by Gee, Colin
“This worked but enemy reinforcements were still able to get through to the Rathaus once the attack got underway.”
Circling a number of points on the waterways north of the Rathaus, he continued.
“These crossings are down, every one of them, except the Adolphesbrücke here and the AlterDamm cross bridge here, both of which we have avoided bringing down for obvious reasons Comrades.”
Throwing the pencil on the map, he pulled off his Ushanka and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
“To hell with the bridge now, we will bring it down if we must but no-one will reinforce the Rathaus this time, so be prepared to drop your artillery support closer to the front line positions,” his eyes bored into the Artillery Commander, “Is that clear Comrade?”
“Yes Comrade General.”
Picking out a street name with a quick look at the map the General pressed home his point.
“Neuer Wall and no closer to our troops.”
“Yes Comrade General.”
Picking up the pencil once more, he beckoned everyone closer.
“The infantry attack will not be on a broad front, although I expect you to allocate a battalion for a diversion south, near the Elbe.”
Having circled KatharinenStraße and the Holzbrücke, his preferred spot for the diversion, he brought their attention back to the Rathaus and its environs.
“This area must be taken, the English driven out, and it must be done in this attack Comrades.”
“Once 1st breaches the defences then the 134th will move up and burn them out.”
At the mention of his unit, the horribly scarred Kapitan moved forward to scrutinise his part more closely.
“I don’t care if the whole lot burns, just make sure you shift them all out before nightfall Comrade.”
“Yes Comrade General.”
All present had heard the Kapitan speak before, but that didn’t make him sound any less sinister now. The man’s vocal chords had been damaged at the same time as his body, all victims of a German Flamethrower in 1942.
That Kapitan Scelerov was alive was, in itself, a miracle. That he returned to active duty was remarkable. That he chose to adopt the flamethrower as his weapon of choice was incomprehensible, until you listened to the hate that drove him on each day, through the pain barrier.
Then you understood.
Revenge is a powerful force.
“And so to the tanks. Close support, paying particular attention to machine-guns obviously. Tanks and infantry will remain together at all times, no-one gets isolated.”
Directly addressing the infantry officers, he expanded on their role.
“Your own mortars will support your attack obviously, but make sure they can be redirected to take out the anti-tank guns which hurt 39th the last time,” he looked at the tank battalion commander, stating with honesty, “That was an oversight on my part. I will not have it repeated.”
“Thank you Comrade General,” said the Colonel of Tank Troops, although his inner self wondered why the 60th’s mortar units had not done so as a matter of course.
Dug-in anti-tank guns could be a real bitch but plunging fire tended to be an excellent remedy.
“Here, at the end of RathausMarkt is where 106th will do their job,” he indicated where the Schleusenbrücke had once stood, “And where I want you to ensure that you have sufficient tanks and riflemen in place to cover them while they construct a crossing for us.”
His commanders understood perfectly but it would not hurt to remind them.
“The 106th is extremely valuable and cannot be frittered away, so take great care to make sure they can do their job unhindered Comrades, or we may all be counting trees before the week is out!”
Again, the pencil hit the map as he stood upright.
In the silence, all eyes were drawn to the gentle sound of the pencil rolling steadily and inexorably to the table’s edge before dropping onto the floor.
“Comrades, we will not stop until we have moved over these obstacles and are beyond them. Push on and on. Once it is dark we will stop, and not until then. All units will defend their positions when they halt.”
He pulled up his sleeve and signalled for a time check.
“On my mark it will be 1514 hrs. 3,2,1, mark.”
Fingers pressed down and watches were synchronised as required.
“I think you can all sort out your liaison and pass on your orders in good time. 1st Rifles will take about an hour to get into position so the attack will commence at1645 hrs exactly. Artillery will commence in earnest at 1630 hrs.”
He dropped his left arm, shaking his sleeve down.
“Get the job done and kick these bastard English back to their little island. Good luck Comrades.”
1515 hrs Sunday 12th August 1945, The Rathaus, Hamburg, Germany.
Actually, they weren’t English at all. Some five hundred and thirty years beforehand, these men’s ancestors had provided the backbone of Henry V’s Army at the Battle of Agincourt. To the inexperienced eye, they looked like the standard British Infantryman, pudding bowl helmet, khaki uniform, boots, gaiters, and all sporting either the SMLE, Sten or Bren. To call them English was an insult.
They were Welsh and proud of it.
For two days, the 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers had stood in the face of huge enemy attacks, side by side with actual Englishmen in the form of men of the 1st Oxford and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.
That ravaged battalion had endured such heavy casualties that it had been withdrawn and 4th RWF had spread out to cover the full front, which was why they now found themselves in the strange position of being integrated with jocks of the Black Watch, who had arrived just in the nick of time in the previous attack.
A quick officer’s orders group had decided to wait for a definite lull before shaking the two different units out and so, for now, men with names such as Jones and MacDonald shared the same positions in and around the Hamburg Rathaus.
Over one-half of the battalion’s officers were either dead on the field or bleeding in aid stations behind the lines. Even the Lieutenant Colonel commanding the Royal Welch had been carried from the field, torn and bloody, leaving a young Major in command.
He was inexperienced but led his men well, turning up at the hottest points of contact and directing his meagre reserve forces to critical points in order to stave off defeat.
None the less for him, the sight of the ‘Legend’ rushing in with his men had been truly inspirational, which feeling quickly spread through his whole unit as word spread that Ramsey VC was fighting alongside them.
7th Battalion, The Black Watch had been temporarily detached from its parent formation to bolster the southern area of Hamburg. Each of its companies was sent to a different hotspot. In the case of the Rathaus, it was B Company, under the command of Major John Ramsey VC that arrived in the nick of time and helped drive off the surviving Russian troops.
Major Llewellyn automatically deferred to Ramsey but, as was his style, Ramsey made sure the young man knew that the Black Watch was there to assist and that the Welshman was firmly in command.
The few junior officers left were scurrying around the positions, ensuring wounded were either tended to or evacuated to an aid station, and that ammunition was distributed as needed.
An orders group was called for 1530 hrs, convening, without any intended humour, in the Bürgerschaft, the meeting chamber of the Hamburg Governing body.
Eight attendees represented the CO’s of the units defending the area defined by JungfernSteig to the northeast and StadthausBrücke in the south-west, encompassing the Rathaus, Hamburg’s Exchange Building and all the area within the northern confines of GroßeJohannisStraße, all in all an area of less than half a square kilometre.
Major Llewellyn introduced himself and then went round the group, asking each to identify themselves in turn.
Ramsey had already attracted much attention, as much for the kilt he sported and the cane he carried as for
who he was and what he displayed on his chest. He needed no introduction, not even to the German Officer commanding the 4th Hamburg Defence unit, as Maior Perlmann’s 8th Fallschirmjager Division had fought the 51st Division in the Reichswald.
His unit was a true anomaly, an intact throwback to the Wehrmacht of May 1945. Originally the 3rd Batallione, Fallschirmjager Regiment 22, it had been captured and disarmed, then rearmed on 9th May and employed by the British at Bad Segeberg, sweeping the forest for armed Soviet foreign workers who were causing mischief amongst the local populace.
Perlmann was not the only man there who found it a little bizarre that a decorated Major of German paratroops, in full uniform, was stood in a briefing with British officers.
Captain Arthurs of the 1st Manchesters certainly did, for he had lost a brother at Dunkirk and an uncle on the arctic convoys. Forgive and forget was not in his nature but he understood the needs of the present crisis, so bore the hated German’s presence as best he could.
The artillery observation officer, 1st Lieutenant Ames, had already proven that he was top-notch at his job, despite being tapped by a piece of shrapnel that made it hard for him to sit down.
1st Lieutenant Ramsey, attempting humour, confirmed he was no relation to the great man and apologised for the absence of the anti-tank battery commander who could not be located.
CSM Richardson, senior rank in the ad-hoc platoon comprised of survivors of the 555th Field Company, R.E., was not cowed by being the only NCO in the room. A lot of people he had spent years with had died in the last few days and he was there to even the score, and made sure the officers all understood that.
Finally, clad in the giveaway one-piece tank crew oversuit, Acting Major Frederick Brown QC, Cambridge Blue and Olympic Polo silver medallist from the 1936 Berlin Games, capped the introductions with a flourish.
A tray of corned beef sandwiches was strategically placed to one side, and it had been drawing the attention of hungry men, the nearer the man, the more obvious the attention.
Llewellyn decided that they could work and eat. The nearest man to the prize was Ames.
“Grab a sarnie Lieutenant and pass the plate on.”
There was no need to repeat that order and the plate moved swiftly anti-clockwise, ending up with Llewellyn and offering a choice from the three left.
In an almost surreal display, all heads slowly swivelled towards the sound of one of the number enjoying the feast with a little grunt here, a contented ‘mmmm’ there.
Perlmann suddenly became aware he was the centre of attention.
He grinned widely, displaying teeth covered with the detritus of his meal and spoke in accented schoolboy English.
“It is beating horse my man!”
They could not help but laugh and the moment of levity eased the tensions of their situation. Major Ramsey later argued that it was a pivotal moment in the brief existence of what became known as ‘Llewellyn Force’, despite his own run-in with Perlmann later.
Fig#28 - Hamburg - Llewellyn Force positions
1M- 1st Manchesters, 4RWF-4th Royal Welch Fusiliers, FBP-Fallschirm Batallione Perlmann, ERYY-East Riding of Yorkshire Yeomanry.
Moving to the rough hand-drawn map on the rear wall the Welsh Commander quickly ran through the defensive positions, fields of fire, artillery, and mortar support available. He updated the new arrivals on the previous Soviet tactics, pointing with his left hand, taking hurried bites of his doorstep in between sections of his briefing.
Llewellyn was adamant that each company should provide a reserve force to counter-attack any position lost or to reinforce one under extreme pressure.
Richardson strongly resisted the use of his platoon as a tactical reserve, seeking a position in the front line where he and his vengeful engineers could kill their fair share of commies. John Ramsey said nothing but prepared to intervene if it proved necessary.
It didn’t.
Major Tewdwr Llewellyn would not be moved but assured the NCO that his men would get all the action they could stand when the Soviets came again.
Ammunition was a problem but he had sent a party with the RSM back to get more, even for the German weapons of Perlmann’s unit.
Once he had finished, he sought questions from the group. Perlmann and Ramsey sought clarification of where the counter-attacking forces would be positioned but there were no other questions or suggestions as the defence was pretty straightforward. There was nowhere to run to, no room for manoeuvre, so it was a case of stand or die.
The group broke up, dispersing swiftly, inadvertently leaving Llewellyn and Ramsey with the remaining sandwiches.
Both eyed the tray and each other.
The Welshman led the way.
“Can’t let these go to waste now can we?”
Offering up the tray to his companion, he grinned.
“Be rude not to,” the end of which was slightly distorted as sandwich went from tray to lips in one easy movement.
The Welshman’s eyes strayed to the ribbon on his fellow officer’s breast.
“Well, we Welsh are used to this of course. This will be the new Rourke’s Drift but without the singing.”
Meeting the young man’s humour with his own, the Englishman swallowed his last mouthful.
“Singing may be all we can hold them back with if the ammunition doesn’t arrive. These buggers don’t use assegais old chap.”
Not willing to be bested, Llewellyn fought back in the traditional way.
“My boys will keep quiet and let you strangle that cat, which should keep the Reds at arm’s length.”
Even though he was an English officer, Ramsey appreciated the value of Pipes to the Scottish soldier. He considered continuing but decided against it, ceding the last word to the younger man with a decidedly mischievous grin.
Both left and immediately separated, heading out to their different units as the Hamburg Council Chamber clock moved silently to 4.15.
It was nearly time.
1615 hrs Sunday 12th August 1945, The Rathaus, Hamburg, Germany.
Ramsey strode purposefully out of the main entrance deep in thought, nearly colliding with a stationary Maior Perlmann.
“I do apologise Herr Maior,” the words out of his lips even as he brought himself back upright
“Alles klar Englander,” was Perlmann’s dismissive response, distracted as he was. The British officer looked at the inscription above the door that had held the paratrooper’s attention so much he had not noticed Ramsey’s impending arrival.
Perlmann weighed up his British counterpart.
“Do you know what it is saying Herr Maior?”
“I’m afraid your ability with my language is far better than mine with yours Major Perlmann. If you please?”
The paratrooper tugged his camouflaged jacket formally, ensuring it was properly in place before he spoke.
“I was born in this city so I am lived with the knowledge of this words since I can remember.”
Ramsey remained quiet, aware that the German was strangely emotional.
“I have just fight a war, a loosed war, and during those six bloody years I never really knew this words, and what they mean, until today.”
Perlmann coughed gently, more to buy him a moment to compose himself than for any other reason.
“It says ‘May the descendants look to maintain the freedom that was winned by our fathers.’ ”
Ramsey nodded in understanding, drawing out more from the German.
“How is it that I never knew what this words mean until today, ….this hour, ….this minute?”
Considering his words carefully, the British Major spoke softly and with feeling.
“In truth Herr Maior, I suspect that when you fought for the Nazi cause you didn’t understand the words because they had no meaning,” emphasising the word ‘had’ brought the point home, “Whereas now that meaning is crystal clear and very real for you and all Germans is it not?”
Perlmann considered the words
for a few moments, his face screwed up in thought, frowning as he worked it through.
An onlooker would easily have imagined the men as enemies, both by posture and atmosphere.
“Do not think for any moment that most of we Germans fought for anything but our country Herr Ramsey.”
The tension mounted in seconds.
“Do not think that you are the only ones having honour, the only ones fighting for freedoms for six years.”
Ramsey found his body gently buzzing as the presence of threat transformed him.
Perlmann took a half step closer, bringing the men to within arms reach of each other.
“Do not think for a first second that I do not hate you Herr Maior, that I do not remember those you killed and do not remember the places of my youth you army destroyed.”
Ramsey’s eyes narrowed but he held his tongue, conscious of but not seeing the additional gathering presence of soldiers, German and British alike.
The paratrooper officer was breathing hard.
“I hate all of you but today I fight side to you because I hate the communists more and I am ordered by my Government.”
“Just remember that for when we have kick the red bastards back to the Urals, Herr Maior, just remember that.”
Whilst none of the Welch present understood the language, none of them was ignorant of what was being said by the big German as his demeanour and tone carried all he intended. The paratroopers understood only too well.
Weapons were held with less relaxation, and eyes warily scanned for the first hint of action.
Perlmann and Ramsey suddenly realised they had created a situation where a mix of their troops now stood at close quarters, eyeing their former enemies with suspicion and anger.
A few murmurs from the spectators seemed to awaken something in both officers.
The gap between them widened perceptibly.
Perlmann was a professional soldier and a damn fine officer and demonstrated it.
“You are right of course Herr Maior, I apologise.” the tone of the words were as important as the words themselves and his softer voice immediately had an effect on all present.