Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  The seven soldiers stumbled over roots and hidden obstacles, tree-stumps half hidden by a thick blanket of snow. Another rifle shot cracked behind, Udet gasping as the bullet smacked against the stacked tree trunks ahead, the projectile having swept over his shoulder a he slipped lower in the snow. Dropped to his knees, he scrambled desperately behind the ice covered logs and struggled to raise his rifle, his hands shaking.

  ‘Hase’ crashed into the snow beside Udet, Tatu sliding behind the log pile to their right with the two Italians as Hausser pushed Petru roughly onto the iced surface to their left behind some more chopped wood, their hearts pounding as they gasped for air.

  The freezing fog hung around the trees at the top of the slope, Leutnant Hausser straining his eyes as he stole a glimpse upwards, Tatu hissing across the men, ‘Stay down…he seems to be a good shot!’

  Donatello shouted back frantically, his tone edged with fear, ‘But the other Russkies will be coming Sergeant…what shall we do?’

  Hausser spun round, their shoulders jumping as another shot cracked against the wood before Udet and ‘Hase’. A dislodged log slipped from the top of the pile onto them, their hands rising instinctively to protect their heads, the thick wood pushed over their helmets and rolling across their backs as they grunted in pain, the snow billowing and cascading over their shoulders.

  The young commander stared across at the Italians, ‘Keep quiet! The fog could confuse them and they have to cross open ground to get to us!’ He lowered his head, pushing from the wood as he turned his shoulders, staring into the gloom below on the slope to see if there was an escape route, his teeth gritting in frustration as he realised the ground was relatively open, providing no cover…the ideal terrain for the sniper.

  Muffled Russian shouts echoed from between the trees at the top of the incline, Tatu grimacing as he realised there were now a number of men joining the sniper, his breath catching as he glanced round at the prone bodies lying behind the wood stacks. He stared across at Hausser, seeing the young commander glance back down the slope through the murk and creeping mist. Following his gaze, the Romanian quartermaster rolled his eyes, seeing the flat land offered no obstacles to hide behind, the slope reaching the track and then snow covered fields leading to the hamlet in the distance.

  Bullets splattered against the log piles, PPSH machine guns flashing at the tree line, the Russians hoping to take down a couple of the defenders before attacking. Rifle shots swept across the snow, the logs cracking and bouncing as the bullets smacked against the piled stacks.

  Then the shooting abruptly stopped, Hausser realising the dreaded tactic and shouting frantically, ‘Keep down…the sniper will target anyone that looks out!’

  Tatu’s arm shot out, pushing the rising helmeted heads of the curious Italians down, a cloud of exhaled breath engulfing them, ‘Listen to the nice Leutnant…or you will never see Italy again!’

  Donatello’s and Sergeant Moretti’s faces scraped against the iced surface, snow dropping from the wood above as they gasped in fright, a heavy Russian accent shouting tauntingly from the tree line above, ‘Fascist Pigs! You die here tonight!’ The gunfire erupted again, bullets cracking against the logs as wood splinters shot into the air, more of the logs shifting…some beginning to disintegrate as bullets peppered the unstable structures.

  Leutnant Hausser glanced up, his head still behind the log pile as he strained his ears in an attempt to determine if the Russians were advancing. More bullets splattered against the stacks, his head dropping down and gloved hands rising over his helmet, his voice muttering as Petru nodded in frustration, his hands clenched tightly round his rifle, ‘They have us pinned…when they attack, they will be upon us before we can open fire!’

  Tatu shouted loudly in Russian, his voice muffled behind the wood as he pushed on Donatello’s back, ‘Tell us when you reload…we will sing to you…if it is good, let us go…we can drink together in the village!’

  Grenades bounced down the white blanketed slope, the explosive crumps throwing iced snow and debris over the prone figures, Tatu swearing in irritation as he ducked his head again, ‘Damn Russkies…no sense of humour!’

  The flashes from the trees recommenced, bullets zipping past or crunching against the stacked wood, the prone soldiers ducking down once more, their faces now pressed into the freezing snow. Hausser shook his head, his thoughts becoming frantic as he considered what to do, the situation seeming desperate.

  The whoosh above startled them, their bodies jumping as the large explosion erupted at the top of the rise, the eerie flash of light causing brief extended shadows across the snow. Muffled screams further up the slope, a distant thump behind as the seven soldiers glanced round, their hearts racing as the whoosh swept overhead once more, another flash of light as the shell exploded within the trees.

  Leutnant Hausser grinned in relief as he saw the sight below, a number of half-crouched darkened silhouettes emerging from the hamlet and spreading out across the snow covered field on the other side of the track, an officer advancing at the edge of the hamlet waving them forward. Then another flash from within the village, the two Pak 40 anti-tank guns firing high explosive shells towards the tree line above them, the explosion briefly lighting across the snow below.

  Along the snow and ice bound track leading from the village, the angled shape of an Sdkfz 223 bounced and skidded, its metal radio frame above just visible against the white blanketing surround. Hausser’s eyes widened as the vehicle’s forward MG34 machine gun flashed, bright tracers sweeping through the darkness above them towards the top of the slope, marking the treeline for the gunners amongst the low houses. Behind the armoured car, two Kubelwagen jeeps and an Opel Blitz lorry swerved and slid, their drivers desperately attempting to follow the tracks of the heavier vehicle in front, the roar of engines just audible.

  From the hamlet, the low toned chatter of an MG42 machine gun erupted, the gunners aiming at the tracer fire as bullets poured over the prone figures and into the tree line above, muffled screams filling the air as the high velocity bullets swept through the trees, tearing bark and sharp splinters from the ravaged branches and trunks.

  Hausser shouted harshly across from the woodpile to the others, their grime encrusted faces glancing back in startled response, ‘Stay down until the German unit gets here…they may be trigger happy…anyone who moves will be cut down!’ The group ducked further as more bullets smacked against the woodpile, a last tossed grenade exploding further up the slope as the surviving Russians turned and fled back into the forest.

  The Sdkfz 223 slid to a halt at the foot of the slope, its wheels locking. The Kubelwagens skidded in beside it as soldiers jumped from the sides, their bodies instantly crouching and weapons raised as they began to advance up the incline, more great coated helmeted troops leaping from the back of the lorry as the tailgate crashed downwards. The cracks of rifle shots resounded from below, the infantry firing into the treeline, branches shattering and falling as snow billowed through the mist.

  ‘Hase’ stared in awe down the slope as the upper gunner in the armoured car slammed another ammunition cartridge on top of his weapon, his helmet ducking down as the bullets spewed from the barrel once more, the trees cracking and splintering above them as another heavy explosion lit up the surrounding snow.

  The infantry scrambled up the slope and advanced past them, several dropping to aim their rifles into the trees above, the machine gun fire now raking the flanks as the soldiers struggled towards the top of the rise. The cracks of shots gradually subsided as the soldiers ventured into the outskirts of the trees, their bodies dropping to the snow with orders not to proceed further into the fog and darkness.

  Leutnant Hausser slowly rose to one knee, glancing across his men as they scrambled upwards, Tatu leaning against the woodpile, his chest heaving as the two Italians stared warily up the slope. The young commander looked round, an officer making towards them, his hand holding an MP40 machine gun as he shouted, ‘What unit ar
e you from?’

  Hausser rose to his feet as the man approached, stiffening and saluting as realised the officer was a Major, ‘Leutnant Hausser, Sir…remnants of the seventy sixth infantry division assigned to rear security duties.’

  The officer nodded as he approached further, returning the salute, his chest heaving from the exertion as clouds of exhaled air hung around them, his steel helmet glinting from the frost, ‘Any relation to the infamous ‘Papa’ Hausser? Where are you stationed and what are you doing here?’

  Hausser gritted his teeth in irritation as the older man drew level, staring in scrutiny at him, ‘No relation, Sir…we are from one of the villages to the east and were ordered to check the tracks through the forest for partisan activity…’ He sighed, ‘We should have reported back by now…my commander, Captain Fuchs, needs us for something tomorrow morning.’ He glanced over the Major’s frame, an Iron Cross just visible beneath his white padded jacket collar as his hand slowly rose to his own, the medal hidden beneath his greatcoat. The officer was probably ten years older than himself, with angular features and frosted black eyebrows, ‘There seems to be rather a lot of Russkies in there, Sir!’

  The Major grinned ironically, ‘Rather a lot? It is full of them!’ He slapped Hausser’s shoulder, ‘You and your men are lucky to have escaped at all!’ The senior officer glanced across the six men approaching, his grey eyes narrowing as he took in the mixture of ages and appearances, ‘So a security unit of six men and an officer are sent into a forest that is a known partisan base?’ The Major shrugged, grimacing and turning away in disgust to stare back down towards the hamlet, ‘We were due to pull out in less than an hour…move up to the front for the forthcoming operation…I think you are very lucky Leutnant Hausser that we were still here.’ He turned back, his expression mellowing, ‘Were you and your men at Stalingrad?’

  Hausser nodded, weariness beginning to sweep through his frame as Tatu drew level with them, ‘Five of us were, Sir…we were flown out as two were wounded…’

  The officer glanced across the seven men as they slowly formed a line before him, ‘I am Major Wolff…I will be speaking to this Captain Fuchs soon regarding his decision to send you on a foolhardy reconnaissance. I will also file a report.’ He stared back at the younger German officer, ‘We are sending local security units into the forest in the next couple of days to clear it…over three hundred men supported by German rear units…what he hoped to achieve with seven, I really have no idea.’

  Tatu coughed uncomfortably, stiffening to salute, ‘I feel it only correct to report, Herr Major…we were eight…’ He glanced despondently back up the frozen scorched rise, ‘We lost one man at the edge of the trees…he was only nineteen.’

  Major Wolff’s lips pursed in irritation, clouds of air swirling around them, ‘Damn fool action…we lose a young soldier for what…to tell us what we already know?’ His eyes narrowed as he stared at Tatu, ‘Romanian accent to your German? What other surprises has your unit, Leutnant Hausser?’

  Hausser stiffened uncomfortably, ‘Two Italians, two Romanians, two Germans and a Russian Hilfswilliger, Sir!’ He shifted nervously, ‘Most speak several languages, we’re soon to be used as a liaison unit…for some operation.’

  The major nodded and smiled, indicating towards the lorry further down the slope, ‘Very interesting squad…collect your fallen comrade and we will provide transport back to your village.’ He turned to stare at Hausser, ‘I gained a lift with this mobile unit…they were escorting the pak guns forward for tomorrow…I feel we will all be very busy in the forthcoming days.’ His right gloved hand rose to his helmet informally, his smile warming, ‘Take care gentlemen…we may meet again soon I think!’

  The seven men stiffened, Hausser saluting in return as the Major turned away, his voice rising as he shouted orders for the unit to regroup back at the hamlet before striding back towards the Opel Blitz lorry, indicating to his waiting adjutant to come forward from the jeeps.

  The young German officer turned to his men, ‘Well, we have transport…I will retrieve young Erich’s body with ‘Hase’, the rest of you make your way to the truck…’

  Tatu nodded obediently, ‘You heard the Leutnant…make your way to the lorry.’ He hesitated as the others turned and began to trudge down the slope, leaning toward Hausser, ‘If there are any magazines for a PPSH lying around…I would like to keep this weapon if possible.’

  Hausser nodded, a grim smile beneath his freezing scarf as the others turned away, ‘Hase’ staring at him expectantly, ‘Come on then…let’s get our young Erich back!’

  Chapter Four: Late Evening: February 18th, 1943 Berlin

  Private First Class Ernst Meyer stood stiffly to attention, his Kar 98 rifle held vertically before him as the immaculately dressed General walked slowly past, a glass of French wine in his hand. The senior officer nodding to the tuxedo dressed orderlies in the lavish reception area, the marble tiles sparkling from hours of polishing, the extensive chandeliers above glinting in the light from bright clear electric bulbs and flickering candles lining the walls. The central staircases were also marble, two wide sets of stairs stretching behind the main reception desk, numerous floral displays and ornate mirrors lining the wide gold and white decorated entrance area.

  The light brown haired and blue eyed private opposite Ernst winked at him, their polished bayoneted rifles held aloft and ready for inspection by any senior officers that wished to delay their entry to the large gathering. The two soldiers were close friends, both quite studious and quiet, they spent considerable time discussing the exploits of various divisions in the French campaign, North Africa and now, Russia. Both were of similar age, in their late twenties and sharing similar backgrounds from early youth in Munich and Berlin.

  Dressed in immaculately polished jackboots, black uniforms with white gloves and shining helmets, their almost overwhelming pride at providing an honour guard for the evening’s event was obvious. With flushed faces and stiff physical presentations, they had been assigned to the top of the wide steps that led from the cobbled access road into the venue, their eagerness to please not going unnoticed by an immediate superior.

  Stealing a glance into the wide reception area, Ernst observed the guests were now climbing the marbled staircases carrying their drinks, the many silver trays of oeuvres only half empty, the remaining food a rich reward awaiting for the serving honour guard, a fresh set of trays prepared for the end of the evening and stowed in the kitchen fridges beneath.

  As the last guests disappeared round the corner of the wide staircases, Ernst felt his stomach rumble, realising the sheer excitement and exhilaration he had felt all day had removed his appetite, the last thing he had eaten having been at breakfast time.

  The soldier opposite smiled sneakily, Ernst’s face flushing with embarrassment as he realised his friend had heard the gurgle of hunger within him, a faint smile sweeping across his own lips as he stared mechanically forward.

  Private Heinrich Bayer stood opposite his friend, his eyes drifting to the corner in an attempt to see into the reception area, his mind willing the parade sergeant to emerge and allow them to stand easy, to sample the rich and exotic dishes that had been prepared for the guests. He swallowed hard as he heard Ernst’s stomach rumble again, his teeth biting the inside of his mouth painfully to prevent a giggle.

  Almost thirty soldiers stood to attention around the reception area and on the steps outside, their figures placed at convenient, yet visible intervals to compliment the surroundings. Many soldiers were placed next to the dominating statues or busts that lined the outer wall of the reception, a couple next to the scarlet curtains that concealed small doors for servants or cleaners. Outside, an honour guard by another unit lined the cobblestoned road leading to the lower stairs, their soldiers placed in lines on either side as the sparkling Mercedes limousines had slowed to allow dignitaries to disembark.

  Boots cracked across the interior marble, the soldier’s red faced and stressed ca
ptain emerging round the corner from above and descending the stairs, his voice a hiss, ‘Fall out and have some food…make sure none of it falls on your uniforms or there will be trouble! Once you have eaten, swap with the soldiers outside…you have fifteen minutes!’ The squeal of polished boots resounded around the reception as the soldiers walked uniformly into the brightly lit reception, Ernst and Heinrich staring up at the enormous deep red flag that hung above the reception desk, the white circle and black swastika lit by spotlights from the opposite wall. Shuffling to join the line for the food area, the speakers on either side crackled, the event beyond the lavish reception area about to commence.

  The beer hall in Spandau (Berlin suburb) fell gradually into silence, many of the soldiers and older men gaining refills for their tankards and large tumblers and assuming seats in the dimly lit basement. The chairs and tables were of basic wooden construction, wine and beer bottles adorning the tops with flickering candles, the flames challenged with air distortion as the many men whispered excitedly to each other.

  A layer of smoke hung below the ceiling, the men puffing on pipes or smoking cigarettes as they awaited the event to commence, their host switching on the ornate radio and turning the volume up to maximum as static surged through the large speaker. The hall held some one hundred and thirty men, most sat around the many tables in huddled groups of four or five, a number still clad in grimy work clothes. Many were workers from local factories, a number of older men that had fought in the previous war and oversubscribed table of six soldiers on leave from the front near the back wall. Three younger women served the tables or the men could visit their host at the bar…the options available were minimal…beer, house wine and small number of food options at lunchtime or in the late evening. The venue a regular haunt for most of the clientele.