by Colin Gee
His force was swelled by the arrival of men from the werkstatt and supply units, under the command of the ever-cheerful Commandant Walter Fiedler.
They had little time to sort out the niceties as the tirailleurs buckled under a surge of tanks and infantry.
With only one Jaguar [fr] as support, Fiedler led off his group and two section of Tüpper’s men to restore the line.
En route, Fiedler met Knocke, who was doing the rounds of his men, keeping up morale and learning as much as he could about the situation.
“Look after yourself, Walter!”
“Have no fear, Oberführer. I’ll survive to keep your rust buckets going!”
He dashed off into the battle ahead, followed by his men.
Knocke moved on again, surrounded by the military police, led by Maillard, and protected by the bodies of Hässelbach and Ett, who had replaced the unfortunate Lutz.
Despite Knocke’s annoyance with their close presence, the two made sure they kept as tight to him as they possibly could.
Soviet mortar rounds started to rain down again, and two of the MPs went down hard as shrapnel ripped into their bodies.
One man would never rise again, but the other still lived, so a soldier was detailed to carry him back to the aid post for treatment.
The party moved on once more.
Ahead, a sharp crack indicated that a large gun was in operation.
The party moved cautiously until they could observe the position.
A Pak 44, served by a single man, was resisting a pair of enemy tanks and their infantry support.
Around the huge anti-tank gun there were Legion infantry in the rubble, their weapons pouring bullets towards the advancing Soviets, seemingly without effect.
“Leave it to me, mon General! Gallet! Blanc! You two, with me!”
Maillard sprang up and, with the two men in close attendance, sprinted towards the Pak 44 and its lone gunner.
Gallet had once served in artillery, so Maillard assigned him to load and to direct himself and Blanc as to what to do.
The German legionnaire gunner appeared completely mad and laughed his way through the brief conversation as to who would do what.
“Put it up the pipe and I’ll send it to our cousins, kettenhund!”
He grabbed Maillard’s shoulder and tapped the breech of the huge gun.
“Just keep your turnip out of the way of that or you’ll need a new one. Kapische?”
“Oui.”
“Right… let’s kill the bastards!”
A shell burst behind the gun, fired by one of the T34s hiding in the ruins.
Blanc screamed as a piece of his ear was slashed by a brick fragment.
It was messy and painful, and made the man curse constantly as he moved back and forward from the crates containing the huge shells to the waiting hands of Gallet.
“Right, kettenhund! Watch out!”
The breech flew back as the shell leapt towards its target.
“Fuck and abhorrence. Again… faster now!”
Wagner was no longer sane in the real sense, the butchering of his crew, his old comrades, having unhinged his mind.
“Loaded!”
“Good, good, kettenhund… we’ll make a gunner of you yet… watch out!”
Again the Pak spat a shell at the Soviet force.
Maillard wrinkled up his nose in disgust as the heavy shell moved through the space occupied by a Soviet soldier, leaving nothing more than a pair of legs before it raced on and penetrated the T34’s hull.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Trick shot… more!”
Another shell went home as the barrel rotated to line up with the other tank.
Bullet struck the gun’s armoured plate as a Maxim was got to work from the first floor of what had once been a tailor’s shop.
“You cheeky bastards!”
Rather than killing the tank, Wagner chose to engage the machine-gun.
The 128mm cracked again and the shot smashed into the position adjacent to the Maxim team.
The Soviet machine-gun and its servants ceased to be a problem.
“Blessed Christmas to you and yours, you bastards… fuck with me, will you?”
He turned around and found Maillard still waiting with an open breech.
“Kettenhund, kettenhund, wherefore art my fucking shell, kettenhund?”
Wagner pulled out his Walther pistol and started firing over the top of the gun shield.
‘Totally fucking mad!’
Maillard was not the only one thinking it, as Knocke and his men were observing everything.
Content that the position would hold for now, the Camerone commander and his small contingent moved on.
“I see the aerials, Hauptsturmfuhrer. No shot.”
Jorgensen hummed his acknowledgement and considered relocating, but immediately rejected the idea.
All around him were men of the 5e RdM and he didn’t want any accidents.
Besides, whatever it was would have to move forward sooner or later.
His Schwarzjagdpanther was perfectly positioned, another reason he was loathe to move out.
It covered the main road that rose from the valley below, and there were already two tanks lazily burning to demonstrate the superiority of his position.
They had both been easy kills, upgunned T34/100s that had offered no resistance to the brutal power of his 128mm.
But he knew that the Soviet heavy tanks were beneath the ridgeline, and that they would prove a more difficult nut to crack, his efforts so far having brought only one kill, and that was shooting down with the height advantage.
Normally SP guns were at a disadvantage in such circumstances, but the ruins of Sulisɫawice channelled the enemy down excellent lines of fire, and the odds seemed to be in their favour… for now.
“It’s moving, Hauptsturmfuhrer. Heading left.”
‘So it is.’
Jorgensen pictured the tactical situation and understood that the enemy vehicle had made a bad choice.
A very bad choice.
The IS-IV, for that was what it was, moved away from the road that Jorgensen covered, seeking an alternate on the right flank of the 6th GIBTR.
It chose a modest alleyway that just about accommodated the large tank’s bulk.
Nosing carefully forward, its accompanying infantry moved through the ruins on either side, seeking lurking AT soldiers, or looking further forward to find other threats.
The leading scouts simply missed the lurking killer until it was too late, although the IS-IV’s commander blurted out a warning as his instincts lit off.
“Blyad! Reverse, comrades! Reverse!”
The ‘pile of rubble’ fired and the 128mm shell simply opened up the IS-IV like it was a child’s plaything, sending metal and burning fuel in all directions, often with fatal results for the accompanying infantry.
Putting another shot into the area, this time a HE shell, the Einhorn slowly backed out of its position and relocated, ready for another attempt.
Knocke observed the second shot and decided not to be near to the potent tank destroyer in case it attracted artillery or mortars in retaliation.
Moving away from the slowly manoeuvring Einhorn, he and his party found themselves close by a Jagdpanther and its accompanying Legionnaires.
The MPs spread out as Knocke, Hässelbach, and Ett climbed over some rubble and dropped down into a position crammed with exhausted legionnaires.
“Stillgestanden!”
“No, no… as you were, Kameraden.”
The soldiers relaxed as Knocke approached the NCO in charge, who was giving the evil eye to the young inexperienced soldier who had called them to attention.
The sergeant did not salute; veterans simply didn’t attract that sort of attention to themselves or senior ranks.
“Oberführer, Oberscharführer Sperl and seven men… now commanding 8th Zug, 3rd Kompagnie, 3rd Battalion, 5th Regiment. On tank protection duties. Two men dead and three wounded removed to the
aid post, including Zugführer, Lieutenant Malfoix.”
“Relax, Oberscharfuhrer.”
Sperl did so quite openly, and flopped back onto the damaged chair that had been his resting place before the commanding officer arrived.
Knocke made great play of checking out the position, and looking out into the area beyond, but was really appreciating the men and their capacity to endure.
His assessment was worrying.
Returning to Sperl, he settled himself on some rubble and extracted his cigarettes.
All eyes focussed on the pack.
“Are you all out?”
“Think we smoked the last of poor Willi’s cigarettes over an hour ago. Our billet burned out and we got through what we had quite quickly, Oberführer.”
“Here… have these.”
Knocke turned over the pack and also pulled a full one out of his trouser pocket.
“Danke, Oberführer, danke!”
Hässelbach interpreted his leader’s eye contact, and moved forward, liberating his other ‘water’ bottle, proffering it to the exhausted NCO.
“Here, kamerad… but take it easy… it’s potent stuff.”
“Danke, kamerad.”
Sperl took a slug and thought he was about to cough his intestines up through his throat.”
“Fucking hell but that’s savage stuff, kamerad. What’s that so I know to avoid it in future?”
“Potato peelings and pork…mixed and fermented… local speciality so I’m told… that’s why the Poles are all fucking mad!”
The outburst encouraged laughter from tired men, and the bottle did the rounds, with each man adding his own unfavourable comments on the contents.
Knocke refused the drink when it arrived in his hands.
“No, I think I’ll pass this time.”
He stood and the men around him automatically braced, despite his hand gently waving them to remain as they were.
“You’re doing a great job, boys. We’ve just got to hold for a little while longer and the rest of the Corps will be up and relieve us. Just keep at it and don’t let the bastards knock you out of here. Look after yourselves and see you after the war!”
The men semi-cheered and semi-laughed as he clambered back out, pausing only to turn and issue the normal words between soldiers.
“Hals- und beinbruch, Kameraden!”
Pausing to exchange greetings and get an update from Jorgensen through the Schwarzjagdpanthers squawk box, the party moved on until they were back where they started, on the west side of the defence.
Knocke dismissed the MPs to get some rest, and went to investigate the positions occupied by the specialist rocket troops of 4e RACE.
“Achtung!”
The experienced troopers did not stand or salute, but braced themselves, ready for orders or whatever else might come their way.
Again Knocke waved the men to relax and stopped the NCO reporting with a quick gesture.
He reached to his tunic pocket and then stopped himself.
“I find myself without, Hässelbach.”
A packet magically appeared and flew across the small space to Knocke.
He lit two, and passed one to the waiting NCO.
“Danke, Oberführer.”
The pack headed around the group and returned to Hässelbach in a much lighter state.
“Peters, isn’t it?”
The man nodded wearily.
“I’ve heard many good things about you and your wonder rockets.”
“Thank you, Oberführer. We’ve only got two left now, and just the one launcher.”
They smoked as Peters went on to detail the state and responsibilities of his unit, his flow interrupted twice by the burst of nearby mortar shells.
“Well, we’ll make sure we find some more. If they’re to be had, we’ll get them, Peters.”
Knocke stopped to cough as more dust fell from the rickety ceiling.
“Thank you, Oberführer. For now, we’ll use what we have to hand.”
The man keeping watch fired a controlled burst with his ST-45.
He spat and spoke to no one in particular.
“Think that was their breakfast arriving. Lucky bastards.”
‘Scheisse… the men haven’t eaten… how could I forget?’
Knocke stood up and dusted himself off.
“I’ll see what rations I can get sent round, Peters. Meanwhile, keep your men here and hold them back. This is the lightest point of our defence… at least from what I can see. I’ll send some extra men to bolster this side… and I hope they’ll come bearing some hot food.
He squeezed the NCO’s arm in a comradely fashion and took leave of the group with nods and waves of his hand.
Knocke headed back to the building that housed what was left of his headquarters, only to find most of it smashed flat to rubble and matchwood.
He exchanged silent looks with Hässelbach and Ett.
Across the road was the building in which the reserve had their contact point, and he liaised with Tüpper, who now sported a bloody bandage round his head.
“Happened when the artillery hit us, Oberführer. Flattened your headquarters… everyone was out by then thankfully. I lost three men… good men.”
“So is the reserve reformed?”
“I’ve two platoons to my name, Oberführer. One regular, one ersatzgruppe, pulled together from anything including mortar men and tank crew. My tanks are all back out in the front line, but I’ve commandeered the old beast outside, just to give me some clout if needed.”
Tüpper pointed out of the window to where the two platoons were positioned, either side of the tank that he had forcibly seconded from the 1e DCA.
Despite the circumstances, Knocke found himself amused and even happy at the sight.
“I’ll go and speak with your troops, Lieutenant. Do we have a field kitchen or are the cooks in your ersatz platoon too?”
“Both, Oberführer. The kitchen is set up over on the right there… behind that lump of metal… where the ersatzgruppe is placed. Quartermaster Niveau was reluctant to abandon his equipment, so he relocated the lot… ladle in one hand, rifle in the other. He’s making soup apparently.”
“Excellent. I’ll visit him directly. I’ll be using some of the ersatz platoon to distribute the food as soon as it’s ready. I also need you to leaven off eight men to reinforce the rocket troopers over to the wes…”
A runner broke into their conversation and, having been unable to decide whom to report to, spoke to both officers at the same time.
“Sirs, Capitaine Jorgensen reports that the enemy are gathering to his front. He requests infantry reinforcements immediately, and any ammunition that can be spared, especially grenades.”
“I’ll leave that with you, Lieutenant.”
Knocke saluted and left the position, heading towards the silent metal beast up the road.
0750 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, headquarters of Special Combat Group Rybalko, Zawichost, Poland.
Despite all his planning…
Despite the use of the very best the Motherland could supply…
Despite the valour of the soldiers and airmen…
Despite all the advantages, both contrived or brought on by Mother Nature herself…
Despite everything… the whole plan was behind schedule.
Not only that, but things were developing in spite of him, partially because of the fluid situation, and partially because of the enemy’s resistance and movement.
Rybalko was furious, and his humour did not improve as more and more reports arrived at his headquarters.
To the north his forces had blunted themselves on a German panzer division and both sides were hammered to a halt.
To the south, the French Alma Division had conceded ground but now stuck to a defensive line on Route 9 like it was nailed in place.
His 1st Guards Engineer had bled dry trying to shift the Legion bastards out… and to cap it all, Chekov, their commander, was missi
ng, possibly killed.
‘…probably killed…good man too…’
Centrally, his forces had done extremely well and virtually surrounded one of the French Legion formations in and around Klimontów, and another force that had backed up behind it, and to its left.
His encircling strike had reached Route 9 and all but closed the enemy’s escape route at Łoniów… all but, but not quite.
Expecting a major attempt to escape down that route, Rybalko had oriented his forces in two directions but, as yet, no attempt to break out had materialised.
Instead, there were confused reports of strong forces pushing up to the south of Łoniów, and some extra troops appearing in the area of the enemy’s Alma Legion Division.
Added to that the increasing southern focus of the nearby units of the German Army and things were less than satisfactory.
And then there was the junction at Sulisɫawice.
“What’s happening at Sulisɫawice, Comrade?”
Major-General Ziberov was a humourless man who, despite advice from men in important positions, still sported a small moustache resembling that of the deceased German dictator.
He shook his head in exasperation.
“Comrade Polkovnik General, the reports were of heavy fighting but no progress. Last communication with Polkovnik Zilinski indicated a short respite whilst he resupplied and concentrated his forces. His final attack will begin at 0820… some hours after we should have been through the village and beyond.”
“He has enough forces at his disposal. Tell him I expect his report of victory before 0900. And what’s this?”
He selected an area of the map around Byszówka.
“When we split the Legion unit at Klimontów, it would seem that these troops to the east did not all surrender.”
The reports had been slightly exaggerated, in that his forces had taken a few dozen wounded men prisoner, including the force’s commanding officer, and the importance grew as it passed further up the chain of command.
In reality, a good portion of Emmercy’s group had survived intact, admittedly on the wrong side of the Soviet thrust, but had established itself defensively in and around Byszówka, where it now sat astride Route 9, limiting any moves to back up the 7th Guards Special Tanks that had previously used it to head south.