by Colin Gee
“Absolutely, Sir. Thank you.”
“What’s your call sign, so I can let my boys know?”
“Hardy-four, Sir.”
“Right then, let’s shake things up. Uncle Joe’s likely to come calling real soon, and I daresay he won’t be making the same mistakes again.”
Crisp was correct on both counts.
1348 hrs, Tuesday 26th March 1946, HQ of 63rd NKVD Rifle Division, the woods west of Neu Kodram, Pomerania.
At any time, the unexpected arrival of two senior officers in a battle headquarters is not a cause for celebration.
For Bestov, the commander of the 63rd, it was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back, as he was totally out of his depth.
The senior of the two newcomers posed a direct question.
Bestov’s answer was simply put.
“We’re just about to attack again, Comrade Leytenant General.”
“Cancel the order to attack immediately, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“But, Comrad...”
“Cancel it immediately. All you’re doing is throwing away lives in stupid unsupported frontal attacks. Cancel it and we’ll do it right.”
“But you’re Army. My unit is under direct NKVD control. We’re not Army assigned, Sir.”
“Consider yourself under Army command as of this moment, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“No, I will not, Comrade General. You’ve no authority here and I’ll report this unwarranted interference with internal security matters immediately.”
Bestov picked up the telephone and sought a connection with the head of NKVD forces in Poland.
Despite the fact that both Generals had their own entourage, neither was shy of undertaking the dirty work themselves.
By unspoken agreement, they moved forward, unbuckling their holsters.
Bestov was still waiting for his connection when the muzzle of a Nagant revolver gained his full attention.
“By the orders of Marshal Bagramyan, commander of 1st Baltic Front, and Marshal Vassilevsky, Commander of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe, I, Leytenant General Aleksandr Kudryashev, am appointed to command the forces surrounding the enemy landing, to create order, using any and all land forces available, and suborning all available men and equipment for the purpose of repelling the invader.”
Colonel Bestov stood, eyes wide open, holding a silent handset.
To emphasise his point, Kudryashev placed his thumb on the hammer and pulled back, the click of the hammerlock sounding like a clap of thunder in a totally quiet room.
“To create order... using all land forces available... suborning ALL available men and equipment... which includes you and your men, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Bestov’s mouth hung open as his mind tried to cope with the enormity of what was happening to him. Suddenly, a thought occurred and threw him a lifeline.
“But... but... but... you have no authority... let me see your authority!”
Kudryashev shrugged but kept the revolver level and steady as a rock.
“The paperwork will come later, Comrade Polkovnik. Now, I’ve no time for this. Accept my authority or accept arrest. Which will it be?”
“But you have no...”
“Mayor!”
Kudryashev, like many senior officers, had his own personal bodyguard, the Major commanding the small detachment stepped forward, his mere bulk enough to shut Bestov up in an instant.
The PPSh looked like a children’s toy in his huge hands, but still had the required effect on those present.
Under the Major’s orders, the stunned NKVD officer was bundled away at great speed.
Rybko took the opportunity to theatrically replace his revolver, noisily slapping the flap of his holster shut.
“Anyone else wish to dispute the Leytenant General’s right of command?”
There were no takers.
Kudryashev and Rybko, the CoS’s of 4th Shock Army and 6th Guards Army respectively, had been attending a pre-attack staff conference at Swinemünde, something that had been cut short by the Allies’ own efforts.
Instead of returning westwards to resume their own positions, the two had been headed off by Bagramyan and given the job of sealing up the enemy incursion, before destroying it, although it was more likely that they would both be relieved before then.
But for now, the two had a job to do, and coordinating the efforts of the forces to the west and south of the pocket was their first task.
Whilst by no means ideally situated to control the defence, being at the top end of a long curved defensive line, early arrival and intervention had been thought more crucial to a successful prosecution of the Allied landing.
Complete with a party of signallers, until recently happily languishing in a small training facility nearby, and now, less happily, swept up as Kudryashev’s headquarters and communications unit, the Lieutenant General and his new NKVD staff officers went to work. The priority was to contact the units under his command, establishing unit strengths, and acquiring as much information as possible.
Whilst that went on, Rybko planned an attack with the hastily designated Baltic Coastal Army.
2055 hrs, Tuesday 26th March 1946, Second Battalion front, near Grosse Mokratz, Pomerania.
Galkin was doing the rounds, at Crisp’s behest, dropping in on frontline units, just to get a feel of the men and their situation.
He had found Hawkes with an inevitable ‘liberated substance’ on hand, and enjoyed a nip of something warming as the two stared out into the darkness that was No Man’s Land.
The wind shifted and brought with something vaguely familiar but, as yet, unidentifiable.
“What’s that, First Sergeant?”
The sound was indistinct, but stirred pleasant memories, although there was not enough of it delivered by the stiffening breeze, at least not yet enough to have a moment of full recognition.
“Tell you something for sure, Major. Whatever it is, it ain’t good. Get the boys shaken up?”
“Quietly... I’ll get on the horn and spread the word.”
Major Galkin was in the platoon command post within seconds, and on the field telephone to Second Battalion HQ equally quickly.
“Captain Desandé please, Major Galkin here.”
“Lou? Con... there’s something happening out in front of your positions. Noise of some sort, Whatever it is, it ain’t good news, so I’ve woken up the frontline. Spread the word, Lou. Pass the stand-to up the line... let the Colonel know I’ll be staying here for the while.”
As Desandé asked a few pertinent questions, Galkin looked at his watch.
‘Just coming up to nine. On the hour... betcha.’
“Yep, Lou... Yep... nope... I’m not taking command... if you need me just holler, but this is your battalion... ‘ppreciate that. Lou... yep, you too.”
At nine precisely, the culmination of Kudryashev’s and Rybko’s efforts visited itself upon the troopers of the 101st.
“URRAH!”
“URRAH!”
“URRAH!”
“Here they come!”
A young airborne Sergeant yelled what was probably the most unnecessary warning in the history of warfare.
Rybko had been cunning, for those shouting did not advance, but stayed hidden in cover, solely bringing the defenders up from their holes, ready to repulse the renewed infantry attack.
At two minutes past the hour, Soviet artillery and mortars commenced a barrage that hammered First Battalion’s entire position but, for some reason, visited itself selectively on Second Battalion.
Few in Second Battalion noticed, but those that did welcomed the fact that they were spared the deluge, whilst units either side took the full weight of the barrage.
Rybko’s plan had been to bring the defenders to readiness and then hit them with artillery, and it reaped rewards, as numerous paratroopers were ravaged by high explosives and shrapnel, their screams adding to the terror of a night that was frequently rent by flashes, and that promise
d death in many forms.
The ‘urrahs’ continued, although less distinct in the deafening cacophony of repeated explosions.
The explosions also masked the approach of a major asset in Rybko’s planning.
He had cut his cloth according to his means, and the NKVD BEPO Nr 319 ‘Alexsandr Shelepin’ had a vital part to play in the destruction of the Capitalist forces to his front.
It was also the reason that parts of Second Battalion, especially those near the railway tracks, had avoided the deluge of shells.
The ‘Alexsandr Shelepin’ moved forward, and the sound that had been indistinct to Hawkes and Galkin now became recognisable and, in the same moment, the reason for the space in the enemy barrage was clarified and became the shouted word.
“Train! It’s a train! They’re gonna ride straight through!”
Which was precisely the plan.
Fig# 170 - Soviet Forces surrounding Wollin.
“Flares!”
A few parachute flares added their steady light to that of the numerous explosions, and the airborne defenders took their first look at a Soviet armoured train.
Allied intelligence had listed such a vehicle as immobilised at Swinemünde. That had been true, but superhuman efforts had removed the destroyed carriages and repaired the track, allowing the NKVD train to form a pivotal part of the attack.
Whilst lacking some of its firepower, the train still possessed enough clout to make a huge difference in the battle ahead, especially if it could get through the paratroopers’ defensive line, and deliver its two T50 tanks and eight dismountable SMG squads to create more confusion in the Allied rear.
If the Second Battalion let it through...
Or, more factually, if Second Battalion could stop it.
Fig# 171 - Wollin - Soviet Third Attack.
“Bazookas, forward! Stop the fucker before the hut!”
A small platelayer’s hut marked the point where the Second Battalion’s line crossed the rail line near a small T-junction in the dirt track that led to Jagienki.
Sat back from the front, the AT squad had not received any incoming fire, concealed, as they were, adjacent to the rail line that Soviet artillery and mortar fire was studiously avoiding.
However, the area was being heavily swept by large calibre bullets from covering 12.7mm weapons, and the leading flat car contained a quad Maxim that added to the lethal storm.
The leading bazooka man fell the second he rose, himself and his metal tube holed and out of action, the loader dropping to the ground before he shared the same fate. The second team decided to move their position and crawled across the earth, up to the cess adjacent to the single track.
Their movement was spotted by one of the men manning the quad maxim on the flatbed, and the weapon was redirected effectively.
Both teams were out of action and the slow-moving train was now less than two hundred yards from the hut.
Captain Pollo, his charges set mainly around the road junction, looked on helplessly, his own bazooka team elsewhere on the battlefield.
Montgomery Hawkes, from his own position, determined to grab the serviceable bazooka, and prepped the men around him.
He pushed upwards and out of the small crater and was immediately spun round as two heavy calibre rounds struck him.
The NCO fell on top of the two men following him, the three inextricably entwined rolled to the bottom of the hole, cursing and shouting.
Hawkes steeled himself, expecting death, before realising that, apart from something digging into his thigh, he felt intact.
He laughed, knowing he had been lucky beyond words.
His Thompson was shattered, a round having struck it in the cocking chamber and expending itself without finding his flesh. He cut his finger on the sharp metal as he examined the terminal damage to his pride and joy.
The other strike had hit his left heel and ripped off the entire sole of his jump boot, revealing evidence of a distinctly non-regulation sock.
The ‘something’ digging in his thigh squealed in protest at the weight of the NCO pushing his face into the soil. Hawkes’ pain was caused by the back edge of the trooper’s helmet.
The three sorted themselves out, the two giving their NCO looks containing equal amounts of annoyance and incredulity.
“Thanks for the soft landing, guys.”
Incredulity moved over to allow a little more room for annoyance.
Hawkes shrugged.
“Sorry... right, let’s do it.”
He stuck his head over the edge of the crater and saw the train almost on top of his position.
“Shit! No time. Forget it. Grenades out, boys... get ‘em in the front cart or we’re fucked!”
The three paratroopers primed and took a swift look at their target, immediately launching their deadly charges.
Two missed, one landed dead on target.
In the wagon, the AA gun’s NCO commander sacrificed his life by falling on the grenade.
One of the troopers with Hawkes risked a look before the First Sergeant could pull him down.
Bullets emerged from the semi-darkness and removed the top of the man’s head, completely and messily, splattering blood and brain matter over the two others.
Hawkes swapped his wrecked Thompson for an M-1 carbine, suppressing his disgust at having to go into battle with the underpowered weapon.
The train was level now, and the AA crew, having seen where the grenades came from, returned the favour, dropping two into the shell hole and on top of the pair of Americans.
“OUT!”
Hawkes, battle-hardened, and with the reactions of a viper, was up and out before the first fuse did its job.
The second trooper, a recent replacement, was caught in the blast and thrown out of the hole.
Stunned, but somehow unwounded, he rose groggily to his knees. A sub-machine gun spat bullets from a shuttered window on the third coach, throwing the now-dead trooper to the ground. He rolled back into the shell hole with all the grace of a rag doll.
Hawkes suddenly found himself exposed and threw himself back into the shell hole on top of the two lifeless bodies.
A sharp crack marked the commitment of Master Sergeant Baldwin and his special AT squad, a heavy PTRD bullet slamming into one of the carriages.
More AT bullets struck, as the rest of the ad hoc unit opened up.
It was difficult to miss the armoured train, and most bullets seemed to penetrate, although none seemed to have any effect.
That was not a view held by those on the receiving end. Inside the different armoured carriages, the heavy bullets did horrible work amongst gun crews and assault personnel, but ‘Alexsandr Shelepin’ kept coming, and, as the train moved forward, more and more of her weapons were unmasked, bringing greater firepower to bear on either side.
The second armoured carriage mounted an old 76.2mm L/11 T-34 turret, a weapon long replaced in the production halls, but one still good enough to out deal death and destruction in a battle with lightly armed paratroopers.
Baldwin, squinting through the returned darkness, suddenly had his world illuminated, as the T-34 turret sent an HE shell in his direction.
Whilst it missed, it increased the urgency amongst his small command, as earth and stones fell upon them like rain.
Baldwin urgently redirected his gunners.
“Nail that goddamned tank wagon! Hit the wagon, not the turret!”
The six AT rifles were all brought to bear on the wagon and the heavy bullets bit home, converting the insides into a charnel house.
However, the 76.2mm gun refused to stay silent, and coughed another deadly shell in their direction, blotting out two rifles and killing four men in the blink of an eye.
“URRAH!”
“URRAH!”
As planned, once the front line positions were under flanking fire, the 32nd NKVD Regiment launched a frontal assault, supported by a dozen tanks from the 185th Tank Regiment, T-34m43s, sporting the F/34 version of t
he 76.2mm gun.
In battle, it is often the case that many things happen all at once, and a decisive moment comes and goes without the knowledge of the participants.
Outside Wollin, 2111 hrs on 26th March 1946 was such a moment.
Crisp arrived with his handful of men from Third Battalion, having intuitively understood that everything else was a diversion, and that the attack on Second Battalion was the real deal.
He had also ordered most of Third Battalion to move forwards and form another line, should Second fail to hold.
Desandé had ordered his men to hold the line, whilst he led a small group to try and wreck the tracks ahead of the armoured train.
Hawkes decided to stay put, and policed up a dead man’s Garand.
Field committed two of his RCL jeeps to stop the train.
But perhaps the most spectacular event was orchestrated by Bathwick.
By the time that he had established contact with HMS Nelson and her cohorts, the armoured train was too close.
Now, another target presented itself, and he made the necessary adjustments.
Whilst he had given the order prior to 2109, the effect of his instructions was delayed until, across the battlefield, second hands swept past 2110...
... by which time, Master Sergeant Baldwin was dead, blown apart by a 76.2mm shell...
... and Captain Desandé was rolling in the dirt, his insides spilling out around him, his stomach riven by a burst of MG fire...
... and Colonel Crisp was clearing the blood from his eyes, the deep wound under his eyebrow caused by a piece of bone from one of the troopers near him. The unfortunate 3rd Battalion man had been hit multiple times, causing his left arm to disintegrate, deluging his companions with fleshy, boney, bloody detritus...