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The close availability of the necessary assets was also instrumental in making the rapidly constructed mission possible.

Set close to Castle Archdale, the uninhabited Inishmakill Island, with its western side bay, had proved perfect for the task, and an old facility there was, after a little work, sufficient for temporarily housing a group of forty men. The thick woods that covered the whole area provided both shelter and cover, guaranteeing secrecy.

There could be no second photographic run over Glenlara, so Megan Jenkins and her Sergeant worked over and over again on the evidence to hand, bouncing interpretations off each other, adding to the map, and building the fullest possible picture of the layout of base, and what problems might present themselves to those tasked with its destruction.

On Inishmakill, the assault group quickly reconstructed the old metal structure, adding their own embellishments, and made themselves comfortable, spending their time working on the weapons, sharpening the more silent tools of death, checking battery packs and personal equipment.

Alerted by a brief radio transmission, six of the men were at the water’s edge when one of 201 Squadron’s motor boats grated ashore.

Three passengers leapt onto dry land, and four bags were handed over by the RAF boat crew. A helpful shove freed the keel, and the small craft disappeared back into the descending night.

1633 hrs, Monday, 30th December 1945, OSS base, Inishmakill Island, Northern Ireland.
Fig# 120 – Forces involved at Glenlara, Monday, 1st January, 1946.

Jenkins and Viljoen were impressed, although both also felt a little out of their depth, surrounded, as they were, by men who looked like their sole purpose in life was to kill. The uniforms and weapons also told them that Shandruk and his men were not as had been presented.

The Ukrainian group had been smuggled onto Inishmakill on the night of the 28th, and had remained hidden since then.

Shandruk, who had made the short journey over from Castle Archdale with the two RAF officers, had called his men to order and a quiet circle formed.

Viljoen was introduced and swiftly went through his part in matters. His cooperation had never been in doubt, given the death of his brother. In fact, it had taken direct intervention from Sam Rossiter to hold him in check, so enthusiastic was he for revenge.

The flight plan was simple, and there were no questions for him to answer.

Jenkins’ presentation was more detailed, and had required more setting up.

Four oil drums and some planks made up a table, on which a large plan was unrolled, and various box-like structures were added to show where buildings lay, so that the circle of men could better appreciate the wall plan that Jenkins used. Shandruk, a broom handle in hand, mirrored Jenkins’ brief with his own movement over the table model.

Whilst the photo reconnaissance mission had been rushed, the interpretation had been excellent, and the secrets of Glenlara were laid bare in front of the watching group.

Building usage was an issue, but, again, experience came to the fore, and the interpreters made a good case for which ones were store areas, barracks, et al.

Even so, some buildings and bunkers had no purpose that could even be guessed at, which had added complication to the planning.

Jenkins and Viljoen sat back, ready to answer any questions that might arise, as Shandruk and Kuibida, his senior non-com, swung rapidly into the tactical plan.

Surprise was key.

Silence was key.

Speed was key.

The plan was simple and straightforward, as all such plans should be, but, as in all plans, they expected things to change, so contingencies were discussed.

There had already been one forced change. The Ukrainian’s medic had tripped and broken his ankle whilst they were setting up the island base.

He was already back at Camp 5a, and a replacement present for the briefing at the Inishmakill camp. The fit 63 year old man wore nondescript white camouflage clothing, which neatly matched his hair.

When the question had been posed to him, Doc Holliday had leapt at the chance, glad to be able to get involved in the operation that would avenge the slaughtered men of 201 Squadron.

It would not be his first time in combat either.

When he was a much younger man, he and his comrades had landed on W Beach at Cape Helles, Turkey; part of the ill-fated Gallipoli landings.

His venerable Webley Mk V service pistol, his constant companion since his first day in uniform, had drawn some ribbing from the Ukrainians, although they knew a cared-for piece when they saw one, and none underestimated it, knowing that such a weapon was still a lethal thing.

Fig# 121 – Joint IRA-Soviet Naval Camp, Glenlara, Eire.

The whole force, forty-two strong, was split into five groups, each commanded by an officer or NCO, and equipped with two SCR-536 handie-talkies [HT].

On landing, each group had tasks that required it to split up into smaller sections; taking out guard posts, providing security, and setting up the specialist kit.

Once the initial phase was complete, the group would come back together and, on the order, make the assault.

Shandruk’s headquarters group, with the only main scheme radio, was where the orders would come from; four men strong, including the venerable Holliday. In close support, but initially uncommitted, would be a larger group of ten, under the command of Kuibida, acting as a reserve if things changed.

‘For when things changed’.

A four man section, each soldier expressing open disappointed as he was selected, was tasked with providing security at the rear, to ensure no surprises.

The remaining twenty-four men were equally split into three groups, each one tasked with the silent killing of the occupants of Glenlara.

Occasionally, Shandruk ceded the floor to Jenkins, needing her to clarify a point for one or other of his men.

Although her Welsh accent and strong looks had long since captivated her listeners, it was her professionalism that they respected most.

Shandruk again took the lead, emphasizing the group mission.

“Comrades… we take no risks to get prisoners here. Any risk, they die. If we can secure a Soviet officer, then our masters will be happy.”

He turned to the board and, with a definite flourish, pinned two pictures up.

“Now then.”

Pointing at each in turn, he announced their names.

“Reynolds… Brown…”

Catching Viljoen’s eye, he nodded his silent agreement to the RAF man’s earlier plea.

“If you can take these two alive, then do it. The Intelligence Services want them very much. Our Air Force friends also have business with them, which will take priority.”

They all knew what that was. At first, the story had been an ugly rumour, until the combination of Holliday and an excess of Irish Whisky had laid bare the full horror of what had happened to the Sunderland’s crew. Each of the Ukrainians understood perfectly, and made an unspoken promise to the RAF officer.

‘If it’s possible, you’ll have your revenge, comrade.’

The briefing complete, the group waited on the one essential piece of information not yet made clear.

“Boys… we go tomorrow. All in order for 2300. Clear?”

It was.

“Happy New Year.”

2358 hrs, Tuesday, 31st December 1945, Lough Erne, Northern Ireland.

The three Sunderland Flying boats had dropped anchor in the small bay at the west end of Inishmakill, where they silently waited for their human cargo to arrive.

Quietly transferred by RAF tenders, the assault force climbed aboard the dark, silent aircraft, and each man was immediately ushered to a specific position within the airframe, to ensure good weight distribution for take-off.