According to the NKVD there were nine depots that were filled with the leftovers from the Amerikosy army. That was their target. NKVD said there was enough equipment and ammunition to fully equip ninety rifle and tank divisions, and keep them in the field for six months. The Yankees did not know how to turn off the supply tap, and tens of thousands of trucks, thousands of tanks, ammunition and their canned rations sat in these depots, spread over hundreds of hectares. The equipment was tended by thousands of German Hitlerite prisoners, and a few Yankee overseers. It would truly be a magnificent sight.
Their story, if confronted by radio, was that they were evacuating ahead of the Soviet attack, which had started hours before. By now much of the fighter strength of the U.S., U.K. and France were either lying in smoldering heaps on the ground, or using their last bit of fuel to escape their pursuers. Other airborne troops were being used to take over airfields, far from the front. The odds against the western fighters were so staggering, and the surprise was so complete, that the 500 or so frontline fighters of the Western Allies in Europe were either destroyed or beating a hasty retreat.
Their anti-aircraft forces were not in much better shape. The replacement troops had not been trained in how to use their wonderful, new, radar sets or even how to set the VT fuses, which were stored by the millions, in those wonderful cornucopias that the Yankees had so thoughtfully, left behind.
The planes in the flight were so obviously American, and were supplied with all the right radio call signs, there was no reason for them to be attacked by ground anti-aircraft fire, but one never knew. Even the paint schemes had been copied. The real threat might arise from their own air force mistaking them for fleeing Amerikosy. Precautions had been taken, but accidents did happen.
Yevgeny knew nothing of this. The paratroopers in their transports were surprisingly young. The Red Army had not done a major airborne operation since 1942. The last time had been at night, whereas this one would be in broad daylight, and at low level; just barely enough time for their parachutes to open. They had been practicing this particular operation for over four months, in addition to all their previous training. He was surprisingly calm. The other desantniki appeared to be as well. The story they had been told was that there were nearly a dozen huge military depots spread all throughout Western Germany and France. These depots were their intended targets.
They were said to be full of western treasures, along with all the heavy equipment and ammunition they would need to defend themselves, until their comrades came to relieve them. In addition, they were to search for specific electronic gear. The officers had the information, so it did not concern him. He was more interested in the watches, silk stockings and diamonds he was told would be theirs for the taking. But first, he and his squad were all business. There would be plenty of time to inventory the wealth, and divide it up.
He just hoped that the Frogs, who were to initially infiltrate the depot, were doing their job. He understood the higher calling of Communism over Capitalism, but he still found it amazing that the Communists in France would so openly assist the NKVD, and now the Red Army. The paratroopers were not there to take the depot but to keep it and its treasures safe until the rest of the army relieved them. Their electronic beacons would direct them in.
He had never met a Frog, and heard they could be somewhat dismissive. It will be interesting to find out if their women could handle a real man. Not that he knew what that was. He was too young and believed too much in the talk of the older men. These mistaken beliefs would get him killed by a furious father of the 14 year-old girl he tries to rape in another twenty-two days, but for now, all he is thinking about is surviving the jump and securing Yankee treasure.
The orders come to stand up, line up and hook up; he rushes forward to follow the others, and jumps out into the void that is outside the door that is on the wrong side of the plane.
It is 09:02 hours, on May 2nd, 1946 and his young life will end in 22 days, 1 hour and 16 minutes. If he had known that, the time it takes for his ‘chute to open would not have seemed like an eternity.[10]
It had almost been too easy. They marched in wearing their old uniforms and convinced the young American officers that they were there to help defend the depot, and then, took it over. They eventually disarmed the few Yankees in charge, and put the Germans prisoners back into their barracks under guard. Then, they waited.
The aircraft engines could be heard, a long way off. The familiar sounds of the American Thunderbolt fighter planes escorting their Gooney Bird transport planes. Only this time, it was to be filled with Soviet paratroopers. At some of the other depots they would simply land at a nearby airfield and disgorge their passengers. Some of the French Communist fighters were wary of the Soviets. They had been assured that after the initial attack, the French Communist Party would be given control over the entire country. The Soviets would withdraw to defensive positions and let the French tend to their own internal affairs.
There they are, and Hervé could see them now as small dots on the horizon. Hervé was trained as a paratrooper, and had thrown himself out of a perfectly good plane many a time. To his practiced eye, they were coming in very low. Not too low for survival, but low compared to his experience.
The dots started to sprout wings as they came closer and closer. Some of his comrades lit smoke pots, marking the drop zone; it was a big drop zone. The depot they had taken over was immense, and was filled with 27,000 trucks alone. He could only imagine what the other ones held. He had heard the one near Paris held over 100,000 trucks. It was truly a treasure trove for the Red Army, and the new French Communist government that was waiting to take over the proper governance of France.
They had already held elections, of a sort, and the French Communist Central Committee had decided who would be in positions of authority. He was chosen to be the mayor of his hometown. They had yet to agree on appropriate Communist titles, so, for now it was still mayor. It was a city of over 10,000 people in a rich region of Southern France. It was virtually untouched by the war, near the Pyrenees Mountains, and the border with Spain. Good times were ahead.
Here they come, nearly a full Soviet Regiment jumping out into space. White mushrooms sprouting over their heads almost immediately. No need for supplies, as the depot had all they could ever want. Here and there, some of the chutes did not mushroom in time; and a young man had lost his life, or worse, the use of his legs and arms. But such are the fates of war. All that training and a young promising life was still cut short and wasted, ending in a blood-covered pile of bones and flesh, heaped on the ground.
In typical Gallic fashion, he shrugged. He had seen worse, but not much worse.
One of the young Ivans had almost landed right on top of him. As he helped him out of his ‘chute, they hugged and exchanged names. The young man’s name was Evgeny… handsome and engaging. He even knew a little French.
Maybe I’ll have to have him over for dinner, after things calm down. He could meet my family… I’m sure my daughter will find him very handsome. Maybe it will take her mind off that idiot neighbor’s son. I’ve had to pull them apart many a time, in the barn. Imagine at 14, being so willing to explore the feelings of the flesh. Come to think of it, so had he been. He was after all, married at sixteen. Yes, maybe it would help his political career if he introduced a real Hero of the Soviet Union to his family, and let him get to know his daughter.
Good times were ahead for old Hervé and his family. He would be leading his fellow citizens into the new Communist age, settling a few old scores along the way, tending to his extensive farm near the Pyrenees, and making friends with a real Red Army soldier; and all in a place of safety and comfort, far away from any fighting, near Toulouse, France.
10
New York Times January 9th, 1946 Article Headline: Germans Now Handle US Surplus Supplies