Chapter 18 – At the Threshold
December 18th. 0445. Austro-Hungarian 5th Army. South of Novosel’e, Russia (43 km NE of Pskow).
Bright light briefly flashed amidst the snow-crusted forest just before the ground rumbled and trees swayed, causing the heavily laden branches to drop their winter burden in great lumps. The snow hit the forest floor just as the slower-moving sound of the opening artillery salvoes arrived.
Feldmarschall-Leutnant Svetovar Boroević tried to imagine the Russer infantry on the receiving end of hundreds of artillery shells every minute for the next four hours. Those lucky few who had dugouts or bunkers would be praying that they weren’t hit or buried alive by unfortunate shots. All the others would be face down, desperately trying to make their bodies one with the earth and wishing they were anywhere else, praying to their orthodox God that they would survive the day. Shells timed to explode in the air would be particularly effective today, in these forest conditions; each one shattering many trees that would in turn shower the ground huggers with vicious splinter-bullets.
As the war on the Westfront had proven, such artillery barrages would kill many, but far fewer than one might think. Infantry assaults right on the heels of even the heaviest barrages nonetheless ran into ready opposition that had somehow survived.
Boroević was certain there would be many killed and more wounded, but the enemy here at Novosel’e – in good defensive ground – likely would have exacted a high price of his infantry, if he had any intention of making a frontal assault on the heels of the artillery barrage.
The expenditure of such vast numbers of shells, each painstakingly hauled from the railhead at Pskow, had a different purpose than dealing death or paving the way for an infantry attack.
He gazed off to the northwest, where the German Ninth Army would soon crash into the exposed right flank of the Russer defenses. And none of the tens of thousands of infantry pinned in place by his artillery would be able to do a verdammt thing about it.
December 18th. 0840. 20th Korps. Arensburg, Ösel Island
In the tradition of such things, adopted by civilized peoples long before general Hermann von François’ beloved German Empire had been founded, Russer General-Mayor Pavel Lebedev offered the hilt of his sword.
“In accordance with the terms upon which we have previously agreed, I hereby surrender to you the Imperial 107th Infantry Division and all other armed forces on the islands of Ösel, Dagö, and Moon.
“Rolls of all the officers and men will be made in duplicate, one copy to be given to an officer to be designated by me, the other to be retained by such officer or officers as you may designate. The arms, artillery, and property are to be parked and stacked and turned over to the officers appointed by you to receive them. This will not embrace the private horses or baggage of the officers.”
Von François put his hand upon the proffered hilt and pressed it back into Lebedev’s surprised hands.
“I accept your surrender, Pavel Pavlovich, but do not require you to surrender your sword. Your men fought with both bravery and honor; I would be churlish to take it from you. Come, join me in a cup of tea.”
Von François sat with his Russer counterpart for a few minutes and discussed events far from the war. Though the Russer had the countenance of a brutish Slav – heavy features under thick black hair, massive black eyebrows shading midnight-colored eyes – he found his erstwhile enemy to be a lively and intelligent conversationalist. Had they but met under different circumstances he might have considered Lebedev a comrade in arms.
There was a short rap at the door and the Chief of Staff stepped in. He tilted his head toward the door and raised an eyebrow.
“Well, Herr General-Mayor,” von François said, “Much as I’ve enjoyed this, duty calls.”
“No matter our earthly commanders, duty is always the master of men such as we, until the Father calls us into his arms,” Lebedev replied with a sad smile.
Von François returned the gesture, “Indeed. I have set aside a suite of rooms here at the schloss for you, I hope you find them satisfactory. A steamer will arrive soon, and, in a few days, you’ll be off to Germany, where I hope you are well received.”
“I could ask for no more, and I shall remember your hospitality.”
Von François nodded, then stepped into the hall, turning to the Chief of Staff. “Update.”
“Herr General, the 41st is seeing to the prisoners. The 37th is on the road to Orrissar and the causeway over to Moon Island. The 4th Radfahrer crossed to Moon an hour ago and reports no resistance. They should reach the other side of the island well before noon, to link up with the Navy and the steamers waiting for us.”
“Gut,” von François answered with a nod. “And the Landsturm Brigade?”
“Finishing loading at Windau as we speak. The first ships will sail within the hour.”
“Excellent; they should be here later tonight. Orders to the 41st, be ready to turn over the prisoners immediately, and depart as soon as possible after first light tomorrow.”
“Jawohl, Herr General.”
Hopefully Rudburg will keep his promise to seize the port at Hapsal. It is less than 100 kilometers from there to Reval – and most of it open countryside. With my reinforced korps ashore there, and well supplied by sea, the coast of Estland will be mine.
December 18th. 0930. Steamer Tagus. Moored, Hapsal, Estland.
Crack! Ping!
Scheiße!
Generalleutnant von Blumenthal ducked back below the questionable protection of Tagus’ railing as rifle bullets spalled off the little steamer’s hull and superstructure, wood splinters showering him, the 3rd Battalion’s kommander, and the remainder of the battalion. A half-dozen feldgrau-clad men lay unmoving where they fell at the foot of the brow when the Russer infantrymen rose up from the hidden trench in ambush, just as those first men began leaving the ship.
The Russers were still firing by volley, so von Blumenthal risked a quick glance to confirm his estimate. Less than a kompany opposed them, but it was enough to keep everyone pinned on the ship. His leg hurt from crouching down.
There mustn’t be an experienced officer over there, else they would have waited for more of the men to be off the ship and out in the open before opening fire.
Von Blumenthal glanced at the small German warship of some kind outboard of Tagus, steaming back and forth. She couldn’t seem to get an angle to fire on the well-positioned Russer trench.
As usual, the Navy is worthless. I’ll have to do this myself.
“Oberstleutnant Stein, what are you staring at?”
“Herr Generalleutnant, your leg.”
Von Blumenthal looked down where the battalion kommander had fixed his gaze and saw that his right calf was bloody. He shifted his weight and pain exploded from his knee down. Everything still seemed to work, so it was likely only a wound through the muscle. A round must have ricocheted through one of those oval openings along the deck, whatever the verdammt Navy used them for. Von Blumenthal took the leather strap off his binocular case and began wrapping it around his lower leg.
“Don’t worry about me, what are you waiting for? We need to get off this ship.”
Stein looked over the railing at the bodies, looked back at von Blumenthal. His eyes were huge. He actually gulped.
“Himmelherrgott!” von Blumenthal snapped. “Don’t even think about charging the Russers in single file down that plank!
“Get your maschinengewehre set up on those platforms, those… hatches. With six heavy guns firing on them, they’ll break.”
It took too long to set up the maxims, and several of the maschinengewehr crew were hit by rifle fire, but once the heavy guns were up and firing it was as von Blumenthal predicted. A handful of Russers that tried to bolt out of the trench and escape down the dirt road toward the town were mowed down and the remainder quickly surrendered.
Von Blumenthal limped down the gangway as his men streamed by to take the Russers prisoner and head ashore. The port was now his, and it didn’t look like the town itself was defended.
Victory at last, and I don’t have to share it with anyone, especially not the useless Navy.
December 18th. 0950. SMS Straßburg. 6nm south of Arensburg. Heading 170 at 10 knots
Kapitän Siegmund shifted his binoculars from Kolberg, astern and gathering way as she followed his Straßburg out of the anchorage, to the town of Arensburg beyond. The town was picturesque, and most of its inhabitants friendly, but he was nonetheless quite happy to be leaving.
There was an undertone of anger – no, hatred – among some of the Ests, though surely less than one part in five. It didn’t seem solely directed at the city’s new masters, yet there had been enough dagger looks to know that the occupation troops might not have a comfortable time.
Was it some residual antipathy toward the Baltic German nobility, lackeys as they were to the Russer overlords? Anger at the privation, damage, and death from the final siege of the town? The numerous red banners hung from windows, in competition with the new blue black and white flags, suggested the socialists and their hatred of nobility, the military, and empires was also in play.
It would soon be a problem for the Landsturm troops, whose safe arrival from Windau was Siegmund’s next assignment.
“Deck. 20 knots.”
“Aye Kapitän. Helm. Make turns for 20 knots.”
“Make turns for 20 knots, aye.”
The southwest sea breeze soon reached nearly thirty knots relative, and Siegmund left the problems brewing on Ösel Island to someone else. It was good to be back at sea.
December 18th. 0950. SMS Markgraf. Wurms Sound. Heading 195 at 11 knots
Others too were happy to be heading to the open sea.
Karl Dahm had thought for certain that he would be transferred over to Augsburg, the kreuzer remaining behind along with a torpedoboot halbflotillas to cover the minelaying operations in the Wurms-Dägo passage, and then protect the transfer of the 20th Korps from Moon to Hapsal in the coming days. Such work would have been well within the scope of his staff assignment, yet the admiral had cryptically told him that he had “other plans for you.”
Whatever those plans were, Dahm looked forward to the Sondergruppe operating in the open sea. Steaming among the islands of the archipelago, with the constant risk of running into minefields, or being subject to surprise attacks launched from the myriad of bays, inlets, and passages, Dahm felt like he could never rest, and his thinking felt fuzzy and slow. While it was true that he’d largely been able to outguess the Russers, he knew that the longer the big ships stayed here the chances of disaster striking rose like the sun.
He checked the chart and saw that by noon they should have left the Moon Sound and entered the Gulf of Riga.
Gut. After Mittagessen I’ll sneak down to my cabin and try to get some rest. I really need sleep.
----------------------------
The on-watch funkenpuster heard four bells echo down the passageway outside the tiny Telefunken room.
Gott, two more hours to Mittagessen! I really need food and then sleep, but… must… stay… awake.
The arhythmic clack of an incoming message snapped him out of his stupor. When he recognized the identity of the message originator, all thoughts of sleep vanished.
-----------------------------
After Mittagessen we’ll be out from among these islands. Perhaps I’ll have the steward and Chief of Staff keep everyone away from my cabin. I really need sleep.
Vizeadmiral Carl Rudburg hid a yawn behind his hands, then rubbed his gritty eyes while observing the Sondergruppe shake out into steaming formation: the dreadnought division in column behind Markgraf, Elbing and Pillau well ahead off the port and starboard bows, and the torpedoboot halbflots moving purposefully on either flank. He was pleased that the constant operations had drilled them into a cohesive unit that required very little in the way of signals. Of course, once they joined with Hopman’s scouting forces and the rest of Third Battle Squadron, they’d have to start over again, but his core staff were up to the task.
A funkenpuster messenger came up to his elbow and saluted. “A message from the kommander.”
The messenger’s emphasis on the last word gave away the sender of the short message:
WELL DONE.
8 LS DIV UW WITH STRONG ESCORT. WILL ARR LIBAU 20 DEC TO COAL THEN ASSUME DEFENSE OF ISLANDS ON 22 DEC.
PRESS FORWARD.
CINC OSTSEEFLOTTE
8th Linienschiff Division – the five Braunschweigs – were the last of the Prinz-Admiral’s heavy ships, the dozen older ships of the Brandenburg, Kaiser Friedrich III, and Wittelsbach classes, as well as the older großerkreuzers, having been placed in reserve or laid up to free the matrosen to replace combat losses and feed the insatiate maw of new construction.
Kiel must be empty. And Wilhelmshaven has only the battered 1st Battle Squadron, the obsolete 2nd, and 1st Scouting… Mein gott! With 1st Scouting in the Nordsee dancing with the Grand Fleet there is practically nothing to defend the Bight! The Baron must be confident that the Royal Navy is well and truly on the back foot.
Rudberg shivered.
Eventually, the RN will bounce back – this thrust at the Tsar’s heart had better succeed.
December 18th. 1300. SMS Straßburg. 8nm west of Windau. Heading 010 at 5 knots
“Herr Kapitän. Wayward Star answering our signal. CONDENSER PROBLEMS. BEST SPD 6.”
“Very well.”
Siegmund cursed under his breath. The master of the little steamer at the end of the wobbly column may have thought he was making six knots, but Straßburg’s pit log showed both ships making a shade under five.
This is what happens when we take up steamers from trade to haul troops around to shallow ports. The good ships from the Atlantic trade are too deep, and the good ones from the Baltic already have solid contracts, and usually belong to big companies that can afford to get dispensation to keep their ships on their normal runs. We are left with the misfit ships that were rusting at the piers. They claim to be able to make contract speed of at least eight knots, but often not.
Loaded to the gunwales with Landsturm troops for the occupation of the islands, he couldn’t let the well-named little scow fall astern.
“Signals. Formation Speed 6.”
“Bootsmann. Regards to the Second Leutnant, he is to rig the ship for towing.”
If Wayward Star can’t keep six knots on her own, I’ll pull her that fast. The sooner we get back to Arensburg, the sooner we can rejoin the Fleet.
December 18th. 1330. SMS T-75. 17nm NNW of Dagö Island. Heading 110 at 4 knots
Leutnant der Seewehr Ebersbach checked the chronometer and was surprised to see that it had been over three hours since the sweep gear had hooked a mine.
Yesterday there had been an even dozen of the big round five-horn mines pulled up, and ten the day before (Note 1). Today only two. Either the Russers had left a pocket in their mine barrier – unlikely since the average spacing had been consistent throughout – or he had reached the inner edge of the barrier.
He checked the chart and saw that T-75 was an even dozen nautical miles from the southwestern edge of the barrier.
Twelve nautical miles is about twenty Russer versts. Would they have laid the field that simply, that geometrically? If so, we may have reached the end of the field. I’ll double the spacing on this next sweep line to make sure.
Ebersbach looked up.
“Helm. Left 10 degrees rudder, steady on 290.”
“Left 10 degrees, steady on 290, aye.”
Ebersbach grabbed the message pad and scribbled off a quick message reporting his suspicion that he’d passed through the field.
“Funker messenger! Send this immediately.”
December 18th. 1331. Submarine Bars. 18nm NNW of Dagö Island. Heading 250 at 3 knots. Submerged at periscope depth.
Xorošó! (Note 2)
Starshii' Leitenant Rodzyanko smiled as the enemy torpedoboat turned back toward Bars. With such a small target, getting into torpedo firing position practically required a cooperative enemy. This one was more than helpful in coming back across his bow.
“Motor ahead dead slow.”
“Ahead dead slow, aye Captain. Motor is ahead dead slow.”
“Set depth Number One and Two D-collar torpedoes to shallow.” (Note 3)
“Number One and Two D-collar torpedoes set to shallow.”
“Rig out number One and Two D-collar torpedoes.”
Thunk.
Rodzyanko held his breath waiting for the report that the two fish were ready to fire. The enemy craft, though slow, was coming up on the firing angle; he only had a minute at most before he would lose the shot.
A thunk sounded through the hull as the second collar finally dropped out and into position.
“Number One and Two D-collar torpedoes rigged out and ready to fire.”
“Torpedo Officer. Stand by…Fire!”
Rodzyanko heard the propellors on the two fish whine as the compressed air engines came up to speed. The sound from the port torpedo soon faded as it raced off. The sound from the starboard one stayed right alongside.
“Hung fish!!!” yelled the Torpedo Officer.
Rodzyanko had heard rumors of this happening on other boats in practice firing, but that gave him no comfort as the warhead on the fish – hanging only half a meter off the hull – was now armed. Everyone in the control room froze, looking to him. The noise in the control room from the torpedo was deafening.
He yelled at the Torpedo Officer. “Don’t just stare at me. Fire it again!”
The Torpedo Officer jumped, but before he could do anything the forward hatch opened and a michman stuck his head through.
“Captain. Report from the forward torpedo room…the release cable was bound up. Relaunching.”
The whining suddenly dropped off as it raced away, and sighs wafted through the boat.
What of the good shot!?!
Rodzyanko heaved the periscope up and swung it around to find the enemy torpedoboat.
There!
Just as he centered the scope a huge column of water leapt up from the enemy’s stern.
Wuuumpf!
Cheers filled the control room on the heels of the heavy concussion of the torpedo hit a mere 400 meters away.
Rodzyanko continued to watch the enemy as the dark water and smoke cleared. Nothing was heard or seen of the second torpedo, but the first seemed to have done its work. Ten meters of the torpedo boat’s stern were simply gone, the deck aft was even with the water and settling. The bow tilted up. Ant-like men were scrambling off – they would soon die in the nearly frozen water – but amidships tiny figures were clearing away a boat. Bars’ captain was filled with rage at the thought of any of the enemy escaping.
“For uncle Aleksander Pavlovich,” he whispered. Then he shouted to overcome the noise of the celebrating crewmen, “Prepare to surface!”
“Gun crews, Captain?” asked the First Leytenant.
“Da, da. Both the 6.3 and 3.7. are to be manned, we must silence his forward gun quickly,” Rodzyanko ordered, then added, “When we surface, I want you to stay here in the control room, I want someone I can trust to put another torpedo into him if needed.”
“Of course, Captain!”
As Bars surfaced Rodzyanko brought the boat to a stop, beam on to the sinking enemy so that both guns could bear. He realized too how small the enemy was; she had been no more than a third of his submarine’s displacement, before losing her stern!
“Main gun, target his hull. Aircraft gun, target that deck gun.”
Crack!
Crack! Crack!
No return fire came from the enemy.
After a few rounds a fortunate shot tore the enemy’s deck gun from its mounting, and the 3.7cm anti-aircraft gun fell silent.
A boat pushed off from the enemy’s side, with at least a dozen men in it frantically trying to row away.
Rodzyanko turned to the 3.7cm gun captain and caught his eye. “Good shooting. Now, take that boat under fire, we can’t have them going back aboard after we leave.” He held the gun captain’s eyes until he saw that he was fully understood.
December 18th. 1337. SMS T-79. 14nm NNW of Dagö Island. Heading 330 at 3 knots
Verdammt. Poor bastarde.
There wasn’t a crewman aboard T-79 that didn’t understand that life on a minensucher could end in an instant. Their job was pulling huge explosives up from the sea and detonating them. Even when things went properly there was danger and when not there was death. An undetected mine, or even one that they’d pulled up with their sweep gear too closely, could detonate and smash the elderly little boat like a giant swatting a fly. Alive one moment and then gone.
It seemed the latter for T-75. T-79’s kapitän, a reservist fisherman, watched through his binoculars as the smoke cleared from around their sister boot. All doubt of T-75’s fate was removed – she was already well down by the stern.
“Helm. Come left to 320. 8 knots.”
“Left to 320 at 8 knots, aye Herr Kapitän.”
He wanted to get to his fellows as soon as possible, but even eight knots was probably too fast. He suspected the three sea miles to T-75 had already been cleared of mines, but at eight knots the lookout wouldn’t spot a stray mine until it was right under the bow.
“Bootsmann. Station all off watch lookouts forward. And in ten minuten, call away the Rescue and Assistance party.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”
The messenger came up, saluted and handed over a message slip. “Herr Kapitän, the Funker reports hearing a message from T-75 to the Minensucher Division, but the message was incomplete.”
The message slip was indeed a broken message: ‘NO MINES FOUND SINCE 1010. BELIEVE HAVE REACHED END OF [message ends]’
He started drafting a message to the Division Kommander, advising him of T-75’s fate.
“Kapitän?”
“Report.”
“Something is happening at T-75.”
“Was? Lookout. A complete report if you please.”
Scheiße! Shell splashes!
“Kapitän, a surfaced U-boot is shooting at T-75. Bearing half point to starboard of her. and just beyond. They appear to be shooting at the lifeboat!”
He froze for perhaps two seconds. What could he do? He was a fisherman, not a fighter, and T-79 was barely armed with a single tiny 5cm kanon. The gun crew were barely trained, and then only to shoot at mines sitting still in the water.
He looked around, there were no other boots in sight, and only him to do something.
Anger, no rage, at the Russer for shooting at men in the water galvanized him.
“Action Stations! Helm. Turns for 15 knots. Bring up the second boiler.”
He quickly amended the wireless report to the Division Kommander, then decided that if nothing else worked he would ram the U-boot.
Bastarde!
December 18th. 1340. BdAdO on SMS Blücher. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 325 at 12 knots
“Signals. Detach the S Flotilla.”
Albert Hopman turned away; his mouth pinched in frustration. He was spending far too much time orchestrating the never-ending ballet to keep his ships’ bunkers topped off.
His scouting force, now supported by the dreadnaughts of 6th Division, had remained off the northwest coast of Dägo for nine days, ever since the landings at Tagga Bay on the 9th. Stuck here until his minensuchers broke through the Russer mine barrier blocking the entrance to the Finnischer Meerbusen, the very real possibility of Russer U-boots prevented him from laying to, to reducing coal consumption. At 12 knots – the minimum needed to keep enemy U-boots from getting easy shots – his ships burned as much coal as if they were crossing the Atlantik.
The math was inescapable; at 12 knots the battleships would reach 50% coal in 14 days, Blücher in 11 days, the kleine kreuzers in 8 days, and the short-legged coal fired torpedoboots in just 4 days.
He’d tried one suggestion, to have the torpedoboots steam alongside the battleships and take coal bags using the big boat cranes. It had worked after a fashion, but the transfer was so slow that even at 10 knots the torpedoboots burned more coal than they could take on. At best it gained a day at sea for the little craft.
The only workable method was to detach the ships in penny packets to Tagga Bay, where they could coal alongside the colliers safely anchored there. The S Flotilla, the specialist anti-U-boot flotilla consisting entirely of elderly boots, was enroute to their second coaling, to be followed by Blücher. He wasn’t looking forward to transferring his flag to Weisbaden.
Hopman turned abruptly back into the pilot house and promptly bumped right into a messenger.
The surprised messenger blurted out, “Pardon my clumsiness, Herr Konteradmiral.”
“Ja, ja, what do have there?”
“Two wireless reports from II Minensucher Geschwader.”
Hopman read the dispatches with first excitement, and then growing concern. The kommander had received a report from one of his boots that it had likely reached the end of the mine barrier, but the message was incomplete, followed by a report from a second boot that the first had been attacked by a surfaced U-boot.
Schieße. Wait! If they are being attacked by Russer U-boots, they must have reached the inner edge of the barrier, or a cleared channel! We are through!
A quick look astern showed that he was not too late.
“Signals! Urgent. Recall the S Flotilla.”
The old TBs couldn’t chase the enemy U-boot for long, but they were the best, perhaps the only answer he had to U-boots.
No. There was another possibility. He scribbled off a quick message to Rudburg.
“Messenger! For the Funkenpuster, on the double!”
December 18th. 1545. Austro-Hungarian 5th Army. South of Novosel’e, Russia.
Svetovar Boroević looked up in surprise as an aide moved about the headquarters map room, lighting the gas lamps. He hadn’t realized how dim the room was getting, yet outside the west-facing window the sun was already down behind the trees.
Kvragu! (Note 4) The days are too short, almost to their nadir. Though they’ll soon get longer, the real cold is only beginning. I must make the most of the little time left before General Winter seizes all in his icy grip.
A growing murmur among the staff officers brought his attention back inside, where one of the men was updating the map.
Along Fifth Army’s front, straddling the Pskow-St Petersburg railroad and extending into the forests to the northwest and southeast, his artillery was pounding the Russers. After a few early salvoes from the heavier guns in the morning, the lighter field pieces were doing the work of keeping the Russers pinned down in their forest abatis.
For a change, the forests were working to his benefit; his infantry were able to get extremely close to the Russer defenses. Maschinengewehr and infantry probes were keeping them under pressure during lulls in the artillery fire. His ammunition expenditure was profligate, but if he could keep the Russers facing Fifth Army from sending reinforcement to their right flank…
“Herr Feldmarschall-Leutnant, an update from Ninth Army.”
ENEMY FWD LINES ENVELOPD, 2KM. OBSD LIM ENEMY RES. ATTACK ON RSTEL IMMINENT. RQST CEASE FIRE ARTY YR LEFT FLK. (Note 5)
“Orders!” Boroević snapped. “For 7th Korps: Cease arty fire. Friendlies in enemy rear. For all units: Continue probes, follow up enemy withdrawals, otherwise general attack to commence at 0810.”
The Russers would break tomorrow, of that he was certain.
December 18th. 2350. SMS Markgraf. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 010 at 11 knots
“Herr Vizeadmiral?”
“Ja, I’m awake.”
I wasn’t, but I am now.
“Flashing light from Pillau. SIGHTED 6TH DIV BRG 015.”
“Very well. Execute the rendezvous as previously planned. I’ll be up in half an hour.”
Rudburg sat up and began dressing.
Joining two large formations in the middle of the night was fraught with danger: collision a very real prospect with ships huge, middling, and tiny moving all about. Even taking the time to maneuver single divisions and halbflots at a time would lead to confusion and mistakes. It was something that only the RN and Kaiserliche Marine did at all regularly, and only two or three of the world’s other navies might even attempt in exigent circumstances. Had the ships of the Scouting Group spent the war in the Baltic instead of being Hochseeflot veterans, he wouldn’t have even considered it.
The ships will be fine, it’s Albert Hopman and his staff that I’m unsure of. With the Scouting Forces under Necki or Hanzik, or the Wolf himself, I wouldn’t worry about this.
Time for you to show me what you can do Albert.
Notes
Note 1. Likely Russian Model 1908 or Model 1912 moored contact mines. A simple but effective spherical mine that remained in use around the world into the 1980s.
Note 2. Xorošó = Good! (Russian)
Note 3. The Bars class, much larger than the older Kaiman class (Krokadil) carried four internal torpedoes (no at sea reloads) and eight torpedoes in external drop collars.
Note 4. Kvragu! = Damn! (Croatian)
Note 5. ‘The enemy forward lines have been enveloped to a width of 2 km. I have observed limited enemy reserves. My attack on enemy Reserve Stellung (reserve positions) is imminent. Request you cease fire with artillery on your left flank.’
December 18th. 0445. Austro-Hungarian 5th Army. South of Novosel’e, Russia (43 km NE of Pskow).
Bright light briefly flashed amidst the snow-crusted forest just before the ground rumbled and trees swayed, causing the heavily laden branches to drop their winter burden in great lumps. The snow hit the forest floor just as the slower-moving sound of the opening artillery salvoes arrived.
Feldmarschall-Leutnant Svetovar Boroević tried to imagine the Russer infantry on the receiving end of hundreds of artillery shells every minute for the next four hours. Those lucky few who had dugouts or bunkers would be praying that they weren’t hit or buried alive by unfortunate shots. All the others would be face down, desperately trying to make their bodies one with the earth and wishing they were anywhere else, praying to their orthodox God that they would survive the day. Shells timed to explode in the air would be particularly effective today, in these forest conditions; each one shattering many trees that would in turn shower the ground huggers with vicious splinter-bullets.
As the war on the Westfront had proven, such artillery barrages would kill many, but far fewer than one might think. Infantry assaults right on the heels of even the heaviest barrages nonetheless ran into ready opposition that had somehow survived.
Boroević was certain there would be many killed and more wounded, but the enemy here at Novosel’e – in good defensive ground – likely would have exacted a high price of his infantry, if he had any intention of making a frontal assault on the heels of the artillery barrage.
The expenditure of such vast numbers of shells, each painstakingly hauled from the railhead at Pskow, had a different purpose than dealing death or paving the way for an infantry attack.
He gazed off to the northwest, where the German Ninth Army would soon crash into the exposed right flank of the Russer defenses. And none of the tens of thousands of infantry pinned in place by his artillery would be able to do a verdammt thing about it.
December 18th. 0840. 20th Korps. Arensburg, Ösel Island
In the tradition of such things, adopted by civilized peoples long before general Hermann von François’ beloved German Empire had been founded, Russer General-Mayor Pavel Lebedev offered the hilt of his sword.
“In accordance with the terms upon which we have previously agreed, I hereby surrender to you the Imperial 107th Infantry Division and all other armed forces on the islands of Ösel, Dagö, and Moon.
“Rolls of all the officers and men will be made in duplicate, one copy to be given to an officer to be designated by me, the other to be retained by such officer or officers as you may designate. The arms, artillery, and property are to be parked and stacked and turned over to the officers appointed by you to receive them. This will not embrace the private horses or baggage of the officers.”
Von François put his hand upon the proffered hilt and pressed it back into Lebedev’s surprised hands.
“I accept your surrender, Pavel Pavlovich, but do not require you to surrender your sword. Your men fought with both bravery and honor; I would be churlish to take it from you. Come, join me in a cup of tea.”
Von François sat with his Russer counterpart for a few minutes and discussed events far from the war. Though the Russer had the countenance of a brutish Slav – heavy features under thick black hair, massive black eyebrows shading midnight-colored eyes – he found his erstwhile enemy to be a lively and intelligent conversationalist. Had they but met under different circumstances he might have considered Lebedev a comrade in arms.
There was a short rap at the door and the Chief of Staff stepped in. He tilted his head toward the door and raised an eyebrow.
“Well, Herr General-Mayor,” von François said, “Much as I’ve enjoyed this, duty calls.”
“No matter our earthly commanders, duty is always the master of men such as we, until the Father calls us into his arms,” Lebedev replied with a sad smile.
Von François returned the gesture, “Indeed. I have set aside a suite of rooms here at the schloss for you, I hope you find them satisfactory. A steamer will arrive soon, and, in a few days, you’ll be off to Germany, where I hope you are well received.”
“I could ask for no more, and I shall remember your hospitality.”
Von François nodded, then stepped into the hall, turning to the Chief of Staff. “Update.”
“Herr General, the 41st is seeing to the prisoners. The 37th is on the road to Orrissar and the causeway over to Moon Island. The 4th Radfahrer crossed to Moon an hour ago and reports no resistance. They should reach the other side of the island well before noon, to link up with the Navy and the steamers waiting for us.”
“Gut,” von François answered with a nod. “And the Landsturm Brigade?”
“Finishing loading at Windau as we speak. The first ships will sail within the hour.”
“Excellent; they should be here later tonight. Orders to the 41st, be ready to turn over the prisoners immediately, and depart as soon as possible after first light tomorrow.”
“Jawohl, Herr General.”
Hopefully Rudburg will keep his promise to seize the port at Hapsal. It is less than 100 kilometers from there to Reval – and most of it open countryside. With my reinforced korps ashore there, and well supplied by sea, the coast of Estland will be mine.
December 18th. 0930. Steamer Tagus. Moored, Hapsal, Estland.
Crack! Ping!
Scheiße!
Generalleutnant von Blumenthal ducked back below the questionable protection of Tagus’ railing as rifle bullets spalled off the little steamer’s hull and superstructure, wood splinters showering him, the 3rd Battalion’s kommander, and the remainder of the battalion. A half-dozen feldgrau-clad men lay unmoving where they fell at the foot of the brow when the Russer infantrymen rose up from the hidden trench in ambush, just as those first men began leaving the ship.
The Russers were still firing by volley, so von Blumenthal risked a quick glance to confirm his estimate. Less than a kompany opposed them, but it was enough to keep everyone pinned on the ship. His leg hurt from crouching down.
There mustn’t be an experienced officer over there, else they would have waited for more of the men to be off the ship and out in the open before opening fire.
Von Blumenthal glanced at the small German warship of some kind outboard of Tagus, steaming back and forth. She couldn’t seem to get an angle to fire on the well-positioned Russer trench.
As usual, the Navy is worthless. I’ll have to do this myself.
“Oberstleutnant Stein, what are you staring at?”
“Herr Generalleutnant, your leg.”
Von Blumenthal looked down where the battalion kommander had fixed his gaze and saw that his right calf was bloody. He shifted his weight and pain exploded from his knee down. Everything still seemed to work, so it was likely only a wound through the muscle. A round must have ricocheted through one of those oval openings along the deck, whatever the verdammt Navy used them for. Von Blumenthal took the leather strap off his binocular case and began wrapping it around his lower leg.
“Don’t worry about me, what are you waiting for? We need to get off this ship.”
Stein looked over the railing at the bodies, looked back at von Blumenthal. His eyes were huge. He actually gulped.
“Himmelherrgott!” von Blumenthal snapped. “Don’t even think about charging the Russers in single file down that plank!
“Get your maschinengewehre set up on those platforms, those… hatches. With six heavy guns firing on them, they’ll break.”
It took too long to set up the maxims, and several of the maschinengewehr crew were hit by rifle fire, but once the heavy guns were up and firing it was as von Blumenthal predicted. A handful of Russers that tried to bolt out of the trench and escape down the dirt road toward the town were mowed down and the remainder quickly surrendered.
Von Blumenthal limped down the gangway as his men streamed by to take the Russers prisoner and head ashore. The port was now his, and it didn’t look like the town itself was defended.
Victory at last, and I don’t have to share it with anyone, especially not the useless Navy.
December 18th. 0950. SMS Straßburg. 6nm south of Arensburg. Heading 170 at 10 knots
Kapitän Siegmund shifted his binoculars from Kolberg, astern and gathering way as she followed his Straßburg out of the anchorage, to the town of Arensburg beyond. The town was picturesque, and most of its inhabitants friendly, but he was nonetheless quite happy to be leaving.
There was an undertone of anger – no, hatred – among some of the Ests, though surely less than one part in five. It didn’t seem solely directed at the city’s new masters, yet there had been enough dagger looks to know that the occupation troops might not have a comfortable time.
Was it some residual antipathy toward the Baltic German nobility, lackeys as they were to the Russer overlords? Anger at the privation, damage, and death from the final siege of the town? The numerous red banners hung from windows, in competition with the new blue black and white flags, suggested the socialists and their hatred of nobility, the military, and empires was also in play.
It would soon be a problem for the Landsturm troops, whose safe arrival from Windau was Siegmund’s next assignment.
“Deck. 20 knots.”
“Aye Kapitän. Helm. Make turns for 20 knots.”
“Make turns for 20 knots, aye.”
The southwest sea breeze soon reached nearly thirty knots relative, and Siegmund left the problems brewing on Ösel Island to someone else. It was good to be back at sea.
December 18th. 0950. SMS Markgraf. Wurms Sound. Heading 195 at 11 knots
Others too were happy to be heading to the open sea.
Karl Dahm had thought for certain that he would be transferred over to Augsburg, the kreuzer remaining behind along with a torpedoboot halbflotillas to cover the minelaying operations in the Wurms-Dägo passage, and then protect the transfer of the 20th Korps from Moon to Hapsal in the coming days. Such work would have been well within the scope of his staff assignment, yet the admiral had cryptically told him that he had “other plans for you.”
Whatever those plans were, Dahm looked forward to the Sondergruppe operating in the open sea. Steaming among the islands of the archipelago, with the constant risk of running into minefields, or being subject to surprise attacks launched from the myriad of bays, inlets, and passages, Dahm felt like he could never rest, and his thinking felt fuzzy and slow. While it was true that he’d largely been able to outguess the Russers, he knew that the longer the big ships stayed here the chances of disaster striking rose like the sun.
He checked the chart and saw that by noon they should have left the Moon Sound and entered the Gulf of Riga.
Gut. After Mittagessen I’ll sneak down to my cabin and try to get some rest. I really need sleep.
----------------------------
The on-watch funkenpuster heard four bells echo down the passageway outside the tiny Telefunken room.
Gott, two more hours to Mittagessen! I really need food and then sleep, but… must… stay… awake.
The arhythmic clack of an incoming message snapped him out of his stupor. When he recognized the identity of the message originator, all thoughts of sleep vanished.
-----------------------------
After Mittagessen we’ll be out from among these islands. Perhaps I’ll have the steward and Chief of Staff keep everyone away from my cabin. I really need sleep.
Vizeadmiral Carl Rudburg hid a yawn behind his hands, then rubbed his gritty eyes while observing the Sondergruppe shake out into steaming formation: the dreadnought division in column behind Markgraf, Elbing and Pillau well ahead off the port and starboard bows, and the torpedoboot halbflots moving purposefully on either flank. He was pleased that the constant operations had drilled them into a cohesive unit that required very little in the way of signals. Of course, once they joined with Hopman’s scouting forces and the rest of Third Battle Squadron, they’d have to start over again, but his core staff were up to the task.
A funkenpuster messenger came up to his elbow and saluted. “A message from the kommander.”
The messenger’s emphasis on the last word gave away the sender of the short message:
WELL DONE.
8 LS DIV UW WITH STRONG ESCORT. WILL ARR LIBAU 20 DEC TO COAL THEN ASSUME DEFENSE OF ISLANDS ON 22 DEC.
PRESS FORWARD.
CINC OSTSEEFLOTTE
8th Linienschiff Division – the five Braunschweigs – were the last of the Prinz-Admiral’s heavy ships, the dozen older ships of the Brandenburg, Kaiser Friedrich III, and Wittelsbach classes, as well as the older großerkreuzers, having been placed in reserve or laid up to free the matrosen to replace combat losses and feed the insatiate maw of new construction.
Kiel must be empty. And Wilhelmshaven has only the battered 1st Battle Squadron, the obsolete 2nd, and 1st Scouting… Mein gott! With 1st Scouting in the Nordsee dancing with the Grand Fleet there is practically nothing to defend the Bight! The Baron must be confident that the Royal Navy is well and truly on the back foot.
Rudberg shivered.
Eventually, the RN will bounce back – this thrust at the Tsar’s heart had better succeed.
December 18th. 1300. SMS Straßburg. 8nm west of Windau. Heading 010 at 5 knots
“Herr Kapitän. Wayward Star answering our signal. CONDENSER PROBLEMS. BEST SPD 6.”
“Very well.”
Siegmund cursed under his breath. The master of the little steamer at the end of the wobbly column may have thought he was making six knots, but Straßburg’s pit log showed both ships making a shade under five.
This is what happens when we take up steamers from trade to haul troops around to shallow ports. The good ships from the Atlantic trade are too deep, and the good ones from the Baltic already have solid contracts, and usually belong to big companies that can afford to get dispensation to keep their ships on their normal runs. We are left with the misfit ships that were rusting at the piers. They claim to be able to make contract speed of at least eight knots, but often not.
Loaded to the gunwales with Landsturm troops for the occupation of the islands, he couldn’t let the well-named little scow fall astern.
“Signals. Formation Speed 6.”
“Bootsmann. Regards to the Second Leutnant, he is to rig the ship for towing.”
If Wayward Star can’t keep six knots on her own, I’ll pull her that fast. The sooner we get back to Arensburg, the sooner we can rejoin the Fleet.
December 18th. 1330. SMS T-75. 17nm NNW of Dagö Island. Heading 110 at 4 knots
Leutnant der Seewehr Ebersbach checked the chronometer and was surprised to see that it had been over three hours since the sweep gear had hooked a mine.
Yesterday there had been an even dozen of the big round five-horn mines pulled up, and ten the day before (Note 1). Today only two. Either the Russers had left a pocket in their mine barrier – unlikely since the average spacing had been consistent throughout – or he had reached the inner edge of the barrier.
He checked the chart and saw that T-75 was an even dozen nautical miles from the southwestern edge of the barrier.
Twelve nautical miles is about twenty Russer versts. Would they have laid the field that simply, that geometrically? If so, we may have reached the end of the field. I’ll double the spacing on this next sweep line to make sure.
Ebersbach looked up.
“Helm. Left 10 degrees rudder, steady on 290.”
“Left 10 degrees, steady on 290, aye.”
Ebersbach grabbed the message pad and scribbled off a quick message reporting his suspicion that he’d passed through the field.
“Funker messenger! Send this immediately.”
December 18th. 1331. Submarine Bars. 18nm NNW of Dagö Island. Heading 250 at 3 knots. Submerged at periscope depth.
Xorošó! (Note 2)
Starshii' Leitenant Rodzyanko smiled as the enemy torpedoboat turned back toward Bars. With such a small target, getting into torpedo firing position practically required a cooperative enemy. This one was more than helpful in coming back across his bow.
“Motor ahead dead slow.”
“Ahead dead slow, aye Captain. Motor is ahead dead slow.”
“Set depth Number One and Two D-collar torpedoes to shallow.” (Note 3)
“Number One and Two D-collar torpedoes set to shallow.”
“Rig out number One and Two D-collar torpedoes.”
Thunk.
Rodzyanko held his breath waiting for the report that the two fish were ready to fire. The enemy craft, though slow, was coming up on the firing angle; he only had a minute at most before he would lose the shot.
A thunk sounded through the hull as the second collar finally dropped out and into position.
“Number One and Two D-collar torpedoes rigged out and ready to fire.”
“Torpedo Officer. Stand by…Fire!”
Rodzyanko heard the propellors on the two fish whine as the compressed air engines came up to speed. The sound from the port torpedo soon faded as it raced off. The sound from the starboard one stayed right alongside.
“Hung fish!!!” yelled the Torpedo Officer.
Rodzyanko had heard rumors of this happening on other boats in practice firing, but that gave him no comfort as the warhead on the fish – hanging only half a meter off the hull – was now armed. Everyone in the control room froze, looking to him. The noise in the control room from the torpedo was deafening.
He yelled at the Torpedo Officer. “Don’t just stare at me. Fire it again!”
The Torpedo Officer jumped, but before he could do anything the forward hatch opened and a michman stuck his head through.
“Captain. Report from the forward torpedo room…the release cable was bound up. Relaunching.”
The whining suddenly dropped off as it raced away, and sighs wafted through the boat.
What of the good shot!?!
Rodzyanko heaved the periscope up and swung it around to find the enemy torpedoboat.
There!
Just as he centered the scope a huge column of water leapt up from the enemy’s stern.
Wuuumpf!
Cheers filled the control room on the heels of the heavy concussion of the torpedo hit a mere 400 meters away.
Rodzyanko continued to watch the enemy as the dark water and smoke cleared. Nothing was heard or seen of the second torpedo, but the first seemed to have done its work. Ten meters of the torpedo boat’s stern were simply gone, the deck aft was even with the water and settling. The bow tilted up. Ant-like men were scrambling off – they would soon die in the nearly frozen water – but amidships tiny figures were clearing away a boat. Bars’ captain was filled with rage at the thought of any of the enemy escaping.
“For uncle Aleksander Pavlovich,” he whispered. Then he shouted to overcome the noise of the celebrating crewmen, “Prepare to surface!”
“Gun crews, Captain?” asked the First Leytenant.
“Da, da. Both the 6.3 and 3.7. are to be manned, we must silence his forward gun quickly,” Rodzyanko ordered, then added, “When we surface, I want you to stay here in the control room, I want someone I can trust to put another torpedo into him if needed.”
“Of course, Captain!”
As Bars surfaced Rodzyanko brought the boat to a stop, beam on to the sinking enemy so that both guns could bear. He realized too how small the enemy was; she had been no more than a third of his submarine’s displacement, before losing her stern!
“Main gun, target his hull. Aircraft gun, target that deck gun.”
Crack!
Crack! Crack!
No return fire came from the enemy.
After a few rounds a fortunate shot tore the enemy’s deck gun from its mounting, and the 3.7cm anti-aircraft gun fell silent.
A boat pushed off from the enemy’s side, with at least a dozen men in it frantically trying to row away.
Rodzyanko turned to the 3.7cm gun captain and caught his eye. “Good shooting. Now, take that boat under fire, we can’t have them going back aboard after we leave.” He held the gun captain’s eyes until he saw that he was fully understood.
December 18th. 1337. SMS T-79. 14nm NNW of Dagö Island. Heading 330 at 3 knots
Verdammt. Poor bastarde.
There wasn’t a crewman aboard T-79 that didn’t understand that life on a minensucher could end in an instant. Their job was pulling huge explosives up from the sea and detonating them. Even when things went properly there was danger and when not there was death. An undetected mine, or even one that they’d pulled up with their sweep gear too closely, could detonate and smash the elderly little boat like a giant swatting a fly. Alive one moment and then gone.
It seemed the latter for T-75. T-79’s kapitän, a reservist fisherman, watched through his binoculars as the smoke cleared from around their sister boot. All doubt of T-75’s fate was removed – she was already well down by the stern.
“Helm. Come left to 320. 8 knots.”
“Left to 320 at 8 knots, aye Herr Kapitän.”
He wanted to get to his fellows as soon as possible, but even eight knots was probably too fast. He suspected the three sea miles to T-75 had already been cleared of mines, but at eight knots the lookout wouldn’t spot a stray mine until it was right under the bow.
“Bootsmann. Station all off watch lookouts forward. And in ten minuten, call away the Rescue and Assistance party.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”
The messenger came up, saluted and handed over a message slip. “Herr Kapitän, the Funker reports hearing a message from T-75 to the Minensucher Division, but the message was incomplete.”
The message slip was indeed a broken message: ‘NO MINES FOUND SINCE 1010. BELIEVE HAVE REACHED END OF [message ends]’
He started drafting a message to the Division Kommander, advising him of T-75’s fate.
“Kapitän?”
“Report.”
“Something is happening at T-75.”
“Was? Lookout. A complete report if you please.”
Scheiße! Shell splashes!
“Kapitän, a surfaced U-boot is shooting at T-75. Bearing half point to starboard of her. and just beyond. They appear to be shooting at the lifeboat!”
He froze for perhaps two seconds. What could he do? He was a fisherman, not a fighter, and T-79 was barely armed with a single tiny 5cm kanon. The gun crew were barely trained, and then only to shoot at mines sitting still in the water.
He looked around, there were no other boots in sight, and only him to do something.
Anger, no rage, at the Russer for shooting at men in the water galvanized him.
“Action Stations! Helm. Turns for 15 knots. Bring up the second boiler.”
He quickly amended the wireless report to the Division Kommander, then decided that if nothing else worked he would ram the U-boot.
Bastarde!
December 18th. 1340. BdAdO on SMS Blücher. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 325 at 12 knots
“Signals. Detach the S Flotilla.”
Albert Hopman turned away; his mouth pinched in frustration. He was spending far too much time orchestrating the never-ending ballet to keep his ships’ bunkers topped off.
His scouting force, now supported by the dreadnaughts of 6th Division, had remained off the northwest coast of Dägo for nine days, ever since the landings at Tagga Bay on the 9th. Stuck here until his minensuchers broke through the Russer mine barrier blocking the entrance to the Finnischer Meerbusen, the very real possibility of Russer U-boots prevented him from laying to, to reducing coal consumption. At 12 knots – the minimum needed to keep enemy U-boots from getting easy shots – his ships burned as much coal as if they were crossing the Atlantik.
The math was inescapable; at 12 knots the battleships would reach 50% coal in 14 days, Blücher in 11 days, the kleine kreuzers in 8 days, and the short-legged coal fired torpedoboots in just 4 days.
He’d tried one suggestion, to have the torpedoboots steam alongside the battleships and take coal bags using the big boat cranes. It had worked after a fashion, but the transfer was so slow that even at 10 knots the torpedoboots burned more coal than they could take on. At best it gained a day at sea for the little craft.
The only workable method was to detach the ships in penny packets to Tagga Bay, where they could coal alongside the colliers safely anchored there. The S Flotilla, the specialist anti-U-boot flotilla consisting entirely of elderly boots, was enroute to their second coaling, to be followed by Blücher. He wasn’t looking forward to transferring his flag to Weisbaden.
Hopman turned abruptly back into the pilot house and promptly bumped right into a messenger.
The surprised messenger blurted out, “Pardon my clumsiness, Herr Konteradmiral.”
“Ja, ja, what do have there?”
“Two wireless reports from II Minensucher Geschwader.”
Hopman read the dispatches with first excitement, and then growing concern. The kommander had received a report from one of his boots that it had likely reached the end of the mine barrier, but the message was incomplete, followed by a report from a second boot that the first had been attacked by a surfaced U-boot.
Schieße. Wait! If they are being attacked by Russer U-boots, they must have reached the inner edge of the barrier, or a cleared channel! We are through!
A quick look astern showed that he was not too late.
“Signals! Urgent. Recall the S Flotilla.”
The old TBs couldn’t chase the enemy U-boot for long, but they were the best, perhaps the only answer he had to U-boots.
No. There was another possibility. He scribbled off a quick message to Rudburg.
“Messenger! For the Funkenpuster, on the double!”
December 18th. 1545. Austro-Hungarian 5th Army. South of Novosel’e, Russia.
Svetovar Boroević looked up in surprise as an aide moved about the headquarters map room, lighting the gas lamps. He hadn’t realized how dim the room was getting, yet outside the west-facing window the sun was already down behind the trees.
Kvragu! (Note 4) The days are too short, almost to their nadir. Though they’ll soon get longer, the real cold is only beginning. I must make the most of the little time left before General Winter seizes all in his icy grip.
A growing murmur among the staff officers brought his attention back inside, where one of the men was updating the map.
Along Fifth Army’s front, straddling the Pskow-St Petersburg railroad and extending into the forests to the northwest and southeast, his artillery was pounding the Russers. After a few early salvoes from the heavier guns in the morning, the lighter field pieces were doing the work of keeping the Russers pinned down in their forest abatis.
For a change, the forests were working to his benefit; his infantry were able to get extremely close to the Russer defenses. Maschinengewehr and infantry probes were keeping them under pressure during lulls in the artillery fire. His ammunition expenditure was profligate, but if he could keep the Russers facing Fifth Army from sending reinforcement to their right flank…
“Herr Feldmarschall-Leutnant, an update from Ninth Army.”
ENEMY FWD LINES ENVELOPD, 2KM. OBSD LIM ENEMY RES. ATTACK ON RSTEL IMMINENT. RQST CEASE FIRE ARTY YR LEFT FLK. (Note 5)
“Orders!” Boroević snapped. “For 7th Korps: Cease arty fire. Friendlies in enemy rear. For all units: Continue probes, follow up enemy withdrawals, otherwise general attack to commence at 0810.”
The Russers would break tomorrow, of that he was certain.
December 18th. 2350. SMS Markgraf. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 010 at 11 knots
“Herr Vizeadmiral?”
“Ja, I’m awake.”
I wasn’t, but I am now.
“Flashing light from Pillau. SIGHTED 6TH DIV BRG 015.”
“Very well. Execute the rendezvous as previously planned. I’ll be up in half an hour.”
Rudburg sat up and began dressing.
Joining two large formations in the middle of the night was fraught with danger: collision a very real prospect with ships huge, middling, and tiny moving all about. Even taking the time to maneuver single divisions and halbflots at a time would lead to confusion and mistakes. It was something that only the RN and Kaiserliche Marine did at all regularly, and only two or three of the world’s other navies might even attempt in exigent circumstances. Had the ships of the Scouting Group spent the war in the Baltic instead of being Hochseeflot veterans, he wouldn’t have even considered it.
The ships will be fine, it’s Albert Hopman and his staff that I’m unsure of. With the Scouting Forces under Necki or Hanzik, or the Wolf himself, I wouldn’t worry about this.
Time for you to show me what you can do Albert.
Notes
Note 1. Likely Russian Model 1908 or Model 1912 moored contact mines. A simple but effective spherical mine that remained in use around the world into the 1980s.
Note 2. Xorošó = Good! (Russian)
Note 3. The Bars class, much larger than the older Kaiman class (Krokadil) carried four internal torpedoes (no at sea reloads) and eight torpedoes in external drop collars.
Note 4. Kvragu! = Damn! (Croatian)
Note 5. ‘The enemy forward lines have been enveloped to a width of 2 km. I have observed limited enemy reserves. My attack on enemy Reserve Stellung (reserve positions) is imminent. Request you cease fire with artillery on your left flank.’
statistics: Posted by seaoh1979 — 7:35 PM - 1 day ago — Replies 3 — Views 124