by Gee, Colin
Eisenhower had said a number of other things, comments designed to soothe and to cosset the angry German, who had succinctly responded, with a phrase that wasn’t readily interpreted into English, but that suggested that the timetable was already to hell in a handcart.
--- Earlier in the day ---
1230 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, Route 109, the Wurzenpass, Yugoslavia.
The plan was not without risk, but the benefits would be huge if it went well.
And it started very well indeed.
Men and women, soldiers who had lived on their wits for years, fell easily, as white-clad special troops invested the defensive position, killing quickly, killing efficiently and, above all, killing quietly.
Their victims were Slovenian partisans, who had joined together in the new Yugoslav Army under Tito, forming the 31st Slovenian Division ‘Triglav’. Their victims stood no chance, and succumbed within minutes.
The second phase of the deception commenced on cue, vehicles and tanks sweeping down the Wurzenpass, spitting flame in all directions, engaging the Yugoslav main line.
Here and there, a soft-skinned vehicle flitted from cover to cover, depositing some of the dressing necessary to complete the NKVD plan to draw Yugoslavia in the new war.
The tanks, the half-tracks, the weapons, and the uniforms, were all British Army, as were the corpses that were being spread about the battlefield.
Only the living men, firing the tank guns or using Bren guns to flay the Yugoslav defensive positions, were not British, although the casual observer would see only British uniforms and insignia.
The sixty-two ‘British’ soldiers, actually Soviet penal soldiers, were there for a single purpose; to die and die well, ensuring that their families would be favourably looked on by a grateful state.
The defending soldiers started to fight back, calling down artillery, and even attracting a passing pair of venerable Yugoslavian crewed ME-109’s, previously removed from German control.
The attacking force started to take casualties, and the senior NKVD officer commenced withdrawing his men, making sure that the two who had fallen were carried away by comrades, and that any wounded had their lives extinguished.
A nearby Sherman exploded, victim of a direct hit from a Soviet-made 76.2mm field gun, visibly melting the snow around it as the fire quickly grew in intensity.
The first Messerschmitt made a mess of its approach and banked for another attempt. Distracted by zipping tracers, the pilot misjudged the turn and a wing tip clipped the top of a boulder, sending the aircraft cartwheeling through the trees.
The second aircraft dropped to the attack and killed a number of men and vehicles with a mixture of bombs and bullets.
Low on fuel, the ME109 departed for its base, the pilot shouting into his radio, informing the world that the Allies had attacked Yugoslav soldiers.
1230 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, Trieste, Italy.
Checking his watch, the Yugoslav Captain felt the tension grow.
‘Blyad! They’re late...the fucking things are...”
The negative thoughts disappeared as a storm of light and sound engulfed the positions of the 2nd New Zealand Division opposite.
‘Yes! Now...come on...’
A second wave of explosions added to the mayhem that descended on the border between the Yugoslav and Allied forces in Trieste, these designed to cause casualties, amongst the curious and brave who would respond to the first bombs.
The NKVD agent had been ordered to bring the two factions into conflict, and the time bombs had been the first part.
Bringing the stock of the rifle to rest on his cheek, he lined the scope with a suitable target and pulled the trigger.
Up the road, a New Zealand Major died instantly as the bullet transited his head.
A second shot killed the Sergeant who ran to his aid.
The agent lined up the third victim, reasoning that the Allied soldiers would be particularly angry at this kill, as he stroked the trigger and shot the nurse through her neck.
He could hear the desperate, frightened squealing she managed to produce, in spite of her gaping wound. Part of him was appalled as he moved to other targets. Firing more hastily now, his accuracy dropped and only one more kill was confirmed, although each target fell bloodily to the road.
Discarding the rifle, he descended the stairs in time to rally his men, and bring the enemy under a steady fire, noting with satisfaction that few of his soldiers had died when his charges exploded.
Yelling oaths and screaming for vengeance, the NKVD agent exhorted his troops to attack and they responded to the calls from their favourite Captain.
Machine-guns and rifles sent bullets flying up and down the road on which the two units sat, claiming casualties in both uniforms.
The final straw for the Yugoslavs was the messy death of their beloved officer, his upper chest destroyed by a burst of Vickers .303.
They charged and closed, with no mercy in their hearts.
The ME109 had taken some solid hits from ground fire, and the engine was protesting as oil escaped and temperatures grew.
None the less, the pilot calculated that he would be on the ground at his base in Kranj before the situation grew critical.
His calculations became meaningless as a short burst from some Hispano cannons wrecked the meandering aircraft.
The pilot had no time to react before the Messerschmitt literally came apart around him, and he fell a thousand feet to his death.
Military personnel on the ground cursed the enemy aircraft and did their best to knock one of the three RAF Spitfires from the sky.
The three aircraft turned and headed westwards, their mission accomplished far more easily than had been anticipated.
Diving for the ground, the three lend-lease aircraft dropped out of sight before turning northwards and crossing into Soviet-occupied Austria, from whence they had come.
1805 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, GRU Commander’s office, Western Europe Headquarters, the Mühlberg, Germany.
“So, we have a dilemma, Comrade Poboshkin.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
The analysis of the destruction of Soviet 19th Army in the Alsace had been inconclusive, in as much as, it had concluded different possibilities.
As was the habit with Soviet thinking, criticism of the system was less favoured than criticism of an individual. Therefore, the report had led with the prime finding that Agent Leopard had been turned in some way, and had been a willing partner in the disinformation that led to the 19th’s annihilation.
Close behind that came the possibility that Pekunin contrived the Leopard report himself.
The third suggestion was that Allied intelligence services had discovered the plan, and spread their own maskirovka, fooling Agent Leopard into submitting the misleading report.
Nazarbayeva herself had some doubts over the deaths of Knocke’s family, and these surfaced in her reasoning as she started to favour the third on the list.
Poboshkin had a different view.
“If he is our agent, why did he not warn us of the French attack, Comrade General? Such an operation could not have been planned without his knowledge. ‘Amethyst' managed it, so why not ‘Leopard’? The lack of a report has to indicate that he's, at best, inept... and, at worst, a turned man.”
Often Tatiana had observed hard decisions being made by her former boss, but now she was the one who had to decide.
Poboshkin pressed further.
“Comrade General, remember we have the records of one personal meeting between Pekunin and ‘Leopard’. Again, that implicates the agent surely?”
Nazarbayeva did not add to that part of the conversation.
Instead, she moved to decision making.
“Whatever is the truth here doesn’t matter, Comrade Poboshkin. His reports are not trusted, and the agent is now a liability. If he is turned, he can betray his network. The decision is easy, as we must protect our assets in place
.”
As she spoke, Nazarbayeva wrote out the formal order. It was the first time she wrote a document tantamount to a death warrant, and she hoped above hope it would be her last.
In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.
Jose Narosky
Chapter 115 - THE TEARS
0507 hrs, Saturday, 7th December 1945, La Petite Pierre, Alsace.
They had come in their hundreds, possibly thousands, and come quietly bringing death and revenge in their hearts.
415th Rifle Division, the sole remaining functioning unit of the disbanded 89th Rifle Corps, had been absorbed into the brand new 1st Motorised Army and found its tried and trusted skills required, as a fresh fall of snow blanketed the battlefields of Alsace.
Only two regiments, the 1323rd and 1326th, remained, one each targeted on opening the way for the motorised divisions recently released from Stavka reserve, and now tasked with crushing the French attacks.
Spectrum Black had attracted not only the new motorised troops, but also the 6th Guards Cavalry Corps from 2nd Red Banner reserve, as well as the entire 25th Tank Corps, temporarily assigned from 3rd Guards Army.
The Siberians of the 415th moved through the dark of night, and fell upon the positions of the Legion’s Mountain Battalion.
Those ex-SS legionnaires at Neuwiller-lès-Saverne were quickly overrun, along with some of Pierce’s rear echelon, some three hundred men dying or falling prisoner in a dozen minutes of frantic activity, silent at first, until the attackers were spotted by those who lived long enough to raise the alarm.
At La Petite Pierre, the larger part of the Mountain Battalion force had a stroke of luck, as the alarm was raised before the silent killing had progressed too far.
Rettlinger was startled from his snooze by firing near at hand, certainly within his perimeter.
Whilst his body, still recovering from its wounds, was normally stiff and took some while to get organised, the adrenalin flushed into his system and permitted rapid action.
Derbo strode to the door and took a look outside, and was immediately presented with the awful vision of a desperate close-quarter fight rolling around one of his anti-tank gun positions.
He turned back to his staff.
“Get a warning out that we are being overrun by enemy troops... Norbert at Neuwiller first... then Corps... no... General Pierce’s headquarters. You,” he pointed at three of his young officers, “Follow me!”
The situation at the 75mm PAK position was clearly being resolved in the Legion’s favour, but another pressing issue presented itself.
Two of his Legionnaires were shot down as they ran from a house on the edge of the position, the windows of the building suddenly alive with muzzles spitting bullets.
Derbo dropped down beside a pair of soldiers operating an MG42, set up to defend the headquarters.
“Ackerman... that building there... keep it under fire.”
The gunner followed Rettlinger’s arm motion and pulled the weapon over in a small arc.
Quickly making a decision, Derbo continued.
“Watch for our counter-attack... from the left there.”
The snow-covered barn seemed perfect cover to concentrate an attack force. The blown snow had also formed a white wall high enough for the Legionnaires to get close at the run, and without having to crouch.
“Understood, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
The ex-SS soldiers always seemed to slip back into their former rank structure during moments of stress.
The 415th had spent a few hours in the company of survivors from the 412th Mechanised Brigade, from whom they had heard of the brutal actions of their opponents, excessive even for the hated SS. Their anger grew and grew with every new story.
They brought it all to the Battle of La Petite Pierre.
In the two-storey house that Rettlinger had selected, fighting was still in progress on the upper floor, where six of his soldiers valiantly resisted all attempts to force the landing, which open space was littered with dead and dying Siberian infantry.
Incensed, they scaled the exterior as best they could, and stormed into the occupied spaces, overrunning the defence.
The two men who survived the assault were hacked to pieces with knives and spades in a frenzy of revenge.
Meanwhile, Rettlinger assembled a scratch force to counter-attack.
The MG42 did its work magnificently, slashing at any movement in the windows, and keeping the defenders cooped up.
Rettlinger had gathered a dozen men to him. His three officers, eight of his Legionnaires, and a French war correspondent who had attached himself to the Legion Battalion.
His protestations ended when Derbo removed his camera and replaced it with an American grease gun.
“There’s no fucking civilians today, newspaper man. It’s kill or be fucking killed. Stick with us, and remember who’s side your on!”
He quickly sketched out a plan, and the small group attacked, intent on implementing a swift and violent assault.
Before they set off on Spectrum Black, one of Derbo’s NCOs had ‘acquired’ a case of British No 77 grenades from a Spanish infantry unit's supply dump. Each man in the group, not including the reporter, had two.
Four were used to create a smoke screen, greyish-white smoke mixing with the snow to create an almost continuous vista of nothingness.
Avoiding the centre of the developing smoke, the group rushed forward, each window receiving at least one of the white phosphorus smoke grenades, whose other ability was to encourage fire.
With four of his men acting as a security force, Derbo oversaw the slaughter, as Soviet infantrymen tumbled out of doors and windows, driven out by the unforgiving smoke and growing flames.
Each was shot down without mercy, even the Correspondent relishing his turn in the killing.
The security force established themselves in a small position to the front of the burning house, as Rettlinger led his reduced group towards the anti-tank position.
Checking that the gun was still capable of being used, and that the enemy had been driven off, he took his group back to his headquarters.
0522 hrs, Saturday, 7th December 1945, Forward headquarters, Assault units for Operation Rainbow Black, Pfalzburg, France.
Lavalle, until recently stretched out on a pile of cushions salvaged from the wrecked lounge furniture, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and tried to get into the operations area without bashing into too many sharp edges.
Summoned by one of his Lieutenants, he arrived in the midst of organised panic, as Derbo’s message had been followed by others, all indicating a major Soviet counter-attack in progress.
A coffee was pressed into his hand, the orderly so intent on moving on quickly that he knocked the steaming mug, causing a surge of brown liquid to splash up his commander’s shirt, scalding the skin underneath.
Lavalle did not notice, his attention fully focussed on the situation map that was in a state of flux, his staff correcting and adding information with each new report.
The same Lieutenant who had so rudely awakened him presented him with a written message.
It was from Molyneux and he expected it to be about as much use as a chocolate fireguard.
He was right.
‘Resolve the situation immediately... Counter-attack... Push back the enemy...la la la... You’re a fucking idiot, mon General.’
The message found its way into the round metal ‘filing cabinet’ that the clerks emptied every couple of hours or so.
“Get me General Pierce.”
0528 hrs, Saturday, 7th December 1945, Mobile Headquarters, 16th US Armored Brigade, Ringendorf, Alsace.
“Right, listen in, people!”
Pierce’s voice brought an instant quiet to the chaos.
“General Lavalle’s ordered us to hold in place pretty much everywhere, create a mobile reserve force in case the enemy needs his fat ass moving outta our positions, and hang on tight to Camerone and Alma on our southern border there.”
He pointed at the map and eyes automatically followed his gesture.
“We also got us another mission. Some of our Legion friends have gotten into a whole heap of trouble at Dossenheim, Petite Pierre, and Neuwiller. You can see that we can’t let that stand.”
Moving closer to the main map, he tapped each location in turn.
“If the commies overrun those points then we are in deep shit... and I do mean deep shit.”
He looked at Greiner, just back from the radios. He raised an eyebrow of enquiry and was greeted with a shake of the head.
‘Godfuckingdamnit!’
“We've no contact with Dossenheim, so we gotta assume that we'll have to push the Reds out of it. That’s where we’ll focus our main force.”
He listed many of the small units that had been held in reserve, a tank platoon here, a mechanised infantry platoon there.
“Get them formed up and on the road a-sap. We should have air today, which will help for sure. Now, the boss is sending a full RCT from the 2nd Indian Head to bust through to Petit Pierre from the north.”
He turned back to the map to consider Neuwiller and La Petite Pierre.
“Ok, so maybe they will get there in time, but seems to me they’ve some hard yards there, and the enemy ain’t getting any sweeter.”
Pierce leant over the map again.
“So, I believe it will fall to us to do both the deeds, and we need to scare up some assets.”
He grimaced as he recognised two notations in prime position.
‘Shit.’
“George.”
Lieutenant Colonel George S Williams, commander of the 2nd Ranger Battalion, had already worked it out and knew what was coming.