“Skipper, directly below us is Cape Negro Island and…”
“Got it, Skipper. It’s back, same heading 027.”
“Roger Sparks.”
Joy’s mind was already working the problem, and he thought he had the solution, especially when Hawkins lost the signal once more.
“Pilot to crew. I think it’s on the island. Low sweep, keep your eyes skinned starboard side.”
The Canso came slowly over the island, running south to north.
There were no sightings of anything of note, but, as per the standing instructions, the starboard waist gunner shot some film for development later.
“Skipper, Sparks. Signal has disappeared over.”
On the island, the transponder, stimulated to reply by the radar signal, drained the last of the residual power and remained silent, the pod and envelope hidden under hastily cut greenery.
Joy made a decision.
‘No wreckage of note, and if the blimp had come down on the island the site would be apparent. Must have been a phantom.’
“Pilot to crew, Log it, radio it in, but we continue with sweep. Navigator, give me a course, over.”
On the ground, many eyes watched the large flying boat as she swept over the island, obviously searching for their now dead comrades.
In the small but functional sick bay, Sveinsvold heard the sounds of his expected rescue slowly fade into the distance, as G for George resumed her search elsewhere.
Smiling back at the rough but caring Russian sailor who was rebandaging his wound, he considered his options, which didn’t take long.
At 1707hrs, a second Canso flying boat made a trip over Cape Negro Island, failing to locate any IFF transmission whatsoever.
Having fulfilled that part of its mission, N for November flew off to its allocated search area, already widening as the hunt for the USN blimp went on.
The presence of the previously reported Swedish steamship was recorded in the flight log.
Pulling smartly away from the small pier, the rowing boat headed for the steep sides of the merchant vessel.
Little of note was aboard for the return journey, the flow of stores and men being nearly all one-way.
Sveinsvold’s wounded leg meant that he could not climb, but the sailors had swung out a rig, and he was swiftly hoisted aboard.
The second man took longer, requiring more careful handling as he was seriously wounded, having tripped and fallen onto sharp rusting machinery on the small dock, three days beforehand.
The delirious Soviet marine was carefully swung aboard and quickly spirited away to the ship’s extensive medical facility.
On the island, the Russian Orthodox cross around Sveinsvold’s neck had attracted some attention, especially as communism and religion were bad bedfellows.
As soon as he was swung aboard one of the Scandinavian crewmembers, all good communists, spotted the Norse amulet that shared his throat with the cross, the latter a gift from his good friend Vassily, in happier times.
Sveinsvold was not so good in Swedish, so he switched to Norwegian, the two men finally settling on Russian as a common language.
The old Swede helped the wounded ‘submariner’ below, as the ‘Golden Quest’ prepared for night to fully descend, before supplying the submarines that were waiting to surface with torpedoes
Her orders had also been changed, and fuel was also to be supplied, to cover the loss of the milchcow.
By morning, the ship was already fifty miles south south west of Cape Negro, an elektroboote in close, but concealed, company.
Chapter 80 – THE WEREWOLVES
We fight to great disadvantage when we fight with those who have nothing to lose.
Whilst the RAF’s Bomber Command was licking its considerable wounds, it fell to the USAAF performing daylight missions to take the fight deep into Soviet controlled territory.
Reconnaissance missions were increasingly bearing fruit, as the day skies started to become more friendly, or more accurately, less murderous.
Today’s target had been acquired by a Mosquito PR34 of the RAF’s 540 Photo-Reconnaissance Squadron. The crew had decided to take some extra frames after attracting a few unwanted shots from a large wood, one mile north of Wolfhagen.
Excellent as the Soviet were with their camouflage, the young WAAF’s at ‘Interpretation’ quickly realised that not all was as it seemed, and after more work they had identified four hidden railway spurs from the main line which ran northwards, adjacent to the western edge of the woods.
That the Soviets bothered to conceal them was proof enough of their worthiness for further attention, and the belief that it was likely a clandestine supply dump encouraged a prompt visit.
Although the hilly wooded area would be less than ideal for that purpose, photo interpreters had quickly learned that the Soviet Army did things differently, and was less conventional than their former opponents.
Therefore, the area of four square miles received the bomb loads of three hundred and twenty-seven heavy bombers, mostly B24 Liberators.
Soviet air defence scrambled numerous air regiments, again an indication that they valued the target.
Casualties amongst the fighters of both sides were murderous, but the Mustangs and Spitfires kept the Soviets at bay, only one B24 lost to interception.
The bravery of the fighter pilots could not prevent the anti-aircraft guns from doing their work, and a score of bombers fell to high-altitude AA guns, mostly those liberated from their former German owners.
The wood was incinerated.
Zhukov had been a different man ever since he had returned from Moscow on the Thursday night; late, tired and extremely frustrated.
A briefing from Nazarbayeva had done nothing to ease his growing anger at what seemed to be happening behind the lines, an area he had entrusted to others.
The GKO, more importantly Beria, had been prepared and had the answers to all his questions, something he had discussed with Malinin in the privacy of his office later.
They had concluded that one or all of the typists were NKVD spies, and promised to act accordingly in future.
The meat of the matter was simple.
Production was apparently at full tilt but there were difficulties with the increased distances involved in transporting the consumables of war. The reasons were as far apart as the gauge change in railways, from the Soviet Union’s narrow gauge to European wider gauge, to the growing and increasingly successful attacks by partisans and cut-off allied military units.
General agreement was reached on how to address the matters, actions ranging from increased manpower for security or rail works, through to the normal Stalinist solutions of threats and executions.
The reports Zhukov had requested, prior to his Moscow flight, indicated a number of interesting things.
The Soviet Commander was already aware that consumption of everything from bullets to bridges was far higher than had been allowed for, and that casualties amongst his frontline troops were extreme.
That was balanced by a similar bloodletting inflicted upon the Western Allies.
It was the combination of production and transportation figures that troubled him the most, as the two figures seemed to marry up perfectly but not translate into adequate stocks where they were most needed; with the Red Army in the field.