Keynes' Cruisers Volume 2

[fester]

Moscow, May 26, 1943

The trains were waiting for the men of the 308th Rifle Division. They were being pulled out of reconstitution reserve where a shell of eighteen hundred veterans of fighting along the Don and Volga had absorbed seven thousand new draftees and two thousand returning wounded as well as a few hundred men who had fought as partisans once their divisions had been destroyed in the initial phases of the German southern offensive last summer. The division had been in STAVKA’s reserves for four months and now it was a coherent whole again. New men had come almost as fast as new equipment. The artillery battalions were equipped with guns fresh from the Ural factories, the rifle men had new rifles and many had been converted to submachine gunners. The anti-tank batteries now had guns that could reliably stop a Panzer IV cold at half a kilometer.

Sergeants started to kick the hungover privates in the heels to get them aboard trains. The men had three days in the capital to relax and chase the sights and sounds of the heart of the Rodina. Several other divisions were out and about as well and a few brawls had started when too much vodka and testosterone mixed. A dozen men including a pair of fresh lieutenants had been transferred to penal battalions for their behavior. Minefields would need to be cleared during the summer offensive.

By mid-afternoon, the first of the troop trains carrying the rebuilt division left the station. Anti-aircraft gunners manned their guns on specially built flat-cars as German raiders still frequently operated west of the capital. They would be near the front within a day of travel, so alertness was now a requirement.

 

[fester]

Riga, May 26, 1943


The quartermaster staff for the 78th Sturm Division cursed. New orders had come in. Instead of being shipped to Army Group Centre for future offensive operations, the rebuilt division was to be held in reserve for at least another week. The trains had already been scheduled and the packing of the new equipment had commenced. The Allied landings in Italy were causing plans to be reshuffled.


Several hundred yards away, the rest of the division continued to snore.

 

[fester]

Palermo, Sicily, May 27, 1943


Everything hurt. His mouth was dry. His arm was tied tight to his body. The air in his head scoured his nasal passages on every fast and shallow breath. Someone tightened a tourniquet while three other men prepared a stretcher.


Corporal Jaroshek squeezed his friend’s hand before slapping one of the stretcher carrier’s shoulders right before they made the first of many transfers of the wounded man. An Italian grenade had caught the lead man in the assault on a stone house through a mousehole. He had stumbled forward and allowed the rest of the squad into the confined darkness. Thirty seconds of chaos; grenades bursting, pistols snapping, shotguns booming, submachine guns chattering, fists swinging and knives flashing. That thirty seconds had already been repeated three times as the Pennsylvania National Guardsmen were pushing a stay behind battalion of fascist loyalists away from the docks even as the rest of the 7th Army had bypassed the capital city in their walking pursuit of the retreating Italian and German defenders.


He did not care about strategy. He cared about his squad, half of whom he had known for years. He cared about his platoon. He was somewhat concerned about his company and could not give a shit about his battalion or his regiment. The world was small and narrow and clearer than the cleanest well water. He just needed to reinforce the loopholes and make his squad ready for any counter-attacks. That was a simple enough task. The BAR gunner fired a few rounds down an alley, giving cover to the stretcher bearers who needed to bring the wounded man back to the aid station two hundred yards to the rear. One more house that was as far as he could think right now.

 

[fester]

Cyrprus, May 27, 1943

SS Erinpura pulled out of the port. Another dozen ships were already forming up in a small convoy. Second line destroyers and old light cruisers provided some anti-aircraft protection from the occassional marauder.

The 462nd General Transport Company was starting up their trucks. They were veterans of the logistical miracle of the desert campaigns. Some drivers had seen two, three or even four trucks destroyed. Sand had always been more of a threat than artillery or air attacks, although those had both claimed some blood. Now the company had been refitted with new Lend Lease trucks. They had been re-allocated from the rear of the 8th Army to the front of the 9th Army which had only been a planning cell but now was becoming a force with both teeth and bones.

 

[fester]

Wake Atoll, May 28, 1943


Even as two dozen Consolidated bombers formed up over the island, a trio of merchant ships entered the lagoon while a submarine and its escorting mine sweeper waited for the congestion to pass. The third of a mile long piers was packed. Pilot boats were leading the merchant ships to mooring bouys near the sea plane base as the bombers began their climb to eighteen thousand feet.


As the night began to fall, the last bomber entered the landing pattern. Five merchant ships were still being unloaded with bombs, torpedoes, fuel, beans, steaks and magazines. Four more ships were swinging at anchor in the lagoon waiting for their turn to unload. Another submarine had arrived and was tied up at the small submarine pier, outboard of a sister who had returned from patrol near Guam.


Today was another day of the war in the Central Pacific, today was another day of routine. Tomorrow promised the same on the forward outpost of America.

 

[fester]

Marivales, May 29, 1943


The gunners tracked the bombers. Corrections were being called out as the guns swivelled. No shells were in the barrels despite plenty of ready ammunition being distributed overnight. The defenders of the siege camp’s docks had clear orders; they were not to fire at anything between the hours of 1100 and 1200. And outside of that window, they could only engage single engine aircraft flying below 10,000 feet.


The bombardiers had, by now, taken control of the final runs. Engines had slowed and the planes were steady at only 3,000 feet. Bomb bay doors opened and a minute later, the sky was being hidden beneath the parachutes. Seven minutes later, both squadrons of Liberators had completed their drops. Most of the cargo cases had landed close enough to the drop zone and the strays were being chased down by the reserve elements of the 26th Cavalry Regiment in their few working jeeps.


Relief was not here yet, but it was coming.

 

[fester]

Kupang, Timor May 30, 1943


The AmeriTim division was done resting. Sergeant Donohue looked down the gangway. His entire squad was behind him. Five faces had been with him for the entire campaign, another two had been wounded and recovered enough to come back. The rest were replacements. At least he knew their names as the replacements had been around for months now. A few of them were probably good enough to not needlessly kill the rest of the squad by mistake.


The large transports were greeted outside the breakwater and in the cleared channels by cruisers and destroyers. Fighters circled overhead even as seaplanes searched for submarines. They were off to Singapore and then back to war.

 

[fester]

Cambridge, Massachusetts May 31, 1943


Elaine smiled. She wiggled her fingers and closed her eyes. The fine assembly work paid well but it came at a price. Two more radars had been certified as ready for testing this morning. The scientists and engineers had crowded around the benches of the technicians breathing down their necks as they tested circuits for the last time. Everything was green and every item had a check mark next to it. The testing was completed and she had the rest of the holiday to herself.


She walked out of the temporary building on the Institute’s campus. Money jingled in her pocket as she fished for a quarter. The rest of the girls would meet up with her at the bar for a beer to celebrate, and then half a dozen of them would take the Red Line over to Park Street before rushing to catch a Green Line to Kenmore Square. First pitch was not until 3:45, and they had seats along the third base line. If she was lucky, she would catch a foul ball; if she was super lucky, a letter from Patrick could show up tomorrow morning. Until then, she needed to stretch out her fingers, relax her wrists and ease her eyes from the too-fine concentration.

 

[fester]

West of Strasbourg, June 1, 1943


If she looked up, she would have seen chaos. Fighters were tumbling and turning, twisting and weaving, shooting and scooting. Bullets passed through the air and slammed into aluminum shells and fragile bodies. Lumbering bombers had been flashing between clouds, machine guns stuttering at attackers

that had managed to get past the fighter sweeps. Now as the bombers, much lighter after dropping their loads on the Alastatian capital were trying to escape. Many trailed smoke from damage they had taken by defending interceptors and the anti-aircraft artillery batteries around the city. A few had crashed.


If Anna Marie looked up from her back-breaking work of tending the root crops that were growing as expected, she would have seen the parachute land two miles away. If she had looked up, she would have seen a flight engineer from Lewiston, Maine mutter to himself as he remembered his memere’s colorfully archaic profanity. He was in the tabernouche. It would not matter. That engineer would be captured two days later and taken to a Stalag for the rest of his war.


She could not look up. The crops were coming in and they needed her attention.

 

[fester]

Gulf of Maine June 1, 1943


USS PE-56 was slowly crossing the cold Atlantic bay. She had completed an escort mission for three lumber coasters. They were tied up in Portland and would be stuck there for at least the week to unload, repair their engines and take on fresh coal for another run to the northern part of the state. The old, coastal escort was needed to cover another convoy so she was steaming by herself twenty miles off-shore at a steady eleven knots. Her crew was relaxed, a standard watch was set when a mighty explosion broke her back. The mine detonated eight feet from her engine. Eleven minutes later, the ship had disappeared, the first victim of a freshly laid minefield as the U-boats were redeploying away from the North Atlantic convoy lanes for new and hopefully more poorly defended targets.

 

[fester]

Leningrad, June 2, 1943


Tatianna cracked her neck. The tension released itself in noise and movement. She laughed as a crude joke was sent her way. She may just have to do something about that suggestion tonight, up close and personal instead of delivering the expected response from five hundred meters.


The city square had life in it. A few birds were not being trapped. The bravest pigeons could actually find crumbs of bakery fresh bread to eat. Over in the corner four musicians were uncasing their stringed instruments. They were assigned the mid-afternoon shift to celebrate. Off to the southeast of the city, the Volhkov Front was holding their position eighteen miles south of the lake shore. Reserves from the Leningrad Front weren’t needed to deal with the small German probe. Instead, artillery and bombers had seperated the German tanks from the supporting infantry and the attack was grinding itself to a halt against the fixed defenses and the heavy batteries of anti-tank guns.

 

[fester]

Northern Scotland June 3, 1943

In the small, dark room, the telegraph key stopped.

The operator had placed every period and every comma correctly, there was no hint of distress. The fist was the same as it had been since 1941. The dispatch from a nationwide collection of assets, agents and informers was, as always impressive; Vanguard was being delayed due to a diesel generator having been lost at sea and a batch of structure steel not passing inspection, the Norwegian 4th Division was soon going to sea with the speculation that this was merely an exercise but uncertainty as there were hints that a major raid on Narvik was in the works. The Admiralty was unhappy with Home Fleet’s operational condition as it had become an escort and training command where the standards were increasing lax as there was little German surface opposition. The fighting men had found ways to get to Singapore, Alexandria or Gibraltar. Three new American medium bomber squadrons had been identified during training rotations to Scotland and another American National Guard division had spent some time in the Highlands on an extended training rotation. The reservists had significant challenges with coordinating logistics with their tactical movement. Finally, a request for more funds to be sent to Portugal and then to the local bank was made as maintaining the information collection network was expensive and the last transfer to the account had mostly been used already.

Everything in the message was true except for the control of the sender. His handlers had determined that today was a day of chicken feed; everything was true and verifiable. Even the funding request was true; the last transfer from German intelligence to the British XX committee had been more than enough to pay for rent and three months salary for the entire operation. This operation had turned into a profit center that improved the balance of trade for the Empire.

Eighty miles away, seven thousand Norwegians entered their landing craft for another assault on a desolate shore. Ahead of them, two hundred men climbed a rocky cliff without any rope or safety gear. Another three hundred men were placing explosives on anti-boat obstacles. They would be clearing half a dozen lanes for the two brigades that were coming down the loch.

 

[fester]

Amsterdam, June 3, 1943


In the small, dark room, the telegraph key stopped.


The operator had placed every period and every comma correctly, there was no hint of distress. The fist was the same as it had been since 1940. The dispatch from a nationwide collection of assets, agents and informers was, as always impressive; a new batch of FW-190s had arrived at an airbase on the Dutch-German border, engineering officers had begun to scope out coastal defenses on the Scheldt, and a new type of radar was due to arrive at the end of the month to complement the current set of Wurzburg Giants. There were no specifications on the radar itself, but an agent had found that the back-up generators for the sight suggested a staggering high power output. Another cell had been rolled up and deportations were proceeding of suspects and Jews. The direct action teams needed more explosives, ammunition and Sten guns.


Everything was true except for the control of the agent; he had been captured and turned within weeks of his first message. Today was a day for the truth and that is what he sent. It was his only chance to keep his wife and his daughter alive so as soon as the message was over, he took a deep breath before being escorted back to his somewhat comfortable holding cell.

 

[fester]

Ramree Island, Burma June 4, 1943


The small coaster went back out to sea. The ships’ boat was secured. Three swots and half a dozen native assistants had been deposited ashore. They were interested in studying the massive crocodiles that inhabited the mangrove swamps. Permission had been granted from the military governor of Burma, or at least his signature was on the letter prepared by a curious herptology loving war time only staff captain with the condition that the scientific team reported back on the weather at dawn, noon and nightfall.

 

[fester]

South of Rhez, Russia, June 5, 1943


Pick-axes swung. Pointed steel dug into the earth, loosening the soil. Next to each man with a pick-ax was a man with a shovel. He scooped the soil and flung it over his shoulder. This was the fourth line of trenches and anti-tank ditches this labor regiment had built so far. Each anti-tank ditch was wide enough to swallow a tank hole and deep enough to completely overtop the largest German tanks. The outer edge was slightly raised with antitank and anti-personnel mines placed a step or two from the straight edged lip. The inner edge had a slight slope leading up to a three meter thick soil berm. Bastions that would have been familiar to Vauban were cut into the steppe every kilometer. Anti-tank guns could poke through the holes and fire into the flanks of any fascist combat engineering vehicle or their supporting tanks even as mortars and machine guns kept the supporting infantry men cowering on the ground.


The whistle blew. The morning shift was over. Men found water and whatever shade they could before they ate their black bread and mid-day rations. Some private who still had not not learned better put on an incredible impersonation of the company commander arguing with the battalion commander. Twenty minutes later, he was on the team moving rocks out of the way.


The men worked through the afternoon. There were another twenty thousand men doing the same work up and down the lines, fortifying the bulge that the Red Army had pushed into the German lines that threatened an important but not critical railhead that supplied most of the 9th Army. The works had to be strong to resist an attack, but they had to look weak enough to invite an attack. Eleven miles behind the innermost anti-tank ditch, a new brigade of factory fresh T-34s manned by veterans of the Moscow and Don defenses laagered under canvas and netting after they detrained.

 

[fester]

Northern Sicily, June 6, 1943


He felt his fingers, or at least he tried to. Heavy bandages made him itch. His thumb started to move and scratched the thin flesh on the side of his index finger. The lights were too bright as he fought through the morphine haze and croaked out a request for water. His tongue swelled with liquid and relief and his voice began to return. The army nurse, a consientious objector from a Mennonite family, smiled and adjusted the sling that kept his left arm stable. Ahh, that was slightly better as his shoulder relaxed. Soon sharp pins and needles pain stabbed him as blood re-entered capillaries and nerves checked back in with his brain.


An hour later, there was a commotion outside the tent flap of the non-critical ward. He cocked his ears and could hear officers and sergeants vehemently conversing. A moment later, the flap opened and a diva of a general walked in. Soon the man stopped at each bed, said a few words, clasped shoulders and hands when he could and patted legs when he was forced to. He arrived at his bed.


“Son, what’s your name?”


“Corporal Jaroshek, sir”


“What happened?”


“A mortar got me, the squad was advancing on the flank of a position and as we were heading through an olive grove, the Krauts started to throw mortars at us. I was slow getting down, and fragments got my left arm and my back, sir”


“How you feeling?”


“Fuzzy, I know that I’m in pain but I can’t actually feel it right now, if that makes sense?”


“I understand. Now let me hand you your Purple Heart for your bravery and in recognition of the enemy’s marksmanship.”


The wounded man chuckled as he had not thought about the Purple Heart as a recognition of the enemy fucking him and plans up. The general leaned over, pinned the medal to the pillow and shook his uninjured right hand in one smooth, well practiced motion. This was the seven hundredth Purple Heart he had personally handed out during the campaign and it would not be the last one of the day nor the campaign. The general moved down and started another conversation with another man who had lost his left leg to mine.

 

[fester]

Acqui Terme, Italy June 7, 1943

The German quartermaster sergeant was smiling. He had finalized arrangements with several local butchers and bakers for at least two weeks worth of good, fresh local food for the newly arrived corps headquarters. The grandmother of the town baker had even offered to teach the German conscripts how to cook like locals.

 

[fester]

Palawan, June 7, 1943


Three battalions of Long Toms started to fire. Two miles ahead of them, seven battalions of 105 millimeter guns began their barrages. Two miles ahead of those guns, pack howitzers and luggable mortars were tossing shells skywards on looping arcs. A quarter mile from the front lines, Bofors anti-aircraft guns were depressed and flinging shells forward even as six companies of tanks advanced between the tracer shells. Behind the tanks, an even two dozen companies of infantrymen and engineers were laying down suppressive fire between rushes.


Japanese fire began to reach out into the no man’s land. An isolated infantry regiment was dug into defenses that had been prepared for months and refreshed for weeks. Once this port was taken, the remaining Japanese defenders would be irrelevant to the American plans, and relevant only for the pain that they could inflict on the civilian population. The isolated and bypassed coastal garrisons had only light mortars and heavy machine guns, while the clusters that had faded into the mountains had no artillery nor sanctuary from the roving bands of guerillas that were seeking a blood feud.


Once this last piece of flatlands near the coast and the docks was taken, multiple bomber strips could be carved out on the northeast coast of the long skinny island. Bomb groups that had fought in Java and Timor were already flying out of the first airfields on the southeast coast, and now bomb groups that had trained in Texas and Kansas were ready to join the Fifth Air Force.

 

[fester]

RAF West Raynham, June 8, 1943


The sun was struggling to come up over the horizon. Nine medium bombers were still in the pattern after an overnight, low level raid targeting a Belgian rail repair yard. Two bombers were already down and taxiing to the dispersal area when suddenly differently tuned engines could be heard. The bombers that were not in the final approach began to scatter.

A quartet of Focke-Wulfes screeched inland from the sea.

Two lofted their bombs onto the airfield. The other two were slick. They turned their noses slightly and the cannons began to hammer into the Lend Leased bomber. A dozen shells slammed into the cockpit and three dozen machine gun slugs ripped open the left engine. The bomber tipped over and lit up the entire station with a tremendous fire that would take hours to put out. Even before the Bofors battery could respond with anything more than the ready ammunition, the four German intruders were back on the deck and heading out to sea.

 

[fester]

Cape Breton, June 9, 1943

The outbound convoy was almost home. No ships had been lost to enemy action. A single tramp steamer was straggling after her engines failed for a day. A Canadian crewed Hudson was circling her attentively as she was two hundred miles behind the eighty three ship convoy. Even as the outbound convoy was redressing their lines and preparing for entry into the coastal convoy and dispersal system to pick up their new loads, an inbound convoy, heavily laden with the supplies to feed the British war machine for another week and the equipment to rebuild the Guards Armoured Division passed by. A blimp and a trio of flying boats were overhead, prowling for trouble and finding none.