by Gee, Colin
General de Brigade Christophe Lavalle was not a man to be easily impressed. He read the reports prepared for him by his sub-unit commanders, be they old Legionnaires or ex-German military, and found himself on the border of incredulity and pride.
In the five days since his arrival at the fledgling camp, the numbers of men in uniform had nearly tripled, bringing the size of his force to just over twenty thousand.
A combination of old legion NCO’s, mainly German he conceded, a few recently arrived French Legion officers, and the efforts of the ex-SS NCO’s and officers, had already formed the mass into recognisable formations.
Readiness levels, signed by men he trusted, indicated his units would be available well ahead of the projected dates.
Another report lay open on his desk, this one a return on his own submitted to Army command.
French pragmatism seemed to know no boundaries as his suggested command structure and order of battle was approved without alteration or adverse comment.
So surprising was it, he even considered contacting De Tassigny to confirm that he had actually read the submission.
But he didn’t.
For a number of reasons.
The Brigade he had been promoted to command, an anticipated group of no more than ten thousand troops in small formations, was a growing monster, deserving of higher rank and more staff. Never a man of ego or military ambition, save to prove his worth as a soldier and leader, he found himself in command of a force of elite fighting soldiers and he did not wish for it to be taken away from him before he had an opportunity to employ it in battle.
The anticipated structure of the Legion Corps D’Assault had been filled and all of the four major constituent formations were being expanded to cater for each day’s new arrivals, as well as creating a holding unit from where replacements could be drawn once combat operations started to take their toll.
His officers had laid out TOE’s for each unit, and it was anticipated that further formations would be a possibility, as more and more ex-SS troopers made the journey to Sassy to answer the call to arms.
Bittrich, Lavalle’s Chief of Staff and de facto second in command of the Corps, worked miracles on an hourly basis, creating organisation from nothing, and it was mainly down to his work, and that of the sub-unit commanders, that the Corps was organised and almost ready to commit.
One major worry was tank spares, and so Lavalle had sanctioned a scavenging group to go as far afield as possible to collect what they could. He had placed one of his best tank commanders in charge of the party, ably supported by Major Cyrille Vernais, Regimental Sergeant Major of the Legion. The small Swiss had been assigned to the 1st Legion Chars D’Assault Brigade and had immediately fallen foul of his comrades’ humour, prejudices, and misconceptions about height, size and capability. Several ex-Waffen SS soldiers learned the difficult way that Vernais was as hard as nails, and that the rank of Legion Major is not earned by one’s ability to count paper clips.
In a very short period of time, the diminutive Legionnaire had the respect of his troops, and Lavalle was sure that Vernais was one of the reasons that the 1st, the unit named for the legions greatest action of Camerone, was the best of a group of extremely good units under his command.
Two other of the reasons were its commander, the famous Ernst-August Knocke, and the officer in charge of the tank regiment, Rolf Uhlmann. Colonel and Commandant respectively, the two brought something special to the 1st and had forged an instantly successful professional relationship, which a soldier like Lavalle could appreciate.
Uhlmann was leading the scavenging party, supported by Vernais, who had conceded that the German was almost good enough to serve in his beloved Legion, which translated meant the man was bordering on officer perfection.
Lavalle smiled to himself as he recalled another reason for the ‘Camerone’s’ special edge. Uhlmann’s senior German NCO Braun had bonded with Vernais, forming a solid partnership. The two were often seen prowling round the 1st’s lines, inflicting themselves on the unwary. The pair were obviously hard men, apparently fair men, and certainly competent men. And according to the feedback Lavalle had from Bittrich, the two were hugely respected by their soldiers. That counted for a lot in his book.
Lavalle poured Bittrich and himself a coffee, passed the busy German his drink, and took station at the large window. Consuming his slowly, he examined the hustle and bustle of the camp set out before him.
One thing the Legion and the Waffen-SS had in common was a love of song, and more than one melody could be heard through the glass.
It was one of those songs that was popular on both sides of no man’s land, a large mixed group of Legionnaires and Germans singing, each in their own language, one side’s ‘Ich hatt einen Kameraden’ rising above the other outnumbered group’s version of ‘J’avais un camarade’.
Lavalle enjoyed the moment, particularly some wonderful harmonies from the ex-SS.
A dispatch rider caught his eye, slowly moving in between the soldiers on the camp main road, heading towards the headquarters building.
The sight of the man returning to his motorcycle coincided with the sound of approaching boots as one of his French officers brought the dispatch upstairs.
Bittrich, afforded the rank of Général de Brigade, stood up and threw his pen onto the table, stretching as he shook off the stiffness his body felt after hours of solid staff work at the desk. Lavalle still could not get used to the uniforms of his new command. His CoS was clad in American combat trousers with gaitered British army boots, topped off with a German officer’s shirt, the Knights Cross hanging proudly round his neck. On the back of Bittrich’s chair was a French officers' tunic, complete with the new Corps badge on the upper left arm, the flags of France and Germany either side of the Legion’s grenade emblem. The badge was laid out in that fashion in order to cover up or replace the German eagle insignia on the original uniforms, a position it also now occupied on French uniforms. Completing the new uniform were Bittrich’s personal awards, de-nazified as per orders, and the new armband, again produced to replace the old Waffen-SS cuff titles. The dark blue band, 35mm wide, boasted two scarlet parallel lines, each set 4mm in from the edge. In white text, the words ‘Legion Etrangere’ were bold and striking, the whole armband representing the colours of the Tricoleur.
The concept behind it was well understood; the preservation of the espirit de corps of the old Waffen-SS, maintaining the differences, the marks of distinction that set the German SS soldiers aside from all others.
Picking up his coffee, he moved to the window next to Lavalle.
The dispatch arrived and was accepted by Bittrich, who immediately passed it on to his commander.
Finishing the rest of his coffee, the German noted the obvious surprise as Lavalle read the message.
“More coffee, Sir?”
“Yes please, Willi,” and the Frenchman passed over his empty mug without taking his eyes off the paper.
By the time Bittrich had refilled both mugs, the message had been read.
“This is a warning order, Willi. How’s your French now?”
The German exchanged Lavalle’s mug for the order.
“We shall see, Sir.”
The German scanned the paper, checking a couple of words with his commander before surrendering the document.
“When? Where?”
“It doesn’t say. Nothing specific. Just...,” Lavalle searched for the relevant part and, on finding it, read it word for word, “... Prepare to move your command by rail to a location in Eastern France on receipt of a verbal order with written confirmation to follow.”
“Last time I heard something like that it concerned Vienna in ’45.”
A matter of which Lavalle had no knowledge at all, but that didn’t stop him from understanding exactly what Bittrich meant.
“At least they have included rolling stock capacities. That will enable us to plan that side of things, Willi.”
“We nee
d to know where we are going too. That would help.”
The grumbling continued as the two sorted their way through the whole document.
As they concluded, agreeing that senior officers were the same in all armies, ‘La Camerone’s’ Commanding officer arrived.
Knocke, despite his own version of the mixed uniform, looked every inch the perfect soldier; clean, smart and professional.
Like Bittrich, he wore boots and gaiters, although his were of German origin. His trousers were American issue olive drab, crowned with his black Panzertruppen jacket, Death’s Heads removed from the lapels in favour of the French rank markings of a colonel. The famous black tunic was sporting all Knocke’s awards and displayed the new Corps badge and armband. However, his armband carried the legend ‘Camerone’ instead, to denote his unit affiliation. In truth, there were few such unit armbands as yet distributed, but, as more became available, the whole unit would eventually carry the distinctive markings.
On his head he wore his old M38 side cap, again the eagle exchanged for the new insignia. Whilst Haefeli’s kepi had been an honour granted by an officer of La Legion, Lavalle sought guidance from higher authority before permitting its general use, a stance that Knocke understood perfectly.
Saluting Lavalle, and being honoured in return, he removed his cap and silently enquired for news.
“I assume your antennae just twitched then, Ernst?”
Bittrich grinned at the Panzer commander, handing him the drink he had just poured.
“I saw the dispatch rider leaving. Plus, I have some requests to submit, Sir.”
Lavalle put Knocke in the picture as best he could, which gave the man only headaches and no answers.
“I will expect that your brigade will be first away with a cadre from my headquarters. Once we know when and where, we will write proper orders. Until then, make sure you are ready to implement a full unit displacement.”
“Yes Sir.”
“How long until you can implement?”
Knocke considered the matter for the briefest of moments.
“I can move up to the ramps and commence within the hour. I would expect to have my whole Brigade loaded within five hours, if the stock is in place Sir.”
From another man it might have seemed like a wild claim or bravado. Both senior officers accepted it for what it was; a fellow professional who knew his men and his business inside out.
Lavalle failed to hide his smug look and moved on.
“You have requests you said? What do you need, Ernst?”
“At the moment, my maintenance crews are working miracles, and everyone one of my tanks is running. That cannot last, Sir.”
Lavalle looked at Bittrich, who understood perfectly, and moved to his table, seeking a particular folder.
The French officer gestured Knocke to continue.
“Sir, I know Uhlmann and St.Clair are out and about scavenging for parts, and that will help. But my need is also for personnel, trained maintenance personnel, or I risk having the tanks and the parts but no one capable of marrying the two. My engineering crews are out on their feet Sir, and mistakes are starting to be made.”
Lavalle asked the most obvious question.
“How many men do you need, Colonel?”
“If I had another forty trained personnel the problem would be gone, Sir.”
That drew a smile from the Frenchman.
“That I cannot do but,” and he nodded his thanks to Bittrich who had provided the necessary document, “There are eleven panzer maintenance personnel on their way here as we speak, 17th SS Panzer-Grenadiere Division prisoners taken by the Resistance in Normandy. They ended up languishing in a civilian prison, forgotten or ignored. Either way, they should be here tomorrow or the day after.”
Lavalle returned the document to Bittrich.
“That is a start, Ernst,” and looking at Knocke’s expressionless face, he felt compelled to continue, “Not enough but a start.”
“Thank you, Sir. The movement preparation order may make things difficult, as we may not be here tomorrow or the day after. But I have an idea for now, one that should provide a long term answer.”
“Your solution?”
“Is there any reason why non-SS cannot serve here? Unless I am mistaken there is not.”
Lavalle pondered but remained silent, encouraging Knocke to continue.
”In which case, seek volunteers from the forming German units and the existing camps around here, requesting trained personnel and organise their immediate transfer.”
“And?”
“Personnel who have mechanical experience can be of use, to do some of the heavier manual labour. I do not doubt that such people can be found in a range of places and units, Sir.”
“I do see a problem, Ernst. The orders.”
Knocke conceded with a nod.
“I had not anticipated a movement order, Sir, but we may yet have time to bring in some new personnel from the local camps to help my mechanical engineers.”
Lavalle had absolute trust in the judgement of the man in front of him and made sure he demonstrated that whenever possible.
“I will get you some more men, Ernst, you may count on it.”
Knocke stood, putting his empty mug on the side table.
“Thank you, Sir. I will return to my duties and get my unit ready.”
Replacing his side cap, he gave a smart salute and left.
1315 hrs, Thursday 16th August, Headquarters of the Legion Corps D’Assault, Sassy, France.
Back in the less than impressive hut that presently served as the headquarters of the 1st Legion Chars D’Assault Brigade ‘Camerone’, Knocke called together his officer group, less Uhlmann and St.Clair, who were still out scavenging.
Frenchmen, Germans, and a smattering of officers from a kaleidoscope of nations, answered his summons and received the warning order on the Brigade’s movement.
The questions, when invited, were predictable.
“Menschen, you know what I know. It will be Eastern France and we will go by rail. That by itself is information from which we can glean much.”
Turning to the map pinned on the wall between the two windows, Knocke stepped to one side so that the majority could follow his reasoning as he fingered the map.
“The new siding is not yet complete, so we will have to load up at le Bas de Pont.”
A French officer cut in, complaining that the loading ramps there were not yet finished either.
Knocke, sensitive to the nature of his new command permitted the man to interrupt without sanction, whilst the German personnel present felt uncomfortable at the breach of military protocol.
“Capitaine Thiessen, the works there are fit for purpose. I inspected them myself this morning when the heavies were practising their loading procedures.”
The legend’s tone brooked no argument, and he continued conjuring up possibilities on the map.
Quickly he turned back to the man.
“Although perhaps we should check that the Schwere Panzers haven’t undone the good work, eh?”
His grin was infectious.
Different fingers traced different rail lines on the map, each route examined and either accepted or rejected in turn.
Abruptly Knocke stopped
“My best guess is Strasbourg, Meine Herren. French First Army area, good access, west of the Rhine. Maintains flexibility of deployment. Thoughts?”
A chorus of agreement from the assembly and Knocke rapped out his orders.
“Each man to be issued with four days rations immediately, not to be consumed without orders.”
“Full battle order for the march. All weapons and fuel, air spotters and security deployments. I want no surprises catching us with our pants down, Kameraden.”
Checking his watch, Knocke looked impassively at his officers.
“This Brigade will be ready to move off at 1600 hrs, Kameraden. Advance guards away at 1540 hrs. Klar?”
Eyes dropped t
o watches and immediately realised the enormity of the task ahead.
The ‘Oui’s’ and ‘Jawohl’s’ mingled together without further comment, as there was no arguing with the schedule.
“Very well. Dismissed. Sturmscharfuhrer, stay if you please.”
Try as they might, the ex-Waffen SS often slipped back into the natural way of things, and Knocke was no exception. Braun held the French ‘Major’ rank, Vernais’ equal as Regimental Sergeant Major. He also rarely used the French ranks when dealing face to face with former comrades.
“Before you help Hauptsturmfuhrer Pöll get things organised, get a message to Uhlmann and St.Clair to return by 1800 latest please. Don’t say too much over the radio obviously.”
“Jawohl, Standartenfuhrer.”
Knocke’s deadpan face betrayed nothing.
“And try to use the French ranks, Braun.”
“Zu befehl.”
No hint of expression.
“We must remember that we are French soldiers now.”
“A vos ordres, mon Colonel.”
Knocke’s grin betrayed the humour of the moment, and his slapped the NCO’s shoulder playfully.
“Braun, wipe that look off your face and go and get him back here.”
1433 hrs, Thursday, 16th August 1945, Headquarters, Red Banner Forces of Europe, Kohnstein, Nordhausen, Germany.
Zhukov listened impassively as Malinin read back the request he had just dictated.
“Let us hope that our leadership sees the sense of the request and gives us the men we need.”
Malinin nodded gently, his mind processing the proposition as it had been doing since the first moment he and Zhukov had approached the concept.
Released Soviet soldiers who had been prisoners of the Germans were regarded with huge suspicion, more often treated as traitors and institutionally ostracised, falling to the most menial of jobs. Many were sent eastwards to work in cruel conditions as punishment for their failings. Some were even shot.
After all, the Soviet soldier was expected to die in combat rather than surrender.