by Colin Gee
Suddenly the whole situation changed as something extremely large landed fifty metres to the Tiger’s front, sending up a veritable fountain of earth and snow.
‘Scheisse!’
Not only Köster had that particular thought, as the Soviets redoubled their efforts to push south, and threw in their 203mm artillery against the plum stationary target of the crippled Tiger.
From his position on the rear hull, Rudi Köster could see a wave of Soviet armour advancing again, moving out to the left and right, avoiding the central area where ‘Lohengrin’ sat.
Another Panzer IV fireballed as a total of four shots struck home in as many seconds, leaving no chance for the crew to draw another breath before they were immersed in flames.
“Achtung! Tanks to both flanks!”
The turret moved lazily, intent on engaging those to the right, where both right flank Panzer IV’s had been knocked out.
An 88mm shell flashed downrange, glancing off the side of the lead T-34s turret as a 203mm landed nearer still and rocked the crippled Legion tank.
Grabbing two pouches of ammo from the turret bin, Köster rapped three and three and pulled open the hatch.
The shockwave of a solid shell hitting the mantlet lent additional weight to the hatch, carrying it to the point where it struck the hull, but with Köster’s fourth finger in between the two pieces of unyielding metal.
He screamed, so much so that the faces of both Jarome and Schultz jostled for position at the hatch to find out what had happened.
“Ahh, Fuck!”
The smashed finger hung by the thinnest of morsels, the bone turned to dust by the heavy impact. The little finger, whilst it had escaped being trapped, lay at a ninety degree angle to normal, the main joint dislocated by the force of the impact.
As Köster held his ruined hand, the Tiger took another hit, which again flew off harmlessly.
The 88mm spoke again.
The target did not burn, but the only man that emerged hobbled away, leaving a trail of red in the driven snow.
Wintzinger’s machine-gun rattled, and his voice screamed an urgent warning.
Rolling to the nearside of the turret, Köster snatched up the MP-40 and fired into the men running directly at ‘Lohengrin’.
The moment was so intense that the pain caused by the recoil of the weapon was subdued by the imperative of survival.
A combination of his and Wintzinger’s efforts bowled the enemy group over, leaving half of them writhing and moaning on the ground, clutching at ruined bodies.
Köster reached for one of the pouches, intent on reloading, forgetful in the heat of the moment.
His loose finger hung on the rough canvas and the movement of his arm was sufficient to cause the final piece of attachment to snap, which in turn caused his hand to slip, and he caught the dislocation on the end of a magazine.
He screamed.
This time only Schultz stuck his enquiring head out.
Jarome shouted in anger.
“Get out of the fucking way, you idiot!”
Schultz shifted quickly, permitting the gunner to get his shot away.
The secondary explosion was impressive as whatever it was disintegrated in an instant.
Rolling off the tank, Köster dropped into the snow just as another of the large-calibre artillery shells came close, some of the snow and earth falling on him and the comatose Meier, now leaking blood from a head wound.
The situation was spiralling out of control, as the enemy attack moved forward, slowly but surely pressing down upon ‘Lohengrin’ and the two surviving Panzer IV’s.
Even as he watched, both remaining tanks started to back up, keeping their front to the enemy, firing as they went.
“That settles that then! Come on, Klaus”
Köster, conscious of the advancing enemy infantry, slipped the sling of his MP-40 over his neck and dragged the inert form of his driver towards the rear of the Tiger.
Risking exposing his head, he clambered on the track and shouted at the still-open hatch.
“Hans! Max!”
A solid shot sped past the turret, missing the Tiger by the smallest of margins.
Jarome’s face appeared.
“What?”
“The IV’s are pulling back. Klaus is out cold. Time to go. Get them out, Hans!”
There was nothing else to say.
Grabbing for Meier’s armpits, Köster found himself with company, as two legionnaires flopped down behind ‘Lohengrin’.
One, a French officer, spoke rapidly.
“Sergent, you’ve been ordered back. Abandon the tank immediately. Any more wounded?”
“Just him, Sir.”
“Quick about it then.”
Between the two of them, the French Lieutenant and Köster got Meier on the back of the young legionnaire and the man took off with an impressive turn of speed.
Fig# 134 – Legion reinforcements at Hangviller.
A clang of metal announced another direct strike on ‘Lohengrin’, and the roar of pain that came from within indicated more hardship for the crew.
Wintzinger arrived, clutching his side, where a patch of red was growing rapidly.
He waved away the enquiring hands as the Frenchmen and Köster sought to explore the fresh wound.
A scrabbling on the deck above them distracted them as Schultz dropped over the side, nearly landing on Wintzinger, his hands raw and blistered from the effect of some previously unsuspected fire.
The Tiger rocked as Jarome fired off a final round, before exiting the rear hatch and joining them.
“Shit, I need to wreck her some more!”
“She’s burning anyway, Oberscharfuhrer,” Schultz’s simple statement accounting for the burns on his hands.
The French Lieutenant waved his own hand theatrically.
“Non! Leave her. We will be back later.”
It was no time to argue, but none of them could imagine being back any time soon.
“Maintenant, allez mon braves!”
The group took off at the run, or at least the best they could do with their disadvantages.
“Head for the right of that farm building! Ouff!”
A bullet thumped into the Frenchman’s thigh, sending his leg flying out in front of him, causing a stumble and fall.
Jarome leant down and hauled hard on the officer’s belt, barely missing a stride, as the two made a decent attempt at a three-legged race world record, chivvied along by more small arms fire from the advancing Soviet infantry.
The front runners threw themselves over a snow heap and down besides the small derelict barn that had been their first target, only to find it occupied by a determined group of legionnaires, armed to the teeth and looking extremely confident.
Köster rose up to assist his gunner, just in time to watch as a 203mm shell landed adjacent to ‘Lohengrin’.
Fifty-six tons of tank rose diagonally into the air, turning slightly as it went, before landing upside down nearly twenty metres away from its starting point.
It was a painful moment for the ex-SS tank commander, as much as the loss of a good comrade in battle.
As Jarome and the Frenchman dropped into cover, Köster wrenched his eyes away from the sight of his Tiger with its trackless wheels facing the sky.
The sound that assailed his ears was like an express train without brakes, the ‘whatever it was’ moving at supersonic speed through the cold winter air.
“What the fuck is that?”
Whatever it was, it was clearly the signal the infantry had been waiting for, and they pushed up to the edge of the snow and started pouring fire at the advancing enemy.
Above the tearing fire of an MG42, the Tiger crew could hear more express trains, more huge explosions, and memories started to work.
Köster looked at his rescuers more closely.
“You’re not Tannenberg, are you?”
The Lieutenant, grimacing as Jarome tied his leg up tight, converted his pain
ed expression into a knowing smile.
“Non, Sergent. We are special group from Alma.”
Suddenly it all became clear as the memory synchronised with the evidence of his ears.
“Those are Pak44s,” he said to no-one in particular, “128mm anti-tank guns,” he said to the Frenchman specifically.
“Oui.”
The Lieutenant dipped into his pocket and produced Gitanes for himself and the tankers whilst, on the battlefield behind them, the three 128mm PAKs destroyed the survivors of a Soviet tank battalion, helped by the arrival of Escuadrón 205 of the Mexican Air Force, recently kitted out with A-36A Apache ground attack aircraft, configured as dive-bombers.
The Apache, basically a modified Mustang, had been withdrawn in 1944, but the needs of the present war meant that many older types were being pressed into service once more.
The Mexicans enjoyed their second offensive operation of the day, their five-hundred pound bombs proving the final straw, as the assault withered and failed in the storm that they and the Legion created.
Whilst hundreds of Soviet soldiers had been killed and wounded, the SS Legionnaires had also suffered, as first Tannenberg and then Alma resisted the advance.
The latter’s special unit lost sixty men, and one of the valuable Pak44s.
1st Kompagnie, 5th Legion Régiment de Chars Spéciale, 2nd Legion Division ‘Tannenberg’ simply ceased to exist.
The limited Soviet operation was, ultimately, a total failure and, by the late evening of Wednesday 22nd, the Allied line had been restored, all the way back to La Petite Pierre.
When it was all over, no land had been won, no land had been lost, but the fighting had cost nearly four thousand lives.
1101 hrs, Friday 24th January, Ward 22, US 130th Station Hospital, Chiseldon, England.
Major Jocelyn Presley had always known that this one was special. Regardless of the medals a man wore, there was no guarantee that the mind could cope with the damaged body. In fact, coping with severe injury as well as her charge had done, took a special type of courage, and a special type of man.
She was still sad though, for all of John Ramsey’s incredible approach to his injuries, and his capacity to endure pain and hardship, the motivation was not to enjoy his life to the full, but to find a way of being useful to his country again.
On the bed were Ramsey’s case and other belongings, ready to be taken away by the driver who was coming to get him.
Ramsey himself was moving round the small ward, shaking hands and patting shoulders, taking his leave of men in a similar position to himself, men who had shared the ups and downs of rehabilitation and recuperation on an amputee ward.
Jocelyn Presley watched as her newly promoted Black Watch Lieutenant Colonel took his leave of Manuel Peralta, the young Argentinian Lieutenant, transformed by a Soviet artillery shell from a young and vital boy of twenty into a triple amputee before he even saw an enemy soldier. Ramsey rotated on one foot, not quite as balanced as normal, but well enough that only she noticed, and they shared an insider’s look.
Behind her, the rhythmic sound of approaching feet indicated a man of military bearing and she turned to see Ramsey’s driver giving her charge the once-over.
“Och, now, ain’t ye a sight fae sore eyes.”
The two men exchanged silent grins that told Presley that they shared more than the same uniform, and that these two were brothers in arms who had sweated and bled on the same ground.
“Ah, McEwan... Sergeant McEwan I see now, is it?”
“Aye, that it is, Sah. Yer replacement understood ma quality.”
Whilst not intended to wound, the words struck home. McEwan was not here to take him back to his unit, but to take him back to visit the reforming battalion, before taking him onto London and the necessary rounds of interviews and meetings that Ramsey hoped would secure him something of interest that contributed to the war effort.
McEwan, aware that his words had hurt, but without the verbal skills to undo the damage, made do with grabbing Ramsey’s luggage.
For an English gentleman, what happened next was probably somewhat unseemly, but for an American nurse, who had seen a suffering man rally and fight his way forward, it was completely natural.
She broke from the embrace she had sponsored and kissed his cheek.
“You take care of yourself, John Ramsey. And I will know. Your wife’s invited me to visit your home when my duties allow, so I’ll be checking up on you.”
That wasn’t a huge surprise in itself, as Ramsey was aware that the two women had formed a bond, almost an alliance, brought together by the care they both had and gave, in their different ways.
“I shall look forward to it, Florence.”
She playfully tapped his arm.
“That’s Major Presley to you, soldier.”
Strangely, he found himself growing emotional and knew he needed to go quickly.
But he could not stop himself from taking her hand.
“Thank you. Really… thank you, Doc Levens, Doc Gambaccini, all the nurses, but you most of all. Thank you.”
She wanted to reply, but couldn’t find the words, so just smiled as Ramsey grabbed his canes and sped from the ward as quickly as his prosthetic legs would carry him.
1157 hrs, Saturday 25th January, L’Eglise Saint-Hippolyte, Thonon-les-Bains, France.
Saint Hippolytes, named for a Roman soldier martyred in the 3rd Century AD, was one of those places that you had to go and see if you were nearby.
Famous as the oldest church in the area, it had been erected in the 14th Century and, over time, had become one of the finest examples of a baroque church, resplendent with superb internal detailing, frescos, and a world-renowned Italian-styled stucco crypt.
Those who visited moved around quietly, keeping themselves to themselves and taking in the marvellous surroundings, rather than noticing those who also visited, which was why it had been deemed suitable for what was to follow.
Thonon les Bains had another great charm for two of the people who converged on the crypt that morning, in as much as it was close to Saint-Gingolph, a town half in France and half in Switzerland, and a well-known point where the real world and the world of espionage had their borders well and truly muddied.
The woman, closer to sixty than she cared for, was the wife of a senior Red Cross member. Both her husband and she possessed impeccable credentials for their work with that organisation, and had a notorious and well-established interest in Baroque architecture. She had arrived over two hours beforehand, mixing her main business with pleasure, as she moved quietly around, sketching and photographing, even setting up her easel and canvas to add more touches to her on-going work recording the interior of the Catholic church.
She was a frequent and well-known visitor to St Hippolytes, which made her presence unremarkable in every way, except that she was a former and clandestine associate of one Helen Radó, the wife of Alexander Radó, an important GRU agent in Switzerland, presently awaiting trial in the USSR for anti-Soviet intelligence operations.
Whilst generally unremarkable, Serena di Mattino worked for both the GRU and NKVD, passing on information gleaned from her Red Cross activities, as well as, when the matter was considered vitally important and there was no other choice, acting as a field agent.
Her duties today were vitally important, and there simply was no other choice.
A young priest had stopped to chat with her, seeking some small input on the wonders around him, and proving very attentive to her history lesson on the church and the baroque style in general.
When he left, Di Mattino returned to her labours and found herself lost in it all once more, until she became aware of another presence.
She looked up and smiled at the man admiring her painting, quickly turning back to complete a few more strokes around the pulpit, deliberately reducing some of the shadowing.
“You have talent, Madame. A gift from God, some might say.”
The man was clea
rly an Allied officer, a Captain in full Legion uniform. His unsteady gait spoke of unseen injury and most casual observers had assumed that he was recuperating from wounds sustained in the defence of La Belle France.
In truth, he was recovering from a severe illness, taking in the clean air during constitutional walks along the shores of Lake Geneva.
In truth, he was here, now, at the allotted hour, to pass on vital information.
Di Mattino rested her paintbrush and leant back to admire her changes.
“A gift from God? I think that may be so, but the training my father paid for will have helped I think, Captain.”
Code phrases successfully exchanged, the tension, such as it was, disappeared.
“Please sit and rest yourself. You look worn out, Captain.”
To casual observers, the two were discussing the painting, gesticulating at the church interior, then examining the art work in turn.
Such observers would also have seen the legion officer open his own small portfolio, showing off pencil sketches and some charcoal work, drawing approving nods and clucks from his lady friend.
Even a suspicious observer would probably have missed the exchange when it took place, blatantly, openly, in full view, but hidden by appearing to be something other than it was.
They both stood and shook hands.
The Legion officer saluted and slowly moved off, leaving Serena di Mattino to continue her art work long into the afternoon, although the presence of that which she now carried within her own portfolio grew and grew as the time dragged on.
But, she always stayed until five, and she wasn’t going to break her field craft today, even for such important intelligence.
Sitting just inside a small shorefront Bistro, the Legion Captain looked out over Lake Geneva, sipping his Asbach, happy to be relieved of his burden.
The waiter responded to his summons, and more Asbach filled the glass.
Weiss, surprised that he needed the strong brandy, took a healthy sip and started to feel more relaxed.
