Prologue: Archangelsk : Storm of steel.
The commandeered ambulance raced down the pockmarked road towards the harbour. When the royal navy officers ashore had relayed the orders from the fleet Warwick had been more than a little sceptical. That said, any opportunity to get out of this damn cold, heaven forsaken country was good enough for him. It was a symptom of that enthusiasm that within minutes of receiving the message the much battered Russian royals were tearing towards the icy sea in a hastily appropriated ambulance driven by a sleep deprived Royal Marine.
“So how do you reckon they’re going to get a transport though this sort shelling sir?” One of Warwicks younger marines asked the question with a note of concern although the Liutenant couldn’t tell if that was for fear of the shells or the manic way in which he was piloting the virtually airborne vehicle.
The ambulance crested the last hill between them and the harbour and even the vehicles engine seemed to go silent for a second. Warwick kicked at the accelerator in compensation. From the open topped flatbed of the vehicle a familiar Russian voice broke the moment.
“We believe that your admiral appears to have everything well in hand.”
He’s got that right. The admiral had brought his dreadnoughts in close...very close.
The British dreadnaughts had sailed right into the bay before turning in line to present their broadsides towards the coast. The result was a semicircle of steel moving at very low speed. In their new positions the battlewagons would be incredibly stable and be able to fire their entire armaments directly into the red positions over the naval equivalent of point blank range. Of course at that range 180 meter long behemoths wouldn’t exactly be easy to miss. Lieutenant Warwick was trying to decide whether it was a brave or a stupid move for the great ships to go head to head with the Red artillery positions. Then it started.
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6th Army forward artillery battery.
A russian 76mm artillery gun
Comrade Glazkov cried out at the top of his lungs.
“Fire faster comrades! Drive these imperialists back into the sea!” A devoted party member from Petrograd, Glazkov had been attached to the scratch field artillery batteries. He was charged with maintaining the fervor amongst the forward artillery positions. It was a glorious duty. The chance to be the hammer of socialism as it smashed the first great wounds into the carapace of capitalism.
With a dull thud one of the British capital ships fired a 12 inch gun. Glazkov frowned as his gun crews dropped their shells and charges and took cover behind their field guns until the shell's explosion boomed out somewhere distant.
For the rank and file amongst the army of workers, soldiers and peasants, naval artillery was a completely alien foe. Glazkov had been struggling to tear his units out of paralysis every time the English fired.
“Comrades, what do you fear?! These puny shells? For every one they launch the guns of the red army fire a hundred back. Resume your fire Comrades! Let...”
Glazkov trailed off as his eyes registered the flashes , one after another after another. He was in the process of diving to the ground when a 15” projectile atomised his battery.
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HMS Queen Elizabeth
Admiral Beatty watched as the entire frontline disappeared into a screen of flame and smoke. The hillsides were shockingly illuminated as 15 inch shells travelling at mach 2 tore them apart. Even for a man that had been at Jutland it was an incredible sight.
“Barham, Orion, Valiant and Malaya have all taken hits, no serious damage “
The Bolsheviks couldn’t resist firing at the dreadnoughts. The admiral had to admire the courage of the opposing gunners, continuing to fire in spite of the awesome bombardment. But they lacked targeting discipline.
Those fragmentation shells would struggle to scar the paintwork on the Barham.
“Adjust fire to silence those positions. Fire at will.”
And the Queen Elizabeth’s mighty guns roared again..
two 15 inch guns on display in England.
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HMS BROOKE
“All ahead flank!”
The destroyer cut through the line of battleships at close to thirty knots.
“My lord in heaven above.” The ships XO noted as the destroyer at last got a clear view of the virtual firestorm ahead. A conservative estimate was that some 250 tons of ordinance was pulverising that perimeter per minute.
Captain Ramsey figured the admiral would rub his nose in this one good and proper once they were back in port. Beatty’s battleships, as well as devestating the enemy positions, were throwing up so much ejecta that the Bolsheviks were once again shooting blind.
With a twang a thin sliver of shrapnel deflected off the reinforced bridge window.
Not that shooting blind necessarily meant they couldn’t hit anything.
“Hold Course helm, take us into mooring.”
The XO turned hesitantly towards the Captain, his face highlighted as the dawn light plied itself against the flashes of high explosives.
“With respect captain, if we tie up we’re going to present the a static target for every gunner still alive up there.”
Captain Ramsey had a dangerous smile and the dance of incendiary light seemed to only highlight his commando gleam.
“Well you’ll just have to get our guests onboard quickly then commander. Hold course”
Captain Bertram Ramsay
Archangelsk
“Hold the hell on!”
Warwick wrestled with the wheel as the transport slipped, shook and vibrated down the slick road at breakneck speed. The marine lieutenant had been under artillery fire before, hell he’d been at Gallipoli. But this wasn’t like that, this was more like an earthquake.
And if I can ever hear again it’ll be a miracle. As if in Answer to the thought the Australia fired another broadside sending a solid boom ripping into the marines eardrums.
With a screech of steel rims on icy pavement the ambulance pulled to a stop In front of the pier. The entire party rapidly disembarked to take shelter in the Royal Navy command post that had been set up in the interior of a dock warehouse. The glass had long since shattered under the constant percussion but the somewhat frazzled royal party was able to find some relief by the indoor fires.
A clean faced Naval ensign marched briskly over to address Warwick. As he approached his face seemed to scrunch up for a second, probably in response to addressing a man who after days without rest or grooming, not to mention countless drenchings in an array of aromatic forms of mud and slush, resembled and smelt like some sort of crazed savage.
The man’s salute was practiced and mechanical.
“Ensign Trenchard, naval liaison Archangel. I presume you are the escort for the Russian royals?”
Warwick wanted to make a joke, quip, anything to bring this iron rod back into the reality but after these last few days he was just too tired..
“Liutenant Warwick, Royal Marines, we have your royal family for you if you’d be so kind as to show us to your boats.”
“I’m afraid lieutenant that most of our boats are unserviceable and I cant risk any more of my shore team with the Reds this close to our position.”
In later years Warwick would reflect that he’d actually decided to hit the ensign, fatigue though had ground his muscles to a halt before he could make so much as a threatening move.
“With all due respect, Ensign, while I have great concern for the welfare of your bloody headquarters staff, I have orders to get these people out of here. Now presuming you don’t intend to ask the Czar of all the Russia’s and his teenage daughters to swim to the bloody fleet how exactly do you propose we get out of here?"
Ensign Trenchard didn’t seem at all taken aback. Instead he looked over the marine lieutenant’s shoulder and smiled.
“Behind you Lieutenant.”
The Lieutenant turned momentarily, his eyes widened and for the umpteenth time in the last few days, he dived for cover. It seemed a fitting response to the naval destroyer bearing directly down on them at close to 30 knots.