Chapter 24 – Christmas Eve Uncelebrated
December 24th. 0740. Submarine E-9. 15nm South of Öland Island, Sweden. Heading 110 at 9 knots, surfaced.
Commander Max Horton pulled the collar of his oilskin coat tighter, in yet another vain attempt to keep the bitter cold at bay. Despite his youth growing up on mild Anglesey, he was no stranger to inclement weather. One simply couldn’t qualify in submersibles without growing a thick skin to cold and wet, could one? Even so, the coast of Sweden in late December, with a near-gale blowing across the bows, seemed unnaturally hyperboreal.
It certainly didn’t help that the seas were empty of suitable targets. He’d spent all yesterday – once he’d cleared the German patrols west of Bornholm Island – quartering the southern Swedish coast. He’d avoided the handful of fishing boats he’d spotted; worthless targets and he didn’t want to risk word getting to the Germans of a strange submarine plying the Baltic.
Now, in the midst of the shipping lane coming south out of the port at Kalmar, he hoped for better luck.
When he did get the opportunity to stop any Swedish iron ore carriers he came across, he couldn’t simply sink them but must perforce send them back through the Kattegat-Skagerrak to a British port where their cargoes would be seized. If the Germans were unaware of his presence in these waters, they’d likely not stop a Swedish-flagged ship that he’d taken; not even the Germans were so stupid as to risk the golden egg-laying goose.
“Cap’in,” a blond head poked up through the hatch, and the wireless messenger managed to tug on his forelock with one hand and hold out a slip of paper with the other. “Message for yerself. Bein’ it’s from E-18.”
“Thank you, Ordinary Signalman Ott.”
The young rating came all the way up into the tiny tower, ostensibly to wait for a reply but also without doubt to sample the fresh air.
“By ‘eck it’s nitherin’ up ‘ere, and black bright.”
Horton stared at the talkative messenger. “Did you have something to say Ott?”
Ott dipped his head again and mumbled “Dinna mean nowt.” Horton returned to the missive.
Damn!
First E-13 damaged by grounding and headed back to England, now the other two boats, after failing to penetrate the Little Belts the night before, report that very heavy German patrols off the southern Oresund prevented them following his passage. They would try again tonight.
“No reply, Ott.”
If they can’t make it tonight, I’ll hunt here for another day, then strike out north alone.
December 24th. 0805. 62nd Infantry Brigade. Dorpat, Livland.
The limpid sun was just oozing over the horizon as the heavy train pulled into the Dorpat station, ill-maintained wheels squealing and blowing enough steam to completely obscure the platform for half a minute.
Generalmajor von Hülsen tapped his thigh over and over, his nerves frayed by the delays.
Enough of this backwater. The battle is in the north not here!
When the steam finally cleared, the tableau seemed frozen for a moment before breaking under the assault of a leather-lunged feldwebel, calling on the bataillon of Landwehr to disembark.
They look tired, more than the early hour would account for. The fighting to the south must have been more brutal than the reports suggested. No matter, they’ll have plenty of time to rest here.
Eventually the disembarking soldiers opened a path for an Oberstleutnant to approach von Hülsen. The junior kommander saluted smartly enough.
“Herr Generalmajor, Oberstleutnant Saxer, Second Bataillon, 66th Landwehr Regiment. Generalmajor von Sauberzweig sends his regards.”
“Well met, Herr Osberstleutnant. Come with me.”
Von Hülsen led the Landwehr officer into the wooden stationhouse and introduced him to the brigade’s Chief of Staff.
“In a moment I’ll have the Chief of Staff take you around to our positions and the troop billeting areas,” von Hülsen began, “but first, bitte, summarize the rest of the 33rd Brigade’s troop movements.”
They looked down at the map before Saxer placed a finger southwest of Dorpat.
“Ja, when the train left Elva, roughly 25km southwest of here, the rest of the brigade was preparing to march. The 66th, and especially my bataillon, had been in the forefront of the fighting against the Russers, so the Generalmajor gave us the one operable train for the first run. The Generalmajor was to come on the next trip, but I don’t know when that might be.”
“25 kilometers?” asked the Chief of Staff before exchanging a look with his kommander.
At Saxer’s nod von Hülsen made his decision and turned to the Chief of Staff.
“Get the Brigade moving. Leave one bataillon to coordinate with the arriving Landwehr.
“Herr Oberstleutnant, before I turn you over to my Chief of Staff, I want to introduce you to the local that we’ve put in charge of the police and militia here. Since there is no longer a Russer army south of Esthland, the biggest problem here is controlling the locals, especially the Reds who seem to think they can do whatever they want. This Oberst Goppers, a former Tsarist officer and Liv, seems to have gained control of the idioten. Of course, it will be up to your Generalmajor whether or not to keep him. Come.”
December 24th. 0850. Battleship Gangut. Sveaborg, Grand Duchy of Finland. Anchored.
“First Battleship Brigade reports two hours ready for sea, Vitse-admiral.”
“Good,” Vasily Kanin replied to his Operations Chief. “Attainment reports are due before 0900, and you are to brook no delays. Send messengers backed by a squad of armed men if you need to. Go.”
Kanin knew he was being terse with his Ops, but reporting fell under the senior kapitan’s remit, and therefore he held some blame for yesterday’s fiasco. Further, Ops was the most outspoken of the staff in arguing against his order to have the Fleet come to two hours steaming notice. At two hours’ notice the Fleet would need to be fully manned and steaming their boilers continuously – a huge drain on both coal and the long-term reliability of the ships. Since the ships were almost all at anchor, there would be no opportunity to go ashore and the morale of the Fleet, already unsettled, would further deteriorate within days if battle didn’t occur. His staff had made clear that they considered the Germans beaten – why else would they run? – whereas Kanin knew that the enemy fleet that had gone toe to toe with the mighty RN time after time was in no way beaten.
I must have the best chance against them in the coming days, even if I risk the long-term effectiveness of the Fleet.
“Here’s that message draft you asked for admiral.”
Kanin took the slip from his Chief of Staff’s hands, saying nothing about the way the paper shivered like an aspen leaf in the other’s hand. Kapitan First Rank Golikov was superannuated, and his health was deteriorating quickly under the strain of the last weeks. Kanin didn’t know if relieving him now would kill the man or save his life.
With the German assholes at the gates there is no time to break in a replacement. He will have to stay.
Kanin read the draft message, directing the admiralty office at Reval to expedite repairs to those ships that could be repaired or made seaworthy within 2 days, and continue work on others only as resources became available.
“Good, have it sent. Where are we on the investigation of the four torpedo boats?”
Golikov’s face shifted between pleased and pained before settling on the former.
“Admiral, Dago and the 128 boat appear to have suffered unforeseen casualties. Both are reportedly well maintained and both Kapitans and crew are eager to clear their names. I recommend no further action in those two cases.”
“Very well. And the other two?”
“Ah,” the Chief of Staff looked down at his note pad. “The casualty on TB 129 – a significant lubricating oil leak – occurred three days ago, and with repairs underway the Kapitan hoped to have it fixed and be able to get underway before the Fleet departed. Unfortunately, the required parts did not arrive.”
“And his chain of command was unaware?”
“A report was made to the 3rd Torpedo Boat Division, however the report did not make it to the Division Commander.”
Der’mo.
“Take no action against TB 129’s commander. Discover what action the Division commander intends to take to clean his house. He cannot have such serious issues disappear within his staff.”
One more mistake like that and 3rd Torpedo Boat Division’s head will roll.
“What of TB 120?”
The Chief of Staff visibly gulped. “Ah, my initial investigation has revealed that TB 120 is marginally seaworthy, and unsafe to steam. She has been so for a prolonged period. It is impossible that the Kapitan was unaware of the ship’s condition...worse, it appears that he has never even set foot in any of the engineering spaces. There are no recent requests for parts, and…”
“Enough,” Kanin said quietly.
I knew there were ships like this, but at a forward Fleet base? The kapitan will han…
The Chief of Staff cleared his throat.
“Da?”
“Vitse-admiral, with respect, before you act, TB 120’s Kapitan is Starshii' Leitenant Dmitry Maklakov…Dmitry Alexeyevich Maklakov.”
“As in Nikolay Alexeyevich Maklakov?” (Note 1)
“His younger brother, admiral.”
He’s untouchable for what he deserves.
Kanin took a deep breath. “Well then, with his ship disabled, perhaps his career would benefit from staff experience. ‘Promote’ him to my staff, I’ll think of a suitable title. Something like Assistant Chief Inspector of Facilities. He can start with the piers at Uleåborg (Note 2).
“And get a good officer to take over 120, see if something cannot be salvaged.”
December 24th. 1110. Werder, Southern Esthland.
Crackle!
Kapitänleutnant Köhler watched in awe as the scuttled Russer zerstörer rose from the harbor bottom, the thin ice on the wreck and water shattering in a frenzy as it released its hold.
He’d understood the process of bringing what the men from Vulkan now called Hull 1 to the surface but hadn’t appreciated the sheer spectacle of lifting a hundred meter long, fifteen hundred ton steel box. Her main deck had been just below the surface, now he could just see the full length of her waterline. Would he have been more impressed at seeing two dozen whales leap from the harbor at once? He doubted it.
“That’s it. Cease pumping!”
Much as the two gentlemen from Vulkan made him feel like he was a boy in the classroom again, he had to admit that they knew what they were doing. First, divers had braved the freezing water to bolt her condenser back together and ensure the other sea chests were closed, then before dawn this morning they began pumping her out. An hour ago, Hull 1 had shifted and both ingenieurs had gone aboard to check…something...before ordering the pumps restarted.
With Hull 1 now floating quite near to her normal waterline a swarm of men under the direction of Herr Coblenz went aboard. Köhler saw Herr Glocke alone and called out to him.
“Herr Glocke. That was amazing!”
The Vulkan man blinked, his dark bushy eyebrows dancing. “What? Ah, Ja. I suppose it must seem so to one who has never seen such before.”
“How many times have you done this?”
Glocke wiggled his hand. “You matrosen tend to break them.”
Now it was Köhler’s turn to blink. Glocke’s comment hadn’t had any bite, but he still wasn’t wasn’t sure how to take it.
Do these ingenieur from Vulcan simply see us as kinder, who break the toys they laboriously build for us, making it necessary to constantly repair them? Constantly.
“When will she be ready to tow clear of the other hull, Herr Glocke?
Glocke canted his head at the hulk. "Herr Coblentz is aboard."
He then waved vaguely in a new direction. Turning his head Köhler saw two large oceangoing tugs at anchor, each bearing a large “V” on their funnel.
"Perhaps tonight."
Wait…tonight what? Oh! They may be able to tow her tonight!
“That is very good news! I hesitate to ask, when can you begin on the other?”
“It has already begun,” Glocke answered. “Patching, then pumping. Ah, Herr Coblenz is waving for my attention. If you will excuse me, Herr Kapitänleutnant?”
Will it be a day, or a week, or a month?
Equal parts frustrated and buoyed by Glocke’s words, Köhler looked out at the film of light ice on the water and worried that even if the men from Vulkan cleared the second hull quickly there was a very short window before the harbor was iced in. With a good icebreaker they could keep it open into February, maybe even longer.
I don’t know how much more of this boredom I can take; it is an unseen enemy - a terrible sort of suicide. (Note 3) Perhaps once the harbor is iced in, my transfer to a sea billet will be approved.
His joy at the thought of sea duty was interrupted by a matrosen jogging down the pier, calling his name and waving to get his attention.
“Ja, was ist es?”
The man stopped and took the time to straighten his uniform before saluting. “Herr Kapitänleutnant.”
“Ja ja, spit it out!”
“Ships, Herr Kapitänleutnant, A dozen ships or more have been sighted to the south. Five of them have heavy topmasts and three funnels.”
Köhler smiled.
Eighth Linenschiffe Division! The Braunschweigs make excellent icebreakers. The port could stay open until…
His smile slumped. With the port in operation through the winter, the chances of getting shipboard duty any time soon had just disappeared.
December 24th. 1140. 59th Infantry Brigade. Northwest of Wesenberg, Esthland. (Note 4)
Laying on his belly, Feldwebel Joseph Havemayer stared out from the edge of the pine forest at the city.
Seems quiet. But I don’t trust it.
Wesenberg looked to be good-sized, certainly bigger than anything he’d seen since leaving Walk three weeks ago on the roundabout trek across Livland and Esthland. A large schlöss, apparently long in ruins, occupied a hill to the west, and a tall church spire stood in its shadow, substantial buildings in the Russer style clustered about it like kinder hanging on a matron’s skirts. Havemayer didn’t see any signs of enemy occupation, no trenches, fortifications, outposts, nor patrols. Nonetheless something clawed at the back of his senses. There was a sense of waiting in the air, of anticipation.
It's too quiet. Where are the people moving about, coming or going about their lives?
A glint from near the top of the church spire caught his attention.
A lookout using binoculars or a telescope?
He checked the midday sun, whoever was up there hadn’t been looking in his direction.
“Feldwebel. On the hill.”
His unteroffizier pointed to the dirt road leading up to the stone ruins, where a pair of heavily laden farm carts trundled along under the direction of four men in green Russer militia uniforms.
What could possibly be in the ruins that required that much in the way of supplies, other than a garrison that sought to stay out of sight?
Havemayer thought it a shame that the 7th Dragoons had bypassed the city. He understood that they were terrible troops in the business of taking a city and no doubt wanted to race as far ahead as possible before Russer reinforcements arrived from the east, but if they’d properly scouted the city and sent a report back to his brigade, then the Generalmajor would have had time to plan. Now, with less than four hours of full daylight remaining, it would be a hasty attack of some kind.
Havemayer quickly wrote out a report of what he’d seen and what he suspected. “Messenger. Get this to the Generalmajor as fast as you can go. Schnell!”
December 24th. 1430. Austro-Hungarian 5th Army HQ. Plyussa, Russia.
General der Infanterie Otto von Below carefully watched his counterparts of the Austro-Hungarian 5th Army and German 9th Army as the 5th Army Operations Chief briefed the Army's status.
“…and the rest of the korps will be in position by tomorrow noon. Moving over to 16th Korps, they are also in contact with the field fortifications fronting Luga…”
It wasn’t that he was uninterested in the latest status of the Austro-Hungarian forces closing in on the strategic Russer city of Luga – he certainly was. No, this was only the second time since the operation kicked off that he and his fellow generals had met face to face, and he was more interested in watching his fellow kommanders. It would be their strength, their fortitude that would tell in the coming weeks and determine the future of the offensive. In the snow and cold, facing Russers who were world renowned for their hardiness and ability to persist in the face of inevitable failure, the men of the 5th, 8th, and 9th would fight until they could go no further, but how far that was would depend on the three of them.
The road to St. Petersburg would demand that all three generals have hearts and wills of iron.
Though the dual monarchy had not covered itself with honors in this war, von Below though highly of Feldmarschall-Leutnant Boroević. His planning and execution of the main line of effort up the rail line had been flawless so far. It didn’t hurt that unlike the two German armies his troops were fresh, and he had a mass of heavy artillery that any kommander would kill for, but on the other hand his troops were hardly veterans and a product of a mediocre training establishment that had never managed to iron out the problems caused by the polyglot nature of their empire.
Even so, von Below saw in Boroević a steadiness that should serve well.
But will that hold in a crisis? And does he have the aggressive side needed to match it?
Generalfeldmarschall Prinz Leopold of Bavaria, a decade older than he and Boroević, was more of a cypher. The bristle-stiff beard jutting from his chin gave him a pugnacious mien, yet his demeanor in the planning sessions and today was careful and considering. Coming from the cavalry arm it was certain that he could be aggressive, but would he have the heart to continue in the face of crippling losses and horrible winter conditions?
“Unless there are further questions, that concludes the status of 5th Army,“ finished the Austro-Hungarian Operation Chef, clearly hoping there were no questions, and he could exit the limelight.
Boroević spoke into the sudden quiet. “I believe that my infantry will be ready to conduct local offensive operations against the enemy fortifications by the end of the day, supported by my field and foot artillery. The heavy mörsers are being emplaced and should be ready tomorrow. The siege howitzers will not be ready for at least three days. Ammunition resupply for the heavy artillery will remain sparse, so I intend to only use them at the points of attack and on the enemy reserve positions behind those.”
“9th Army will be ready for limited offensive action tomorrow,” Prinz Leopold added quietly, “though a few more days would see a much stronger punch.”
When the two senior officers turned to von Below, he leaned forward, “My right wing is still moving through the forest, so 8th Army will not be fully positioned for two to three days. I have strengthened the wing to take advantage of an envelopment should the opportunity present itself, but even so, I will be able to conduct local attacks tomorrow.”
“Gut,” Prinz Leopold said, “Local attacks to determine the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, using our korps artillery, then – unless the situation changes – on the 28th we’ll hit his whole line.”
Boroević spoke up, “If I may, there is one additional item for 5th Army.” At a nod from the Bavarian royal he continued. “5th Army has but two infantry korps, each of you has at least four infantry korps and an attached cavalry division. Necessary as you’ve had to secure the flanks of the advance,” he added quickly as Prinz Leopold looked ready to speak up. “Casualties have been relatively light up to this point, nonetheless I am concerned that a determined Russer defense of Luga will reduce my infantry strength enough to make the following push on St Petersburg somewhat questionable, particularly with the rail lines south of here destroyed.”
Von Below and Prinz Leopold exchanged looks.
Is Boroević preparing for failure?
“I am not suggesting we alter the plan, nor that 5th Army cannot continue,” Boroević went on. “What I am suggesting is that I will need more infantry, and better artillery ammunition supply to continue to hammer the Russers. Accordingly, I’ve requested an addition korps, draft horses, and more heavy artillery ammunition. I have yet to hear back from the Chief of the General Staff.”
Oh, to be a bird in Conrad’s office when that cable came in!
“You wish our support?” At Boroević’s nod von Below looked at Prinz Leopold, who arched an eyebrow and then nodded.
“I’ll have a cable drafted, to Ober Ost and OHL.” (Note 6)
December 24th. 1620. 148th regiment. Western Esthland.
It was a village that didn’t appear on the maps, naturally, leaving Oberstleutnant Kühn to scratch his head.
The meagre markings on the map didn’t fit any of the terrain that he was seeing. Over there should be the northern edge of the swamps that had lined the day’s march, yet on they stretched on his right flank in all their impassible glory. On the northeast side of railroad line should be forest, yet those were clearly the stubbled remains of fields.
The townsfolk, those that hadn’t disappeared in hiding at the 148th Regiment’s approach, claimed that the village was named Turba. Turba that apparently only existed on Russer maps.
“How far is it to Risti?” Kühn asked the village headman, hoping that he could establish a distance to the last town they were in and thus have a better idea of where he was.
“You just came from there, didn’t you Herr General?” The headman replied with a look that suggested that Kuhn was a dumpkopf.
“I am an Oberstleutnant. Ja, but how long will it take you to walk there?”
“A full day, in winter, Herr General.”
“Oberstleutnant. Gut, and how far to the next village that way?” Kuhn asked, pointing northeast along the railway.
“Herr General, at this time of year it takes but a morning to get to Riisipere.”
Very well, today I’m a General. Riisipere…could that be…
“Riesenberg?”
“Yes, Herr General. Riesenberg, Riisipere. Same.” Now that they agreed on everything except Kuhn’s rank, the headman was nodding and smiling.
Kuhn motioned to his deputy kommander, pointing beyond the village. “Scout ahead on the road until it diverges from the rail line – that should be about 5 km ahead. The commissariat to follow, guarded by the radfahrer bataillon. The regiment will rest here until the 79th Field Artillery catches up then both regiments will rejoin the advanced party. Tonight.”
“Herr Oberstleutnant, a night march…what if the Russers choose then to attack?”
Kühn nodded. “It is possible, but in the last two engagements they fired almost no shots before fleeing; I think they are out of ammunition. I understand the risk, but I want to time the regiment’s arrival at Friedrichshof to have an opportunity to attack the town and any fortifications before dawn the day after tomorrow. In more than bataillon strength, the advance guard should be alright tonight.”
The deputy nodded in understanding and ran off to get the scouts moving.
“Signals!” Kühn shouted. “Send a messenger to brigade with the following: ‘148 one day march S of obj F. Enemy in flight’.”
That should keep von Blumenthal off my arsch tonight.
“Wait,” he shouted at the signals officer. “A second message to the 152nd. “Will be near Riesenberg junction tonight.”
While his 148th would follow the road northeast toward Friedrichshof, the 152nd Regiment behind him was supposed to follow the rail line north toward Keila where the branch line to Baltischeport split off. He didn’t want to leave the rail and road junction unguarded in his rear as he moved on his objective. Russer reinforcements coming by rail from Reval could cut off his regiment before he could even think to react.
If that happened, they wouldn’t have to be smart, just lucky with their timing.
December 24th. 1805. 59th Infantry Brigade. Wesenberg, Estland.
Feldwebel Havemayer jerked in pain as the attendant adjusted the bandage on his left forearm.
“Enough. Verflucht!”
“In this cold, by tomorrow you’ll be thankful for a tightly bound wound Feldwebel. Otherwise, you’d lose the hand and wrist for certain.
“At least the bayonet left a clean hole and only nicked the radius.”
Yeah. Lucky me.
Crack! Boom! Crack! Crack! Boom! Boom!
The makeshift hospital set up in the city’s schoolhouse shook, dust showering down as the brigade’s artillery pounded the Russer position up in the ruined schlöss.
Except for that last strongpoint, Wesenberg was firmly in German hands. The brigade had attacked from three sides and swiftly defeated the bataillon of militia scattered in strong points throughout the city. House to house fighting was usually a slow and bloody affair, but the Russers had been handicapped by having very little rifle ammunition. It had been one of the very last buildings, near the eastern edge of town, where Havemayer had taken a Russer bayonet in the forearm.
Crack! CraCrack! Boom! BoBooom!
A high-pitched scream cut through the evening’s gloom, adding an unholy counterpoint to the pounding of the artillery.
Hard to tell if that was a man dying, or a woman who would soon be wishing she were dead.
The Heer’s oft-repeated policy was to leave the civilians alone, unless of course they were caught as Freischärler (Note 6). Nonetheless, there were soldiers in every army who would risk the wrath of their chain of command to slake their lust.
An unteroffizier poked his head into the room, looking around the dozen or so wounded men before his gaze settled on Havemayer’s collar.
“Feldwebel Havemayer?”
“Ja?”
“Your kompanie has orders to depart two hours before dawn, scouting. I am to report back to battailon whether or not you will be fit to depart with them.”
“Ja/Nein.” Havemayer and the medic replied simultaneously.
Havemayer glared at the medic but spoke to the unteroffizier. “Inform bataillon that I will lead the scout kompany out as ordered.”
-------------------------
33km east of Wesenberg, the kommander of the 7th Dragoons, Oberstleutnant Höger, scratched his head while looking at map. The maps of Esthland were never perfect, but right now the only thing he knew for certain was that he was still heading east along the rail line. The map said that he should be at Isenhof, his objective for the day, but the townsfolk he questioned were certain that their town was called Püssi, which of course did not appear on his map.
A snowflake plopped down on the folded map. Then more.
Schieße, just what I need now.
Turning to his deputy, Höger decided to cease the advance for the day. “Major Zierlein, we’ll camp here tonight and hope for better weather tomorrow. After the horses are taken care of, get as many men as you can under cover. If the snow lets up, 3rd Squadron will head east an hour before sunrise. If it’s still snowing I’ll make a decision in the morning. And don’t forget to post a strong barricade sentry at least a kilometer out along the rail line.”
December 24th. 2230. SMS Blücher 15nm north of Dagö Island, heading 030 at 12 knots.
“Herr Konteradmiral, flashing light from Stralsund. ‘CLRD M/F’.”
Inside the Russer ‘lake’ again.
“Gut, set the formation course to the first waypoint.”
Albert Hopman felt exultant, despite the harsh sting from the heavy snow blowing straight across Blücher’s open bridgewing. All of Second Scouting – Blücher, Frankfurt, Weisbaden, Regensburg, Graudenz, Rostock, and Stralsund – supported by the twenty torpedoboots of 2nd and 6th flotillas, were headed into the waters off Reval.
His Christmas mission was simple - to poke the Russer bear.
Notes
Note 1. Nikolay Alexeyevich Maklakov was Tsarist Russia’s Interior Minister from 16 December, 1912 to 5 June, 1915.
Note 2. Uleåborg = Oulu, Finland at the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia.
Note 3. Paraphrased from the novel “Mr. Roberts”, by Thomas Heggen.
Note 4. Wesenberg is now Rakvere, Estonia
Note 5. Ober Ost = shortened form of Oberbefehlshaber der gesamten Deutschen Streitkräfte im Osten, Supreme Commander of all German forces in the east.
OHL = Oberste Heeresleitung, Supreme Army Command
Note 6. Freischärler, “Free soldiers/irregulars” = francs-tireurs = partisans = guerillas
December 24th. 0740. Submarine E-9. 15nm South of Öland Island, Sweden. Heading 110 at 9 knots, surfaced.
Commander Max Horton pulled the collar of his oilskin coat tighter, in yet another vain attempt to keep the bitter cold at bay. Despite his youth growing up on mild Anglesey, he was no stranger to inclement weather. One simply couldn’t qualify in submersibles without growing a thick skin to cold and wet, could one? Even so, the coast of Sweden in late December, with a near-gale blowing across the bows, seemed unnaturally hyperboreal.
It certainly didn’t help that the seas were empty of suitable targets. He’d spent all yesterday – once he’d cleared the German patrols west of Bornholm Island – quartering the southern Swedish coast. He’d avoided the handful of fishing boats he’d spotted; worthless targets and he didn’t want to risk word getting to the Germans of a strange submarine plying the Baltic.
Now, in the midst of the shipping lane coming south out of the port at Kalmar, he hoped for better luck.
When he did get the opportunity to stop any Swedish iron ore carriers he came across, he couldn’t simply sink them but must perforce send them back through the Kattegat-Skagerrak to a British port where their cargoes would be seized. If the Germans were unaware of his presence in these waters, they’d likely not stop a Swedish-flagged ship that he’d taken; not even the Germans were so stupid as to risk the golden egg-laying goose.
“Cap’in,” a blond head poked up through the hatch, and the wireless messenger managed to tug on his forelock with one hand and hold out a slip of paper with the other. “Message for yerself. Bein’ it’s from E-18.”
“Thank you, Ordinary Signalman Ott.”
The young rating came all the way up into the tiny tower, ostensibly to wait for a reply but also without doubt to sample the fresh air.
“By ‘eck it’s nitherin’ up ‘ere, and black bright.”
Horton stared at the talkative messenger. “Did you have something to say Ott?”
Ott dipped his head again and mumbled “Dinna mean nowt.” Horton returned to the missive.
Damn!
First E-13 damaged by grounding and headed back to England, now the other two boats, after failing to penetrate the Little Belts the night before, report that very heavy German patrols off the southern Oresund prevented them following his passage. They would try again tonight.
“No reply, Ott.”
If they can’t make it tonight, I’ll hunt here for another day, then strike out north alone.
December 24th. 0805. 62nd Infantry Brigade. Dorpat, Livland.
The limpid sun was just oozing over the horizon as the heavy train pulled into the Dorpat station, ill-maintained wheels squealing and blowing enough steam to completely obscure the platform for half a minute.
Generalmajor von Hülsen tapped his thigh over and over, his nerves frayed by the delays.
Enough of this backwater. The battle is in the north not here!
When the steam finally cleared, the tableau seemed frozen for a moment before breaking under the assault of a leather-lunged feldwebel, calling on the bataillon of Landwehr to disembark.
They look tired, more than the early hour would account for. The fighting to the south must have been more brutal than the reports suggested. No matter, they’ll have plenty of time to rest here.
Eventually the disembarking soldiers opened a path for an Oberstleutnant to approach von Hülsen. The junior kommander saluted smartly enough.
“Herr Generalmajor, Oberstleutnant Saxer, Second Bataillon, 66th Landwehr Regiment. Generalmajor von Sauberzweig sends his regards.”
“Well met, Herr Osberstleutnant. Come with me.”
Von Hülsen led the Landwehr officer into the wooden stationhouse and introduced him to the brigade’s Chief of Staff.
“In a moment I’ll have the Chief of Staff take you around to our positions and the troop billeting areas,” von Hülsen began, “but first, bitte, summarize the rest of the 33rd Brigade’s troop movements.”
They looked down at the map before Saxer placed a finger southwest of Dorpat.
“Ja, when the train left Elva, roughly 25km southwest of here, the rest of the brigade was preparing to march. The 66th, and especially my bataillon, had been in the forefront of the fighting against the Russers, so the Generalmajor gave us the one operable train for the first run. The Generalmajor was to come on the next trip, but I don’t know when that might be.”
“25 kilometers?” asked the Chief of Staff before exchanging a look with his kommander.
At Saxer’s nod von Hülsen made his decision and turned to the Chief of Staff.
“Get the Brigade moving. Leave one bataillon to coordinate with the arriving Landwehr.
“Herr Oberstleutnant, before I turn you over to my Chief of Staff, I want to introduce you to the local that we’ve put in charge of the police and militia here. Since there is no longer a Russer army south of Esthland, the biggest problem here is controlling the locals, especially the Reds who seem to think they can do whatever they want. This Oberst Goppers, a former Tsarist officer and Liv, seems to have gained control of the idioten. Of course, it will be up to your Generalmajor whether or not to keep him. Come.”
December 24th. 0850. Battleship Gangut. Sveaborg, Grand Duchy of Finland. Anchored.
“First Battleship Brigade reports two hours ready for sea, Vitse-admiral.”
“Good,” Vasily Kanin replied to his Operations Chief. “Attainment reports are due before 0900, and you are to brook no delays. Send messengers backed by a squad of armed men if you need to. Go.”
Kanin knew he was being terse with his Ops, but reporting fell under the senior kapitan’s remit, and therefore he held some blame for yesterday’s fiasco. Further, Ops was the most outspoken of the staff in arguing against his order to have the Fleet come to two hours steaming notice. At two hours’ notice the Fleet would need to be fully manned and steaming their boilers continuously – a huge drain on both coal and the long-term reliability of the ships. Since the ships were almost all at anchor, there would be no opportunity to go ashore and the morale of the Fleet, already unsettled, would further deteriorate within days if battle didn’t occur. His staff had made clear that they considered the Germans beaten – why else would they run? – whereas Kanin knew that the enemy fleet that had gone toe to toe with the mighty RN time after time was in no way beaten.
I must have the best chance against them in the coming days, even if I risk the long-term effectiveness of the Fleet.
“Here’s that message draft you asked for admiral.”
Kanin took the slip from his Chief of Staff’s hands, saying nothing about the way the paper shivered like an aspen leaf in the other’s hand. Kapitan First Rank Golikov was superannuated, and his health was deteriorating quickly under the strain of the last weeks. Kanin didn’t know if relieving him now would kill the man or save his life.
With the German assholes at the gates there is no time to break in a replacement. He will have to stay.
Kanin read the draft message, directing the admiralty office at Reval to expedite repairs to those ships that could be repaired or made seaworthy within 2 days, and continue work on others only as resources became available.
“Good, have it sent. Where are we on the investigation of the four torpedo boats?”
Golikov’s face shifted between pleased and pained before settling on the former.
“Admiral, Dago and the 128 boat appear to have suffered unforeseen casualties. Both are reportedly well maintained and both Kapitans and crew are eager to clear their names. I recommend no further action in those two cases.”
“Very well. And the other two?”
“Ah,” the Chief of Staff looked down at his note pad. “The casualty on TB 129 – a significant lubricating oil leak – occurred three days ago, and with repairs underway the Kapitan hoped to have it fixed and be able to get underway before the Fleet departed. Unfortunately, the required parts did not arrive.”
“And his chain of command was unaware?”
“A report was made to the 3rd Torpedo Boat Division, however the report did not make it to the Division Commander.”
Der’mo.
“Take no action against TB 129’s commander. Discover what action the Division commander intends to take to clean his house. He cannot have such serious issues disappear within his staff.”
One more mistake like that and 3rd Torpedo Boat Division’s head will roll.
“What of TB 120?”
The Chief of Staff visibly gulped. “Ah, my initial investigation has revealed that TB 120 is marginally seaworthy, and unsafe to steam. She has been so for a prolonged period. It is impossible that the Kapitan was unaware of the ship’s condition...worse, it appears that he has never even set foot in any of the engineering spaces. There are no recent requests for parts, and…”
“Enough,” Kanin said quietly.
I knew there were ships like this, but at a forward Fleet base? The kapitan will han…
The Chief of Staff cleared his throat.
“Da?”
“Vitse-admiral, with respect, before you act, TB 120’s Kapitan is Starshii' Leitenant Dmitry Maklakov…Dmitry Alexeyevich Maklakov.”
“As in Nikolay Alexeyevich Maklakov?” (Note 1)
“His younger brother, admiral.”
He’s untouchable for what he deserves.
Kanin took a deep breath. “Well then, with his ship disabled, perhaps his career would benefit from staff experience. ‘Promote’ him to my staff, I’ll think of a suitable title. Something like Assistant Chief Inspector of Facilities. He can start with the piers at Uleåborg (Note 2).
“And get a good officer to take over 120, see if something cannot be salvaged.”
December 24th. 1110. Werder, Southern Esthland.
Crackle!
Kapitänleutnant Köhler watched in awe as the scuttled Russer zerstörer rose from the harbor bottom, the thin ice on the wreck and water shattering in a frenzy as it released its hold.
He’d understood the process of bringing what the men from Vulkan now called Hull 1 to the surface but hadn’t appreciated the sheer spectacle of lifting a hundred meter long, fifteen hundred ton steel box. Her main deck had been just below the surface, now he could just see the full length of her waterline. Would he have been more impressed at seeing two dozen whales leap from the harbor at once? He doubted it.
“That’s it. Cease pumping!”
Much as the two gentlemen from Vulkan made him feel like he was a boy in the classroom again, he had to admit that they knew what they were doing. First, divers had braved the freezing water to bolt her condenser back together and ensure the other sea chests were closed, then before dawn this morning they began pumping her out. An hour ago, Hull 1 had shifted and both ingenieurs had gone aboard to check…something...before ordering the pumps restarted.
With Hull 1 now floating quite near to her normal waterline a swarm of men under the direction of Herr Coblenz went aboard. Köhler saw Herr Glocke alone and called out to him.
“Herr Glocke. That was amazing!”
The Vulkan man blinked, his dark bushy eyebrows dancing. “What? Ah, Ja. I suppose it must seem so to one who has never seen such before.”
“How many times have you done this?”
Glocke wiggled his hand. “You matrosen tend to break them.”
Now it was Köhler’s turn to blink. Glocke’s comment hadn’t had any bite, but he still wasn’t wasn’t sure how to take it.
Do these ingenieur from Vulcan simply see us as kinder, who break the toys they laboriously build for us, making it necessary to constantly repair them? Constantly.
“When will she be ready to tow clear of the other hull, Herr Glocke?
Glocke canted his head at the hulk. "Herr Coblentz is aboard."
He then waved vaguely in a new direction. Turning his head Köhler saw two large oceangoing tugs at anchor, each bearing a large “V” on their funnel.
"Perhaps tonight."
Wait…tonight what? Oh! They may be able to tow her tonight!
“That is very good news! I hesitate to ask, when can you begin on the other?”
“It has already begun,” Glocke answered. “Patching, then pumping. Ah, Herr Coblenz is waving for my attention. If you will excuse me, Herr Kapitänleutnant?”
Will it be a day, or a week, or a month?
Equal parts frustrated and buoyed by Glocke’s words, Köhler looked out at the film of light ice on the water and worried that even if the men from Vulkan cleared the second hull quickly there was a very short window before the harbor was iced in. With a good icebreaker they could keep it open into February, maybe even longer.
I don’t know how much more of this boredom I can take; it is an unseen enemy - a terrible sort of suicide. (Note 3) Perhaps once the harbor is iced in, my transfer to a sea billet will be approved.
His joy at the thought of sea duty was interrupted by a matrosen jogging down the pier, calling his name and waving to get his attention.
“Ja, was ist es?”
The man stopped and took the time to straighten his uniform before saluting. “Herr Kapitänleutnant.”
“Ja ja, spit it out!”
“Ships, Herr Kapitänleutnant, A dozen ships or more have been sighted to the south. Five of them have heavy topmasts and three funnels.”
Köhler smiled.
Eighth Linenschiffe Division! The Braunschweigs make excellent icebreakers. The port could stay open until…
His smile slumped. With the port in operation through the winter, the chances of getting shipboard duty any time soon had just disappeared.
December 24th. 1140. 59th Infantry Brigade. Northwest of Wesenberg, Esthland. (Note 4)
Laying on his belly, Feldwebel Joseph Havemayer stared out from the edge of the pine forest at the city.
Seems quiet. But I don’t trust it.
Wesenberg looked to be good-sized, certainly bigger than anything he’d seen since leaving Walk three weeks ago on the roundabout trek across Livland and Esthland. A large schlöss, apparently long in ruins, occupied a hill to the west, and a tall church spire stood in its shadow, substantial buildings in the Russer style clustered about it like kinder hanging on a matron’s skirts. Havemayer didn’t see any signs of enemy occupation, no trenches, fortifications, outposts, nor patrols. Nonetheless something clawed at the back of his senses. There was a sense of waiting in the air, of anticipation.
It's too quiet. Where are the people moving about, coming or going about their lives?
A glint from near the top of the church spire caught his attention.
A lookout using binoculars or a telescope?
He checked the midday sun, whoever was up there hadn’t been looking in his direction.
“Feldwebel. On the hill.”
His unteroffizier pointed to the dirt road leading up to the stone ruins, where a pair of heavily laden farm carts trundled along under the direction of four men in green Russer militia uniforms.
What could possibly be in the ruins that required that much in the way of supplies, other than a garrison that sought to stay out of sight?
Havemayer thought it a shame that the 7th Dragoons had bypassed the city. He understood that they were terrible troops in the business of taking a city and no doubt wanted to race as far ahead as possible before Russer reinforcements arrived from the east, but if they’d properly scouted the city and sent a report back to his brigade, then the Generalmajor would have had time to plan. Now, with less than four hours of full daylight remaining, it would be a hasty attack of some kind.
Havemayer quickly wrote out a report of what he’d seen and what he suspected. “Messenger. Get this to the Generalmajor as fast as you can go. Schnell!”
December 24th. 1430. Austro-Hungarian 5th Army HQ. Plyussa, Russia.
General der Infanterie Otto von Below carefully watched his counterparts of the Austro-Hungarian 5th Army and German 9th Army as the 5th Army Operations Chief briefed the Army's status.
“…and the rest of the korps will be in position by tomorrow noon. Moving over to 16th Korps, they are also in contact with the field fortifications fronting Luga…”
It wasn’t that he was uninterested in the latest status of the Austro-Hungarian forces closing in on the strategic Russer city of Luga – he certainly was. No, this was only the second time since the operation kicked off that he and his fellow generals had met face to face, and he was more interested in watching his fellow kommanders. It would be their strength, their fortitude that would tell in the coming weeks and determine the future of the offensive. In the snow and cold, facing Russers who were world renowned for their hardiness and ability to persist in the face of inevitable failure, the men of the 5th, 8th, and 9th would fight until they could go no further, but how far that was would depend on the three of them.
The road to St. Petersburg would demand that all three generals have hearts and wills of iron.
Though the dual monarchy had not covered itself with honors in this war, von Below though highly of Feldmarschall-Leutnant Boroević. His planning and execution of the main line of effort up the rail line had been flawless so far. It didn’t hurt that unlike the two German armies his troops were fresh, and he had a mass of heavy artillery that any kommander would kill for, but on the other hand his troops were hardly veterans and a product of a mediocre training establishment that had never managed to iron out the problems caused by the polyglot nature of their empire.
Even so, von Below saw in Boroević a steadiness that should serve well.
But will that hold in a crisis? And does he have the aggressive side needed to match it?
Generalfeldmarschall Prinz Leopold of Bavaria, a decade older than he and Boroević, was more of a cypher. The bristle-stiff beard jutting from his chin gave him a pugnacious mien, yet his demeanor in the planning sessions and today was careful and considering. Coming from the cavalry arm it was certain that he could be aggressive, but would he have the heart to continue in the face of crippling losses and horrible winter conditions?
“Unless there are further questions, that concludes the status of 5th Army,“ finished the Austro-Hungarian Operation Chef, clearly hoping there were no questions, and he could exit the limelight.
Boroević spoke into the sudden quiet. “I believe that my infantry will be ready to conduct local offensive operations against the enemy fortifications by the end of the day, supported by my field and foot artillery. The heavy mörsers are being emplaced and should be ready tomorrow. The siege howitzers will not be ready for at least three days. Ammunition resupply for the heavy artillery will remain sparse, so I intend to only use them at the points of attack and on the enemy reserve positions behind those.”
“9th Army will be ready for limited offensive action tomorrow,” Prinz Leopold added quietly, “though a few more days would see a much stronger punch.”
When the two senior officers turned to von Below, he leaned forward, “My right wing is still moving through the forest, so 8th Army will not be fully positioned for two to three days. I have strengthened the wing to take advantage of an envelopment should the opportunity present itself, but even so, I will be able to conduct local attacks tomorrow.”
“Gut,” Prinz Leopold said, “Local attacks to determine the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, using our korps artillery, then – unless the situation changes – on the 28th we’ll hit his whole line.”
Boroević spoke up, “If I may, there is one additional item for 5th Army.” At a nod from the Bavarian royal he continued. “5th Army has but two infantry korps, each of you has at least four infantry korps and an attached cavalry division. Necessary as you’ve had to secure the flanks of the advance,” he added quickly as Prinz Leopold looked ready to speak up. “Casualties have been relatively light up to this point, nonetheless I am concerned that a determined Russer defense of Luga will reduce my infantry strength enough to make the following push on St Petersburg somewhat questionable, particularly with the rail lines south of here destroyed.”
Von Below and Prinz Leopold exchanged looks.
Is Boroević preparing for failure?
“I am not suggesting we alter the plan, nor that 5th Army cannot continue,” Boroević went on. “What I am suggesting is that I will need more infantry, and better artillery ammunition supply to continue to hammer the Russers. Accordingly, I’ve requested an addition korps, draft horses, and more heavy artillery ammunition. I have yet to hear back from the Chief of the General Staff.”
Oh, to be a bird in Conrad’s office when that cable came in!
“You wish our support?” At Boroević’s nod von Below looked at Prinz Leopold, who arched an eyebrow and then nodded.
“I’ll have a cable drafted, to Ober Ost and OHL.” (Note 6)
December 24th. 1620. 148th regiment. Western Esthland.
It was a village that didn’t appear on the maps, naturally, leaving Oberstleutnant Kühn to scratch his head.
The meagre markings on the map didn’t fit any of the terrain that he was seeing. Over there should be the northern edge of the swamps that had lined the day’s march, yet on they stretched on his right flank in all their impassible glory. On the northeast side of railroad line should be forest, yet those were clearly the stubbled remains of fields.
The townsfolk, those that hadn’t disappeared in hiding at the 148th Regiment’s approach, claimed that the village was named Turba. Turba that apparently only existed on Russer maps.
“How far is it to Risti?” Kühn asked the village headman, hoping that he could establish a distance to the last town they were in and thus have a better idea of where he was.
“You just came from there, didn’t you Herr General?” The headman replied with a look that suggested that Kuhn was a dumpkopf.
“I am an Oberstleutnant. Ja, but how long will it take you to walk there?”
“A full day, in winter, Herr General.”
“Oberstleutnant. Gut, and how far to the next village that way?” Kuhn asked, pointing northeast along the railway.
“Herr General, at this time of year it takes but a morning to get to Riisipere.”
Very well, today I’m a General. Riisipere…could that be…
“Riesenberg?”
“Yes, Herr General. Riesenberg, Riisipere. Same.” Now that they agreed on everything except Kuhn’s rank, the headman was nodding and smiling.
Kuhn motioned to his deputy kommander, pointing beyond the village. “Scout ahead on the road until it diverges from the rail line – that should be about 5 km ahead. The commissariat to follow, guarded by the radfahrer bataillon. The regiment will rest here until the 79th Field Artillery catches up then both regiments will rejoin the advanced party. Tonight.”
“Herr Oberstleutnant, a night march…what if the Russers choose then to attack?”
Kühn nodded. “It is possible, but in the last two engagements they fired almost no shots before fleeing; I think they are out of ammunition. I understand the risk, but I want to time the regiment’s arrival at Friedrichshof to have an opportunity to attack the town and any fortifications before dawn the day after tomorrow. In more than bataillon strength, the advance guard should be alright tonight.”
The deputy nodded in understanding and ran off to get the scouts moving.
“Signals!” Kühn shouted. “Send a messenger to brigade with the following: ‘148 one day march S of obj F. Enemy in flight’.”
That should keep von Blumenthal off my arsch tonight.
“Wait,” he shouted at the signals officer. “A second message to the 152nd. “Will be near Riesenberg junction tonight.”
While his 148th would follow the road northeast toward Friedrichshof, the 152nd Regiment behind him was supposed to follow the rail line north toward Keila where the branch line to Baltischeport split off. He didn’t want to leave the rail and road junction unguarded in his rear as he moved on his objective. Russer reinforcements coming by rail from Reval could cut off his regiment before he could even think to react.
If that happened, they wouldn’t have to be smart, just lucky with their timing.
December 24th. 1805. 59th Infantry Brigade. Wesenberg, Estland.
Feldwebel Havemayer jerked in pain as the attendant adjusted the bandage on his left forearm.
“Enough. Verflucht!”
“In this cold, by tomorrow you’ll be thankful for a tightly bound wound Feldwebel. Otherwise, you’d lose the hand and wrist for certain.
“At least the bayonet left a clean hole and only nicked the radius.”
Yeah. Lucky me.
Crack! Boom! Crack! Crack! Boom! Boom!
The makeshift hospital set up in the city’s schoolhouse shook, dust showering down as the brigade’s artillery pounded the Russer position up in the ruined schlöss.
Except for that last strongpoint, Wesenberg was firmly in German hands. The brigade had attacked from three sides and swiftly defeated the bataillon of militia scattered in strong points throughout the city. House to house fighting was usually a slow and bloody affair, but the Russers had been handicapped by having very little rifle ammunition. It had been one of the very last buildings, near the eastern edge of town, where Havemayer had taken a Russer bayonet in the forearm.
Crack! CraCrack! Boom! BoBooom!
A high-pitched scream cut through the evening’s gloom, adding an unholy counterpoint to the pounding of the artillery.
Hard to tell if that was a man dying, or a woman who would soon be wishing she were dead.
The Heer’s oft-repeated policy was to leave the civilians alone, unless of course they were caught as Freischärler (Note 6). Nonetheless, there were soldiers in every army who would risk the wrath of their chain of command to slake their lust.
An unteroffizier poked his head into the room, looking around the dozen or so wounded men before his gaze settled on Havemayer’s collar.
“Feldwebel Havemayer?”
“Ja?”
“Your kompanie has orders to depart two hours before dawn, scouting. I am to report back to battailon whether or not you will be fit to depart with them.”
“Ja/Nein.” Havemayer and the medic replied simultaneously.
Havemayer glared at the medic but spoke to the unteroffizier. “Inform bataillon that I will lead the scout kompany out as ordered.”
-------------------------
33km east of Wesenberg, the kommander of the 7th Dragoons, Oberstleutnant Höger, scratched his head while looking at map. The maps of Esthland were never perfect, but right now the only thing he knew for certain was that he was still heading east along the rail line. The map said that he should be at Isenhof, his objective for the day, but the townsfolk he questioned were certain that their town was called Püssi, which of course did not appear on his map.
A snowflake plopped down on the folded map. Then more.
Schieße, just what I need now.
Turning to his deputy, Höger decided to cease the advance for the day. “Major Zierlein, we’ll camp here tonight and hope for better weather tomorrow. After the horses are taken care of, get as many men as you can under cover. If the snow lets up, 3rd Squadron will head east an hour before sunrise. If it’s still snowing I’ll make a decision in the morning. And don’t forget to post a strong barricade sentry at least a kilometer out along the rail line.”
December 24th. 2230. SMS Blücher 15nm north of Dagö Island, heading 030 at 12 knots.
“Herr Konteradmiral, flashing light from Stralsund. ‘CLRD M/F’.”
Inside the Russer ‘lake’ again.
“Gut, set the formation course to the first waypoint.”
Albert Hopman felt exultant, despite the harsh sting from the heavy snow blowing straight across Blücher’s open bridgewing. All of Second Scouting – Blücher, Frankfurt, Weisbaden, Regensburg, Graudenz, Rostock, and Stralsund – supported by the twenty torpedoboots of 2nd and 6th flotillas, were headed into the waters off Reval.
His Christmas mission was simple - to poke the Russer bear.
Notes
Note 1. Nikolay Alexeyevich Maklakov was Tsarist Russia’s Interior Minister from 16 December, 1912 to 5 June, 1915.
Note 2. Uleåborg = Oulu, Finland at the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia.
Note 3. Paraphrased from the novel “Mr. Roberts”, by Thomas Heggen.
Note 4. Wesenberg is now Rakvere, Estonia
Note 5. Ober Ost = shortened form of Oberbefehlshaber der gesamten Deutschen Streitkräfte im Osten, Supreme Commander of all German forces in the east.
OHL = Oberste Heeresleitung, Supreme Army Command
Note 6. Freischärler, “Free soldiers/irregulars” = francs-tireurs = partisans = guerillas
statistics: Posted by seaoh1979 — 10:22 PM - 1 day ago — Replies 0 — Views 34