'Operation : Hurricane'

by Ben Paul

Dmitry Kagovich lit his last cigarette, the match briefly illuminating his rugged features 
before he shook it out and threw it into the harbour. He would have to find some more tomorrow, 
tobacco products being in short supply as the government tried to keep up morale on the front. Fair 
enough, thought Dmitry, savouring a pull on the cigarette, nothing's too good for our men fighting the 
Nazis. He would have loved to be there himself, but he was old enough to remember fighting in the 
Great War and the Civil War, and had the scars to prove it. It said something about the lack of 
young men out here that Dmitry, with his lazy eye, scarred face and limp, was a night warden in 
Vladivostok harbour. Not that he minded. He was eager to help in any way; he loved his country, his 
government, and worshipped 'Vozhd' Stalin. Dmitry had heard the whisperers and naysayers claim 
that the Soviet Union would lose the war, and had so far kept quiet, but always knew that one day 
he would enjoy his revenge and after the victory over the fascists would denounce them to the local 
NKVD headquarters. As for the ridiculous rumours that the Japanese would attack, such jokes were 
not worth the trouble of a denunciation. Surely the Japanese barbarians would not dare take on the 
might of the USSR? Surely they couldn't possibly hope for victory against such a superior foe. 
Dmitry scoffed at the thought of it.
	Crushing the last of his precious cigarette under his shoe, Dmitry checked that his Great 
War revolver, his most prized possession, was loaded, and moved on. He paid no attention to the 
low droning sound at first - It sounded too much like the factories and mills of the city to be unusual. 
But, as with all such things, it eventually snared his attention. It was a clear night, the moon shone 
brightly in the sky and, as Dmitry shaded his eyes, he saw several blotches moving across the sky. 
It seemed to be military aircraft, a group of about 15 fighters. Dmitry's eyesight wasn't particularly 
good, but he reckoned that this was probably training. Yes, training of new pilots to fight in the 
West. True, Dmitry knew of no flying schools in the area, but then the Soviet Union was completely 
mobilised, and he had heard of fields and roads being used for takeoff and landing in the west. Yes, 
new pilots. Unseen by anyone, Dmitry saluted the brave warriors in the sky.
	Then they began to dive.
	Dmitry's hand wavered and then slumped to his side as the planes screamed downwards. 
He realised too late what was happening. For some reason, he glanced at his watch - 5:07 AM. 
Looking up again, he heard a splash as something dropped into the harbour. He watched in horror, 
utterly helpless, as the torpedo raced towards a cruiser near the Harbour mouth. With a deafening 
crash that seemed to split Dmitry's world in two, the projectile smashed into the hull. He saw lights 
come on and heard shouts on the other side of the harbour as people began to awake and yet more 
torpedoes struck their targets, including the lone battleship, the pride of the Soviet Pacific fleet. 
Looking up in despair, Dmitry saw two more attack waves closing in. He started to run clumsily, his 
limp slowing him down. He had to get back to his warden's office and alert the local authorities. 
Looking around as he ran, he saw several ships ablaze and sinking, the battleship listing to port. 
The enemy planes were now engaging the few inactive and obsolete anti-aircraft guns near the 
shore, one accidentally hitting a naval oil tank and pulling up quickly as it erupted with a volcanic 
roar.
	Dmitry was suddenly thrown high into the air as he fumbled with his keys, trying to find the 
one for his office. He slammed painfully into the side of a nearby house and slipped into 
unconsciousness. It would later appear, much to the enemies' amusement, that a stray torpedo had 
struck the jetty and destroyed the small warden's shack as the old, decrepit watchman fought with 
the lock.

	Dmitry felt himself being lifted by strong hands under his armpits and painfully opened his 
good eye. An Oriental face, laughing mockingly, swam into view. As his focus returned, Dmitry saw 
that it was now daylight. A Japanese destroyer was anchored in the harbour and he could hear 
fighting in the background. Returning to the situation at hand, he could see that the enemy officer 
was still laughing raucously, the two marines holding him up equally amused. The officer was 
holding the treasured pistol. Dmitry swore at the man and demanded his gun back, but his still-
swimming mind had the words come out as a long, low moan. The soldiers laughed even harder at 
his sorry state. The officer asked him a question and the young men at his sides almost collapsed 
utterly at what he supposed was a joke. Then the officer stopped laughing and struck him in his 
temple with the pistol.
	As he once again passed out, with blows raining down on his broken body, Dmitry first 
wondered if he would ever see his pistol again. Finally, sadly, he wondered how many had been as 
wrong as him.