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The flight leader watched as his second moved in underneath the stricken Allied airplane, the first hints of fire springing from the starboard engine.

The Heinkel 219 was fitted with an oblique firing cannon system, mounted behind the pilot, pointing up at an angle through the canopy.

Two 30mm MK 108 cannons were lined up on the belly of the Beaufighter, the Soviet aircraft throttling back and slipping underneath their quarry.

The pilot fired the Schräge Musik, named after the German nickname for ‘Jazz’.

Shell after shell chewed up the metal framework and spent itself explosively in the destruction of the Beaufighter’s integrity.

Clark was killed by multiple shells smashing through everything of note and turning the cockpit into a bloody Swiss cheese.

The Beaufighter came apart, the port wing folded, and the machine fell from the sky.

Underneath, the Heinkel pilot, elated by his kill, suddenly realised his predicament and rapidly jerked his aircraft to starboard, condemning him and his radar operator to death.

Luftwaffe pilots had learned to manoeuvre slowly in such situations, the high wing loading causing stalls if changes of direction were done too quickly.

The Soviet pilot did not have the benefit of a German’s hard-won experience and the stall proved fatal, the Heinkel falling uselessly away, pursued by the fiery remains of its victim.

The radar operator in the leader’s Heinkel shook his set, willing it to come back to life, his swift indoctrination in its finer points having failed to cover the obvious advice of ‘not to slap it hard when celebrating a victory.’

His enthusiasm had knocked a vital connection loose, and the set plainly refused to fire up.

Had it done so, he might have spotted the approaching avenger. As it was, he had just sixteen seconds before death visited itself upon him and his commander.

‘Warsaw’s Revenge’ opened fire, Radowski having hurried to the scene from his duty station, twenty-five miles to the south, responding to the call of the hapless Beaufighter, as well as the rescue orders of his controller.

The Hispano cannon shells smashed home, causing the tail plane of the Heinkel to lose its integrity and separate, the two sections coming to earth below, exactly three kilometres apart.

It was the Polish-American’s eighth kill of the new war; a war he hoped would overcome the disappointments of the previous conflict and actually liberate his mother country.

His hate was very real, and directed at any group that occupied the lands of his fathers.

Sparing a disinterested gaze at the dark ground below, he noted the funeral pyres of the aircrew that had fought in the air space above that night, and then noticed something else besides.

Talking into the intercom, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the second area of interest.

“Arty/R mission due north,” he nodded towards where he thought Eintümen was, even though his radio operator, Sergeant Devaney Callister, could not see his gesture.

The efficient operator swung into action, grabbing his paperwork.

“Radio to Captain. Mission type, over.”

Now there was no light to go by, but it was definitely artillery he was looking at.

‘What type?’

Unbeknown to him, his attention was focussed on the self-propelled guns of the 1814th SP Artillery Regiment.

Making a decision, he called it back to the waiting Callister.

“Make it a Charlie mission.”

He got his call right, opting for the ‘Charlie’ strike designed for hardened artillery.

“Radio to Captain. I have the position now.”

“Send it now, Dev.”

The Black Widow moved leisurely to a suitable safe distance, ready to observe an Arty/R Charlie strike on the SU-122’s of the 1814th.

The whole procedure went like clockwork, and the guns of the Indian Division brought destruction down upon the Soviet SP’s, wrecking nearly a quarter of the unit and, most spectacularly, sending much of its separate ammunition reserve into the night sky.

The 4th Indian Division reformed its line a mile and a half closer to Unterankenreute, without the missing 2nd Gurkha’s ‘B’ Company, ready to start the killing and the dying all over again, once the morning sun was fresh upon the field of battle.

The Supply officer of the 1814th SP Artillery reported his unexpected difficulties to his commander. Refusing to accept the unbelievable statement, the Artillery Colonel made his own visit to the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of the Corps logistics.

Anger abated, transformed into concern, and then in turn was replaced by a resurgent anger. His situation was not helped when the second in command of the 7th Guards Horse Artillery Regiment rang through and secured all the replacement ammunition he needed over the phone.

Quite clearly, the harassed supply officer could not produce 122mm shells from his ass, as the stressed man had put it. However, the system had broken down for only the second time in the Colonel’s considerable army service.

At this time, there were no more shells to be had, and his unit was combat ineffective because of it.

Determining to resolve the issue at the highest level, he took his GAZ off to the Corps headquarters, finding himself in a growing queue of concerned unit commanders, all waiting to lay their issues before an incensed Corps commander.

———

By 0230hrs, the rising wave of complaints had made their way to the Headquarters of the Red Banner Forces, and the night duty officer placed the bundle of reports on the top of the list for the morning.

Marshal Zhukov awoke to a very different day.

Chapter 79 – THE INSIDER

There was never a night or a problem that could defeat sunrise or hope.

– Bern Williams
0801 hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945. Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.

The staff officers made themselves small, as the torrent of abuse flew in all directions.

Self-preservation dictated that they should not be noticed, lest they become a target for the wrath of a man recently apprised of a huge problem.

Even Malinin, upon whom had fallen the task of briefing the commander of the Red Banner Forces, retired from the private office as swiftly as possible.

The voice behind the closed door grew in pitch and volume, the unfortunate recipient of the tirade of oaths and threats, the Deputy Supply Officer of the 3rd Red Banner Front, afforded little opportunity to explain the position.

The 3rd’s Chief Supply officer was apparently away in the Motherland on a mission of great importance in the spa resort of Yessentuki, an absence that had already condemned him in Zhukov’s eyes, and guaranteed his execution in the near future.

Rokossovsky had already had his phone call, and was passing on the pain, wreaking his own brand of hell on his subordinates, angered as much by the problem as the fact that he had been apprised of it by his Commander, not his own staff.

Senior heads were beginning to roll throughout Soviet occupied Europe, as the unheralded logistical problem burst from its hidden location into the bright lights of close examination.

The sound of the telephone being rammed into its cradle sounded like a gunshot.

“Malinin!”

The normally cordial and professional relationship between the two men was very obviously on hold, the incensed Zhukov in no mood for niceties.

“Right now, I want Ferovan and Atalin here, right now.”

Malinin made his note, unsurprised that the two colonels had been summoned.

“Immediately.”

Understanding that his normal procedure was not suitable for the moment, the CoS opened the door and gave a clipped order to one of his Majors.