Colin Gee - Sacrifice

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.

Each Sunderland carried only a partial crew of six, and no heavy munitions, all to allow the aircraft to cope with the additional weight of the Ukrainian soldiers and their kit.

There had been only one opportunity for a practice take-off, and that was without the full weight that now resisted the straining Wasp engines, as the leading Mk V full-throttled westwards across the lough.

Reluctantly, NS-F, Viljoen’s aircraft, rose into the night, followed, at one minute intervals, by the remaining two flying boats. Second to take off was NS-D, its crew given the opportunity, at their request, as it was they that had made the gruesome discovery off the coast of Éire. Lastly, NS-J, crewed by more angry men, all with friends amongst the dead of NS-X.

“Happy New Year!”

Discipline and good sense ensured that some of the Soviet marines remained sober and alert at their posts.

The same had been intended of a dozen IRA men, but their personal need to celebrate took priority, and only two of the men posted on lookout remained in situ, the others having sought comfort and companionship in the main barracks blocks, where the stoves glowed hot as the fires were stoked up, and where the alcohol flowed freely.

Potchine, that most Irish of drinks, made from potatoes, and vodka, sometimes both in the same container, oiled throats that sung familiar tunes in unfamiliar tongues; Russian, English, and Gaelic speakers combining to welcome in the new year.

Some were already collapsed on their bunks, the ushering in of 1946 wasted on them in their unconscious state.

Belching before speaking, Dudko leant forward conspiratorially.

“You will understand, Comrade Reynolds, that I, as a true communist, can’t be seen to observe religious festivals of any kind… but,” he looked around to make sure his point was noted by only the one pair of ears, “We’re in your country, so it’s only proper.”

“That it is, Dmitri, that… it is!”

Clinking bottle to bottle, Reynolds and Dudko sealed their agreement on the important point.

So, a second night of revelry was set in place, this one for the Gregorian calendar’s Orthodox New Year on 14th January.

Looking around at the men around them, Reynolds frowned with mock severity.

“Let’s hope we can replace the booze in time!”

The bottles clinked again, and both men drank their fill, as around them an excess of alcohol stood victor over many a man’s efforts to party long into the night, replacing raucous laughter and singing with the gentler snores of the happy drunk.

Viljoen leant across to his passenger, removing his face mask so that the soldier could hear him clearly.

“The weather’s a problem, Major. Wind’s whipping up the surface fierce, man.”

Shandruk eased the weapon at his shoulder and brought his mouth closer to the pilot’s ear.

“Are we off?”

Ordinarily, Viljoen would probably have waved the mission off, but this was not ordinarily. He needed no time to think.

“No, we’re still on, bloke. Just warn your boys that the run in will be…,” he smiled in the way that professionals smile when describing difficulties, “…Interesting.”

Shandruk disappeared back down the ladder, already anticipating one hell of a landing.

Clipping his mask back on, Viljoen spoke briefly.

“Pilot to crew. Make sure our guests are secure, and then brace yourselves. Pilot to Nav, give me a course for touchdown point. Pilot to tail gunner, send standby to execute.”

The flurry of orders brought about responses throughout the Sunderland.

In the rear turret, the gunner flashed his Aldus lamp, sending the agreed signal in the direction of the two barely visible shapes in NS-F’s wake, which, in turn, sent their brief acknowledgements.

With the new course ready, Viljoen gave his last command.

“Pilot to tail. Send execute.”

NS-F and her two companions turned due south, and headed towards the Irish coast and a bloody rendezvous with the occupants of Glenlara.

NS-F had been the least fortunate of the three, slamming into a rising sea as hard as a brick wall, or at least that’s how it felt to the men inside. One of the Ukrainians was spark out and minus three front teeth.

Of greater concern was the condition of the radio that had removed them, the casing clearly heavily deformed by the impact.

A quick check by Shandruk’s radio man was sufficient.

“No good, Sturmbannfuhrer.”

No use moaning about it, and besides, the planning had allowed for a spare.

Shandruk smiled.

‘Correction. That was the fucking spare.’

“Check the other set, Wasco.”

The man moved off quickly, hampered by the wallowing movement of the flying boat.

Two men had already summoned up the contents of their stomachs, much to the disgruntlement of those around them.

Shandruk moved to the ladder, climbed halfway and shouted up into the glasshouse.

“How long before we go?”

Quickly making the calculations, Viljoen extended three fingers, receiving a nodded acknowledgement before thumbing his mike.

“Pilot to crew. Standby portside hatch.”

The Ukrainian commander moved amongst his men as they readied their weapons, unhappy when one of the vital T3 carbines was found unusable following the heavy landing, its infrared lamp more closely resembling a waxing moon than a full circle.

Slapping the unfortunate infantryman on the shoulder, Shandruk laughed the matter off.

“You’ve still got your pistol, Yuri. That’ll have to do.”

The man produced one of the US Army blades that equipped many of the group.

“And my knife, Sturmbannfuhrer!”

Ruffling the young man’s hair, Shandruk looked around his men, who were clearly in good spirits, showing confidence in their faces, as they grinned back at Shandruk in response to his unspoken inquiries.

The display of comradeship held sway for the briefest of moments before Shandruk was business again.

“Attention!”

The group became cold killers again.

“Ready the dinghies, comrades.”

Space had dictated that the number of dinghies was limited, and that the assault force would have to be ferried ashore in two stages, but the presence of three wooden boats on the slipway at Glenlara had been noted, and every man was under strict instructions not to damage them.

Plus there would be other help to hand… when the time came.

The first wave of dinghies had discharged their contents, and, already, were nearly back to the waiting flying boats, each crewed by two men from the second wave.

With anchors in place and engines switches off, the three flying boats rose up and down with their silent crews, whilst in the dinghies the sounds of wind and sea were enough to drown out the rapid plunge of oars.

The first party ashore was not idle, fanning out from the small landing area, closing the distance to the outposts that marked the secure perimeter of the Glenlara base.

On a nearby hillock, lying to the west of the landing area, two small positions had been earmarked for immediate neutralization.

Four man groups were used. Two men at the back, one illuminating the area with an infra-red Vampir or T3 carbine, the second with a silenced Sten gun or Winchester M69, ready to silently remove any threat.