Kirov Saga Men of War

Chapter 20



Aboard T-492, Orlov had a sudden thought. He looked at the earbuds in his palm and slipped one into his right ear, clicking the collar button to activate his Jacket Computer, grateful and amused that the British had been too stupid to make any connection between the earbuds and his jacket. He would see what he could find out about this incident, if anything had been recorded about it, and the Portable Wiki of 2021 did not disappoint. Svetlana was in his ear with a little story in no time:

“…19:18 hours, off Poti, Georgia: U-24 fired a G7e torpedo at Soviet M/S trawler T-492 which passed beneath its target below the bridge. The trawler then forced U-24 to dive with gunfire.”

How convenient, thought Orlov, smiling. He could sit there and learn what his fate would be, and whether he had to make a run for it and hit the water if this damn ship was going to be sunk that night. Now he understood why Fedorov always had his nose buried in his books and computer data while they were up in the Atlantic, and he remembered how he would advise both Volsky and Karpov on the history. He smiled, whispering “continue” and listening to what Svetlana would tell him.

The next line sent his pulse up, but he soon smiled… “U-24 scored a hit at 21:37 hrs…” Orlov continued listening, hearing fate breath her mandate in his ear, and then he put the earbud away in a hidden pocket of his jacket, turned the system off, and was up on his feet to go above.

The tang of the sea was sweet in his nostrils as he stuck his head up through the ladder hole, climbing on deck. He saw men standing tensely at the watch, field glasses pressed tightly to their eyes, and heard a third round fire from the deck gun. He was up, moving forward along the gunwale past the pilot house when one of the NKVD men saw him.

“What are you doing up here? Get your ass below!”

“F*ck you,” Orlov shot back at him. “Those bastards are trying to kill me!” He pointed along the line where the deck gun was sighting. “You think I want to sit down there and take a f*cking torpedo up my ass?”

The NKVD man smiled, relenting, but decided to keep an eye on Orlov, watching the easy way the big man moved on deck, the sureness of his footing, and how he shifted his weight and balance when the boat rolled. He knew at once this man was navy, an old salt of the sea. The men were still excited on deck, and the boat’s master was shouting orders. Kamkov was in the pilot house with him, and when he saw Orlov he waved for him to come inside.

“Bastard snuck up on us,” he said. “It’s so damn dark we couldn’t see him before he got that torpedo off. Lucky for us it ran too deep.”

“He won’t make that mistake again,” said Orlov quietly, reaching in his pocket for a cigarette.

“You think he’s still out there?”

“Of course! You surprised him as well. I don’t think he expected that deck gun. Probably thought this was just a fishing trawler.”

“The bastard must be pretty damn hungry to waste a good torpedo on a ship this size. I wonder if it was German. How could they get the damn thing in here?”

“It’s German,” said Orlov matter of factly. He had asked Svetlana a follow up question before he put his earbuds away, and he knew all about U-24, and how it came to find itself in the Black Sea. Yes, the Germans were crafty little shits. This boat was no different. Its captain must be very good if he could put a torpedo right amidships on the first shot…and scored a hit on the second!

“What time is it?” Orlov asked, looking for the moon that was still not there.

“19:30 hours, or thereabouts. Getting sleepy again, Orlov?”

The Chief smiled. He still liked Kamkov, and hoped he would not have to kill him soon. There was still plenty of time, he knew, but the action would begin again in about an hour. Duels like this were not like the fast wild frenzy of a surface action. The minute the U-boat submerged successfully, it became a game of cat and mouse. The only question was this: which boat was the cat?

There was no doubt in Klaus Peterson’s mind that he was in charge of the engagement now. He had been in charge of it all along. He caught the enemy by surprise, and soon he would angle in and line up on the target one more time. He decided to risk a look through the periscope on this moonless night, and soon saw that his quarry had put on speed, but was foolishly circling instead of making a beeline for the coast as he thought it might. What are they doing? He wondered?

What they were doing was quietly dropping a few mines off the stern, leaving a little web of bristling iron behind them to hopefully ensnare the silent enemy beneath the sea. Orlov smiled inwardly when the boat master gave the order, but let them play, saying nothing. T-492 had no depth charges or sonar equipment of any kind, so the boat could not actively go after the enemy U-boat. It had to wait until the enemy showed himself again, or simply run. This was a clear case where discretion was the better part of valor, but Orlov admired the pluck and courage of these men. They were stupidly dropping sea mines as if they had any chance of hitting this sub, but they were determined.

“That’s a waste of time,” he said eventually to the boat master.

“You have a better idea?” The grizzled man shot back.

The clock was ticking on, and the tension winding up. It had been nearly an hour and a half now since those first wild moments. That was life at sea—hurry up and wait. One minute it was chaos and adrenaline, then long minutes or hours of doldrums. But soon the wait was over.

“Torpedo!” a watchman shouted. “Starboard side and close!”

“Sookin sin!” The boat master swore as he labored to turn the wheel. Kamkov’s eyes were white with fear, but Orlov seemed calm and unconcerned. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to his friend. “It’s a dud.”

He reached out and took hold of the man’s wrist to see his watch. The enemy was right on schedule. Svetlana had whispered her truth, and Orlov only hoped she had been correct, that the history still held true as recorded. The dates were off but the little details like the time seemed perfect to the second. Now he again knew why Fedorov was so edgy when he thought Kirov would do something to upset the thin, fragile scrawl of history in his books and records. Orlov’s life depended on it running true, just at this second torpedo was again running true, right at the heart of the trawler.

They could hear it, a distant whine in the sea getting louder and louder. A man shouted, another cursed, pointing at the sea. The torpedo came lancing in and struck the boat dead on this time, and right amidships. There was a hard thump on the hull, and every man around him instinctively closed their eyes, their faces strained with fear. All except Orlov, for the curse on U-24 was still holding the enemy in its firm grip. Peterson’s second shot was indeed a dud, just as Svetlana had told Orlov it would be, and just as Orlov had told Kamkov it would be. The devil was in the details.

Kamkov opened his eyes, looking at the boat master, who was exhaling heavily with relief, then at Orlov, a strange look on his face.

“How did you know?” he breathed.

Orlov cocked his head to one side nonchalantly. “I can hear it.” He pointed to his ear. “Yes, I’ve spent some time on destroyers. You get a very good ear for these things after a while. I knew the first one was running deep too,” a little lozh now to put icing on his cake. “And I knew this one was going to misfire. Don’t get yourselves all worked up. He’s got one more fish in the tank, but he won’t hit anything with it. Then you get your chance later. Relax. It will be a long wait this time.”

“You sound very sure of yourself,” said Kamkov.

“I’m always sure,” said Orlov with a grin. “That’s why I took your shirt at poker, eh? I’m going below. The moon will be up soon and you’ll feel better. Wake me at midnight, will you Kamkov?”

Svetlana had whispered it all in his ear, and Orlov knew what was coming next. He had plenty of time, so he settled into the hammock below, trying to doze off again, but bothered by the sound of heavy footfalls on the deck above as the men of T-492 kept up their fitful watch. They were still stupidly fooling around with the mines on the aft deck, trying to rig them with weights to set their depth, and just listening to them made him laugh. It was a god-like feeling of power to know the fate of these men tonight, right down to the minutes and seconds. There they were, blundering about in the night on the cold wet deck above, their hands raw on ropes and chains, or tight on the wheel of the boat as T-492 wended her way slowly east towards Poti, leaving a wake of mines behind her that would now probably cause more problems for local shipping than they would for the unseen German U-boat.

A little after midnight Kamkov stuck his head down the hatch and called him. “Wake up, Orlov. The moon is up, just like you said. But there’s no sign of that submarine.”

Orlov climbed back up, yawning and reaching for another cigarette, which he shared with Kamkov this time. The crew seemed much more at ease now. The long three hour wait had lulled them with a sense of false security. Some were lounging on deck, talking quietly with one another, the men by the deck gun were sitting on the ammo crates, one of the NKVD guards was slowly pacing back and forth, his submachine gun slung over his shoulder, black Ushanka tilting this way and that as he watched the slivered moonlight glimmer on the sea.

Orlov had his quiet smoke as the time slipped by. Then it began again. One of the men working the mining operation at the back of the ship shouted with alarm. There was another torpedo inbound off their port quarter, and every man on the ship was up with sudden energy, heads craned to look, eyes squinting, tensely alert—all except Orlov. The torpedo missed, just as Orlov said it would.

Aboard U-24, Klaus Peterson’s luck had run out, for that was his last torpedo. He cursed inwardly, angry to think that he had put his first two torpedoes right on the mark and neither one could score a hit.

“Damn unlucky boat,” said Otto on his left as Peterson lowered the periscope, clearly upset.

“To hell with that,” said the Oberleutnant. “We’re behind him now. Surface at once and we go after him with the AA gun!”

“That’s not a very good idea,” said Otto. “They have a deck gun!” But he could see the steely eye of determination in Peterson now, and he seconded the order.

U-24 surfaced in a white swell of bubbles and the hatch opened, men scrambling forward to the twin 20mm AA gun forward of the conning tower. Peterson followed them up, standing in the tower with his field glasses, and shouting at the men to be quick on the gun. He had nothing more than these 20mm rounds to throw at the enemy now, and he knew his executive officer had been correct. This was just a stupid act of defiance, but when the gun fired he took some heart, and some satisfaction in seeing the tracers chew up the water near the back of the enemy ship. A damn minesweeper, he thought. We can’t even sink a damn mining trawler!

The AA guns barked as the trawler’s boat master spun the wheel hard to bring his bow around and give his 76mm deck gun a chance for another shot, but Orlov knew it would come to naught. What he did not know, however, was that Peterson’s stubborn act of defiance would have consequences he did not expect. The 20mm rounds raked the trawler, some skidding off the metal siding of the pilot house as Orlov instinctively crouched low. One of the rounds had found a target, and he looked, astonished to see that Kamkov had fallen hard and was now slumped on the deck beside him, shot through the chest. Then the enemy fire halted and Orlov could see the distant silhouette of the Germans working their gun.

Svetlana’s words came back to him, playing again in his mind as he recalled the history record he had called up. “After U-24 had fired and missed with her last torpedo at 00:38 hrs, the boat surfaced and exchanged fire with the 20mm AA gun…”

It seemed there were a lot of little details written between the broad strokes of history. Svetlana had said nothing whatsoever about Kamkov, he thought, and he realized that those rounds could just have easily raked across his own chest. Now Kamkov was quite dead, and Orlov was quite angry. He stood up, glaring at the German U-Boat as he heard the 76mm deck gun fire in futile rage, its shot well over the enemy boat and missing by a wide margin.

Infuriated, Orlov strode over to the NKVD guard where he crouched behind the gunwale, and in one swift motion he snatched away the man’s submachine gun. “Piz-da!” He cursed at the U-boat, flipping off the safety and opening up on the Germans, pleased to see his machine gun fire snapping off the conning tower in a shower of sparks. His cigarette butt was still between his pursed lips as he fired, sneering at his enemy.

“Don’t f*ck with me you stupid sons of bitches!” he shouted, spitting out the cigarette butt and grinning evilly when he saw the Germans secure their AA gun and run for the deck hatches. The little battle on the Black Sea was over, and he knew why. Svetlana had told him the whole story: “…the boat surfaced and exchanged fire with the 20mm AA gun, which malfunctioned shortly afterwards, forcing U-24 to break off the attack with light machine gun damage to the conning tower.”

Orlov smirked inwardly, handing the smoking submachine gun back to the astonished NKVD man, who looked at him with awe and respect when he saw the German U-Boat quickly vanish beneath the sea again.

“Watch for torpedoes!” the boat master shouted, but Orlov simply laughed. He had written his little line in the history, with a PPD-40 submachine gun firing Tokarev 7.62x25mm pistol rounds, but it was enough.

“Don’t worry,” he shouted back at the boat master. “If they had any more torpedoes do you think they would have come up to shoot with us? It’s over. Get some rest.”

For Klaus Peterson, it was a very frustrating night. His boat was now toothless, and little more than a scouting unit. He would have to slink back to Constanza with nothing to show for his first war patrol here, but he would learn a lesson from the incident. Now he recalled Wohlfarth’s story of the impotence he felt when he had to watch the Bismarck sink with no torpedoes to use to defend her.

Peterson’s fate was not so unkind, but he would have to wait nine long months before he would get another target in his sights, for it was truly slim pickings in the Black Sea. On that night, in June of 1943, he would find and sink a 441 ton Soviet fleet minesweeper, much like this one that would now escape his grasp. It was boat 411-Zashchitnik (No. 26), and he would get it with a spread of two torpedoes, never trusting to a single shot again.

Peterson didn’t get his kill against T-492 that night, but he had unknowingly achieved much more. His inexperience, a torpedo running deep, and another a dud along with that jammed AA deck gun had all conspired to do one essential thing—they spared the life of Gennadi Orlov, though Kamkov was stone cold dead. Now none of the other NKVD guards assigned to bring Orlov to Poti knew a thing about that diplomatic pouch, or anything it might have contained.