One: Mad Run

Black Sea, Red Desert

Sep 16, 2022

Poti, Georgian SSR

Vitse-Admiral Filipp Sergeyevich Oktyabrsky, VMF

Commander, Black Sea Fleet

0701 Local Time, 31 JULY 1942

The sun was somewhere high in the sky, hidden by murky, miserable weather. Every seaworthy vessel from Novorossiysk to Batumi had assembled in Poti Harbor, the haven of the Soviet Black Sea Fleet, or more accurately what had once been the haven of the Black Sea Fleet. Since the fall of Rostov the week prior—and with the reality of Marshal Budyonny’s disastrous counterattack sinking in—the Black Sea Fleet was faced with the stark realization that nothing was standing between them and the treads of the fascists who had cut through five Soviet Fronts in twenty-eight days.

Vitse-Admiral Filipp Sergeyevich Oktyabrsky had made his choice. He had spent the last few weeks—since the Nazi offensive against Sevastopol had suspiciously petered out—ferrying troops out of the beleaguered fortress-city. Biting his lip with a pale grimace on his face, he looked down at the pocket watch clasped in his right hand and the transmitter held in his left. The time had come. He, and his sailors, would embark on the most daring naval evacuation ever attempted, but in reality, it was nothing more than a desperate gamble.

It was a simple order. Oktyabrsky raised his hand into the air and dropped swiftly in one movement. He pocketed the watch, his father’s watch, as he depressed the transmitter. Simultaneously from the speakers and by the hand of his radioman over the wireless, a message was transmitted: “ALL VESSELS PROCEED! MAKE ALL HASTE! LET NO FORCE STOP YOU! GLORY TO THE SOVIET UNION!”

Oktyabrsky felt Parizhskaya Kommuna—the Tsarist-built Gangut-class dreadnought and the flagship of the Black Sea Fleet—lurch forward; a pall of black smoke poured from her funnels. She led this motley procession out of the harbor. Half a dozen cruisers, three large destroyer leaders, sixteen destroyers, fifteen smaller guardships and minesweepers, forty-four submarines, eighty-four torpedo boats, eighteen merchantmen, and forty-nine trawlers, yachts, and other civilian craft.

As they got underway properly, Oktyabrsky produced his father’s watch. He anxiously tapped his foot on the floor of the old battleship’s bridge. Their first destination was Sevastopol. It would take a little more than half a day—fourteen or fifteen hours—to reach the besieged port. They would need the cover of darkness to load the ships with every person they could carry safely, and refuel what they could. The admiral felt his stomach curl. He walked out onto the small wing behind the bridge and braced his hands against the rails. He was a loyal communist. A good sailor. A dedicated man. He hoped his actions would not be seen as cowardice or betrayal. He was not a bloody general; he would see his men live.

Once they’d embarked all that they could carry, they would not return to Georgia.

Thousands of starved, battered, and wounded soldiers could not stop the fascists that had already destroyed the Soviet forces along the Don, thrice. They would inevitably all become prisoners if they returned to Poti. So, they would sail to a place no one could anticipate. They would sail to a place that the nazi would not think even possible. Oktyabrsky would save the sailors of the Black Sea Fleet and the soldiers of the Separate Coastal Army. Once they left Sevastopol harbor, they would not stop until they were sunk or arrived at their destination.

He walked back onto the bridge; he put on his best smile and slapped the back of one of the young ensigns in the compartment. “It is a beautiful day, Vasily”

Confused, the young man looked back at him, “But comrade Admiral, this is awful weather.”

“Precisely, Vasily, it is beautiful. Fowl enough to stop fascist gnats from finding us… and sinking us.”

“Ah yes, comrade Admiral, I understand. Let us hope this beautiful weather holds.” Oktyabrsky smiled to hide his worry.

The weather would hold.

Parizhskaya Kommuna, Black Sea Fleet

Sevastapol, Ukrainian SSR

Vitse-Admiral Filipp Sergeyevich Oktyabrsky, VMF

Commander, Black Sea Fleet

2002 Local Time, 31 JULY 1942

The Black Sea Fleet had been anchored off Sevastopol for little more than an hour and a half, and the titanic work of bringing tens of thousands of people on board the mixed retinue of ships was already well underway.

Oktyabrsky had disembarked immediately and proceeded to the command post of General-Major Ivan Yefimovich Petrov, commander of the Separate Coastal Army. The meeting was brief and cold. They both knew what they had to do.

The vice admiral stared at the loading below him. Again, he held his father’s watch in hand. Another choice had been made. General-Major Pytor Novikov’s reinforced 109th Rifle Division would stay behind and hold the inner perimeter. Eight thousand men would stand and fight to the death.

A little after four in the morning, their task had been completed without incident. They had completed loading their vessels with as many people as possible. The run could begin. Leading the pack, the Parizhskaya Kommuna began to sail south at twenty-three and a half knots. A great column of humanity streamed behind it under black clouds of funnel smoke.

The Black Sea Fleet would leave with 87,743 passengers. The ships of the Black Sea Fleet were swollen with the hell-tempered souls of Crimea’s fortress-city. Parizhskaya Kommuna was overflowing, her deck covered by men in stretchers held onboard by their unwounded comrades. Within the skin of the ship, nearly every passageway was clogged with masses of humans. The soldier, the sailor, and the farmer were cloistered in a ship of war transformed into an ark. On top of her crew of 1,148, she was filled with an additional 10,577 passengers—a total of 11,724 souls onboard. A sense of determination fell upon the crew like an oncoming breeze before a terrible and mighty storm; they would see these people saved, or they would all die together.

As Crimea faded from view and the sun began to rise over the horizon in the east. The vice admiral was paralyzed by what he saw cutting through thinning clouds. Aircraft. Nazi aircraft. A quartet of fighters, Me-109s. The yellow nose of one was unmistakable against the morning grey sky. Oktyabrsky’s stomach curled. A vision cut through Oktyabrsky mind; the Black Sea run red with blood.

Provisional Airfield No. 23

12 mi northwest of Mauripol, Ukrainian SSR

Generaloberst Wolfram Freiherr von Richthofen, OKL

Commander, Fliegerkorps VIII

0519 Local Time, 1 AUG 1942

Generaloberst Wolfram Freiherr von Richthofen had been woken from his sleep about an hour early, much to his annoyance. The annoyance faded once the boy-faced runner finally got to the reason why the general had been awoken. Then, a smile crossed his face like a burning cross.

Impeccably dressed and beaming, mostly thanks to his immediate inhalation of fresh coffee and some Fliegerschokolade, the generaloberst arrived at his command tent. Despite having his command directed to help the ongoing offensive against the Caucasus, Richthofen could not pass at the chance to strike at the Black Sea Fleet.

It was obvious what they were doing.

They had evacuated some of their forces from Sevastopol. They were heading for Poti. They had risked such a daring run to grab ahold of forces to be used in the defense of the Caucuses. A desperate gambit of using spent men to stop the inevitable.

It was brave; it was also futile.

The general himself had plotted their course and, with the consultation of his staff, had figured when the largest portion of his tactical aircraft would be available, it would take six or so hours, but they would destroy the Black Sea Fleet before they could disembark their reinforcements at Poti.

A competent and ruthless plan. One that would surely destroy the weaklings in their pathetic little boats. One that would find nothing but empty water.

Parizhskaya Kommuna, Black Sea Fleet

Bosporus, Istanbul, Republic of Turkey

Vitse-Admiral Filipp Sergeyevich Oktyabrsky, VMF

Commander, Black Sea Fleet

1403 Local Time, 1 AUG 1942

Oktyabrsky gave the order. A white flag was run up the mast. The Black Sea Fleet was not out of danger. He was taking a fantastic risk. A gross and absolute violation of the Montreux Convention, which governed the transit of the Bosporus Straits. The Turks could open fire on them. There was a real chance of his actions starting a war.

Damn the risk. I will save these people. We will not be made prisoners.

Oktyabrsky ordered a single message to be sent on repeat from the flagship:

THIS IS THE SOVIET VESSEL PARIZHSKAYA KOMMUNA AHEAD OF THE BLACK SEA FLEET OF THE SOVIET UNION. WE ARE TRANSITING THE STRAITS OF BOSPORUS IN THE NAME OF PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP. WE ARE CARRYING WOUNDED, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN. WE SEEK NO WAR. WE BRING NO WAR. DO NOT FIRE. OUR COMMUNICATIONS ARE DAMAGED AND WE CANNOT RECEIVE ANY REPLY. WE CANNOT STOP. WE WILL NOT STOP. CLEAR THE STRAITS.

The first transmission began as they were about ten miles off the Turkish coast.

Immediately, the Turkish Navy sent a reply demanding they stop, which Oktyabrsky ignored. They would give no sign that they could receive any transmission.

It is easier this way.

The people of Istanbul were treated to a dazzlingly confusing and frightfully odd sight. Over one hundred Soviet vessels sailed through the strait in one continuous stream.

Parizhskaya Kommuna itself resembled more a chariot from hell than a warship. Her two large funnels belching a thick pall of tar-black smoke that choked the afternoon air, hauling ahead at a speed of twenty-five and quarter knots—well over her test speed. Sparks flung themselves from the funnels and out into the air, an unplanned—unwanted—pyrotechnic display.

Thronging crowds of Istanbulites began to clog the embankments and quays of the city to catch a glimpse of this peculiar parade. The passengers on the ships of the fleet cheered and waved, as amazed as the crowds of the city staring down at them.

The messages from the Turkish Navy picked up. They came nearly every minute, almost faster than they could be translated.

STOP. PLEASE. STOP.
YOU MUST HALT. PLEASE. YOU MUST HALT.
YOU ARE VIOLATING INTERNATIONAL LAW.
YOU MUST HALT YOUR VESSELS. THE STRAITS ARE NOT CLEAR.

Eventually, the messages petered out once more. The silence worried Oktyabrsky as he stood, looming over the signalman in the radio room.

Silence as they passed under the shadow of the Hagia Sophia. Oktyabrsky prayed in the hope that this voyage would not become a funeral procession for over seventy thousand souls. It seemed as if someone had heard him. As they entered the Sea of Marmara, they finally received a response. It was not the one Oktyabrsky feared. It was one he wouldn’t have dared hope for.

THIS TRANSIT SHALL BE PERMITTED. THE WAY IS CLEARED. YOU HAVE VIOLATED INTERNATIONAL LAW AND OUR GOVERNMENT WILL FILE A PROTEST WITH YOUR GOVERNMENT AND DEMAND JUST RESTITUTION. GOD BE WITH YOU.

The admiral smiled. Fortune favors the bold.

Palace of the Grand Master of the Knights of Rhodes

Rhodes, Italian Dodecanese

Ammiraglio di Squadra Inigo Campioni, RM

Governor of the Italian Aegean Islands

0737 Local Time, 2 AUG 1942

Governor Inigo Campioni, former commander of the Royal Italian Navy’s battlefleet, was seated at his dining room table, eating a light breakfast—some Schiacciata and about half a bottle of white wine. He was reading the newspaper, only occasionally taking a sip or a bite. In front of him, standing at attention, was his chief of staff, Generale di Brigata Roberto Sequi.

“Governor, if the reports are accurate, we must take action!”

“The reports are nonsense. Roberto, if you keep listening to radio news as you have been, you’ll rot your brains out your nose.”

Sequi rolled his eyes ever so slightly, “If there is even the possibility that it is true…shouldn’t we act?”

Campioni flicked down the newspaper, “Roberto, if there is a Soviet fleet of over a hundred vessels steaming past our defenses, and yet we have not received a single report from any of our forces or from the Germans, besides some…” he waved his hand dismissively in the air, “…foreign chatter on the radio from Istanbul—I will eat my boots. Both of them.”

“Sir!”

The admiral returned to reading, “Plus, if anything, this is Fliegerkorps X’s problem—not ours. Porco Dio! If the Bolsheviks are sailing past us now, those fucking Germans are the ones that really fucked up.”

Curtiss Kittyhawk Mk III, Electric Avenue, GA/F/FR444

Approx. 190 nmi North-North-West of Alexandria

Flying Officer Peter Toussaint, RAF

No. 112 Squadron, Desert Air Force

1530 Local Time, 2 AUG 1942

“Bloody hell, I can see them all on the decks from up here,” Flying Officer Peter “Froggy” Toussaint murmured as he looked down at the ragged, disorderly column of ships charging through the Med. Some of the smaller vessels looked dead in the water, with other ships talking on their crew and passengers. Every ships was coated with the fuzzy, miniature forms of people.

If they get so much as touched by Jerry… God. No. 112 Squadron had been scrambled, but instead of heading out to cover the forces at El Alamein, they’d been sent on what everyone had assumed was a wild-goose chase. Except, now the veteran pilots found themselves looking at quite the gander. There must be thousands on those ships, has Ivan gone mad? Froggy checked his fuel; they wouldn’t have much engagement time if Jerry showed his mug. That the Germans and Italians weren’t on this convoy like flies on sun-scorched ham mystified the pilot. Someone mucked this up beautifully.

His radio crackled to life in his ear, “Jerry’s here, boys. Look lively.” It was Squadron Leader Michael Grassley. “11 o’clock, right on our nose. I tally ten.” Toussaint’s eyes snapped in the direction of the call, and he spied the distinctive greenhouse noses of He-111 bombers—about a dozen, without so much as a single escort. It was strange of Fliegerkorps X to launch a raid as shoddy as this; they were supposed to be their elite ship-hunters. What is with Hans today? Can’t even muster a half-decent crack at a perfect target? Did they all wake up on the wrong side of the bed?

Fliegerkorps X Headquarters, Eleusis Aerodrome

Eleusis, Nazi Occupied Greece

General der Flieger Hans-Ferdinand Geisler, OKL

Commander, Fliegerkorps X

1515 Local Time, 3 AUG 1942

General der Flieger Hans-Ferdinand Geisler pressed the telephone received against his head as he rested his hand on his eyes. His staff surrounded his desk with anxious faces, sweat trickling down from his temple. “My fault? What a load of shit. How could this possibly be my fault!”

The other end was silent. Hissing static filled Geisler’s ear. “Well,” Generaloberst Hans Jeschonnek, Chief of the Oberkommando der Luftwaffe General Staff, started to say something before his voice faded. He evidently had no idea what to say.

“Well, what, Hans?” Geisler seethed, “First, Fliegerkorps VIII doesn’t tell anyone about a goddamned fleet of Bolsheviks sailing to Sevastopol so that cock-munching hot-air balloon Ricktoffen can play dress up as his cousins! Our people in Istanbul, they didn’t send so much as a note—when a Red battleship and fleet came charging down through the Bosphorus!”

“General—"

“I am not quite done, not even slightly, Herr Oberstgeneral.” Geisler pulled rank, “Then-Then! The damned Italians, those bastards did nothing—nothing! As three score Bolsheviks sailed within what? A dozen miles of Rhodes?!” Geisler clenched his teeth so hard his jaw began to vibrate like a radial engine, “After all of this, it is my command, given thirty minutes to scramble at the break of dawn, yet not a single of these incompetent bastards had a single clue! Not even a half guess where these Red sons of bitches were!” He slammed his fist on the desk, causing his staff to jump all at once, “And it is my fault, for what actually finding them?”

“Herr General…” Jeschonnek started again timidly, his tin voice barely audible over the static, “That is all very true, but the point remains…” Geisler heard the gulp of air, “You didn’t hit anything.”

I am ready to fucking retire.

Quarantine Anchorage, Outer Harbour

Alexandria, Egypt

Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham, RN

Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean Fleet

0031 Local Time, 3 AUG 1942

“Good God,” Sir Andrew Cunningham mused, “What will we do about this?” The head of the British Mediterranean Fleet looked on quietly as the Soviet battleship Parizhskaya Kommuna was towed to a mooring off the harbor’s Quarantine Anchorage. Cunningham found that somehow rather fitting. The Tsarist-turned-Bolshevik dreadnought had blown her engines about five miles from Alexandria. The luck of the Black Sea Fleet was not perfect, it seems.

There was the constant swirling ballet of small craft as the harbor was increasingly choked with ships. Red ships. A fleet of strangers arrived in a strange land. ABC had given the local commanders a wide digression and as many resources and men as could be spared. No one was sure what kind of reception they would be met with, and so Mediterranean Command had assembled a scratch security brigade, 4th Battalion (Outram’s), 6th Rajputana Rifles; 1st Battalion, 9th Gurkha Rifles; and 1st Cape Town Highlanders had motored to Alexandria at double-time. Indians, Gurkhas, and South Africans, that’s quite the welcome wagon.

Rear Admiral John Edelsten, Cunningham’s chief of staff, gave the query a silent moment of thought, “Try and manage, I think, sir.” Cunningham gave a soft snort of approval.

“Christ, are we going to have enough food for these people?”

“Think shelter and water might be the biter, sir. Good lord, haven’t the foggiest how Ivan might cope with this bloody desert, if you pardon me saying, sir.”

Cunningham sighed and scratched his head as one of the almost-light-cruiser-sized Soviet destroyers came to a stop and was swarmed with small craft, “Have we got anyone who speaks Russian? Or must we hope they’ve got some who speak English?”

Edelsten shrugged, “Foreign Office says they are sending a man from Cairo, and we’ll get more within the next few days.”

That sent a shiver down ABC’s spine, “Tomorrow…” His voice trailed off as his thoughts wandered.

“The PM and Field Marshall Brooke get here? Quite right, sir. That’ll be quite a jolly bit of fun.”

Cunningham directed a broadside of side-eye at his deputy, “John, I believe you and I have a rather different definition of that particular word.”

Camp Red

El Giza, Cairo, Egypt

Major David Stirling, BA

Commanding Officer, Special Air Service

2012 Local Time, 24 AUG 1942

Major David Stirling glanced up before ducking into the tent ahead of him. He looked up at the Great Pyramids of Giza. They lay in an awe-inspiring silence as moonlight poured from the heavens. There was a cool breeze heading out to sea. He was tired, but it was beautiful. He moved the flap door, and without saying anything, he took one of the seats at a wooden table surrounded by figures in fatigues. Half he knew very well; they were his men freshly returned from a raid on Sidi Haneish. When they had arrived back, they’d been ambushed by a brigadier bearing an order from the Ministry of Smashing Ideas. He was so far unimpressed.

Lieutenant Colonel Guy Prendergast, Commander of the Long Range Desert Group, was likewise unimpressed, as were the other British officers and non-coms on his side of the table. The atmosphere was decidedly odd and rather tense, no one had quite wanted this meeting, but the men were also painfully curious about everything about these folks.

Things had changed a lot. Auk had been relieved, replaced by Alexander. Gott had been downed in the desert and was half-dead in a Cairo hospital; Montgomery had taken the Eighth. For their… Guests, the plan had apparently been to intern them, but a Smashing Idea struck the dear old Bulldog of Gallipoli. They just had to re-equip an entire corps’ worth of Reds with British kit. That would give the pretext for the British Mission in Washington to squeeze more Shermans from the Yanks, give the Eighth Army a battle-tested force, and at the very least, give the Desert Fox someone else to shoot at. Stirling had even heard a Navy man tell of talk of using old 12-inch shells in that ghastly Soviet dreadnought—if they could make it work. In other words, utter and complete bloody madness.

He looked across the table and sighed. Their guests weren’t just Reds—they were red. The Egyptian sun had not done any of this lot any favors. An odd mix of dead-eyed, weary-eyed, and wild-eyed soldiers was before him. Allegedly these were the best amongst their number, supposed to be the leading cadre for what had been asked of him; they sure didn’t look it. They were in ragged clothes, clothes horribly suited for a stroll in an arid field, let alone the bloody desert. None of them had weapons, and none of them had training with any British weapons.

Oh—and of course—of the fifteen or so in front of him, a grand total of two of them spoke any English at all—and even then, it was far from the King’s English. What exactly he was supposed to do with this lot, he wasn’t quite sure, but he guessed he was going to find out. He had asked for a Foreign Office man worth his salt in a tussle if he would take on a new Red Squadron; or at least someone who could speak Russian and wouldn’t immediately get themselves or Stirling’s men killed.

He turned to the informal leader of this group, “I heard you’re quite the shot.”

Staring back at him was a flushed-faced, burnt skin woman. Her black hair was tied back behind her head. Her name was Pavilichenkelov or something like that—Stirling couldn’t remember and didn’t really care; but apparently, she was the devil with a rifle. She had killed some three hundred of the Huns at Sevastopol and Odesa. They called her “Lady Death.” At least, that was the story.

A single oil lamp lit the. It was a rather modest amount of light for the assemblage presented in its proximity, but even in the flickering radiance, Stirling looked into the eyes of this woman, and he saw a sharpness and determination. He liked that.

The Foreign Office man translated for him. Lady Death smiled. She removed the cigarette from her lips; and smiled not with a flash of mere teeth—but fangs, sharp and terrible. “Da,” The words left her lips, and Stirling understood that well enough.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.