by Colin Gee
Second in command of the 3rd Battalion, 167th Guards Rifle Regiment, Panteilmon Ursha had seen many battles in the German War and survived without a scratch.
His war ended as eighty-four tonnes of locomotive lost its battle to stay upright and rolled onto its side, settling flat on the road, despite the modest resistance offered by a human body.
The Major in charge of the 3rd Battalion contacted those units following on, informing them that the railway was blocked, and to detrain at Naugard.
1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division would not make its destination at Köslin where, even as the Major spoke into his radio, Polish paratroopers and glider troops were making a difficult night landing on zones prepared, marked, and illuminated by expectant members of the First Polish Army.
The downside for the attacking forces was that the 1st Guards, not part of any Allied planning, would now all be centred around Naugard.
0204 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, Drop Zone around Konnegen, Poland.
The red light shone in Crisp’s face as he was buffeted by the air racing past the door.
Checks complete, the stick of paratroopers from the 101st US Airborne Division stood ready to jump, a scene repeated throughout the sky over Pomerania, as the Allied forces prepared to take the fight to the enemy.
Closing his eyes, Lieutenant Colonel Marion Crisp, commander of the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, sought to confirm his relationship with his God.
‘Dear God, keep me safe, keep me alive, so that I may go home. Lord, look after m…’
He launched himself out into the dark instinctively, the slap from the dispatcher sufficient to interrupt his thoughts.
Beneath the stream of transports, soldiers of the Polish Army had turned night into day, using anything and everything that came to hand to bathe the ground in light.
Elsewhere, landing zones had been set up to accept the gliders that would bring the heavier support weapons of the division, as well as the glider infantry elements.
Everything was going according to plan, which in itself was new to Crisp.
His experience of war was similar to the old adage that no plan survives the first engagement.
‘Maybe this will be different.’
He considered that proposition as he floated to the ground.
‘Yeah, fucking right it will be.’
Lieutenant Colonel Marion J Crisp was the first man of his regiment to touch down in the fields surrounding Konnegen, twenty-three miles northwest of Naugard.
Part of the 101st, including Crisp’s Regiment,, were committed to defending the eastern edge of the Stettin Lagoon and the banks of the Dziwna River, prioritising the capture and retention of the bridges at Wollin.
The other part, the larger part, was assigned to the areas around Gollnow, from Schwente and Fürstenflagge in the west, Czarna Łaka and Rurzyca in the south, and Buddendorf to the east, all used as drop zones, the latter less than three kilometres south-west of Naugard.
The German 2nd Fallschirmjager Division, not fully formed but stacked with experienced paratroopers, landed in and around Bärwalde.
The three Allied airborne groupings were assigned to support the initial cordon organised by the 1st Polish Army, a cordon to ensure that the men and vehicles approaching the northern coast would land with a minimum of trouble.
0149 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, two kilometres north-east of Cierpice, Poland.
Out of twenty-one DFS-230 gliders, two had been totally wrecked on landing, and a further one had been destroyed in flight.
Only one man of those carried on the three, out of a total of thirty men, including the pilots, was saved.
His glider had skidded across the landing zone and into the cold waters of the Vistula. A group of Polish soldiers had thrown themselves into the fast flowing river, only for two of them to get into difficulties and be carried away into the night.
The sole German survivor was taken from the water, unconscious and out of the fight to come.
The landing ground was quickly cleared of gliders and those who had sustained injury were taken to a facility already established by the Poles, who had prepared the landing zone according to requirements originating from Skorzeny.
The JU-52’s circled until the signal to commence was received, each making a steady approach and landing, careful to touch down sweetly, given that each was carrying fuel drums to get them all home.
The transport aircraft were carefully shepherded to positions off the grass strip, one coming perilously close to dropping a wheel into the Nieszawski Kanal, earning the pilot a black mark from his staffel commander. They were parked up where refuelling could be safely conducted, ready to evacuate the members of the ‘Storch’ Battalion, and, for that matter, anyone else they could lay their hands on.
Impressed with Polish efficiency, some of the Luftwaffe pilots watched as the illuminated strip spread further south, as the efficient Poles marked out a longer landing strip.
All the JU-52’s had engines off now, so the approaching deep droning was clear to everyone, and more than a few who were not in the know raised their heads to view whatever it was that was approaching.
The Messerschmitt-323v16, more commonly known as the Gigant, had left friendly territory before the JU-52s, because of its slow speed.
Its personal fighter escort circled, watching carefully for possible enemy interference.
The huge six-engine aircraft came in on its approach and made a perfect landing, although the length of runway only proved sufficient by about twenty metres.
The prototype 323 had somehow escaped Allied attention in the German War, and was the last Gigant flying. This was probably its last mission, as there were no definite plans to take it home, and it was not to be left for the enemy.
The pilot turned the lumbering giant and positioned it facing back the way it had come, just in case circumstances permitted a return.
The nose opened up and ramps were positioned by the crew, permitting two vehicles to surge out and across the grass.
Both were Schwimmwagens, amphibious cars, and were equally kitted out with extra machine-guns and radios. The rearmost one stopped immediately as men handled a bespoke four-wheeled trailer, manufactured to Skorzeny’s own design, up behind the waiting vehicle, where it was attached.
It contained a Maxson mount, kindly donated by 548th AAA Battalion of the 102nd US Infantry Division, along with enough ammunition to test the carrying capacity of the Gigant.
It was affectionately known as the Porcupine.
The unusual combination drove off at speed, pairing up with the first schwimmwagen and heading off to support the advance elements of ‘Storch’.
0252 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, Joint Command Headquarters, Cierpice, Poland.
Skorzeny was unhappy, the schedule already lagging behind, as the four kilometres from the landing zone took a greater toll on his men than he had anticipated.
Despite splitting into three forces and using all three crossing points available, the modest Nieszawski had slowed them up more than expected.
As promised, the Polish soldiers had kept the occupants of Wielka Nieszawska indoors, so none saw part of the assault group steal around the small hamlet.
First Lieutenant Baron Georg Freiherr von Berlepsch, ‘Storch’s’ Operations officer, another veteran of the Gran Sasso operation, waved his men out into stealthy deployments, as his group drifted through the woods and invested the area around the main operations centre.
Fig# 139 - Cierpice 26th March 1946 - Storch Assault.
Other groups, with different priorities, glided through the modest light cast by a reluctant moon, the trees rustling in the modest breeze, adding to the surreal effect of camouflaged uniforms creeping gently through their moving shadow.
As the force waited for the newly decided time line of 0300 to arrive, they made the most of the extra few minutes and identified every target.
The concrete structure, covered with earth and trees,
was almost devoid of any openings, save a few doors for access, and, to the watchers, it stood silent and inviting.
At 0300, the distinctive call of a Hoopoe did not seem out of place to any of the patrolling enemy soldiers, although the origin of the sound was a Polish Major who did not have their best intentions at heart.
At Romaniuk’s signal, men rose from concealed positions and claimed lives in silence, knives mainly accounting for the wandering sentries.
Others fell as silenced weapons clacked and spat deadly metal, or taut wire bit into yielding throats.
In less than ten seconds, over thirty men had died and the way to the headquarters buildings was open.
Fig# 140 - Alternate Command Post, Cierpice, Poland.
There was no need for further orders as Mors led the prime assault force forward, the gangly Major Romaniuk by his side, dressed as a Polish Lieutenant General, ready to shout orders at his countrymen inside.
Even though Skorzeny had some Polish blood running in his veins, his language skills would not measure up, so Romaniuk bore the full responsibility of talking his countrymen into not responding with force.
He was immediately brought into action, as a gaunt-looking Colonel in Polish uniform stepped outside for some fresh air.
“We’re friends… we’re friends… don’t resist!”
‘Man shouting something… German soldiers…’ the confused man grabbed for his pistol.
“Don’t shoot, Pulkownik!”
As the weapon emerged from its holster, a knife took the man in the throat.
He sagged against the wall and gently slid down it, before dropping face first onto the concrete.
“Damnit!”
Orders were to keep the Polish contingent alive at all costs, but the Colonel had appeared not to make the passive choice, so the German who had thrown the knife had acted correctly.
Both Mors and Romaniuk stood back to let the five man silent penetration group move forward.
Two men with silenced pistols, one with a silenced Sten gun, and two equipped with PPSh weapons, just in case stealth became a secondary issue.
The two SMG men opened the double doors and the rest moved forward, with Romaniuk and Mors close behind.
The next man they encountered was a Soviet orderly and both pistols took him down in an instant.
The rough diagram that they had received from 1st Polish Army sources had allowed them to plan their assault, and the well-oiled machine went to work.
Covered by a second group, the ‘silent’group took out the guardroom first, safe in the knowledge that no Polish soldiers would be inside.
Both occupants went down quickly and without resistance.
Elsewhere, another group, similarly equipped, entered the dispatch rider’s office and disposed of the sleeping Soviet motorcyclist they found there.
The final group slipped into the outside hall leading to the kitchen, where, according to their planning, a more difficult issue waited.
Pausing to quickly check the chillers, pantry, and toilets, the killers concentrated on the kitchen door.
They burst in, only to find the room empty, not full of a mix of Polish and Soviet staff busy making coffees and snacks for hungry generals and their staff.
The Oberfeldwebel leading the team considered the empty room with an element of relief.
‘All the better for making things easier.’
The team moved forward, ahead of schedule.
Beyond lay the mess, which, it was professionally considered, could be a difficult clearance.
On his mark, the group would use all three doors to gain entrance, weapons ready to cut down anyone in the wrong uniform.
They waited.
‘0303...’
There were now four teams inside the headquarters, waiting for the next deadline which would bring them to the phase where silence was no longer necessary.
Mors and Romaniuk waited with a reinforced group brought up by Skorzeny, ready to go for the Operations room.
The senior NCO, a Hauptfeldwebel who had once landed at Eben Emael, held his group ready outside the Staff Office doors.
On the other side of the building, an Unteroffizier stood with his hand on the door of the Communications room, one eye on his watch, waiting for the seconds to tick away to 0303…
0303 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, Joint Command Headquarters, Cierpice, Poland.
The second hand ticked into the vertical on a number of closely observed wristwatches, stimulating a burst of frantic activity.
All assault groups moved in.
The mess room was empty, save some basic furniture and the occasional discarded plate or mug.
“Scheisse!”
There were five petrified men in the staff office. Three, all in Soviet uniform, were gunned down in silence, the two Poles spared, but kept covered under the muzzles of sub-machine guns.
The radio and communications room yielded four soldiers, their gaunt white faces full of fear as the Unteroffizier’s group charged in.
Apart from noticing their dirty nails and lack of personal hygiene, the NCO immediately spotted that the radios were either not working or not switched on.
Skorzeny’s group crashed through into the ops room, fanning out quickly to allow the maximum men to get in as possible.
A dozen faces looked back at them, faces ravaged by sheer terror.
Every man’s instincts squealed in protest at the scene, and each man saw his own issues… his own reason to distrust what was in front of him, whether it was the thin hands, or the thin faces, the smell of poor hygiene, or the obvious sores.
Whether the man was in a Soviet or Polish uniform was suddenly irrelevant, as they were clearly not what they … what they were supposed to have been.
Skorzeny pointed at Romaniuk.
“You’ve got one minute. Find out what the fuck’s going on here.”
The Polish Major moved forward to engage one of the Polish ‘officers’ in conversation.
They did not understand him.
Meanwhile, Skorzeny had moved back through the doors and met up with his NCOs, after ordering a search of the bodies, living and dead.
As he received their reports, understanding exactly what each meant, the results of his search order became known.
“Nothing?”
“No, Herr Oberst. There are weapons but no ammunition... we cannot find the key for the armoury, but none of these men or their casualties have capable weapons.
Romaniuk emerged, his face bright red with anger.
“They’re all Jews… kitted out with uniforms and told to wait here while an exercise was run tonight. If they did what they were told… played the game properly… then they’d get a decent meal tomorrow.”
Skorzeny nodded.
It was a trap and he had led the Storch Battalion right into it.
“We move back to the drop zone now… at the run… forget the evacuation plan… we go as a group… get the men assembled in the radio room… pass me that…”
He took hold of the SCR-536 radio and spoke rapidly to the relay station at the mid-point between the landing zone and himself.
Tossing it back to the man detailed to carry it, Skorzeny moved off to lead his men out of whatever it was he had led them into.
The woods erupted after they had advanced no more than two hundred metres, the Unteroffizier being the first of the Storch Battalion’s dead as he was riddled with bullets from a DP-28.
All was confusion as flares cast their light through the trees.
Others soon joined him in death, as the ambush poured fire into the group of one hundred and twenty-five men, deadly metal lashing them from both sides and from the rear.
Von Berlepsch, towards the rear of the group, dropped off a security group, including an MG34, to watch for anything coming up from behind. He then organised a group of twenty Fallschirmjager to swing off to the right in an attempt to turn the flank of their ambushers.
They charged f
orward blindly and almost immediately started taking fire.
A bullet tugged at Von Berlepsch’s jacket and had passed far into the trees behind before he realised it had also journeyed through his flesh. The side of his stomach started to leak blood and he felt himself weaken.
Suddenly the wound became secondary, and his MP-40 rattled as he instinctively shot the moving shadows in front of him.
Both Russians went down and stayed down.
He shouted and gestured to the remaining men of his group.
“Move right! Move right!”
The running group swung right, avoiding any more direct contact.
“Now, left!”
Desultory fire chopped down two of the running paratroopers, but the remainder were quickly falling upon enemy soldiers who had been more intent on killing those to their front than watching their rear.
A Soviet platoon was butchered in short order, although another three men were down.
One, a long-service Corporal, had been slashed in the crotch by a desperate flail with a sharpened spade, and his screams were awful, penetrating the night and overriding most of the weapons fire.
Von Berlepsch organised a carrying party as the trapped elements of ‘Storch’ responded to his Handie-Talkie call to the area he had opened up.
Skorzeny slapped his shoulder in thanks and congratulations, not realising that his Operations officer had taken a bullet.
The First Lieutenant yelped as the vibrations reached his broken rib.
“Can you still fight, Georg?”
A nod was all Skorzeny needed, and all he received.
“Take your men forward to the staging point. Watch out for the Porcupine, Georg. When you find it, make a firing line facing this way. We will fill into it. We have to discourage these bastards from following us. Klar?”
