Their pace slowed to a crawl as they reached the top of the slope. Hofheinz left them to recover while they sheltered in the lee. He crawled further ahead, up the last few metres and keeping to cover as much as he could. The summit of the ridge gradually came into view. He cautiously inched the last few meters forward to spy out the land. Thick cover surrounded him to his right and blocked out the view. Ignoring this he crawled over to his left, carefully pushing his way along a small hedge that bordered a heavily cultivated maize field. The air was clearer here, the views less obscured than those in the valley below. At the corner of the field the vista suddenly opened out in front of him. He was looking roughly north, his gaze running along the length of the wooded ridge towards the exposed area he had spotted earlier.
There was movement there. Five tanks were grinding their way slowly across the open pasture, their turrets slowly traversing from side to side as they searched for targets. Hofheinz pulled out his Zeiss binoculars, quickly adjusting the lenses until the tanks came into sharp focus. They were Shermans, possibly British or Canadian. No sooner had he identified them than the furthest one away lurched to the left and exploded in a sheet of flame. The flat crack of a cannon report followed almost immediately. It was a 75mm, almost certainly from a Panther, the sound of it ingrained permanently in his memory.
The other Shermans began to fire wildly, unable to spot where the opening shot had come from. The Panther’s cannon cracked again. In short succession it brewed up the four remaining Shermans, smoke and flames belching out as tiny figures, some of them on fire, scrambled out of the burning hulks and scuttled away to relative safety.
A noise to his right disturbed him. Barely thirty metres away two soldiers emerged from a foxhole, their helmets and uniforms unmistakably British. The explosions away to the north had caught their attention. One of them was screaming and shaking his fist at the destroyed tanks, or was it at the hidden assassin? Hofheinz listened to the shouts. It was hard to make out above the noise of battle, but he thought he recognised the language - was that Polish? Reports in the last week or two had suggested the presence of a Polish armoured division operating in their vicinity. Could this be the enemy unit that was blocking the exit from the pocket?
Carefully he reversed his tracks and hurried back to where his men lay resting. There was no point in trying to head further north and reach the area where counter-attack was coming from. Already they could hear the sound of explosions and firing from the direction of where the paratroops had indicated that they would attack from. His men were far too few and poorly armed to have any effect on the outcome of what was happening over there. It was best to use stealth and cover, and sneak through the enemy lines to safety. If they could find some more Tigers, then and only then they would be able to help out.
His men quickly crawled the last few meters, up over the ridge and into the cover afforded by the hedge that flanked the near side of the maize field. They kept close to the hedge, avoiding observation by using a shallow drainage ditch that led east, in the direction where safety lay. Soon they came to an open field. A few mortar shells burst in the area, but it was nothing compared to the hell of the wooded valley that now seemed so far away. A gap in a hedgerow at the far end led to another field that backed up onto yet another hedge. Stooping low, they dashed along the hedgerow until they could go no further. Beyond the next hedge was a small road that crossed their path, marked by spirals of smoke drifting lazily up into the air. The smell of death and destruction was suddenly much worse here. Hofheinz stood up and took a quick look over the hedge. The bloody remains of a transport column lay dead and dying along the road, stretched out as far as the eye could see. Men, horses and field wagons lay smashed and broken, the road matted in thick black stains where blood had soaked into the dust. It was an appalling, horrific sight, worse than most things he had seen in Russia. Suddenly, a squeal of tank tracks distracted him from the gory spectacle. It was coming from the left. A pair of Sherman tanks came into view, moving along the road and driving over the destroyed column, grinding to a pulp both living and dead.
He ducked back down, cursing the fate that made him helpless to stop the carnage on the road in front of him. None of them had any weapons that could take on a tank, let alone two of them. He doubted they could stay where they were, but where else could they go? The field they had just crossed was far too open to keep them hidden. If they tried to return the way they had come, the enemy would most likely spot them quickly enough, as soon as they drew level. A short burst of machine gun fire, and that would be that. There was nothing he could do except pray and hope that they would not be noticed. His men could see the look of horror and disgust on his face- they knew that the approaching sounds could only come from the enemy.
He was just about to give in to despair when the sound of a tank coming from the opposite direction broke into his thoughts. A quick glimpse of the silhouette revealed it to be a Panther. Before he could react the flat bark of its cannon rang out, rousing all of them from their dread. A tremendous explosion lifted the turret off the lead Sherman, flinging it sideways and into the opposite field. A belching inferno of orange and red flames shot out of the hull, casting a dense cloud of smoke across the road. The second Sherman fired almost instantaneously in return, disabling the Panther, ripping off its left main sprocket and shredding its nearside track into a mass of twisted steel. It drove on around the wreck of the first tank and began to close the distance between the two. The Sherman quickly reloaded as it moved forward. Another shot rang out, bouncing off the sloped armour of the Panther, the solid shell screeching away into the heavens. The Sherman drew closer and closer until barely thirty meters separated the two. At the last moment both tanks fired simultaneously. The Sherman slewed sideways into the ditch, smoking furiously, an armour- piercing shot smashing straight through the turret and out the far end. But the Panther was mortally stricken as well. Flames licked the edge of the turret ring. The commander’s hatch was flung open, and a blackened and burnt body tumbled out onto the rear deck and rolled off backwards onto the road.
Hofheinz tore his eyes away. ‘Move you bastards. Across the road now!’ They struggled to clear the hedge and ran across the road and into the field beyond. Hofheinz hurried to the front of the Panther, but the heat from the flames kept him at bay. He recognised the tactical insignia of Das Reich, the 2nd SS Panzer Division. Moving back, he skirted around the rear of the tank. The body that lay in the road was as near death as made no difference. Flames licked the head and torso. The smell of burnt flesh was overpowering. It was all he could do to stagger away and fight back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
Quickly he rejoined the rest of his men. They ran as fast as they could across the next field, keeping as close to the nearest hedgerow as possible. The distant sounds of battle on either side continued to ring out, but as far as he could tell they were through the advanced enemy positions. He kept them onwards in an easterly direction, avoiding open spaces and keeping to the cover of bushes and trees as much as he could. For the moment they seemed to have escaped. He was sure that there was a long road in front of them before they would reach any semblance of real safety.
Near Dyhernfürth, Silesia 0125 5/2/1945
The night was dark and still. Little disturbed the silence. Leutnant Karl Kruger scanned the horizon slowly, straining to make out any visible detail. He knew that up until recently this area had been the scene of heavy fighting. But tonight everything was unusually quiet. Even the enemy heavy guns had stopped firing, a rare event indeed, for which he was grateful. The Russians sure loved their artillery – Red God of War, as they called it. It was a fearsome sledgehammer of a weapon, a man-made typhoon that was capable of ripping up entire front lines, trenches, dugouts and anything else that stood in its way. He’d experienced it a few times, at Kirovograd and other places. Once was enough for it to indelibly grind its way into your consciousness, and deep into your worst nightmares. But now there was little to be
heard, nothing but the hiss of the wind through the bare branches of the silver birch under which he stood. In front of him the Oder River calmly pursued its own business, oblivious to the wars of men. The turgid river meandered forth from the Sudeten hills on the old Czech - Polish border, somewhere behind where he stood, and onwards towards Breslau and the distant Baltic. The river was full from the recent sleet and rains that had blanketed the area. It made a miserable change from the snowfalls that had covered southern Poland and Silesia over the last two weeks. A few wisps of fog settled over the slowly moving waters and partially hid the far bank. That would be in their favour, obscuring vision and masking their purpose from watchful eyes.
The angry rasp of a machine gun suddenly broke the silence, but it was far off, probably a kilometre or two away to their left. It was theirs not ours, from the sound of it. In the distance, an orange flare arched into the sky, then slowly sank towards earth. A few desultory rifle shots followed, and all gradually became quiet and peaceful again. The next few minutes passed slowly - nothing else disturbed the silence. A quarter moon provided a small amount in the way of illumination, and a few scattered stars twinkled deep in the heavens. There was just enough light to get by. They would not use flares or anything else by way of additional illumination. That would merely alert the enemy to their presence.
The Soviet offensive in the middle of January had smashed through the thin German-held crust and flung the front line back, well inside the Reich’s old borders. Warsaw, or rather what was left of it, had fallen very quickly. The front line was now along the Oder, both here in Silesia and near Berlin. At its closest point it was less than fifty kilometres from the capital, precious little in the way of breathing room. It was not quite so bad here, along the flanks of the breakthrough. The Russians had arrived only recently, and had not fully prepared their defences. Even so, tonight’s work could well be tricky, full of uncertainties as to what exactly lay over on the far side of the river.
Kruger reviewed tonight’s mission in his mind. His task was to destroy the chemical weapons factory that lay directly to his front, on the far side of the river. The plan also provided for a large covering force to screen him and his men from enemy interference. Maior Sassenheimer would be in charge, an experienced East front veteran. Sassenheimer’s men were in position over to his left, just by the old railway bridge that spanned the Oder. They would cross over at the same time as his men, move into position and block any Russian reinforcements from interfering with his job. Kruger hoped that they had enough firepower to deal with any eventuality.
He looked at his watch. Sassenheimer would no doubt be doing the same almost a kilometre away along the river bank. 0130 – it was time to start moving. He slid out from behind the shelter of the tree trunk, and gave a low whistle. Immediately, a mass of men emerged from the ditch that ran parallel to the course of the river and began to move forward, dragging a score of canvas boats with them towards the water’s edge. He ran towards the lead group, just in time to give them a hand to manoeuvre their boat down the muddy bank and into the slow-moving stream. The sound of a heavy splash broke the stillness.
‘Quiet,’ he hissed urgently. ‘Keep the noise down’.
Somebody had slipped on the greasy surface and fallen in. Hands quickly grabbed the unfortunate and hauled him into the nearest boat. As they moved across the river, Kruger looked back and across to where his reinforced platoon was. They had all managed to successfully launch their craft and were now paddling their way across. Some of the men were using rifle butts to help propel their way, in addition to the two men in the rear of each boat using paddles. So far so good. Twenty boats, six men in each. He looked to his front. The far bank was getting closer, still shrouded in mist. Nothing had disturbed their crossing – no gunfire or flares. The enemy was either not guarding this section of the river, or maybe getting their heads down and catching a few zeds. Or maybe they were holding their fire to the last possible minute, letting them get nice and close so they couldn’t miss…He put those thoughts out of his mind. This was no time to start worrying.
His boat temporarily grounded on a mud bank, then shot forwards the last few meters. He climbed over the edge into the knee-deep water. All around him his platoon were doing the same, slipping and sliding through the muddy water as stealthily as they could towards the reeds and grass that lined the enemy side of the river. There was still nothing. If the enemy were here they would surely have opened fire by now. Cautiously he crept forward, levering himself up onto the far shore. Still nothing. Kruger turned and signalled to his recon team close behind him. They silently acknowledged his gesture, and began to move quickly ashore to reconnoitre the immediate area to their front. The rest of his men began to drag the boats onto the grassy bank, and prepare for all-round defence.
A few minutes later the recon team returned, suddenly materializing out of the gloom. A figure approached. It was Hans Meinert, their leader. ‘Nothing here sir. No signs of the enemy at all,’ he whispered in Kruger’s ear. ‘No trenches, wire, mines – not a sausage, as far as we can tell. Ivan here’s all safely tucked up and in bed, nicely asleep.’ Kruger could just make out his grin in the near darkness.
‘Good.’ Kruger nodded. He pulled out his map and crouched down, covering his head and arms with a poncho roll. He flicked on a pen torch, checked their presumed location against a large scale map of the area, checked distances and bearings against his field compass to be absolutely sure, and then emerged.
‘OK, Hans,’ he whispered back. ‘We’ll continue as already planned, no change. The factory and engineering complex are 1200 meters to our north. The town is further over to our left, along with the castle. The Russians are sure to be there, but we’ll leave them well alone. Sassenheimer’s lot should take care of them. Use your team to scout out the approaches in case they’ve posted additional protection in front of our objective. Remember, no noise – bayonets and entrenching tools only. We’ll be right behind you.’
Meinert nodded and disappeared quickly into the darkness. Kruger could barely hear them move off. They were extremely stealthy. All of them had tied rags around their boots to deaden any sound. They had already checked their packs on the friendly side of the river – no give-away noises, no rattles from unsecured equipment, tell tales in the still night air could be heard. He turned to face the rest of his assembled men, split them into three teams as pre-arranged, and began to move forward. The next hour or so would be interesting.
Major Alexei Alexeyevich Rybalko surveyed the interior of the engineering works he had been detailed to investigate for the umpteenth time, and shook his head in anger and frustration. His small team had arrived here by jeep less than an hour ago. Front intelligence had previously identified this small industrial complex from aerial reconnaissance photos. It had all the hallmarks of something well worth a special investigation, and he had received orders to get himself down here as soon as the leading front line elements booted the Germans out and secured the area. This was a special mission. The 1st Ukrainian Front’s NKVD coordinator, Lieutenant General Andropov himself, had stressed the importance of this task to him personally. His words still echoed in Rybalko’s ears.
‘This is the most important thing we’ve identified so far. As you know, we’re looking for evidence of German technology we can use, especially in the area of rocketry and associated telemetry.’ He waved a hand. ’I have little understanding of these areas, but this order has come from the very top, via the Academy of Scientists. Koba himself is said to be interested in this, so that should underline how important this is.’ Rybalko nodded. ‘Koba’ was the chekist nickname for Josef Stalin, an old peasant name from Stalin’s formative years in the Caucasus. ‘So far we’ve captured very little in the way of German scientists and rocket technology, and we know they lead us in several important areas in this field of research,’ Andropov continued. ‘I am sure you will get to the bottom of this and provide detailed findings of what the Germans have been doin
g in this area. Rest assured that I will be personally grateful when you successfully complete this mission’.
Rybalko was not fooled for a moment, no matter how soft- spoken and outwardly pleasant Andropov was. The chekistthreat was always there. Succeed, and your star will rise with mine, fail and you will feel my displeasure. He was under no illusions as to Andropov’s real role –the NKVD officer was there to apply the muscle of the Soviet State, and to enforce rigorous subservience to the Party line. Anybody who did not perform to requirements would quickly find that life would be very much less pleasant than before. Even Konev, the Army Front Commander and a Marshal of the Soviet Union, was known to defer to Andropov on all but strictly military matters. And NKVD ruthlessness was well known. He knew about the Penal Battalions and what they endured. ‘Need to clear an enemy minefield? No problem, we’ll send in a Penal Battalion. Let them run through it, then round up the survivors and keep doing that until all the mines are exploded, or you run out of men. We’ll send you another batch if you need any more.’
He’d seen for himself what went on in the rear areas after the Red Army had executed a ‘liberation’. It was nothing he ever wanted to see again. Yes, the Germans were no angels themselves, from what he’d heard and observed in Byelorussia, but the relentless devastation and vicious brutality on both sides sickened him. But he was careful enough to keep his opinions to himself. All he was interested in was his chosen calling – the field of rocket ballistics. A careful subservience to the Party line was vital for personal survival. He liked to think of himself as just that - a born survivor. After all, the war was nearly over and the Soviet Union would need men like him for the future. A man with his experience and skills would do well in post-war Russia, and missions like this would not harm his reputation one little bit.
The Fall of the Father Land Page 7