Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  Sucking air, he thrust himself outwards, his shoulder crashing against the door, the obstruction splintering and collapsing inwards as his MP40 swept upwards, shouts of alarm coming from inside as the submachine gun bucked back against his shoulder, the muzzle flashing.

  Two Russians turned in horror from the forward window, their bodies shuddering and twisting as the submachine gun bullets swept into their frames. Hausser surged forward, crashing into the next room through stacked furniture, his MP40 firing again as another defender turned, the man propelled backwards with bullets penetrating his chest, the rifle clattering to the wooden floorboards.

  SS soldiers stumbled past him, frantic shouts ringing out as the defenders realised they were under attack, rifles cracking and frantic hand to hand fighting breaking out as the Germans fought their way grimly upwards and also down into the pak gun positions, the field guns placed in the upper basement, the rear wall removed for access.

  Rifle fire erupted on either side, bullets zipping across the streets, an SdKfz 221 roaring into the thoroughfare, charging to the junction and screeching across the road as cover, its upper gun flashing along the wide thoroughfare towards the defenders in the distance, SS Grenadiers surging across the cobblestones and into the buildings, two dropping with an MG34, the muzzle flashing as bursts tore to the right.

  Loud shell detonations burst outside, dust falling from the cracked ceiling, the radio operators shouting into their microphones above the din. Muffled machine gun fire and rifle cracks echoed into the basement headquarters, the general shouting across the room in desperation, ‘I need more information…where are the fascists now? Where is my update?’

  One officer stood up abruptly, dust falling from his tunic, the red shoulder bars grimy and smeared, his voice trembling in nervousness, ‘Comrade General…I regret to report…’ Another explosion erupted outside, more dust filling the air as plaster fragments fell onto the desks and paperwork below.

  The general rose to his feet, glaring at the junior officer as he spat dust from his mouth impatiently, his voice rising, ‘Report then! Don’t keep me waiting…’

  The officer drew breath, swallowing hard in fear, ‘Comrade General…the fascists have broken into the southern suburbs…there are reports of heavy fighting to the west against SS troops and armour, the enemy has broken through to the tank ditch and we are holding them there with pak and machine guns.’ He lowered his head, ‘The Germans have held our forces attempting to break through to us from the north…there are broken reports of fighting to the east and a strong enemy thrust developing into the city from the northwest.’

  The general sighed, lowering himself back into his seat, reaching for his cigarettes, ‘Continue…please…’

  The younger man glanced round in surprise, ‘We have lost contact with some of our forward units…enemy planes are attacking our ground forces at will and we believe their heavy artillery will be in position by morning.’ The officer stiffened to attention as the general’s eyes stared at him, his head snapping back to the front wall, grimacing, ‘We have lost a considerable number of tanks and guns to enemy advances…Comrade General, the city is virtually surrounded Sir…’

  The general seemed to slump forward in exhaustion, hands rising to weary temples, his grey hair matted with sweat and dust as he groaned, ‘Very well…it is only a matter of time now it seems.’ He straightened, wary the room had fallen silent, the shellfire outside continuing as distant shots rang out, ‘Every man to be given a rifle…cooks…anyone…we must be seen by the High Command to throw everything at the fascists…’ He looked up, staring at the officers before him, ‘Gentlemen…we must hope it rains and the thaw comes…Rasputitsa is all that will stop them now…’ He suddenly glanced round curiously, ‘Where is that impertinent forward Captain…Medvedev I think his name is…we have not heard from him for most of today?’

  The officer lowered his head slowly, a countryman next to him nudging him in prompt, ‘Missing…believed killed at the River Mozh yesterday, Comrade General…’ The general shrugged, glancing back down at the written orders in front of him from Moscow, the units that were ordered to advance now lying dead or destroyed across the frozen fields to the south and west.

  Hausser dropped onto the Hanomag bench exhausted, Udet handing him the earphones as he raised them to his head, ‘Leutnant Hausser speaking…’

  Major Wolff’s voice boomed through the headset, ‘Ah, Leutnant…you are in the city…good work.’ The Grossdeutschland commander hesitated, reading a report thrust in front of him, his teeth gritting as he spoke sideways to his radio operator, ‘Move more men up to counter the enemy’s thrusts from the north…request heavy artillery and Luftwaffe intervention…they cannot break through, not now!’ He stared at his subordinate, the soldier stepping back towards the radio as two officers looked on, the major returning to the radio conversation, ‘Where are you exactly, Hausser?’

  The junior commander sighed wearily, ‘Heavy fighting in the south, Herr Major. We were supporting the grenadiers and infantry as they advance through the streets…’

  Wolff grimaced, ‘Good…but I need you round to the north west…we are attacking there and I want an update on advances into the city. Move along the flanks and report back from Das Reich’s position…let me know what is happening there before progressing further northwards…I need you back with 1st SS Panzer, Liebstandarte before you come to us…find SS-Sturmbannführer Gerber, he will be waiting for you with fresh orders…’

  Hausser nodded despondently, glancing up and seeing Tatu staring down at him, the light from flames flickering against the side of his dirt smeared face, Udet and Moretti shifting uncomfortably, ‘Jawohl, Herr Major…we will set off at once…’

  Chapter Forty Six: Partisans in the South

  The evening was bitterly cold, a late afternoon rise in temperatures seeming to taunt the landscape as the skies cleared, a dull sun briefly warming the forest and causing a mild thaw as the temperature crept upwards. As the darkness fell, the temperature plummeted with a cloudless sky, bright clear stars filling the heavens as a savage frost swept across the eastern Ukraine.

  Hidden deep in the forests and woods, surviving Russian soldiers of the offensive and isolated partisans braced themselves for another miserable night, the trees chilling then bark cracking as the melted water froze beneath, an engulfing cold sweeping the area. Snow that had begun to soften now crystallized, icicles forming from hanging rocks and flowing streams as low freezing fog formed across the whitened terrain, the air temperature dropping further in less exposed or lower land.

  Small animals sought underground shelter in the bitter temperature, the sturdier beasts moving to the outskirts of forests with a low mist gradually forming amongst the trees, many snorting as the frost formed and bit into their senses and noses, clouds of exhaled breath forming around the packs as the animals moved closer together for warmth.

  Across the many farms and villages, residents sought to comfort their animals, bringing them inside or securing them within barns and ensuring plenty of feed was available, the frost and frozen saliva appearing across the mouths of the sturdiest of transports, the small and loyal robust Panje horses of the steppe. Most farmers would travel by sled in the frozen snow, resorting only to small wheeled carts during the Rasputitsa or the summer months when the sledges caused more strain for their determined horses.

  Many locals would smirk or conceal grins as they had observed the military of both sides insist on continuing not only motorised patrols when sleds would have proved more efficient, but also reconnaissance sweeps in the most inhospitable weathers that would clearly weaken their troops or even cause frostbite or death. Many would joke in friendly and trusted company that it was unlikely the commanders that instructed such foolhardy patrols would probably be with their men, most choosing to read reports of the exploits next to warm fires with some schnapps or vodka.

  Once livestock was secured, the inhabitants sought to comfort themselves, many
lighting fires or numerous candles, a few considering that the next season of thaw and rain would bring thick glutinous mud and flooding on lower plains, that they should move livestock or prepare stores of food onto easily accessible or higher ground. It was a challenging existence, but the land was fertile and Ukrainians were proud of their culture and exploits as the poor relative of the Soviet Union, the people generally distrusted by the suspicious leadership in Moscow.

  Oleg stared into the darkened forest, his slim body shivering as he wrapped the animal skins round his frame tighter, the bitter cold seeming to stick in his throat and nostrils. Having covered most of his face in scarves and material offered by some of the women in the partisan encampment, he had trudged unwillingly out for sentry duty, a restless sleep in the afternoon interrupted by the camp’s preparations to leave.

  The commander of their band of nearly one hundred and twenty rebels had considered they had perhaps as little as twenty four hours to retreat from the enclave he had called home for nearly a year, the successful defence that late morning probably finally spurring the fascist authorities to clear the forest once and for all. There had been a brief respite when they had nervously emerged from the darkness as Russian tanks had driven past nearly two weeks earlier, the advance soon reversed and hiding resumed, but this time with stragglers from the isolated Russian units swelling their number.

  Oleg knew that their celebrated Cossack leader in his late forties had originally supported the German invasion, welcoming the early advances of 1941 and the forward Wehrmacht reconnaissance units with food and expressions of loyalty for expected Ukrainian freedom. Others hiding in the forest had explained to Oleg and his friend of their almost silent leader’s history, the two young Russians confused that he was a man of few words, the commander having suffered a disabling wound some ten years ago which prevented him from remaining with his Ukrainian unit.

  Partisans that had been with the leader for some considerable time had explained that rumours had reached him in early December 1941 of the southern massacres in Nikolaev in September followed by reports of mass murder of Jews in the Odessa region, the casualties said to be over 70,000 people.

  In late December 1941, one of his neighbours had returned from Kharkov, explaining to him in detail of the murder of thousands of people in a ravine near the city, Drobitsky Yar. Most of the Russians had apparently been simply shot, but in a bitter temperature of minus fifteen degrees Celsius, children had been mercilessly thrown amongst the bodies with the consideration that they would soon die in the extreme cold.

  The intense fury had almost broken the proud Cossack, the consideration that ultimate betrayal had followed his and others trust in the invaders had troubled him deeply, almost corrupting his soul as he considered the historically vicious treatment the Ukrainians had suffered at the hands of the dreaded Russian communists for years...they were indeed a race seemingly hated by all...and alone.

  Distraught and deeply concerned after his daughter failed to expectedly return for the new year celebrations, he had vowed to travel to the city seeking her, his two younger sons conscripted into the Red Army at the outbreak of hostilities...both missing and presumed killed or captured near Smolensk in 1941. The girl in her twenties had married into a successful merchant family based in the city, her mother overcome with grief and worry when her husband stubbornly departed dressed in thick furs and animal hide against the extreme cold of January 1942, arranging for two of his trusted neighbours to assist with the maintenance of the small farm and animals.

  The local security commander had eventually granted him a travel permit when he saw the cold emotion in the farmer’s eyes, the man having been a loyal and cheerful friend before the war. The Cossack was ultimately determined to bring their last child home no matter what the stupid fascists and communists were doing.

  Finally reaching the city after a week of walking and hitching lifts from other farmers, he trudged through freezing streets to the wealthy family’s business premises in search of his one remaining beloved offspring. Finding the warehouse and shop now owned by another Kharkov businessman, a suspected fascist collaborator, he continued on to the apartment which he had last received a letter from some seven months previously, the property in a quite exclusive area of the city.

  Unable to gain a response from any of the neighbours in the block, he had apparently finally found an elderly housekeeper, the woman seeming too terrified to even talk about the residents that had previously occupied the large flat. Finally, after the pleading tears rolled down his worn features, she had relented, explaining to him that the massacre in Drobitsky Yar had been Jewish families rounded up by probably SD and SS troops. She continued to explain reluctantly that the family of the apartment he was enquiring about had not been seen since that day and that a local Nazi dignitary had moved in shortly afterwards, that the other residents were too afraid to speak of the matter.

  Upon the old Cossacks return to the south, the partisans had explained he was a changed man, extremely distant and uncooperative with locals that he had previously welcomed with open arms. He refused to attend the local gatherings, working hard on his farm and withdrawing from all but those closest to him and his wife, the local SD and security police beginning to suspect the proud farmer of collaboration with the communists or insurgency.

  Finally, they had raided his remote farm after a malicious tip off, the arrival of armed troops that may have been potentially instrumental in the death of his daughter or the massacres finally proving too much for the old warrior. Returning the next day, the soldiers found him gone, his distraught wife explaining he had left for the north during the night and would return some time later that month, that she had arranged for assistance from local farmers during his absence. It was alleged he was never seen again at his farm holding thirty kilometres further south...although the suspicion that he occasionally visited his wife at night remained.

  Oleg stiffened, feeling the cold in the darkness, his body shivering once more as he stared along the meandering track, the dull snow extending off for some distance, overhanging tree branches laden with frost and frozen flakes. He knew that at the far end of the narrow thoroughfare lay the cold lifeless bodies of his countrymen, the choice of what side they had fought for seeming now irrelevant, the remains of the fascist patrol having retreated from the trees with their wounded by early afternoon. The sniper had slipped forward, checking the area and returning some time later as Oleg awoke, explaining to all that there were still armoured cars and sentries on the slope leading from the trees.

  Hearing the compacting of snow behind, he turned, bloodshot eyes widening slightly as he glimpsed Mishka, the young Russian woman seeming to smile beneath her own scarf as he looked away nervously, her soft voice soothing to his ears, ‘Are you cold young Oleg?’

  He shuffled uncomfortably, feeling his heart rate beginning to rise, a nervous twitch filling his stomach, ‘T-the temperature is very low tonight...a clear sky will bring frost.’ He stammered, his body shivering once more as excitement began to fill his chest, pointing along the deserted track, ‘I-I have to watch here for two hours...’

  Mishka’s hand swept across his back, Oleg drawing breath sharply as she drew near to his ear, her playful whispered hissed so he could hear beneath the padded helmet and cloth, ‘I know...that is why I could find you little Oleg...I arranged for you to be sent out here alone...’

  Oleg spun round, his eyes narrowing in excited suspicion, ‘W-what do you mean?’

  Mishka’s arm slipped across his shoulder, Oleg swallowing hard as her head pushed against his upper chest, the young woman wearing an ample animal hide hat covering her ears, her voice seeming drawn in the cold, ‘I wanted to speak to you alone...now that we are leaving here...’ She rubbed her head against his chest, Oleg stiffening his stance to remain steady as the pressure increased, his breath almost held as she spoke further, ‘We are going to a forest to the north west...further into German held territory. We will take Pav
el with us and a couple of the others...apparently there is an active camp already there.’

  Oleg’s eyes strained, his heart now pounding in his chest, ‘But...you have a friend in the sniper...he likes you I think...’

  Mishka giggled, her hand rubbing his back softly as his eyes half closed, ‘Don’t be silly...he is my cousin, Oleg...he came here to protect my father and me. He will be moving through the forests to hunt Germans...’

  The young Russian male’s heart was racing with almost exhilaration, his mouth dry as clouds of exhaled breath swirled around them, his chest filling with emotion. The hoot of an owl startled them, Oleg shaking his head and staring back down the bleak track, a low freezing fog curling across the frozen ruts and reducing visibility.

  Mishka kept her head on his shoulder as he strained his eyes, heart pounding from the physical touch and nervousness. Another distant hoot echoed once more, his muscles stiffening as his hand slipped to Mishka’s covered head briefly, his whisper cautious, ‘There is someone out there, the owls are calling out...how long is it before we leave?’

  Mishka raised her head slowly, staring ahead and smiling faintly, her vision misting with emotion, ‘It’s probably nothing...the forest is too cold, the fascists would be mad to enter at night...’ She suddenly grasped his shoulder as branches swayed nearby, a cold breeze enveloping them, she forced him to a crouch, a suspicious gasp from her lips sweeping across his exposed upper features, Oleg’s senses engulfed with her warm aroma, ‘There are men here...we must move...warn the others.’