The Voyage of the Stekhanovite (Humorous Fiction)

[MKSheppard]

The Voyage of the Stekhanovite
by Nicholas Sumner

There were those who believed that the meteoric success of Nils Christiansen was a result of the brilliance of his mind; others felt that it was a combination of his aristocratic bearing, the prescience of his observations and the depths of his patience that had enabled him to rise to the post of Permanent Undersecretary to the Prime Minister of Sweden. Certainly Nils cut an elegant figure; his exquisitely tailored suit hung gracefully on his lean frame as he sat, legs lightly crossed on a gilt Louis XIV chair behind the expanse of his polished mahogany desk. While it was true that he was a consummate diplomat the real secrets of Nils success were twofold. The second, and lesser secret, was that he was able to keep a neutral face under the most difficult of circumstances.

That face was composed now into an expression that members of Stockholm’s diplomatic corps knew well, part attentiveness, part discernment, part measured distance. Currently it was arranged for the benefit of ambassador Orlov of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, a dull, corpulent, gloomy man who stank of vodka and could drone on for hours about his country’s urgent need for ‘war supplies’ and the suffering of the Russian people. (He only ever spoke of the suffering of the Russian people, Nils observed, from which he could only surmise that the man believed Usbeks, Georgians and Lapps were immune to suffering.)

He loathed Orlov. The man was a toad, devoid of even the slightest social grace and to cap it all he insisted on being addressed as ‘Comrade’. But the reason he was here was directly related to the first and most important secret of Nils’ success, which was contraband.

For all his polish and poise, Nils was a spider that sat at the center of a shadowy web of smuggled goods, legal, illegal and semi legal dealings. The war had been a godsend, dividing nations, sealing borders ruining import and export businesses continent wide. Where could those of good taste and considerable means obtain the luxuries that peace had allowed to flow freely across now sealed borders? From Nils Christiansen. Stockholm had become the clearing house of the world’s luxury goods and Nils controlled it all. When Goebels needed a bottle of Johnny Walker Whisky from Scotland he sent to Nils office, when Churchill demanded his Pol Roget Champagne Nils could obtain it, when Molotov craved truffles from Lorraine Nils was able to supply them, when Mussolini demanded Black Sea Caviar his office knew who to contact and the rake off was magnificent.

Nils drew a long contented pull on his cigarette holder which sat balanced in his upraised left hand and his eyes flicked from the ambassadors revolting features to the clock on the marble mantle piece. Any moment now...

And there! Right on time the door to his left opened and his assistant Lars quietly came in, shut it behind him and moved to a position midway between the door and the desk, his head slightly bent, arms behind his back he stood in a posture of poised attention but his creased brow and tense face gave the impression that he bore news of the utmost urgency. At the sight of it the Russian ambassador fell silent.

Nils allowed a look of annoyance to disturb his countenance “What is it Lars?” Lars moved deftly forward and bent to whisper in the Undersecretary’s ear “The coffee is ready sir and a shipment of those nice little coconut biscuits of which you’re so fond – the ones with the little cherry on top – arrived this morning.”

Nils drew a sharp breath, his face now wore a look of profound concern, he rose to his feet and offered the ambassador his outstretched hand. “Comrade Ambassador, forgive me but a matter of the utmost urgency demands my attention at the Peruvian Legation and regretfully I must curtail our little chat.” The ambassador’s expression deepened into one of sour irritation but before he could utter a word Nils continued. “Ambassador, I hope that we now understand one another, while the Government of the Kingdom of Sweden support the Russian people in their fight against what you so eloquently describe as ‘The Fascist Horde’ we must reiterate that supplies purchased by the government of The Soviet Union from Swedish sources must be paid for in gold. I’m sure that your offer of doubling the payment in rubles is a most generous one but regrettably we feel that we will be unable to assist you in the future with more ‘vital strategic supplies’ unless you are able to pay for them in, as I said, gold. I do appreciate your concern about the cost of these ‘vital strategic supplies’ (and here the merest of smiles played about the corners of his mouth) but in this difficult time suppliers have the most appalling overheads. Lars will see you out; please convey my fondest regards to your lovely wife.” As he said it he mentally banished the thought of the ambassador’s hideous spouse, a hatchet faced harridan whose character resembled winters in her home town, Omsk.

The ambassador’s face turned blotchy with undisguised fury but Nils smile did not falter and with the slightest of bows he turned and retreated through the side door. As he left he heard Orlov call after him; “Its remarkable how our conversations are always interrupted by ‘matters of the utmost urgency’ Comrade Undersecretary.” He pretended that he had not heard but as he closed the door Lars soothingly intoned, “The Undersecretary is a very busy man Mr. ambassador.”

******

Not for the first time Alash Baig asked himself what a Kazakh Moslem such as he was doing fighting German Fascists to make the world safe for Slavic Communism. The question seemed a particularly pertinent one as he stood in the darkened wheelhouse of the Stekhanovite coaxing her down the River Neva, past the ruins of Leningrad, just discernable in the chilly starlight and into the Gulf of Finland. For a start he was an engineer, he was supposed to be minding the ships little 40shp engine not conning it, but Klimbinov, the captain, had once again found the prospect of their mission so daunting that he’d been forced to consume a bottle of Stolichnaya to regain his courage and had passed out in his cabin.

Then there was the question of how he had got here in the first place. Baig had been born in Kazakhstan, had learned the business of sailing on the Caspian Sea and in the turmoil of revolution and civil war he had somehow come to enlist in the Red Navy. Eventually he had become the Chief Engineer on a Destroyer but when the Nazis had invaded his ship had been trapped in Kronshtadt and had been crippled in an air attack. For awhile he’d been given a rifle and defended Leningrad as a foot soldier, but then one day he had been ordered to report to the docks and they’d given him the Stekhanovite and told him that his first task was to fit an elaborate silencer to the engine.

The silencer worked well enough and the little ship headed out towards the open water with barely more than the sound of water rippling away in her wake. It wasn’t the first time they had done this journey and while some on board feared that this might be their last, Baig knew for certain that it was. For Alash Baig had had enough of war, he had had enough of defending ‘Mother Russia’, enough of rotten food, enough of miserable conditions and the idiocies of Communism; and he knew exactly how he was going to escape all of them.

His hands gripped the spokes of the wheel and astern he could still hear the rumbling of the heavy guns to the west of Leningrad as the attack, launched to cover their exit from the River Neva, faltered and collapsed. Baig wondered how many had died to allow them to slip unnoticed past the Germans. If he were a better Moslem he might have felt comfortable offering a prayer but he had seen too much of war and suffering to have much faith left in anything and his sins were many. He shook his head sadly; Well, Comrade Stalin must have his Bratwurst. Except that he wouldn’t be getting any this time, not courtesy of the Stekhanovite anyway.

Stalin’s passion for Bratwurst was not well known outside the Kremlin; indeed it had taken on the aura of a state secret. If the pathetic wretches manning the barricades around Leningrad on a diet of rat meat gruel had known that Big Joe loved to stuff his face with German sausage they too might have been less enthusiastic about the defence of Mother Russia.

Baig glanced backwards over his shoulder to where Anatoly Yzderevin the ships first officer stood glowering out into the darkness. Yzderevin neither knew nor cared about the incongruities of Stalin’s diet, Yzderevin lived to do the bidding of The Party; he had not even asked himself the reason for his orders and obeyed them without question. He knew nothing of the sea and even less about ships but he could be relied on to follow instructions and when he was told to take a boat to Stockholm and fill it with the finest Bratwurst money could buy he could be relied upon to do it.

Stekhanovite rose and fell lightly on the chop of open water as Baig steered her prow towards the Gulf of Finland and the shores of Sweden.

******

Grosseadmiral Reinhardt Von Panzerkopf could practically feel the power of the great ship through the fingers of his gloved hands. They rested 50 meters above the surface of the Baltic Sea on the starboard bridge wing of the brand new battleship Herman Goering as she steamed through the mist at 10 knots.

She was without question the most powerful battleship ever built. 345 meters from stem to stern, she displaced 140,000 tons and was armed with eight 51 cm guns. The project had been overseen by Heinrich Himmler himself, she had been built in absolute secrecy by an army of a million slaves, thousands of whom had died over the five year course of her construction.

Also dead were three of the men who had been in charge of the project, all by their own hands. Two more of her chief constructors had been found to have Jewish ancestry, (after telling Himmler that his construction schedule was impossible to meet) while two more had suffered nervous breakdowns. Dredging a channel for the ship (which drew 13 meters) to reach the open sea alone had cost twelve million Reichmarks and the resources it had drawn in from other projects had caused dreadful dislocation to the entire German economy. But what a ship, what a ship!

Of course her name had caused a few raised eyebrows, some had even ventured the opinion privately that naming the most powerful German battleship ever built after that “Fat f*@#ing FLYBOY!” was an error of the gravest sort. Indeed the consternation with which the naming had been greeted was extreme. Admiral Raeder had been convinced that his well rehearsed and lucid arguments for naming the ship Frederich Der Grosse (which had been those of tradition, fame and merit) would carry the day. Feldmarschal Von Rundstedt too felt his suggestion for naming the ship Moltke was compelling. The Reichsmarshall however hadn’t bothered with arguments but instead bribed the Fuhrer’s clairvoyant…

But what a ship; even if misnamed, what a ship. Beneath the hazy Baltic sky Panzerkopf let his imagination drift over the pleasing prospect of meeting the Royal Navy. As a Lieutenant at the Skagerak he had seen the British Fleet stretch from horizon to horizon, flashes of orange fire rippling along their grey lines as spouts of water towered over the ships of the Hoche Zee Flott, now he surrendered to a delicious fantasy of meeting the whole British fleet again but in this ship, this towering monument to the genius of the ubermenschen, this invincible engine of war! How those English sodomites would tremble in their shoes at the mere sight of this ship! How they would soil their pants, the pederasts! How each of their puny battleships would explode beneath the hammer blows of her guns, while their own shells would expire uselessly against the thickest armour ever manufactured, there would be no arguments as to who had won the battle this time and he, he Panzerkopf would destroy them! He would destroy them all! All of them! All…

“Herr Grosseadmiral!” Panzerkopf turned to Fregattenkapitan Emil Schweinstecher , the ships executive officer, who was looking at him with some concern. “What is it man?”

“Are you feeling ill sir?” Panzerkopf scowled;

“What are you jabbering about?” Schweinstecher swallowed; “You’re drooling sir?”

Panzerkopf looked down at his black leather coat to find that a trail of slobber had indeed escaped the corner of his mouth, he wiped it away hurriedly, his face reddening as he began to shout. “Schweinstecher! Have you fixed the problems with the main guns yet? What of the radar system? Are the interlocks working properly? What are you doing standing there you should be readying the ship for battle you simpering imbecile! Get out of my sight!”

“Jahwol Herr Grosseadmiral!” Schweinstecher saluted but found himself looking at the roll of fat on the back of Panzerkopf’s neck. It bulged puffily between the collar of his leather coat and his peaked cap and not for the first time he had to suppress a desire to kick the Grosseadmiral’s fat arse.

In truth he did have much to do. As he hurried down the companion way from the bridge and into the depths of the ship he mused that one of the disadvantages of using an army of slaves to construct anything was that they didn’t tend to do a very good job. Their firing trials had not gone well, a three gun salvo had popped rivets and welding seams all over the hull causing multiple leaks. When Panzerkopf had insisted on firing a broadside, the stern, with the shriek of rending metal, had come away entirely from the rest of the ship. It had floated briefly in their wake, the standard of the Kreigsmarine fluttering bravely from the flagpole, before the whole thing had turned turtle and sunk with a sickly gurgle. Schweinstecher hoped it wasn’t an omen.

They had not achieved a single hit on their target before the leaks caused by the firing forced abandonment of the exercise and half the AA gunners whose action stations were in open mounts had been severely injured by the blast from the guns.

It was during the firing trials that Schweinstecher had realized that Von Panzerkopf was nearly as blind as a mole. He had congratulated the gun crews warmly with ‘Excellent shooting!’ and ‘The Fuhrer would be proud!’ as their shells had sailed harmlessly over under and around the target ship, the nearest missing by several kilometers. They had gone back to port for repairs that had lasted months, but the ship was still far from ready to begin training the crew. All in all he was inclined to agree with the chief engineer whose recommended course of action for curing the ships problems was ‘Scrap the f*@#ing thing.’

His thoughts were interrupted by an announcement “Fregattenkaptain Schweinstecher to the…fsssssst groork wheeeeeeee thunk. …aptain Schweinstecher to the radar roo… gruuuurk fssssssssst kchuggachugga pop fssssssssst”

Good grief they couldn’t even get the Tannoy to work properly.

******

Stekhanovite was not a vessel of war to inspire great confidence in her four-man crew or great terror in her enemies. Chugging slowly through the still afternoon at five knots, her paint was peeling and her fittings were rusty. She had been a fishing boat once and displaced some 20 tons, her armament consisted of an anti tank gun lashed to her quarter deck and she was built of wood. Actually her wooden construction had selected her for the task she now undertook, the German mines with which the Gulf of Finland was liberally sown were all of the magnetic type, also her hold was refrigerated; Comrade Stalin liked his Bratwurst fresh. Still she had metal aboard, the refrigerated hold had fifty pounds of metal in it. It was bought to the dock by a detachment of soldiers and fitted into a small but surprisingly heavy box.

Yzderevin believed that he was the only one on board who knew its contents, but Engineer Baig had guessed. It was the box that occupied his thoughts now, something that heavy could only be one of two things and it was unlikely to be lead. Fifty pounds of gold would be worth nearly two hundred thousand American dollars and that was enough money to live a nice life in Stockholm, it was enough money to turn heads, in particular the head of the widow who ran ‘The Humiegarden Arms’ on Sveavagen Street. Baig had met her on their last run, plump and cheerful, her rosy cheeks and carefree laugh reminded him somehow of his far off home, a home he was sure he would never see again.

The ship was being steered by a gormless youth named Slutskaya. He had all the wit, astuteness and native intelligence of musk ox but the sea was flat calm, the cloying mist would make them difficult to spot even from an aircraft and the boy could follow a compass bearing so Baig wasn’t too concerned about leaving the steering for a while. He was at work on the gun whose sighting system was broken. He was doing it more to avoid Yzderevin than to actually accomplish anything but sure enough the weasel faced party cadre felt the need to talk to him. Baig wished he wouldn’t, his conversation was filled with empty headed inanities. His opening gambit was typical.

“A fine Russian gun Baig!”

“It’s not Russian.”

“Of course it's Russian.”

“It’s got Made in England stamped on the barrel”

“Well it must have been built for our British allies.”

“It’s a British design, 57mm, they call it a ‘six pounder’.” Yzderevin spluttered, then stalked off. ‘Thank God.’ thought Baig.

******

The radar operators face was creased with worry as he stared at the flickering screen in front of him. “I’m sorry sir but I’m sure there was an echo there, we’ve had so many malfunctions its hard to tell...”

“How big?” snapped Schweinstecher.

“I’m not sure sir, 10,000 meters off the starboard bow steering west.” As he said it the alarm klaxons filled the ship with their clamour and Panzerkopf’s voice came suddenly loud over the tannoy.

“Warriors of the Reich…fssssssst, wheeeeeee …into glorious battle…gruuuuuuuk kachunk… Russian cruiser… groooook wheeeeeee… glory of the Fatherland…clang.”

Dear suffering saints the damn fool was going to take them to war! He ran back up the companionway and as he emerged into the hazy sunlight on the bridge he snatched the field glasses from around one of the Bridge officers necks, nearly strangling the man in the process. There in the mist, ten kilometers from where he stood was a vessel. Almost at once he felt himself relax, it was tiny, absurd, he almost laughed with relief. “Grosseadmiral, that boat, its…”

“Schweinstecher!” roared Panzerkopf “Prepare the main armament for action.” He was about to protest – they weren’t ready, the crew wasn’t even half trained and besides; the secondary armament would suffice, no the 20mm AA guns, no break some rifles out of the armoury - but then again why? Why bother? Let the record show that Grosseadmiral Von Panzerkopf was bound and determined to take the mightiest vessel of war ever constructed into battle with some sort of fishing smack.

******

Slutskaya looked up from the wheel and saw the island emerge from the mist. ‘Funny,’ he thought ‘I don’t recall seeing an island on the chart.’ He opened the chart up, Baig had penciled in their position not an hour before and there were definitely no islands in this part of the Baltic, better ask he thought. “Comrade Yzderevin what’s this island?” His sallow features darkened “How should I know; ask Baig”

Slutskaya opened the door at the back of the wheelhouse; “Comrade Baig!” he called; “Comrade Baig, what’s this island here?” Baig was still in the stern wrestling with the sight on the 6 pounder and wondered dimly what the hell Slutskaya was talking about. He decided to ignore the boy. His voice came again “Baig!” a pause “Comrade Baig, what’s this island?” The spanner lost its grip on the sight and the sudden change in resistance caused Baig’s hand to give way, the spanner fell from his fingers and slithered over the side. “Damn you Slutskaya what do you want?”

“Baig, what’s this island?” Baig straightened up cursing Slutskaya for a fool but the words died on his lips. For a moment he stood absolutely still, nonplussed, unable to believe what he was seeing and then he was shouting; “Hard a port you sniveling halfwit! That’s not an island, that’s a f*@#ing German battleship!”

******

Schweinstecher saw little reason to stay on the bridge and made the excuse of going to help the commander of turret ‘Bruno’. During their firing trials Bruno had, amid some stiff competition from the other turrets, put in an absolutely deplorable gunnery performance. The twin guns could have released a possible six shells in the three salvoes ordered but had managed only one. As he entered the gun housing he was not really surprised to find that complete chaos reigned. The turret commander blanched as he entered and spluttered to explain above the howl of the klaxon and the noise of shouted orders that the interlocks kept jamming, preventing shells from rising to the guns from the magazines.

“Keep them open.” Snapped Schweinstecher, “I don’t think we have much to fear from our opponent.” The turret commander looked perplexed.

“But a Russian cruiser; how did it escape the blockade…”

“It’s not a cruiser,” said Schweinstecher making no attempt to conceal his glee. As he spoke a 51 cm shell rose on a lift from the depths of the magazines and stopped, poised right in front of the gaping breech of the port side gun. Both were huge, the largest weapons ever mounted afloat. They felt the turret move beneath them as it traversed and the guns themselves began to depress towards their target. The huge shell followed the movement keeping exactly opposite the wide open maw of the gun breach, waiting to be rammed home with its accompanying bags of propellant, but there seemed to be some delay, the lift bringing the bags was jammed, Schweinstecher looked down into the turret trunk and saw men straining and hammering at the mechanism. He cursed, then walked to the front of the turret and looked out through the tiny sighting port. There was their target now less than 3000 meters away, its funnel pouring smoke, tiny figures moving frantically on its decks.

******

“How do you work this f*@#ing thing Baig? Baig for God’s sake man I’m talking to you! Baig!” Yzderevin wrestled with the 6 pounder and screamed at the top of his lungs but Alash Baig did not seem to hear him. He stood rooted to the deck his arms by his sides, his face a sad mask of resignation and weariness. Baig could see death coming for them and there was no escape. Death was closing on them at about nineteen or twenty knots, the great steel knife of its bows was going to slice them into tiny pieces and leave its foaming wake to wash their blood from the towering grey flanks of this immense ship. Dimly he could hear Yzderevin’s voice; “Baig! For the love of …”

“The sight's broken.”

“What?”

“The sight - its broken.” Baig laughed – as if a working gun sight was going to help them.

Slutskaya was trying to load a round, he was shaking so hard he dropped it and it fell over the side, he grabbed another and this time rammed it home. The vast German ship was nearly on them now, less than 1000 meters, he closed the breach and froze.

“How do you fire it?” Yzderevin looked at him

“What?”

“How do you fire it?” Slutskaya was screaming now, panic and fear tearing his voice to quavering shreds. Baig closed his eyes – could they not just shut up, could they not just let him find a tiny moment of peace to die in? Slutskaya and Yzderevin pulled levers and prodded buttons randomly; in sudden annoyance Baig leaned forward, put his hand on the firing lever and pulled it. The gun jumped and both Slutskaya and Yzderevin let out terrified squeals at the crack of the report. Baig knew, even as he pulled the firing lever, the total and complete futility of this gesture, knew that it was impossible for this preposterous little popgun to so much as scratch the paint on the mountain of steel bearing down on them, knew beyond any certainty that there was only one way for this encounter to end.

He was quite surprised when the German battleship exploded.

******

The shell left the end of the six pounder’s barrel and flew towards the Herman Goering in a parabolic arc. It entered the muzzle of the port side gun on Turret Bruno, ricochet once off the rifling, flew out through the open breech and exploded against the nose cap of the 51 cm shell that still rested in the cradle opposite.

Emil Schweinstecher was looking straight at it and his eyes registered the explosion quite plainly, they also registered the explosion of the 51cm shell three thousandths of a second later but his optic nerve was unable to transmit this information to his brain before both of them, along with the rest of Emil Schweinstecher and everyone else in Turret Bruno were vaporized by the blast.

Momentarily constrained by the structure of the turret and barbette the blast traveled downwards through the open interlocks and into the magazines that contained over 900 tones of high explosives all of which detonated at once. The explosion shattered the Herman Goering into literally thousands of pieces, which were propelled by the fringes of a vast red-orange fireball in every direction. The entire bridge structure, with Grosseadmiral Von Panzerkopf still shouting orders upon it was thrown half a kilometer into the air and the ships cat became the first animal to rise higher than the summit of Mount Everest.

Slutskaya and Yzderevin were both knocked off their feet by the blast, Yzderevin went straight over the side with a howl but Baig had grabbed Slutskaya’s belt as he threw himself flat on the deck and the boy wailed in terror but did not follow. “You better hang on!” shouted Baig as the tidal wave from the Herman Goering’s funeral pyre lifted the stern of the Stekhanovite high into the air, virtually standing her on her prow, her single screw, suddenly free of the water raced for a moment until the body of the wave pushed the prow back up and her stern fell back into the sea with a slap.

Lumps of hot, twisted metal splashed all around them with sudden whooshes of steam, some crashed into the deck and wheelhouse, a second tidal wave lifted them again and as it passed Stekhanovite was left bobbing in a turmoil of surf, fuel oil and floating wreckage.

******

With no one at the helm, the tiny ship steered an erratic course away from a slowly dissolving column of grey smoke that hung in the air astern like a ghost. Baig and Slutskaya got unsteadily to their feet and looked at it in disbelief. Slutskaya was the first to speak;

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Said Baig “I’ve no idea, none at all.”

There was a sudden commotion behind them, a hatch was flung open and the bloodshot eyes of Captain Klimbinov regarded them balefully.

“Baig, Slutskaya; for god’s sake can’t you keep the noise down, I’m trying to sleep.” He blinked owlishly in the sunlight and then his gaze took in the broken pieces of metal scattered about the deck “And clean up this f*@#ing mess!”