just a few inches short of the hip.
The cold he felt was the first indication he had been injured, so intense had his concentration been. The sensation was that of his blood starting to chill in the night air.
“Koorva! I’m hit.”
The leg gave way, dropping Shandruk into the snow.
“Wasco, Lach… the boss is hit. Get him on the next boat to the trawler… and make sure he gets seen by the Sanitäts-Offizier. Move!”
Wijers counted off the departing three men, registering the identity of the man leaving the trail of blood as he was carried down the ramp.
“Move to the ramp, comrades.”
The NCO chivvied the Ukrainian soldiers along, wishing to get clear of the Irish coast as soon as possible.
Distant lights caught his eye, and he quickly understood what the source was.
“Vehicle!”
“Next group,” called Wijers, as much to give Kuibida a choice as to get the men away.
The senior NCO made a judgment call.
“Go!”
The RAF trawler, with Shandruk aboard, was already pulling away from Glenlara, heading for a special rendezvous at Bundoran, where Colonel Bryan, head of Irish G2, waited to ensure that the transfer went without hindrance from the local IDF and Garda units.
There were, including Wijers, ten men left ashore from the OSS operation.
Each of them made the calculation of ramp and boat versus approaching lorry.
There seemed little choice.
Kuibida whistled once, drawing attention on himself, and his hands pointed out men and angles, sending three soldiers towards Hut Six, and another three across the stream towards Fifteen.
Checking that Wijers had a torch, he gave the Dutchman an order, and the OSS officer moved quickly to carry it out. It was no time for the niceties of rank.
Settling in behind the MG42 gunner, the NCO held a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder and waited for the right moment.
Behind him, hidden by the curve of the ramp, Wijers played his torch on the rock, its irregular movement teasing, almost inviting the new arrivals forward.
A dozen IRA men, in a truck normally used for picking up milk, moved slowly closer until, as Kuibida judged, it lay in the centre of the triangle formed by the three little groups.
He slapped the gunner’s back and the 42 immediately spewed bullets at the IRA arrivals. Those in the cab were ripped to pieces, the highly effective machine-gun putting its bullets on the money from the off. Those in the back suffered too, and only six survivors touched their feet to ground.
Before they could organize themselves, the two flank parties took them out, and the briefest of affairs was ended, with not one shot fired in return.
A simple hand signal from Kuibida stopped one returning ambush group in its tracks, and they moved over to the smashed lorry to finish off the work, finding two men and a woman who exhibited signs of life, albeit briefly.
Wijers waited to usher the final group down the ramp, having satisfied himself that everyone, living, wounded, or dead, was now away from Glenlara.
None of them were near enough to the camp when the timers ran out, and everything was turned to fire.
The HMS Robert Hastie was a very unusual craft, more so for its unique role in World War Two than anything else.
The vessel started life as a nondescript British trawler, SN189, first tasting the salt water of North Shields in 1912. It served as a minesweeper in the Great War.
Returned to civilian control between the wars, the demands of the new conflict saw Robert Hastie again hired to the Royal Navy, when it was converted to an air-sea rescue vessel, and, officially at least, based with the Naval fleet at Foyle, Londonderry, Northern Ireland.