Chapter Two: Critical Period
The squeak and rattle of tank tracks filled the street, echoing off the deserted buildings, making it sound like the invaders were around the next corner, when in fact...thanks to their covert radio network, Pasha Grigori knew that they were in fact two streets away. This still didn't give them much time.
"Engage at short range, then switch positions...never stay in one place after firing!" he warned his men.
Less than fifteen minutes ago a platoon of T-54s had rumbled past, a couple of them sporting battle-scars as they retreated to their defence position. Pasha knew that once the jig was up at this ambush point then it was a flat out run back to join them.
Grigori gripped the handle of his RPG-5 a little tighter, crouching in a depression at the side of the road. A tactic they had learnt from the third world war. They would engage from a position below the tanks main gun elevation, thus preventing counter fire. However this tactic did nothing for the coaxial machine guns, so Pasha knew he would have to run like hell before the tank could track in on him. Especially since his RPG fire would leave a nice white smoke trail back to his position.
The front of a tank appeared around the bend in the street, this was the moment they had been waiting for. Three Centurions, no doubt probing ahead of the main advance, no gunners were visible on top of the tank, probably just as well for the British as the many snipers they had littering Berlin would have no doubt have put an end to any tank commanders attempt to use the top mounted machinegun.
"Hold your fire men...remember, each group pick your tank."
Pasha didn't doubt the weapons would find their targets, but had assigned three men per tank to give their rounds an extra emphasis. After all, they wanted to disable the British tanks, not scratch their paintwork.
As the tanks loomed ever closer, Pasha fought the urge to break cover and run, knowing that he'd be gunned down within seconds, instead he hunkered down a little more behind the pile of rubble that used to be a dentists shop. The rubble spread out, covering the street...not enough to prevent the Centurions from advancing...but hopefully enough to slow them down slightly.
He leaned a little closer in his target sight and aimed his RPG at the top of the lead tanks turret. The ground was rumbling underneath his body as the powerful Rolls Royce engines pushed the fifty-eight ton metal monster slowly towards them. Finally, as the lead tank passed the marker Pasha had selected whilst preparing their position, a broken lamp post just opposite, he gently squeezed the gun-like trigger on his launcher. There was a sudden burst of heat behind him, but not enough to injure him, and with a shriek the missile leapt out of its tube and struck the tank bang on target.
All the tanks ground to a halt, and the turret began to turn, seeking the source of the missile which had clearly done slight damage to the top of the vehicle. Pasha didn't wait to see what happened next, he broke cover and ran as he heard a cacophony of shrieks as the rest of his team launched their missiles. There was a loud bang and an awful screech of tearing metal as something exploded behind him. As he dived behind a ruined car and turned to look he saw that the lead tank was now turret less and heavily on fire...to his horror he could hear something above the sound of machine gun fire, he could hear screaming. He looked over at the burning tank and saw something lying beside it also on fire, trying to crawl away but after an agonised minute the screaming stopped and the figure lay still.
"Report!" he yelled into his radio as he saw another soldier running for cover, machine gun fire clattering over the ruins around him.
"Two tanks destroyed, the third is damaged but still operational."
Pasha nodded, he had expected as much. Still, it was enough to make the British a little more cautious...enough to buy them time to get their defence ready.
"The third tank is withdrawing...shall we pursue?"
"Negative, retreat to the pre-planned position."
Hefting his RPG launcher over his shoulder, Pasha began to jog across the ruins, taking care not to step on some loose rubble and cause himself some physical damage. The last thing he needed was to break his leg or something, especially right now.
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The treetops flew past at an impossible speed, scant feet below them as the Canberra screamed along at 400 knots, just 70 knots below its maximum speed. A thin bead of sweat ran down the side of Michael Jennings's head as he concentrated hard on keeping the aircraft level and below one hundred and fifty feet, praying all the time that he wouldn't suddenly get a warning of a heavy radar lock. It was possible word had got out of their arrival, doubtless the Soviets had observer posts in the German countryside...but Jennings wasn't hanging around, he hoped to get the photos they wanted and then get out again before any Soviet fighters arrived. To that end, he had turned the radar off, in the hope that it would decrease his chances of being detected by Soviet electronic surveillance.
"Altitude climb in one-zero minutes." reported the navigator, as Jennings depressed the rudder pedal very slightly, another sweat bead joining the first.
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"Here they come again!" warned a radio based spotter a block away.
"How many."
"Many..."
Pasha resisted the urge to throw the receiver on the floor in anger.
"Give me numbers!"
"I count twenty; I repeat two-zero, British tanks approaching."
There was a slight quaver in the spotter's voice.
"Is your position compromised?"
"Not at the moment Comrade...request permission to retreat."
Pasha thought the situation over.
"Negative, inform us the second any more tanks arrive."
He gave the radio back to his radio operator and glanced outside the door of the old hotel they were based in, fifteen T-54s were dug in at strategic points in the old park outside...and Pasha had a further ten ready to move on his orders. His tactic was a classical way to reduce the numbers of their enemy. The fifteen tanks at the park would engage the enemy as they arrived, whilst RPG crews to the rear would block any escape route...if needed the extra ten T-54s would then move in to finish off the Centurions but Pasha didn't think it would be necessary, and he hoped that he could keep them as a surprise.
There was a burst of missile fire outside, and Pasha rushed through the doorway to see what was happening. Nothing stirred outside, but up in the sky something shot past at high altitude, two anti-aircraft missiles close behind it.
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Alarms went off across the board as Michael dived the Canberra at the ground, the radar showing the two heat-seeking missiles locked firmly on his tail, however there was a lake up ahead, Michael didn't know its name and at a moment such as this it was the last priority on his mind...but he had read of a story from a Meteor pilot who had managed to fool a heat-seeker using a lake.
He pulled the nose up very slightly to put them on a collision course with the lake, the two dots on the radar screen got slightly closer as their rate of descent slowed. Although the world seemed to be going in slow motion, it felt like seconds to the moment the lake was upon them, and Michael pushed the flight yoke forward, taking them down until they were virtually touching the surface of the lake. He thought he heard a cry of alarm below him but ignored it, focusing on the tree line ahead of him...growing ever closer.
Behind the aircraft, the air left in the aircrafts wake was sucking up a small fountain of water, spraying out behind the Canberra like the spray from a motorboat, and spraying over the two missiles as they rushed along in the wake of the aircraft. Inside the missiles warhead, the infa-red sensors had become confused as suddenly the temperature around them had dropped several degrees and their target had vanished. By the time the water had cleared and the missiles were able to return to seeking a heat lock, they had ploughed into the trees at the edge of the lake and exploded.
Jennings allowed himself a small sigh of relief as the radar went blank. It had been a big gamble...but one that had paid off with dividends.
"Jesus Christ!" yelled the cameraman "I could see the fish in that lake!"
The navigator laughed, and Jennings chuckled, they were out of one danger...but not totally clear yet.
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"T-54s! It's an ambush! My god…"
The radio had suddenly burst into a cacophony of warnings and shouts…and screams. Reynolds could do nothing but sit back and stare out of the viewing window at the road ahead in horror. This wasn't in the briefing, Ivan wasn't supposed to have that many tanks here, they were supposed to be on the Eastern Front!
"Shit." Muttered Adnams behind him and Reynolds nodded.
"Withdraw! Regroup and w…"
It seemed no sooner than the voices on the radio spoke up than they were interrupted by screams or a sudden burst of static that probably indicated the death of a tank.
"RPG groups behind us! There's no way out!"
Reynolds could bare it no longer and switched the radio off, sitting back in horror before lashing out and punching at the side of the tank.
"Dammit!"
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The Canberra landed at RAF Woodbridge, just as the first British tanks were engaged in Berlin. The film was rushed to the railway station and taken by special train to London, where a small contingent of army officers met it at Liverpool Street station. It was taken to the headquarters of the British army and developed in a secret laboratory in the basement before being rushed upstairs to Field Marshall Keable.
"How recent are these pictures?"
"Less than four hours old."
"Get on the line to the Berlin brigade; get them out of Berlin…now!"
He threw the pictures back on the desk and almost ran out of the door, closely followed by the aide who quickly scooped the pictures up in his arms.
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Colonel Bukharin smiled as he listened to the radio reports coming in from the defence line.
"Good work Pasha," he replied "Contact me the moment anything changes."
He turned and lit another cigar, savouring the taste as he looked over the map of Berlin on the table. Then he turned and announced to the room.
"The British are withdrawing!"
There was a brief cheer but then Bukharin silenced them with a wave of his hand.
"Let's keep on our toes…it's likely they'll be back before long."
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Ivanov had been summoned to a meeting at the Kremlin at midday Moscow time, and as he looked at his watch he realised it must be about ten o clock in the morning in Berlin. The attack must have taken place by now…Ivanov just hoped that the intelligence he had given his superiors had enabled them to mount some kind of defence.
But even so…what would be the sacrifice at the Western front? Would the West German forces capitalise on the fact that they hadn't sent extra forces from Berlin? Was the British move towards Berlin actually a feint in itself to prevent the Soviet forces from reinforcing the Western front?
So many questions and despite his position as Head of Military Intelligence, he hadn't been able to authorise any flights since most runways and airbases were sending bombers to West Germany and France.
He showed his ID to the guards on duty and knocked on the door.
"Come."
He opened the left door and walked in, Major General Chicherin and Colonel General Beria were already there, naturally…in fact there were rumours in the Intelligence industry that the two never left the Kremlin. One thing surprised Ivanov though, it would seem to the trained eye, that Chicherin and Beria were smiling…someone who didn't spend as much time around the two giants as he did would have missed it but there was a very faint quirk of the lower lip.
"Comrade Ivanov, come, take a seat." Chicherin indicated the chair at the lower end of the table.
"Thank you Comrade General."
"We have good news Ivanov…the British forces attacking Berlin were routed and are retreating with their tails between their legs!"
Ivanov breathed a sigh of relief, his information had managed to stop the British from capitalising on a diversionary tactic, a small part of him hoped that some sort of reward would fall his way for this.
"We must not grow complacent though, Lieutenant Colonel…we still have the West Germans biting at our ankles like a small dog…I believe the time is right for a counter-offensive."
Ivanov paused for a moment, replaying the last sentence over in his mind, and then forced his mind to pull itself off the ceiling and get back to current affairs.
"Perhaps it would be wise to give it another three to four days…it is unlikely the British will give up on Berlin that easily, sir."
For the first time in the meeting, Beria spoke…as slowly and deliberately as ever, as though every word that left his mouth had been analysed and reanalysed for hours beforehand and could be relied upon to be perfect.
"Pavel…listen to Alexi…the man is wise beyond his rank…we cannot expect the British to just give up on Berlin, after all…as we have already discussed, the capture of Berlin would be a major propaganda victory for NATO."
"Colonel General, sir," replied Chicherin, looking at the papers in front of him, unwilling to make eye contact with Beria as he knew he'd put a foot wrong "The forces from the Chinese border will arrive within two days, I recommend focusing on our counter-offensive then."
"Da…until then, tell our forces in Berlin to keep on the lookout for another British assault."
Ivanov felt that the meeting was going on without him, but knew that he couldn't leave before he was dismissed…then something strange happened.
"Major general, you are dismissed."
"Da Comrade General!"
Chicherin rose and saluting Beria, walked out of the room, his footfalls echoed by the marble floor and walls. There was a long silence afterwards as Beria read quickly through a slip of paper on his desk.
"You are a very intelligent young man, Alexi Ivanov." He said after a while.
"Thank you Comrade General."
"Comrade Chicherin…he is a very competent man…but his age is beginning to affect his judgement…in time we will need someone to…take hold of the reins as he lets go…someone fresh but not green…someone like yourself Lieutenant Colonel…"
Ivanov's heart pounded in his chest…take over Chicherins position! But he was merely an intelligence officer!
"Sir…I…"
"You would receive all the training needed, and all the benefits of being an influential member of the Kremlin..."
Ivanov just stared at Beria, unable to reply…but he got the distinct impression that he was not actually required to say anything at the moment, in fact, the less he said the less chance he had of making a complete fool of himself. After a short silence, Beria smiled slightly again and nodded at Ivanov.
"Anyway, that is something for you to think about…Dismissed."
Ivanov stood up rapidly, almost knocking his chair over in his haste and giving a salute so crisp that it would have made his old drill instructor weep tears of joy.
"DA! Comrade General!"
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It is said that for every joyous moment in the world there must be a corresponding moment of gloom, and certainly Ivanovs elation as he left the Kremlin a rank higher than he went in, was mirrored by the sheer depression of the crew in Clementine as they sat alongside the rest of their division twenty miles from Berlin, ordered by high command to fall back as the first two divisions slaughtered themselves on the Soviet defences. A couple of badly scarred Centurions had rattled along the road towards them and now sat in a clearing in the woods behind them, their crews sitting in a debriefing.
"Looks like we got the order just in time." Said Adnams as he poured a cup of tea from a flask, and stretched his legs. After spending several long and very bumpy hours inside the cramped environment of the Centurion tank, he was glad for some legroom…just not at the reason for it.
"Some bloody mess this is." agreed Charlie as he took a puff of his rolled up cigarette.
"I bet it was all some stiff in a suit behind a desk in London that dreamt this up." Said Adnams, taking a sip of his tea.
"Most likely…but ours is not tae reason wae." Murmured Fred from where he lay next to the tank.
"…ours is but to do and die…" said Reynolds, completing the quote.
Westcott looked up at him questioningly.
"Tennyson." replied Reynolds with a nod.
"Didn't have ye down as a man of poetry, sir."
"I'm full of surprises." Said Reynolds with a grin as he pulled himself up onto the back of Clementine and sat with his legs dangling over the edge of her hull.
"What do you think is goin' to happen now?" asked Charlie.
There was a short rattle of machine gun fire, and all heads turned in the direction of the sound….but it was distant and peace soon reigned afterwards.
"I honestly don't know…" said Reynolds
"Whatever it is…I hope it's an end to this war…this madness needs to be stopped before it starts." muttered Charlie.
"Aye…we can but dream." Agreed Fred.
Reynolds looked back at the green fields and beautiful landscape, marred only by thick streamers of smoke in the distance, caused no doubt, by the burnt out hulls of tanks…iron coffins for the men that served in them.
"…dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?" he said with a sigh.
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"Damn…I should have known better…I should have known Ivan wouldn't fall for the ploy."
"Don't beat yourself up Matthew, it was a gamble and it didn't pay off."
Field Marshall Keable rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wipe away the fatigue caused by what was arguably the most stressful day of his life.
"I shouldn't have gambled like that…"
Admiral of the Fleet Currie crossed his legs and shook his head.
"War is a gamble Matthew, we take risks and sometimes they pay off…do you think Monty won the Desert War by carefully weighing up the pros and cons?"
Matthew looked up, his face unreadable.
"If I recall correctly," he said slowly "Monty was on the team behind Market Garden."
"Ah…but still, my point applies…"
James stirred the tea in his cup a little more and then placed the cup on the desk.
"To be truthful with you Matt…when I was commander of the Colossus carrier group…I took some pretty large gambles myself…and for the most part they played off…"
"For the most part?" asked Matthew
"Yes…well…I dare say you've heard about the sinking of HMS Birmingham…that was a gamble that didn't pay off…"
There was a long silence, only the sound of the clock ticking filled the still air in the room.
"So…what are you going to do now?"
"We're not a hundred percent sure…the political pressure on us to capture Berlin is immense…but we just don't have the forces in the area. So far there seems to be only one way we're going to get the remaining forces into Berlin without terrible losses…"
"Oh?" James picked up the cup and held it in his right hand.
Matthew nodded and said one word which made James drop the cup on the floor where it bounced and emptied its contents all over the dark red carpet.
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Pasha Grigori ducked under the flap and back into the command tent; he stood at the entrance and watched in amazement as, as one, the entire tent broke out into applause. Bukharin rumbled through the small crowd waiting to greet him and gave him a pat on the shoulder that felt like it was going to dislocate it.
"Good work Pasha! I'm sure you'll get a medal for this!"
Pasha blushed and looked at the floor.
"I did what I could Comrade Colonel."
Bukharin guffawed and walloped him on the shoulder again.
"Modest too! See…this is what a new Soviet worker should be like! Never afraid to work but not wanting to hog the limelight."
"Thank you, sir."
Bukharin lead him through the tent and back to the map table.
"As far as we can make out, the third British division has stopped with the survivors of the first two divisions, here…about twenty miles southwest of us. It is possible they plan to try again."
Pasha stared at the map.
"One division and some survivors against our defences? It would be suicide."
"Indeed Pasha…indeed…I do not like this…it's moments like this when people become desperate…they start grabbing random answers and pushing them forward…we can expect them to attack again…Berlin is too high a value target for them not to…but where and how?"
Pasha pulled out a larger scale map, which took in most of the Western Front, and looked at it for a moment.
"Perhaps they will call on help from their West German allies?"
Bukharin looked at the map and shook his head.
"I doubt it…they're the only thing holding the First Shock Army back from Western Europe at the moment."
"What about the French?"
"The closest unit is three days away. I can't see the British waiting three days."
"Perhaps we should go out and meet them, sir…take our T-54s into the field."
Bukharin shook his head.
"No, no, no…the British would just melt away into the landscape and come around to attack Berlin as our defence was weakened…no, we remain here…lick our wounds and get ready for another assault…Berlin isn't going anywhere…and neither are we."
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The phone calls took over an hour, many orders had to be repeated, code words had to be said and checked multiple times, government ministers had to be briefed and the prime minister informed….all in all, it took nearly a day…but what was time when the Soviets sat waiting in Berlin and the Allies huddled in a group on the outside.
Eventually the final decision was made, and the final code was given.
In the middle of the night, on the outskirts of the sleepy Suffolk village of Tuddenham in the countryside that John Constable himself had sat and painted, a series of alert sirens were sounding as a long, white and cylindrical object was slowly wheeled out from a concrete hangar and lifted up into a ninety degree angle, its pointed nose facing up into the starry night sky.
The final orders were given and at twenty-three, forty seven ZULU, Operation Anvil was completed.