Unfortunately, Real Life (work) has chosen to take big chunks of my time lately, leaving me all too little time to beaver away on this TL. Nevertheless, it continues. Upcoming post will be a rewrite with a lot of stuff on Aerosleds, after which there's some stuff on Canadian Volunteers and then on to the US of A - as a source of Aid, equipment and the 1st American Volunteer Brigade (including the 1st Battalion, commanded by Evans Fordyce Carlson). There's also a fairly detailed writeup on the Bantam Gun-buggy coming thru the pipeline.....
Also, I've been working on my "novel" on the side. Just to see what you guys all think, I'll post a couple of excerpts next. One is from "The Crucible" - set in the Spanish Civil War, with Finnish involvement. The other is snips from "Taistelu Petsamon" - The Battle of Petsamo. Forgive the spelling, the gaps and the occasional XXX's - it's rough first draft, unedited, quite a few corrections still to be made but I'd be interested to see what you think of it. Also, to everyone following this thread, at least it's something new before the next "history" post.....
Anyhow, comments and feedback welcome.......
What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
RSnips from "The Crucible" Book I – Rannikkojääkärit
The Crucible – Book I – Rannikkojääkärit
Rannikkojääkärit is a novel of action, suspense, friendship and love set in the midst of the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. A small group of Finnish Navy Marines (Rannikkojääkärit) are training in Spanish Morocco in 1936 with the Infanteria de Marina and with the Spanish Foreign Legion. When the Spanish Civil War breaks out, they are inadvertently swept up in the midst of a brutal and savage war fought without mercy. In Spain, they fight with a deadly tenacity that wins them the respect of those they fight alongside and the fear of those they fight against. This is the first book in THE CRUCIBLE saga, the epic story of the Finnish Volunteers who fought from the start of the Spanish Civil War through to its final days. A story of soldiers and warriors, of leaders and heroes, of lovers and romantics – the men of the Rannikkojääkärit.
*******************************************
23 June 1936, Ceuta, Spanish Morrocco
Even after sunset, Ceuta felt like an oven. Luutnantti Hugo Ruotsalainen cared not one whit for the baking heat as he ambled through the streets in the navy blue-piped gray dress uniform of the Rannikkojääkärit. He was on his way from his lodgings to the Headquarters of the Legión Española, the Cuartel del Rey on the Plaza de Colón but there was no hurry, he had a full month’s leave ahead of him. And at the moment, there really was nothing more important for Ruotsalainen to do than to savor once more the fact that he'd actually realized one of his childhood dreams: to walk the soils of a far off land and see its wonders at first hand – and without being shot at.
He had other and rather more recent dreams, chief among them to command an entire Pattaljoona of Rannikkojääkärit but that would come (if it came at all) in the distant future. For now, he had Ceuta, he had Spain and Spanish Morocco, otherwise known as the Rif, he had the twelve month long exchange program with Spain’s Infantería de Marina that was only half-completed – and he had a month’s leave that had just started. That was enough for the moment. He whistled a snatch of a Spanish flamenco tune the band had played at the nightclub he'd visited with Miguel the previous evening and smiled, an expression so naturally friendly and open that strangers on the street smiled back at him.
Ruotsalainen was only a little above average height with traces left of a childhood tendency to chubbiness that now showed itself only in his face.
That look of innocent baby-faced openness often caused those who did not know him to dismiss Ruotsalainen as soft. That was a mistake. Rannikkojääkärit training was some of the toughest military training in the world and Ruotsalainen had passed out near the top of his Class of officer candidates. It was an achievement that had seen him rewarded with a twelve month attachment as part of a small team seconded to Spain’s Naval Marines. The recently founded Rannikkojääkärit had sent a few such teams out over the last couple of years and Ruotsalainen counted himself lucky to be part of this one, sent to exotic Ceuta rather than to Britain or to the United States of America.
He turned a corner, drawn by the sights and sounds (and shade, it must be said) of a narrow souk that led in the direction he wished to go. The souk itself, while shady, seethed with pedestrians - while one could hardly say Ceuta’s economy was booming, the markets were always busy, particularly after sunset when it began to cool down. Ruotsalainen edged his way through the crowd, whistling half under his breath, delighted with the pageant. People wore colorful clothing in unfamiliar styles. Many of them chattered in Arabic, Spanish or a mixture of the two: Ceuta was a city which had been Spanish for hundreds of years but arabs still made up a significant part of the population, retaining both their language and their culture. And while Ruotsalainen now spoke Spanish reasonably fluently, the Spanish they spoke here was in an accent strange to Finnish ears. It didn’t help of course that what Spanish he did speak was “military” Spanish, learned on the job over the last six months whilst training and on exercises.
A large man came out of an open doorway, pushing himself into the crowded souk while calling out in rapid-fire Spanish to someone within the building. Ruotsalainen would have avoided the chap if there'd been room for him to dodge but in the crowded souk there wasn't so he set his shoulder instead. It was the larger Spaniard who bounced back with a surprised sounding grunt. No one else took any heed of what was in the end merely a normal hazard of souk life. Ruotsalainen strolled on, eyeing with interest the contents of the myriad small stalls and the shaded shops that opened onto the souk, waving off the attempts of the proprietors to lure an obvious foreigner in. Time enough on another day to browse for presents to take home for his family, that return was still many months away. On this warm summer evening, the agenda was a formal dining in at the Officers Mess of the Legión Española, with himself, the two other Finnish Rannikkojääkärit officers and their counterparts of the Infantería de Marina with whom they had been training as the guests of the Legion. No doubt there would also be representatives from other branches of Spain’s military. It was a dinner that Ruotsalainen anticipated with considerable pleasure.
Still whistling, Ruotsalainen ambled onwards through the souk and eventually onto the Plaza de Colón, finding the Cuartel del Rey without difficulty. He smiled happily at his own skills in navigation and walked jauntily towards the guards at the door. It was bound to be a good dinner and a pleasant and convivial evening, although Spanish politics were also bound to intrude given the current tensions in Madrid. He put that last and rather more unpleasant thought behind him as the guards presented arms. As he saluted in return, his new-found friend and recent comrade-in-arms of the Spanish Marines, Teniente Miguel De Soto, waved a greeting from the shaded coolness of the Guardroom within.
“Hugo, good to see you, I decided to await your arrival and escort you in my friend.”
“Miguel, you’re too good. I have to admit, I was worried my Spanish might not be good enough to gain me entry through the well-defended portals of our esteemed brothers in arms.”
Miguel laughed. “With those grey uniforms of yours, nobody could mistake you for anything other than one of our guests from the land of ice and snow in the far north.”
He gestured at his own colorful uniform, his expression wry. “And our comrades of the Legion are even more resplendent than we of the Marines.”
A voice from behind startled both of them. “Indeed we are cousin, indeed we are.”
It was Hugo’s turn to laugh at the surprised expression on Miguel’s face as they both turned.
“Gutiérrez!”
“None other little cousin. It’s been a year or two.”
“It has, it has. And it’s good to see you again. But before anything else, Hugo, let me introduce my cousin, Gutiérrez Moscoso y Quiroga of the Legion. Gutiérrez, this is my good friend Teniente Hugo Ruotsalainen of the Finnish Marines, here with us to gain some experience in how real marines fight.”
Gutiérrez and Hugo exchanged smiles, each immediately liking what they saw in the other man. Miguel grasped Hugo’s arm with one hand, Gutiérrez’s arm with the other and urged them onwards into the interior of the building.
“Come my friends, drinks are on you Gutiérrez, and tell me what you’re doing in Ceuta. Last I heard you were with the 1st Tercio?”
“I’ve just been promoted and transferred, arrived last night. You are now looking at Capitán Gutiérrez Moscoso y Quiroga of the 2nd Tercio, 5th Bandera, otherwise known as the Cristo de Lepanto in case you were unaware. And you my little cousin, the last I saw of you, you were still a Caballero Cadete.”
“Teniente Miguel De Soto now, Gutiérrez. Although those damn Communists in Madrid have announced that they’re going disband the Infantería de Marina so all my hard work and study may have been in vain. But none of that, here’s the cantina. Hugo, you ARE going to drink GOOD Spanish wine tonight, what do you think we should start him on Gutiérrez?”
“I think perhaps the 1932 Conde de Valdemar Crianza, it’s a good light Rioja.” He smiled at Hugo. “It’s from the Bodegas Valdemar, quite a good vineyard, a good wine to start with, it’s a mix of Spanish grape varietals, ninety percent tempranillo, ten percent mazuelo, I think you’ll enjoy it.”
As it turned out, Hugo did. He’d never drunk wine before his arrival in Spain, but as he’d tried more of it, he found he’d liked it, especially the lighter reds and particularly with the food of Spain. Miguel ordered a plate of tapas from the waiter as they settled into a table. As they drank and talked, the bar gradually filled. Officers of the Legion, resplendid in their mess uniforms, officers of the Infantería de Marina, of the Armada Española and of the Aeronáutica Naval with whom they had been exercising. Last but by no means least, a half dozen officers of the Aeronáutica Española. Among the later arrivals were Hugo’s fellow Rannikkojääkärit officers, Kapteeni xxxx and Luutnantti xxxx. They waved casually to Hugo as they saw each other.
Gutiérrez raised an enquiring eyebrow. “And just what are the Finnish Marines doing in Spain Hugo? I’ve been dying to ask but my natural politeness held me back until I saw there were more of you. But now I find I can no longer restrain my curiosity.”
Hugo smiled. “The short answer, or the long one?”
‘The short my friend, the short. Otherwise my curiosity will kill me.”
“The short answer it is. Finland established the Rannikkojääkärit in 1934 and we’ve expanded from a Battalion to a Brigade over the last two years. When we were set up we didn’t have any real experience with Marine fighting units so it was decided that we’d send small teams of Officers and NCO’s to gain experience with other countries Marine units. We’ve also had some foreign Marines come to Finland but in essence, we come, we train and we study with the Infanteria de Marina and we take the doctrine and tactics back to Finland to see where we can incorporate it into our own doctrine.”
“… We’ve been sending out teams since 1931 actually, to the British Royal Marines, the US Marine Corps, the French Troupes Coloniales, the Italian San Marco Battalion, the Royal Netherlands Marine Corps and we even had a small team with the Infantería de Marina for a few months back in 1932. Now that we have a bit of experience, we’re here to take a second look and see what we missed. In point of fact, it’s the combined arms operations we’re really interested in studying. That operation the Infantería de Marina carried out back in 1925, the Alhucemas landing, that’s a good case in point…..”
And for a long while, the conversation descended into the technicalities of combined operations in a marine environment. They moved on from the bottle of Conde de Valdemar Crianza to sample a 1932 Marques de Riscal Gran Reserva and subsequently a 1931 Marques de Riscal.
“These Rioja’s are damn fine wines.” Hugo swirled the rioja contemplatively in his glass, holding it up to the light before sipping it, copying the others although he had no idea why they were doing it. He was pacing himself, it was going to be a long evening and he had Finnish reputation to uphold.
“Ahh, but the wines of Extramadura, those are the best,” Miguel rhapsodized.
Gutiérrez choked on the wine he was swallowing, then burst out laughing. “You’re going maudlin for home on a single bottle Miguel, life in the Rif must be getting to you.”
Miguel grinned. “Barbarian.” Turning his glance to Hugo, he added, “my family, and that includes Gutiérrez’ branch, comes from Extramadura. There’re some excellent wines there, but most of it’s white. But there are some extremely good reds. Perhaps they have a Garnacha Tintorera we can try.”
Miguel looked around, waved a waiter down. A quiet conversation followed, a shake of the head from the waiter, a shrug from Miguel.
“Alas, no,” Miguel turned back to Hugo. “Perhaps another time.”
Gutiérrez grinned. “You have a month’s leave both of you. Miguel, why don’t you take Hugo up to visit the family?”
Miguel’s expression turned thoughtful. “It’d take us two or three days to get there, at least it did last time I went home. And the same to get back.”
“Ahhh, but I will send a message by telegraph my sister, she is now a pilot with her own aircraft, I’m sure she would like to fly down here and pick you up, then fly back.”
“An aircraft? Consuela?”
“No you idiot, Consuela’s still at school, Elvira, the oldest, she’s the one with the plane!”
“She’s not married yet?”
“No, engaged though, her fiancée’s a politician.” He grinned at Miguel’s look. “Falange. And, I might add, with a seat in the Cortes, although he’s staying away from Madrid these days. Elvira is now a politician herself.”
“Gentlemen, may I interrupt you for a moment?”
So deeply had they been engrossed in their conversation that none of them had been aware of the three men standing beside their table.
“Sir!” Gutiérrez snapped to attention, closely followed by Miguel and Hugo, each of them recognizing the voice of Teniente Coronel Yagüe.
“Senor Winckelmann, Senor Gummerus, allow me to introduce one of our Finnish military guests, Teniente Ruotsolainen, if you will forgive my pronunciation Teniente. And here we find Teniente Miguel de Soto of the Infantería de Marina and lastly, may I introduce another of my officers, Capitán Gutiérrez Moscoso y Quiroga of the 2nd Tercio of the Legion.”
“Gentlemen, a pleasure to meet you both.” Winckelmann’s Spanish was impeccable. Gummerus merely nodded, shaking hands with all three of them and speaking to Ruotsalainen alone, “Your father mentioned you were here, sends his regards, a pleasure to see you again young man.”
Yagüe smiled. “Perhaps you gentlemen can entertain our guests for a few moments. Senor Winckelmann, Senor Gummerus, forgive me, I have a couple of small items I must attend to before dinner.”
“Of course Sir, it will be our pleasure.” Gutiérrez inclined his head.
“I never doubted that for a moment, Capitán.” Yagüe’s tone was dry.
Miguel beckoned a waiter, gestured, additional chairs appeared as if by magic, along with additional wine glasses and a new bottle of the 1931 Marques de Riscal, carefully poured into the waiting glasses.
“When in Rome, Luutnantti,” Gummerus, spoke in Finnish to Ruotsalainen, raising his glass, “although if the truth be known, I do prefer our own Salmiakki Koskenkorva.”
“Indeed sir, so do I, although after a few bottles of this…..” Hugo raised his own glass, translating “When in Rome” into Spanish as he did so. The others raised their glasses and drank.
****************************************
20 July 1936, Seville, Northern Spain
“Hugo, the Reds, they’ve taken Concepcion and two of my cousins, they didn’t get away from the house in time.”
“Which cousins?”
“Consuela and Mercedes”
“Have they told you where they’ve taken them too?”
“They refuse to tell us anything.”
The captured Guardia de Asalto men and the militia men with them showed signs of rigorous but unsophisticated questioning. Split lips, black eyes, numerous contusions, bloody faces. The dozen odd militia women had been separated and were being guarded in their own small group on the other side of the farmyard from the men. Ruotsalainen eyed them coldly. Then looked at Jose.
“Sargento, any of these men or women related to your men?”
Jose spat into the dust. “No, and if they were, we would disown them.”
Hugo ran his eyes over the forty odd men, a mixture of Guardia de Asalto and men in ragged civilian clothes. One in particular drew his eye. He was dressed differently from the rural Guardia, his uniform better tailored. He had a sleek arrogance about him that made him stand out. Hugo looked at Jose, thought about his career in the Rannikkojääkärit, thought about Concepcion in the hands of the Reds. Then laughed coldly. He’d have a career if he escaped this mess, but here he was, two hundred miles from the nearest Nationalist forces, deep behind the Red lines and likely to be executed on the spot if the Reds caught him. The thought of Concepcion in their hands filled him with a cold despair. And what about Miguel’s two cousins, those lovely young women he’d also gotten to know so well. How could he leave without doing something, anything, to find them and ensure their safety? And the other innocents, those whom the Reds had not yet found, those who were safe for the moment, unless the Reds won. How could he ignore their plight? His mind made up, he turned to Jose.
“Sargento, you going to back me up here?”
Jose nodded once. Ruotsalainen drew his M1911 .45 – his personal firearm, the one that he’d trained with since he was a teenage military cadet - and walked over to the arrogant looking Guardia man. The eyes of the seated prisoners followed him as he walked towards them. The arrogant one sneered as he knelt on one knee before him. Without any change to his expression, Ruotsalainen moved the pistol up and around, waited until the barrel touched the bridge of the Guardia’s nose and pulled the trigger as the man’s eyes began to widen with surprise. The .45 bullet dumped all its considerable kinetic energy into the arrogant one’s head, exploding it like a ripe melon, blood and brains and bone blowing out the back of the shattered skull and spraying across the prisoners immediately behind him. Hydrostatic pressure blew his eyeballs out of their sockets in a further spray of blood and severed muscles and nerves, popping them from the man’s head to bounce off Hugo’s chest and fall to the ground. Ruotsalainen smiled as the body toppled backwards to lie in the dust, stood upright, looked at the prisoners and then, very slowly, ground each eyeball under his boot. The pops as they squished under his boot were audible in the silence that followed his single shot.
“Murderer!”
A single cry rang out. Hugo glanced at the prisoners, smiled coldly at them.
“I have one hundred and twenty bullets in my ammo pouches. One of two things is going to happen. Either you tell me where those two girls have been taken and we get them back alive, or every single one of you will die. I’m not going to waste my time torturing you. I will ask you, you will tell me. Or you will die.”
He had to reload his pistol only twice before he was given the information he sought.
**********************************************
21 July 1936, Seville, Northern Spain
They carried four stretchers back to the farmhouse, three of them wrapped in white sheets. The fourth was Miguel. Ruotsalainen walked on one side of Miguel as they carried him, Jose on the other. Once they were back at the old farmhouse, Ruotsalainen knelt beside Miguel where he lay on the improvised stretcher on which the men had carried him back. He was shivering, his face pale, the bandages that wrapped his torso wet with fresh blood. One of the men was kneeling beside him, sponging his face with water, another held one of his hands. Hugo took his place.
“Hugo.” His voice was a whisper of pain. His hand gripped Ruotsalainen’s weakly.
“I’m here Miguel.”
“I’m dying my friend. Is there a priest?”
“No Miguel, no priest, only me.”
“God will understand then.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“You’ll take command of the men? They’ll follow you, Jose gave me his word. Join Franco’s men.”
“Yes, I’ll take command, we’ll make it through.”
“You’ll find my other sisters, take care of them for me. And avenge Concepcion and my cousins.”
Ruotsalainen wept again, tears trickling down his cheeks. Holding Miguel’s hand, he kissed his forehead. “I promise you I will Miguel, I promise you I will have my own vengeance for Concepcion, and I will take vengeance for your cousins.”
Miguel turned his head slightly, his eyes searching Hugo’s face. “Yes, you understand vengeance Hugo, I remember that story you told me.”
“Kullervo?”
“Yes, that one…. Hugo?”
“Yes Miguel.”
“It hurts, it hurts so much, make an end for me, please my friend, I don’t want to die screaming.”
Miguel closed his eyes, groaned with the pain, his body spasming, his hand clamping down on Hugo’s like a vice as a fresh flood of red washed through the bandages that wrapped his torso.
“Go with God Miguel.”
“Go with God Hugo mi amigo.” Miguel’s voice was a tortured whisper.
His hand felt as if it belonged to someone else as he placed the muzzle of his pistol close to Miguel’s head and pulled the trigger. A single shot rang out, disturbing the birds, sending a cloud of them wheeling into the sky. Ruotsalainen bowed his head for a long moment before standing and walking to the other three bodies.
He knelt beside the closets, pulled down the sheet which covered her. He had no idea which of the young women the body had been. It could have been Concepcion or Consuela or Mercedes, there was no way to tell, they’d been beaten to a bloody and featureless pulp, every bone in their bodies broken, the heads smashed into bloody jelly. He bent his head and gently kissed what had once been a face. He said nothing as he stood and walked to the next body, where he did the same. And the next. One of them was his Concepcion. He didn’t want to think about what his beloved had suffered before she died but he knew, he knew. Anguish overwhelmed him, anguish and rage and a cold desire for revenge, for vengeance on those who had so brutally tormented her and then killed her. The thought occurred to him that perhaps this was why his father never talked about the Civil War. This, and what was about to happen next. Standing again, he glanced at Jose, then back to the prisoners, those who had taken his beloved from him.
He made sure he was within earshot of the prisoners before he spoke. “I am a man of my word Sargento. The girls were not recovered alive. Bring the prisoners to me one at a time.”
Jose nodded, gestured to two of his men. They seized the nearest prisoner, dragged him over, struggling and kicking, forced him to his knees. Ruotsalainen removed his M1911 from its holster, placed the muzzle against the back of the prisoners neck, held it there just a second and then he pulled the trigger gently. The shot rang out, the prisoner fell forward to be dragged away and thrown down in the dirt. The next prisoner was already being dragged towards him. Ruotsalainen smiled. Pistol shots rang out in a slow rhythm, each shot momentarily silencing the birds that sang in the olive groves outside the farmhouse courtyard.
Some screamed for mercy, some pleaded, some struggled, some acquiesced mutely, some went to their deaths proudly. One by one, they died. The shots gradually silenced the chorus of screams and pleas for mercy, screams and pleas that Ruotsalainen ignored until at last there were no more, just a pile of limp bodies surrounded by a cloud of flies and sitting in a pool of blood that the dry earth soaked up thirstily. Ruotsalainen eyed them coldly, then turned to Jose.
“Sargento, have some of your men bury the girls and Senor Miguel, bury them together where we can find them when we return, throw the Reds into the manure pile and leave them for the crows. How many men do we have now Sargento?”
“One hundred fifty six men Sir.”
“Weapons?”
“Rifles for all Sir. We captured enough from those …” he gestured with his head “and from the town to ensure everyone has a rifle and forty rounds.”
“How many with military experience.”
“Not many. Fifteen. I have made them all Cabo Primeros.”
“Good work. Now, how many of them know how to clean and shoot their rifles?”
“The men with military experience Sir, a dozen of the others, men who hunt.”
“Do you think we can find more recruits around here?”
Jose shrugged. “Perhaps Sir. Perhaps another fifty by nightfall if God wills it. I’d need to send runners out to find them though.”
“Do that. Another fifty men and we’ll have enough to clear the next town of Reds before we move on. After that we’ll fall back into the hills and make our way towards the frontline, wherever that is.”
He thought for a moment himself. “Yes, send out the runners for men. Then detail half a dozen of the women to find food, we need a supplies for the men, some packhorses or small carts to carry it. And see if anyone can find a radio. I will spend the rest of today training the men on the rifles, we’ll move out early tomorrow morning and take the next town, give the damn Reds a surprise, give them their own medicine. Do you have anyone you can send in to find out where the Guardia de Asalto are, how many men they have, whose supporting them, all the information they can gather.”
***********************************
Like I said, snippets. First cuts, lots of rewriting ahead. How does it grab you?
Rannikkojääkärit is a novel of action, suspense, friendship and love set in the midst of the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. A small group of Finnish Navy Marines (Rannikkojääkärit) are training in Spanish Morocco in 1936 with the Infanteria de Marina and with the Spanish Foreign Legion. When the Spanish Civil War breaks out, they are inadvertently swept up in the midst of a brutal and savage war fought without mercy. In Spain, they fight with a deadly tenacity that wins them the respect of those they fight alongside and the fear of those they fight against. This is the first book in THE CRUCIBLE saga, the epic story of the Finnish Volunteers who fought from the start of the Spanish Civil War through to its final days. A story of soldiers and warriors, of leaders and heroes, of lovers and romantics – the men of the Rannikkojääkärit.
*******************************************
23 June 1936, Ceuta, Spanish Morrocco
Even after sunset, Ceuta felt like an oven. Luutnantti Hugo Ruotsalainen cared not one whit for the baking heat as he ambled through the streets in the navy blue-piped gray dress uniform of the Rannikkojääkärit. He was on his way from his lodgings to the Headquarters of the Legión Española, the Cuartel del Rey on the Plaza de Colón but there was no hurry, he had a full month’s leave ahead of him. And at the moment, there really was nothing more important for Ruotsalainen to do than to savor once more the fact that he'd actually realized one of his childhood dreams: to walk the soils of a far off land and see its wonders at first hand – and without being shot at.
He had other and rather more recent dreams, chief among them to command an entire Pattaljoona of Rannikkojääkärit but that would come (if it came at all) in the distant future. For now, he had Ceuta, he had Spain and Spanish Morocco, otherwise known as the Rif, he had the twelve month long exchange program with Spain’s Infantería de Marina that was only half-completed – and he had a month’s leave that had just started. That was enough for the moment. He whistled a snatch of a Spanish flamenco tune the band had played at the nightclub he'd visited with Miguel the previous evening and smiled, an expression so naturally friendly and open that strangers on the street smiled back at him.
Ruotsalainen was only a little above average height with traces left of a childhood tendency to chubbiness that now showed itself only in his face.
That look of innocent baby-faced openness often caused those who did not know him to dismiss Ruotsalainen as soft. That was a mistake. Rannikkojääkärit training was some of the toughest military training in the world and Ruotsalainen had passed out near the top of his Class of officer candidates. It was an achievement that had seen him rewarded with a twelve month attachment as part of a small team seconded to Spain’s Naval Marines. The recently founded Rannikkojääkärit had sent a few such teams out over the last couple of years and Ruotsalainen counted himself lucky to be part of this one, sent to exotic Ceuta rather than to Britain or to the United States of America.
He turned a corner, drawn by the sights and sounds (and shade, it must be said) of a narrow souk that led in the direction he wished to go. The souk itself, while shady, seethed with pedestrians - while one could hardly say Ceuta’s economy was booming, the markets were always busy, particularly after sunset when it began to cool down. Ruotsalainen edged his way through the crowd, whistling half under his breath, delighted with the pageant. People wore colorful clothing in unfamiliar styles. Many of them chattered in Arabic, Spanish or a mixture of the two: Ceuta was a city which had been Spanish for hundreds of years but arabs still made up a significant part of the population, retaining both their language and their culture. And while Ruotsalainen now spoke Spanish reasonably fluently, the Spanish they spoke here was in an accent strange to Finnish ears. It didn’t help of course that what Spanish he did speak was “military” Spanish, learned on the job over the last six months whilst training and on exercises.
A large man came out of an open doorway, pushing himself into the crowded souk while calling out in rapid-fire Spanish to someone within the building. Ruotsalainen would have avoided the chap if there'd been room for him to dodge but in the crowded souk there wasn't so he set his shoulder instead. It was the larger Spaniard who bounced back with a surprised sounding grunt. No one else took any heed of what was in the end merely a normal hazard of souk life. Ruotsalainen strolled on, eyeing with interest the contents of the myriad small stalls and the shaded shops that opened onto the souk, waving off the attempts of the proprietors to lure an obvious foreigner in. Time enough on another day to browse for presents to take home for his family, that return was still many months away. On this warm summer evening, the agenda was a formal dining in at the Officers Mess of the Legión Española, with himself, the two other Finnish Rannikkojääkärit officers and their counterparts of the Infantería de Marina with whom they had been training as the guests of the Legion. No doubt there would also be representatives from other branches of Spain’s military. It was a dinner that Ruotsalainen anticipated with considerable pleasure.
Still whistling, Ruotsalainen ambled onwards through the souk and eventually onto the Plaza de Colón, finding the Cuartel del Rey without difficulty. He smiled happily at his own skills in navigation and walked jauntily towards the guards at the door. It was bound to be a good dinner and a pleasant and convivial evening, although Spanish politics were also bound to intrude given the current tensions in Madrid. He put that last and rather more unpleasant thought behind him as the guards presented arms. As he saluted in return, his new-found friend and recent comrade-in-arms of the Spanish Marines, Teniente Miguel De Soto, waved a greeting from the shaded coolness of the Guardroom within.
“Hugo, good to see you, I decided to await your arrival and escort you in my friend.”
“Miguel, you’re too good. I have to admit, I was worried my Spanish might not be good enough to gain me entry through the well-defended portals of our esteemed brothers in arms.”
Miguel laughed. “With those grey uniforms of yours, nobody could mistake you for anything other than one of our guests from the land of ice and snow in the far north.”
He gestured at his own colorful uniform, his expression wry. “And our comrades of the Legion are even more resplendent than we of the Marines.”
A voice from behind startled both of them. “Indeed we are cousin, indeed we are.”
It was Hugo’s turn to laugh at the surprised expression on Miguel’s face as they both turned.
“Gutiérrez!”
“None other little cousin. It’s been a year or two.”
“It has, it has. And it’s good to see you again. But before anything else, Hugo, let me introduce my cousin, Gutiérrez Moscoso y Quiroga of the Legion. Gutiérrez, this is my good friend Teniente Hugo Ruotsalainen of the Finnish Marines, here with us to gain some experience in how real marines fight.”
Gutiérrez and Hugo exchanged smiles, each immediately liking what they saw in the other man. Miguel grasped Hugo’s arm with one hand, Gutiérrez’s arm with the other and urged them onwards into the interior of the building.
“Come my friends, drinks are on you Gutiérrez, and tell me what you’re doing in Ceuta. Last I heard you were with the 1st Tercio?”
“I’ve just been promoted and transferred, arrived last night. You are now looking at Capitán Gutiérrez Moscoso y Quiroga of the 2nd Tercio, 5th Bandera, otherwise known as the Cristo de Lepanto in case you were unaware. And you my little cousin, the last I saw of you, you were still a Caballero Cadete.”
“Teniente Miguel De Soto now, Gutiérrez. Although those damn Communists in Madrid have announced that they’re going disband the Infantería de Marina so all my hard work and study may have been in vain. But none of that, here’s the cantina. Hugo, you ARE going to drink GOOD Spanish wine tonight, what do you think we should start him on Gutiérrez?”
“I think perhaps the 1932 Conde de Valdemar Crianza, it’s a good light Rioja.” He smiled at Hugo. “It’s from the Bodegas Valdemar, quite a good vineyard, a good wine to start with, it’s a mix of Spanish grape varietals, ninety percent tempranillo, ten percent mazuelo, I think you’ll enjoy it.”
As it turned out, Hugo did. He’d never drunk wine before his arrival in Spain, but as he’d tried more of it, he found he’d liked it, especially the lighter reds and particularly with the food of Spain. Miguel ordered a plate of tapas from the waiter as they settled into a table. As they drank and talked, the bar gradually filled. Officers of the Legion, resplendid in their mess uniforms, officers of the Infantería de Marina, of the Armada Española and of the Aeronáutica Naval with whom they had been exercising. Last but by no means least, a half dozen officers of the Aeronáutica Española. Among the later arrivals were Hugo’s fellow Rannikkojääkärit officers, Kapteeni xxxx and Luutnantti xxxx. They waved casually to Hugo as they saw each other.
Gutiérrez raised an enquiring eyebrow. “And just what are the Finnish Marines doing in Spain Hugo? I’ve been dying to ask but my natural politeness held me back until I saw there were more of you. But now I find I can no longer restrain my curiosity.”
Hugo smiled. “The short answer, or the long one?”
‘The short my friend, the short. Otherwise my curiosity will kill me.”
“The short answer it is. Finland established the Rannikkojääkärit in 1934 and we’ve expanded from a Battalion to a Brigade over the last two years. When we were set up we didn’t have any real experience with Marine fighting units so it was decided that we’d send small teams of Officers and NCO’s to gain experience with other countries Marine units. We’ve also had some foreign Marines come to Finland but in essence, we come, we train and we study with the Infanteria de Marina and we take the doctrine and tactics back to Finland to see where we can incorporate it into our own doctrine.”
“… We’ve been sending out teams since 1931 actually, to the British Royal Marines, the US Marine Corps, the French Troupes Coloniales, the Italian San Marco Battalion, the Royal Netherlands Marine Corps and we even had a small team with the Infantería de Marina for a few months back in 1932. Now that we have a bit of experience, we’re here to take a second look and see what we missed. In point of fact, it’s the combined arms operations we’re really interested in studying. That operation the Infantería de Marina carried out back in 1925, the Alhucemas landing, that’s a good case in point…..”
And for a long while, the conversation descended into the technicalities of combined operations in a marine environment. They moved on from the bottle of Conde de Valdemar Crianza to sample a 1932 Marques de Riscal Gran Reserva and subsequently a 1931 Marques de Riscal.
“These Rioja’s are damn fine wines.” Hugo swirled the rioja contemplatively in his glass, holding it up to the light before sipping it, copying the others although he had no idea why they were doing it. He was pacing himself, it was going to be a long evening and he had Finnish reputation to uphold.
“Ahh, but the wines of Extramadura, those are the best,” Miguel rhapsodized.
Gutiérrez choked on the wine he was swallowing, then burst out laughing. “You’re going maudlin for home on a single bottle Miguel, life in the Rif must be getting to you.”
Miguel grinned. “Barbarian.” Turning his glance to Hugo, he added, “my family, and that includes Gutiérrez’ branch, comes from Extramadura. There’re some excellent wines there, but most of it’s white. But there are some extremely good reds. Perhaps they have a Garnacha Tintorera we can try.”
Miguel looked around, waved a waiter down. A quiet conversation followed, a shake of the head from the waiter, a shrug from Miguel.
“Alas, no,” Miguel turned back to Hugo. “Perhaps another time.”
Gutiérrez grinned. “You have a month’s leave both of you. Miguel, why don’t you take Hugo up to visit the family?”
Miguel’s expression turned thoughtful. “It’d take us two or three days to get there, at least it did last time I went home. And the same to get back.”
“Ahhh, but I will send a message by telegraph my sister, she is now a pilot with her own aircraft, I’m sure she would like to fly down here and pick you up, then fly back.”
“An aircraft? Consuela?”
“No you idiot, Consuela’s still at school, Elvira, the oldest, she’s the one with the plane!”
“She’s not married yet?”
“No, engaged though, her fiancée’s a politician.” He grinned at Miguel’s look. “Falange. And, I might add, with a seat in the Cortes, although he’s staying away from Madrid these days. Elvira is now a politician herself.”
“Gentlemen, may I interrupt you for a moment?”
So deeply had they been engrossed in their conversation that none of them had been aware of the three men standing beside their table.
“Sir!” Gutiérrez snapped to attention, closely followed by Miguel and Hugo, each of them recognizing the voice of Teniente Coronel Yagüe.
“Senor Winckelmann, Senor Gummerus, allow me to introduce one of our Finnish military guests, Teniente Ruotsolainen, if you will forgive my pronunciation Teniente. And here we find Teniente Miguel de Soto of the Infantería de Marina and lastly, may I introduce another of my officers, Capitán Gutiérrez Moscoso y Quiroga of the 2nd Tercio of the Legion.”
“Gentlemen, a pleasure to meet you both.” Winckelmann’s Spanish was impeccable. Gummerus merely nodded, shaking hands with all three of them and speaking to Ruotsalainen alone, “Your father mentioned you were here, sends his regards, a pleasure to see you again young man.”
Yagüe smiled. “Perhaps you gentlemen can entertain our guests for a few moments. Senor Winckelmann, Senor Gummerus, forgive me, I have a couple of small items I must attend to before dinner.”
“Of course Sir, it will be our pleasure.” Gutiérrez inclined his head.
“I never doubted that for a moment, Capitán.” Yagüe’s tone was dry.
Miguel beckoned a waiter, gestured, additional chairs appeared as if by magic, along with additional wine glasses and a new bottle of the 1931 Marques de Riscal, carefully poured into the waiting glasses.
“When in Rome, Luutnantti,” Gummerus, spoke in Finnish to Ruotsalainen, raising his glass, “although if the truth be known, I do prefer our own Salmiakki Koskenkorva.”
“Indeed sir, so do I, although after a few bottles of this…..” Hugo raised his own glass, translating “When in Rome” into Spanish as he did so. The others raised their glasses and drank.
****************************************
20 July 1936, Seville, Northern Spain
“Hugo, the Reds, they’ve taken Concepcion and two of my cousins, they didn’t get away from the house in time.”
“Which cousins?”
“Consuela and Mercedes”
“Have they told you where they’ve taken them too?”
“They refuse to tell us anything.”
The captured Guardia de Asalto men and the militia men with them showed signs of rigorous but unsophisticated questioning. Split lips, black eyes, numerous contusions, bloody faces. The dozen odd militia women had been separated and were being guarded in their own small group on the other side of the farmyard from the men. Ruotsalainen eyed them coldly. Then looked at Jose.
“Sargento, any of these men or women related to your men?”
Jose spat into the dust. “No, and if they were, we would disown them.”
Hugo ran his eyes over the forty odd men, a mixture of Guardia de Asalto and men in ragged civilian clothes. One in particular drew his eye. He was dressed differently from the rural Guardia, his uniform better tailored. He had a sleek arrogance about him that made him stand out. Hugo looked at Jose, thought about his career in the Rannikkojääkärit, thought about Concepcion in the hands of the Reds. Then laughed coldly. He’d have a career if he escaped this mess, but here he was, two hundred miles from the nearest Nationalist forces, deep behind the Red lines and likely to be executed on the spot if the Reds caught him. The thought of Concepcion in their hands filled him with a cold despair. And what about Miguel’s two cousins, those lovely young women he’d also gotten to know so well. How could he leave without doing something, anything, to find them and ensure their safety? And the other innocents, those whom the Reds had not yet found, those who were safe for the moment, unless the Reds won. How could he ignore their plight? His mind made up, he turned to Jose.
“Sargento, you going to back me up here?”
Jose nodded once. Ruotsalainen drew his M1911 .45 – his personal firearm, the one that he’d trained with since he was a teenage military cadet - and walked over to the arrogant looking Guardia man. The eyes of the seated prisoners followed him as he walked towards them. The arrogant one sneered as he knelt on one knee before him. Without any change to his expression, Ruotsalainen moved the pistol up and around, waited until the barrel touched the bridge of the Guardia’s nose and pulled the trigger as the man’s eyes began to widen with surprise. The .45 bullet dumped all its considerable kinetic energy into the arrogant one’s head, exploding it like a ripe melon, blood and brains and bone blowing out the back of the shattered skull and spraying across the prisoners immediately behind him. Hydrostatic pressure blew his eyeballs out of their sockets in a further spray of blood and severed muscles and nerves, popping them from the man’s head to bounce off Hugo’s chest and fall to the ground. Ruotsalainen smiled as the body toppled backwards to lie in the dust, stood upright, looked at the prisoners and then, very slowly, ground each eyeball under his boot. The pops as they squished under his boot were audible in the silence that followed his single shot.
“Murderer!”
A single cry rang out. Hugo glanced at the prisoners, smiled coldly at them.
“I have one hundred and twenty bullets in my ammo pouches. One of two things is going to happen. Either you tell me where those two girls have been taken and we get them back alive, or every single one of you will die. I’m not going to waste my time torturing you. I will ask you, you will tell me. Or you will die.”
He had to reload his pistol only twice before he was given the information he sought.
**********************************************
21 July 1936, Seville, Northern Spain
They carried four stretchers back to the farmhouse, three of them wrapped in white sheets. The fourth was Miguel. Ruotsalainen walked on one side of Miguel as they carried him, Jose on the other. Once they were back at the old farmhouse, Ruotsalainen knelt beside Miguel where he lay on the improvised stretcher on which the men had carried him back. He was shivering, his face pale, the bandages that wrapped his torso wet with fresh blood. One of the men was kneeling beside him, sponging his face with water, another held one of his hands. Hugo took his place.
“Hugo.” His voice was a whisper of pain. His hand gripped Ruotsalainen’s weakly.
“I’m here Miguel.”
“I’m dying my friend. Is there a priest?”
“No Miguel, no priest, only me.”
“God will understand then.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“You’ll take command of the men? They’ll follow you, Jose gave me his word. Join Franco’s men.”
“Yes, I’ll take command, we’ll make it through.”
“You’ll find my other sisters, take care of them for me. And avenge Concepcion and my cousins.”
Ruotsalainen wept again, tears trickling down his cheeks. Holding Miguel’s hand, he kissed his forehead. “I promise you I will Miguel, I promise you I will have my own vengeance for Concepcion, and I will take vengeance for your cousins.”
Miguel turned his head slightly, his eyes searching Hugo’s face. “Yes, you understand vengeance Hugo, I remember that story you told me.”
“Kullervo?”
“Yes, that one…. Hugo?”
“Yes Miguel.”
“It hurts, it hurts so much, make an end for me, please my friend, I don’t want to die screaming.”
Miguel closed his eyes, groaned with the pain, his body spasming, his hand clamping down on Hugo’s like a vice as a fresh flood of red washed through the bandages that wrapped his torso.
“Go with God Miguel.”
“Go with God Hugo mi amigo.” Miguel’s voice was a tortured whisper.
His hand felt as if it belonged to someone else as he placed the muzzle of his pistol close to Miguel’s head and pulled the trigger. A single shot rang out, disturbing the birds, sending a cloud of them wheeling into the sky. Ruotsalainen bowed his head for a long moment before standing and walking to the other three bodies.
He knelt beside the closets, pulled down the sheet which covered her. He had no idea which of the young women the body had been. It could have been Concepcion or Consuela or Mercedes, there was no way to tell, they’d been beaten to a bloody and featureless pulp, every bone in their bodies broken, the heads smashed into bloody jelly. He bent his head and gently kissed what had once been a face. He said nothing as he stood and walked to the next body, where he did the same. And the next. One of them was his Concepcion. He didn’t want to think about what his beloved had suffered before she died but he knew, he knew. Anguish overwhelmed him, anguish and rage and a cold desire for revenge, for vengeance on those who had so brutally tormented her and then killed her. The thought occurred to him that perhaps this was why his father never talked about the Civil War. This, and what was about to happen next. Standing again, he glanced at Jose, then back to the prisoners, those who had taken his beloved from him.
He made sure he was within earshot of the prisoners before he spoke. “I am a man of my word Sargento. The girls were not recovered alive. Bring the prisoners to me one at a time.”
Jose nodded, gestured to two of his men. They seized the nearest prisoner, dragged him over, struggling and kicking, forced him to his knees. Ruotsalainen removed his M1911 from its holster, placed the muzzle against the back of the prisoners neck, held it there just a second and then he pulled the trigger gently. The shot rang out, the prisoner fell forward to be dragged away and thrown down in the dirt. The next prisoner was already being dragged towards him. Ruotsalainen smiled. Pistol shots rang out in a slow rhythm, each shot momentarily silencing the birds that sang in the olive groves outside the farmhouse courtyard.
Some screamed for mercy, some pleaded, some struggled, some acquiesced mutely, some went to their deaths proudly. One by one, they died. The shots gradually silenced the chorus of screams and pleas for mercy, screams and pleas that Ruotsalainen ignored until at last there were no more, just a pile of limp bodies surrounded by a cloud of flies and sitting in a pool of blood that the dry earth soaked up thirstily. Ruotsalainen eyed them coldly, then turned to Jose.
“Sargento, have some of your men bury the girls and Senor Miguel, bury them together where we can find them when we return, throw the Reds into the manure pile and leave them for the crows. How many men do we have now Sargento?”
“One hundred fifty six men Sir.”
“Weapons?”
“Rifles for all Sir. We captured enough from those …” he gestured with his head “and from the town to ensure everyone has a rifle and forty rounds.”
“How many with military experience.”
“Not many. Fifteen. I have made them all Cabo Primeros.”
“Good work. Now, how many of them know how to clean and shoot their rifles?”
“The men with military experience Sir, a dozen of the others, men who hunt.”
“Do you think we can find more recruits around here?”
Jose shrugged. “Perhaps Sir. Perhaps another fifty by nightfall if God wills it. I’d need to send runners out to find them though.”
“Do that. Another fifty men and we’ll have enough to clear the next town of Reds before we move on. After that we’ll fall back into the hills and make our way towards the frontline, wherever that is.”
He thought for a moment himself. “Yes, send out the runners for men. Then detail half a dozen of the women to find food, we need a supplies for the men, some packhorses or small carts to carry it. And see if anyone can find a radio. I will spend the rest of today training the men on the rifles, we’ll move out early tomorrow morning and take the next town, give the damn Reds a surprise, give them their own medicine. Do you have anyone you can send in to find out where the Guardia de Asalto are, how many men they have, whose supporting them, all the information they can gather.”
***********************************
Like I said, snippets. First cuts, lots of rewriting ahead. How does it grab you?
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
Snippets from Taistelu Petsamon
Taistelu Petsamon
Synkeä, kylmä on talviyö, (The winter night is bleak and cold)
Hyisenä henkii itä. (There is an icy breath from the east)
Siell’ ovat orjuus ja pakkotyö; (Over there is slavery and forced labour)
tähdet katsovat sitä. (the stars look down and see)
Kaukaa aroilta kohoaa (Far away on the Steppe rises)
Iivana Julman haamu. (The ghost of Ivan the Terrible)
Turman henki, se ennustaa: (A spirit of doom is at work, auguring that
verta on näkevä aamu. (the morning shall see blood)
from Rajalla (“The Border”)
1700, 29 November 1937, Kola District, near the Finnish Border, USSR
The arctic night was bleak and cold. Winter had laid its icy breath on the land. Winter lay heavier still on the soldiers in the back of the beaten up old Gaz truck rattling and shaking down the “road” west from Murmansk.
“Where the devil are we?” Lieutenant Ilya Oblomov peered out from the back of the truck that had carried them the entire distance from Murmansk to the border in painful discomfort.
“Damned if I know.” Lieutenant Andrey Stoltz peered past him, his mitten-clad hand reaching past Oblomov to widen the narrow gap.
“Pull that damn canopy closed.” One of the nameless soldiers huddled further back expressed muttered disapproval of the sudden draft of cold air let in by the gap in the canvas. Stoltz looked back, his expression suddenly sharp. Before he could say anything, the truck jerked to a halt to the accompaniment of a vocal chorus of cursing from the men packed in with the sacks of whatever it was.
The canopy was jerked open from the outside. The young Sergeant-Driver grinned up at them, his breath steaming in the frozen air.
“Everybody out, you’re here.”
He sounded unbearably cheerful. Probably because he was riding in the heated cab, Oblomov thought sourly. Stoltz was out first, jumping to the icy ground. Oblomov passed Stoltz his rucksack, handed him his own and then jumped himself, almost falling on the icy track before Stoltz steadied him with a hand. Behind him, the men followed one by one, no-one hurrying. Inside the rear of the truck it was cold, outside, without the shelter of the canvas and the piles of sacks, the icy wind pierced his winter uniform as if it wasn’t there. He could feel himself starting to shiver.
“Where’s here,” Oblomov muttered.
The young Sergeant pointed. “There’s your unit Comrade Lieutenant, over there.”
He turned and walked back to the cab, climbed in. All Oblomov could see was a pile of snow in the distance with footprints everywhere. In fact, all he could see anywhere was snow and ice and rocks. The truck was already pulling away, taking its load of supplies who knew where, leaving them out here alone in a desolate waste. The men were looking expectantly at him, dammit. All he wanted was his bed and a warm blanket roll to sleep in somewhere out of the wind and the cold. Stoltz shouldered his rucksack and took charge as he always did, much to Oblomov’s relief.
“Right men, follow me.”
Oblomov followed, along with the rest, grateful that Stoltz had taken charge. He led them towards the pile of snow, following what was by the looks of it a well-beaten trail, although to Oblomov it looked like one trail among many. As they drew closer, it became more evident that the pile of snow was in fact some kind of snow-covered building. As they drew nearer still, a muffled shape emerged and stood watching them as they plodded closer still.
“Who’re you?” The question was disinterested.
“Lieutenants Stoltz and Oblomov with a party of replacements for the xth Battalion, xxth Regiment,” Stoltz barked.
“Well, you’re screwed like the rest of us then,” the muffled figure said, gesturing with one hand. “Go on in before you freeze to death out here.”
It turned and walked back inside. Stoltz followed, then Oblomov, the men crowding in behind them.
Hood thrown back, a lined and weary face looked at them. “Lieutenant Ivan Matveyevich. Come with me, the CO will be glad to see you two.” He looked at the men. “You men can wait here.” They were already huddled around the small stove that gave the room, evidently part of an old stone house, the little warmth it possessed. Still, thought Oblomov, it was out of that damned wind. He turned to follow Matveyevich and Stoltz, stooping to get through the doorway.
“Captain,” Matveyevich said, “Here’s our two replacement officers, Stoltz and Oblomov.”
The CO stood up. “Captain Maxim Maximovich” he said. “Matveyevich, get some tea for everyone. Pass me your orders and then have a seat.”
Gratefully, Oblomov passed the Captain his orders and sat on the wooden bench indicated. Stoltz sat beside him, looking eager and expectant, the way Stoltz always did. Just looking at Stoltz’s enthusiasm left Oblomov feeling exhausted. He thought of his bedroll again with longing.
“Oblomov is it? And Stoltz?” Captain Maximovich looked at his papers and then at the two of them. “Straight from Cadet School is it?”
“Yes Comrade Captain.” Oblomov shivered. Stoltz echoed his response.
The Captain looked at them, looked at their papers, sat there thinking.
“Oblomov.” Oblomov tried to stop his teeth chattering. Maximovich nodded, seemingly confirming his own decision to himself. “Comrade Captain Vorodin froze to death a week ago, went out on patrol, never came back, we found him the next day, him and his patrol, all of them frozen solid. That Company needs an Officer, hasn’t got one at all. I’ll have a messenger take you to them later, after the briefing. The replacements can go with you.”
“A briefing Comrade Captain?” Oblomov couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering.
“Yes Comrade Lieutenant, a briefing. We’re liberating Finland in the morning. You got here just in time.”
“Stoltz.”
Stoltz looked even more attentive than usual.
“I’m giving you the Assault Pioneers Platoon. Your men will be leading the column in the morning. Intelligence doesn’t expect much in the way of resistance, the Finns have almost no troops up here, maybe a Battalion at most, we’re going to move over the border at oh six hundred hours and head down the road. Any resistance, we’ll bring in the tanks and artillery, move out on their flanks and envelope them or run them over.”
Maximovich smiled. “We expect to be in Rovaniemi in a week. Questions?”
Stoltz raised a hand. “Where’s Rovaniemi?”
A shrug. “Just follow the road, there’s only one, just like here. We’ve been told we’ll get maps soon. In the meantime, we just move across the border and keep going south with the road.”
Matveyevich returned with canteens filled with tea. All of them cradled the hot canteens in their hands, sipping, grateful for the warmth. After a long pause, Captain Maximovich resumed.
“Problems. And understand, you keep these to yourselves. I’ve lost two or three officers since we moved up to the front here because they were unwise in their comments. Best keep your mouths shut.”
They all nodded. Even Officers just out of Cadet School knew to be careful these days.
“One. The Division was understrength when we were sent here and we’ve been brought up to strength with whatever was available. Half the men are semi-trained conscripts, they’ve been taught to march and to shoot but not much else. About a quarter are straight off the streets of Leningrad, they were rounded up to make up the Divisional strength. They don’t know one end of a rifle from the other. Not much we can do about that, but it means problems for you and for the NCO’s and for the rest of the men.”
Maximovich shrugged. “Not our decision to make, you understand, it came from the top. But I have been advised that it’s not an excuse for failure and that the decision should not be questioned. The men are highly motivated and we conduct daily political awareness meetings.”
Neither Stoltz nor Oblomov bothered to ask where the “advice” came from.
“Two. The weather. If you haven’t noticed, it’s damn cold up here and we’re short on winter clothing for this kind of cold. It was minus thirty five last night, today it’s warm, only minus twenty. We’re losing men to the cold every day, especially the ones that have no training and not enough winter clothing. And you wouldn’t believe what it does to the equipment, the damn rifles ice up when you go outside, if you touch bare metal, your skin’s going to freeze to it, we lose sentries every night to the cold and their replacements won’t go out to look for them because they’re scared of freezing to death themselves. You’re going to have to work with your NCO’s to train them in how to survive up here, keep them moving, make sure they have shelter. And hot food, we’ve got enough Field Kitchens with us. You need to make sure the men have plenty of hot food and drink. Yourselves too. You need to learn, and learn fast.”
‘Three. We’re moving into Finland to liberate them tomorrow morning. That’s no time at all for you to prepare. Oblomov, your Company Sergeant-Major has the orders, you can go through them with him when you’re up with the men. Nothing complex, we’re just doing a route march across the border, cross-country, parallel to the road. You’re CSM’s a good man, follow his advice. Stoltz, your Platoon is leading and marking the route for the Battalion, you’ve got good NCO’s and good men, all trained. Take your Sergeant’s advice, he knows what to do.”
“Now, as for communications, you’ve all got messengers, use them to send messages to me at the Headquarters Company if we do run into any opposition but just remember, if you run into a Finnish patrol and they fight, attack right away. Throw everything into the attack, the rest of the Battalion will be right behind you. We have to move and keep moving. Nothing fancy, just keep moving forward, that’s all we have to do. Even the untrained men should be able to do that. Any questions now? Yes Stoltz?
“Artillery and air support Comrade Captain?”
“Lots of it. And tanks too, on the road at least. They’ll be moving forwards with us, lots of second echelon infantry as well. We’ve got two Divisions on the front here. And two more coming in by sea. That should be more than enough to roll up any Finns that’re hanging around. Now, time for you two to move up to your units.”
Maximovich looked around, raised his voice. “Zakhar, come here man.”
************************************************** **
04h10, 30 November 1939, Lapland Group Headquarters
“Seppo, Signals Intelligence intercept, the Russians are going to attack at 0600 hours today.”
The young Signals Lotta-Luutnantti stood in the doorway of the Operations Room, her eyes wide. Kapteeni Rintala read the message quickly, turned to the Duty NCO
“Vaapeli, full security alert, put HQ on war-footing immediately, roust the cooks out and tell them to get breakfast going.”
“Herra.”
Rintala turned and strode to the back corner of the old stone farmhouse where Kenralimajuri Kurt Wallenius slept fully dressed under an old blanket on an even older field stretcher, snoring loudly. Not particularly gently, he shook Wallenius awake. He was a heavy sleeper, not least when he’d downed a few snorts before hitting the sack, which was pretty much every night. It never slowed him down though, even when he hit it hard, but it did take a good shake to wake him up.
“Herra, Signals Intelligence intercept, the Russians are about to attack.”
Wallenius was awake instantly, groaning as he rolled off the stretcher and onto his feet, stretched, joints cracking.
“Kahvi.”
He held out his hand. The operations room orderly handed him a mug, already filled, strong and black, no sugar, hot but not too hot to drink immediately. Wallenius gulped it down, dipped his head into the bucket of cold water on the old wooden chair next to the stretcher, scrubbed his face with his hands, then wiped his head with the blanket he’d been sleeping under.
“Right Rintala, what’s Intelligence say?”
“They intercepted a message in clear. The 14th Army ordered the Northern Fleet destroyer Karl Libnekt to begin an artillery barrage on the Finnish positions at 0600 hours. We know Karl Libnekt is in Motka Bay, western end of the Motov Gulf. Intelligence assessment is that they’re going to provide covering fire for an attack on the Isthmus between the Srednyi and Rybachii peninsulas, ground reconnaissance has also spotted Russian troop movements that indicate an attack’s coming. Confirms what we already know but now we have a firm time.”
“Sounds reasonable. When did we intercept the message?”
“0400 hours Herra, ten minutes ago.”
“Good man. Report any more intercepts immediately.”
“I’ve ordered HQ to war-footing and put out a perimeter security alert.”
Wallenius nodded. Strode across the room to the map table, Rintala in his wake.
“Send out an immediate alert to all Lapland Group units. AND I MEAN IMMEDIATE! Advise all units to expect the Russians to attack at any time from now on. All units are to go to full alert, war posture, NO EXCEPTIONS. Tell them this is not an exercise and I’ll personally shoot any sorry bastard that thinks I’m joking!”
“Herra!”
The Signals Luutnantti was already on the move. As she headed out the door, Wallenius bellowed after her. “Call Mikkeli and advise them of the signals intercept content and the intelligence assessment. Advise Mikkeli that we are going to a war footing immediately with all units on full alert and in initial defense positions. Follow that up with a general advisory to all other Groups.”
“Herra!” came faintly from down the narrow hallway.
Headquarters became a madhouse within the minute as men and women rushed to their posts, field telephones rang, voices spoke into radios. Within five minutes all was normal, hushed voices, dim red lights, clouds of cigarette smoke. Preparations had all been put in place and the various alternatives rehearsed. Every unit had up to date orders, knew what to do, knew what they were responsible for, all units had acknowledged back. With the alert sent, there was little more for headquarters to do other than wait.
Almost as an afterthought, Wallenius looked around for the Navy and Air Force liaison officers.
“You two, a moment of your time.”
“Herra!”
“Those two submarines of ours out there, tell them the Russians are going to attack any moment and they are authorized from receipt of my message to sink anything Russian they see if they can do it without being seen. Once the Russians attack, update them right away and tell them it’s open season on the bastards. I know I’m not naval chain of command but I’ll take responsibility for the order until Naval HQ confirms.”
“Herra!”
“One more thing. You’ve got some of those Rannikkojaakarit frog-boys at Liinahamari, right?”
“Yes Herra?”
“Think they can capture that damn Russian destroyer in Motka Bay?”
“They do that sort of thing before breakfast Herra! Can I tell them to go ahead?”
“Get to it woman, tell them to go and don’t bother me with that Herra nonsense again. Tell them I’d like some good news before breakfast then, and breakfast is 7am around here. Seriously, if they can do it without major risk to the team, go ahead. How and when is up to them of course.”
“You, I want the Air Force to get out there as soon as there’s enough light and sink those damn Russian minesweepers that seem to think they can float around off Petsamo. Cheeky bastards. If they do it before the Russians start shooting at us that’ll be even better.”
“On to it Herra.”
“Good girl. Now, where the hell is that kahvi, I need another one.”
“Here Herra.” The orderly was already there. She’d been with Wallenius in his headquarters for a few weeks now, enough to know the old man’s idiosyncrasies. Non-stop kahvi in the early morning was just one of them.
04h25, 30 November 1939, somewhere near the Russo-Finnish border, Petsamo district
A hand came through the entrance to the tent, bringing a gust of frigid air with it. The hand shook Alikersantti Latvala awake. “Perkele, wake up man.”
“Saatana, what is it? Another damn exercise? This is too early for even a sparrow to fart!”
“Message just came down to Komppania from Pataljoona HQ. The Russkies are going to attack this morning at oh six hundred. Get your rhyma up and into position. Pataljoona says this is the real thing, full war alert, we’re going to war positions, not the usual. Full ammo load, in fact the boss says all the ammo you can carry, when they attack, we’ll need it. You get that?”
Latvala was wide awake, shaking the shoulder of the sleeper next to him as he spoke.
“Helvetti, they’re attacking. Right, right, rhyma up and into position, war positions, lots of ammo.”
“Good, I’m off to the next rhymaa. Good luck Matti.”
“Good luck yourself.” And then his brother was gone as silently as he’d arrived, invisible in the snow and the darkness.
“Full war alert, we’re going to war positions, not the usual. Take all the ammo you can carry. You all get that?”
“Got it.”
That was all that was needed.
Latvala could hear the rustling as blankets were rolled and tied to rucksacks, men buckled on their lohikäärme vuota, donned their greatcoats and hats and scarves and helmets, slipped on their boots and lastly, over everything their enveloping white snowsuits and then their combat webbing. A last quick check by touch to see nothing had been left lying around and then he was the last out of the tent, fishing his Suomi off the rack outside the flap. Behind him the tent came down in seconds, folded, tied down and packed on the sled with the other rhymaa equipment. A hiss as the stove was cooled off and then it was in its box and on the sled and the men were slipping their rucks on, slinging rifles and SMG’s, slipping into their skis and the entire rhyma was on the move, skis hissing across the snow as they moved off in single file. Less than ten minutes had passed since receiving the warning, never a word spoken since the order had been passed. They moved down the trail with unhurried speed, whispering forward towards the border, towards their war positions right on the border, as silently and invisibly as wraiths in the snow and the darkness. Around them, along the northern border, silently and invisibly, an entire Division was on the move
And in the exercise positions, the ones that they’d made sure the Russkies would be able to spot, Mannerheimin velhot, Mannerheim’s Wizards, the deception units, were already hard at work…….
04h22, 30 November 1939, Observation Hide Echo One-Nine, somewhere else near the Russo-Finnish border but further south, Petsamo district
“Perkele! What are we doing here anyhow Kersantti?”
Ahonen was getting a bit more than frustrated. He’d joined the Border Guards because he liked moving around in the forests, living outdoors on the move, especially in winter. He’d welcomed a posting to Lapland for the summer and winter and to start with, it’d been a ball. Patrols along the border, checking in with remote farms and with the Sami, the reindeer herders. Halfway through that first summer, Ahonen had been part of a small detail that had built this Observation Hide. The Pioneeri NCO that had come with them had taught them a considerable amount about finding good locations for observation hides. And then when they’d settled on an obscure and almost impossible to find location, they’d built the hide whilst also concealing any sign that they were there.
Ahonen had learnt more than he’d ever dreamed of about ways to rather cleverly design and conceal an observation hide in the unlikeliest of places halfway up a bare mountainside where they could see for miles. And then they’d set it up with dumps of supplies without being spotted or leaving any trace. That’d been fun. The hide had been in a place no one in their right minds would want to be in. It was exposed, windswept, a hell of a place to hide in winter and swarming with mosquitoes in summer. Despite that, it had been a masterpiece of construction. They used the natural features of the site – built deep into a crevice in the rocks, dug in well underground at the cost of excavating more of those same rocks by hand, roofed over with logs and rock and soil and natural vegetation that had been meticulously replanted. It was carefully vented with cooking to be carried out only in the darkest hours of the night and on the small stoves provided, any heat carefully ducted through half a dozen different outlets to prevent any visible plumes of heated air. Water supplies in summer came in through a concealed underground pipe. Food was stored in a deep shelter and the hide had two different concealed escape routes in the event that one of the three minute observation points was spotted.
Ahonen had been quite proud of the hide when they’d finished it. Little had he dreamt that when war looked as if it was going to break out, he’d be ordered into the damn thing as part of a four-man observation team. In his daydreams, Ahonen had seen himself hunkered down in a heroic stand against the Russians, shooting them down by the hundreds, the object of admiration from his fellows and respect from his NCO’s and Officers. It had been a nice thought, however unlikely. Instead, here he was hiding in a hole in the rocks. A hole he’d been in for four weeks without respite. Four weeks with the same four faces, the same jokes and he was getting heartily fed-up with the whole thing.
“Saatana, we’ve spent four weeks here and we haven’t seen or heard a damn thing. We’re out the ass-end of nowhere.”
Kersantti Jutila chuckled. “That’s the beauty of it Ahonen. We’re out here in the ass-end of nowhere, we don’t get bombed, we don’t get shelled, we don’t get shot at. We just lie here and eat and shit and watch the wildlife and radio in a couple of times a day. And if the Russkies do come, why, they don’t even know we’re here and they don’t come looking for us.”
"I just don't see the point of it, Kersantti," said Sotamies Hanka, whom Ahonen had come to know far better than he wanted too.
"Well," said the Kersantti, "Think about it, Hanka. As long as the Russians aren’t here, which Headquarters will know as long as we keep sending in reports on our radio schedule, then they must be somewhere else. Clear?"
"No, Kersantti." Even with his eyes closed, Ahonen could see the expression of baffled puzzlement on Hanka’s face. It annoyed Ahonen that he too was puzzled.
“Sataana, Kersantti, I just don’t get it.” Hanka finally gave voice to his puzzlement.
“Think about it Hanka. How many observation teams like ours do you think there are scattered around the border? I have no idea but I doubt we’re the only ones, probably a lot more. And for all we know, there’re teams like us over the border on their side as well. And they more than likely all report in like us, a couple of times a day. So headquarters knows from all of us where the Russians are not. So knowing where the Russians aren’t gives headquarters a damn good idea of where they probably are.”
Ahonen thought about it. Damn smart idea when you thought about it like that. Even if he didn’t like being here, he could see the point now. Not that it made him like being here any better. He nestled down inside his blankets, deciding he might as well go back to sleep until it was his turn to go on watch. Hanka snorted, his snort conveying exactly what he thought about the idea that watching nothing happening the miserable rock and snow and ice-covered landscape outside the hide had any merit whatsoever.
“We don't need to watch around here Kersantti, nobody else is stupid enough to be here, including the Russians."
"Well, sure," Jutila shrugged. "But still, you never know."
“Still don’t see the point,” Hanka grumbled. “But I’m a grunt, I just do what I’m told.”
Jutila chuckled. “Damn straight Hanka, you got that right. I’m going make some fresh kahvi. Anyone else?”
“Thanks Kersantti,” Hanka sounded happy. He was usually the one told to make the kahvi.
“Ahonen?”
“Yeah, sure Kersantti.”
Dammit. Wide awake now. He checked his watch. 0422. Far too early but a hot kahvi before his stint on watch started at 0500 would be great. Jutila slid out of his bedroll and crawled down the tunnel to the “kitchen”. It was a relief to be moving, even though it was like a damn freezer back here. He lit up the stove in its rocky recess, waited until the burner was going nicely then carefully hung the pot of water above the flame. While he waited for it to boil, he did a quick survey of the ration boxes stacked against the far wall for about the hundredth time. The hide had held tinned and dried rations for four men for ninety days, almost 1,100 meals – and they’d worked through about a third of that. But what was left was still quite a pile given that much of it WAS in tins. And it included a few “luxuries” as well – including small daily ration of vodka. The planners had decided the men in these hides needed a few extras to stop them going crazy, confined in a tight space underground, possibly for weeks on end. He grinned as he tried to decide what to add to the kahvi this morning. A shot of vodka? Wouldn’t do any harm, and Mantyla would appreciate it after he came down off watch. And it wouldn’t harm Ahonen, that boy could hold his own when it came to serious drinking.
04h35, 30 November 1939, Finnish Submarine Valkohai, 12 miles north of Petsamo Harbour.
“Message from Lapland Group Naval Liaison Officer Herra. It’s urgent.”
Kapteeni Jarvela groaned as a hand shook him from what had been a deep sleep, then came awake instantly, sitting up on the hard berth and reaching for the kahvi that Kangas had brought in along with the message transcript. The kahvi was sweetened with condensed milk. Hot but not too hot, the first gulp woke him up. Sitting with the code book, Jarvela worked painstakingly through the message. Finished, he locked the codebook away in the small safe and reread the message. There was a certain amount of grim satisfaction in the content. He left his “cabin” by the simple expedient of drawing the curtain aside, stepping into the control room and eying the Third Officer, who had the watch.
“Well Ranta, may as well tell you first.”
He raised an eyebrow at the sudden alertness in the control room.
“Intelligence advises the Russians are planning to attack Finland this morning at 0600 hours. We’re authorized to sink anything Russian we see from this moment on.”
On the spur of the moment, Jarvela decided not to pass on the “without being seen” qualifier. He’d make that decision himself if and when it was required. He grinned and looked around the control room. “It’s open season on the bastards, gentlemen. So keep your eyes peeled and your ears wide open. I want to know if you even suspect you’ve seen or heard something.”
He eyed Ranta. “I’m going aft to advise the engine room first, then forward. We’ll tell the sleepers when we change watch.”
“Yes Herra.”
04h40, 30 November 1939, Ilmavoimat Lapland Group, Forward Air Strip, Nautsi
“Out of those nice warm fart sacks Herra’s and not-so Herra’s.”
The Vaapeli’s roar was unmistakable as he strode down the close-set rows of field stretchers, his baton indiscriminately attacking officers, NCO’s and men alike.
Flying Officer Hamalainen heard someone ask what he wanted to know. “Helvetti, what’s going on then?”
“CO wants everyone in the Mess Hall in ten minutes, we’ve got a mission. Russkies are about to attack so don’t hang about. Rattle those dags you lazy young buggers.”
Hamalainen groaned as he emerged from the warmth of his nest of blankets into the freezing interior of the old shed they were packed into like sardines. Lucky he’d slept in most of his clothes and kept his flying suit in bed with him to stop it from freezing. Along with his boots. Others hadn’t and the curses were almost funny to listen to as they dressed hurriedly in clothes that were stiff from the cold. Then a quick trot across the farmyard, breathe steaming in the cold air as he made his way into the old barn that had been pressed into duty as the “Mess Hall.” He got a cup of kahvi on the way in, so the Vaapeli must have woken up the cooks first. Sometimes he almost liked the old git.
All hundred and fifty of them assembled, the CO looked around and grinned cheerfully.
“Right ladies and gentlemen, time to get down to work. Intelligence says the Russians are going to attack us this morning. There’s some Russian minesweepers hanging around off Petsamo, our orders are to sink the bastards right away, war or no war. And we’re it so no damned grumbling, the rest of the Ilmavoimat’s going to be rather busy and this is no suicide mission so no complaints. You hear me! Our Harts are ideal for this kind of mission and we’ve got our fighter boys along to scratch our backs if we need ‘em.”
The fighter boys tried to look tough, instead they just looked worried. The dozen odd Bristol Bulldogs were as old and outclassed as their pilots were young and inexperienced, right out of Flight School and only assigned here because it was expected to be a “quiet” sector where they could get in a bit more experience flying.
“Now, you groundcrew, I want those Harts bombed up and ready to go two hours ago. Maximum bomb and fuel load. Fighters, maximum fuel and ammo load. Clear?”
“Yes Herra!” That was the old Luutnantti in charge of the groundcrew. Old bastard was as hard as nails, as hard as the old Vaapeli for that matter, if he said yes, it was gonna happen.
“You fighter boys, you’re covering the Harts, Intelligence can’t tell us if there’s any air cover for those Russian boats, but we know the Russians have plenty of fighters based out of Murmansk. If we go in early, chances are we’ll have a clear run. And Petsamo is a long way from Murmansk. Your job is to keep them off the Harts if they do show up. Whatever it takes. Clear?”
The fighter boys nodded, worried expressions on their young faces. Their CO, an older instructor who was still pissed at being up here with the kiddies instead of down where the real fighting was going to be, looked around at them.
“YES HERRA!”
The CO grinned at their sudden parade-ground enthusiasm. “Now, the objective is to sink those half dozen minesweepers the Russians have kept just outside Petsamo Fjord. We’re going to hit them as soon as it’s light enough to see the target. Hart’s will dive bomb from 5,000 feet. We’ll do it in line, go straight down, take our time, once one’s going down, move on to the next.”
He thought for a moment.
“Each aircraft’ll be fitted with two 250 pounders, if there’s no Russkie fighters we’ll make two runs each, drop one bomb on each run.”
“We can sink them before they attack us?”
“Those are the orders.” The CO looked at the message he was holding. “From Wallenius.”
“Does it say whether he was sober when he sent it?”
A ripple of laughter rang around the crowded room. The CO shrugged. Then grinned. “I asked. He was. Liaison Officer told me it’s genuine. And just so’s you all know, Intelligence says that the intelligence that the Russians are going to attack this morning is the real thing. And now that you know that much, be sure to shoot yourself if it looks like you’re going to be taken prisoner. That good enough?”
“So it’s going to be war then?”
“Sounds like it, and Wallenius wants us to get a few knocks in first.”
“Good enough for me. I’m beginning to like the man.”
The CO grinned. “Like him or not, he’s the boss. Now jump to it everyone, we take off as soon as all the aircraft are ready.”
04h40, 30 November 1939, Rannikkojaakarit Detachment, Liinahamari,
It wasn’t quite the mission Luutnantti Haapala had been expecting, but he was more than happy to get the order. This was the kind of thing his men lived for and this time it wasn’t just a practice mission, it was real. Kersantti Marttila had gotten the men roused as soon as the phone call came in. They were already more than half kitted up, alert, most of them drinking kahvi and eating bread and sausages as they prepped their equipment.
“Listen up men, we’ve got a mission. There’s a Russian destroyer floating around the western end of the Motov Gulf, our orders are capture the bastard right away, take it over, bring it back here. We’re going to do it. We’ve rehearsed this a hundred times and you all know what to do.”
Haapala looked at his watch. “Five floatplanes’re on their way here, they’ll take us and the boats and drop us into the Motov Gulf, we take it from there just the way we’ve practiced. Everyone kit up with ship assault gear. Any questions?”
“Type of ship Herra?”
“Helvetti, didn’t I mention that?” Haapala grinned. “You know that old Estonian destroyer we trained on a few times, the one the Eesti’s captured from the Bolsheviks back in 1918?”
“The Vambola?”
“Just so. Well, our target is the Karl Libnekt, she’s a sister ship to Vambola, built to the same design, Putilov yard, Orfey class destroyer. Should be more or less identical inside.”
“Helvetti, that’s good news.”
“Always save the best for last, that’s me. Now, it’s a ship assault off the rigid inflatables and we’re being carried in by floatplane, so pack a ship assault load, five boats, lots of ammo. And before you ask, no prisoners unless they try really really hard to surrender, we don’t need ‘em, Intelligence don’t want ‘em. We capture than damned destroyer and bring her back.”
“Question Herra. Why’re we attacking her? Won’t that provoke the Russians?”
“Those are the orders.” The CO looked at the message he was holding. “From Wallenius.”
“Does it say whether he was sober when he sent it?”
Haapala shrugged. “Who gives a shit, we got the order right here. Liaison Officer who passed the order on told me Signals Intelligence picked up a radio signal from the 14th Army ordering the Karl Libnekt to begin an artillery barrage at 0600 hours this morning. Intelligence says the barrage is to support an on the Isthmus between the Srednyi and Rybachii peninsulas. That good enough?”
“Yes Herra. Not questioning the orders Herra, just interested.”
“Good man. Now, everyone finish getting kitted up and get the boats and gear outside while I go teach my grandmother to suck eggs. We haven’t got long.”
The last sentence was superfluous. The joukkue dissolved, first into laughter and then into furious activity. Haapala was as busy as the rest of them. He was already wearing his “Pirellii”, the formfitting rubber dive suit made by Nokia that acted both as a flotation aid and as insulation from the extreme cold. Thick form fitting rubber boots made of the same stretch material had to be worked onto the feet. Lohikäärme vuota on over the top – the body armour was a little restrictive but with a ship assault, the risk of ricochets of the steel that most of a destroyer was made of justified the additional weight and restriction to movement. A black woolen hat to keep the head warm, then the close-fitting black oilskin fabric/woolen twill waterproof overalls with their multitude of equipment and magazine pockets. Lightweight helmet made from the same layered material as the body armour. Assault Webbing over the top of everything.
Check the backup pistols strapped in their holsters, one on each thigh. Safety on, magazine full, extra round up the spout, spare clips all loaded and secure. Reserve pistol in its underarm holster, also loaded. Suomi across the chest on its special sling with a clip through the trigger guard tying it to his harness in case the sling came loose. Combat knives in their sheaths, one in each boot, another on each of his arms, fifth on this thigh. Hukari down his back in its special sheath. Ammo in the Suomi drums, last check that it was the special ship-assault sub-sonic frangible ammo that would disintegrate inside the target rather than going right through, reducing the risk of ricochets bouncing around once the shooting started. Bouncers were always a risk in ship assaults. Tikkakoski-Maxim silencer for the Suomi in its pouch. Screw it on the barrel once on the ship, it added a bit too much to the length of the weapon to fit on before the climb up the side.
Explosives for blowing hatches. Grenades and flash-bangs, flares, flashlights, including the one that fastened on to the top of the matt-black Suomi. Combat gloves on, waterproof mittens for the boat ride in their special pocket. Face blackening, blackening on any skin that might become exposed, grease to protect skin from the freezing cold, goggles to protect the eyes. Kitted up, they looked like a joukkue of baby bears, without any of the cuddliness. They were ready within ten minutes, carrying the lightweight rigid-inflatable boats and the not so lightweight outboard motors to the seaplane ramp. Sure enough, the transport was already there, five of the old xxxx floatplanes.
“One boat crew to each aircraft, strap the boats on.”
The command wasn’t really needed. They all knew exactly what to do. They’d done this a hundred times before in training. No need to mention speed, that was a given. The men worked fast, they’d rehearsed this until they could do it blindfold in the pitch darkness of a winters night.
While the men were at work, the pilots, co-pilots, loaders and Haapala huddled in a group. He knew them all from exercises over the autumn.
“Not much time for this, you men know the objective, leave it to you how you get us there in one piece.”
The pilots looked at each other. The flight leader nodded, mission face on.
“Already worked that out, we’re going up Petsamo Fjord, get some height, turn, cut the engines and glide in straight over the Isthmus and then down the gulf, get you as close as we can to the objective without being heard or seen and put you down quiet like. Waves and enemy permitting, we’ll hold our takeoff until you hit the objective to keep the engine noise down.”
“Works for me. Let’s get moving.”
The boats were already strapped on to the underside of the aircraft, the men scrambling inside as the conclave broke up, everyone heading for their respective aircraft at a jog. Speed, always speed.
Two of Haapala’s men pulled him in through the hatch, last man in, it slammed shut after him. The engine stuttered, choked, fired up, the xxx pulled away from the hard. Haapala couldn’t see a thing out the small window as they bounced in the light chop, but then that was about standard for the course when you took off in the middle of the damned night. He relaxed back into the seat, eyes closed, rehearsing the mission in his mind. Forty five minutes after the order had first been received, five floatplanes lifted off from Liinahamari in formation, flying northwards up Petsamo Fjord and climbing hard. The Rannikkojaakarit were on the move.
05h13, 30 November 1939, Finnish Submarine Valkohai, 20 miles north of the Rybachii Peninsula.
“Kapteeni, Herra! Something in the water.”
In three seconds Jarvela had crossed the control room and was at his side.
“Object in the water bearing Green 20.”
Jarvela took over the periscope at the same moment as the hydrophone operator reported “Diesel engine on the bearing.”
He peered through the periscope, whistled softly. The object in the water was the conning-tower of a submarine, lifting and dipping in the gentle swell, the casing momentarily visible as it rode each wave, silhouetted clearly in the moonlight.
“Everyone to action stations.”
The command was passed quietly by voice throughout Valkohai, sending men to their combat positions, moving past one another with the unhurried haste of long familiarity with the crowded confines of their submarine.
“Target distance two miles, estimate speed 5 knots. Target is a Russian sub.”
Definitely Russian. The only other Finnish submarine up here was Miekkavalas and she was off Murmansk, watching and waiting. Besides, that Conning Tower profile was Russian, a D-class for sure. There wasn’t much time.
“Both engines, full ahead together. Hard-a-starboard. Sixty feet. The bearing is that! I am eighty degrees on his starboard bow. …. Bring all tubes to the ready. … Give me a course for a 120 degree track.”
Valkhohai surged forward, accelerating to her full under-water speed of nine knots to close the range and going deep to avoid disturbing the surface water. At three minutes, Jarvela ordered “Both engines slow, thirty two feet” and waited as the Number One brought her to periscope depth.
“Raise periscope.”
The target had altered course to starboard, drawing closer and putting Valkohai in an even better firing position, with Valkohai forward of his beam and range closing fast. The atmosphere grew tense, every man on board felt his nerves tightening. They’d fired sixty three torpedoes in exercises and drills, these torpedoes would be the first they had ever fired in combat.
“The bearing is that! Both engines, full ahead. Sixty feet.”
Valkohai slid deeper, surging ahead once more. The mood grew even more electric.
“Both engines slow. Thirty two feet. Stand by.”
“Make ready all tubes.” Jarvela made the decision to take no chances.
“Up periscope.”
“The bearing is that!”
Valkohai was on a firing course now, waiting for the firing angle to come on.
“Stand by forward. Numbers One and Two tubes.”
In the Forward Torpedo Room, Pursimies Ahonen watched the gauges and instruments for numbers one and two tubes, preparing to fire manually if the electrical firing mechanism failed. In the Control Room, Nikula, the Försti, prepared to trim Valkohai after the torpedoes were fired. The sudden loss of weight when two torpedoes were fired altered the trim rather drastically and needed to be compensated for, otherwise the bow might rise and even pierce the surface, as it had once on exercise to his eternal embarrassment.
Through the periscope, Jarvela could see the Russian submarine far more clearly now, drawing closer. Closer….. He could make out the Russian uniforms, even see the smiling faces of the Russian officers on the conning tower as they talked to each other under the light of the shining moon.
“Range, eleven hundred yards.” Point blank range.
“Target speed five knots.” Idling speed.
“Full ahead both.” Valkohai needed more speed to maintain stability and trim when the torpedoes were fired. Each torpedo weighed 300 pounds more than the water it displaced. She leaped ahead, closing the range quickly.
“Standby forward, he’s coming on…….Bearing, Mark…. A few more degrees ….. Come on …..Come on…. Fire One ….. Fire Two!”
Everyone on Valkohai felt the jolts as the two torpedoes were launched. In the control room, Nikula and his men adjusted the trim, using trim tanks and hydroplanes to keep her level at thirty feet and succeeding. It’d been just like in training, Nikula thought to himself, relieved that everything had gone right.
“Down Periscope. Sixty feet. Hard to starboard. Full ahead both.”
A turn of his head. “Good work Försti.”
There was no real threat of a counter attack from the Russian submarine but it was always good practice to evade regardless. A high speed diving turn should take Valkohai away from any immediate threat. Whether or not the submarine made any attempt to evade they had no idea, but every man in Valkohai heard the two muffled crumps that signaled a double hit.
“Thirty feet. Up periscope.”
Jarvela did a quick sweep. There she was, men jumping from the conning tower and the forward escape hatch into the icy water of the Barents Sea. One of the torpedoes must have hit her near the stern, her bow had lifted from the water until it was almost straight up, then slid downwards more and more rapidly, disappearing in a sudden surge of bubbles. Then there was nothing.
Nothing but a thin slick of oil and a few men swimming frantically. The swimming would last only a few minutes and then they would be dead. The frozen waters of the arctic killed quickly and cleanly, more cleanly than men did. Moments later came the sound of a tin-can crunching underfoot as an internal bulkhead collapsed, then another and a few seconds later a third. There were no more. It was the first time anyone in Valkohai had heard those particular sounds, but they all recognized them, and what they meant.
“Poor bastards.”
“They started it.”
Jarvela looked up, grinned mirthlessly. “Well, they haven’t actually attacked us yet so technically, we’ve started it. But they’re going to attack us. When someone’s going to go for you in a bar and you know it, do you wait for them to punch you first?”
“Hell no, Herra!”
“There you go then. Besides, there’re fifteen of those Russian subs up here somewhere, we only got one. We need a good head start and we just got it.”
He turned to Nikula. “Försti, take her down to sixty, get Tubes One and Two reloaded, stand down anyone not needed, have the cook serve breakfast.”
“Herra!”
“You have the ship Försti. I’m going to have breakfast myself, then relieve you.”
“Herra! I have the ship.”
Nikula really was a bit of a stickler for the formalities. “Herra this, Herra that.” Jarvela wondered whether to have a chat with him and then gave a mental shrug. He was shaping up fine as the First Officer, let him continue to find his own feet, he wasn’t making any mistakes.
05h54, 30 November 1939, Rannikkojaakarit Detachment, Motka Bay
“Sataana! Get the goddamn boat in the water!”
“Straps’re stuck” came the hissed reply.
“Cut the bloody things then.”
Thirty seconds later, the rubberized rigid-inflatable smacked into the water between the floats, bouncing around in the chop.
“Pass the motor down.”
“Not on my bleeding head you damn fool.”
“Cut the crap and get a goddamn move on.”
They’d done this a hundred times and it went as it normally did with the floatplane bouncing around on the swell and eight men trying frantically to unload and board along with all their equipment. Five minutes after landing, the boat was ready, engine mounted and purring quietly, men sliding out of the floatplane’s door down onto the float and into the inflatable.
“Push off.” The cox’s voice was just loud enough to be heard. The hatch above them closed, the noise inaudible over the rumble of the aircraft engine.
Haapala could barely make out the shapes of the other four boats, a touch blacker than the water surrounding them. The heavily muffled outboards purred as they closed up.
“Stern light on”.
Haapala leaned out to check the back-facing red light that would help them keep together in the darkness. As long as they were pointed towards the destroyer, the lights would be invisible. Haapala did a quick visual. Five boats, eight men in each. Hadn’t lost anybody loading thank Christ. To an outsider, it wouldn’t have seemed possible for a small group of men in rubber boats to take an entire destroyer. But these men were Rannikkojaakarit. To them, that said it all, graduates of the toughest military training in the world, and they had their target in sight, silhouetted against the skyline. Only death would stop them now.
“Let’s go.”
Haapala gave the order quietly, watching to the rear as the other four boats followed, the five of them forming up on each other with the easy skill of long practice. The slow speed of the Russian destroyer meant they didn’t have to push the outboards hard, the sound from the engines was a muffled purr that was barely audible within the boat. The only risk now was that the destroyers might have good lookouts and to minimize that risk, they came in from directly astern, a sniper in the bow of each boat looking for anyone on the aft deck who might see them and yell a warning. The watch at the stern was usually the slackest and that’s where they approached from, leaving no wake, the men crouched low to reduce their profile. Amazingly, the old Russian destroyer had its lights on. Not many but a few here and there, enough to make it obvious where she was and that she was moving slowly, just idling in the water really. Behind them, they could neither hear nor see the floatplanes that had carried them in.
The sea was calm, a gentle swell that the boats rode easily on the ride in to the destroyer. It took them a good half hour, a slow and cautious approach, it would have been easier in a choppy sea where they would have been harder to spot. As it was, Haapala traded off speed for concealment in the darkness. They were riding the destroyer’s wake now, the water bubbling and boiling beneath them, closing the stern. Closing the destroyer, Haapala tapped the cox on the shoulder, the signal to close up, three of the boats keeping close, the last trailing close astern in case anyone slipped and fell into the water while boarding. Haapala knew without looking that the snipers in each of the trailing boats were ready, silencers fitted, poised and waiting to take out anyone on deck near the stern. In the bow, Tuomi cast his grapnel at the stern railing. The padded hook caught on the first throw. Huotari, his number two immediately pulled on the rope, heaving the rope ladder up while the number three man used the boathook to hold the boat close to the hull.
This was the danger point, where a sudden burst of speed by the destroyer could suck the boat under, into the propellers where they’d be chewed up and spat out. Best not to think about that, just focus on the mission. What came next was the hardest part, using brute upper body strength to haul oneself the equivalent of two stories up the dangling and twisting rope ladder, climbing quietly up the side of the hull to the deck while carrying 70lbs of weapons and equipment. Tuomi held the rope taut, feet braced against the inflatable boat’s hull as Huotari moved past him, strong-arming himself up the rope ladder. Using both hands to climb, this was the most exposed part of the mission. Once the first man was up he could cover. The number three used the boathook to hold the boat close and through it all the boat handler had to power her through the wash, keep her positioned close to the destroyer’s stern while at the same time keeping her from getting sucked too close or too far away or tipping her over or any of the other myriad mistakes that could happen when you brought a small boat in close to a larger ship. Which was why the fifth boat tailed them. It was a complex ballet of teamwork where you had absolute faith in the ability of your team to do the job, each man relying on every other in series of choreographed moves rehearsed a hundred times until they were instinctive.
The rope ladder was strong, as soon as Huotari was part way up, Erkkila was on and climbing. Huotari disappeared from sight, sliding over the railing and down behind whatever he could find for concealment. Luoma went next, then it was Haapala’s turn. He gripped the ladder, one foot found a rung and then he was heaving himself up hand over hand, the weight of his equipment dragging him back as he dangled in mid-air over the freezing ocean. Ahead of him Luoma vanished, he felt Tuomi behind him and then he was being pulled up and over the railing by brute force. Down on the deck himself, his hands found the silencer, screwed it onto his Suomi, screwed the torch onto the top of the Suomi, ran down his equipment doing a quick check that everything was intact. Behind him men poured up, one after the other, pulling themselves up easily, almost running. Hours of painful practice, day after day after day, paid off. Haapala felt a sudden exhilaration as he waited. He’d spent two years training for this and now that they were doing it, it seemed just like a training exercise.
Haapala waited. He knew the other boats were closing in one by one, the men making their way up and onto the aft deck of the destroyer, the empty boats on a rope astern, tying themselves on one by one, the last two men on the last boat to tie on was the men with the hardest and most dangerous job. No-one was there to pick them up if they fell. Two minutes after they started boarding, forty Rannikkojaakarit were grouped on the stern of the old Russian destroyer. Phase One complete. The men were ready, Maxim silencers screwed on as soon as they boarded, flashlights clipped on the top rail, safeties off, Suomi SMG’s at the ready. Last second pat downs of equipment completed. Haapala slapped the back of the man next to him, an audible slap that could have been a wave impacting the ship but wasn’t. Black shapes began to move silently, flowing forward towards their planned entry points. They knew their targets, knew what they had to do, they’d rehearsed this time after time until it was as automatic as breathing.
0925, 3 December 1939: Lapin Ryhmä (Lapland Group Headquarters)
“Herra! Seppo, there’s a message here from the submarine of Murmansk, it’s urgent.”
The young Signals Lotta-Luutnantti stood in the doorway of the Operations Room once more, her eyes even wider than on her previous visit. Kapteeni Rintala took the message sheet from her hands and scanned it quickly.
“Herra, you should read this.” He stepped over to Wallenius, who was talking into one of the Field Telephones. Wallenius nodded to him, held up a hand.
“Right, you’re doing well Eskola, just fall back slowly and keep hurting them, fall back even if you know you can hold them, we want to draw them in deeper, once they’re in deep enough then we’re going to pin them down and annihilate the bastards. Just keep it slow, enough to make them think they’re getting somewhere, that’s all.”……. “Right, good man.” ……. “Report back in another three hours, I’ll tell them to get me on the phone as soon as you call.” ……. “Good, good. Best of luck to your men Eskola, you’re doing fine.”
Wallenius handed the receiver to one of the Signals-Lotta’s manning the phones and turned, taking the proffered message sheet from Rintala’s hand. He read it through twice, his face turning thoughtful. Then he grinned. Rintala knew that expression, it usually meant the boss had thought of something particularly devilish on an exercise. Here and now, it was not a look that bade well for the Russians. He beckoned to the Signals Lotta-Luutnantti and to the Naval Liaison Officer who had been drinking kahvi in a corner. His turned his gaze first to the Naval Liaison Officer, passed her the message sheet.
“Read this Luutnantti.”
“Herra!” She read it through, eyes widening.
“Luutnantti, I would like the Miekkavalas to sink as many of those ships as possible without undue risk to herself. I’d like that other Submarine, Valkohai, to also attack that convoy if at all possible. Please pass on my request to Naval Headquarters and ask for an immediate response. If necessary, you may interrupt whatever I am doing to bring me into the call. I want a fast decision from them on this, understood? Yes or No, I want it fast.”
“Herra! Yes Herra, understood.”
The Luutnantti almost bolted for a phone. Wallenius nodded, turned to the Signals-Lotta. “Luutnantti, send a message to that submarine acknowledging receipt of their message and advising that the content is understood. Advise that we are passing on the message to Naval Headquarters and requesting approval from Naval Headquarters for them to attack the Russian ships and for Valkohai to join in the fun, in the meantime request that they track the convoy and report its position every hour with putting themselves at risk.”
“Herra!”
Wallenius was already turning away, looking now for the Air Liaison Officer. He grinned at Rintala. “I love these Lotta-Officers, Rintala, when you tell them to do something, they jump all over it, not like you young men, you get all pissy, never learnt proper Army discipline the way we did in Germany.” He shook his head. “Those were the days, young man.”
“Ah, there you are.” He beckoned the Air Liaison Kapteeni over. “I don’t understand why the Ilmavoimat Liaison Officers always outrank everyone else?” The Kapteeni opened her mouth. Wallenius chuckled. “Teasing young Kapteeni, teasing. Now, read this.” He handed her the message signal, watched as she read it through, her eyes widening.
“Just so Kapteeni. Thirty thousand Russian troops on ships. That’s two Divisions to add to the two we’re already fighting. We have one Division. Two to one, that’s no problem. Four to one is a bit much, we could hold ‘em but beating them, that’d be hard. I’d like the Ilmavoimat to take care of those ships before they get anywhere close to where they can unload them.”
The Kapteeni opened her mouth. Wallenius held up one hand.
“Now, here’s my request Kapteeni, get your boss, and I mean Somersalo, get him on the phone, give him the report verbatim and tell him I’d like to talk with him about what the Ilmavoimat can do to help me out here. Use our meeting room back there.”
“See what I mean Rintala, we need more like those girls!” Wallenius chuckled and held out his hand, accepting the proffered mug of kahvi from his orderly.
“Now, while we wait, tell me what the hell is Heiskanen doing with that Erillisosasto of his? He’s supposed to be sliding invisibly and with great stealth into the Russian rear, not shooting the bastards up, even if he does wipe them out. Explain please.”
“Herra!” Rintala hadn’t even opened his mouth. It was the young Signals Lotta-Luutnantti back with another message sheet. The Naval Liaison Officer was right behind her.
“Very good Luutnantti. Excellent. Forward those orders to Miekkavalas and Valkohai if you would be so kind. And pass on my hopes for their success. And make sure they know that Destroyer the Rannikkojaakarit captured is ours, ask them not to sink it by mistake.”
“Herra!”
“Now Rintala.” Wallenius voice turned silky. “Please do explain to me what Heiskanen is up to.”
Synkeä, kylmä on talviyö, (The winter night is bleak and cold)
Hyisenä henkii itä. (There is an icy breath from the east)
Siell’ ovat orjuus ja pakkotyö; (Over there is slavery and forced labour)
tähdet katsovat sitä. (the stars look down and see)
Kaukaa aroilta kohoaa (Far away on the Steppe rises)
Iivana Julman haamu. (The ghost of Ivan the Terrible)
Turman henki, se ennustaa: (A spirit of doom is at work, auguring that
verta on näkevä aamu. (the morning shall see blood)
from Rajalla (“The Border”)
1700, 29 November 1937, Kola District, near the Finnish Border, USSR
The arctic night was bleak and cold. Winter had laid its icy breath on the land. Winter lay heavier still on the soldiers in the back of the beaten up old Gaz truck rattling and shaking down the “road” west from Murmansk.
“Where the devil are we?” Lieutenant Ilya Oblomov peered out from the back of the truck that had carried them the entire distance from Murmansk to the border in painful discomfort.
“Damned if I know.” Lieutenant Andrey Stoltz peered past him, his mitten-clad hand reaching past Oblomov to widen the narrow gap.
“Pull that damn canopy closed.” One of the nameless soldiers huddled further back expressed muttered disapproval of the sudden draft of cold air let in by the gap in the canvas. Stoltz looked back, his expression suddenly sharp. Before he could say anything, the truck jerked to a halt to the accompaniment of a vocal chorus of cursing from the men packed in with the sacks of whatever it was.
The canopy was jerked open from the outside. The young Sergeant-Driver grinned up at them, his breath steaming in the frozen air.
“Everybody out, you’re here.”
He sounded unbearably cheerful. Probably because he was riding in the heated cab, Oblomov thought sourly. Stoltz was out first, jumping to the icy ground. Oblomov passed Stoltz his rucksack, handed him his own and then jumped himself, almost falling on the icy track before Stoltz steadied him with a hand. Behind him, the men followed one by one, no-one hurrying. Inside the rear of the truck it was cold, outside, without the shelter of the canvas and the piles of sacks, the icy wind pierced his winter uniform as if it wasn’t there. He could feel himself starting to shiver.
“Where’s here,” Oblomov muttered.
The young Sergeant pointed. “There’s your unit Comrade Lieutenant, over there.”
He turned and walked back to the cab, climbed in. All Oblomov could see was a pile of snow in the distance with footprints everywhere. In fact, all he could see anywhere was snow and ice and rocks. The truck was already pulling away, taking its load of supplies who knew where, leaving them out here alone in a desolate waste. The men were looking expectantly at him, dammit. All he wanted was his bed and a warm blanket roll to sleep in somewhere out of the wind and the cold. Stoltz shouldered his rucksack and took charge as he always did, much to Oblomov’s relief.
“Right men, follow me.”
Oblomov followed, along with the rest, grateful that Stoltz had taken charge. He led them towards the pile of snow, following what was by the looks of it a well-beaten trail, although to Oblomov it looked like one trail among many. As they drew closer, it became more evident that the pile of snow was in fact some kind of snow-covered building. As they drew nearer still, a muffled shape emerged and stood watching them as they plodded closer still.
“Who’re you?” The question was disinterested.
“Lieutenants Stoltz and Oblomov with a party of replacements for the xth Battalion, xxth Regiment,” Stoltz barked.
“Well, you’re screwed like the rest of us then,” the muffled figure said, gesturing with one hand. “Go on in before you freeze to death out here.”
It turned and walked back inside. Stoltz followed, then Oblomov, the men crowding in behind them.
Hood thrown back, a lined and weary face looked at them. “Lieutenant Ivan Matveyevich. Come with me, the CO will be glad to see you two.” He looked at the men. “You men can wait here.” They were already huddled around the small stove that gave the room, evidently part of an old stone house, the little warmth it possessed. Still, thought Oblomov, it was out of that damned wind. He turned to follow Matveyevich and Stoltz, stooping to get through the doorway.
“Captain,” Matveyevich said, “Here’s our two replacement officers, Stoltz and Oblomov.”
The CO stood up. “Captain Maxim Maximovich” he said. “Matveyevich, get some tea for everyone. Pass me your orders and then have a seat.”
Gratefully, Oblomov passed the Captain his orders and sat on the wooden bench indicated. Stoltz sat beside him, looking eager and expectant, the way Stoltz always did. Just looking at Stoltz’s enthusiasm left Oblomov feeling exhausted. He thought of his bedroll again with longing.
“Oblomov is it? And Stoltz?” Captain Maximovich looked at his papers and then at the two of them. “Straight from Cadet School is it?”
“Yes Comrade Captain.” Oblomov shivered. Stoltz echoed his response.
The Captain looked at them, looked at their papers, sat there thinking.
“Oblomov.” Oblomov tried to stop his teeth chattering. Maximovich nodded, seemingly confirming his own decision to himself. “Comrade Captain Vorodin froze to death a week ago, went out on patrol, never came back, we found him the next day, him and his patrol, all of them frozen solid. That Company needs an Officer, hasn’t got one at all. I’ll have a messenger take you to them later, after the briefing. The replacements can go with you.”
“A briefing Comrade Captain?” Oblomov couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering.
“Yes Comrade Lieutenant, a briefing. We’re liberating Finland in the morning. You got here just in time.”
“Stoltz.”
Stoltz looked even more attentive than usual.
“I’m giving you the Assault Pioneers Platoon. Your men will be leading the column in the morning. Intelligence doesn’t expect much in the way of resistance, the Finns have almost no troops up here, maybe a Battalion at most, we’re going to move over the border at oh six hundred hours and head down the road. Any resistance, we’ll bring in the tanks and artillery, move out on their flanks and envelope them or run them over.”
Maximovich smiled. “We expect to be in Rovaniemi in a week. Questions?”
Stoltz raised a hand. “Where’s Rovaniemi?”
A shrug. “Just follow the road, there’s only one, just like here. We’ve been told we’ll get maps soon. In the meantime, we just move across the border and keep going south with the road.”
Matveyevich returned with canteens filled with tea. All of them cradled the hot canteens in their hands, sipping, grateful for the warmth. After a long pause, Captain Maximovich resumed.
“Problems. And understand, you keep these to yourselves. I’ve lost two or three officers since we moved up to the front here because they were unwise in their comments. Best keep your mouths shut.”
They all nodded. Even Officers just out of Cadet School knew to be careful these days.
“One. The Division was understrength when we were sent here and we’ve been brought up to strength with whatever was available. Half the men are semi-trained conscripts, they’ve been taught to march and to shoot but not much else. About a quarter are straight off the streets of Leningrad, they were rounded up to make up the Divisional strength. They don’t know one end of a rifle from the other. Not much we can do about that, but it means problems for you and for the NCO’s and for the rest of the men.”
Maximovich shrugged. “Not our decision to make, you understand, it came from the top. But I have been advised that it’s not an excuse for failure and that the decision should not be questioned. The men are highly motivated and we conduct daily political awareness meetings.”
Neither Stoltz nor Oblomov bothered to ask where the “advice” came from.
“Two. The weather. If you haven’t noticed, it’s damn cold up here and we’re short on winter clothing for this kind of cold. It was minus thirty five last night, today it’s warm, only minus twenty. We’re losing men to the cold every day, especially the ones that have no training and not enough winter clothing. And you wouldn’t believe what it does to the equipment, the damn rifles ice up when you go outside, if you touch bare metal, your skin’s going to freeze to it, we lose sentries every night to the cold and their replacements won’t go out to look for them because they’re scared of freezing to death themselves. You’re going to have to work with your NCO’s to train them in how to survive up here, keep them moving, make sure they have shelter. And hot food, we’ve got enough Field Kitchens with us. You need to make sure the men have plenty of hot food and drink. Yourselves too. You need to learn, and learn fast.”
‘Three. We’re moving into Finland to liberate them tomorrow morning. That’s no time at all for you to prepare. Oblomov, your Company Sergeant-Major has the orders, you can go through them with him when you’re up with the men. Nothing complex, we’re just doing a route march across the border, cross-country, parallel to the road. You’re CSM’s a good man, follow his advice. Stoltz, your Platoon is leading and marking the route for the Battalion, you’ve got good NCO’s and good men, all trained. Take your Sergeant’s advice, he knows what to do.”
“Now, as for communications, you’ve all got messengers, use them to send messages to me at the Headquarters Company if we do run into any opposition but just remember, if you run into a Finnish patrol and they fight, attack right away. Throw everything into the attack, the rest of the Battalion will be right behind you. We have to move and keep moving. Nothing fancy, just keep moving forward, that’s all we have to do. Even the untrained men should be able to do that. Any questions now? Yes Stoltz?
“Artillery and air support Comrade Captain?”
“Lots of it. And tanks too, on the road at least. They’ll be moving forwards with us, lots of second echelon infantry as well. We’ve got two Divisions on the front here. And two more coming in by sea. That should be more than enough to roll up any Finns that’re hanging around. Now, time for you two to move up to your units.”
Maximovich looked around, raised his voice. “Zakhar, come here man.”
************************************************** **
04h10, 30 November 1939, Lapland Group Headquarters
“Seppo, Signals Intelligence intercept, the Russians are going to attack at 0600 hours today.”
The young Signals Lotta-Luutnantti stood in the doorway of the Operations Room, her eyes wide. Kapteeni Rintala read the message quickly, turned to the Duty NCO
“Vaapeli, full security alert, put HQ on war-footing immediately, roust the cooks out and tell them to get breakfast going.”
“Herra.”
Rintala turned and strode to the back corner of the old stone farmhouse where Kenralimajuri Kurt Wallenius slept fully dressed under an old blanket on an even older field stretcher, snoring loudly. Not particularly gently, he shook Wallenius awake. He was a heavy sleeper, not least when he’d downed a few snorts before hitting the sack, which was pretty much every night. It never slowed him down though, even when he hit it hard, but it did take a good shake to wake him up.
“Herra, Signals Intelligence intercept, the Russians are about to attack.”
Wallenius was awake instantly, groaning as he rolled off the stretcher and onto his feet, stretched, joints cracking.
“Kahvi.”
He held out his hand. The operations room orderly handed him a mug, already filled, strong and black, no sugar, hot but not too hot to drink immediately. Wallenius gulped it down, dipped his head into the bucket of cold water on the old wooden chair next to the stretcher, scrubbed his face with his hands, then wiped his head with the blanket he’d been sleeping under.
“Right Rintala, what’s Intelligence say?”
“They intercepted a message in clear. The 14th Army ordered the Northern Fleet destroyer Karl Libnekt to begin an artillery barrage on the Finnish positions at 0600 hours. We know Karl Libnekt is in Motka Bay, western end of the Motov Gulf. Intelligence assessment is that they’re going to provide covering fire for an attack on the Isthmus between the Srednyi and Rybachii peninsulas, ground reconnaissance has also spotted Russian troop movements that indicate an attack’s coming. Confirms what we already know but now we have a firm time.”
“Sounds reasonable. When did we intercept the message?”
“0400 hours Herra, ten minutes ago.”
“Good man. Report any more intercepts immediately.”
“I’ve ordered HQ to war-footing and put out a perimeter security alert.”
Wallenius nodded. Strode across the room to the map table, Rintala in his wake.
“Send out an immediate alert to all Lapland Group units. AND I MEAN IMMEDIATE! Advise all units to expect the Russians to attack at any time from now on. All units are to go to full alert, war posture, NO EXCEPTIONS. Tell them this is not an exercise and I’ll personally shoot any sorry bastard that thinks I’m joking!”
“Herra!”
The Signals Luutnantti was already on the move. As she headed out the door, Wallenius bellowed after her. “Call Mikkeli and advise them of the signals intercept content and the intelligence assessment. Advise Mikkeli that we are going to a war footing immediately with all units on full alert and in initial defense positions. Follow that up with a general advisory to all other Groups.”
“Herra!” came faintly from down the narrow hallway.
Headquarters became a madhouse within the minute as men and women rushed to their posts, field telephones rang, voices spoke into radios. Within five minutes all was normal, hushed voices, dim red lights, clouds of cigarette smoke. Preparations had all been put in place and the various alternatives rehearsed. Every unit had up to date orders, knew what to do, knew what they were responsible for, all units had acknowledged back. With the alert sent, there was little more for headquarters to do other than wait.
Almost as an afterthought, Wallenius looked around for the Navy and Air Force liaison officers.
“You two, a moment of your time.”
“Herra!”
“Those two submarines of ours out there, tell them the Russians are going to attack any moment and they are authorized from receipt of my message to sink anything Russian they see if they can do it without being seen. Once the Russians attack, update them right away and tell them it’s open season on the bastards. I know I’m not naval chain of command but I’ll take responsibility for the order until Naval HQ confirms.”
“Herra!”
“One more thing. You’ve got some of those Rannikkojaakarit frog-boys at Liinahamari, right?”
“Yes Herra?”
“Think they can capture that damn Russian destroyer in Motka Bay?”
“They do that sort of thing before breakfast Herra! Can I tell them to go ahead?”
“Get to it woman, tell them to go and don’t bother me with that Herra nonsense again. Tell them I’d like some good news before breakfast then, and breakfast is 7am around here. Seriously, if they can do it without major risk to the team, go ahead. How and when is up to them of course.”
“You, I want the Air Force to get out there as soon as there’s enough light and sink those damn Russian minesweepers that seem to think they can float around off Petsamo. Cheeky bastards. If they do it before the Russians start shooting at us that’ll be even better.”
“On to it Herra.”
“Good girl. Now, where the hell is that kahvi, I need another one.”
“Here Herra.” The orderly was already there. She’d been with Wallenius in his headquarters for a few weeks now, enough to know the old man’s idiosyncrasies. Non-stop kahvi in the early morning was just one of them.
04h25, 30 November 1939, somewhere near the Russo-Finnish border, Petsamo district
A hand came through the entrance to the tent, bringing a gust of frigid air with it. The hand shook Alikersantti Latvala awake. “Perkele, wake up man.”
“Saatana, what is it? Another damn exercise? This is too early for even a sparrow to fart!”
“Message just came down to Komppania from Pataljoona HQ. The Russkies are going to attack this morning at oh six hundred. Get your rhyma up and into position. Pataljoona says this is the real thing, full war alert, we’re going to war positions, not the usual. Full ammo load, in fact the boss says all the ammo you can carry, when they attack, we’ll need it. You get that?”
Latvala was wide awake, shaking the shoulder of the sleeper next to him as he spoke.
“Helvetti, they’re attacking. Right, right, rhyma up and into position, war positions, lots of ammo.”
“Good, I’m off to the next rhymaa. Good luck Matti.”
“Good luck yourself.” And then his brother was gone as silently as he’d arrived, invisible in the snow and the darkness.
“Full war alert, we’re going to war positions, not the usual. Take all the ammo you can carry. You all get that?”
“Got it.”
That was all that was needed.
Latvala could hear the rustling as blankets were rolled and tied to rucksacks, men buckled on their lohikäärme vuota, donned their greatcoats and hats and scarves and helmets, slipped on their boots and lastly, over everything their enveloping white snowsuits and then their combat webbing. A last quick check by touch to see nothing had been left lying around and then he was the last out of the tent, fishing his Suomi off the rack outside the flap. Behind him the tent came down in seconds, folded, tied down and packed on the sled with the other rhymaa equipment. A hiss as the stove was cooled off and then it was in its box and on the sled and the men were slipping their rucks on, slinging rifles and SMG’s, slipping into their skis and the entire rhyma was on the move, skis hissing across the snow as they moved off in single file. Less than ten minutes had passed since receiving the warning, never a word spoken since the order had been passed. They moved down the trail with unhurried speed, whispering forward towards the border, towards their war positions right on the border, as silently and invisibly as wraiths in the snow and the darkness. Around them, along the northern border, silently and invisibly, an entire Division was on the move
And in the exercise positions, the ones that they’d made sure the Russkies would be able to spot, Mannerheimin velhot, Mannerheim’s Wizards, the deception units, were already hard at work…….
04h22, 30 November 1939, Observation Hide Echo One-Nine, somewhere else near the Russo-Finnish border but further south, Petsamo district
“Perkele! What are we doing here anyhow Kersantti?”
Ahonen was getting a bit more than frustrated. He’d joined the Border Guards because he liked moving around in the forests, living outdoors on the move, especially in winter. He’d welcomed a posting to Lapland for the summer and winter and to start with, it’d been a ball. Patrols along the border, checking in with remote farms and with the Sami, the reindeer herders. Halfway through that first summer, Ahonen had been part of a small detail that had built this Observation Hide. The Pioneeri NCO that had come with them had taught them a considerable amount about finding good locations for observation hides. And then when they’d settled on an obscure and almost impossible to find location, they’d built the hide whilst also concealing any sign that they were there.
Ahonen had learnt more than he’d ever dreamed of about ways to rather cleverly design and conceal an observation hide in the unlikeliest of places halfway up a bare mountainside where they could see for miles. And then they’d set it up with dumps of supplies without being spotted or leaving any trace. That’d been fun. The hide had been in a place no one in their right minds would want to be in. It was exposed, windswept, a hell of a place to hide in winter and swarming with mosquitoes in summer. Despite that, it had been a masterpiece of construction. They used the natural features of the site – built deep into a crevice in the rocks, dug in well underground at the cost of excavating more of those same rocks by hand, roofed over with logs and rock and soil and natural vegetation that had been meticulously replanted. It was carefully vented with cooking to be carried out only in the darkest hours of the night and on the small stoves provided, any heat carefully ducted through half a dozen different outlets to prevent any visible plumes of heated air. Water supplies in summer came in through a concealed underground pipe. Food was stored in a deep shelter and the hide had two different concealed escape routes in the event that one of the three minute observation points was spotted.
Ahonen had been quite proud of the hide when they’d finished it. Little had he dreamt that when war looked as if it was going to break out, he’d be ordered into the damn thing as part of a four-man observation team. In his daydreams, Ahonen had seen himself hunkered down in a heroic stand against the Russians, shooting them down by the hundreds, the object of admiration from his fellows and respect from his NCO’s and Officers. It had been a nice thought, however unlikely. Instead, here he was hiding in a hole in the rocks. A hole he’d been in for four weeks without respite. Four weeks with the same four faces, the same jokes and he was getting heartily fed-up with the whole thing.
“Saatana, we’ve spent four weeks here and we haven’t seen or heard a damn thing. We’re out the ass-end of nowhere.”
Kersantti Jutila chuckled. “That’s the beauty of it Ahonen. We’re out here in the ass-end of nowhere, we don’t get bombed, we don’t get shelled, we don’t get shot at. We just lie here and eat and shit and watch the wildlife and radio in a couple of times a day. And if the Russkies do come, why, they don’t even know we’re here and they don’t come looking for us.”
"I just don't see the point of it, Kersantti," said Sotamies Hanka, whom Ahonen had come to know far better than he wanted too.
"Well," said the Kersantti, "Think about it, Hanka. As long as the Russians aren’t here, which Headquarters will know as long as we keep sending in reports on our radio schedule, then they must be somewhere else. Clear?"
"No, Kersantti." Even with his eyes closed, Ahonen could see the expression of baffled puzzlement on Hanka’s face. It annoyed Ahonen that he too was puzzled.
“Sataana, Kersantti, I just don’t get it.” Hanka finally gave voice to his puzzlement.
“Think about it Hanka. How many observation teams like ours do you think there are scattered around the border? I have no idea but I doubt we’re the only ones, probably a lot more. And for all we know, there’re teams like us over the border on their side as well. And they more than likely all report in like us, a couple of times a day. So headquarters knows from all of us where the Russians are not. So knowing where the Russians aren’t gives headquarters a damn good idea of where they probably are.”
Ahonen thought about it. Damn smart idea when you thought about it like that. Even if he didn’t like being here, he could see the point now. Not that it made him like being here any better. He nestled down inside his blankets, deciding he might as well go back to sleep until it was his turn to go on watch. Hanka snorted, his snort conveying exactly what he thought about the idea that watching nothing happening the miserable rock and snow and ice-covered landscape outside the hide had any merit whatsoever.
“We don't need to watch around here Kersantti, nobody else is stupid enough to be here, including the Russians."
"Well, sure," Jutila shrugged. "But still, you never know."
“Still don’t see the point,” Hanka grumbled. “But I’m a grunt, I just do what I’m told.”
Jutila chuckled. “Damn straight Hanka, you got that right. I’m going make some fresh kahvi. Anyone else?”
“Thanks Kersantti,” Hanka sounded happy. He was usually the one told to make the kahvi.
“Ahonen?”
“Yeah, sure Kersantti.”
Dammit. Wide awake now. He checked his watch. 0422. Far too early but a hot kahvi before his stint on watch started at 0500 would be great. Jutila slid out of his bedroll and crawled down the tunnel to the “kitchen”. It was a relief to be moving, even though it was like a damn freezer back here. He lit up the stove in its rocky recess, waited until the burner was going nicely then carefully hung the pot of water above the flame. While he waited for it to boil, he did a quick survey of the ration boxes stacked against the far wall for about the hundredth time. The hide had held tinned and dried rations for four men for ninety days, almost 1,100 meals – and they’d worked through about a third of that. But what was left was still quite a pile given that much of it WAS in tins. And it included a few “luxuries” as well – including small daily ration of vodka. The planners had decided the men in these hides needed a few extras to stop them going crazy, confined in a tight space underground, possibly for weeks on end. He grinned as he tried to decide what to add to the kahvi this morning. A shot of vodka? Wouldn’t do any harm, and Mantyla would appreciate it after he came down off watch. And it wouldn’t harm Ahonen, that boy could hold his own when it came to serious drinking.
04h35, 30 November 1939, Finnish Submarine Valkohai, 12 miles north of Petsamo Harbour.
“Message from Lapland Group Naval Liaison Officer Herra. It’s urgent.”
Kapteeni Jarvela groaned as a hand shook him from what had been a deep sleep, then came awake instantly, sitting up on the hard berth and reaching for the kahvi that Kangas had brought in along with the message transcript. The kahvi was sweetened with condensed milk. Hot but not too hot, the first gulp woke him up. Sitting with the code book, Jarvela worked painstakingly through the message. Finished, he locked the codebook away in the small safe and reread the message. There was a certain amount of grim satisfaction in the content. He left his “cabin” by the simple expedient of drawing the curtain aside, stepping into the control room and eying the Third Officer, who had the watch.
“Well Ranta, may as well tell you first.”
He raised an eyebrow at the sudden alertness in the control room.
“Intelligence advises the Russians are planning to attack Finland this morning at 0600 hours. We’re authorized to sink anything Russian we see from this moment on.”
On the spur of the moment, Jarvela decided not to pass on the “without being seen” qualifier. He’d make that decision himself if and when it was required. He grinned and looked around the control room. “It’s open season on the bastards, gentlemen. So keep your eyes peeled and your ears wide open. I want to know if you even suspect you’ve seen or heard something.”
He eyed Ranta. “I’m going aft to advise the engine room first, then forward. We’ll tell the sleepers when we change watch.”
“Yes Herra.”
04h40, 30 November 1939, Ilmavoimat Lapland Group, Forward Air Strip, Nautsi
“Out of those nice warm fart sacks Herra’s and not-so Herra’s.”
The Vaapeli’s roar was unmistakable as he strode down the close-set rows of field stretchers, his baton indiscriminately attacking officers, NCO’s and men alike.
Flying Officer Hamalainen heard someone ask what he wanted to know. “Helvetti, what’s going on then?”
“CO wants everyone in the Mess Hall in ten minutes, we’ve got a mission. Russkies are about to attack so don’t hang about. Rattle those dags you lazy young buggers.”
Hamalainen groaned as he emerged from the warmth of his nest of blankets into the freezing interior of the old shed they were packed into like sardines. Lucky he’d slept in most of his clothes and kept his flying suit in bed with him to stop it from freezing. Along with his boots. Others hadn’t and the curses were almost funny to listen to as they dressed hurriedly in clothes that were stiff from the cold. Then a quick trot across the farmyard, breathe steaming in the cold air as he made his way into the old barn that had been pressed into duty as the “Mess Hall.” He got a cup of kahvi on the way in, so the Vaapeli must have woken up the cooks first. Sometimes he almost liked the old git.
All hundred and fifty of them assembled, the CO looked around and grinned cheerfully.
“Right ladies and gentlemen, time to get down to work. Intelligence says the Russians are going to attack us this morning. There’s some Russian minesweepers hanging around off Petsamo, our orders are to sink the bastards right away, war or no war. And we’re it so no damned grumbling, the rest of the Ilmavoimat’s going to be rather busy and this is no suicide mission so no complaints. You hear me! Our Harts are ideal for this kind of mission and we’ve got our fighter boys along to scratch our backs if we need ‘em.”
The fighter boys tried to look tough, instead they just looked worried. The dozen odd Bristol Bulldogs were as old and outclassed as their pilots were young and inexperienced, right out of Flight School and only assigned here because it was expected to be a “quiet” sector where they could get in a bit more experience flying.
“Now, you groundcrew, I want those Harts bombed up and ready to go two hours ago. Maximum bomb and fuel load. Fighters, maximum fuel and ammo load. Clear?”
“Yes Herra!” That was the old Luutnantti in charge of the groundcrew. Old bastard was as hard as nails, as hard as the old Vaapeli for that matter, if he said yes, it was gonna happen.
“You fighter boys, you’re covering the Harts, Intelligence can’t tell us if there’s any air cover for those Russian boats, but we know the Russians have plenty of fighters based out of Murmansk. If we go in early, chances are we’ll have a clear run. And Petsamo is a long way from Murmansk. Your job is to keep them off the Harts if they do show up. Whatever it takes. Clear?”
The fighter boys nodded, worried expressions on their young faces. Their CO, an older instructor who was still pissed at being up here with the kiddies instead of down where the real fighting was going to be, looked around at them.
“YES HERRA!”
The CO grinned at their sudden parade-ground enthusiasm. “Now, the objective is to sink those half dozen minesweepers the Russians have kept just outside Petsamo Fjord. We’re going to hit them as soon as it’s light enough to see the target. Hart’s will dive bomb from 5,000 feet. We’ll do it in line, go straight down, take our time, once one’s going down, move on to the next.”
He thought for a moment.
“Each aircraft’ll be fitted with two 250 pounders, if there’s no Russkie fighters we’ll make two runs each, drop one bomb on each run.”
“We can sink them before they attack us?”
“Those are the orders.” The CO looked at the message he was holding. “From Wallenius.”
“Does it say whether he was sober when he sent it?”
A ripple of laughter rang around the crowded room. The CO shrugged. Then grinned. “I asked. He was. Liaison Officer told me it’s genuine. And just so’s you all know, Intelligence says that the intelligence that the Russians are going to attack this morning is the real thing. And now that you know that much, be sure to shoot yourself if it looks like you’re going to be taken prisoner. That good enough?”
“So it’s going to be war then?”
“Sounds like it, and Wallenius wants us to get a few knocks in first.”
“Good enough for me. I’m beginning to like the man.”
The CO grinned. “Like him or not, he’s the boss. Now jump to it everyone, we take off as soon as all the aircraft are ready.”
04h40, 30 November 1939, Rannikkojaakarit Detachment, Liinahamari,
It wasn’t quite the mission Luutnantti Haapala had been expecting, but he was more than happy to get the order. This was the kind of thing his men lived for and this time it wasn’t just a practice mission, it was real. Kersantti Marttila had gotten the men roused as soon as the phone call came in. They were already more than half kitted up, alert, most of them drinking kahvi and eating bread and sausages as they prepped their equipment.
“Listen up men, we’ve got a mission. There’s a Russian destroyer floating around the western end of the Motov Gulf, our orders are capture the bastard right away, take it over, bring it back here. We’re going to do it. We’ve rehearsed this a hundred times and you all know what to do.”
Haapala looked at his watch. “Five floatplanes’re on their way here, they’ll take us and the boats and drop us into the Motov Gulf, we take it from there just the way we’ve practiced. Everyone kit up with ship assault gear. Any questions?”
“Type of ship Herra?”
“Helvetti, didn’t I mention that?” Haapala grinned. “You know that old Estonian destroyer we trained on a few times, the one the Eesti’s captured from the Bolsheviks back in 1918?”
“The Vambola?”
“Just so. Well, our target is the Karl Libnekt, she’s a sister ship to Vambola, built to the same design, Putilov yard, Orfey class destroyer. Should be more or less identical inside.”
“Helvetti, that’s good news.”
“Always save the best for last, that’s me. Now, it’s a ship assault off the rigid inflatables and we’re being carried in by floatplane, so pack a ship assault load, five boats, lots of ammo. And before you ask, no prisoners unless they try really really hard to surrender, we don’t need ‘em, Intelligence don’t want ‘em. We capture than damned destroyer and bring her back.”
“Question Herra. Why’re we attacking her? Won’t that provoke the Russians?”
“Those are the orders.” The CO looked at the message he was holding. “From Wallenius.”
“Does it say whether he was sober when he sent it?”
Haapala shrugged. “Who gives a shit, we got the order right here. Liaison Officer who passed the order on told me Signals Intelligence picked up a radio signal from the 14th Army ordering the Karl Libnekt to begin an artillery barrage at 0600 hours this morning. Intelligence says the barrage is to support an on the Isthmus between the Srednyi and Rybachii peninsulas. That good enough?”
“Yes Herra. Not questioning the orders Herra, just interested.”
“Good man. Now, everyone finish getting kitted up and get the boats and gear outside while I go teach my grandmother to suck eggs. We haven’t got long.”
The last sentence was superfluous. The joukkue dissolved, first into laughter and then into furious activity. Haapala was as busy as the rest of them. He was already wearing his “Pirellii”, the formfitting rubber dive suit made by Nokia that acted both as a flotation aid and as insulation from the extreme cold. Thick form fitting rubber boots made of the same stretch material had to be worked onto the feet. Lohikäärme vuota on over the top – the body armour was a little restrictive but with a ship assault, the risk of ricochets of the steel that most of a destroyer was made of justified the additional weight and restriction to movement. A black woolen hat to keep the head warm, then the close-fitting black oilskin fabric/woolen twill waterproof overalls with their multitude of equipment and magazine pockets. Lightweight helmet made from the same layered material as the body armour. Assault Webbing over the top of everything.
Check the backup pistols strapped in their holsters, one on each thigh. Safety on, magazine full, extra round up the spout, spare clips all loaded and secure. Reserve pistol in its underarm holster, also loaded. Suomi across the chest on its special sling with a clip through the trigger guard tying it to his harness in case the sling came loose. Combat knives in their sheaths, one in each boot, another on each of his arms, fifth on this thigh. Hukari down his back in its special sheath. Ammo in the Suomi drums, last check that it was the special ship-assault sub-sonic frangible ammo that would disintegrate inside the target rather than going right through, reducing the risk of ricochets bouncing around once the shooting started. Bouncers were always a risk in ship assaults. Tikkakoski-Maxim silencer for the Suomi in its pouch. Screw it on the barrel once on the ship, it added a bit too much to the length of the weapon to fit on before the climb up the side.
Explosives for blowing hatches. Grenades and flash-bangs, flares, flashlights, including the one that fastened on to the top of the matt-black Suomi. Combat gloves on, waterproof mittens for the boat ride in their special pocket. Face blackening, blackening on any skin that might become exposed, grease to protect skin from the freezing cold, goggles to protect the eyes. Kitted up, they looked like a joukkue of baby bears, without any of the cuddliness. They were ready within ten minutes, carrying the lightweight rigid-inflatable boats and the not so lightweight outboard motors to the seaplane ramp. Sure enough, the transport was already there, five of the old xxxx floatplanes.
“One boat crew to each aircraft, strap the boats on.”
The command wasn’t really needed. They all knew exactly what to do. They’d done this a hundred times before in training. No need to mention speed, that was a given. The men worked fast, they’d rehearsed this until they could do it blindfold in the pitch darkness of a winters night.
While the men were at work, the pilots, co-pilots, loaders and Haapala huddled in a group. He knew them all from exercises over the autumn.
“Not much time for this, you men know the objective, leave it to you how you get us there in one piece.”
The pilots looked at each other. The flight leader nodded, mission face on.
“Already worked that out, we’re going up Petsamo Fjord, get some height, turn, cut the engines and glide in straight over the Isthmus and then down the gulf, get you as close as we can to the objective without being heard or seen and put you down quiet like. Waves and enemy permitting, we’ll hold our takeoff until you hit the objective to keep the engine noise down.”
“Works for me. Let’s get moving.”
The boats were already strapped on to the underside of the aircraft, the men scrambling inside as the conclave broke up, everyone heading for their respective aircraft at a jog. Speed, always speed.
Two of Haapala’s men pulled him in through the hatch, last man in, it slammed shut after him. The engine stuttered, choked, fired up, the xxx pulled away from the hard. Haapala couldn’t see a thing out the small window as they bounced in the light chop, but then that was about standard for the course when you took off in the middle of the damned night. He relaxed back into the seat, eyes closed, rehearsing the mission in his mind. Forty five minutes after the order had first been received, five floatplanes lifted off from Liinahamari in formation, flying northwards up Petsamo Fjord and climbing hard. The Rannikkojaakarit were on the move.
05h13, 30 November 1939, Finnish Submarine Valkohai, 20 miles north of the Rybachii Peninsula.
“Kapteeni, Herra! Something in the water.”
In three seconds Jarvela had crossed the control room and was at his side.
“Object in the water bearing Green 20.”
Jarvela took over the periscope at the same moment as the hydrophone operator reported “Diesel engine on the bearing.”
He peered through the periscope, whistled softly. The object in the water was the conning-tower of a submarine, lifting and dipping in the gentle swell, the casing momentarily visible as it rode each wave, silhouetted clearly in the moonlight.
“Everyone to action stations.”
The command was passed quietly by voice throughout Valkohai, sending men to their combat positions, moving past one another with the unhurried haste of long familiarity with the crowded confines of their submarine.
“Target distance two miles, estimate speed 5 knots. Target is a Russian sub.”
Definitely Russian. The only other Finnish submarine up here was Miekkavalas and she was off Murmansk, watching and waiting. Besides, that Conning Tower profile was Russian, a D-class for sure. There wasn’t much time.
“Both engines, full ahead together. Hard-a-starboard. Sixty feet. The bearing is that! I am eighty degrees on his starboard bow. …. Bring all tubes to the ready. … Give me a course for a 120 degree track.”
Valkhohai surged forward, accelerating to her full under-water speed of nine knots to close the range and going deep to avoid disturbing the surface water. At three minutes, Jarvela ordered “Both engines slow, thirty two feet” and waited as the Number One brought her to periscope depth.
“Raise periscope.”
The target had altered course to starboard, drawing closer and putting Valkohai in an even better firing position, with Valkohai forward of his beam and range closing fast. The atmosphere grew tense, every man on board felt his nerves tightening. They’d fired sixty three torpedoes in exercises and drills, these torpedoes would be the first they had ever fired in combat.
“The bearing is that! Both engines, full ahead. Sixty feet.”
Valkohai slid deeper, surging ahead once more. The mood grew even more electric.
“Both engines slow. Thirty two feet. Stand by.”
“Make ready all tubes.” Jarvela made the decision to take no chances.
“Up periscope.”
“The bearing is that!”
Valkohai was on a firing course now, waiting for the firing angle to come on.
“Stand by forward. Numbers One and Two tubes.”
In the Forward Torpedo Room, Pursimies Ahonen watched the gauges and instruments for numbers one and two tubes, preparing to fire manually if the electrical firing mechanism failed. In the Control Room, Nikula, the Försti, prepared to trim Valkohai after the torpedoes were fired. The sudden loss of weight when two torpedoes were fired altered the trim rather drastically and needed to be compensated for, otherwise the bow might rise and even pierce the surface, as it had once on exercise to his eternal embarrassment.
Through the periscope, Jarvela could see the Russian submarine far more clearly now, drawing closer. Closer….. He could make out the Russian uniforms, even see the smiling faces of the Russian officers on the conning tower as they talked to each other under the light of the shining moon.
“Range, eleven hundred yards.” Point blank range.
“Target speed five knots.” Idling speed.
“Full ahead both.” Valkohai needed more speed to maintain stability and trim when the torpedoes were fired. Each torpedo weighed 300 pounds more than the water it displaced. She leaped ahead, closing the range quickly.
“Standby forward, he’s coming on…….Bearing, Mark…. A few more degrees ….. Come on …..Come on…. Fire One ….. Fire Two!”
Everyone on Valkohai felt the jolts as the two torpedoes were launched. In the control room, Nikula and his men adjusted the trim, using trim tanks and hydroplanes to keep her level at thirty feet and succeeding. It’d been just like in training, Nikula thought to himself, relieved that everything had gone right.
“Down Periscope. Sixty feet. Hard to starboard. Full ahead both.”
A turn of his head. “Good work Försti.”
There was no real threat of a counter attack from the Russian submarine but it was always good practice to evade regardless. A high speed diving turn should take Valkohai away from any immediate threat. Whether or not the submarine made any attempt to evade they had no idea, but every man in Valkohai heard the two muffled crumps that signaled a double hit.
“Thirty feet. Up periscope.”
Jarvela did a quick sweep. There she was, men jumping from the conning tower and the forward escape hatch into the icy water of the Barents Sea. One of the torpedoes must have hit her near the stern, her bow had lifted from the water until it was almost straight up, then slid downwards more and more rapidly, disappearing in a sudden surge of bubbles. Then there was nothing.
Nothing but a thin slick of oil and a few men swimming frantically. The swimming would last only a few minutes and then they would be dead. The frozen waters of the arctic killed quickly and cleanly, more cleanly than men did. Moments later came the sound of a tin-can crunching underfoot as an internal bulkhead collapsed, then another and a few seconds later a third. There were no more. It was the first time anyone in Valkohai had heard those particular sounds, but they all recognized them, and what they meant.
“Poor bastards.”
“They started it.”
Jarvela looked up, grinned mirthlessly. “Well, they haven’t actually attacked us yet so technically, we’ve started it. But they’re going to attack us. When someone’s going to go for you in a bar and you know it, do you wait for them to punch you first?”
“Hell no, Herra!”
“There you go then. Besides, there’re fifteen of those Russian subs up here somewhere, we only got one. We need a good head start and we just got it.”
He turned to Nikula. “Försti, take her down to sixty, get Tubes One and Two reloaded, stand down anyone not needed, have the cook serve breakfast.”
“Herra!”
“You have the ship Försti. I’m going to have breakfast myself, then relieve you.”
“Herra! I have the ship.”
Nikula really was a bit of a stickler for the formalities. “Herra this, Herra that.” Jarvela wondered whether to have a chat with him and then gave a mental shrug. He was shaping up fine as the First Officer, let him continue to find his own feet, he wasn’t making any mistakes.
05h54, 30 November 1939, Rannikkojaakarit Detachment, Motka Bay
“Sataana! Get the goddamn boat in the water!”
“Straps’re stuck” came the hissed reply.
“Cut the bloody things then.”
Thirty seconds later, the rubberized rigid-inflatable smacked into the water between the floats, bouncing around in the chop.
“Pass the motor down.”
“Not on my bleeding head you damn fool.”
“Cut the crap and get a goddamn move on.”
They’d done this a hundred times and it went as it normally did with the floatplane bouncing around on the swell and eight men trying frantically to unload and board along with all their equipment. Five minutes after landing, the boat was ready, engine mounted and purring quietly, men sliding out of the floatplane’s door down onto the float and into the inflatable.
“Push off.” The cox’s voice was just loud enough to be heard. The hatch above them closed, the noise inaudible over the rumble of the aircraft engine.
Haapala could barely make out the shapes of the other four boats, a touch blacker than the water surrounding them. The heavily muffled outboards purred as they closed up.
“Stern light on”.
Haapala leaned out to check the back-facing red light that would help them keep together in the darkness. As long as they were pointed towards the destroyer, the lights would be invisible. Haapala did a quick visual. Five boats, eight men in each. Hadn’t lost anybody loading thank Christ. To an outsider, it wouldn’t have seemed possible for a small group of men in rubber boats to take an entire destroyer. But these men were Rannikkojaakarit. To them, that said it all, graduates of the toughest military training in the world, and they had their target in sight, silhouetted against the skyline. Only death would stop them now.
“Let’s go.”
Haapala gave the order quietly, watching to the rear as the other four boats followed, the five of them forming up on each other with the easy skill of long practice. The slow speed of the Russian destroyer meant they didn’t have to push the outboards hard, the sound from the engines was a muffled purr that was barely audible within the boat. The only risk now was that the destroyers might have good lookouts and to minimize that risk, they came in from directly astern, a sniper in the bow of each boat looking for anyone on the aft deck who might see them and yell a warning. The watch at the stern was usually the slackest and that’s where they approached from, leaving no wake, the men crouched low to reduce their profile. Amazingly, the old Russian destroyer had its lights on. Not many but a few here and there, enough to make it obvious where she was and that she was moving slowly, just idling in the water really. Behind them, they could neither hear nor see the floatplanes that had carried them in.
The sea was calm, a gentle swell that the boats rode easily on the ride in to the destroyer. It took them a good half hour, a slow and cautious approach, it would have been easier in a choppy sea where they would have been harder to spot. As it was, Haapala traded off speed for concealment in the darkness. They were riding the destroyer’s wake now, the water bubbling and boiling beneath them, closing the stern. Closing the destroyer, Haapala tapped the cox on the shoulder, the signal to close up, three of the boats keeping close, the last trailing close astern in case anyone slipped and fell into the water while boarding. Haapala knew without looking that the snipers in each of the trailing boats were ready, silencers fitted, poised and waiting to take out anyone on deck near the stern. In the bow, Tuomi cast his grapnel at the stern railing. The padded hook caught on the first throw. Huotari, his number two immediately pulled on the rope, heaving the rope ladder up while the number three man used the boathook to hold the boat close to the hull.
This was the danger point, where a sudden burst of speed by the destroyer could suck the boat under, into the propellers where they’d be chewed up and spat out. Best not to think about that, just focus on the mission. What came next was the hardest part, using brute upper body strength to haul oneself the equivalent of two stories up the dangling and twisting rope ladder, climbing quietly up the side of the hull to the deck while carrying 70lbs of weapons and equipment. Tuomi held the rope taut, feet braced against the inflatable boat’s hull as Huotari moved past him, strong-arming himself up the rope ladder. Using both hands to climb, this was the most exposed part of the mission. Once the first man was up he could cover. The number three used the boathook to hold the boat close and through it all the boat handler had to power her through the wash, keep her positioned close to the destroyer’s stern while at the same time keeping her from getting sucked too close or too far away or tipping her over or any of the other myriad mistakes that could happen when you brought a small boat in close to a larger ship. Which was why the fifth boat tailed them. It was a complex ballet of teamwork where you had absolute faith in the ability of your team to do the job, each man relying on every other in series of choreographed moves rehearsed a hundred times until they were instinctive.
The rope ladder was strong, as soon as Huotari was part way up, Erkkila was on and climbing. Huotari disappeared from sight, sliding over the railing and down behind whatever he could find for concealment. Luoma went next, then it was Haapala’s turn. He gripped the ladder, one foot found a rung and then he was heaving himself up hand over hand, the weight of his equipment dragging him back as he dangled in mid-air over the freezing ocean. Ahead of him Luoma vanished, he felt Tuomi behind him and then he was being pulled up and over the railing by brute force. Down on the deck himself, his hands found the silencer, screwed it onto his Suomi, screwed the torch onto the top of the Suomi, ran down his equipment doing a quick check that everything was intact. Behind him men poured up, one after the other, pulling themselves up easily, almost running. Hours of painful practice, day after day after day, paid off. Haapala felt a sudden exhilaration as he waited. He’d spent two years training for this and now that they were doing it, it seemed just like a training exercise.
Haapala waited. He knew the other boats were closing in one by one, the men making their way up and onto the aft deck of the destroyer, the empty boats on a rope astern, tying themselves on one by one, the last two men on the last boat to tie on was the men with the hardest and most dangerous job. No-one was there to pick them up if they fell. Two minutes after they started boarding, forty Rannikkojaakarit were grouped on the stern of the old Russian destroyer. Phase One complete. The men were ready, Maxim silencers screwed on as soon as they boarded, flashlights clipped on the top rail, safeties off, Suomi SMG’s at the ready. Last second pat downs of equipment completed. Haapala slapped the back of the man next to him, an audible slap that could have been a wave impacting the ship but wasn’t. Black shapes began to move silently, flowing forward towards their planned entry points. They knew their targets, knew what they had to do, they’d rehearsed this time after time until it was as automatic as breathing.
0925, 3 December 1939: Lapin Ryhmä (Lapland Group Headquarters)
“Herra! Seppo, there’s a message here from the submarine of Murmansk, it’s urgent.”
The young Signals Lotta-Luutnantti stood in the doorway of the Operations Room once more, her eyes even wider than on her previous visit. Kapteeni Rintala took the message sheet from her hands and scanned it quickly.
“Herra, you should read this.” He stepped over to Wallenius, who was talking into one of the Field Telephones. Wallenius nodded to him, held up a hand.
“Right, you’re doing well Eskola, just fall back slowly and keep hurting them, fall back even if you know you can hold them, we want to draw them in deeper, once they’re in deep enough then we’re going to pin them down and annihilate the bastards. Just keep it slow, enough to make them think they’re getting somewhere, that’s all.”……. “Right, good man.” ……. “Report back in another three hours, I’ll tell them to get me on the phone as soon as you call.” ……. “Good, good. Best of luck to your men Eskola, you’re doing fine.”
Wallenius handed the receiver to one of the Signals-Lotta’s manning the phones and turned, taking the proffered message sheet from Rintala’s hand. He read it through twice, his face turning thoughtful. Then he grinned. Rintala knew that expression, it usually meant the boss had thought of something particularly devilish on an exercise. Here and now, it was not a look that bade well for the Russians. He beckoned to the Signals Lotta-Luutnantti and to the Naval Liaison Officer who had been drinking kahvi in a corner. His turned his gaze first to the Naval Liaison Officer, passed her the message sheet.
“Read this Luutnantti.”
“Herra!” She read it through, eyes widening.
“Luutnantti, I would like the Miekkavalas to sink as many of those ships as possible without undue risk to herself. I’d like that other Submarine, Valkohai, to also attack that convoy if at all possible. Please pass on my request to Naval Headquarters and ask for an immediate response. If necessary, you may interrupt whatever I am doing to bring me into the call. I want a fast decision from them on this, understood? Yes or No, I want it fast.”
“Herra! Yes Herra, understood.”
The Luutnantti almost bolted for a phone. Wallenius nodded, turned to the Signals-Lotta. “Luutnantti, send a message to that submarine acknowledging receipt of their message and advising that the content is understood. Advise that we are passing on the message to Naval Headquarters and requesting approval from Naval Headquarters for them to attack the Russian ships and for Valkohai to join in the fun, in the meantime request that they track the convoy and report its position every hour with putting themselves at risk.”
“Herra!”
Wallenius was already turning away, looking now for the Air Liaison Officer. He grinned at Rintala. “I love these Lotta-Officers, Rintala, when you tell them to do something, they jump all over it, not like you young men, you get all pissy, never learnt proper Army discipline the way we did in Germany.” He shook his head. “Those were the days, young man.”
“Ah, there you are.” He beckoned the Air Liaison Kapteeni over. “I don’t understand why the Ilmavoimat Liaison Officers always outrank everyone else?” The Kapteeni opened her mouth. Wallenius chuckled. “Teasing young Kapteeni, teasing. Now, read this.” He handed her the message signal, watched as she read it through, her eyes widening.
“Just so Kapteeni. Thirty thousand Russian troops on ships. That’s two Divisions to add to the two we’re already fighting. We have one Division. Two to one, that’s no problem. Four to one is a bit much, we could hold ‘em but beating them, that’d be hard. I’d like the Ilmavoimat to take care of those ships before they get anywhere close to where they can unload them.”
The Kapteeni opened her mouth. Wallenius held up one hand.
“Now, here’s my request Kapteeni, get your boss, and I mean Somersalo, get him on the phone, give him the report verbatim and tell him I’d like to talk with him about what the Ilmavoimat can do to help me out here. Use our meeting room back there.”
“See what I mean Rintala, we need more like those girls!” Wallenius chuckled and held out his hand, accepting the proffered mug of kahvi from his orderly.
“Now, while we wait, tell me what the hell is Heiskanen doing with that Erillisosasto of his? He’s supposed to be sliding invisibly and with great stealth into the Russian rear, not shooting the bastards up, even if he does wipe them out. Explain please.”
“Herra!” Rintala hadn’t even opened his mouth. It was the young Signals Lotta-Luutnantti back with another message sheet. The Naval Liaison Officer was right behind her.
“Very good Luutnantti. Excellent. Forward those orders to Miekkavalas and Valkohai if you would be so kind. And pass on my hopes for their success. And make sure they know that Destroyer the Rannikkojaakarit captured is ours, ask them not to sink it by mistake.”
“Herra!”
“Now Rintala.” Wallenius voice turned silky. “Please do explain to me what Heiskanen is up to.”
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
1015, 3 December 1939: Lapin Ryhmä (Lapland Group Headquarters)
“Aarne, good to hear your voice. Keeping you busy down there are they?”
“Kurt you old bastard, I hear the Russians have you on the run?”
They both laughed. Kapteeni Fagernäs looked at Kapteeni Rintala, who winked at her.
“Old Jaegers,” he mouthed. She nodded. Wallenius chuckled.
“Pleasantries aside, I need a bit of help from your boys Aarne. I believe Fagernäs here explained what we’re facing, two Divisions on ships to reinforce the two we’re already fighting. The latest Intelligence Report says twelve destroyers, two Cruisers and twenty or so transport ships. They’re making about 10 knots and if we’re going to get them before they land, we need to do it tomorrow at the latest. By the day after tomorrow they’ll be on shore and once they get there they’re going to be a far tougher nut for my boys to crack. There’re two subs up here but they can only get a few of those ships and that’s if they’re lucky.”
“Understood, Fagernäs briefed me in.” Somersalo paused. “Give me an hour to see what we can put together in a hurry. The boys’ve been a bit busy on the Isthmus, the Russkies seem to be throwing everything they have at us down here. I’ll call you back in an hour. Have to run it by the Marski as well.”
“Helvetti, him and me, we don’t exactly see eye to eye Aarne.”
“Leave it to me Kurt, two Divisions on ships, that’s a mission I can sell to anyone. Including the Marski. Even if it is you. Call you back in an hour.”
“Thanks Aarne.”
The phone clicked. Wallenius looked at Kapteeni Fagernäs. “Well, we’ll see,” he said. “Now, Rintala, get me that map of the Russian positions on the Rybachi, I want to think again about how we plan to roll them up in a hurry. Not exactly a strategic threat but if we roll them up we’re going to free up the best part of a Prikaati and they seem incompetent enough that we should be able to do it quickly. Let’s take a look and think about it, bring in the planning team, I want them to do one last critique.”
“Herra?” The Signals Lotta was holding up a phone for him. “Majuri xxx for you. Says he has a problem with pulling back, needs to talk to you about it.”
“Helvetti, does everyone need babysitting.” Wallenius reached for the phone.
“What is it man?.........You what …… your men what ……oh, very good xxxx, you were supposed to leave SOME alive and let them think they were making progress, now how the hell do we draw them in deeper if you’ve killed them all?”
1124 hours, 3 December 1939: Rybachi Peninsula
Sotamies Honkala was coldly and malevolently angry. For two days, he’d been lying in a freezing cold hole in the ground that had taken him the best part of a long winters night to burrow to and then cut out, packing the snow down, concealing his hole with “fresh” snow and hiding himself and his equipment, all without being seen. Not to mention the time it had taken to move into position without leaving a trace. It didn’t help that the damned hole in the snow was only 50 feet in front of the small gully that was an obvious jumping off point for any Russian assault on the very visible and completely empty Finnish “defence lines” just the other side of the border. And about 500 feet inside the Russian side of the border, which was kind of incidental. His entire Komppania was strung out either side of him, waiting for the Russians.
He knew precisely where they were. He could smell the cigarette smoke, hear them talking and he’d spotted movement here and there in the gully, he estimated the best part of a Russian battalion was there. They’d been there for two days now, since a few hours before he and the rest of the Komppania had begun moving forward and digging themselves in. Even a blind man would have seen the russkies, the way they moved around, talked, smoked, had the odd accidental discharge. Damned amateurs. They were pissing him off, and they were the reason he was out here freezing his ass off in the ice and snow smelling their damned cigarette smoke instead of sitting back on his own side of the border enjoying a sauna and a shot of vodka out of his rations.
1125 hours, 3 December 1939: Rybachi Peninsula
“Pass orders that we’ll attack at 1130 hours precisely.”
Down the length of the long gully, the Russian soldiers stirred, warming themselves, stamping, checking the action on their rifles, talking quietly to each other, snatching last cigarette.
The Company Commander’s whistle blew, followed by whistles up and down the Battalion line.
“Follow meeee.”
Lieutenant xxxx was first out of the gully, waving his pistol in the air, looking over his shoulder to check that his men were indeed following. He felt a moment of pride as he saw his entire platoon already up and out of the gully while to either side soldiers from other platoons were still scrambling to climb out. A quick assault in strength and the small Finnish force they faced over on the low ridge across the border would be routed, so the Commissar had assured them. As Lieutenant xxx faced forward, a howling scream that was echoed a hundred times came from out of the ground ahead of him.
“Tuuuuultaaaaaa muuuunilleeeeee.”
His heart seemed to stop in his chest from sheer terror at the malevolent hatred that scream contained, the scream of a hundred demons from hell. The snow ahead spat red flames, something thumped into his chest, an enormous roundhouse blow that knocked him backwards over the lip of the gully and down to crash into the frozen ground below. He tried to jump to his feet, but his arms and legs wouldn’t respond. For some reason it was hard to breath. Lieutenant xxxx struggled to think, distracted by the explosions to either side of him in the gully and the shapes falling out of the darkness to land beside him. Some of them were screaming and the screams were terribly distracting. He wondered why they were screaming. He knew he should do something about those screams. He was an officer and an officer’s job was to look after his men. He tried to move again but for some reason he couldn’t. And then he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing and that worried him some more. So did the screams from the demons. Xxxx wondered vaguely what “Haaaaaakkaaaaa päääälllllleeeeee” meant?
He knew now that the demons were coming for him and he felt afraid. His grandmother had always muttered that the demons would come for the party members, and he’d joined the party. And the demons had come as she’d said they would. He knew another moment of terror as a stocky misshapen shape clad all in white stood looking down at him.
“That’s strange.” Lieutenant xxxx last thought was one of puzzlement, not terror or fear. “I didn’t think demons were white.”
The demon spat flame and Lieutenant xxxx’s puzzlement ended abruptly.
1130 hours, 3 December 1939: Rybachi Peninsula
“Tuuuuultaaaaaa muuuunilleeeeee.”
Sotamies Honkala echoed the Vanrikki’s battle cry and simultaneously opened fire at the line of Russians along the lip of the gully. Lying prone in his hole in the ground, covered by his tarpaulin and a couple of feet of snow, he knew he was virtually invisible. The Suomi juddered against his shoulder as he worked his way through the 71 round drum in short bursts, watching the Russians in front of him topple like pins in the bowling alley he used to frequent as a teenager. A Russian officer drew his eye, waving his pistol and looking back at his troops as they climbed out of the gully. Honkala gave him a short burst, felt a moment of satisfaction as the officer fell backwards into the gully.
He felt a moment of astonishment as his Suomi clicked on empty. So soon? Trained reactions kicked in instantly. Hit the drum release. Slam a new drum in from where it sat close to hand. Cock and resume firing again in just a couple of seconds. The Russians were still scrambling out of the gully. Honkala worked his way along the lip, servicing targets as they appeared, watching them fall, concentrating on his own sector. There came an instant when no more Russians appeared and in another trained and drilled movement, Honkala took one of the half dozen grenades lined up beside him, pulled the pin and hurled them into the gully. One after another he threw, as fast as he could pull the pins and throw them. Hit the release for the partially used drum, slam a replacement in and assault the gully.
“Haaaaaakkaaaaa päääälllllleeeeee.”
Honkala burst out of the ground, his Suomi spitting flame and bullets at the Russian soldiers on the ground ahead of him, making sure that the bodies on the ground stayed bodies. Screams and frenzied attempts to escape showed the value of such training as he charged forward. Pause at the edge of the gully, out of sight of anyone down there. Take a grenade from his webbing, pull the pin, count one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three and drop over the edge. Load a new drum as the grenade explodes and, along with everyone else, fire down onto the gully, hosing down everything in sight. A quick reload and then slide up to the edge, guts curled up tight, roll in and crouch, Suomi at the ready, looking for movement. A gasp from his feet, eyes looking up at him. Fire a short burst down, move on without a second thought, clearing the gully. To his left and right, white-clad figures moved with him.
Two figures in brown scrambled frenziedly out of the gully ahead of him. Honkala took a snap shot, missed, cursed, scrambled to the rear lip of the gully and fired again, saw one go down. The other disappeared from sight.
“Saataana.”
Honkala turned in surprise at the Vanrikki’s voice beside his head. Then the vanrikki was gone, back down into the gully, talking into the radio Pelto was carrying. Honkala risked a quick glance backwards, saw the slope over in Finland swarming with figures skiing rapidly towards them.
“Looks like we’re advancing then.”
“Perkele, where did you come from Saarela?”
“Right behind you all the way buddy.”
Both their hands were busy, changing drums without thought. Honkala dropped back into the gully, began checking Russian bodies, taking Russian grenades and dropping them in his bum-pack. After a second, Saarela was there beside him.
“Hei, nice pistol here.”
Saarela lifted a Tokorxxx from a dead Russian officer’s hands.
“Shoot your own officers buddy.” Honkala neatly took it from Saarela’s hand and slipped it into a pocket, rebuttoned the flap. Saarela laughed, then leaned over and pulled a pouch of the dead russian’s belt, tossed it to Honkala.
“You might as well take his spare rounds as well.”
“Might as well, he doesn’t need them any more.”
The vanrikki was yelling orders again.
“Reload, prepare to advance. .”
Honkala replaced drums in an instant and followed. Saarela was right beside him.
1137 hours, 3 December 1939: Battalion Headquarters, Rybachi Peninsula
“They’re dead …….. they killed them all …… God help us …. they’re all dead.”
The panic-stricken features of the Commissar as he burst into the Regiment’s Headquarters bore no relation to the dapperly uniformed and icily-doctrinaire ideologist who had left earlier in the morning to “inspire the men at the front through example.”
“What’s the problem Comrade?”
The (Regimental CO) wrinkled his nose at the smell that accompanied the Commissar. The man had shat himself. He would have loved to have used rather stronger language but the man was the Regiment’s chief Commissar and thus a man it was wise to be respectful of. Those who weren’t had a tendency to disappear, his immediate predecessor being one such. He turned to the orderly.
“Bring the Commissar something to restore himself with.”
“There’s no time, they’re coming. We have to get out of here.” The Commissar’s panic was total, he was scrabbling at the flap that covered the doorway.
“Control yourself Comrade.” The CO restrained the Commissar, pushed him down into a seat, wrinkling his nose at the smell as he did so.
“Drink this.” He forced a Canteen of straight vodka to the Commissar’s lips. What a waste, it was good vodka, but one needed to do something to get some sense out of the man. He was getting more hysterical, not less, trying to push the Canteen away, then choking as the CO forced him to drink.
“Listen to me, listen to me,” the Commissar pleaded. “The Finns, they wiped them all out, killed them all and now they’re in our positions, they’re coming. We have to fall back, we have to tell Division, ask for reinforcements.”
“Rubbish man,” the CO barked. “I’ll send someone up to check the lines.”
He turned just in time to see a grenade sail through the doorway, followed by another and another. The Commissar screamed and threw himself backwards onto the floor. The CO knew a moment of stunned disbelief before the grenades exploded, throwing his torn and lacerated body backwards against the bunker wall. Outside, Sotamies Honkala and Sotamies Saarela threw their last grenades into the bunkers as fast as Honkala could feed them through the entrance. Then they burst in, Suomi SMG’s lacing the bodies with “finnish stitch-work”. Then checking them with their boots. One of the bodies squealed as they kicked it. Both Honkala and Saarela wrinkled their noses.
“Sataana, there you are,” Sotamies Honkala smiled down at the terrified face of the Commissar. “It’s that Commissar that ran away,” he told Saarela.
“How the hell can you know that?” Saarela asked.
“It’s that fancy hat he’s wearing,” Honkala laughed. He bent over and took it from the Commissar’s head.
“You won’t need this where you’re going Comrade. Now finish him off Saarela.”
Saarela grinned down at the Commissar’s panic-stricken features. “Bad luck comrade.”
He squeezed the trigger, fired a short burst downwards. The Commissar jerked and died. Honkala handed the hat to Saarela.
“You take it,” he said, “your kill. Nice hat too. Now, let’s see if there’s anything else worth scrounging before we have to move out. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone but you mind, but somehow I think the vanrikki wants us to keep attacking.”
Saarela chuckled, forced out an approximation of their officer’s Helsinki accent. “I say chaps, let’s advance, what?”
“Gosh chaps, just what I was going to say.”
“Saatana!” Honkala and Saarela both jumped in surprise. “Herra!”
The vanrikki laughed. “You’ve got sixty seconds to grab anything you can use from in here and then we’re moving out. The CO wishes us to keep advancing, what.”
“Herra! Your word is our command Herra!”
The vanrikki chuckled again and then he was gone. They looked at each other.
“Sixty Seconds” floated back through the doorway. They fell on the bodies in a second, riffling through pockets and webbing, anything useful disappearing into their breadbags.
1117 hours: 3 December 1939: Somewhere over the Karelian Isthmus
Ruoska was all that anyone ever referred to him by. Half his men would have had to think for a moment before they could have told you what what his real name was but regardless, if he’d led them in an attack on the Devil, they’d have followed him into the flames of hell. Their only question would have been what the bombload would be. He’d led some of them in Spain, a squadron of Finnish volunteers flying a motley assortment of bombers and ground attack aircraft against the Republicans. And now, here they were, flying against the old enemy once more, a low-level strike against a Red Army concentration on the Isthmus. As missions went, 3 days into the war, it was standard, the type of mission they’d flown in Spain. A slashing low-level attack screaming in at tree-top height that hit the target fast and hard, the bombers climbing into the clouds almost before the Russians had known they were there. No losses, the Red Army artillery regiment that was their target left shattered in their wake. They broke through the cloud at five thousand feet and reformed, still climbing for height as they headed for home. That should have been the end of the mission, but on the way back Ruoska saw a dream come true.
He opened the squadron comm channel. “Seppo, do you see them? Down there, ten o’clock low, and they’re going in our direction.”
Seppo was on his wingtip, so close he could see him look down. His usually expressionless face displayed a grin that had entirely no humor to it. “How many d’you think?”
Ruoska studied the air below them. At what he estimated to be five thousand feet were at least twenty enemy bombers.
“SB-2’s…… Twenty, maybe twenty-five.”
Seppo looked at their escorting fighters and his grin was back. “I don’t think anyone’s seen our friends down there.”
Ruoska shook his head. “Those Hawk pilots are asleep.”
“Reservists.”
“Leave ‘em to snooze. I think we should drop down and pay our respects.”
“Wouldn’t be right not too. Besides, they’re heading the same way we are.”
Ruoska chuckled out loud on the squadron frequency. “Listen up men. Juha, Matti, Erki, Seppo, Pentti. You read?”
The responses came back immediately. Ruoska only wanted those five. Their bombers and his own were the squadron gunships. The others were the older glassnoses, not yet converted.
“Right, this is only for the five I called out. All other aircraft stay in formation and stick with the fighter cover. You others, look down.”
“Perkele!”
“Big fat trout.”
“Alright, alright,” Ruoska interrupted. “You five, slide off to the right and form up on me.”
Ruoska eased his aircraft off to the side and began gradually losing altitude, the others following. The twin-engined Los bombers were light without their bombloads, they’d burned off a lot of fuel, they had good visibility through the gaps in the clouds and there was all that beautiful altitude. Ruoska eased the yoke forward further as the others formed on him, catching the gravity train, the other five bombers staying tight, moving with him as if controlled by a single mind.
He stayed well behind the Tupolev SB-2’s, using gravity and the powerful Hispano-Suiza engines to build up a tremendous speed, coming up behind the enemy formation from about a thousand feet below their altitude. He eased back on the yoke, the six Los gunships staying tight, now arrowing upward, still with that tremendous speed, engines on maximum power as they climbed, coming up fast from behind and beneath the Russian bombers.
“I’ll start at the left.” Ruoska sounded cool, controlled. “Work them left to right.”
The Tupolevs’ swelled in their sights, expanding swiftly. Engines howling, the gunships swooped upwards on their smooth curves. Ruoska was able to make out details, engines, hatches, exhausts, rivet patterns, as he closed to point blank range, his sights dead-center on the belly of the Tupolev at the far left of the Russian formation. Finally, he squeezed the gun-tit.
The Los vibrated and shook as the four nose-mounted heavy machine guns and the four 20mm cannon in their fuselage pods below the cockpit released a tornado of bullets and shells to smash into the enemy bomber. One moment it flew serenely through the skies, its crew oblivious to the death swooping in from below. An instant later the fuel tanks were a mass of flames, bullets ripped through the fuselage and the wing root, the right wing tore away from the fuselage and the bomber twisted up and over in a maddened cartwheel that took it plunging into the bomber to its immediate right, both of them disintegrating in a fireball, flaming pieces tumbling towards the ground.
Everything seemed to happen at the same time, Ruoska skidded the Los through the air, getting out of the way of the two colliding bombers, bringing his guns to bear on the third from the left but even as he started to fire the bomber exploded in flames. One instant it was there, the next it was gone and Erki’s triumphant cry rang in his earphones.
“Got the bastard.”
Ruoska wasted no time, breaking to the left and grabbing some height. The other five gunships were like killer whales in the midst of a pack of seals. Death blows from their terrible massed machineguns and cannon hammered into the Russian bombers. In those first few seconds, Ruoska’s first burst had destroyed one bomber, which crashed into a second. Erki exploded the third. Matti and Juha each nailed one. Pentti’s target was trailing smoke, one engine stopped, the other burning, sinking fast towards the ground while Seppo was hammering bursts into another.
The remaining Tupolevs hung doggedly to their formation, closing up as their comrades fell away, gunners firing desperately as the pilots pointed the noses down to build up speed. The SB-2’s were powerful and fast and the Russian pilots, once they got over the shock of the sudden ambush, were taking the best way out by diving. The Los gunships went after them, tearing in for more kills. Juha and Pentti teamed up on one that began to lag behind, ripping it to shreds, taking turns firing into it as pieces broke away, until suddenly the enemy bomber was in an uncontrolled spin, heading towards the ground. They ignored it and went to emergency power, heading to catch up with the others as ahead of them, two more Russian bombers disappeared in flaming explosions. Ruoska closed in on another, his gunfire ripping into the fuselage, shredding the cockpit, put another burst in as it rolled away and down, out of control, the pilot dead in the shattered cockpit. He slid the Los sideways, had yet another in his sights when a voice came over the common channel with a message that chilled the blood of every man in the Los gunships.
Ruoska nearly broke his neck twisting around in the window, looking back through his side window. There they were, eight twin-boomed fighters coming downstairs faster than his eyes could believe, slicing into the pack of Poliakov’s with devastating effect. Before the Russian fighter pilots were aware of what was happening, seven of them were gone in an instant. One second earlier they were diving for the bombers, intent on avenging the massacred SB-2’s, the next they were burning, exploding, wings torn away, pilots chewed to pieces in their cockpits, scattering in all directions as the nose-mounted guns of the Ilmavoimat Fokker G1 Vikeatiemies, the Grim Reaper, tore them apart with contemptuous ease.
The Los crews watched as the big twin-boomed fighters eased up alongside them. “Hey, thanks Snowflake, you guys turned up just in time.”
“Roger that. You people weren’t doing so bad yourselves. Did anyone tell you you’re not fighters? We counted nine, ten bombers going down back there.”
“Just paying our respects to the neighbours.”
A chuckle came over the comm channel. “You need an escort home?”
“Negative, I think you ran those fighters off.”
“Roger that. We’ll go finish off the bombers you left for us then.”
“Go right ahead, Snowflake. We’re all done paying our respects for the day.”
The big Vikeatiemies’ went for altitude, the crewman in the Los bombers watching with wonder. There was no effort, no struggling engines, no clawing for height. The Vikeatiemies’ swept upwards with a grace and speed that was impossible to believe, climbing and then turning and plummeting towards the SB-2’s that were now far ahead, a dozen specks low to the ground. Ruoska shook his head. You had to give those Russian pilots credit for sheer guts. Almost half their formation gone, their fighter cover evaporated and they were still plugging ahead. He watched as the Vikeatiemies’ continued their swoop down, knowing the remaining SB-2’s wouldn’t make it to their targets, let alone home and glad of it but still, not wanting to watch.
They were barely on the ground, not yet out of their flight suits when the Wing Commander called all the Los crews into the briefing room. Majuri xxxx walked with a cane, snarled rather than talked and was as tough as an old bear in heat. He defended the interests of “his men” with the same toughness as a bear defended its cubs. He didn’t have to tell anyone in the emergency briefing that this one was important.
“Our information is not clearcut,” he spelled it out to the hastily reassembled bomber crews. “At least twenty troopships, fourteen destroyers, two cruisers, half a dozen smaller ships. They were spotted leaving Murmansk late this morning and there was only a partial sighting, so there may be more.”
He pointed at the map. “Intelligence says they’re heading for Petsamo carrying two Red Army Divisions. Thirty, maybe thirty five thousand troops. The Russians are attacking across the border here. If they succeed in landing those Divisions near Petsamo, we’ll lose the port and our units fighting there will be forced to withdraw. Not to mention we’ve got a backlog of war supplies and cargo ships stacked up there that we’ll lose as well.”
He looked around the briefing room, crusty, not needing to say that he wanted to fly this one with them.
“We can’t let those two Divisions get ashore. Understand me, men, you’ve got to keep those troops from landing.”
He turned and his cane tapped the map. “Those troopships won’t be fast, but the destroyers and cruisers can be expected to have a lot of firepower. We can also expect heavy fighter cover out of Murmansk, Intelligence says up to one hundred fighters. Another group will be targeting their airfield to try and take them out on the ground but you know how it is. You will take off as soon as the aircraft are serviced and refueled. You will fly to Rovanimie where you will refuel and bomb up and stay overnight. You will take off from Rovanimie tomorrow morning. We’re throwing every bomber we can spare from the Isthmus into this one. Our mission is to attack those ships and sink them. Every single one of them. As well as you men, there’ll be some other bombers, can’t tell you who yet because I don’t know, some torpedo bombers, there’ll be dive bombers coming in and you will have fighter cover.”
“One last word. We have a single Division up there that’s holding its own against two Russian Divisions. If these two Divisions get ashore, that changes the situation for our men and not in a good way. Get the bastards. That’s all, gentlemen.”
*************************************
Ruoska’s radio blipped. “You can go fishing.” That was all. It was all that was needed. Somewhere far to the north, out in the darkness of the long Arctic night, an Ilmavoimat PBY had found the Russian convoy, radioed in its position, and had sent back a code message that the weather was acceptable. Ruoska smiled in the darkness.
“Acknowledged.”
He switched to the squadron channel. “We can go fishing.”
No identifiers, no acknowledgments. There would be no more radio contact between any of the aircraft until they were attacking the convoy. If the Russians were monitoring radio frequencies, as Finnish Signals Intelligence did, they’d intercept radio transmissions on aircraft frequencies and send out messages that the Finns might be staging a night mission, and then the convoy might be alerted. A lot of mights, but every action that reduced risk was sound practice.
.
The big twin engines kicked in with growling, coughing rumbles, then broke into a throaty roar, the Los lurched against the brakes, dipping gently on its nose shocks as he ran the engines up. His Los was alive now, shaking and shuddering through every metallic fiber of its being, groaning and rumbling as Ruoska locked the brakes and ran through the checklist. Mags right and left, watch the rpm on the props, checking prop blade angles, the sound of the blades slicing through the air, whooshing and hissing as he shifted through fine and coarse pitch. Then the last checks were done, it was time to go. He pushed the throttles forward, all the way to the stops and the Los was straining at its leash, juddering and heaving against the brakes as the rpms picked up and the propeller blades chewed at the air. He held her until he felt her begin to move against the brakes and then he came off them and the Los surged forward, responding instantly to the howling engines and the great whirling propeller blades. The acceleration pushed him backwards in his seat as the bomber picked up speed swiftly. Within seconds they raced down the runway, Ruoska coming back on the yoke just a fraction to lift the nosewheel slightly.
The dull red runway lights raced past on either side, a surrealistic tunnel of lights that rushed at him faster and faster and then sped away out of his peripheral vision, becoming a blur as the aircraft picked up more and more speed. He was holding the heavily laden bomber down longer than necessary, getting some extra speed to compensate for all the additional weight of a full bomb and fuel load, that and the night takeoff and the freezing cold air. The Los wanted to become airborne, he could feel it, feel its desire to leave the ground and lift into its element and now he eased the yoke back a little more, the Los floating upwards into the darkness as Ruoska flew on the instruments. The artificial horizon, air speed dial, course, rate of climb, altitude and all the while checking the gauges that displayed oil pressure and temperature, cylinder head temperatures.
He retracted the landing gear, feeling the thumps as the wheels locked into their wells, feeling the difference in the way the aircraft flew. Flaps now, coming up slowly, ease the throttles off, the engines sounding a little less like hammering thunder. The Los was in her element now, even heavily laden as she was she was climbing easily into the night sky and he knew the other aircraft of his squadron would be following, flying their invisible lines in the sky that would keep them in formation with him through the long flight north. He flicked his navigation lights on, red on the left wingtip, green on the right and behind him, the rest of the squadron followed suite.
“They see us.” That was Juntunen on the intercom, watching from the rear gunners position. After a moment longer, he flicked the navigation lights off, leaving only the dull white light at the tip of the tail. From this point on, the aircraft would track each other by those small, almost invisible lights. There would be no radio conversation, no other lights, no other signals to draw attention to them as they sped northwards through the blackness of the long night.
Ruoska led them northwards through the darkness of the arctic night, the heavily laden bombers slowly rising as they burned off fuel, climbing to eight thousand feet and then holding it steady. Eight thousand wasn’t high enough to need oxygen, it kept them just above the scattered clouds below and the half-moon shone down on the clouds and the snow, so that they were flying in a ghostly world of dull illumination. The bright moonlight and the clearing night sky helped immensely with their navigation, for even in that baleful glow they could distinctly make out the whitened landscape below, identify terrain features, such as they were. Ruoska felt relaxed as they flew on through the clearing skies, confident now that this mission was blessed – the weather had broken right for them.
The flight seemed interminable until he found himself nearing the coast at last. He saw the sea ahead of them, and somewhere out there, out in that sea, were the Russian ships they were to attack. Looking down, he noticed another group of faint lights moving slowly, even made out the specks flying in the same direction. Must be the squadron of Ripon Torpedo Bombers that had flown out well ahead of his squadron, their slower speed imposing far longer flight times. Out there somewhere in the night, flying in the same direction as his squadron, were the other fast bombers, the Ju-88’s, the Blenheim bombers and gunships, the Italian Savoia-Marchetti torpedo bombers. Not forgetting the divebombers and the old Hawker Harts. And ahead of them all, four Ilmavoimat PBY Catalina’s lumbered slowly through the air, an experimental 2000lb glider bomb hung under each wing. Slow and exposed, helpless if attacked, the thought of flying those lumbering elephants of the air sent a shudder down Ruoska’s spine.
Now they passed over the coastline, passed out to sea and then banked right to take them towards the estimated position of the Russian convoy. It was getting lighter now as they headed east, the coast to their right, the Rybachi Peninsula on their left. Still keeping at eight thousand feet, no clouds, the sky clear, moonlight and starlight shining down, the land a silvery white, the sea dark and forbidding. Out in front, the PBY’s had sighted the Russian ships. A short message on the radio, then silence again. Ruoska rocked his wings, the squadron closed in, moving into their attack formation, each aircraft pairing up with another, flying in sticks of fours. The Ju-88’s were close now too, the Blenheim gunships moving up. They’d all heard the same short message and they were following his lead. Far above, somewhere up there at twelve thousand feet were the dive bombers and above them should be the fighter escorts. Ruoska trusted the fighters to be there, they always were, it was one of the tennents of the fighter boys, never let the bombers down. And they never had in Spain, he trusted them now as he had trusted them in Spain. They’d be there if they were needed. He could see the PBY’s ahead now, they were closing on them fast and the timing was almost perfect.
At a distance of five miles from the convoy, the glide bombs dropped from the Catalina wings, launched singly, gravity quickly accelerating them to their optimal 600mph speed as they homed in on the Soviet ships. From five miles out they were small, almost invisible, their speed and their small size protection enough from sight and from AA fire as the three pigeon’s cushioned inside the nose of each of the flying bombs pecked rapidly and repeatedly at their small metal-coated screens, the electro-mechanical control systems responding to those pecks and guiding the speeding bombs to their target with an unerring accuracy. Glide bombs launched, the Catalina’s banked slowly away. Their bombing run complete, their task now was to remain circling on station to rescue any aircrew whose aircraft was forced down into the icy sea below.
The pigeons performed their first mission of the war with a flawless precision that was as terrifying to the Russians as it was unexpected. No-one on the ships bucketing through the calm waters of the Barents Sea saw the small winged bombs that sped towards them, tiny black specks in a darkling sky almost to the end. The Russians only warning of the incoming attack was the first 2000lb glider bomb plunging into the side of a destroyer, penetrating deep inside the speeding warship and detonating in a cataclysmic explosion that blew the destroyer in half, breaking its back in an instant. The bow of the warship floated for less than a minute before disappearing from sight, the forward momentum of the stern drove the rear half underwater in seconds. Inside of a minute, the only trace left of the hapless destroyer was a frothing circle of water and few men struggling uselessly in the ice-cold water.
Within the course of a single minute, eight of the 2000lb glider bombs plunged home with unerring accuracy, wreaking random havoc throughout the convoy. There was no rhyme or reason to the way the three pigeons carefully cushioned inside the guidance head of each glider bomb selected their targets. One ship was as good as another to the bird-brained controllers, providing guidance at their more or less standard 8 pecks per second, happily anticipating their usual reward of seeds and grain. A small coaster pouring smoke from its single funnel for some reason attracted the attention of two sets of pigeons. Within seconds of each other, two 2000lb glider bombs hit and in an instant, the coaster and over a thousand soldiers literally disappeared as two enormous explosions merged into one, pieces of ship flying through the air. Three more of the bombs hit transport ships, not sinking them but causing massive damage that slowed them almost immediately, inflicting large numbers of casualties and setting the ships on fire at one and the same time.
Oblivious to their date, the pigeons tended to be drawn to larger, more easily identified, targets and so it was that of the last two glider bombs, one targeted the largest cargo ship, troops packed in like sardines, hitting the bridge superstructure and completely destroying it, rendering the ship out of control, albeit it proceeded on in the direction it had been steaming. The last bomb targeted one of the two Northern Fleet Cruisers escorting the convoy, plunging into the aft half of the ship and detonating in the engine room, destroying the warship’s means of propulsion and power in an explosion that gutted the insides of the ship and blew a hole upwards through the lightly armoured deck. Gutted and powerless, flames erupting from the gaping hole in its deck, the cruiser slowed to a halt.
Immediately behind the glider bombs but a lot larger and traveling at slightly more than half the speed, the first wave of bombers came in. Ruoska had led the Los and Ju-88’s downwards in a long sliding dive through the frozen arctic air, the heavily loaded aircraft accelerating quickly as they slid down the gravity well towards the Russian ships 8,000 feet below, darker specks against the ice-flecked paleness of the winter sea. As the glider bombs erupted throughout the convoy, Ruoska pushed the throttles forward, getting all the speed he could out of the big engines without beating them to death. The others followed, spreading out along the length of the convoy, sweeping in fast from the landward side, already beginning to select their targets. Gunships moved to the fore, the glassnoses dropping behind to form a second wave. Even further back, the Savoia Marchetti torpedo bombers were dropping down to form a third wave.
Ruoska took that long slanting dive right down to the waves before levelling out, cutting the margin to the closest he dared. He’d have to pull up later but the lower they stayed right now, the less of a target they made. He held the yoke easily, with the instinctive touch of long experience and familiarity, feet riding the rudder pedals, easing the rudder, sliding the Los gently from one side to the other, trying to stay inside those curving lines of fire that only now began to reach out towards them from the Russian destroyers. Now he pushed the throttles forward to the stops, pushed the engines to maximum power and the Los responded, seeming to leap forward through the air. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see long quicksilver patterns in the water, twin wakes of foam and spray thrown up from the sea behind them by the giant propeller blades of his Los.
The gunships were spreading further apart now, edging away from each other, focusing on their targets, the faster Ju-88’s edging ahead, racing each other into the maelstrom of fire and churning water as the Russian ships began to scatter in sudden panicked disarray. For Ruoska, time slowed to nothing, the targets coming up slowly, his mind willing the Los faster as he slid it through the air mere feet from the water below. Time is an enigma in battle, mercilessly brief or distressingly extended, with everything dependent upon the viewer. To the Russians, the Finnish bombers appeared as if from nowhere, waves of bombers plunging in from the darkened sky, racing towards them at wave top height so swiftly they had almost no time to get their main guns turned and depressed to fire. Alarm bells rang, klaxons sounded, warships moved to full speed, bucketed into sweeping turns throwing surprised men from their feet, voices yelled panicked orders, men ran for their action stations with confused and desperate haste. For the bomber crews, the entire world was unrolling ahead with a leaden slowness as they urged their aircraft ever closer to the enemy ships.
To Ruoska’s left and ahead, a mushroom of burning fire leapt upward towards the sky as one of the Ju-88’s skipped two 1000-pounder bombs directly into the side of a destroyer. The bombs exploded violently, a giant pulsation of fire erupting into the sky as the warship tore itself in half behind the racing Ju-88. The Ju-88 dropped its 2 remaining 1000-pounders, skipped them across the water into a transport ship, the bombs tearing straight through the thin sides of the transport as the Ju-88 lifted itself to clear the mastheads by a few scant feet. In that same instant, the transport exploded. Had the Ju-88 gone for height after its skip-bombing run, it would have been exposed to the growing volume of fire from the Russian warships. His best move had been to stay low. But the best move sometimes isn’t good enough. Nobody would ever know what that transport had been carrying, but whatever it was, when the bombs exploded deep within its bowels, the ship itself exploded in an enormous fireball, turning itself in an instant into a massive roiling ball of dark red flame that enveloped the racing Ju-88 and even as Ruoska watched, another, smaller, more brilliant flash strobed across the sky. He knew it was the Ju-88 and there was a brief moment of pain and loss before he focused on his own target.
Before him loomed a Russian destroyer, caught unawares, guns only now beginning to fire. Ruoska slid the gunsight onto the ship, feet and hands flying the Los as an extension of his own body, caressed the guntit with his thumb. The first burst of fire ripped down the side of the destroyer’s deck. Two gun platforms disappeared in a blurred slow-motion explosion. Metal crumpled like paper, bodies were torn into chunks and fragments, guns went flying. Ruoska walked rudder, skidding the Los gently through the sky, the combination of four heavy machineguns and four 20mm cannon screaming their fury across the deck from right to left, from the centre of the ship forward to the bow. Exposed men, men in gun turrets and guntubs, men inside the hull behind the thin steel that was all the protection a destroyer offered, all were chewed and mangled and ripped and torn just as the steel of the ship was chewed and mangled and ripped and torn. The deck of the destroyer was a horrendous maelstrom of howling screaming hornets, where every sting resulted in death or massive injury.
To Ruoska’s right, Seppo’s guns were wiping out the gun positions from the centre of the destroyer to its stern. In those fleeting seconds, the destroyer was shattered as a fighting ship, its decks and the interior of its hull littered with bodies and pieces of bodies and blood and smoking chunks and fragments of steel. Ruoska was low, holding her steady, the bomb bay doors open. He triggered two 500-pounders. They swept low over the destroyer and Juntanen’s voice was jubilant on the intercom as Ruoska took her back down to the sea.
“You got her right in the middle, she’s busting in half!”
A slight bank, a gentle easing of the rudder and he was lined up on a Russian cruiser, its guns finally coming to life, pouring out a storm of shellfire and tracer in all directions. His own guns blazed a halo of flame around the nose of the Los, the shells tearing through the eggshell thin armour plate of the Russian warship, ripping into gun positions, walking the stream of fire down the sides of the ship.
Seppo was right there, staying right on his wingtip, holding position, his gunfire tearing into the aft half of the cruiser, raking down the length of the superstructure. Ruoska triggered the bomb release, another pair of 500-pounders gone, skipping across the water and plunging through the side of the cruisers hull as he eased the stick back, lifted the bomber upwards, barely clearing the masthead, guiding her back down. With perfect timing, Seppo had released his bombs almost simultaneously. The four 500-pounders smashed unerringly into the lower hull of the cruiser, exploding with a violence that half lifted her from the sea and threw her onto her side, tearing huge chunks of metal from her and sending them flaming through the air before they fell back into the sea to disappear in spouts of scalding-hot spray. Behind them, two of the glassnoses bored in right behind them. They managed to get one bomb each into the cruiser, one at the stern, tearing away the rudder and probably the screws as well, the other into the superstructure, blowing apart the bridge and everything surrounding it. Flames were erupting all over the ship as it seemed to stagger in the water, drifting to a halt, already visibly listing, its decks littered with broken, burning, screaming dying men.
Past the screen of destroyers and the cruiser, Ruoska found himself racing towards the wallowing transport ships packed with Red Army soldiers. Serried ranks of pale faces looked at the oncoming aircraft rushing towards them, looked death in the face uncomprehendingly. The Ju-88’s with their greater speed had bored further ahead now, four of them together targeting two troopships, working together in a partnership born of skill and long practice. Ruoska watched, caught up in momentary fascination as dark shapes splashed neatly away from the four bombers. The splashes were as neat and clean as if drawn by a master painter, an artistic interlude in the ferociously churning maelstrom of death that was in the midst of enveloping the convoy. Skips appeared as the bombs bounced, one, two, three, a multiple series of splashes and then he was subconsciously counting the enormous explosions that smashed apart the thin-hulled troopships. Eight 1000-pounder bombs were dropped. Six hit home, four in the leading ship, two in the second. Ruoska never saw the leading ship again. It went up in huge chunks and came down in smaller ones. The second ship was a torrent of flames from bow to stern, a burning furnace, flames reaching fifty, a hundred feet into the sky, flaming men leaping from her into the water, fleeing one death to find another.
He had time to select his own last target of the run, a fast transport heeling hard as she turned away from the convoy, but her turn was too slow and he pickled two more 500 pounders straight into her hull amidships. He lifted her over the mastheads, dropped her down to the sea again and now he was on the far side of the convoy, ignored now as the escorts frantically aimed and fired their guns at the next wave of attackers coming in low over the water. Unseen, unsuspected, twelve thousand feet above, ten of the old Curtiss Helldivers and sixteen Hawker Harts peeled off into their dives. The reservist pilots that flew the old aircraft were almost suicidally courageous
**************************************
1323 Hours, 500 feet above the Barents Sea, 20 miles offshore
Ruoska banked the Los, keeping her low in a long gentle turn, Seppo tucked tight on his wingtip, flying with him as if they were joined at the hip. The Ju-88’s had eased off on the power, slowing down. Ruoska advanced the throttles, closed in with them, the other Los gunships following suit, the glassnoses tucked in behind them. As they flew in a wide circle, the Regia Aeronautica Savoia-Marchetti torpedo bombers completed their attack runs, accompanied in by a wave of the Blenheim gunships. Give the Russians their due, their Destroyers, those that were left in action and not crippled, sinking or sunk, did their best to protect the troopships.
Ahead of them were the remaining Russian ships
Water flashed by in a blur, the aircraft so close to the sea that the propellers were hurling back a stream of spray, twin lines rushing through the water behind each aircraft as if invisible brushes were being drawn across the sea. Ruoska worked the rudders, sliding the Los through the air, sliding around the streams of tracer and the shellbursts coming from the remaining destroyers guns, the ones that were still firing. Waisanen wasn’t so lucky. He bought it as they made their run in. They all heard him on the squadron channel, a message that froze the blood of every man in the attacking bombers.
“This is Waisanen. We’ve been hit.”
He was calling on the mission channel, calling in blind to all of them, to every one of the hundred and twenty odd Finnish aircraft. Every one of them knew what that meant.
“Waisanen.” Ruoska’s voice was as calm and dispassionate as it always was in action. “How bad’s the hit? Can you abort and make it back?”
“No chance at all.”
Waisanen’s voice was soft and gentle, calm, almost resigned. Ruoska had heard that tone before, in Spain, as men died. Some men panicked when they knew death was coming for them, others faced death calmly, knowing that as their last seconds flowed away like those last grains of sand in an emptying hourglass, there was no reason for fear, no reason for panic. All too soon it would all be behind you and gone forever. Waisanen was one of those men that faced everything in life calmly. Death was to be no exception.
The other pilots, the other crews, they could see the flames tearing at Waisanen’s Los, gouging through metal, erupting from the fuel tanks and from the torn or destroyed fuel lines, a fireball flying through the air, its glow reflected in the water below. They all wondered the same thing. How in the name of God was Waisanen staying at the controls, still flying her, working at it, controlling and directing his aircraft, a meteor flaming across the water, guns still firing, raking the hull of the Russian destroyer that lay ahead of him, aimed fire, his cannons and machineguns tearing apart the guns and the guntubs and the superstructure, turning the men on its decks into pink spray and flying chunks of meat intermixed with fragments of red-hot metal. They all watched and wondered, because they could see flames inside the cockpit, they knew that the heat was inside and that the cockpit was an inferno. Waisanen and his rear gunner, a replacement so recent they didn’t even know his name, they were burning alive inside that bitch, and every one of those watchers silently pleaded and prayed and hoped for Waisanen to put her in, to smash her down into the sea or into the destroyer and be done with it. But he didn’t.
He stayed with it, his flesh bubbling and burning, agony tearing at him, flames searing his flying suit to his flesh and then burning it away, flaying his skin from him while his lungs seared and choked and his hands sizzled and smoked and burned down to the bone as they gripped the red-hot yoke. He stayed with his burning Los. He stayed with her long enough to pickle his remaining two bombs in a perfect arc that dropped them through the thin sides of the tincan. Long enough to lift her over the destroyer, a flaming ball of fire with wings and a tail that left a broken and sinking destroyer behind it. They could all see Waisanen was still working her, still flying her as he burned alive, still working the flaps and the rudder as he lined her up on a crowded transport directly ahead of him, his guns firing continuously now, one long hosing burst, turning the infantry crowded on the decks into a pink paste, guns firing right up until the moment he eased the nose down and guided his aircraft into the side of the ship, aircraft and the central superstructure of the old steamer disappearing in an explosion that lit the sky with its blinding implacable fury. And all of the pilots watching wondered, if it came down to it, would they have the strength of will to die as Waisanen had died? Burning alive and fighting to the end whilst you burnt to death? That was tougher to face than the Russians.
*****************************************
“Aarne, good to hear your voice. Keeping you busy down there are they?”
“Kurt you old bastard, I hear the Russians have you on the run?”
They both laughed. Kapteeni Fagernäs looked at Kapteeni Rintala, who winked at her.
“Old Jaegers,” he mouthed. She nodded. Wallenius chuckled.
“Pleasantries aside, I need a bit of help from your boys Aarne. I believe Fagernäs here explained what we’re facing, two Divisions on ships to reinforce the two we’re already fighting. The latest Intelligence Report says twelve destroyers, two Cruisers and twenty or so transport ships. They’re making about 10 knots and if we’re going to get them before they land, we need to do it tomorrow at the latest. By the day after tomorrow they’ll be on shore and once they get there they’re going to be a far tougher nut for my boys to crack. There’re two subs up here but they can only get a few of those ships and that’s if they’re lucky.”
“Understood, Fagernäs briefed me in.” Somersalo paused. “Give me an hour to see what we can put together in a hurry. The boys’ve been a bit busy on the Isthmus, the Russkies seem to be throwing everything they have at us down here. I’ll call you back in an hour. Have to run it by the Marski as well.”
“Helvetti, him and me, we don’t exactly see eye to eye Aarne.”
“Leave it to me Kurt, two Divisions on ships, that’s a mission I can sell to anyone. Including the Marski. Even if it is you. Call you back in an hour.”
“Thanks Aarne.”
The phone clicked. Wallenius looked at Kapteeni Fagernäs. “Well, we’ll see,” he said. “Now, Rintala, get me that map of the Russian positions on the Rybachi, I want to think again about how we plan to roll them up in a hurry. Not exactly a strategic threat but if we roll them up we’re going to free up the best part of a Prikaati and they seem incompetent enough that we should be able to do it quickly. Let’s take a look and think about it, bring in the planning team, I want them to do one last critique.”
“Herra?” The Signals Lotta was holding up a phone for him. “Majuri xxx for you. Says he has a problem with pulling back, needs to talk to you about it.”
“Helvetti, does everyone need babysitting.” Wallenius reached for the phone.
“What is it man?.........You what …… your men what ……oh, very good xxxx, you were supposed to leave SOME alive and let them think they were making progress, now how the hell do we draw them in deeper if you’ve killed them all?”
1124 hours, 3 December 1939: Rybachi Peninsula
Sotamies Honkala was coldly and malevolently angry. For two days, he’d been lying in a freezing cold hole in the ground that had taken him the best part of a long winters night to burrow to and then cut out, packing the snow down, concealing his hole with “fresh” snow and hiding himself and his equipment, all without being seen. Not to mention the time it had taken to move into position without leaving a trace. It didn’t help that the damned hole in the snow was only 50 feet in front of the small gully that was an obvious jumping off point for any Russian assault on the very visible and completely empty Finnish “defence lines” just the other side of the border. And about 500 feet inside the Russian side of the border, which was kind of incidental. His entire Komppania was strung out either side of him, waiting for the Russians.
He knew precisely where they were. He could smell the cigarette smoke, hear them talking and he’d spotted movement here and there in the gully, he estimated the best part of a Russian battalion was there. They’d been there for two days now, since a few hours before he and the rest of the Komppania had begun moving forward and digging themselves in. Even a blind man would have seen the russkies, the way they moved around, talked, smoked, had the odd accidental discharge. Damned amateurs. They were pissing him off, and they were the reason he was out here freezing his ass off in the ice and snow smelling their damned cigarette smoke instead of sitting back on his own side of the border enjoying a sauna and a shot of vodka out of his rations.
1125 hours, 3 December 1939: Rybachi Peninsula
“Pass orders that we’ll attack at 1130 hours precisely.”
Down the length of the long gully, the Russian soldiers stirred, warming themselves, stamping, checking the action on their rifles, talking quietly to each other, snatching last cigarette.
The Company Commander’s whistle blew, followed by whistles up and down the Battalion line.
“Follow meeee.”
Lieutenant xxxx was first out of the gully, waving his pistol in the air, looking over his shoulder to check that his men were indeed following. He felt a moment of pride as he saw his entire platoon already up and out of the gully while to either side soldiers from other platoons were still scrambling to climb out. A quick assault in strength and the small Finnish force they faced over on the low ridge across the border would be routed, so the Commissar had assured them. As Lieutenant xxx faced forward, a howling scream that was echoed a hundred times came from out of the ground ahead of him.
“Tuuuuultaaaaaa muuuunilleeeeee.”
His heart seemed to stop in his chest from sheer terror at the malevolent hatred that scream contained, the scream of a hundred demons from hell. The snow ahead spat red flames, something thumped into his chest, an enormous roundhouse blow that knocked him backwards over the lip of the gully and down to crash into the frozen ground below. He tried to jump to his feet, but his arms and legs wouldn’t respond. For some reason it was hard to breath. Lieutenant xxxx struggled to think, distracted by the explosions to either side of him in the gully and the shapes falling out of the darkness to land beside him. Some of them were screaming and the screams were terribly distracting. He wondered why they were screaming. He knew he should do something about those screams. He was an officer and an officer’s job was to look after his men. He tried to move again but for some reason he couldn’t. And then he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing and that worried him some more. So did the screams from the demons. Xxxx wondered vaguely what “Haaaaaakkaaaaa päääälllllleeeeee” meant?
He knew now that the demons were coming for him and he felt afraid. His grandmother had always muttered that the demons would come for the party members, and he’d joined the party. And the demons had come as she’d said they would. He knew another moment of terror as a stocky misshapen shape clad all in white stood looking down at him.
“That’s strange.” Lieutenant xxxx last thought was one of puzzlement, not terror or fear. “I didn’t think demons were white.”
The demon spat flame and Lieutenant xxxx’s puzzlement ended abruptly.
1130 hours, 3 December 1939: Rybachi Peninsula
“Tuuuuultaaaaaa muuuunilleeeeee.”
Sotamies Honkala echoed the Vanrikki’s battle cry and simultaneously opened fire at the line of Russians along the lip of the gully. Lying prone in his hole in the ground, covered by his tarpaulin and a couple of feet of snow, he knew he was virtually invisible. The Suomi juddered against his shoulder as he worked his way through the 71 round drum in short bursts, watching the Russians in front of him topple like pins in the bowling alley he used to frequent as a teenager. A Russian officer drew his eye, waving his pistol and looking back at his troops as they climbed out of the gully. Honkala gave him a short burst, felt a moment of satisfaction as the officer fell backwards into the gully.
He felt a moment of astonishment as his Suomi clicked on empty. So soon? Trained reactions kicked in instantly. Hit the drum release. Slam a new drum in from where it sat close to hand. Cock and resume firing again in just a couple of seconds. The Russians were still scrambling out of the gully. Honkala worked his way along the lip, servicing targets as they appeared, watching them fall, concentrating on his own sector. There came an instant when no more Russians appeared and in another trained and drilled movement, Honkala took one of the half dozen grenades lined up beside him, pulled the pin and hurled them into the gully. One after another he threw, as fast as he could pull the pins and throw them. Hit the release for the partially used drum, slam a replacement in and assault the gully.
“Haaaaaakkaaaaa päääälllllleeeeee.”
Honkala burst out of the ground, his Suomi spitting flame and bullets at the Russian soldiers on the ground ahead of him, making sure that the bodies on the ground stayed bodies. Screams and frenzied attempts to escape showed the value of such training as he charged forward. Pause at the edge of the gully, out of sight of anyone down there. Take a grenade from his webbing, pull the pin, count one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three and drop over the edge. Load a new drum as the grenade explodes and, along with everyone else, fire down onto the gully, hosing down everything in sight. A quick reload and then slide up to the edge, guts curled up tight, roll in and crouch, Suomi at the ready, looking for movement. A gasp from his feet, eyes looking up at him. Fire a short burst down, move on without a second thought, clearing the gully. To his left and right, white-clad figures moved with him.
Two figures in brown scrambled frenziedly out of the gully ahead of him. Honkala took a snap shot, missed, cursed, scrambled to the rear lip of the gully and fired again, saw one go down. The other disappeared from sight.
“Saataana.”
Honkala turned in surprise at the Vanrikki’s voice beside his head. Then the vanrikki was gone, back down into the gully, talking into the radio Pelto was carrying. Honkala risked a quick glance backwards, saw the slope over in Finland swarming with figures skiing rapidly towards them.
“Looks like we’re advancing then.”
“Perkele, where did you come from Saarela?”
“Right behind you all the way buddy.”
Both their hands were busy, changing drums without thought. Honkala dropped back into the gully, began checking Russian bodies, taking Russian grenades and dropping them in his bum-pack. After a second, Saarela was there beside him.
“Hei, nice pistol here.”
Saarela lifted a Tokorxxx from a dead Russian officer’s hands.
“Shoot your own officers buddy.” Honkala neatly took it from Saarela’s hand and slipped it into a pocket, rebuttoned the flap. Saarela laughed, then leaned over and pulled a pouch of the dead russian’s belt, tossed it to Honkala.
“You might as well take his spare rounds as well.”
“Might as well, he doesn’t need them any more.”
The vanrikki was yelling orders again.
“Reload, prepare to advance. .”
Honkala replaced drums in an instant and followed. Saarela was right beside him.
1137 hours, 3 December 1939: Battalion Headquarters, Rybachi Peninsula
“They’re dead …….. they killed them all …… God help us …. they’re all dead.”
The panic-stricken features of the Commissar as he burst into the Regiment’s Headquarters bore no relation to the dapperly uniformed and icily-doctrinaire ideologist who had left earlier in the morning to “inspire the men at the front through example.”
“What’s the problem Comrade?”
The (Regimental CO) wrinkled his nose at the smell that accompanied the Commissar. The man had shat himself. He would have loved to have used rather stronger language but the man was the Regiment’s chief Commissar and thus a man it was wise to be respectful of. Those who weren’t had a tendency to disappear, his immediate predecessor being one such. He turned to the orderly.
“Bring the Commissar something to restore himself with.”
“There’s no time, they’re coming. We have to get out of here.” The Commissar’s panic was total, he was scrabbling at the flap that covered the doorway.
“Control yourself Comrade.” The CO restrained the Commissar, pushed him down into a seat, wrinkling his nose at the smell as he did so.
“Drink this.” He forced a Canteen of straight vodka to the Commissar’s lips. What a waste, it was good vodka, but one needed to do something to get some sense out of the man. He was getting more hysterical, not less, trying to push the Canteen away, then choking as the CO forced him to drink.
“Listen to me, listen to me,” the Commissar pleaded. “The Finns, they wiped them all out, killed them all and now they’re in our positions, they’re coming. We have to fall back, we have to tell Division, ask for reinforcements.”
“Rubbish man,” the CO barked. “I’ll send someone up to check the lines.”
He turned just in time to see a grenade sail through the doorway, followed by another and another. The Commissar screamed and threw himself backwards onto the floor. The CO knew a moment of stunned disbelief before the grenades exploded, throwing his torn and lacerated body backwards against the bunker wall. Outside, Sotamies Honkala and Sotamies Saarela threw their last grenades into the bunkers as fast as Honkala could feed them through the entrance. Then they burst in, Suomi SMG’s lacing the bodies with “finnish stitch-work”. Then checking them with their boots. One of the bodies squealed as they kicked it. Both Honkala and Saarela wrinkled their noses.
“Sataana, there you are,” Sotamies Honkala smiled down at the terrified face of the Commissar. “It’s that Commissar that ran away,” he told Saarela.
“How the hell can you know that?” Saarela asked.
“It’s that fancy hat he’s wearing,” Honkala laughed. He bent over and took it from the Commissar’s head.
“You won’t need this where you’re going Comrade. Now finish him off Saarela.”
Saarela grinned down at the Commissar’s panic-stricken features. “Bad luck comrade.”
He squeezed the trigger, fired a short burst downwards. The Commissar jerked and died. Honkala handed the hat to Saarela.
“You take it,” he said, “your kill. Nice hat too. Now, let’s see if there’s anything else worth scrounging before we have to move out. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone but you mind, but somehow I think the vanrikki wants us to keep attacking.”
Saarela chuckled, forced out an approximation of their officer’s Helsinki accent. “I say chaps, let’s advance, what?”
“Gosh chaps, just what I was going to say.”
“Saatana!” Honkala and Saarela both jumped in surprise. “Herra!”
The vanrikki laughed. “You’ve got sixty seconds to grab anything you can use from in here and then we’re moving out. The CO wishes us to keep advancing, what.”
“Herra! Your word is our command Herra!”
The vanrikki chuckled again and then he was gone. They looked at each other.
“Sixty Seconds” floated back through the doorway. They fell on the bodies in a second, riffling through pockets and webbing, anything useful disappearing into their breadbags.
1117 hours: 3 December 1939: Somewhere over the Karelian Isthmus
Ruoska was all that anyone ever referred to him by. Half his men would have had to think for a moment before they could have told you what what his real name was but regardless, if he’d led them in an attack on the Devil, they’d have followed him into the flames of hell. Their only question would have been what the bombload would be. He’d led some of them in Spain, a squadron of Finnish volunteers flying a motley assortment of bombers and ground attack aircraft against the Republicans. And now, here they were, flying against the old enemy once more, a low-level strike against a Red Army concentration on the Isthmus. As missions went, 3 days into the war, it was standard, the type of mission they’d flown in Spain. A slashing low-level attack screaming in at tree-top height that hit the target fast and hard, the bombers climbing into the clouds almost before the Russians had known they were there. No losses, the Red Army artillery regiment that was their target left shattered in their wake. They broke through the cloud at five thousand feet and reformed, still climbing for height as they headed for home. That should have been the end of the mission, but on the way back Ruoska saw a dream come true.
He opened the squadron comm channel. “Seppo, do you see them? Down there, ten o’clock low, and they’re going in our direction.”
Seppo was on his wingtip, so close he could see him look down. His usually expressionless face displayed a grin that had entirely no humor to it. “How many d’you think?”
Ruoska studied the air below them. At what he estimated to be five thousand feet were at least twenty enemy bombers.
“SB-2’s…… Twenty, maybe twenty-five.”
Seppo looked at their escorting fighters and his grin was back. “I don’t think anyone’s seen our friends down there.”
Ruoska shook his head. “Those Hawk pilots are asleep.”
“Reservists.”
“Leave ‘em to snooze. I think we should drop down and pay our respects.”
“Wouldn’t be right not too. Besides, they’re heading the same way we are.”
Ruoska chuckled out loud on the squadron frequency. “Listen up men. Juha, Matti, Erki, Seppo, Pentti. You read?”
The responses came back immediately. Ruoska only wanted those five. Their bombers and his own were the squadron gunships. The others were the older glassnoses, not yet converted.
“Right, this is only for the five I called out. All other aircraft stay in formation and stick with the fighter cover. You others, look down.”
“Perkele!”
“Big fat trout.”
“Alright, alright,” Ruoska interrupted. “You five, slide off to the right and form up on me.”
Ruoska eased his aircraft off to the side and began gradually losing altitude, the others following. The twin-engined Los bombers were light without their bombloads, they’d burned off a lot of fuel, they had good visibility through the gaps in the clouds and there was all that beautiful altitude. Ruoska eased the yoke forward further as the others formed on him, catching the gravity train, the other five bombers staying tight, moving with him as if controlled by a single mind.
He stayed well behind the Tupolev SB-2’s, using gravity and the powerful Hispano-Suiza engines to build up a tremendous speed, coming up behind the enemy formation from about a thousand feet below their altitude. He eased back on the yoke, the six Los gunships staying tight, now arrowing upward, still with that tremendous speed, engines on maximum power as they climbed, coming up fast from behind and beneath the Russian bombers.
“I’ll start at the left.” Ruoska sounded cool, controlled. “Work them left to right.”
The Tupolevs’ swelled in their sights, expanding swiftly. Engines howling, the gunships swooped upwards on their smooth curves. Ruoska was able to make out details, engines, hatches, exhausts, rivet patterns, as he closed to point blank range, his sights dead-center on the belly of the Tupolev at the far left of the Russian formation. Finally, he squeezed the gun-tit.
The Los vibrated and shook as the four nose-mounted heavy machine guns and the four 20mm cannon in their fuselage pods below the cockpit released a tornado of bullets and shells to smash into the enemy bomber. One moment it flew serenely through the skies, its crew oblivious to the death swooping in from below. An instant later the fuel tanks were a mass of flames, bullets ripped through the fuselage and the wing root, the right wing tore away from the fuselage and the bomber twisted up and over in a maddened cartwheel that took it plunging into the bomber to its immediate right, both of them disintegrating in a fireball, flaming pieces tumbling towards the ground.
Everything seemed to happen at the same time, Ruoska skidded the Los through the air, getting out of the way of the two colliding bombers, bringing his guns to bear on the third from the left but even as he started to fire the bomber exploded in flames. One instant it was there, the next it was gone and Erki’s triumphant cry rang in his earphones.
“Got the bastard.”
Ruoska wasted no time, breaking to the left and grabbing some height. The other five gunships were like killer whales in the midst of a pack of seals. Death blows from their terrible massed machineguns and cannon hammered into the Russian bombers. In those first few seconds, Ruoska’s first burst had destroyed one bomber, which crashed into a second. Erki exploded the third. Matti and Juha each nailed one. Pentti’s target was trailing smoke, one engine stopped, the other burning, sinking fast towards the ground while Seppo was hammering bursts into another.
The remaining Tupolevs hung doggedly to their formation, closing up as their comrades fell away, gunners firing desperately as the pilots pointed the noses down to build up speed. The SB-2’s were powerful and fast and the Russian pilots, once they got over the shock of the sudden ambush, were taking the best way out by diving. The Los gunships went after them, tearing in for more kills. Juha and Pentti teamed up on one that began to lag behind, ripping it to shreds, taking turns firing into it as pieces broke away, until suddenly the enemy bomber was in an uncontrolled spin, heading towards the ground. They ignored it and went to emergency power, heading to catch up with the others as ahead of them, two more Russian bombers disappeared in flaming explosions. Ruoska closed in on another, his gunfire ripping into the fuselage, shredding the cockpit, put another burst in as it rolled away and down, out of control, the pilot dead in the shattered cockpit. He slid the Los sideways, had yet another in his sights when a voice came over the common channel with a message that chilled the blood of every man in the Los gunships.
Ruoska nearly broke his neck twisting around in the window, looking back through his side window. There they were, eight twin-boomed fighters coming downstairs faster than his eyes could believe, slicing into the pack of Poliakov’s with devastating effect. Before the Russian fighter pilots were aware of what was happening, seven of them were gone in an instant. One second earlier they were diving for the bombers, intent on avenging the massacred SB-2’s, the next they were burning, exploding, wings torn away, pilots chewed to pieces in their cockpits, scattering in all directions as the nose-mounted guns of the Ilmavoimat Fokker G1 Vikeatiemies, the Grim Reaper, tore them apart with contemptuous ease.
The Los crews watched as the big twin-boomed fighters eased up alongside them. “Hey, thanks Snowflake, you guys turned up just in time.”
“Roger that. You people weren’t doing so bad yourselves. Did anyone tell you you’re not fighters? We counted nine, ten bombers going down back there.”
“Just paying our respects to the neighbours.”
A chuckle came over the comm channel. “You need an escort home?”
“Negative, I think you ran those fighters off.”
“Roger that. We’ll go finish off the bombers you left for us then.”
“Go right ahead, Snowflake. We’re all done paying our respects for the day.”
The big Vikeatiemies’ went for altitude, the crewman in the Los bombers watching with wonder. There was no effort, no struggling engines, no clawing for height. The Vikeatiemies’ swept upwards with a grace and speed that was impossible to believe, climbing and then turning and plummeting towards the SB-2’s that were now far ahead, a dozen specks low to the ground. Ruoska shook his head. You had to give those Russian pilots credit for sheer guts. Almost half their formation gone, their fighter cover evaporated and they were still plugging ahead. He watched as the Vikeatiemies’ continued their swoop down, knowing the remaining SB-2’s wouldn’t make it to their targets, let alone home and glad of it but still, not wanting to watch.
They were barely on the ground, not yet out of their flight suits when the Wing Commander called all the Los crews into the briefing room. Majuri xxxx walked with a cane, snarled rather than talked and was as tough as an old bear in heat. He defended the interests of “his men” with the same toughness as a bear defended its cubs. He didn’t have to tell anyone in the emergency briefing that this one was important.
“Our information is not clearcut,” he spelled it out to the hastily reassembled bomber crews. “At least twenty troopships, fourteen destroyers, two cruisers, half a dozen smaller ships. They were spotted leaving Murmansk late this morning and there was only a partial sighting, so there may be more.”
He pointed at the map. “Intelligence says they’re heading for Petsamo carrying two Red Army Divisions. Thirty, maybe thirty five thousand troops. The Russians are attacking across the border here. If they succeed in landing those Divisions near Petsamo, we’ll lose the port and our units fighting there will be forced to withdraw. Not to mention we’ve got a backlog of war supplies and cargo ships stacked up there that we’ll lose as well.”
He looked around the briefing room, crusty, not needing to say that he wanted to fly this one with them.
“We can’t let those two Divisions get ashore. Understand me, men, you’ve got to keep those troops from landing.”
He turned and his cane tapped the map. “Those troopships won’t be fast, but the destroyers and cruisers can be expected to have a lot of firepower. We can also expect heavy fighter cover out of Murmansk, Intelligence says up to one hundred fighters. Another group will be targeting their airfield to try and take them out on the ground but you know how it is. You will take off as soon as the aircraft are serviced and refueled. You will fly to Rovanimie where you will refuel and bomb up and stay overnight. You will take off from Rovanimie tomorrow morning. We’re throwing every bomber we can spare from the Isthmus into this one. Our mission is to attack those ships and sink them. Every single one of them. As well as you men, there’ll be some other bombers, can’t tell you who yet because I don’t know, some torpedo bombers, there’ll be dive bombers coming in and you will have fighter cover.”
“One last word. We have a single Division up there that’s holding its own against two Russian Divisions. If these two Divisions get ashore, that changes the situation for our men and not in a good way. Get the bastards. That’s all, gentlemen.”
*************************************
Ruoska’s radio blipped. “You can go fishing.” That was all. It was all that was needed. Somewhere far to the north, out in the darkness of the long Arctic night, an Ilmavoimat PBY had found the Russian convoy, radioed in its position, and had sent back a code message that the weather was acceptable. Ruoska smiled in the darkness.
“Acknowledged.”
He switched to the squadron channel. “We can go fishing.”
No identifiers, no acknowledgments. There would be no more radio contact between any of the aircraft until they were attacking the convoy. If the Russians were monitoring radio frequencies, as Finnish Signals Intelligence did, they’d intercept radio transmissions on aircraft frequencies and send out messages that the Finns might be staging a night mission, and then the convoy might be alerted. A lot of mights, but every action that reduced risk was sound practice.
.
The big twin engines kicked in with growling, coughing rumbles, then broke into a throaty roar, the Los lurched against the brakes, dipping gently on its nose shocks as he ran the engines up. His Los was alive now, shaking and shuddering through every metallic fiber of its being, groaning and rumbling as Ruoska locked the brakes and ran through the checklist. Mags right and left, watch the rpm on the props, checking prop blade angles, the sound of the blades slicing through the air, whooshing and hissing as he shifted through fine and coarse pitch. Then the last checks were done, it was time to go. He pushed the throttles forward, all the way to the stops and the Los was straining at its leash, juddering and heaving against the brakes as the rpms picked up and the propeller blades chewed at the air. He held her until he felt her begin to move against the brakes and then he came off them and the Los surged forward, responding instantly to the howling engines and the great whirling propeller blades. The acceleration pushed him backwards in his seat as the bomber picked up speed swiftly. Within seconds they raced down the runway, Ruoska coming back on the yoke just a fraction to lift the nosewheel slightly.
The dull red runway lights raced past on either side, a surrealistic tunnel of lights that rushed at him faster and faster and then sped away out of his peripheral vision, becoming a blur as the aircraft picked up more and more speed. He was holding the heavily laden bomber down longer than necessary, getting some extra speed to compensate for all the additional weight of a full bomb and fuel load, that and the night takeoff and the freezing cold air. The Los wanted to become airborne, he could feel it, feel its desire to leave the ground and lift into its element and now he eased the yoke back a little more, the Los floating upwards into the darkness as Ruoska flew on the instruments. The artificial horizon, air speed dial, course, rate of climb, altitude and all the while checking the gauges that displayed oil pressure and temperature, cylinder head temperatures.
He retracted the landing gear, feeling the thumps as the wheels locked into their wells, feeling the difference in the way the aircraft flew. Flaps now, coming up slowly, ease the throttles off, the engines sounding a little less like hammering thunder. The Los was in her element now, even heavily laden as she was she was climbing easily into the night sky and he knew the other aircraft of his squadron would be following, flying their invisible lines in the sky that would keep them in formation with him through the long flight north. He flicked his navigation lights on, red on the left wingtip, green on the right and behind him, the rest of the squadron followed suite.
“They see us.” That was Juntunen on the intercom, watching from the rear gunners position. After a moment longer, he flicked the navigation lights off, leaving only the dull white light at the tip of the tail. From this point on, the aircraft would track each other by those small, almost invisible lights. There would be no radio conversation, no other lights, no other signals to draw attention to them as they sped northwards through the blackness of the long night.
Ruoska led them northwards through the darkness of the arctic night, the heavily laden bombers slowly rising as they burned off fuel, climbing to eight thousand feet and then holding it steady. Eight thousand wasn’t high enough to need oxygen, it kept them just above the scattered clouds below and the half-moon shone down on the clouds and the snow, so that they were flying in a ghostly world of dull illumination. The bright moonlight and the clearing night sky helped immensely with their navigation, for even in that baleful glow they could distinctly make out the whitened landscape below, identify terrain features, such as they were. Ruoska felt relaxed as they flew on through the clearing skies, confident now that this mission was blessed – the weather had broken right for them.
The flight seemed interminable until he found himself nearing the coast at last. He saw the sea ahead of them, and somewhere out there, out in that sea, were the Russian ships they were to attack. Looking down, he noticed another group of faint lights moving slowly, even made out the specks flying in the same direction. Must be the squadron of Ripon Torpedo Bombers that had flown out well ahead of his squadron, their slower speed imposing far longer flight times. Out there somewhere in the night, flying in the same direction as his squadron, were the other fast bombers, the Ju-88’s, the Blenheim bombers and gunships, the Italian Savoia-Marchetti torpedo bombers. Not forgetting the divebombers and the old Hawker Harts. And ahead of them all, four Ilmavoimat PBY Catalina’s lumbered slowly through the air, an experimental 2000lb glider bomb hung under each wing. Slow and exposed, helpless if attacked, the thought of flying those lumbering elephants of the air sent a shudder down Ruoska’s spine.
Now they passed over the coastline, passed out to sea and then banked right to take them towards the estimated position of the Russian convoy. It was getting lighter now as they headed east, the coast to their right, the Rybachi Peninsula on their left. Still keeping at eight thousand feet, no clouds, the sky clear, moonlight and starlight shining down, the land a silvery white, the sea dark and forbidding. Out in front, the PBY’s had sighted the Russian ships. A short message on the radio, then silence again. Ruoska rocked his wings, the squadron closed in, moving into their attack formation, each aircraft pairing up with another, flying in sticks of fours. The Ju-88’s were close now too, the Blenheim gunships moving up. They’d all heard the same short message and they were following his lead. Far above, somewhere up there at twelve thousand feet were the dive bombers and above them should be the fighter escorts. Ruoska trusted the fighters to be there, they always were, it was one of the tennents of the fighter boys, never let the bombers down. And they never had in Spain, he trusted them now as he had trusted them in Spain. They’d be there if they were needed. He could see the PBY’s ahead now, they were closing on them fast and the timing was almost perfect.
At a distance of five miles from the convoy, the glide bombs dropped from the Catalina wings, launched singly, gravity quickly accelerating them to their optimal 600mph speed as they homed in on the Soviet ships. From five miles out they were small, almost invisible, their speed and their small size protection enough from sight and from AA fire as the three pigeon’s cushioned inside the nose of each of the flying bombs pecked rapidly and repeatedly at their small metal-coated screens, the electro-mechanical control systems responding to those pecks and guiding the speeding bombs to their target with an unerring accuracy. Glide bombs launched, the Catalina’s banked slowly away. Their bombing run complete, their task now was to remain circling on station to rescue any aircrew whose aircraft was forced down into the icy sea below.
The pigeons performed their first mission of the war with a flawless precision that was as terrifying to the Russians as it was unexpected. No-one on the ships bucketing through the calm waters of the Barents Sea saw the small winged bombs that sped towards them, tiny black specks in a darkling sky almost to the end. The Russians only warning of the incoming attack was the first 2000lb glider bomb plunging into the side of a destroyer, penetrating deep inside the speeding warship and detonating in a cataclysmic explosion that blew the destroyer in half, breaking its back in an instant. The bow of the warship floated for less than a minute before disappearing from sight, the forward momentum of the stern drove the rear half underwater in seconds. Inside of a minute, the only trace left of the hapless destroyer was a frothing circle of water and few men struggling uselessly in the ice-cold water.
Within the course of a single minute, eight of the 2000lb glider bombs plunged home with unerring accuracy, wreaking random havoc throughout the convoy. There was no rhyme or reason to the way the three pigeons carefully cushioned inside the guidance head of each glider bomb selected their targets. One ship was as good as another to the bird-brained controllers, providing guidance at their more or less standard 8 pecks per second, happily anticipating their usual reward of seeds and grain. A small coaster pouring smoke from its single funnel for some reason attracted the attention of two sets of pigeons. Within seconds of each other, two 2000lb glider bombs hit and in an instant, the coaster and over a thousand soldiers literally disappeared as two enormous explosions merged into one, pieces of ship flying through the air. Three more of the bombs hit transport ships, not sinking them but causing massive damage that slowed them almost immediately, inflicting large numbers of casualties and setting the ships on fire at one and the same time.
Oblivious to their date, the pigeons tended to be drawn to larger, more easily identified, targets and so it was that of the last two glider bombs, one targeted the largest cargo ship, troops packed in like sardines, hitting the bridge superstructure and completely destroying it, rendering the ship out of control, albeit it proceeded on in the direction it had been steaming. The last bomb targeted one of the two Northern Fleet Cruisers escorting the convoy, plunging into the aft half of the ship and detonating in the engine room, destroying the warship’s means of propulsion and power in an explosion that gutted the insides of the ship and blew a hole upwards through the lightly armoured deck. Gutted and powerless, flames erupting from the gaping hole in its deck, the cruiser slowed to a halt.
Immediately behind the glider bombs but a lot larger and traveling at slightly more than half the speed, the first wave of bombers came in. Ruoska had led the Los and Ju-88’s downwards in a long sliding dive through the frozen arctic air, the heavily loaded aircraft accelerating quickly as they slid down the gravity well towards the Russian ships 8,000 feet below, darker specks against the ice-flecked paleness of the winter sea. As the glider bombs erupted throughout the convoy, Ruoska pushed the throttles forward, getting all the speed he could out of the big engines without beating them to death. The others followed, spreading out along the length of the convoy, sweeping in fast from the landward side, already beginning to select their targets. Gunships moved to the fore, the glassnoses dropping behind to form a second wave. Even further back, the Savoia Marchetti torpedo bombers were dropping down to form a third wave.
Ruoska took that long slanting dive right down to the waves before levelling out, cutting the margin to the closest he dared. He’d have to pull up later but the lower they stayed right now, the less of a target they made. He held the yoke easily, with the instinctive touch of long experience and familiarity, feet riding the rudder pedals, easing the rudder, sliding the Los gently from one side to the other, trying to stay inside those curving lines of fire that only now began to reach out towards them from the Russian destroyers. Now he pushed the throttles forward to the stops, pushed the engines to maximum power and the Los responded, seeming to leap forward through the air. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see long quicksilver patterns in the water, twin wakes of foam and spray thrown up from the sea behind them by the giant propeller blades of his Los.
The gunships were spreading further apart now, edging away from each other, focusing on their targets, the faster Ju-88’s edging ahead, racing each other into the maelstrom of fire and churning water as the Russian ships began to scatter in sudden panicked disarray. For Ruoska, time slowed to nothing, the targets coming up slowly, his mind willing the Los faster as he slid it through the air mere feet from the water below. Time is an enigma in battle, mercilessly brief or distressingly extended, with everything dependent upon the viewer. To the Russians, the Finnish bombers appeared as if from nowhere, waves of bombers plunging in from the darkened sky, racing towards them at wave top height so swiftly they had almost no time to get their main guns turned and depressed to fire. Alarm bells rang, klaxons sounded, warships moved to full speed, bucketed into sweeping turns throwing surprised men from their feet, voices yelled panicked orders, men ran for their action stations with confused and desperate haste. For the bomber crews, the entire world was unrolling ahead with a leaden slowness as they urged their aircraft ever closer to the enemy ships.
To Ruoska’s left and ahead, a mushroom of burning fire leapt upward towards the sky as one of the Ju-88’s skipped two 1000-pounder bombs directly into the side of a destroyer. The bombs exploded violently, a giant pulsation of fire erupting into the sky as the warship tore itself in half behind the racing Ju-88. The Ju-88 dropped its 2 remaining 1000-pounders, skipped them across the water into a transport ship, the bombs tearing straight through the thin sides of the transport as the Ju-88 lifted itself to clear the mastheads by a few scant feet. In that same instant, the transport exploded. Had the Ju-88 gone for height after its skip-bombing run, it would have been exposed to the growing volume of fire from the Russian warships. His best move had been to stay low. But the best move sometimes isn’t good enough. Nobody would ever know what that transport had been carrying, but whatever it was, when the bombs exploded deep within its bowels, the ship itself exploded in an enormous fireball, turning itself in an instant into a massive roiling ball of dark red flame that enveloped the racing Ju-88 and even as Ruoska watched, another, smaller, more brilliant flash strobed across the sky. He knew it was the Ju-88 and there was a brief moment of pain and loss before he focused on his own target.
Before him loomed a Russian destroyer, caught unawares, guns only now beginning to fire. Ruoska slid the gunsight onto the ship, feet and hands flying the Los as an extension of his own body, caressed the guntit with his thumb. The first burst of fire ripped down the side of the destroyer’s deck. Two gun platforms disappeared in a blurred slow-motion explosion. Metal crumpled like paper, bodies were torn into chunks and fragments, guns went flying. Ruoska walked rudder, skidding the Los gently through the sky, the combination of four heavy machineguns and four 20mm cannon screaming their fury across the deck from right to left, from the centre of the ship forward to the bow. Exposed men, men in gun turrets and guntubs, men inside the hull behind the thin steel that was all the protection a destroyer offered, all were chewed and mangled and ripped and torn just as the steel of the ship was chewed and mangled and ripped and torn. The deck of the destroyer was a horrendous maelstrom of howling screaming hornets, where every sting resulted in death or massive injury.
To Ruoska’s right, Seppo’s guns were wiping out the gun positions from the centre of the destroyer to its stern. In those fleeting seconds, the destroyer was shattered as a fighting ship, its decks and the interior of its hull littered with bodies and pieces of bodies and blood and smoking chunks and fragments of steel. Ruoska was low, holding her steady, the bomb bay doors open. He triggered two 500-pounders. They swept low over the destroyer and Juntanen’s voice was jubilant on the intercom as Ruoska took her back down to the sea.
“You got her right in the middle, she’s busting in half!”
A slight bank, a gentle easing of the rudder and he was lined up on a Russian cruiser, its guns finally coming to life, pouring out a storm of shellfire and tracer in all directions. His own guns blazed a halo of flame around the nose of the Los, the shells tearing through the eggshell thin armour plate of the Russian warship, ripping into gun positions, walking the stream of fire down the sides of the ship.
Seppo was right there, staying right on his wingtip, holding position, his gunfire tearing into the aft half of the cruiser, raking down the length of the superstructure. Ruoska triggered the bomb release, another pair of 500-pounders gone, skipping across the water and plunging through the side of the cruisers hull as he eased the stick back, lifted the bomber upwards, barely clearing the masthead, guiding her back down. With perfect timing, Seppo had released his bombs almost simultaneously. The four 500-pounders smashed unerringly into the lower hull of the cruiser, exploding with a violence that half lifted her from the sea and threw her onto her side, tearing huge chunks of metal from her and sending them flaming through the air before they fell back into the sea to disappear in spouts of scalding-hot spray. Behind them, two of the glassnoses bored in right behind them. They managed to get one bomb each into the cruiser, one at the stern, tearing away the rudder and probably the screws as well, the other into the superstructure, blowing apart the bridge and everything surrounding it. Flames were erupting all over the ship as it seemed to stagger in the water, drifting to a halt, already visibly listing, its decks littered with broken, burning, screaming dying men.
Past the screen of destroyers and the cruiser, Ruoska found himself racing towards the wallowing transport ships packed with Red Army soldiers. Serried ranks of pale faces looked at the oncoming aircraft rushing towards them, looked death in the face uncomprehendingly. The Ju-88’s with their greater speed had bored further ahead now, four of them together targeting two troopships, working together in a partnership born of skill and long practice. Ruoska watched, caught up in momentary fascination as dark shapes splashed neatly away from the four bombers. The splashes were as neat and clean as if drawn by a master painter, an artistic interlude in the ferociously churning maelstrom of death that was in the midst of enveloping the convoy. Skips appeared as the bombs bounced, one, two, three, a multiple series of splashes and then he was subconsciously counting the enormous explosions that smashed apart the thin-hulled troopships. Eight 1000-pounder bombs were dropped. Six hit home, four in the leading ship, two in the second. Ruoska never saw the leading ship again. It went up in huge chunks and came down in smaller ones. The second ship was a torrent of flames from bow to stern, a burning furnace, flames reaching fifty, a hundred feet into the sky, flaming men leaping from her into the water, fleeing one death to find another.
He had time to select his own last target of the run, a fast transport heeling hard as she turned away from the convoy, but her turn was too slow and he pickled two more 500 pounders straight into her hull amidships. He lifted her over the mastheads, dropped her down to the sea again and now he was on the far side of the convoy, ignored now as the escorts frantically aimed and fired their guns at the next wave of attackers coming in low over the water. Unseen, unsuspected, twelve thousand feet above, ten of the old Curtiss Helldivers and sixteen Hawker Harts peeled off into their dives. The reservist pilots that flew the old aircraft were almost suicidally courageous
**************************************
1323 Hours, 500 feet above the Barents Sea, 20 miles offshore
Ruoska banked the Los, keeping her low in a long gentle turn, Seppo tucked tight on his wingtip, flying with him as if they were joined at the hip. The Ju-88’s had eased off on the power, slowing down. Ruoska advanced the throttles, closed in with them, the other Los gunships following suit, the glassnoses tucked in behind them. As they flew in a wide circle, the Regia Aeronautica Savoia-Marchetti torpedo bombers completed their attack runs, accompanied in by a wave of the Blenheim gunships. Give the Russians their due, their Destroyers, those that were left in action and not crippled, sinking or sunk, did their best to protect the troopships.
Ahead of them were the remaining Russian ships
Water flashed by in a blur, the aircraft so close to the sea that the propellers were hurling back a stream of spray, twin lines rushing through the water behind each aircraft as if invisible brushes were being drawn across the sea. Ruoska worked the rudders, sliding the Los through the air, sliding around the streams of tracer and the shellbursts coming from the remaining destroyers guns, the ones that were still firing. Waisanen wasn’t so lucky. He bought it as they made their run in. They all heard him on the squadron channel, a message that froze the blood of every man in the attacking bombers.
“This is Waisanen. We’ve been hit.”
He was calling on the mission channel, calling in blind to all of them, to every one of the hundred and twenty odd Finnish aircraft. Every one of them knew what that meant.
“Waisanen.” Ruoska’s voice was as calm and dispassionate as it always was in action. “How bad’s the hit? Can you abort and make it back?”
“No chance at all.”
Waisanen’s voice was soft and gentle, calm, almost resigned. Ruoska had heard that tone before, in Spain, as men died. Some men panicked when they knew death was coming for them, others faced death calmly, knowing that as their last seconds flowed away like those last grains of sand in an emptying hourglass, there was no reason for fear, no reason for panic. All too soon it would all be behind you and gone forever. Waisanen was one of those men that faced everything in life calmly. Death was to be no exception.
The other pilots, the other crews, they could see the flames tearing at Waisanen’s Los, gouging through metal, erupting from the fuel tanks and from the torn or destroyed fuel lines, a fireball flying through the air, its glow reflected in the water below. They all wondered the same thing. How in the name of God was Waisanen staying at the controls, still flying her, working at it, controlling and directing his aircraft, a meteor flaming across the water, guns still firing, raking the hull of the Russian destroyer that lay ahead of him, aimed fire, his cannons and machineguns tearing apart the guns and the guntubs and the superstructure, turning the men on its decks into pink spray and flying chunks of meat intermixed with fragments of red-hot metal. They all watched and wondered, because they could see flames inside the cockpit, they knew that the heat was inside and that the cockpit was an inferno. Waisanen and his rear gunner, a replacement so recent they didn’t even know his name, they were burning alive inside that bitch, and every one of those watchers silently pleaded and prayed and hoped for Waisanen to put her in, to smash her down into the sea or into the destroyer and be done with it. But he didn’t.
He stayed with it, his flesh bubbling and burning, agony tearing at him, flames searing his flying suit to his flesh and then burning it away, flaying his skin from him while his lungs seared and choked and his hands sizzled and smoked and burned down to the bone as they gripped the red-hot yoke. He stayed with his burning Los. He stayed with her long enough to pickle his remaining two bombs in a perfect arc that dropped them through the thin sides of the tincan. Long enough to lift her over the destroyer, a flaming ball of fire with wings and a tail that left a broken and sinking destroyer behind it. They could all see Waisanen was still working her, still flying her as he burned alive, still working the flaps and the rudder as he lined her up on a crowded transport directly ahead of him, his guns firing continuously now, one long hosing burst, turning the infantry crowded on the decks into a pink paste, guns firing right up until the moment he eased the nose down and guided his aircraft into the side of the ship, aircraft and the central superstructure of the old steamer disappearing in an explosion that lit the sky with its blinding implacable fury. And all of the pilots watching wondered, if it came down to it, would they have the strength of will to die as Waisanen had died? Burning alive and fighting to the end whilst you burnt to death? That was tougher to face than the Russians.
*****************************************
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
The last Ripon had put its torpedo into an already sinking cargo ship, finishing her off with an abruptness that was almost shocking. It was hard to belief those large ships could disappear beneath the water so quickly.
“Torpedo Bombers, Glassnoses, Divebombers, return to base.” Ruoska’s voice was flat. “Gunships, form on me.”
He looked down at the sea below, littered with burning sinking ships and debris from those ships. Oil slicks, wood, hatch covers, all the bits and pieces of a ship that were loose and which floated bobbed on the surface. A sea of debris. And lifeboats. Lifeboats everywhere, packed with men. A quick count gave him anywhere from three to five thousand men in the boats. No need to count the men in the water. At the temperature of the sea below, anyone in the water was going to be dead inside half an hour. XXX’s words echoed inside his head.
“None of those troops must make land, none whatsoever under any circumstances.”
Ruoska’s stomach twisted. He knew what was coming, knew the decision he would have to make, had already made, and it sickened him even as he understood the logic and the need. He thrust the sickness down inside himself, locked it away, knowing he would do what had to be done. He opened the mission channel. The gunships were formed up, following him in a slow circle. The five of his six Los gunships that remained, nine of the ten Junkers Ju-88’s, all twenty of the Blenheim gunships. Losses had been surprisingly light. His voice was flat.
“Gunships, follow me in. Two waves. Los and Ju-88’s, first wave. Blenheim’s second wave. ”
He eased his Los down, a gentle sliding turn down to sea level, towards the bobbing lifeboats, the men crowded onto hatches, liferafts, whatever else they had found to preserve themselves from the frozen embrace of the Arctic Sea.
God has his cruel streak. There was no way to miss. They couldn’t have missed if they’d wanted to. The sea was smooth, almost flat, visibility was as good as it got at midday in mid-winter, a clear sky, no clouds, nothing to hide the boats and the liferafts and debris packed with men from sight. No guns to protect them, no destroyers standing guard. Not anymore. Ruoska eased back on the throttles, slowed his gunship, steadying her, aiming for a concentration of lifeboats. Glancing to his left and then to his right, he saw his squadron gunships and the Ju-88’s to the left and right, setting it up just as he was. They too knew what needed to be done. They were following his lead without question, without orders, every one of them, never doubting the necessity for what they were about to do. Behind him in a distant second wave came the Blenheims. He wondered what the men in the lifeboats and in the life rafts were thinking, having saved themselves from their sinking ships by a miracle and now seeing the aircraft approaching again. He wondered what his gunship with the gaping shark’s teeth painted across the nose looked like to them and even as he thought, his thumb caressed the gun tit without conscious thought, squeezed, the bullets hosing through the group of lifeboats he was aiming at.
They didn’t just die. The massed firepower of the heavy machineguns and the massive 20mm cannon blew lifeboats and liferafts and men apart. Pieces of boat and pieces of flesh and bone and blood sprayed and spattered and whirled through the air in a pink cloud. Ruoska walked his rudder, the deadly stream of bullets scything through the mass of lifeboats and liferafts, tearing bodies apart, shredding and mutilating and ripping and tearing and chopping. To either side of him the other gunships carried out the same deadly task, chewing into the luckless survivors, tearing into them, giant buzzsaws that tore mere flesh and bone asunder. The men in the boats and rafts had nowhere to hide as death sought them out. He thought he heard screams over the noise of the engines as he flew past but that was no doubt just his imagination. Those that survived the first wave helplessly faced the second wave of Blenheim gunships, as remorseless and deadly as the first, knowing now what was coming and unable to escape. Ruoska eased into a gentle climb and brought her round, looking down at a sea stained red, seeing the sparkling flashes of the Blenheim’s guns as they fired into the masses of men and boats below.
The other gunships rode with him, the formation as tight and perfect as if they’d been flying an airshow display. He led the way round and down again, the great propeller blades chewing the air as he eased out of the turn, levelled her off, leading the way in again. The guns roared, the Los bucked under his hands, he held her steady as death flamed out from the nose of his gunship and in front of him the ocean churned and exploded in a bloody froth. Another sliding turn, another group of boats disintegrating under the hosing scythe of his guns and his guns stopped and he knew he was out of ammunition and for the first time in his life he was glad of it. Behind him the Blenheims swooped around, lining up for a second pass, then a third, and when they were done there were no more boats, no more liferafts, only thousands more bodies, thousands more men dying, leaking their life out into a pale blue sea, some still struggling against the icy cold embrace of the water that would soon claim their bodies. Ruoska circled once more, the other aircraft circling with him, still in that eerily perfect formation, a last check, looking down at a scene of horror that he knew would remain in his nightmares until the day he died. Ruoska clicked the comm channel, his throat dry, his voice tight and strained.
“Mission accomplished. All gunships return to base.”
Nobody responded.
1534 hours, 4 December 1939, Submarine Valkohai, east of the Rybachi Peninsula.
The circling aircraft departed. As they vanished over the horizon, Valkohai surfaced and came in fast, motoring that last mile at eighteen knots, nosing her way through a sea that was no longer pale blue. Around them floated an ocean covered in bodies, as far as the eye could see, thousands of them bobbing in the slight swell, some facedown in the water, some staring sightlessly at a sky that they no longer saw, some in pieces, an arm, a leg, a torso floating by itself. Here and there was movement, a lone survivor still struggling futilely against death, another clinging hopelessly to a piece of wreckage that was large enough to preserve him from the cold embrace of the sea for just a little more time, fighting desperately against the cold for just a few more minutes of life. Valkohai ignored them as she motored through a sea stained wine-red, filled with debris and fragments of flesh that flocks of seagulls were already feasting on.
Kapteeni xxx’s voice was tight as he spoke into the voicetube.
“Signal Naval Headquarters, No Survivors, repeat, No Survivors. Entire Soviet taskforce sunk. Valkohai Out.”
“Aye aye sir. Message to Naval headquarters. No Survivors, repeat, No Survivors. Entire Soviet taskforce sunk. Valkohai Out.”
Beside him, one of the lookouts vomited over the side of the conning tower. Kapteeni xxxx patted him on the shoulder.
“Go below son.” His voice was gentle. He leaned into the voicepipe once more. “Send up Chief Petty Officer xxxx.”
The Kapteeni and the CPO stood side by side in the confines of the conning tower.
“Now that’s a sight you don’t see every day Sir.” The CPO sounded almost reverent. The Kapteeni nodded. “Well, old Somersalo’s airforce did him proud today CPO. Much as I hate to admit it, us and Miekkavalas couldn’t have sunk them all on our own.” He looked around. “Or finished them off like this.”
He took one more look around. “I don’t think there’s any point in looking at this any longer, CPO. We’ll head back out to sea and radio for further orders.”
Valkohai circled once, then turned slowly and headed towards the cleanness of the deep sea, easing her way through the water, bodies bumping down her sides, bobbing in her wake. Behind them lay a darkling sea of death, ahead lay the cleanness of the deep sea.
1627 Hours, 4 December 1939: Rovaniemi Airbase:
They had Rovaniemi airfield in sight at last. The faster Ju-88’s had already landed. The Los bombers flew in formation, shepherding Ukki, who was flying with one engine gone and the other faltering. Ukki was playing it by the book. A high, steep approach, all the extra air speed he could get to go along with the single faltering engine. Even wounded, he was flying as well as any other pilot in the squadron, wanting to set her down, get his rear gunner the medical attention he needed urgently. Ruoska knew if he ordered him to jump, he’d refuse. And they all knew every aircraft was badly needed. He didn’t bother with an order that wouldn’t have been obeyed.
The rest of the Los bombers eased off to give Ukki all the room he needed. On his final approach, running on one engine, in a crippled aircraft, Ukki lost his remaining engine. Lost it. Just like that. No one would know how or why, there could have been a hundred reasons, or ten as to why it went. Or just one. In any case, one was all that was needed. Something died or tore loose or exploded or flamed or just stopped working. No one would ever know because Ukki was too low and it happened too fast. Rouska thought he saw a puff of smoke from the single faltering engine but he was never sure. Maybe it was something breaking off the aircraft, maybe it was just his imagination. Whatever it was, it didn’t really matter.
Ukki’s Los fell off on one wing, a mortally wounded bird of metal suddenly bereft of the power it needed to remain in the sky. In the blink of an eye it whirled about once, a crazily fast spin, and then it had smashed into the ground and exploded. That was all. A sharp drop of the wing, a single spin and then a huge ball of flame and wreckage that fireballed outwards in all directions. Just like that, in a flash of time, barely a couple of seconds, Ukki was gone and Rintala with him. Rouska had nowhere else to go so he bored on in, the shockwave of the blast rocking his Los as he passed overhead. For a single gruesome moment he smelt the upwelling smoke and fumes from the fireball that was at that moment in time incinerating one of his closest comrades, for he and Ukki had flown and fought and laughed and wept together through the Spanish Civil War for three long years.
Rouska fought back tears as he rode his Los down to earth, the wheels sighing on the icy runway as he guided her in with a gentleness that reflected nothing of the pain and loss in his heart. By the time he’d taxied his Los to a halt, the tears had dried. All that remained was the pain and the loss and a burning desire for revenge on those who had caused him this pain, this grief. He thought he’d put those feelings behind him when he left Spain, but now, now they returned in full force. He’d earned his nickname in Spain for a reason, and now that reason had returned with a vengeance, that, like the vengeance of Kullervo, would not be denied.
1847 hours, 4 December 1939: Lapland Group Headquarters
Wallenius read the dispatch from Naval Headquarters. His face creased as he smiled.
“Gentlemen,” he announced to his headquarters staff, “our Sub up there has confirmed that the Soviet Naval Task Force heading for the Rybachi has been completely wiped out along with every Russian on board those ships. The Navy confirms no survivors. We lost less than half a dozen aircraft.”
His expression turned thoughtful as he looked down at the Map Table, the Battle Group dispositions, the estimates of enemy units and strength. Then he smiled.
“Only two to one and it’ll take them weeks to get reinforcements up here, if they ever do at all.” He chuckled. “The odds are in our favor now.”
He looked around at his Headquarters team, read the agreement on their faces, in their expressions, the confidence they exuded.
“Gentlemen, we will go with the existing plan. Operations, I want us to lure those Russian Divisions in deeper. Tease them, make them think they’re getting somewhere if they just push a bit harder, whittle them down a bit before we bring them to a halt. Have the Jääkäripataljoona and the Sissipataljoona boys start moving into position. When we take them out, I don’t want them to know what hit them.”
He thought for a moment. “Planning, you, Naval and Air put your heads together. I want a plan to remove any remaining Russian air and naval assets around Murmansk. Use the Special Boys if that helps. And I want to know every Russian position around Murmansk and between here and Murmansk. Pull in anyone you need and have a draft for me to review by this time tomorrow. And no suicide missions. I know some of those young men are keen, but I want a good chance of them coming back, this is going to be a long war, we need every one of them. Understood?”
“Understood Herra!”
“And Naval. Tell those frog-boys I’m damn proud of them. Write them up for a medal, individual and unit citation, both, whatever you think is justified. Once that destroyer makes Liinamahari, make sure the Navy takes it over right away. Maybe we can use it for the Murmansk Op.”
“Yes Herra, thankyou Herra, they’ll be pleased to hear that.”
Wallenius nodded absently.
“Signals, get together with Operations and write up a dispatch informing Päämaja of our intentions and that we are beginning preparation for Operation Neighborhood Friends. I expect to be ready to move by mid-to-late December if they can make the necessary reinforcements available. I wish to see the Dispatch before it’s sent, have it ready for my attention later this evening.”
“Herra!” The young Signals-Lotta sounded enthusiastic.
“And now, Rintala, what the devil is happening on the Rybachi Peninsula?”
*************************************************
Bit disjointed, lots of gaps, but there's a few snippets from the Winter War. Hope you enjoy...... that's it for now....
“Torpedo Bombers, Glassnoses, Divebombers, return to base.” Ruoska’s voice was flat. “Gunships, form on me.”
He looked down at the sea below, littered with burning sinking ships and debris from those ships. Oil slicks, wood, hatch covers, all the bits and pieces of a ship that were loose and which floated bobbed on the surface. A sea of debris. And lifeboats. Lifeboats everywhere, packed with men. A quick count gave him anywhere from three to five thousand men in the boats. No need to count the men in the water. At the temperature of the sea below, anyone in the water was going to be dead inside half an hour. XXX’s words echoed inside his head.
“None of those troops must make land, none whatsoever under any circumstances.”
Ruoska’s stomach twisted. He knew what was coming, knew the decision he would have to make, had already made, and it sickened him even as he understood the logic and the need. He thrust the sickness down inside himself, locked it away, knowing he would do what had to be done. He opened the mission channel. The gunships were formed up, following him in a slow circle. The five of his six Los gunships that remained, nine of the ten Junkers Ju-88’s, all twenty of the Blenheim gunships. Losses had been surprisingly light. His voice was flat.
“Gunships, follow me in. Two waves. Los and Ju-88’s, first wave. Blenheim’s second wave. ”
He eased his Los down, a gentle sliding turn down to sea level, towards the bobbing lifeboats, the men crowded onto hatches, liferafts, whatever else they had found to preserve themselves from the frozen embrace of the Arctic Sea.
God has his cruel streak. There was no way to miss. They couldn’t have missed if they’d wanted to. The sea was smooth, almost flat, visibility was as good as it got at midday in mid-winter, a clear sky, no clouds, nothing to hide the boats and the liferafts and debris packed with men from sight. No guns to protect them, no destroyers standing guard. Not anymore. Ruoska eased back on the throttles, slowed his gunship, steadying her, aiming for a concentration of lifeboats. Glancing to his left and then to his right, he saw his squadron gunships and the Ju-88’s to the left and right, setting it up just as he was. They too knew what needed to be done. They were following his lead without question, without orders, every one of them, never doubting the necessity for what they were about to do. Behind him in a distant second wave came the Blenheims. He wondered what the men in the lifeboats and in the life rafts were thinking, having saved themselves from their sinking ships by a miracle and now seeing the aircraft approaching again. He wondered what his gunship with the gaping shark’s teeth painted across the nose looked like to them and even as he thought, his thumb caressed the gun tit without conscious thought, squeezed, the bullets hosing through the group of lifeboats he was aiming at.
They didn’t just die. The massed firepower of the heavy machineguns and the massive 20mm cannon blew lifeboats and liferafts and men apart. Pieces of boat and pieces of flesh and bone and blood sprayed and spattered and whirled through the air in a pink cloud. Ruoska walked his rudder, the deadly stream of bullets scything through the mass of lifeboats and liferafts, tearing bodies apart, shredding and mutilating and ripping and tearing and chopping. To either side of him the other gunships carried out the same deadly task, chewing into the luckless survivors, tearing into them, giant buzzsaws that tore mere flesh and bone asunder. The men in the boats and rafts had nowhere to hide as death sought them out. He thought he heard screams over the noise of the engines as he flew past but that was no doubt just his imagination. Those that survived the first wave helplessly faced the second wave of Blenheim gunships, as remorseless and deadly as the first, knowing now what was coming and unable to escape. Ruoska eased into a gentle climb and brought her round, looking down at a sea stained red, seeing the sparkling flashes of the Blenheim’s guns as they fired into the masses of men and boats below.
The other gunships rode with him, the formation as tight and perfect as if they’d been flying an airshow display. He led the way round and down again, the great propeller blades chewing the air as he eased out of the turn, levelled her off, leading the way in again. The guns roared, the Los bucked under his hands, he held her steady as death flamed out from the nose of his gunship and in front of him the ocean churned and exploded in a bloody froth. Another sliding turn, another group of boats disintegrating under the hosing scythe of his guns and his guns stopped and he knew he was out of ammunition and for the first time in his life he was glad of it. Behind him the Blenheims swooped around, lining up for a second pass, then a third, and when they were done there were no more boats, no more liferafts, only thousands more bodies, thousands more men dying, leaking their life out into a pale blue sea, some still struggling against the icy cold embrace of the water that would soon claim their bodies. Ruoska circled once more, the other aircraft circling with him, still in that eerily perfect formation, a last check, looking down at a scene of horror that he knew would remain in his nightmares until the day he died. Ruoska clicked the comm channel, his throat dry, his voice tight and strained.
“Mission accomplished. All gunships return to base.”
Nobody responded.
1534 hours, 4 December 1939, Submarine Valkohai, east of the Rybachi Peninsula.
The circling aircraft departed. As they vanished over the horizon, Valkohai surfaced and came in fast, motoring that last mile at eighteen knots, nosing her way through a sea that was no longer pale blue. Around them floated an ocean covered in bodies, as far as the eye could see, thousands of them bobbing in the slight swell, some facedown in the water, some staring sightlessly at a sky that they no longer saw, some in pieces, an arm, a leg, a torso floating by itself. Here and there was movement, a lone survivor still struggling futilely against death, another clinging hopelessly to a piece of wreckage that was large enough to preserve him from the cold embrace of the sea for just a little more time, fighting desperately against the cold for just a few more minutes of life. Valkohai ignored them as she motored through a sea stained wine-red, filled with debris and fragments of flesh that flocks of seagulls were already feasting on.
Kapteeni xxx’s voice was tight as he spoke into the voicetube.
“Signal Naval Headquarters, No Survivors, repeat, No Survivors. Entire Soviet taskforce sunk. Valkohai Out.”
“Aye aye sir. Message to Naval headquarters. No Survivors, repeat, No Survivors. Entire Soviet taskforce sunk. Valkohai Out.”
Beside him, one of the lookouts vomited over the side of the conning tower. Kapteeni xxxx patted him on the shoulder.
“Go below son.” His voice was gentle. He leaned into the voicepipe once more. “Send up Chief Petty Officer xxxx.”
The Kapteeni and the CPO stood side by side in the confines of the conning tower.
“Now that’s a sight you don’t see every day Sir.” The CPO sounded almost reverent. The Kapteeni nodded. “Well, old Somersalo’s airforce did him proud today CPO. Much as I hate to admit it, us and Miekkavalas couldn’t have sunk them all on our own.” He looked around. “Or finished them off like this.”
He took one more look around. “I don’t think there’s any point in looking at this any longer, CPO. We’ll head back out to sea and radio for further orders.”
Valkohai circled once, then turned slowly and headed towards the cleanness of the deep sea, easing her way through the water, bodies bumping down her sides, bobbing in her wake. Behind them lay a darkling sea of death, ahead lay the cleanness of the deep sea.
1627 Hours, 4 December 1939: Rovaniemi Airbase:
They had Rovaniemi airfield in sight at last. The faster Ju-88’s had already landed. The Los bombers flew in formation, shepherding Ukki, who was flying with one engine gone and the other faltering. Ukki was playing it by the book. A high, steep approach, all the extra air speed he could get to go along with the single faltering engine. Even wounded, he was flying as well as any other pilot in the squadron, wanting to set her down, get his rear gunner the medical attention he needed urgently. Ruoska knew if he ordered him to jump, he’d refuse. And they all knew every aircraft was badly needed. He didn’t bother with an order that wouldn’t have been obeyed.
The rest of the Los bombers eased off to give Ukki all the room he needed. On his final approach, running on one engine, in a crippled aircraft, Ukki lost his remaining engine. Lost it. Just like that. No one would know how or why, there could have been a hundred reasons, or ten as to why it went. Or just one. In any case, one was all that was needed. Something died or tore loose or exploded or flamed or just stopped working. No one would ever know because Ukki was too low and it happened too fast. Rouska thought he saw a puff of smoke from the single faltering engine but he was never sure. Maybe it was something breaking off the aircraft, maybe it was just his imagination. Whatever it was, it didn’t really matter.
Ukki’s Los fell off on one wing, a mortally wounded bird of metal suddenly bereft of the power it needed to remain in the sky. In the blink of an eye it whirled about once, a crazily fast spin, and then it had smashed into the ground and exploded. That was all. A sharp drop of the wing, a single spin and then a huge ball of flame and wreckage that fireballed outwards in all directions. Just like that, in a flash of time, barely a couple of seconds, Ukki was gone and Rintala with him. Rouska had nowhere else to go so he bored on in, the shockwave of the blast rocking his Los as he passed overhead. For a single gruesome moment he smelt the upwelling smoke and fumes from the fireball that was at that moment in time incinerating one of his closest comrades, for he and Ukki had flown and fought and laughed and wept together through the Spanish Civil War for three long years.
Rouska fought back tears as he rode his Los down to earth, the wheels sighing on the icy runway as he guided her in with a gentleness that reflected nothing of the pain and loss in his heart. By the time he’d taxied his Los to a halt, the tears had dried. All that remained was the pain and the loss and a burning desire for revenge on those who had caused him this pain, this grief. He thought he’d put those feelings behind him when he left Spain, but now, now they returned in full force. He’d earned his nickname in Spain for a reason, and now that reason had returned with a vengeance, that, like the vengeance of Kullervo, would not be denied.
1847 hours, 4 December 1939: Lapland Group Headquarters
Wallenius read the dispatch from Naval Headquarters. His face creased as he smiled.
“Gentlemen,” he announced to his headquarters staff, “our Sub up there has confirmed that the Soviet Naval Task Force heading for the Rybachi has been completely wiped out along with every Russian on board those ships. The Navy confirms no survivors. We lost less than half a dozen aircraft.”
His expression turned thoughtful as he looked down at the Map Table, the Battle Group dispositions, the estimates of enemy units and strength. Then he smiled.
“Only two to one and it’ll take them weeks to get reinforcements up here, if they ever do at all.” He chuckled. “The odds are in our favor now.”
He looked around at his Headquarters team, read the agreement on their faces, in their expressions, the confidence they exuded.
“Gentlemen, we will go with the existing plan. Operations, I want us to lure those Russian Divisions in deeper. Tease them, make them think they’re getting somewhere if they just push a bit harder, whittle them down a bit before we bring them to a halt. Have the Jääkäripataljoona and the Sissipataljoona boys start moving into position. When we take them out, I don’t want them to know what hit them.”
He thought for a moment. “Planning, you, Naval and Air put your heads together. I want a plan to remove any remaining Russian air and naval assets around Murmansk. Use the Special Boys if that helps. And I want to know every Russian position around Murmansk and between here and Murmansk. Pull in anyone you need and have a draft for me to review by this time tomorrow. And no suicide missions. I know some of those young men are keen, but I want a good chance of them coming back, this is going to be a long war, we need every one of them. Understood?”
“Understood Herra!”
“And Naval. Tell those frog-boys I’m damn proud of them. Write them up for a medal, individual and unit citation, both, whatever you think is justified. Once that destroyer makes Liinamahari, make sure the Navy takes it over right away. Maybe we can use it for the Murmansk Op.”
“Yes Herra, thankyou Herra, they’ll be pleased to hear that.”
Wallenius nodded absently.
“Signals, get together with Operations and write up a dispatch informing Päämaja of our intentions and that we are beginning preparation for Operation Neighborhood Friends. I expect to be ready to move by mid-to-late December if they can make the necessary reinforcements available. I wish to see the Dispatch before it’s sent, have it ready for my attention later this evening.”
“Herra!” The young Signals-Lotta sounded enthusiastic.
“And now, Rintala, what the devil is happening on the Rybachi Peninsula?”
*************************************************
Bit disjointed, lots of gaps, but there's a few snippets from the Winter War. Hope you enjoy...... that's it for now....
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
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Fliegende Untertasse
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- Location: Häme
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
I may have missed some updates, but how did Finns get Ju-88 in 1939 ?
In OTL even Luftwaffe did not have an operational squadron until christmas.
Finnish really does not have a word for "Sir".
Depending on context "herra" is Mister, Gentleman, Master, Sire, Lord, Bwana or "The Man".
With capital H "Herra" means "Our Lord and Saviour".
In OTL even Luftwaffe did not have an operational squadron until christmas.
guess you mean Viikatemies - Grim ReaperThe big Vikeatiemies’
Baton ?, his baton indiscriminately attacking
"Oh my God!" ?“Herra!” The young Signals-Lotta sounded enthusiastic.
Finnish really does not have a word for "Sir".
Depending on context "herra" is Mister, Gentleman, Master, Sire, Lord, Bwana or "The Man".
With capital H "Herra" means "Our Lord and Saviour".
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
Re the Ju88's, see this post - http://forum.axishistory.com/viewtopic. ... 0#p1614400Fliegende Untertasse wrote:I may have missed some updates, but how did Finns get Ju-88 in 1939 ?
In OTL even Luftwaffe did not have an operational squadron until christmas.’
Yes indeedFliegende Untertasse wrote:guess you mean Viikatemies - Grim ReaperThe big Vikeatiemies’
Now I'm thinking I need an editor hereFliegende Untertasse wrote:Baton ?, his baton indiscriminately attacking
- I think that was Battalion, but until I go back and reread, I'm not 100% sure.....So I have discovered. It's been quite the education, on alternatehitsory.com it was also pointed out to me that calling somebody in the military just herra is unnatural. Correct formal way is herra luutnantti , herra kapteeni and so on. For more informal setting it was advised that it's customary that the lower ranker just uses the senior officer's rank like "yes, general" or "no, general". Of course, level of informality depends on said senior officer. So Wallenius would be simply "herra kenraali". Or just "kenraali" in a more informal setting.Fliegende Untertasse wrote:"Oh my God!" ?“Herra!” The young Signals-Lotta sounded enthusiastic.
Finnish really does not have a word for "Sir".
Depending on context "herra" is Mister, Gentleman, Master, Sire, Lord, Bwana or "The Man".
With capital H "Herra" means "Our Lord and Saviour".
Now that's all something I would never have picked up on by myself. In the NZ Army back when I was in it, when you were a grunt you just used "Sir" generically for all officers without any reference to rank, which I'm pretty sure applies to all the British Commonwealth armies. No rank required. Altho if you were an officer addressing another officer, it varied depending on the formality. It's these little touches that lend authenticity. I shall do some editing......
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
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Fliegende Untertasse
- Member
- Posts: 180
- Joined: 23 Oct 2005, 21:07
- Location: Häme
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
This oneNow I'm thinking I need an editor hereFliegende Untertasse wrote:Baton ?, his baton indiscriminately attacking
Somehow I have difficulties visualizing batons in this context.“Out of those nice warm fart sacks Herra’s and not-so Herra’s.”
The Vaapeli’s roar was unmistakable as he strode down the close-set rows of field stretchers, his baton indiscriminately attacking officers, NCO’s and men alike.
You were not thinking those funny under-armpit sticks that English officers carry in Monty Python scetches when they hop around and do silly walk ?
Other exotic British thing is here
You do not want to issue booze to a Finnish private.of sitting back on his own side of the border enjoying a sauna and a shot of vodka out of his rations.
You have no control over when he is going to use it. And when he does use it, well... you have no control.
A 20 year old Finnish dude is not going to "enjoy a shot of vodka", he'll empty the whole bottle at once.
This was actually tried during Winter War - a unit of airmen was given liqour rations to "keep them warm". Next day the entire base was out of action.
So I have discovered. It's been quite the education, on alternatehitsory.com it was also pointed out to me that calling somebody in the military just herra is unnatural. Correct formal way is herra luutnantti , herra kapteeni and so on. For more informal setting it was advised that it's customary that the lower ranker just uses the senior officer's rank like "yes, general" or "no, general".
Of course, level of informality depends on said senior officer. So Wallenius would be simply "herra kenraali". Or just "kenraali" in a more informal setting.
Yes . The casual polite way is to adress in third person with just plain name or title. And of course only when the speaker requests attention from listener.
However "yes, general" or "no, general". is not good manners in Finnish. It is just "yes" or "no".
According to Finnish customs addressing conversation partner in end of sentence is allways formal. Being casually formal is patronizing and quite rude. It is the way parents and schoolteachers speak to disobedient children.
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
Oh no! That was exactly what I was thinking. You mean the Finnish Army doesn't have those?????Fliegende Untertasse wrote:This oneNow I'm thinking I need an editor hereFliegende Untertasse wrote:Baton ?, his baton indiscriminately attackingSomehow I have difficulties visualizing batons in this context.“Out of those nice warm fart sacks Herra’s and not-so Herra’s.”
The Vaapeli’s roar was unmistakable as he strode down the close-set rows of field stretchers, his baton indiscriminately attacking officers, NCO’s and men alike.
You were not thinking those funny under-armpit sticks that English officers carry in Monty Python scetches when they hop around and do silly walk ?
I recall them from my New Zealand Army days as the Warrant Officer (WO1 or WO2, aka Woe1 or Woe2) chased us along using the baton "Pour encourager les autres...."). I always thought they were rather cool, but then, English ancestors you know......Hmmm, now that makes sense. I'll have to rewrite that bit, put it somewhere else maybe as "the experiment gone wrong...." or maybe as an argument over the merits or otherwise of alcohol in the rations.Fliegende Untertasse wrote:Other exotic British thing is hereYou do not want to issue booze to a Finnish private.of sitting back on his own side of the border enjoying a sauna and a shot of vodka out of his rations.
You have no control over when he is going to use it. And when he does use it, well... you have no control.
A 20 year old Finnish dude is not going to "enjoy a shot of vodka", he'll empty the whole bottle at once.
This was actually tried during Winter War - a unit of airmen was given liqour rations to "keep them warm". Next day the entire base was out of action.
So if you were a private responding to an order from an NCO or an Officer you'd just say "Yes"? I'm not quite sure I have that one figured out. Any chance you could give me a couple of examples of what would be appropriate responses? Again, I'm a bit too conditioned by my own NZ Army experience here.... and trying to express a Finnish way of speaking / responding to orders in English whilst maintaining the correct type of response is proving a bit more of a challenge than I anticipated. So if Wallenius ordered a junior officer to do something, what would their response be? "Yes Herra Kenraali!" Or something else?Fliegende Untertasse wrote:So I have discovered. It's been quite the education, on alternatehitsory.com it was also pointed out to me that calling somebody in the military just herra is unnatural. Correct formal way is herra luutnantti , herra kapteeni and so on. For more informal setting it was advised that it's customary that the lower ranker just uses the senior officer's rank like "yes, general" or "no, general".
Of course, level of informality depends on said senior officer. So Wallenius would be simply "herra kenraali". Or just "kenraali" in a more informal setting.
Yes . The casual polite way is to adress in third person with just plain name or title. And of course only when the speaker requests attention from listener.
However "yes, general" or "no, general". is not good manners in Finnish. It is just "yes" or "no".
According to Finnish customs addressing conversation partner in end of sentence is allways formal. Being casually formal is patronizing and quite rude. It is the way parents and schoolteachers speak to disobedient children.
Thx a million for this...........Nigel
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
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Seppo Koivisto
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- Location: Finland
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
I feel you normally address a senior officer herra kenraali, but your junior officer only with a rank. If a general calls you herra luutnantti you probably were a kapteeni. To me only yes or yes kenraali sounds very rude, especially if you are being asked an opinion. In the heat of a battle you could more naturally say selvä (clear) without adding herra kenraali, to show you have understood the order.
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John Hilly
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Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
When you answer for the first time during receiving orders, you answer "Herra Kenraali". After that you can answer e.a. "selvä on" - roger, or "Tapahtuu"- Willdo. And it is polite to finish the ordering answering "Kyllä Herra Kenraali" or something suitable.
When a junior officer or NCO gives an order to an enlisted man, it depends on the situation and relationships wheather you answer "Kyllä Herra Vääpeli" or simply "Selvä, tapahtuu" - Right, willdo or something like that.
With best,
J-P
When a junior officer or NCO gives an order to an enlisted man, it depends on the situation and relationships wheather you answer "Kyllä Herra Vääpeli" or simply "Selvä, tapahtuu" - Right, willdo or something like that.
With best,
J-P
"Die Blechtrommel trommelt noch!"
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
Thankyou both for that, now lets see how I can mangle that
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
Steel Fist – the Armeijan’s Panssaridivisoona’s
Steel Fist – the Armeijan’s Panssaridivisoona’s of the Winter War
On the 31st of November 1939, when the Red Army launched its attack on Finland, one Finnish Panssaridivisoona (the 21st, nicknamed “Marskin Nyrkki” – The Marshal’s Fist), an armoured division commanded by Kenraalimajuri Ernst Ruben Lagus) was in existence. There were also three Erillinen Pansaaripataljoona (Separate Tank/Panzer Battalions equipped with a miscellaneous collection of tanks) who formed part of the Finnish Army’s “Suojajoukot” Brigades facing the first onslaught along the Border.
By the end of the fighting over the winter of 1939/1940, a second Armoured Division, the 22nd (somewhat derivatively nicknamed “Marskin Saapas” – The Marshal’s Boot – unofficial motto “when they’re down on the ground, put the boot in”, commanded by Kenraalimajuri Hans Kalm) had been formed and equipped entirely with captured Soviet tanks, artillery and vehicles. By the end of the Winter War, the 22nd had already won a reputation as perhaps the most aggressive and ruthless fighting division in the Finnish Army, an honor due in no small part due to their divisional commander. There were also the three Separate Panssaripataljoona, the Polish xxx Armoured Brigade and a number of mechanized Jaeger, Artillery, Pioneeri and other combat and combat support units, who by the end of the war had been formed into the rather more ad-hoc 23rd Panssaridivisioona (“Marskin Vasara – The Marshal’s Hammer”). Despite losses in battle, the Finnish Army would end the Winter War in late 1940 with three Armoured Divisions, a wealth of combat experience and developments in tactical doctrine which placed them squarely on the leading edge of Combined Arms Warfare for the remainder of WW2. Following the Winter War, these three Armoured Divisions would over time re-equip themselves with the newer model tanks and armoured fighting vehicles rolling off the Patria production line in Tornio, later augmented by lend-lease equipment supplied by the US and tanks and artillery somewhat reluctantly provided by the USSR (in return for raw materials such as nickel, copper and steel). Such was the Finnish skill in Armoured Warfare (“Ukkossota” or “Thunder War” as it came to be referred to in Finnish milspeak) that the Allied commanders and senior officers of the British Commonwealth, US and Polish armoured units who fought alongside the Finnish Army and under overall Finnish command against Germany over 1944 and 1945 would become the leading exponents of this form of warfare in the West through the early post-war decades.
At the time of the outbreak of the Winter War, the fact that Finland possessed even a single Armoured Division and three additional armoured battalions meant that she was a major armoured power. Finnish Panssaridivisoona Officers also had considerable practical experience garnered from the use of armour by the Finnish Volunteer brigade, Pohjan Pohjat, in the Spanish Civil War (where a Panzer Battalion fough to great effect as part of the brigade). The evaluation of this experience and the development of armoured and combined arms expertise in battle over the years 1937-39 in Spain had allowed the Finns to acquire unequaled experience and to develop and evolve their tactics in the crucible of battle. When the Finnish Armoured units came to join battle with the Red Army, the Finnish Army’s combined arms battle doctrine was based on an unrivalled familiarity with tank combat and combined arms warfare that exceeded even that of the Germans and the Russians (keeping in mind also that most of the Russian “experts” in armoured warfare, as well as those Russian Advisors with experience in Spain had been ruthlessly purged by Stalin). Moreover, the Germans had gone into Spain to assist the Nationalists with no real objective defined as to the use of Spain as a testing ground for weapons and tactics. As it turned out, new weapons (tanks and aircraft) were used in combat and lessons learnt, but this was not the original intention and any such lessons learnt were more byproducts of th aid to the Nationalists rather than a deliberately planned outcome. By contrast, the Finnish volunteers had gone into Spain with the expressed objective of testing, refining and correcting their doctrine and tactics, an objective that remained at the forefront of Pohjan Pohjat’s mission for three long years of combat. The lessons learnt were rapidly absorbed, with corrections and improvements to doctrine and tactics reviewed, decided on, and made at a rapid pace and in an ongoing cycle of experimentation and evaluation.
The Finnish Army also ensured that a considerable number of suitable “volunteers”, most of them NCO’s or officers, were rotated through Pohjan Pohjat, gaining valuable combat experience. These “volunteers” would subjected to rapid and intensive training both before their departure to Spain and on arrival, prior to entering combat. They would also experience accelerated promotion and preference for advanced training within the Reserves on their return, meaning that when the Winter War came, a considerable number of unit commanders and senior NCO’s were “battle-hardened” soldiers with experience commanding in the storm and smoke of combat. Likewise, those ordinary soldiers who fought in Spain as volunteers could be assured of immediate promotion into the ranks of the junior NCO’s on their return, again with preference for further training and promotion. Many of these NCO’s would train Finnish Army conscripts through the years 1938 and 1939, passing on hard-learnt lessons to their students.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... -Spain.jpg
Finnish volunteers belonging to Pohjan Pohjat arrive in Spain
And with a full overstrength brigade of volunteers in Spain, some 6,000 men at any one time, by the end of the Civil War some 20,000 men had rotated through Spain. This gave the Finnish Army a considerable nucleus of men with actual battle experience – and these men were sprinkled throughout every unit in the Army. The establishment and maintenance of single Panzer Battalion using a mix of captured Russian tanks, a small number of German tanks and some supplied by the Italians enabled the nacent Finnish Panssari units to also experiment, develop and turn into tactical doctrine their experiences in armoured warfare over the three years of constant fighting. Pohjan pohjat were in some ways a unique volunteer unit in Spain. Where Franco wanted the Italians as a source of weapons, he was not overly enamoured of Mussolini’s attempts to turn Spain into a protégé of the Italians and he many times frustrated the Italian commanders in Spain. He was also unimpressed by the fighting abilities of the Italians units in Spain. Similarly, Franco welcomed Germans arms and aircraft, but was well aware of the Germans intentions in Spain and deeply resented their at times extortionate demands for payment.
Franco himself was also playing the various political groupings within the Nationalist fold – in particular the Falangists and the Carlists. Himself neither a fascist nor a monarchist but rather a Catholic nationalist, Franco had no intention of allowing either movement to gain the ascendancy within Spain, preferring to reserve that role for himself. While not overly enthusiastic about foreigners fighting in Spain, Franco was rather less reserved about Pohjan pohjat. Brought to Spain under the aegis of the Italians, the Finns quickly negotiated their way into an attachment with the Spanish Foreign Legion where they soon established a reputation as skilled and ruthless soldiers, willing and able to take the battle to the enemy whilst eschewing the publicity and the glory that the Italians demanded. In this, the possession of their own tanks, artillery and other specialized units as well as attached air units made them very much a prototype combined arms unit capable of fighting independently and with a great deal of firepower at their disposal. They would also pull the Italian’s bacon from the fire on more than one occasion, first and perhaps most notably in the Battle of Guadalajara (March 8–23, 1937).
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... an_poi.jpg
Pohjan Pohjat Cap Badge
Pohjan pohjat and the Battle of Guadalajara
After the collapse of the third offensive on Madrid, Spanish Nationalist General Francisco Franco decided to continue with a fourth offensive aimed at closing the pincer around the capital. The Nationalist forces, although victorious at Jarama River, were exhausted and could not create the necessary momentum to carry the operation through. However, the Italians were optimistic after the capture of Málaga, and it was thought that the Italian forces could score an easy victory owing to the heavy losses sustained by the Republican army during the Battle of the Jarama River. Italian dictator Benito Mussolini endorsed the operation and committed the Italian units to it. The Italian commander, General Mario Roatta, planned for his forces to attack Madrid from the north-west.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... 22x300.jpg
General Mario Roatta, Italian Corpo Truppe Volontarie
After joining the Spanish Nationalist corps “Madrid” on the Jarama River, they would begin the assault on Madrid with the Italians executing the main attack. The Spanish “Soria” Division was present to secure the operation, but played no part in the first five days of fighting. The main attack began in the 25 km-wide pass at Guadalajara-Alcalá de Henares. This region was well suited for an advance, as there were five good roads running through it. Three other roads in the area led to Guadalajara, allowing for the possibility of capturing this town as well.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... lajara.jpg
Corpo Truppe Volontarie troops at Guadalajara
The Nationalist forces were made up of 35,000 soldiers, 222 artillery guns, 108 L3/33 tankettes and L3/35 tankettes, 32 armoured cars, 3,685 cars, and 60 Fiat CR.32 fighter planes. The Republican presence in the Guadalajara region consisted only of the 12th Division of the Spanish Popular Army under Colonel Lacalle. He had under his command 10,000 soldiers with only 5,900 rifles, 85 machine guns, and 15 cannon. One company of T-26 light tanks had also been sent to the area. No defensive works had been constructed in the Guadalajara region as it was regarded as a peaceful part of the front. The Republican Army staff was convinced that the next Fascist offensive would come from the south. On 8th March 1937 the Italians began their attack, breaking through the Republican line and advancing between 10 and 12 kms before slowing down due to reduced visibility from fog and sleet. Falling back, the Republican commander requested infantry reinforcements and the company of tanks. On March 9th the Italians resumed their assault on Republican positions, advancing a further 15 to 18 kms but were again bogged down by poor performance and low visibility before being halted by battalions of the republican forces XI International Brigade. By the end of the day, further Republican reinforcements began to arrive, with additional units also arriving the next day.
On the morning of March 10th, Italian forces launched heavy artillery and air bombardments and renewed the assault, capturing the towns Miralrio and Brihuega (the latter without resistance). Italian assaults on the positions of the XI and XII International Brigades continued throughout the afternoon, still without success. The following day, the 11th, the Italians began a successful advance on the positions of the XI and XII International Brigades, who were forced to retreat before managing to halt the Italian vanguard some 3 km before the town of Torija. The Spanish Nationalist “Soria” division “Soria” also advanced, capturing the towns of Hita and Torre del Burgo. On March 12 the Republican forces launched a counterattack. Close to one-hundred ‘”Chato” and “Rata fighter planes and two squadrons of Katiuska bombers of the Spanish Republican Air Force were used, while the aircraft of the Italian Legionary Air Force were grounded on water-logged airports. After an air bombardment of the Italian positions, the Republican infantry supported by T-26 and BT-5 light tanks attacked the Italian lines. Several Italian tankettes were lost when General Roatta attempted to change the position of his motorized units in the muddy terrain; many got stuck and were easy target for strafing fighters. The Republican advance reached Trijueque while an Italian counterattack regained no lost terrain.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... -26riv.jpg
Republican T-26 Tanks with infantry counter-attacked the Italians
On March 13 the Republicans counterattacked at Trijueque, Casa del Cabo and Palacio de Ibarra was launched with some success, with the 14th Division crossing the Tajuña River to attack Brihuega. The Italians had been warned that this might happen, but ignored advice from the commander of the Finnish Volunteer Brigade attached to their forces for the operation, Colonel Hans Kalm. Between March 14-17 the Republicans redeployed and concentrated their forces while their air force units continued to attack the Nationalist forces. On March 18 the Republicans resumed the attack, crossing the Tajuña River and nearly managing to surround Brihuega, causing the Italians to retreat in panic. The Republican advance was only slowed by the Italian Littorio Division, arguably the best of the Italian units. An Italian counterattack on Republican positions failed and it was only the Littorio Division that saved the Italians from a complete disaster when they conducted a well-organized retreat. What of course is more or less unknown is that the Italian commander, General Roatta, had requested the attachment of the Finnish Volunteer Brigade to the Littorio Division for the offensive.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... m_hans.jpg
Colonel Hans Kalm, CO of Pohjan Pohjat. His fighting withdrawal at Guadalajara was a classic example of this type of battle
The Finns had arrived late through no fault of their own and had played no part in the earlier fighting. However, as the Italian units withdrew in panic, Colonel Kalm moved Pohjan Pohat forward on the morning of March 19th in a sudden tactical counter-attack that hammered into the advancing Republicans, with troop and tank movements well-coordinated with artillery support and close air support. Outnumbered and constantly in danger of being outflanked, Pohjan pohjat under Colonel Kalm fought the Republicans almost alone, conducting a skilfull fighting withdrawal in the face of vastly superior forces. In the process, Pohjan pohjat also augmented their equipment with abandoned Italian tanks, tankettes and guns. Over March 19th and 20th, Pohjan pohjat would fight almost alone, covering the rapidly retreating Italians and using their 76mm Bofors AA guns to shred attacks by Republican tank units – a use of the Bofors 76mm which would have far-reaching implications as the success of the weapon in an anti-tank role, even without anti-tank ammunition, was digested. Well-coordinated artillery fire was used to break up Republican infantry attacks, as well as to separate attacking infantry from the tanks, while aerial reconnaisance and close air support was used continuously. On the nights of March 19th and 20th, Pohjan pohjat would launch night attacks on the Republicans, keeping them in a constant state of tension. By the 21st, units of the Littorio Division would begin to coalesce around Pohjan pohjat but the Republican counter-offensive would not be halted until the Valdearenas–Ledanca–Hontanares line was reached, and only then because Franco had sent reserve formations to this line of defence. Nevertheless, Pohjan pohjat had played an important part in slowing the Republican advance.
The Battle of Guadalajara was the last major victory of the Republican Army and did much to lift Republican morale. Herbert Matthews claimed in the New York Times that Guadalajara was “to Fascism what the defeat at Bailén had been to Napoleon.” The British press heaped scorn on this “new Caporetto”—alluding to a great Italian defeat in the First World War – while former British Prime Minister David Lloyd George wrote mockingly of the “Italian skedaddle,” infuriating Mussolini.
The Italians lost some 6,000 men and a considerable number of light tanks and planes (Pohjan pohjat by their own count picked up from the Italians 35 artillery pieces, 85 machine guns, and 67 abandoned Italian tanks (from which a 2nd Panssari Battalion was formed), none of which were returned). Above all, Guadalajara was a severe blow to Italian morale and caused a major loss of prestige for Italy’s fascist regime, whose Duce had orchestrated the deployment of the Italian army in the hopes of stunning the world with a show of Italy’s “iron military strength. If Republican confidence soared, there was no corresponding loss of morale in Nationalist circles, which regarded the Italian expeditionary force with some contempt. German officers in Salamanca sneered that even “Jews” and “Communists” (the International Brigades) could beat the Italians.
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Republican forces with a captured CV33 at the battle of Guadalajara, March 1937
Many Spanish Nationalist officers, resenting Mussolini’s henchmen for carrying their own personal war into Spain, were amused to see their boasting and well-equipped allies, so full of bluster before entering battle, brought so low at the hands of what they saw as fellow Spaniards, even enemy Spaniards. Franco’s soldiers began singing popular Italian tunes with the wording changed to mock the defeated Italians. The following chorus, originating with General Moscardó’s Navarrese, humorously takes the Italians to task for their earlier complaints about the lack of motorized transport in the Nationalist ranks:
Guadalajara no es Abisinia (Guadalajara is not Abyssinia
Los españoles, aunque rojos, son valientes, (Spaniards, even if Red, are brave)
Menos camiones y más cojones ((You need) fewer trucks and more balls)
Contrastingly, the Finns came out of the battle with their reputation solidly enhanced. The Spanish were well aware of the part Pohjan pohjat had played in covering the panic-stricken Italian withdrawal and their attached Spanish liason officers had sung the praises of the Finnish volunteers as they launched a series of devastating counter attacks as they conducted their fighting withdrawal. Months later, Franco would personally decorate Colonel Hans Kalm for his command in this battle. The Italians for their part were also somewhat grateful to the Finns for turning what could have been a devastating defeat into “merely” a major embarrassment. The Finns for there part were not all all eager for publicity and with the Nationalist control of the news media being what it was, no reports of the Finnish action found their way into the media. The Littorio Division were given the credit for slowing the Republican advance (in which they did in fact play an increasing part over the last 3 days of the Republican counter-offensive) and this is how history has recorded the battle.
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Pohjan Pohjat CV33 Flamethrower tankettes on the counter-attack – Battle of Guadalajara
For their part, Pohjan pohjat had fought a large battle in circumstances somewhat similar to those they could expect to face in any war against Russia. This was an invaluable experience and the Finns would draw somewhat different conclusions from other observers as to the significance of the battle. For outside observers, largely unaware of Pohjan pohjat’s involvement, the tactical lessons of the battle were ambiguous and prone to misinterpretation. The failure of the Italian offensive demonstrated the vulnerability of massed armoured advances in unfavourable terrain and against a coherent infantry defence. The French General Staff, in harmony with existing beliefs in the French Army, concluded that mechanized troops were not the decisive element of modern warfare and continued to shape their military doctrine accordingly. A notable exception to this view was Charles de Gaulle. The Germans (and the Finns, it must be added) escaped this conclusion by correctly dismissing the Guadalajara failure as the product of Italian incompetence.
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For their part, Pohjan pohjat had fought a large battle in circumstances somewhat similar to those they could expect to face in any war against Russia. Here, a Red soldier attacking a temporary Finnish defensive position…
In truth, both views had some merit: armoured forces were largely ineffective against prepared defences organized in depth; in adverse weather, and without proper air support, the result was disaster (Italian strategists failed to consider these variables). The German assessment correctly noted the deficiencies in Italian soldiery, planning, and organization that contributed to their rout at Guadalajara. In particular, their vehicles and tanks had lacked the technical quality and their leaders the determination necessary to effect the violent breakthroughs characteristic of later German blitzkrieg tactics.
The Finns for their part made their own assessment. A small combined arms unit had successfully conducted a fighting withdrawal while facing numerically far superior forces and inflicting large casualties out of all proportion to their own losses. Continued tactical counter-attacks had succeeded in keeping the enemy off-balance, while artillery and air support had proved invaluable in both slowing the enemy advance and in inflicting large-scale casualties. The pace of the battle from their first to their last engagement had been determined by Pohjan pohjat, who had used a combination of massive firepower, speed of movement and good communication to continually take the initiative away from the enemy and dictate the terms of engagement. And note had been made of the ability of the Bofors 76mm AA guns to rip open Russian-supplied tanks like the proverbial tin-can. By the end of the Battle, morale within Pohjan pohat was at an all-time high. The students were about to become the masters.
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Tanks of Pohjan pohjat’s Panssaripataljoona participate in the Nationalist Victory parade, Madrid, 1939
Next: Returning now to Finnish Armoured development
On the 31st of November 1939, when the Red Army launched its attack on Finland, one Finnish Panssaridivisoona (the 21st, nicknamed “Marskin Nyrkki” – The Marshal’s Fist), an armoured division commanded by Kenraalimajuri Ernst Ruben Lagus) was in existence. There were also three Erillinen Pansaaripataljoona (Separate Tank/Panzer Battalions equipped with a miscellaneous collection of tanks) who formed part of the Finnish Army’s “Suojajoukot” Brigades facing the first onslaught along the Border.
By the end of the fighting over the winter of 1939/1940, a second Armoured Division, the 22nd (somewhat derivatively nicknamed “Marskin Saapas” – The Marshal’s Boot – unofficial motto “when they’re down on the ground, put the boot in”, commanded by Kenraalimajuri Hans Kalm) had been formed and equipped entirely with captured Soviet tanks, artillery and vehicles. By the end of the Winter War, the 22nd had already won a reputation as perhaps the most aggressive and ruthless fighting division in the Finnish Army, an honor due in no small part due to their divisional commander. There were also the three Separate Panssaripataljoona, the Polish xxx Armoured Brigade and a number of mechanized Jaeger, Artillery, Pioneeri and other combat and combat support units, who by the end of the war had been formed into the rather more ad-hoc 23rd Panssaridivisioona (“Marskin Vasara – The Marshal’s Hammer”). Despite losses in battle, the Finnish Army would end the Winter War in late 1940 with three Armoured Divisions, a wealth of combat experience and developments in tactical doctrine which placed them squarely on the leading edge of Combined Arms Warfare for the remainder of WW2. Following the Winter War, these three Armoured Divisions would over time re-equip themselves with the newer model tanks and armoured fighting vehicles rolling off the Patria production line in Tornio, later augmented by lend-lease equipment supplied by the US and tanks and artillery somewhat reluctantly provided by the USSR (in return for raw materials such as nickel, copper and steel). Such was the Finnish skill in Armoured Warfare (“Ukkossota” or “Thunder War” as it came to be referred to in Finnish milspeak) that the Allied commanders and senior officers of the British Commonwealth, US and Polish armoured units who fought alongside the Finnish Army and under overall Finnish command against Germany over 1944 and 1945 would become the leading exponents of this form of warfare in the West through the early post-war decades.
At the time of the outbreak of the Winter War, the fact that Finland possessed even a single Armoured Division and three additional armoured battalions meant that she was a major armoured power. Finnish Panssaridivisoona Officers also had considerable practical experience garnered from the use of armour by the Finnish Volunteer brigade, Pohjan Pohjat, in the Spanish Civil War (where a Panzer Battalion fough to great effect as part of the brigade). The evaluation of this experience and the development of armoured and combined arms expertise in battle over the years 1937-39 in Spain had allowed the Finns to acquire unequaled experience and to develop and evolve their tactics in the crucible of battle. When the Finnish Armoured units came to join battle with the Red Army, the Finnish Army’s combined arms battle doctrine was based on an unrivalled familiarity with tank combat and combined arms warfare that exceeded even that of the Germans and the Russians (keeping in mind also that most of the Russian “experts” in armoured warfare, as well as those Russian Advisors with experience in Spain had been ruthlessly purged by Stalin). Moreover, the Germans had gone into Spain to assist the Nationalists with no real objective defined as to the use of Spain as a testing ground for weapons and tactics. As it turned out, new weapons (tanks and aircraft) were used in combat and lessons learnt, but this was not the original intention and any such lessons learnt were more byproducts of th aid to the Nationalists rather than a deliberately planned outcome. By contrast, the Finnish volunteers had gone into Spain with the expressed objective of testing, refining and correcting their doctrine and tactics, an objective that remained at the forefront of Pohjan Pohjat’s mission for three long years of combat. The lessons learnt were rapidly absorbed, with corrections and improvements to doctrine and tactics reviewed, decided on, and made at a rapid pace and in an ongoing cycle of experimentation and evaluation.
The Finnish Army also ensured that a considerable number of suitable “volunteers”, most of them NCO’s or officers, were rotated through Pohjan Pohjat, gaining valuable combat experience. These “volunteers” would subjected to rapid and intensive training both before their departure to Spain and on arrival, prior to entering combat. They would also experience accelerated promotion and preference for advanced training within the Reserves on their return, meaning that when the Winter War came, a considerable number of unit commanders and senior NCO’s were “battle-hardened” soldiers with experience commanding in the storm and smoke of combat. Likewise, those ordinary soldiers who fought in Spain as volunteers could be assured of immediate promotion into the ranks of the junior NCO’s on their return, again with preference for further training and promotion. Many of these NCO’s would train Finnish Army conscripts through the years 1938 and 1939, passing on hard-learnt lessons to their students.
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Finnish volunteers belonging to Pohjan Pohjat arrive in Spain
And with a full overstrength brigade of volunteers in Spain, some 6,000 men at any one time, by the end of the Civil War some 20,000 men had rotated through Spain. This gave the Finnish Army a considerable nucleus of men with actual battle experience – and these men were sprinkled throughout every unit in the Army. The establishment and maintenance of single Panzer Battalion using a mix of captured Russian tanks, a small number of German tanks and some supplied by the Italians enabled the nacent Finnish Panssari units to also experiment, develop and turn into tactical doctrine their experiences in armoured warfare over the three years of constant fighting. Pohjan pohjat were in some ways a unique volunteer unit in Spain. Where Franco wanted the Italians as a source of weapons, he was not overly enamoured of Mussolini’s attempts to turn Spain into a protégé of the Italians and he many times frustrated the Italian commanders in Spain. He was also unimpressed by the fighting abilities of the Italians units in Spain. Similarly, Franco welcomed Germans arms and aircraft, but was well aware of the Germans intentions in Spain and deeply resented their at times extortionate demands for payment.
Franco himself was also playing the various political groupings within the Nationalist fold – in particular the Falangists and the Carlists. Himself neither a fascist nor a monarchist but rather a Catholic nationalist, Franco had no intention of allowing either movement to gain the ascendancy within Spain, preferring to reserve that role for himself. While not overly enthusiastic about foreigners fighting in Spain, Franco was rather less reserved about Pohjan pohjat. Brought to Spain under the aegis of the Italians, the Finns quickly negotiated their way into an attachment with the Spanish Foreign Legion where they soon established a reputation as skilled and ruthless soldiers, willing and able to take the battle to the enemy whilst eschewing the publicity and the glory that the Italians demanded. In this, the possession of their own tanks, artillery and other specialized units as well as attached air units made them very much a prototype combined arms unit capable of fighting independently and with a great deal of firepower at their disposal. They would also pull the Italian’s bacon from the fire on more than one occasion, first and perhaps most notably in the Battle of Guadalajara (March 8–23, 1937).
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Pohjan Pohjat Cap Badge
Pohjan pohjat and the Battle of Guadalajara
After the collapse of the third offensive on Madrid, Spanish Nationalist General Francisco Franco decided to continue with a fourth offensive aimed at closing the pincer around the capital. The Nationalist forces, although victorious at Jarama River, were exhausted and could not create the necessary momentum to carry the operation through. However, the Italians were optimistic after the capture of Málaga, and it was thought that the Italian forces could score an easy victory owing to the heavy losses sustained by the Republican army during the Battle of the Jarama River. Italian dictator Benito Mussolini endorsed the operation and committed the Italian units to it. The Italian commander, General Mario Roatta, planned for his forces to attack Madrid from the north-west.
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General Mario Roatta, Italian Corpo Truppe Volontarie
After joining the Spanish Nationalist corps “Madrid” on the Jarama River, they would begin the assault on Madrid with the Italians executing the main attack. The Spanish “Soria” Division was present to secure the operation, but played no part in the first five days of fighting. The main attack began in the 25 km-wide pass at Guadalajara-Alcalá de Henares. This region was well suited for an advance, as there were five good roads running through it. Three other roads in the area led to Guadalajara, allowing for the possibility of capturing this town as well.
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Corpo Truppe Volontarie troops at Guadalajara
The Nationalist forces were made up of 35,000 soldiers, 222 artillery guns, 108 L3/33 tankettes and L3/35 tankettes, 32 armoured cars, 3,685 cars, and 60 Fiat CR.32 fighter planes. The Republican presence in the Guadalajara region consisted only of the 12th Division of the Spanish Popular Army under Colonel Lacalle. He had under his command 10,000 soldiers with only 5,900 rifles, 85 machine guns, and 15 cannon. One company of T-26 light tanks had also been sent to the area. No defensive works had been constructed in the Guadalajara region as it was regarded as a peaceful part of the front. The Republican Army staff was convinced that the next Fascist offensive would come from the south. On 8th March 1937 the Italians began their attack, breaking through the Republican line and advancing between 10 and 12 kms before slowing down due to reduced visibility from fog and sleet. Falling back, the Republican commander requested infantry reinforcements and the company of tanks. On March 9th the Italians resumed their assault on Republican positions, advancing a further 15 to 18 kms but were again bogged down by poor performance and low visibility before being halted by battalions of the republican forces XI International Brigade. By the end of the day, further Republican reinforcements began to arrive, with additional units also arriving the next day.
On the morning of March 10th, Italian forces launched heavy artillery and air bombardments and renewed the assault, capturing the towns Miralrio and Brihuega (the latter without resistance). Italian assaults on the positions of the XI and XII International Brigades continued throughout the afternoon, still without success. The following day, the 11th, the Italians began a successful advance on the positions of the XI and XII International Brigades, who were forced to retreat before managing to halt the Italian vanguard some 3 km before the town of Torija. The Spanish Nationalist “Soria” division “Soria” also advanced, capturing the towns of Hita and Torre del Burgo. On March 12 the Republican forces launched a counterattack. Close to one-hundred ‘”Chato” and “Rata fighter planes and two squadrons of Katiuska bombers of the Spanish Republican Air Force were used, while the aircraft of the Italian Legionary Air Force were grounded on water-logged airports. After an air bombardment of the Italian positions, the Republican infantry supported by T-26 and BT-5 light tanks attacked the Italian lines. Several Italian tankettes were lost when General Roatta attempted to change the position of his motorized units in the muddy terrain; many got stuck and were easy target for strafing fighters. The Republican advance reached Trijueque while an Italian counterattack regained no lost terrain.
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Republican T-26 Tanks with infantry counter-attacked the Italians
On March 13 the Republicans counterattacked at Trijueque, Casa del Cabo and Palacio de Ibarra was launched with some success, with the 14th Division crossing the Tajuña River to attack Brihuega. The Italians had been warned that this might happen, but ignored advice from the commander of the Finnish Volunteer Brigade attached to their forces for the operation, Colonel Hans Kalm. Between March 14-17 the Republicans redeployed and concentrated their forces while their air force units continued to attack the Nationalist forces. On March 18 the Republicans resumed the attack, crossing the Tajuña River and nearly managing to surround Brihuega, causing the Italians to retreat in panic. The Republican advance was only slowed by the Italian Littorio Division, arguably the best of the Italian units. An Italian counterattack on Republican positions failed and it was only the Littorio Division that saved the Italians from a complete disaster when they conducted a well-organized retreat. What of course is more or less unknown is that the Italian commander, General Roatta, had requested the attachment of the Finnish Volunteer Brigade to the Littorio Division for the offensive.
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Colonel Hans Kalm, CO of Pohjan Pohjat. His fighting withdrawal at Guadalajara was a classic example of this type of battle
The Finns had arrived late through no fault of their own and had played no part in the earlier fighting. However, as the Italian units withdrew in panic, Colonel Kalm moved Pohjan Pohat forward on the morning of March 19th in a sudden tactical counter-attack that hammered into the advancing Republicans, with troop and tank movements well-coordinated with artillery support and close air support. Outnumbered and constantly in danger of being outflanked, Pohjan pohjat under Colonel Kalm fought the Republicans almost alone, conducting a skilfull fighting withdrawal in the face of vastly superior forces. In the process, Pohjan pohjat also augmented their equipment with abandoned Italian tanks, tankettes and guns. Over March 19th and 20th, Pohjan pohjat would fight almost alone, covering the rapidly retreating Italians and using their 76mm Bofors AA guns to shred attacks by Republican tank units – a use of the Bofors 76mm which would have far-reaching implications as the success of the weapon in an anti-tank role, even without anti-tank ammunition, was digested. Well-coordinated artillery fire was used to break up Republican infantry attacks, as well as to separate attacking infantry from the tanks, while aerial reconnaisance and close air support was used continuously. On the nights of March 19th and 20th, Pohjan pohjat would launch night attacks on the Republicans, keeping them in a constant state of tension. By the 21st, units of the Littorio Division would begin to coalesce around Pohjan pohjat but the Republican counter-offensive would not be halted until the Valdearenas–Ledanca–Hontanares line was reached, and only then because Franco had sent reserve formations to this line of defence. Nevertheless, Pohjan pohjat had played an important part in slowing the Republican advance.
The Battle of Guadalajara was the last major victory of the Republican Army and did much to lift Republican morale. Herbert Matthews claimed in the New York Times that Guadalajara was “to Fascism what the defeat at Bailén had been to Napoleon.” The British press heaped scorn on this “new Caporetto”—alluding to a great Italian defeat in the First World War – while former British Prime Minister David Lloyd George wrote mockingly of the “Italian skedaddle,” infuriating Mussolini.
The Italians lost some 6,000 men and a considerable number of light tanks and planes (Pohjan pohjat by their own count picked up from the Italians 35 artillery pieces, 85 machine guns, and 67 abandoned Italian tanks (from which a 2nd Panssari Battalion was formed), none of which were returned). Above all, Guadalajara was a severe blow to Italian morale and caused a major loss of prestige for Italy’s fascist regime, whose Duce had orchestrated the deployment of the Italian army in the hopes of stunning the world with a show of Italy’s “iron military strength. If Republican confidence soared, there was no corresponding loss of morale in Nationalist circles, which regarded the Italian expeditionary force with some contempt. German officers in Salamanca sneered that even “Jews” and “Communists” (the International Brigades) could beat the Italians.
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Republican forces with a captured CV33 at the battle of Guadalajara, March 1937
Many Spanish Nationalist officers, resenting Mussolini’s henchmen for carrying their own personal war into Spain, were amused to see their boasting and well-equipped allies, so full of bluster before entering battle, brought so low at the hands of what they saw as fellow Spaniards, even enemy Spaniards. Franco’s soldiers began singing popular Italian tunes with the wording changed to mock the defeated Italians. The following chorus, originating with General Moscardó’s Navarrese, humorously takes the Italians to task for their earlier complaints about the lack of motorized transport in the Nationalist ranks:
Guadalajara no es Abisinia (Guadalajara is not Abyssinia
Los españoles, aunque rojos, son valientes, (Spaniards, even if Red, are brave)
Menos camiones y más cojones ((You need) fewer trucks and more balls)
Contrastingly, the Finns came out of the battle with their reputation solidly enhanced. The Spanish were well aware of the part Pohjan pohjat had played in covering the panic-stricken Italian withdrawal and their attached Spanish liason officers had sung the praises of the Finnish volunteers as they launched a series of devastating counter attacks as they conducted their fighting withdrawal. Months later, Franco would personally decorate Colonel Hans Kalm for his command in this battle. The Italians for their part were also somewhat grateful to the Finns for turning what could have been a devastating defeat into “merely” a major embarrassment. The Finns for there part were not all all eager for publicity and with the Nationalist control of the news media being what it was, no reports of the Finnish action found their way into the media. The Littorio Division were given the credit for slowing the Republican advance (in which they did in fact play an increasing part over the last 3 days of the Republican counter-offensive) and this is how history has recorded the battle.
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Pohjan Pohjat CV33 Flamethrower tankettes on the counter-attack – Battle of Guadalajara
For their part, Pohjan pohjat had fought a large battle in circumstances somewhat similar to those they could expect to face in any war against Russia. This was an invaluable experience and the Finns would draw somewhat different conclusions from other observers as to the significance of the battle. For outside observers, largely unaware of Pohjan pohjat’s involvement, the tactical lessons of the battle were ambiguous and prone to misinterpretation. The failure of the Italian offensive demonstrated the vulnerability of massed armoured advances in unfavourable terrain and against a coherent infantry defence. The French General Staff, in harmony with existing beliefs in the French Army, concluded that mechanized troops were not the decisive element of modern warfare and continued to shape their military doctrine accordingly. A notable exception to this view was Charles de Gaulle. The Germans (and the Finns, it must be added) escaped this conclusion by correctly dismissing the Guadalajara failure as the product of Italian incompetence.
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For their part, Pohjan pohjat had fought a large battle in circumstances somewhat similar to those they could expect to face in any war against Russia. Here, a Red soldier attacking a temporary Finnish defensive position…
In truth, both views had some merit: armoured forces were largely ineffective against prepared defences organized in depth; in adverse weather, and without proper air support, the result was disaster (Italian strategists failed to consider these variables). The German assessment correctly noted the deficiencies in Italian soldiery, planning, and organization that contributed to their rout at Guadalajara. In particular, their vehicles and tanks had lacked the technical quality and their leaders the determination necessary to effect the violent breakthroughs characteristic of later German blitzkrieg tactics.
The Finns for their part made their own assessment. A small combined arms unit had successfully conducted a fighting withdrawal while facing numerically far superior forces and inflicting large casualties out of all proportion to their own losses. Continued tactical counter-attacks had succeeded in keeping the enemy off-balance, while artillery and air support had proved invaluable in both slowing the enemy advance and in inflicting large-scale casualties. The pace of the battle from their first to their last engagement had been determined by Pohjan pohjat, who had used a combination of massive firepower, speed of movement and good communication to continually take the initiative away from the enemy and dictate the terms of engagement. And note had been made of the ability of the Bofors 76mm AA guns to rip open Russian-supplied tanks like the proverbial tin-can. By the end of the Battle, morale within Pohjan pohat was at an all-time high. The students were about to become the masters.
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Tanks of Pohjan pohjat’s Panssaripataljoona participate in the Nationalist Victory parade, Madrid, 1939
Next: Returning now to Finnish Armoured development
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
Steel Fist – the Armeijan’s Panssaridivisoona’s
Returning now to Finnish Armoured development
By way of contrasting various Armoured unit strengths, at this time in late 1939 Britain had one active armoured division, with two more only in the process if being formed, together with two independent armoured brigades. France had two mechanized cavalry divisions. Italy had three armoured divisions (Ariete, Centauro & Littorio). Germany had six armoured divisions, three of which were organized over 1938-39 (until October 1938, the Czechs had had a considerable armoured force, but the Czech tanks had been absorbed into the German Army and indeed, would form a major part of German armoured strength in the attacks on Poland, on France and later on the Soviet Union). The United States had one mechanized cavalry brigade. The Soviet Union had as many as twenty one armoured brigades, organized into seven mechanized corps (but no divisions). Of all of these countries, only Germany had developed mobile combined arms warfare to any degree, and even in this the Finnish doctrine and tactics had evolved rather further.
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The image of the Red Army that Stalin liked to portray to the world – a modern, fully mechanized force. These T-38 light amphibious tanks and T-26 light tanks parading in Red Square in 1938 look impressive.
Under Tukhachevsky, the USSR had developed their own armoured warfare doctrine, the theory of “Deep Operations” that had been more fully developed in the Red Army’s 1935′s “Instructions on Deep Battle”. This doctrine and Russian armoured command experience with it had dissipated in the bloody slaughter as the Red Army’s officer corps was purged in the late 1930′s – a slaughter that entirely circumstantial evidence points to having been sparked off by information “leaked” by Esko Riekki, the secretive head of the Finnish Secret Police (Etsivä Keskuspoliisi = EK) to German Intelligence Sources. So this theory goes, Riekki’s plan was to weaken Soviet offensive capabilities by triggering Stalin’s well-documented paranoia and aiming this at the senior leadership of the Red Army. Forged documents suggesting a plot by Tukhachevsky and the other Soviet generals against Stalin were provided by EK to German Intelligence contacts.
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Mikhail Tukhachevsky
These documents were passed on to Nazi Party leaders Heinrich Himmler and Reinhard Heydrich who, unaware of the true source, decided to use them against the Soviet Union, as Riekki had hoped for. The Germans then “leaked” these forgeries to President Edvard Beneš of Czechoslovakia, who in turn passed them on to Soviet Russia through diplomatic channels. However, after the dissolution of the Soviet Union it became clear from Soviet archives that Stalin, Kaganovich, and Yezhov had actually concocted Tukhachevsky’s “treason” themselves. At Yezhov’s order, the NKVD had instructed a known double agent, Nikolai Skoblin, to leak to Esko Riekki’s Etsivä Keskuspoliisi and to German Intelligence concocted information suggesting a plot by Tukhachevsky and the other Soviet generals against Stalin. Seeing an opportunity to strike a blow at the Soviet military, Reikki had immediately acted on the information and undertook to improve on it and the Germans had then further “improved” the “evidence”.
Riekki’s and Heydrich’s forgeries were later leaked to the Soviets via Beneš and other neutral nations. While both the Finnish EK and the German SD believed they had successfully fooled Stalin into executing his best generals, in reality both organisations had merely served as unwitting pawns of the Soviet NKVD. Ironically, the forgeries were never used at Tukhachevsky’s trial. Instead Soviet prosecutors relied on signed “confessions” which had been beaten out of the defendants. In 1956, NKVD defector Alexander Orlov published an article in Life Magazine entitled, “The Sensational Secret Behind the Damnation of Stalin”. This story held that NKVD agents had discovered papers in the Tsarist Okhrana archives which proved Stalin had once been an informer. On the basis of this knowledge, the NKVD agents had planned a coup d’état with Marshal Tukhachevsky and other senior officers in the Red Army According to Orlov, Stalin uncovered the conspiracy and used Yezhov to execute those responsible.
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Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevsky was charged at his trial with taking part in a “right-wing-Trotskyist” conspiracy in which he collaborated with the Germans against the Soviet Union. Tukhachevsky and Kliment Voroshilov, the People’s Commissar for Defense, had nothing but contempt for each other.
Simon Sebag Montefiore, who has conducted extensive research in Soviet archives, states however: “Stalin needed neither Nazi disinformation nor mysterious Okhrana files to persuade him to destroy Tukhachevsky. After all, he had played with the idea as early as 1930, three years before Hitler took power. Furthermore, Stalin and his cronies were convinced that officers were to be distrusted and physically exterminated at the slightest suspicion. He reminisced to Voroshilov, in an undated note, about the officers arrested in the summer of 1918. ‘These officers,’ he said, ‘we wanted to shoot en masse.’ Nothing had changed.”
According to Montefiore, Stalin had always known that the Red Army was the only institution which could have resisted his quest for absolute power. Stalin’s paranoia about internal subversion and belief in his own infallible ability to detect traitors did the rest. Stalin, Yezhov, and Marshall Voroshilov orchestrated the arrest and execution of thousands of Soviet military officers after Tukhachevsky was shot. Ultimately, five out of the eight generals who presided over Tukhachevsky’s “trial” were later arrested and shot by the NKVD. he head of the Soviet Air Force, Yakov Alksnis, once so valued for his insight on air doctrines, went from sitting on the tribunals to standing before them. More than a hundred military chiefs had been called in from the provinces because the ranks of the Military Council itself was thinned out catastrophically. A quarter of its members had been arrested as conspirators. It went on like this for the rest of the year. In September, Voroshilov would report that a total of 37,761 officers and commissars were dismissed from the army, 10,868 were arrested and 7,211 were condemned for crimes against the Soviet Union. Nevertheless, regardless of how it came about, Red Army expertise in the doctrine and in the skilful tactical use of armour had been all but eliminated prior to the Winter War.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... stalin.jpg
EFIMOV, BORIS. EZHOV’S IRON GLOVE. POLITICAL CARTOON, 1937: This propaganda cartoon shows Nikolai Yezhov, leader of the NKVD secret police and Prime executor of the purge under Stalin’s directives, crushing the traitors who are portrayed as snakes.
The Finnish Armour Development program and the concurrent development of armoured / combined arms doctrine was no accident. The landmark 1931 Military Review which set out Finnish Defence plans for the upcoming decade (and which was updated annually) had outlined the need for an ongoing evaluation of many different aspects of modern warfare, not least of which was a thorough examination of the impact of that radical new weapon, the tank, on warfare and on the Army. The immediate result had been the setting up of the Combined Arms Experimental Combat Unit in 1932 and the 1933 Tank Evaluation Program (which would turn into an ongoing examination of armoured warfare in other militaries and on equipment and weapons available).
Into these two years, the Finnish Military compressed a detailed and through analysis of the experiences of World War One together with technical developments that had occurred through the 1920′s. The result was a study entitled “Modern Combined Arms Formations 1933 (Provisional)”. Packed into its 138 pages was a volume of accurate and farsighted analysis – in hindsight, where this study deviated from what was to happen, it was very seldom far wrong. “Tank brigades depend on speed and firepower to overcome the defence. Open and undulating ground is therefore more favorable to them, since it presents few obstacles to tank movement and offers little cover to anti-tank weapons.” On the other hand “Enclosed country is favorable to infantry action. In this type of country the machineguns of the defence are hampered, and opportunities thus occur for infiltration by infantry in co-operation with armoured machine-gun carriers and armoured mortar carriers.“
Anti-tank defence should be the work of a 37mm gun and contact mines (“one Ford Muuli can carry 250 anti-tank mines” and “large numbers of anti-tank mines mixed with anti-personnel mines can be utilized to rapidly form defensive barriers which can then be defended by anti-tank guns, machine-guns and mortars“) and “anti-tank defence may also be given to 76mm anti-aircraft guns which are quite efficient for the purpose” (practical experience in Spain reinforced this particular comment). Mention is also made that infantry battalions should be equipped as a matter of course with the 81mm Mortar and with 37mm anti-tank guns. The small study is full of such gems, including a remarkably clairvoyant analysis of the uses of air power in the ground attack role (with mention made of the Ilamvoimat’s now antiquated WW1-era Junkers J1 ground-attack aircraft and the way in which these were used in combined-arms operations by the German Army in WW1 as well as on RAF ground attack capabilities in WW1). In its analysis and its conclusions, this small and concise study is well ahead of anything else that had been written on the subject other than a similar and rather more obscure study completed for the British War Office in 1931 and authored by Colonel Charles Broad (who, interestingly, together with a British Army Captain, Basil Liddell Hart, are listed among the sources of information for the Finnish Study).
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... fors37.jpg
“Anti-tank defence should be the work of a 37mm gun and contact mines” – Pohjan pohjat volunteers in Spain found the Finnish-manufactured Bofors PstK/36 37mm anti-tank gun to be an effective weapon…
The Finnish Army would go on to take almost all of the recommendations of this study and trial them in their Combined Arms Experiemental Unit and in ongoing exercises. The results of this hothouse of innovation and of trial and error would rapidly percolate outwards into the wider Finnish Army and Air Force over the following years. The Combined Arms Experimental Unit would also provide the “Enemy Force Brigade” against which Reserve Units exercised once every two years. The “Enemy Force Brigade” would, from 1935 on, run some 24 training rotations per year in conjunction with Training Command.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... a-1938.png
Tanks of Pohjan pohjat’s Panssaripataljoona advancing, central Spain, Winter 1938
The Finnish Army would go on to make use of the Spanish Civil War to try out in battle all of their doctrine and much of their equipment. This field testing in battle would lead to further rapid changes and perhaps even more rapid development in training, in doctrine and in equipment, while the rotation of some thousands of Finnish volunteers through the battlefields of Spain would give the Finnish Army and Air Force a cadre of Officers and NCO’s with invaluable combat experience. The edge this gave the Finnish Armed Forces in the Winter War was incalculable, but it was certainly effective, as the outcome has shown us.
Next: An overview of Tanks through the 1920′s and 1930′s - British Tanks of the 1920's and 1930's
By way of contrasting various Armoured unit strengths, at this time in late 1939 Britain had one active armoured division, with two more only in the process if being formed, together with two independent armoured brigades. France had two mechanized cavalry divisions. Italy had three armoured divisions (Ariete, Centauro & Littorio). Germany had six armoured divisions, three of which were organized over 1938-39 (until October 1938, the Czechs had had a considerable armoured force, but the Czech tanks had been absorbed into the German Army and indeed, would form a major part of German armoured strength in the attacks on Poland, on France and later on the Soviet Union). The United States had one mechanized cavalry brigade. The Soviet Union had as many as twenty one armoured brigades, organized into seven mechanized corps (but no divisions). Of all of these countries, only Germany had developed mobile combined arms warfare to any degree, and even in this the Finnish doctrine and tactics had evolved rather further.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... parade.jpg
The image of the Red Army that Stalin liked to portray to the world – a modern, fully mechanized force. These T-38 light amphibious tanks and T-26 light tanks parading in Red Square in 1938 look impressive.
Under Tukhachevsky, the USSR had developed their own armoured warfare doctrine, the theory of “Deep Operations” that had been more fully developed in the Red Army’s 1935′s “Instructions on Deep Battle”. This doctrine and Russian armoured command experience with it had dissipated in the bloody slaughter as the Red Army’s officer corps was purged in the late 1930′s – a slaughter that entirely circumstantial evidence points to having been sparked off by information “leaked” by Esko Riekki, the secretive head of the Finnish Secret Police (Etsivä Keskuspoliisi = EK) to German Intelligence Sources. So this theory goes, Riekki’s plan was to weaken Soviet offensive capabilities by triggering Stalin’s well-documented paranoia and aiming this at the senior leadership of the Red Army. Forged documents suggesting a plot by Tukhachevsky and the other Soviet generals against Stalin were provided by EK to German Intelligence contacts.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... hevsky.jpg
Mikhail Tukhachevsky
These documents were passed on to Nazi Party leaders Heinrich Himmler and Reinhard Heydrich who, unaware of the true source, decided to use them against the Soviet Union, as Riekki had hoped for. The Germans then “leaked” these forgeries to President Edvard Beneš of Czechoslovakia, who in turn passed them on to Soviet Russia through diplomatic channels. However, after the dissolution of the Soviet Union it became clear from Soviet archives that Stalin, Kaganovich, and Yezhov had actually concocted Tukhachevsky’s “treason” themselves. At Yezhov’s order, the NKVD had instructed a known double agent, Nikolai Skoblin, to leak to Esko Riekki’s Etsivä Keskuspoliisi and to German Intelligence concocted information suggesting a plot by Tukhachevsky and the other Soviet generals against Stalin. Seeing an opportunity to strike a blow at the Soviet military, Reikki had immediately acted on the information and undertook to improve on it and the Germans had then further “improved” the “evidence”.
Riekki’s and Heydrich’s forgeries were later leaked to the Soviets via Beneš and other neutral nations. While both the Finnish EK and the German SD believed they had successfully fooled Stalin into executing his best generals, in reality both organisations had merely served as unwitting pawns of the Soviet NKVD. Ironically, the forgeries were never used at Tukhachevsky’s trial. Instead Soviet prosecutors relied on signed “confessions” which had been beaten out of the defendants. In 1956, NKVD defector Alexander Orlov published an article in Life Magazine entitled, “The Sensational Secret Behind the Damnation of Stalin”. This story held that NKVD agents had discovered papers in the Tsarist Okhrana archives which proved Stalin had once been an informer. On the basis of this knowledge, the NKVD agents had planned a coup d’état with Marshal Tukhachevsky and other senior officers in the Red Army According to Orlov, Stalin uncovered the conspiracy and used Yezhov to execute those responsible.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... -trial.jpg
Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevsky was charged at his trial with taking part in a “right-wing-Trotskyist” conspiracy in which he collaborated with the Germans against the Soviet Union. Tukhachevsky and Kliment Voroshilov, the People’s Commissar for Defense, had nothing but contempt for each other.
Simon Sebag Montefiore, who has conducted extensive research in Soviet archives, states however: “Stalin needed neither Nazi disinformation nor mysterious Okhrana files to persuade him to destroy Tukhachevsky. After all, he had played with the idea as early as 1930, three years before Hitler took power. Furthermore, Stalin and his cronies were convinced that officers were to be distrusted and physically exterminated at the slightest suspicion. He reminisced to Voroshilov, in an undated note, about the officers arrested in the summer of 1918. ‘These officers,’ he said, ‘we wanted to shoot en masse.’ Nothing had changed.”
According to Montefiore, Stalin had always known that the Red Army was the only institution which could have resisted his quest for absolute power. Stalin’s paranoia about internal subversion and belief in his own infallible ability to detect traitors did the rest. Stalin, Yezhov, and Marshall Voroshilov orchestrated the arrest and execution of thousands of Soviet military officers after Tukhachevsky was shot. Ultimately, five out of the eight generals who presided over Tukhachevsky’s “trial” were later arrested and shot by the NKVD. he head of the Soviet Air Force, Yakov Alksnis, once so valued for his insight on air doctrines, went from sitting on the tribunals to standing before them. More than a hundred military chiefs had been called in from the provinces because the ranks of the Military Council itself was thinned out catastrophically. A quarter of its members had been arrested as conspirators. It went on like this for the rest of the year. In September, Voroshilov would report that a total of 37,761 officers and commissars were dismissed from the army, 10,868 were arrested and 7,211 were condemned for crimes against the Soviet Union. Nevertheless, regardless of how it came about, Red Army expertise in the doctrine and in the skilful tactical use of armour had been all but eliminated prior to the Winter War.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... stalin.jpg
EFIMOV, BORIS. EZHOV’S IRON GLOVE. POLITICAL CARTOON, 1937: This propaganda cartoon shows Nikolai Yezhov, leader of the NKVD secret police and Prime executor of the purge under Stalin’s directives, crushing the traitors who are portrayed as snakes.
The Finnish Armour Development program and the concurrent development of armoured / combined arms doctrine was no accident. The landmark 1931 Military Review which set out Finnish Defence plans for the upcoming decade (and which was updated annually) had outlined the need for an ongoing evaluation of many different aspects of modern warfare, not least of which was a thorough examination of the impact of that radical new weapon, the tank, on warfare and on the Army. The immediate result had been the setting up of the Combined Arms Experimental Combat Unit in 1932 and the 1933 Tank Evaluation Program (which would turn into an ongoing examination of armoured warfare in other militaries and on equipment and weapons available).
Into these two years, the Finnish Military compressed a detailed and through analysis of the experiences of World War One together with technical developments that had occurred through the 1920′s. The result was a study entitled “Modern Combined Arms Formations 1933 (Provisional)”. Packed into its 138 pages was a volume of accurate and farsighted analysis – in hindsight, where this study deviated from what was to happen, it was very seldom far wrong. “Tank brigades depend on speed and firepower to overcome the defence. Open and undulating ground is therefore more favorable to them, since it presents few obstacles to tank movement and offers little cover to anti-tank weapons.” On the other hand “Enclosed country is favorable to infantry action. In this type of country the machineguns of the defence are hampered, and opportunities thus occur for infiltration by infantry in co-operation with armoured machine-gun carriers and armoured mortar carriers.“
Anti-tank defence should be the work of a 37mm gun and contact mines (“one Ford Muuli can carry 250 anti-tank mines” and “large numbers of anti-tank mines mixed with anti-personnel mines can be utilized to rapidly form defensive barriers which can then be defended by anti-tank guns, machine-guns and mortars“) and “anti-tank defence may also be given to 76mm anti-aircraft guns which are quite efficient for the purpose” (practical experience in Spain reinforced this particular comment). Mention is also made that infantry battalions should be equipped as a matter of course with the 81mm Mortar and with 37mm anti-tank guns. The small study is full of such gems, including a remarkably clairvoyant analysis of the uses of air power in the ground attack role (with mention made of the Ilamvoimat’s now antiquated WW1-era Junkers J1 ground-attack aircraft and the way in which these were used in combined-arms operations by the German Army in WW1 as well as on RAF ground attack capabilities in WW1). In its analysis and its conclusions, this small and concise study is well ahead of anything else that had been written on the subject other than a similar and rather more obscure study completed for the British War Office in 1931 and authored by Colonel Charles Broad (who, interestingly, together with a British Army Captain, Basil Liddell Hart, are listed among the sources of information for the Finnish Study).
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... fors37.jpg
“Anti-tank defence should be the work of a 37mm gun and contact mines” – Pohjan pohjat volunteers in Spain found the Finnish-manufactured Bofors PstK/36 37mm anti-tank gun to be an effective weapon…
The Finnish Army would go on to take almost all of the recommendations of this study and trial them in their Combined Arms Experiemental Unit and in ongoing exercises. The results of this hothouse of innovation and of trial and error would rapidly percolate outwards into the wider Finnish Army and Air Force over the following years. The Combined Arms Experimental Unit would also provide the “Enemy Force Brigade” against which Reserve Units exercised once every two years. The “Enemy Force Brigade” would, from 1935 on, run some 24 training rotations per year in conjunction with Training Command.
Sourced from: http://www.alternativefinland.com/wp-co ... a-1938.png
Tanks of Pohjan pohjat’s Panssaripataljoona advancing, central Spain, Winter 1938
The Finnish Army would go on to make use of the Spanish Civil War to try out in battle all of their doctrine and much of their equipment. This field testing in battle would lead to further rapid changes and perhaps even more rapid development in training, in doctrine and in equipment, while the rotation of some thousands of Finnish volunteers through the battlefields of Spain would give the Finnish Army and Air Force a cadre of Officers and NCO’s with invaluable combat experience. The edge this gave the Finnish Armed Forces in the Winter War was incalculable, but it was certainly effective, as the outcome has shown us.
Next: An overview of Tanks through the 1920′s and 1930′s - British Tanks of the 1920's and 1930's
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army
Re: What If-Finland had been prepared for the Winter War?
The Tanks of 1919
Before we move on further with our study of Finnish Armour, a quick review of the state of the art in tank design as of 1919 is in order. Driven by the exigencies of war, development had been rapid and the tanks of 1919 were, as with aircraft, a far cry from their ancestors of only a couple of years earlier. At the same time, the Tank Corps had begun to develop specialized models to accompany the tanks – a Troop Carrier had been designed and built and with the realization that tanks might successfully breakthrough far enough to move beyond their immediate artillery support, a tracked artillery carrier was developed mounting a 60-pounder gun with its wheels removed. Bridging tanks were also built, as were mine-clearing tanks.
Possibly one of the most important tactical improvements towards the end of WW1 was the mounting of radio sets in tanks to send reports from the forward edge of the battle to headquarters in the rear with unheard of speed. Radio reporting from the front had been almost impossible until then – hardly surprising when a "portable" British radio set required nine men to carry it, together with the batteries needed. It could also only transmit messages using morse code and required extensive aerials. Installed in tanks, they proved on the whole unreliable as they had never been designed to withstand the shocks of riding in an unspring vehicle going cross-country. It would however be ten more years before a reliable voice radio would come into practical use.
The impact of tanks on the battlefield had already, by the end of WW1, begun to bring mobility back and armoured cars once again made their presence felt. Indeed, in the Battle of Amiens in August 1918, it was Austin armoured cars running free on roads after the breakthrough which scored the most resounding success in the exploitation.
British Tanks of 1919
At the end of WW1, the British Tank Corps was in the process of bringing into service large numbers of new machines, the Mk VIII heavy tank, the Mk IX troop carrier, the rather faster Medium B's and C's and some of the rather more radical D's. A brief description of each of these follows.
The Mk VIII Heavy Tank:
The Mk VIII Heavy Tank: The Mark VIII was an Anglo-American tank design intended to overcome the limitations of the earlier British designs and be a collaborative effort to equip France, the UK and the US with a single heavy tank design. The Mark VIII kept many of the general features of the Mark I-V series: it had their typical high track run and no revolving turret but two sponsons, one on each side of the tank, armed with a 6-pounder (57 mm) gun. But it also resembled the Mark VI-project in that it had more rounded and wider tracks and a large superstructure on top directly beneath the front of which the driver was seated. An innovative feature was the departure from the concept of the box tank with its single space into which all accessories, machinery and equipment were crammed. The Mark VIII was compartimentalised with a separate engine room at the back. This vastly improved fighting conditions as a bulkhead protected the crew against the deafening engine noise, noxious fumes and heat.
The Mark VIII Heavy Tank, perhaps the most beautiful of all the rhomboid tanks
There were no machine guns in the sponsons, only the 6-pounders each manned by a gunner and loader. The side machine guns were to the rear of the sponsons mounted in the hull doors. Major Alden had designed the sponsons to be retractable (they could be swung in at the rear by the crew, being pivoted at the front), to reduce the width of the vehicle if enemy obstacles were encountered. Five more machine guns were in the superstructure: two at the front—left and right next to the driver—and one on each of the other sides. As there was no machine gun position covering the back of the tank there was a dead angle vulnerable to infantry attack. To solve this problem a triangular steel deflector plate was attached. The rear superstructure machine gunner could use it to deflect his fire down into that area behind the tank. The tank carried 208 shells and 13,848 machine gun rounds, mostly in a large ammunition locker in the centre which formed a platform on which the commander stood behind the driver observing the battlefield through a cupola with four vision slits.
Great Britain’s Mark VIII Heavy Tank
The twelfth crew member was the mechanic, seated next to the 300 hp Liberty V-12 (or in British tanks Ricardo V-12) petrol engine) cooled by a large horizontal radiator Three armoured fuel tanks at the rear held 200 Imperial gallons (240 US gallons, or 909 litres) of fuel giving a range of 89 km. The transmission used a planetary gearbox giving two speeds in either forward or reverse. Top speed was 5.25 mph (8 km/h). To improve its trench crossing ability to 4.88 m the vehicle had a very elongated shape. The track length was 34 ft 2 in (10.42 m) but even though the hull width was an impressive nominal 3.76 m, the actual length-width ratio of the tracks was very poor as that width included the sponsons. Combined with wide tracks it proved difficult to turn the tank. During testing many tracks twisted and broke in a turn and it was decided to use longer, stronger 13.25 inch (337 mm) links made of hardened cast armour plate, stiffened by webs formed by recesses in the track plate.
Another effect of the narrow hull was that the fighting compartment was also very narrow. This was made worse by the fact that now the gap between the double track frames at each side was very wide; earlier types had only the tracks themselves widened. Nevertheless the tank was supposed to accommodate another twenty infantry men in full gear if necessary. In absolute terms the vehicle was very large: at 10 ft 3 in (3.13 m) tall the Mark VIII was the second largest operational tank in history, after the Char 2C. However its weight was only 38.3 long tons (38.9 t)[3] fitted for battle as the armour plate was thin with a thickness of 16 mm on the front and sides—a slight improvement over the Mark V but very thin by later standards. The roof and bottom of the hull were protected by only 6 mm thick armour plate, leaving the tank very vulnerable to mortar shells and landmines.
In the event, there were major delays in manufacturing the Mk VIII. The US built 100 for $35,000 each. The British built 7 and a further 24 were completed from parts after the war. Five were sent to the training centre at Bovington in Dorset, the others went straight to the scrap dealer. A MK VIII Liberty tank survives at Fort Meade in Maryland. The tank is displayed in the Post Museum and was made in 1920 at the Rock Island Arsenal, Illinois. A second American Mk VII Liberty tank is in the National Armor and Cavalry Museum at Fort Benning, Georgia; her interior has extensive damage from water/rust, plans are in place to restore her. A single British Mk VIII survives at the Bovington Tank Museum in Dorset.
US MkVIII at Ft Meade
The Mk IX Troop Carrier
The Mk IX Troop Carrier: The Mark IX tank was a British armoured fighting vehicle and possibly the world's first specialised armoured personnel carrier (APC). During the first actions with tanks it became clear that often infantry could not keep up with the tanks; not because soldiers were too slow - the early tanks themselves could only move at a walking pace - but because of enemy machine gun fire, the reason that tanks were invented in the first place. Often positions gained at very great cost would immediately be lost again for lack of infantry to consolidate. At first it was thought this problem could be solved by cramming a few infantry soldiers into each tank. It soon transpired however that the atmosphere quality in the tanks was so poor that infantry, if not losing consciousness outright, would at least be incapacitated for about an hour after leaving the tank, merely to recover from the noxious fumes.
The Mark IX, designed to be a infantry supply vehicle rather than a fighting machine in September 1917
In the summer of 1917, Lieutenant G.R. Rackham was ordered to design an armoured vehicle specifically for troop transport. As there was no time for a completely new design, the Mark IX was based on the Mark V, with the hull lengthened to 9.73 m. The 150 hp Ricardo engine was moved to the front, the gearbox to the back and the suspension girders left out entirely. This created an inner space 4 metres long and 2.45 m wide, enough room for thirty (officially even fifty) soldiers or ten tons of cargo. To ensure sufficient stiffness for the chassis, the floor was reinforced by heavy transverse girders. The infantry inside had to contend with the control rods for the gears running along the roof and the drive shaft through the middle. No seats were provided for them.
The crew proper consisted of a driver sitting on the left and a commander sitting to the right of him (the first time for a British tank, showing adaptation to the traffic conditions in France), a mechanic and a machine gunner who could man a gun in a hatch at the back. A second machine gun was fitted in the front. Along each side of the hull were eight loopholes, through which the soldiers could fire their rifles, making the Mark IX also the world's first Infantry Fighting Vehicle. Two of the loopholes were in the two oval side doors on each side. Despite using thinner (10 mm) armour plate, the weight was still 27 tons and the speed only 4 mph (7 km/h). The tank could also carry supplies in a tray on the roof behind the commander's armoured observation turret (being the highest point at 2.64 metres), while towing up to three loaded sledges.
Rackham tried to improve internal conditions by putting a large silencer on the roof together with ventilation fans; there was no separate engine room however. Because of this lack of compartmentalisation it is questionable whether the project reached its original goal of designing a vehicle capable of delivering a squad of infantry in fighting condition.
The Mark IX was large enough to carry 50 men or 10 tons of equipment.
Thirty Four in total were built and were used for some years after the war. One of the first three was used as an armoured ambulance. One other was rebuilt as an amphibious tank by the staff of the test base at Dollis Hill. It already had large bulk; this was improved by fitting drums at the front and sides. Long wooden boards were attached to the track links but at one side of the board only; as they reached the curve of the track they would project out propelling the tank through the water. Pictures were made of a floating tank in Hendon Reservoir at 11 November 1918, the very day of the Armistice. A single Mark IX survives at the Bovington Tank Museum in Dorset.
A single Mark IX survives at the Bovington Tank Museum in Dorset.
The Medium Mark B
The Medium Mark B was a British tank of the First World War developed as a successor to the Mark A "Whippet". The original Mark I tank had been designed in 1915 by Army engineering officer Lieutenant Walter G. Wilson together with the industrialist Sir William Tritton. However, when Tritton decided to build the Medium Mark A "Whippet", Wilson was left out and Tritton's chief engineer, William Rigby, was used instead. The Whippet was a successful design and proved effective but suffered from a lack of power, complex steering and unsprung suspension. Wilson, now a Major, decided he could develop a better tank as replacement: this became the 'Medium Tank Mark B'.
British Medium B Tank
Wilson probably started drawing in July 1917. Major Philip Johnson of the Central Tank Workshops, was impressed when he was shown a wooden mock-up during a visit to Britain in late 1917. The prototype was built by Tritton's firm, the Metropolitan Carriage and Waggon Company, and was finished in September 1918. The design by Wilson had elements of both the Mark I and the Whippet: the similar but smaller tracked rhomboid chassis of the former and the fixed turret of the latter. A novel feature was a separate compartment at the rear housing the 100 hp (75 kW) engine and behind it the epicyclic transmission. Two fuel tanks at the back held 85 imperial gallons (386 L) of petrol. Other innovations were the ability to lay a smoke screen and the use of sloped armour at the front of the hull. Armament consisted of a maximum of five machine guns in the superstructure and two in the side doors. These hull doors looked a bit like miniature sponsons. The machine guns were removable and in practice fewer guns would have been carried, the machine-gunner moving his gun when switching position; most sources give an estimate of four.
The Medium Mark B captured by the Red Army
An initial production run of 450 Medium B's was ordered even before the prototype was finished and this number was later increased to 700, to be manufactured at North British Locomotive in Glasgow, at the Metropolitan Ordnance Works in Coventry and by the Patent Shaft and Axletree Company. Almost immediately after having been taken into use, the type fell from grace for two reasons. Firstly the engine compartment couldn't easily be accessed from the fighting compartment. Repair under fire would therefore have been very dangerous. Secondly, Tritton had constructed a rival type: the Medium Mark C "Hornet". The "C" had superior speed and trench crossing abilities. The end of the war led to cancellation of all orders after 102 had been produced from the first order for 450. Of these, only 45 were taken into service by the British Army, the remaining 57 probably went straight to the scrapyard.
After the war, the type was quickly phased out in favour of the Mark C. Two Medium B's were used by the North Russian Tank Detachment. Both were lost and the Red Army used at least one until the Thirties. The last British unit to have the Mark B in service was the 17th (Armoured Car) Battalion during the Anglo-Irish War.
British Medium Mk B Tank. The machine guns are missing from their mounts in the superstructure and in the projecting doors on the sides
Medium Mark C "Hornet"
As soon as he became aware of Wilson's intentions to design the Medium Mark C, Tritton ordered his chief designer, William Rigby, to design a rival type which became known as the Medium Mark C. The drawings were approved by the British Army on 19 April 1918. The prototype was finished in August, a few weeks before construction of the Medium B prototype also (also at Tritton's factory). An initial orider for 200 was soon increased to 600, all to be produced by William Foster & Co Ltd at Lincoln with Armlet & Wortley as subcontractor. The colloquial name of the tank was to be "Hornet", but it seems this was never used.
Superficially, the Medium C looked a lot like its rival, the Medium B. It had the same general rhomboid shape of the Mark I and later heavy tanks combined with a fixed Casemate, well forward, fitted with ball-mounts for five machine guns. However, the Medium Mark C was a much longer vehicle than the B. It too had a separate engine compartment at the back like the Medium B, but here it was large enough to house a normal 6-cylinder Ricardo engine behind a standard epicyclic transmission. Also, the engine compartment was easily accessible from the fighting compartment. The larger engine meant the tank had a better speed (about 8 mph (13 km/h). The greater length gave it a superior trench crossing ability. A fuel tank holding 150 imp gal (680 l) of petrol allowed for a range of 140 mi (230 km). Mobility was, overall, much better than that of the Medium B. Rigby also improved the design's ergonomics. The commander had a special revolving lookout turret and even a small map table. There were eleven vision slits. Special stowage boxes were fitted for the personal gear of the four-man crew. Speaking-tubes were used to improve communication and the driver even had an odometer.
British Medium C Hornets training
The Tank Corps hoped to receive no less than 6,000 Medium C's in 1919, a third of which were to be a "Male" version with a long six-pounder gun in the front of the superstructure. Though drawings were prepared, nothing would come of this. When the war ended, all orders were cancelled with only 36 Medium C's nearly finished. These were completed together with fourteen others built from preproduced parts for a total production run of fifty. General J.F.C. Fuller considered switching the budget for the development of the Medium D to complete additional Medium C's so as to fully equip all peace time tank battalions with this better tank, but decided against it. Only the 2nd Tank Battalion would have the Medium C tank. As the most modern of the Tank Corps tanks, it was carefully kept from harm: no Medium C's were sent either with the Expeditionary Forces fighting against the Bolsheviks in Russia or to Ireland for use in the Anglo-Irish War. However, the only tanks thated participated in the 1919 victory parade were four Medium C's.
British Medium Mark C Hornet Tank
Closeup of a Medium C. Note the semaphore flags for signaling on the top of the cupola of the lead tank.
The only "action" the Medium C tanks ever saw was putting down labour unrest in Glasgow, following the rioting known as the Battle of George Square, in 1919. From 1925 on, the Medium C was gradually replaced by the Medium Mark I and Medium Mark II. Proposals to use Medium C's as recovery vehicles were rejected. A single vehicle was used to test a new type of transmission. In 1940, the last remaining Medium C was melted down.
Medium Mark Cs deployed in Glasgow in 1919, following the Battle of George Square
Medium Mark D
Perhaps the tank that offered the best prospects at the end of WW1 was the British Medium Mark D, designed by Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson, an engineer whose fascination with mechanical problems is exemplified by the "snake track" he designed. Johnson's work put Britain far ahead in the field of tank technology, where steering and suspension were the least developed aspects of tank design.The Medium D was a versatile design with a smooth sprung ride far in advance of any other tracked fighting vehicle at the same time. Powered by a single 240hp engine with a top speed of 23 mph, it was also capable of over double the speed of concurrent tank designs –lightening fast compared to its contemporaries.
Front View – Medium D Mockup
Design work started in October 1918 and only a mock-up was finished by the time WW1 ended. There is some debate about the numbers of prototypes built - some say four prototypes; "A New Excalibur" says five tanks were built; Wikipedia says two production tanks were delivered in 1921. These may well be a combination of the Medium D and subsequent Light Infantry, Tropical and Supply Tanks for which prototypes were designed and built in 1921 based on the Medium D design. One sources states that the Light Infantry Tank version was cpable of 30mph. The prototypes used various engines, including the Siddeley Puma engine (claimed to be 300hp in the medium D version, up from 240hp before). Photos of the Medium however clearly show two silencers on the engine deck, one each side - not very likely on a straight six, and surely indicative of the 360hp Rolls-Royce Eagle V12 aewro engine mentioned in other sources. The quoted weights are also rather light, ranging from 14 to 15 tons instead of twenty.
British Medium D Mockup
Unlike the Medium A, which had a fixed casemate, the Mark D looked at the new French tanks for inspiration and mounted an octagonal revolving turret armed with a 57mm Maxim-Nordenfeld quick fire gun and a Vickers .303 machinegun on top of the hull, making it ideal to engage other armour. The Medium D carried a crew of 4.
Medium Mk D showing the innovative “snake” track.
Before we move on further with our study of Finnish Armour, a quick review of the state of the art in tank design as of 1919 is in order. Driven by the exigencies of war, development had been rapid and the tanks of 1919 were, as with aircraft, a far cry from their ancestors of only a couple of years earlier. At the same time, the Tank Corps had begun to develop specialized models to accompany the tanks – a Troop Carrier had been designed and built and with the realization that tanks might successfully breakthrough far enough to move beyond their immediate artillery support, a tracked artillery carrier was developed mounting a 60-pounder gun with its wheels removed. Bridging tanks were also built, as were mine-clearing tanks.
Possibly one of the most important tactical improvements towards the end of WW1 was the mounting of radio sets in tanks to send reports from the forward edge of the battle to headquarters in the rear with unheard of speed. Radio reporting from the front had been almost impossible until then – hardly surprising when a "portable" British radio set required nine men to carry it, together with the batteries needed. It could also only transmit messages using morse code and required extensive aerials. Installed in tanks, they proved on the whole unreliable as they had never been designed to withstand the shocks of riding in an unspring vehicle going cross-country. It would however be ten more years before a reliable voice radio would come into practical use.
The impact of tanks on the battlefield had already, by the end of WW1, begun to bring mobility back and armoured cars once again made their presence felt. Indeed, in the Battle of Amiens in August 1918, it was Austin armoured cars running free on roads after the breakthrough which scored the most resounding success in the exploitation.
British Tanks of 1919
At the end of WW1, the British Tank Corps was in the process of bringing into service large numbers of new machines, the Mk VIII heavy tank, the Mk IX troop carrier, the rather faster Medium B's and C's and some of the rather more radical D's. A brief description of each of these follows.
The Mk VIII Heavy Tank:
The Mk VIII Heavy Tank: The Mark VIII was an Anglo-American tank design intended to overcome the limitations of the earlier British designs and be a collaborative effort to equip France, the UK and the US with a single heavy tank design. The Mark VIII kept many of the general features of the Mark I-V series: it had their typical high track run and no revolving turret but two sponsons, one on each side of the tank, armed with a 6-pounder (57 mm) gun. But it also resembled the Mark VI-project in that it had more rounded and wider tracks and a large superstructure on top directly beneath the front of which the driver was seated. An innovative feature was the departure from the concept of the box tank with its single space into which all accessories, machinery and equipment were crammed. The Mark VIII was compartimentalised with a separate engine room at the back. This vastly improved fighting conditions as a bulkhead protected the crew against the deafening engine noise, noxious fumes and heat.
The Mark VIII Heavy Tank, perhaps the most beautiful of all the rhomboid tanks
There were no machine guns in the sponsons, only the 6-pounders each manned by a gunner and loader. The side machine guns were to the rear of the sponsons mounted in the hull doors. Major Alden had designed the sponsons to be retractable (they could be swung in at the rear by the crew, being pivoted at the front), to reduce the width of the vehicle if enemy obstacles were encountered. Five more machine guns were in the superstructure: two at the front—left and right next to the driver—and one on each of the other sides. As there was no machine gun position covering the back of the tank there was a dead angle vulnerable to infantry attack. To solve this problem a triangular steel deflector plate was attached. The rear superstructure machine gunner could use it to deflect his fire down into that area behind the tank. The tank carried 208 shells and 13,848 machine gun rounds, mostly in a large ammunition locker in the centre which formed a platform on which the commander stood behind the driver observing the battlefield through a cupola with four vision slits.
Great Britain’s Mark VIII Heavy Tank
The twelfth crew member was the mechanic, seated next to the 300 hp Liberty V-12 (or in British tanks Ricardo V-12) petrol engine) cooled by a large horizontal radiator Three armoured fuel tanks at the rear held 200 Imperial gallons (240 US gallons, or 909 litres) of fuel giving a range of 89 km. The transmission used a planetary gearbox giving two speeds in either forward or reverse. Top speed was 5.25 mph (8 km/h). To improve its trench crossing ability to 4.88 m the vehicle had a very elongated shape. The track length was 34 ft 2 in (10.42 m) but even though the hull width was an impressive nominal 3.76 m, the actual length-width ratio of the tracks was very poor as that width included the sponsons. Combined with wide tracks it proved difficult to turn the tank. During testing many tracks twisted and broke in a turn and it was decided to use longer, stronger 13.25 inch (337 mm) links made of hardened cast armour plate, stiffened by webs formed by recesses in the track plate.
Another effect of the narrow hull was that the fighting compartment was also very narrow. This was made worse by the fact that now the gap between the double track frames at each side was very wide; earlier types had only the tracks themselves widened. Nevertheless the tank was supposed to accommodate another twenty infantry men in full gear if necessary. In absolute terms the vehicle was very large: at 10 ft 3 in (3.13 m) tall the Mark VIII was the second largest operational tank in history, after the Char 2C. However its weight was only 38.3 long tons (38.9 t)[3] fitted for battle as the armour plate was thin with a thickness of 16 mm on the front and sides—a slight improvement over the Mark V but very thin by later standards. The roof and bottom of the hull were protected by only 6 mm thick armour plate, leaving the tank very vulnerable to mortar shells and landmines.
In the event, there were major delays in manufacturing the Mk VIII. The US built 100 for $35,000 each. The British built 7 and a further 24 were completed from parts after the war. Five were sent to the training centre at Bovington in Dorset, the others went straight to the scrap dealer. A MK VIII Liberty tank survives at Fort Meade in Maryland. The tank is displayed in the Post Museum and was made in 1920 at the Rock Island Arsenal, Illinois. A second American Mk VII Liberty tank is in the National Armor and Cavalry Museum at Fort Benning, Georgia; her interior has extensive damage from water/rust, plans are in place to restore her. A single British Mk VIII survives at the Bovington Tank Museum in Dorset.
US MkVIII at Ft Meade
The Mk IX Troop Carrier
The Mk IX Troop Carrier: The Mark IX tank was a British armoured fighting vehicle and possibly the world's first specialised armoured personnel carrier (APC). During the first actions with tanks it became clear that often infantry could not keep up with the tanks; not because soldiers were too slow - the early tanks themselves could only move at a walking pace - but because of enemy machine gun fire, the reason that tanks were invented in the first place. Often positions gained at very great cost would immediately be lost again for lack of infantry to consolidate. At first it was thought this problem could be solved by cramming a few infantry soldiers into each tank. It soon transpired however that the atmosphere quality in the tanks was so poor that infantry, if not losing consciousness outright, would at least be incapacitated for about an hour after leaving the tank, merely to recover from the noxious fumes.
The Mark IX, designed to be a infantry supply vehicle rather than a fighting machine in September 1917
In the summer of 1917, Lieutenant G.R. Rackham was ordered to design an armoured vehicle specifically for troop transport. As there was no time for a completely new design, the Mark IX was based on the Mark V, with the hull lengthened to 9.73 m. The 150 hp Ricardo engine was moved to the front, the gearbox to the back and the suspension girders left out entirely. This created an inner space 4 metres long and 2.45 m wide, enough room for thirty (officially even fifty) soldiers or ten tons of cargo. To ensure sufficient stiffness for the chassis, the floor was reinforced by heavy transverse girders. The infantry inside had to contend with the control rods for the gears running along the roof and the drive shaft through the middle. No seats were provided for them.
The crew proper consisted of a driver sitting on the left and a commander sitting to the right of him (the first time for a British tank, showing adaptation to the traffic conditions in France), a mechanic and a machine gunner who could man a gun in a hatch at the back. A second machine gun was fitted in the front. Along each side of the hull were eight loopholes, through which the soldiers could fire their rifles, making the Mark IX also the world's first Infantry Fighting Vehicle. Two of the loopholes were in the two oval side doors on each side. Despite using thinner (10 mm) armour plate, the weight was still 27 tons and the speed only 4 mph (7 km/h). The tank could also carry supplies in a tray on the roof behind the commander's armoured observation turret (being the highest point at 2.64 metres), while towing up to three loaded sledges.
Rackham tried to improve internal conditions by putting a large silencer on the roof together with ventilation fans; there was no separate engine room however. Because of this lack of compartmentalisation it is questionable whether the project reached its original goal of designing a vehicle capable of delivering a squad of infantry in fighting condition.
The Mark IX was large enough to carry 50 men or 10 tons of equipment.
Thirty Four in total were built and were used for some years after the war. One of the first three was used as an armoured ambulance. One other was rebuilt as an amphibious tank by the staff of the test base at Dollis Hill. It already had large bulk; this was improved by fitting drums at the front and sides. Long wooden boards were attached to the track links but at one side of the board only; as they reached the curve of the track they would project out propelling the tank through the water. Pictures were made of a floating tank in Hendon Reservoir at 11 November 1918, the very day of the Armistice. A single Mark IX survives at the Bovington Tank Museum in Dorset.
A single Mark IX survives at the Bovington Tank Museum in Dorset.
The Medium Mark B
The Medium Mark B was a British tank of the First World War developed as a successor to the Mark A "Whippet". The original Mark I tank had been designed in 1915 by Army engineering officer Lieutenant Walter G. Wilson together with the industrialist Sir William Tritton. However, when Tritton decided to build the Medium Mark A "Whippet", Wilson was left out and Tritton's chief engineer, William Rigby, was used instead. The Whippet was a successful design and proved effective but suffered from a lack of power, complex steering and unsprung suspension. Wilson, now a Major, decided he could develop a better tank as replacement: this became the 'Medium Tank Mark B'.
British Medium B Tank
Wilson probably started drawing in July 1917. Major Philip Johnson of the Central Tank Workshops, was impressed when he was shown a wooden mock-up during a visit to Britain in late 1917. The prototype was built by Tritton's firm, the Metropolitan Carriage and Waggon Company, and was finished in September 1918. The design by Wilson had elements of both the Mark I and the Whippet: the similar but smaller tracked rhomboid chassis of the former and the fixed turret of the latter. A novel feature was a separate compartment at the rear housing the 100 hp (75 kW) engine and behind it the epicyclic transmission. Two fuel tanks at the back held 85 imperial gallons (386 L) of petrol. Other innovations were the ability to lay a smoke screen and the use of sloped armour at the front of the hull. Armament consisted of a maximum of five machine guns in the superstructure and two in the side doors. These hull doors looked a bit like miniature sponsons. The machine guns were removable and in practice fewer guns would have been carried, the machine-gunner moving his gun when switching position; most sources give an estimate of four.
The Medium Mark B captured by the Red Army
An initial production run of 450 Medium B's was ordered even before the prototype was finished and this number was later increased to 700, to be manufactured at North British Locomotive in Glasgow, at the Metropolitan Ordnance Works in Coventry and by the Patent Shaft and Axletree Company. Almost immediately after having been taken into use, the type fell from grace for two reasons. Firstly the engine compartment couldn't easily be accessed from the fighting compartment. Repair under fire would therefore have been very dangerous. Secondly, Tritton had constructed a rival type: the Medium Mark C "Hornet". The "C" had superior speed and trench crossing abilities. The end of the war led to cancellation of all orders after 102 had been produced from the first order for 450. Of these, only 45 were taken into service by the British Army, the remaining 57 probably went straight to the scrapyard.
After the war, the type was quickly phased out in favour of the Mark C. Two Medium B's were used by the North Russian Tank Detachment. Both were lost and the Red Army used at least one until the Thirties. The last British unit to have the Mark B in service was the 17th (Armoured Car) Battalion during the Anglo-Irish War.
British Medium Mk B Tank. The machine guns are missing from their mounts in the superstructure and in the projecting doors on the sides
Medium Mark C "Hornet"
As soon as he became aware of Wilson's intentions to design the Medium Mark C, Tritton ordered his chief designer, William Rigby, to design a rival type which became known as the Medium Mark C. The drawings were approved by the British Army on 19 April 1918. The prototype was finished in August, a few weeks before construction of the Medium B prototype also (also at Tritton's factory). An initial orider for 200 was soon increased to 600, all to be produced by William Foster & Co Ltd at Lincoln with Armlet & Wortley as subcontractor. The colloquial name of the tank was to be "Hornet", but it seems this was never used.
Superficially, the Medium C looked a lot like its rival, the Medium B. It had the same general rhomboid shape of the Mark I and later heavy tanks combined with a fixed Casemate, well forward, fitted with ball-mounts for five machine guns. However, the Medium Mark C was a much longer vehicle than the B. It too had a separate engine compartment at the back like the Medium B, but here it was large enough to house a normal 6-cylinder Ricardo engine behind a standard epicyclic transmission. Also, the engine compartment was easily accessible from the fighting compartment. The larger engine meant the tank had a better speed (about 8 mph (13 km/h). The greater length gave it a superior trench crossing ability. A fuel tank holding 150 imp gal (680 l) of petrol allowed for a range of 140 mi (230 km). Mobility was, overall, much better than that of the Medium B. Rigby also improved the design's ergonomics. The commander had a special revolving lookout turret and even a small map table. There were eleven vision slits. Special stowage boxes were fitted for the personal gear of the four-man crew. Speaking-tubes were used to improve communication and the driver even had an odometer.
British Medium C Hornets training
The Tank Corps hoped to receive no less than 6,000 Medium C's in 1919, a third of which were to be a "Male" version with a long six-pounder gun in the front of the superstructure. Though drawings were prepared, nothing would come of this. When the war ended, all orders were cancelled with only 36 Medium C's nearly finished. These were completed together with fourteen others built from preproduced parts for a total production run of fifty. General J.F.C. Fuller considered switching the budget for the development of the Medium D to complete additional Medium C's so as to fully equip all peace time tank battalions with this better tank, but decided against it. Only the 2nd Tank Battalion would have the Medium C tank. As the most modern of the Tank Corps tanks, it was carefully kept from harm: no Medium C's were sent either with the Expeditionary Forces fighting against the Bolsheviks in Russia or to Ireland for use in the Anglo-Irish War. However, the only tanks thated participated in the 1919 victory parade were four Medium C's.
British Medium Mark C Hornet Tank
Closeup of a Medium C. Note the semaphore flags for signaling on the top of the cupola of the lead tank.
The only "action" the Medium C tanks ever saw was putting down labour unrest in Glasgow, following the rioting known as the Battle of George Square, in 1919. From 1925 on, the Medium C was gradually replaced by the Medium Mark I and Medium Mark II. Proposals to use Medium C's as recovery vehicles were rejected. A single vehicle was used to test a new type of transmission. In 1940, the last remaining Medium C was melted down.
Medium Mark Cs deployed in Glasgow in 1919, following the Battle of George Square
Medium Mark D
Perhaps the tank that offered the best prospects at the end of WW1 was the British Medium Mark D, designed by Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson, an engineer whose fascination with mechanical problems is exemplified by the "snake track" he designed. Johnson's work put Britain far ahead in the field of tank technology, where steering and suspension were the least developed aspects of tank design.The Medium D was a versatile design with a smooth sprung ride far in advance of any other tracked fighting vehicle at the same time. Powered by a single 240hp engine with a top speed of 23 mph, it was also capable of over double the speed of concurrent tank designs –lightening fast compared to its contemporaries.
Front View – Medium D Mockup
Design work started in October 1918 and only a mock-up was finished by the time WW1 ended. There is some debate about the numbers of prototypes built - some say four prototypes; "A New Excalibur" says five tanks were built; Wikipedia says two production tanks were delivered in 1921. These may well be a combination of the Medium D and subsequent Light Infantry, Tropical and Supply Tanks for which prototypes were designed and built in 1921 based on the Medium D design. One sources states that the Light Infantry Tank version was cpable of 30mph. The prototypes used various engines, including the Siddeley Puma engine (claimed to be 300hp in the medium D version, up from 240hp before). Photos of the Medium however clearly show two silencers on the engine deck, one each side - not very likely on a straight six, and surely indicative of the 360hp Rolls-Royce Eagle V12 aewro engine mentioned in other sources. The quoted weights are also rather light, ranging from 14 to 15 tons instead of twenty.
British Medium D Mockup
Unlike the Medium A, which had a fixed casemate, the Mark D looked at the new French tanks for inspiration and mounted an octagonal revolving turret armed with a 57mm Maxim-Nordenfeld quick fire gun and a Vickers .303 machinegun on top of the hull, making it ideal to engage other armour. The Medium D carried a crew of 4.
Medium Mk D showing the innovative “snake” track.
ex Ngāti Tumatauenga ("Tribe of the Maori War God") aka the New Zealand Army