Hausser rolled his eyes, his voice rising in frustration, ‘You sent men out in the dark? What was your officer thinking?’
The soldier shook his head warily, swallowing hard, ‘We had no officer...just a corporal. The officer was in the next blockhouse along the line, Herr Leutnant. We could not contact him...he has a fiery temper and we were already in trouble for earlier today...so we thought it best to check the cabling first...’
The officer shook his head despondently, ‘Did he not issue instructions not to leave the buildings after nightfall...’ Hausser raised his arms in exasperation, ‘...very well, what happened then? I need information...how many Russkies are there?’
The soldier began to look frightened, the officer’s tone becoming more demanding, his countryman interjecting in rising apprehension and shock, ‘Herr Leutnant, we heard shooting and shouts...one of the men returned. Then the Russians attacked...we escaped from one of the upper windows as the other held them on the ground floor...partisans I think.’ The young soldier of about twenty five nodded towards the two men limping towards them, Hase noticing another struggling behind, ‘One has a bullet wound and the other an injured leg from the jump...we wanted to stop any train in case they were going to blow up the tracks. That’s when they set the building on fire...’
Hausser half turned, then hesitated, his eyes narrowing, ‘How many of the enemy do you think?’
The soldier shrugged innocently, ‘Perhaps thirty...we only had twelve men...they threw grenades through the windows after we left.’ He shook his head, averting his eyes in sorrow, ‘I am not sure the others survived...there was then shooting from the next blockhouse, further east. We decided to head for the block behind you for safety, it about two hundred more metres...we were lucky to get away, going through the trees behind the building first.’ He turned to stare the officer back in the eyes, ‘Then the train came...’ His eyes suddenly widened in realisation, a gasp coming from his lips, ‘There is another train due from the east on the other track soon...probably full and carrying wounded from the front, we have to stop them!’
Leutnant Hausser spun away as he came to an immediate decision, his voice rising towards the couple of men emerging by the front of the train, ‘Form up...two sections on either side of the track. Stay in the darkness as we move forward…let the enemy focus on the train spotlights behind us and avoid being caught in the beams...keep low. Shoot first and on my command...’
Chapter Five: The Luftwaffe’s Hour is Coming
Authors note (some personal opinion):
With the increasing allied air raids throughout 1941 and 1942, German factories were struggling to provide the material required across not only the vast front on Russia and the battles in Africa, but also upgrades for existing divisions garrisoned across the large Reich.
The appointment of the architect, Albert Speer, in February 1942 to Minister of Armaments and War Production produced virtually miraculous results, however, the immense losses at Stalingrad and on other parts of the Russian Front, combined with the increased bombing, reduced the effectiveness of the increased production considerably.
By late 1942-early 1943, the German High Command had decided on an interesting strategy. To deploy mass fighter forces against the allied waves of bombers over the Reich and inflict unsustainable casualties...that the allies would perhaps then cease the bombing offensive. The unrealistic and potentially disillusioned view to then redeploy the fighters and pilots back to their sectors and perhaps regain air superiority. In reality, this overlooked the production capabilities of the Americans and the fact the allies were gaining confidence, development of aircraft and an increasingly unfavourable land force situation allowing the allied bombers to attack targets that had previously been beyond reach…stretching the Luftwaffe further.
Pilots were withdrawn from extended fronts to defend the German cities and factories, fighters and other aircraft converted to counter the streams of heavy bombers in the most efficient possible way with heavy cannon and rockets. The Reich was ready by early 1943…the time had come to destroy the rising number of enemy aircraft sweeping over German occupied territories.
April 13th 1943: The largest daylight raid to date by the USAAF Eighth Air Force.
Target Bremen Focke-Wulf Factory: 115 B-17 bombers deployed in formation. Bremen had only just been selected as a target, suitable as believed there was limited local fighter cover (as newly chosen), but with a heavy anti-aircraft battery concentration.
The sky was overcast and gloomy, cold winds blowing from east to west in the crisp light. The engine burbled as the pilot glanced round, nervous energy sweeping up his spine, the green fields and woods distant below as he glimpsed the dim light flickering across the canopies around him, six other aircraft flying in a ‘V’ formation towards the north west.
The gruff voice of the Schwarm Leader burst over the radio, static crackling through the ear sets, ‘Stay in formation…follow my lead, we will climb and complete some basic manoeuvres, then dive down…wingman, stay close to me.’
The static surged once more, atmospherics feeding through the headphones as the reply was curt from his second in command, ‘Jawohl, Herr Schwarm leader…’
The leader glanced down at his instruments, ‘Check your oil and engine noise, get to understand your aircraft like your own body…we have full tanks of fuel and are not required back for some time…always ensure you have enough fuel to return, these planes are valuable assets of the Reich.’ He continued, beginning to pull back on the stick as the FW190 rose slowly into the chilled air, ‘Once we return to Hannover, I will announce we have to refuel quickly…see how your ground crews perform. Remember gentlemen…you speak to your crew, they will automatically speak back…that slows the rearmament and refuelling. You should stand back and watch, use the time to inspect your machine for damage or any problems…you will then have confidence when you take off again. Waste this precious time and one day you will fall in combat…you will learn that on the Russian Front, there is no time for error in war.’ The seasoned flyer grinned as he glanced round, glimpsing heads briefly drop to check instruments and knowing the young flyers under his command would soon learn to complete the tasks instinctively.
Acting Leutnant Ernst Brandt stiffened as the radio burbled once more on their frequency, realising the rising excitement in the ground controller’s voice as it echoed through his earphones, ‘Herr Brandt…are you receiving? We have a situation that requires the assistance of you and your trainees.’
The flight leader raised a gloved hand to his neck, ‘Continue control…we are climbing from Hannover and intend to circle Bremen, complete a few manoeuvres before returning to base, over.’
The young Luftwaffe controller’s voice boomed through the headset briefly, ‘Are your planes fully armed, Herr Leutnant?’
Brandt’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, ‘Er-Yes control…but we are a training unit…these pilots have had less than twenty hours flying experience in the Focke-Wulfs. My command is more aircraft than usual.’
The voice continued nervously in his ear, ‘Your unit is ordered to proceed north west, increase height and engage incoming enemy bombers. This is a major raid, spotters and radar indicates over one hundred Amerikanisch machines in daylight…probable target Bremen for the first time. Join with other gathering schwarms…destroy the enemy infiltrators completely…it is the order of the High Command.’
Ernst Brandt’s eyes widened with adrenalin, a faint smile forming across his lips as he replied, ‘We will perform as best we can…this will be their first taste of the enemy, let us hope we are not found wanting.’
The static rose once more, a different voice surging through the earphones, ‘This is Major Lank, Luftwaffe ground control in Bremen. Herr Leutnant, I appreciate your unit’s lack of experience…you are joining with Bf110s and other fighters to intercept the Amerikanisch planes…make your presence felt. I have read the reports of your exploits in Russia. Once you land, report back to me
personally…I want full details of the forthcoming engagement and wish you luck. It is time to show these enemies of the Reich the power of our fighter strength…then they will retreat permanently.’
There was a brief pause, Ernst glancing round at the planes on either side of him before replying almost thoughtfully, ‘I will report to you with my pilots after the battle, Herr Major.’
The fighters droned onwards for some time, Ernst briefing the young pilots of the mission ahead and answering some startled questions, his tone firm but enthusiastic to sustain and bolster their morale. Heading further to the north west, he advised the other younger pilots to keep a watchful eye for other aircraft as the minutes ticked by, the flight leader almost able to feel their nervous excitement rising.
Then the radio burbled once more, Ernst listening as one of the young pilot’s adrenalin fuelled voice told of a sighting far to their right, mentioning several twin engine fighters were flying in a south westerly direction beneath them. The pilots stared down, seeing the dark grey city buildings appear beneath them through broken cloud, the engines droning on as the flight leader’s voice broke through static, ‘We climb further…that will give us the element of surprise…’ He pulled back on the stick, the engine roaring as the Focke-Wulf climbed, six other planes following after their flight leader.
The clouds got thicker, the small fighters rising blindly through the grey mass, Ernst briefly considering that they may not discover the American bombers if they continued in cloud cover, that this would preserve the young flyers with him, their inexperience concerning him deeply.
The clouded sky suddenly cleared, the machines abruptly breaking through the misted shroud, his eyes quickly scanning the grey heavens around them for signs of the enemy. Then Ernst stiffened, his eyes widening as he drew a deep breath, the numerous vapour trails in the distance slightly below to the south west, the white lines extending across the green terrain as he gasped, the sheer number of bombers beyond his comprehension.
His gloved hand rose slowly to his throat, his chest straining forwards as he stared down at the dots below, the four engine green-brown bombers seeming to slowly move across the landscape, the illusion of them flying almost towards the fighters. Grasping the microphone at his neck, his tone weak as he swallowed, ‘The enemy are below...we will sweep through the top of their formation and then far out low to the south, bank round to the west and come up from the rear and below them, that limits their concentrated fire.’ He drew breath once more in uneasiness, sensing the fear of the young pilots with him, ‘Aim at the front and engines of their planes…they have less cover there, you may kill the pilots or take their power, either way they are finished. Twist and move your fighters from side to side to avoid their gunners gaining a clear aim…do not fly straight during combat and if you are hit try and make it back to the nearest field.’ He gritted his teeth, realising their relative inexperience compared with his two and a half years of flying, ‘If you have difficulty controlling your fighter, then gain distance from the Amerikanisch formation and bale out…your lives are more important and this will be good experience. Serve your country well…but survive so that you may serve again in the future…’
He sighed once more, lowering his hand and glancing back out of the cockpit windows, staring down at the bomber streams heading for Bremen, his teeth grinding before a brief smile in response, the radio clicking several times as the pilots replied formally and with gusto, ‘Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.’ A brief pause, then his wingman spoke determinedly to all, ‘We follow our commander into the enemy forces…let them know this day that the cost of flying into the Reich is only blood! Feel their fear…thrive on it and we drink Schnapps tonight in the mess counting their downed aircraft. Herr Leutnant, we follow your lead into these damned Amerikanisch invaders…we save our innocent people below!’
Ernst’s voice seemed startled as he spoke further into the microphone, ‘Follow me...increase speed to maximum...these bombers have heavy machine guns.’ The flight commander hesitated, glancing around, then pulling back on the stick before pushing it hard to the left. The BMW engine roared as the fighter twisted in the sky, the nose falling before he thrust the stick forward, the FW190 accelerating dramatically as the other six aircraft followed downwards.
Major James Lane sat in the cockpit of his B17, his gloved hands nervously resting on the controls as he stared forward, the flecks of black smoke beginning to puff in the grey sky ahead, flak batteries below firing up into the overcast heavens, the 88mm and other calibre guns reloading frantically on the ground. Nodding across to his co-pilot, the younger man grimaced, clear nervousness in his blue eyes as the man swallowed, his voice low, ‘That’s heavy flak...they have a lot of guns here...’
Lane smiled beneath his respirator, winking, both men in heavy brown flying jackets with fleeced collars, ‘We know there is definitely something there then...they would not protect it otherwise, buddy! Let’s make sure we don’t have to come back soon...get the factories in one hit!’
Sirens began to ominously wail on the streets of Bremen in the distance, pedestrians and people indoors glancing round, then upwards in alarm and drawing breath...the city had never been targeted before. Mothers grasped young children, several shop owners running to their doors and out into the street to stare wide eyed upwards for a shocked confirmation that it was not a civilian drill. Worried shoppers hurried towards the nearest shelters, policemen ushering them forwards as dogs began to bark furiously across the city, the siren painful to their ears. Office workers ran from their desks as the main telephone exchange was closed down, reservists frantically racing for their positions in the fire service and local militia units.
With many running for the shelters, the barrels of flak guns situated around the large Focke-Wulf factory were hastily rising, the nervous crews of young and old men staring upwards as they glimpsed the puffs of black smoke to the north west. The sirens screamed as commanders barked orders, additional shells being rushed from underground bunkers, the ashen faced factory workers beginning to emerge from their workshops, urgently ushered towards underground shelters by red faced party officials and foremen.
The American major reached for his throat microphone, the young twenty nine year old flyer from Detroit having now completed nineteen combat missions over enemy territory. Drawing a nervous breath, he raised his voice into the microphone, his stomach twisting sharply with adrenalin and fear, ‘Enemy flak ahead...this will be bumpy. Stay steady...we drop the payload and then bank sharp north...stay in formation.’
The speakers clicked in his ears, the crew of the B17 acknowledging his orders with the pilots of the accompanying four engine planes to either side, his brown eyes glancing from side to side to see the large planes accompanying them, glimpsing one of his fellow pilots wave, the older man used to his commander’s roaming vision as they approached a target.
Then he stiffened, the excited voice burbling cross the radio waves, his rear gunner almost shouting desperately, ‘Enemy planes...eleven o’clock high! Seven of them...’ Static crackled, then another young voice from another B17, ‘More Germans...twin engine planes…Bf110s, coming in from the south!’
Major Lane gritted his teeth in dread, fearful of more German fighters appearing as he instinctively reached for his microphone once more, ‘Gunners...get ready and drive them off!’
Chapter Six: Keeping on Track
Lunging forward, Leutnant Hausser’s boots crunched on the wet gravel beneath, his breath held nervously as he gestured to either side for the men to cover the flanks, muffled shouting behind as the captain organised two reluctant soldiers to crouch in front of the sandbags, their role to examine the tracks with hand held torches as the train advanced slowly. Steam billowed from the funnel and engine, the wheels beginning to turn slowly once more as machine gun ammunition was lowered next to the front MG34s.
The German soldiers spread out on either side of the twin tracks, most advancing in semi crouches cautiously, glancing i
n nervousness into the darkened trees on either side. Hase caught his officer up, the rifle raising before him as they moved forward through the darkness, tentacles of cold mist drifting around their boots.
In the distance, Hausser glimpsed fleeting silhouettes in the light from the flames, the two storey blockhouse seeming to be ablaze on the ground floor, several muffled rifle shots ringing out, then a burst of MP40 submachine gun fire. Smoke billowed across the flames, a growing trail spreading across the track as another gunshot caused them to jump.
Ducking instinctively, the young commander hissed to either side, ‘There must be some survivors...we need to get there quickly!’ Increasing their pace, the officer dropped his MP40 into one hand, the train slowly shunting forward behind as torches scanned the tracks. Hase tensed and ran forward, hearing the soldiers on either side breathing heavily as they ran low, rifles dropping to be held on one side, their eyes still glancing into the forests warily.
Reaching the edge of the trees on the right, Hausser slowed, gasping as he dropped onto one knee, his eyes scanning the darkened terrain as further shots rang out, this time nearer, his weapon rising into both hands. The lights of several distant farms sparkled through the darkness, the land to the south lower than the raised railway lines, the tracks bending round to the north east as they continued beyond the isolated blazing blockhouse.
Gesturing to the soldiers on the other side of the railway, the young commander pointed forward, the silhouettes continuing past on the other side of the tracks. Hase dropped next to his friend, the rifle raising to his cheek and pointing towards the flickering lights some two hundred metres ahead.
Hausser turned to the men behind, his voice rising in nervousness, ‘Three riflemen here…lie down and cover the approaches, the rest of us will advance to the blockhouse. If you see movement, shoot…no one is to reinforce the rebels as we attack.’
Bloody Citadel Page 8
