by Colin Gee
His hands supported his chin as she recited the simple message.
“Troy has not fallen. Ulysees is dead.”
The silence continued for some time, as both reflected on the now dead Soviet Paratrooper General Makarenko, who had been so incensed at the conduct of his own leadership and the results amongst his precious soldiers, that he had willingly agreed to try and assassinate Stalin.
The unsanctioned plan had been concocted by De Walle, who enlisted the help of British Intelligence.
No one else knew, and now, no-one else would ever know.
“He was a fine man, Mon Général.”
“Indeed he was. Now, Anne-Marie, enjoy your days away, and give both of them a hug from Uncle Georges.”
As De Valois closed the door, the message was already burning in the fireplace, and a line drawn under the whole episode.
Surrendering to the cot bed, sleep came eventually to the Deux officer, an uneasy sleep filled with memories of a brave man and his part in his death.
0218 hrs, Tuesday, 12th February 1946, astride Route 58, one kilometre east of Ascheburg, Germany.
Since August the previous year, battlefield promotions had become the norm, so that competent NCOs could fill the gaps left by the increasing number of dead and wounded amongst the junior grade officers in the frontline units.
Before winter brought a slowing down in the tempo of combat, life expectancy for a fresh 2nd Lieutenant was, with black humour, measured in cigarette packets. A pack a day was the standard, and the soldiers started to name their young officers ‘five packs’ or similar, according to their expected survivability.
Promoting competent Sergeants brought about a reduction in losses, and the onset of winter gave each unit time to bed in its new soldiers and replacement NCOs.
The last eight months had been particularly hard on the 84th US Infantry Division.
The unit sustained one of the first major losses amongst the US formations, when the 335th RCT, built around the infantry regiment of the same number, succumbed to heavy Soviet attacks around Uelzen. In three days of heavy fighting, the whole RCT was destroyed, leaving the 84th woefully undermanned.
As autumn had turned to winter, the division found respite after being relieved, and used the opportunity to reinforce, taking on new personnel, some released prisoners of war, as well as absorbing remnants from other units since disbanded due to casualties.
Restored to full strength, the 84th found itself back in the line, the most southerly of Simpson’s 9th US Army troops, their right flank anchored at Ascheberg, against the northern flank of the 266th Infanterie Division, one of the newly established units of the German Republic.
Their 3rd Batallion, 899th Grenadiere Regiment neatly butted up to 1st Battalion, 335th US Infantry Regiment, the three hundred metre gap between the forces being heavily mined and under constant surveillance.
Charlie Company, 355th, was preparing a raid on the Soviet positions opposite.
A group of ten men had assembled, faces blackened, camouflaged in white, and kit stripped back to basics and tied down tight.
The Staff Sergeant in charge of the raiding party double-checked each man’s gear personally, pulling at webbing, ensuring no rattles from loose kit.
2nd Lieutenant Hässler took another slug of his coffee, draining the mug. Grabbing the pot, he topped up again and offered a refill to the German officer who had been assigned to his unit as liaison with the 899th.
Oberleutnant Baron Werner Von Scharf-Falkenberg was the stereotypical German officer.
Smart, almost elegant, and precisely two metres tall, his genuine good looks were enhanced, rather than despoiled, by the scarred forehead, courtesy of being caught up in the Battle of Saint-Marcel on 18th June 1944.
The other legacy of that bloody day was less obvious, only manifesting itself slightly when he ran, this left leg now being slightly shorter than his right, courtesy of a shrapnel injury.
Accepting the coffee, he produced his cigarette holder, lit up, and continued his close examination of the raiding party.
“Ready to go, Lootenant.”
Staff Sergeant Rosenberg, his battered face sufficiently recovered to permit him proper speech, grinned at his old running mate.
“OK Rosie. Just get out there, do the job, get back, no dramas.”
“Calm yourself; don’t have a plotz in front of our guest, Lootenant.”
No matter what, the Baron couldn’t get used to these informal exchanges between the two men, what with one being an officer and the other an NCO.
“OK, boys. Stay safe and bring the bacon back home.”
Rosenberg grimaced, as he always did when Hässler played the bacon card.
“Same old shtick, and you used to be such a mentsh too!”
Everyone, save the Baron, shared an easy laugh.
Hässler slapped his old friend on the shoulder and moved to conduct him out of the bunker.
“Oberleutnant Scharf?”
Pausing to flick up his hood, Scharf slipped the MP-40 from his shoulder and followed.
An explosion, not close, broke the silence, and the whispered chatter of the raiding party stopped instantly.
Another explosion followed, then two almost simultaneously, punctuated by a burst of machine gun fire.
Flares rose skywards, their magnesium light revealing nothing in front of the US positions.
“Minefield. With me.”
Hässler led off at the double, following the trench line, occasionally having to avoid a sleepy soldier moving to his duty station.
A firefight was developing at the southernmost point of his position. A quick look allowed him to immediately understand what was happening.
The Red Army had had a similar idea, and their own raiding party had entered the minefield, with a view to circumventing the defence and coming up behind Hässler’s position.
Until one of their lead men stepped on a mine and sent himself into the afterlife.
The larger party, Hässler could see at least forty men moving his way, was under fire from both his and the German positions opposite. The potential problem was immediately apparent.
“Oberleutnant, two green flares now. Danke.”
Within seconds, the two flares added their own colour to the surreal montage, the German defensive fire dropping away instantly, in line with the pre-arranged signal.
A .30cal machine gun was spitting fury at the Soviets, who were caught between dropping into cover and moving back to the relative safety of their own positions.
A DP chattered in the snow and the American gunner was thrown back from his weapon, screaming in pain, clutching desperately at the destroyed bloody mess that had once been his left shoulder.
The loader moved across and the .30 roared into life again.
“Medic! Medic!”
Almost immediately, the loader was struck, this time fatally, as bullets chewed his face to pieces.
A group of Russians had decided on a third option, and were almost on top of the position.
Bringing his Garand up, Hässler pulled the trigger, without response.
‘Fucking misfire!’
The leading enemy soldier threw himself over the trench parapet, colliding with the US officer and sending both into a disorderly pile of arms and legs, falling on top of the wounded machine-gunner.
His screams added to the animal-like snarls as the two men struggled for a handhold.
Other Russians leapt in.
Some fell in, riddled with bullets; others dropped onto the snow short of their objective.
Rosenberg sensed rather than saw the danger, and flung himself aside as he shouted.
“Grenade!”
The charge went off, adding four more men to the growing total of wounded.
A Soviet officer, his own white all-in-one stained heavily with blood, dispatched two of the wounded with his PPd before Scharf, his immaculate appearance ravaged by the intense combat, dropped him with a burst from his SM
G.
By now, Hässler had gained the ascendency, both his hands choking the life from his weakened opponent, the man’s own efforts being solely concentrated on trying to prise the iron grip from his throat.
He failed, and Hässler relaxed his grip as a new flare burst and revealed inert and glassy eyes.
Dragging the dead Russian off the machine-gunner, he checked the man quickly and discovered he was still alive.
“Medic!”
Out of breath, he looked around for his Garand. Grabbing the weapon, he had no time to check the misfire before a Soviet soldier appeared in the trench.
The soldier lunged forward with his Mosin rifle, trying to drive the bayonet through Hässler’s stomach.
Lurching to one side, Hässler parried the thrust with the Garand, deflecting the line of the blade, before allowing the man’s momentum to bring him onto a short swing of the rifle butt.
The blow demolished teeth and bone, as the butt plate easily won the contest between metal and flesh.
Dropping onto his knees, the Soviet soldier clutched at his ruined face. Hässler, his eyes performing a quick check to make sure he was not immediately threatened, performed another short arm jab with the Garand, this time from behind, crashing the butt into the rear of the soldier’s skull.
Death was instantaneous.
A quick look revealed nothing immediately wrong with the Garand, but he decided against attending to it now, preferring to rely on his automatic pistol.
A scrabbling sound made him swivel and point the Colt, but his reactions held firm, preventing him from shooting one of his own medics… just.
“Fuck!”
“Jeez Lootenant!”
There was no more to be said.
Leaving the man to tend to the machine-gunner, Hässler risked a quick look over the parapet. Although only one flare provided any light, fizzing away as it reached the end of its life.
There was no movement.
He then became aware that there were no sounds of fighting from within his positions.
Deciding to remain and cover the medic while he worked, Hässler alternated between looking over the silent snows in front of the position, to checking the sounds of movement further down the trench line.
“Herr Leutnant Hässler?”
“Here.”
Scharf stuck his head round the trench wall, his MP-40 held ready for any eventuality.
“Alles klar?”
Hässler nodded and relaxed.
“Alles klar, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Scharf unwound from his crouched position and moved into the gun position.
Two of Rosenberg’s party followed him in, assisting the medic to evacuate the wounded gunner.
When the party had moved out of the position, two more men entered to take over the .30cal, leaving Hässler and Scharf free to move back.
Rosenberg was crouched at the junction of the trench and platoon HQ bunker.
“Shalom, shalom. Thought they’d done for you for a moment.”
Hässler shrugged in a manner that let his friend know that things had been tight.
“Report, Rosie.”
“We’re clean. No more bad guys in our positions. Including your two .30cal boys, eight casualties.”
Rosenberg’s unspoken enquiry brought an immediate response.
“Plus one dead, one wounded, bad.”
Rosenberg nodded.
“OK, that makes it six dead, four wounded. All the bad guys are down. Four are prisoners, but two of those ain’t gonna make it. That will make nine of them down in our positions, who knows how many out there.”
Nodding his head towards the mined area, he wiped at his face, removing some irritating dirt from his cheeks.
“We’re secure and the raiding party’s spread out here to keep the numbers up. The reserve moved up, of course, and is being held back at the bowl.”
He referred to an area just behind the platoon HQ, where a small spinney, set in a round depression, provided excellent cover for the back-up, should they be needed.
“Thanks Rosie. You stay here and keep this lot tight. I’m going to report this and have a chat with our prisoners.”
He slapped his old friend on the arm.
“Good effort, Sergeant, We’ll make a soldier of you yet.”
“Feh! Same old shtick. You wouldn’t know a good soldier if you saw one.”
The two parted to the sound of laughter.
Scharf had sustained a wound, although for the life of him, he had no idea how or when.
It looked like a bullet graze to the medic who cleaned the shallow scrape in the German officer’s side.
Stripped to the waist, Scharf was exactly the same shade of white as the wounded Russian who was similarly undressed, his own shoulder wound already dressed by the medic.
Using the little Russian language at his disposal, Scharf attempted to interrogate the Soviet NCO, but fell short of understanding anything of value in the conversation.
However, the cameo presented Hässler with a great deal of information on the enemy opposite his position.
Scharf was solidly built, muscular and well proportioned, a fact emphasised by the complete opposite presentation of the Soviet soldier.
His ribs were apparent, his muscles less pronounced, and generally, the man’s physique seemed to have suffered great deprivations.
Calling a guard to take the man away, Hässler lit two cigarettes, passing one to Scharf as he redressed.
“So?”
Scharf took a deep draw on the Chesterfield.
“Remarkable, Herr Leutnant. The man’s from a guard unit. They get the best of everything in the Red Army.”
Hässler hadn’t known that, and the simple fact made the discovery more important.
Drawing deeply on his cigarette, his eyes bored into those of the German.
“And yet?”
Scharf nodded his understanding.
“And yet they are starving.”
Hassler stood abruptly.
“Skinny as fuck. This I gotta phone in, Herr Oberleutnant.”
The communication caused a ripple effect all the way to Bradley’s desk, where it arrived, annotated by the various officers across whose bows it had travelled, complete with the latest intelligence reports on Red Army logistics.
It all made tantalising reading.
‘Munitions over food? Surely not?’
Bradley mused on the why’s and wherefore’s.
He dialled in a number.
“This report on the starving commie soldier. Get it all firmed up and revaluate our reports on Soviet logistics. On my desk by 1500 sharp. I want this to be with SHAEF today.”
Putting the phone down on his Intelligence chief, Bradley suddenly felt a lightness spread in his body, a feeling that something had changed, something positive for the Allied cause, a something that would help them down the road to victory.
The phone was in his hand again. He could not overcome the feeling of elation and needed to share it quickly.
Waiting whilst he was connected, he closed his eyes in prayer, which was interrupted by the voice in his ear.
“Ike. Brad here. I’m going to get a report to you by this evening, but I want to share the bare bones with you now.”
The report kick started a drive in re-examining Soviet logistics. Some days later, the only conclusion that could be reached was that, simply put, the Red machine was breaking down.
Constant air attacks, partisan raids, losses in support personnel and equipment, damage to infrastructure, all combined to support the notion that the Red Army was slowly being paralysed.
0859 hrs, 12th February 1946, the Mühlberg, Nordhausen, Germany.
The three men were protesting their innocence, their cries ranging from hysterical sobs to controlled pleas for mercy, but mercy was not to be found in the frozen clearing that morning.
Nazarbayeva had attended to watch the NKVD soldiers pay for their murder of Anna Lubova, the m
edic who had nursed her back to life from the awful virus that afflicted her last year.
The three transport guards had attacked and raped Lubova, and inflicted awful injuries on the woman, resulting in her death on 4th February.
When the GRU officer had heard of the matter, she took a personal interest in ensuring that the perpetrators did not escape justice.
That interest brought her to the Mühlberg on a bitterly cold morning to witness the culmination of her participation in the investigation.
“Fire!”
A dozen rifles spoke at once, and the protestations of innocence stopped in a heartbeat.
The officer commanding the firing squad marched smartly forward, discharging his pistol once at each man’s head.
As the doctor moved in to confirm death, Nazarbayeva recalled the telephone call with Beria, the threats and the anger at her direct interference.
She had resisted the NKVD Marshal’s insistence at leaving the matter to NKVD internal discipline procedures, instead ensuring the men were processed through an Army court, one where she expected a fair trial to be accompanied by a fair sentence.
As the bodies were cut down, she could see the friendly face of Nurse Lubova, and unconsciously nodded at her memory, hoping that the dead woman could somehow see justice being done.
The vision was quickly replaced with one of malevolence, as Beria’s features filled her mind… snarling… threatening… dangerous…
The galleries are full of critics. They play no ball. They fight no fights. They make no mistakes because they attempt nothing. Down in the arena are the doers. They make mistakes because they try many things. The man who makes no mistakes lacks boldness and the spirit of adventure. He is the one who never tries anything. He is the break in the wheel of progress. And yet it cannot be truly said he makes no mistakes, because his biggest mistake is the very fact that he tries nothing, does nothing, except criticize those who do things.
Gen. David M. Shoup, USMC
Chapter 134 – THE CIRCUS