Mad Run
Black Sea, Red Desert
Dzerzhinsky
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. There was a light drizzle interrupted by thunder—the thunder of distant battle. However, it was no longer so distant. The time was upon them. It was an impossible choice. But it had to be made. There was no one to save them. They would have to save themselves. Every remaining seaworthy vessel left along the Black Sea Coast of the Caucasus was assembled in Poti Harbor. The Fascist Armies had crossed the Galidzga and were now upon the K’olkhetis Lowlands. The wetlands would bog down the invaders to some extent, but the Red Army was in full retreat, totally spent after being smashed at Ochamchire and Grozny.
Vitse-Admiral Filipp Sergeyevich Oktyabrsky had made a choice that would likely condemn him. He had not heard from Moscow since the offensive began. He had not heard from General Tyulenev, the local front commander, in three days. He did not know if the Trans-Caucasian Front even still existed. He had been recalled from Sevastopol to direct naval operations in support of the troops blocking the road from Novorossiysk and to oversee the final evacuation of the fortress port from which he had left. He now knew why the Fascists had given up their offensive in Crimea. He bit his lip. He was gambling. He was gambling with thousands—tens of thousands—of lives and the largest concentration of Soviet naval power still in existence. Biting the side of his mouth 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.
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 loudspeakers and by the hand of his radioman over the wireless, a message was transmitted: “ALL VESSELS PROCEED!”
Oktyabrsky felt Dzerzhinsky lurch and begin to drag itself forward. She was one of the newest ships in the Red Fleet and also the largest ship ever built by the Soviet Union—a sleek 804-foot, 36,000-ton “cruiser.” She was at the head of a motley procession of war-weary workhorses, half-form sea-spawn ripped from docks before they were ready, and whatever civilian ships could be scraped together. Half a dozen cruisers, three destroyer leaders, fourteen destroyers, fifteen smaller guardships, forty-four submarines, sixty-three torpedo boats, eighteen merchantmen, and forty-nine other smaller civilian auxiliary craft. There were also the refitted old Tsarist dreadnoughts Parizhskaya Kommuna and Frunze—the latter was nominally a battlecruiser, but only in name. He also had the incomplete large cruiser Schors—sister to Dzerzhinsky—along with four incomplete light cruisers and four more incomplete destroyers.
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 port. They would need the cover of darkness to load the ships with every person they could carry and refuel what they could. The admiral felt his stomach curl. The die had been cast—before even this morning. 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 if he had the choice.
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 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.
Dzerzhinsky
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 assembled flotilla. 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 Novikov’s reinforced 109th Rifle Division would stay behind and hold the inner perimeter as long as possible. 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 Dzerzhinsky 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 89,743 passengers. The ships of the Black Sea Fleet were swollen with the hell-tempered souls of Crimea’s fortress-port. Dzerzhinsky submerged underneath a deluge of flesh, 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’s 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 general arrived at his command tent. Despite having his command directed to help the ongoing offensive against the Caucasus, Richthofen could not pass up 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 hold of forces to be used in the defense of the Caucasus. 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.
Dzerzhinsky
Bosporus, Istanbul, Republic of Turkey
Vitse-Admiral Filipp Sergeyevich Oktyabrsky, VMF
Commander, Black Sea Fleet
1403 Local Time, 1 AUG 1942
The Black Sea Fleet was not out of danger—far from it. They were going to bend the Montreux Convention to the breaking point. Oktyabrsky had given sufficient warning—eight days—under the terms of the Treaty, but had only announced the passage of two merchantmen, not the entire Black Sea Fleet. The risk that the Turks would open fire on them was low—but there—and he would rather risk internment than scuttle his command in Poti and Batumi. He would take the risk to continue the fight. The motherland would need these men and these ships in the future, just as they needed them now.
Oktyabrsky ordered a single message to be sent on repeat from the flagship:
THIS IS THE SOVIET VESSEL DZERHINSKY. AS PER OUR REVISED TRANSIT INSTRUCTION. WE ARE TRANSITING THE STRAITS OF BOSPORUS UNDER OUR RIGHTS AS A BLACK SEA POWER. WE FERRY WOUNDED, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN. OUR COMMUNICATIONS ARE DAMAGED AND WE CANNOT RECEIVE ANY REPLY. WE ARE UNABLE TO STOP FOR INSPECTION. CLEAR THE STRAITS.
Their updated strength was transmitted to the signal station at the entrance to the Dardanelles. Immediately, the Turkish Navy sent a reply demanding they stop, which Oktyabrsky ignored. Every mile they drew closer, the feeling in his stomach tightened. The Turks would be within their rights to open fire. With his field glasses, he could see a flurry of activity in the gun pits of the coast batteries. Every breath from every man on the bridge was pained. A hundred thousand men and women held their breath as the minutes dragged on. The Turks did not open fire.
The people of Istanbul were treated to a dazzlingly confusing and frightfully odd sight as a hundred Soviet vessels sailed through the strait in one continuous stream of steel. Looking backward, Oktyabrsky caught sight of Parizhskaya Kommuna. She resembled a chariot from hell rather than a warship. Her two large funnels belched a thick pall of tar-black smoke that choked the afternoon air, hauling ahead at a speed of twenty-five and a quarter knots—well over her test speed. Sparks flung themselves from the funnels and out into the air, an unplanned and unwanted pyrotechnic display. Thronging crowds clogged the embankments and quays of the city to welcome the red parade—or rather, to catch a glimpse. 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. Eventually, the messages petered out. The silence worried Oktyabrsky as he loomed over the signalmen in the radio room. There was still silence as they passed under the shadow of the Hagia Sophia. Oktyabrsky prayed, hoping this voyage would not become a funeral procession. It seemed as if someone had heard him.
As they entered the Sea of Marmara, they 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 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 it.”
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 vessels taking over their passengers. Every ship 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 Red battleships with an entire goddamned 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 one 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 by the large cruiser Dzerzhinsky. 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 total discretion 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 speaks 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 those ghastly Soviet dreadnoughts—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-skinned 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 room. 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.
"Da."
-Chills
Hmmm, so I’m taking it these guys are some of the first Soviets to get promethean tech?