by Colin Gee
For some minutes now, the MG34 team stationed at the rear had sounded extremely busy.
“How many back there?”
“Six, Herr Oberst.”
Skorzeny gestured at his man.
“Get moving. I’ll make sure your boys pull back.”
Von Berlepsch was away immediately, calling his group to him.
Mors arrived, his face bleeding from a score of cuts.
He held out a smashed radio.
“Fucking bullets hit it and I got peppered. Saved my life.”
The handie-talkie was just so much scrap.
Skorzeny filled Mors in on the plan and directed him to recover the rear-guard, moving them back steadily until set-up on the Porcupine.
The two parted, and Skorzeny took the main body to the east, aware that the firefight behind them had grown in intensity.
Mors found the rear-guard under pressure and unable to disengage. Two men were wounded, one of whom was unable to walk unaided.
The relieving group was waved left and right, and found themselves immediately under fire from the pursuing Soviet infantry.
To their immediate rear, the good citizens of Wielke Niesakszka cowered under their blankets.
Catching the attention of one of his men, Mors used his fingers to get the man to concentrate wider, as it would only be a matter of time before they tried to outflank.
A solid lump fell to ground with a thud and the group around the MG34 hugged the damp earth.
The grenade exploded, sending deadly fragments in all directions.
None of the group near the device was hit.
However, one small piece struck the HauptFeldwebel in the back of the neck, passing inexorably through his spinal cord and coming to rest in the temporal lobe.
His body stayed upright for a second, before dropping like a rag doll on to forest floor, the NCO’s eyes wide open in indignation.
Three more grenades were thrown, each as deadly, reducing Mors’ force and, in the case of the last grenade to arrive, silencing the machine gun.
Shouting wildly, the Soviets charged forward and overran the rear-guard.
Up front, Skorzeny, who had hidden a chest infection from the Medical Officer, was struggling to keep up with the bulk of his men.
Stopping occasionally, under the pretext of encouraging stragglers, he found himself at the very rear, accompanied solely by his self-appointed personal bodyguard, a Viennese paratrooper called Odelrich, formerly of the SS-Fallschirm Batallion 600, who had first served with the Colonel during the Battle of the Bulge.
Skorzeny set his hands on his knees, drawing in cold air, all the time listening as the firefight behind intensified and then stopped altogether.
“Either they’re on the run or they’re down, Standartenfuhrer. Either way, we’ve got to move on now.”
Odelrich moved to support his commander, but Skorzeny waved him away.
Taking one deep breath, he leapt forward in pursuit of his men.
Behind him, Mors and two of his men found themselves in the hands of angry Soviet NKVD soldiers.
Von Berlepsch had arranged his force according to Skorzeny’s order, flanking the waiting Porcupine.
The first members of the main body arrived and were sent off to positions either side, further widening the defensive line on the kanal.
He had detailed a senior Corporal to count off the men as they arrived.
“How many, Stabsgefreiter?”
“Eighty-seven, Herr Oberleutnant, not including either the Oberst or Maior Mors.”
“Scheisse!”
“Rescue party, Herr Oberleutnant?”
“Pull one man in four…quickly… have them assemble at the porcupine. I need to brief Bancke.”
The Stabsgefreiter ran off, pulling men from their defensive positions and sending them after Von Berlepsch, who was in animated conversation with the slightly mad Feldwebel Bancke, the commander of Skorzeny’s secret weapon.
The need for a rescue party disappeared with the arrival of Odelrich and Storch’s leader.
Von Berlepsch explained the situation but before Skorzeny could offer up orders, a wave of infantry appeared in the weird light, moving in between the straight trunks of the trees, closing on the Fallschirmjager line.
“Bancke! Feuer!”
The gunner needed no second invitation and the Maxson mount burst into life, accompanied by the lesser instruments of death in the supporting line.
At a rate of two thousand rounds per minute, the quadruple mount started to alter the landscape, as the occasional tree was sawn through by a steady stream of bullets.
The loaders stood ready to replace empty ammo panniers with full ones, hoping to keep the time the weapon as silent to a minimum, although the gunner was always aware of overheating the barrels.
All of Skorzeny’s men had seen the Porcupine in practice and drill, but not in battle, and being used on human beings.
NKVD soldiers literally flew apart or were cut in half, and the attack quickly lost steam and went to ground, although that didn’t stop the killing, as bursts fired into the woods caught men following up in the second and third echelons.
“Achtung!”
Skorzeny shouted, getting the attention of the men nearest to him.
He pulled his ‘jack in the box’ from his pocket and waved it around, showing those that saw him what he wanted.
The order went along the line quickly and the British designed mini-mines were quickly positioned, on the banks as well as around the crossing points.
Consisting of half a pound of explosive and a friction trigger, the simple wooden bomb had a three metre length of thin cord attached to the upright, which was, in turn, attached to something immovable.
The non-standard mine, the brainchild of a British Sergeant of the Royal Engineers who had been ‘adopted’ by Skorzeny’s unit, was armed simply by raising the wooden arm and pushing it into position in the slot, which then solely required the upright piece to be pulled for the friction igniter to do its work.
Each man in the main force element of ‘Storch’ carried one, which meant that Skorzeny’s order resulted in sixty-eight ‘Jacks’ being planted.
Using hand signals, Skorzeny ordered the line to fall back at speed, using the Porcupine to dissuade the pursuing enemy.
His soldiers responded instantly, rising up and moving back towards the landing strip.
Skorzeny moved back to Bancke and made sure he understood what was required.
“Feldwebel, you must stay here until we signal. Alright for ammo?”
“For sure, Herr Oberst, I have another five panniers for each gun.”
“That should be enough. Now, hold the bastards off. I’ll send up the two reds and you get yourself and your men back immediately. Is she prepared?”
Skorzeny anticipated the answer, as Bancke knew his job, but he still wanted to know that the porcupine would not fall into enemy hands.
“She won’t be recognisable, Herr Oberst.”
“You may have noticed… no Polish officers… it was a trap, so expect them to be here in numbers. Look after your men and yourself... and get back on the aircraft when I signal.”
“Zu befehl, Herr Oberst.”
Two minutes and two thousand rounds later, Bancke looked into the sky as the star shells burst.
‘Green and red?’
“Keep firing, menschen!”
Green and Red was not Skorzeny’s signal to fall back.
The signal originated from NKVD Colonel Volkov, commander of the force that lay in hiding around the landing zone.
Mortars sent their bombs skywards, intent on bringing destruction to the parked JU-52s.
They couldn’t miss.
Heavy machine guns opened up, cutting down the Polish security force, men on the landing field, and those running from the woods towards the illusion of safety that their aircraft represented.
From north and south came light armour, T70s and T80s of the 4th NKVD Rifl
e Division, supported by lorried infantry.
Mobile flak units covered the take-off points, creating a hell from which there seemed no escape.
Skorzeny, his chest infection suddenly forgotten, urged his men onwards.
Remembering the Porcupine, the Colonel stopped and selected the two star shells, sending them into the sky one after the other.
Satisfied that the signal had been seen, he turned back to the immediate problem.
Fig# 141 - Cierpice 26th March 1946 - NKVD ambush.
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One JU-52 was speeding down the grass runway, following the instruction to evacuate the ground crew if there was a threat to the landing zone.
The starboard engine was clearly misfiring before it clawed its way into the air, not that it mattered, as 37mm shells chewed the wing off and the aircraft flipped over and smashed into the ground.
The whole landing field looked a disaster movie.
Skorzeny, moving as fast as his weakening state permitted, ran straight into an exploding mortar shell, which sent him flying back the way he had come.
The excruciating pain prevented him from any feeling of satisfaction as the ‘Jack-in-the-box’ charges started to claim lives amongst the pursuing soldiers.
Skorzeny could neither move nor feel either arm, which in the case of the left arm was not surprising, given that it was some ten feet away.
At least six fragments had perforated his stomach, but he couldn’t regain enough control of his right arm to allow him to press his hand to the awful wounds to help dull the pain.
His face, once proudly bearing a duelling scar, was now devoid of a mouth and half a chin, as metal fragments had carried soft tissue and teeth away in an instant.
Skorzeny screamed with the agony of it all, as best as his ruined mouth would permit.
Beside him, his bodyguard, Odelrich, moaning in pain whilst knelt in a prayer position, face rammed into the mud, his only wound the very obvious gaping hole in his lower back.
Skorzeny’s pain lessened and he became quite calm and focussed.
From his sitting position, he watched as the Soviet tanks rounded on the Gigant and other transports, flaying them with machine-gun fire and 45mm shells.
In short order, the last surviving Gigant was nothing more than a large bonfire, effectively blocking the centre of the runway.
Skorzeny saw the two schwimmwagens bound past, heading for a knot of Fallschirmjager. A handful of lucky men scrambled aboard before the vehicles leapt away again, driving hell for leather towards the Vistula.
The cold started to invade Skorzeny’s innards and, had he retained enough understanding of his wounds, the approach of his death by blood loss would have been apparent.
However, Skorzeny saw only surrendering men of his command being exterminated by the jubilant NKVD troopers.
Odelrich moaned and flopped to one side, his legs useless and uncontrollable.
Gritting his teeth, he levered himself on his elbows, covering the few feet to his commander at great expense to his fading reserves of strength.
He visually assessed the injuries to his CO. Odelrich’s experience of battlefield wounds told him all he needed to know, and his horrified look similarly enlightened Skorzeny.
Shouting disturbed them, and both men could see the approaching NKVD soldiers.
Trying to form words with his ruined mouth took Skorzeny to superhuman effort, but he managed.
“Together, old friend?”
“Ja, Standartenfuhrer.”
Odelrich fumbled for one of his M-39 grenades, the pain of the movement causing him to groan and curse.
The bodyguard unscrewed the cap and took hold of the cord.
Tears of pain streaked Skorzeny’s face as he worked his painful jaw one more time.
“Hals-und beinbruch, Kamerad.”
Odelrich coughed up a gobbet of blood and spat it to one side.
“Hals-und beinbruch, Standartenfuhrer... it has been a privilege to serve with you.”
He pulled the cord.
Four seconds later, both were dead.
When the Gigant had exploded, Von Berlepsch had been on his way to it, hoping to evacuate with the motorised team.
Instead, he sought cover as the huge aircraft spread itself in all directions.
Both schwimmwagens drew close and he risked a swift wave, counting himself fortunate to be noticed against the backdrop of destruction.
Bullets zipped through the air, and three men with the Lieutenant went down in as many seconds.
“Come on man!”
Bancke shouted at his officer, indicating the back seat, from where a wild-eyed Romaniuk and another Storch man were firing at anything in range.
Von Berlepsch threw himself on board, ramming into the Polish Major so hard that he winded the man and knocked the G-43 automatic rifle from his hands.
Any sound the man made was lost in the animal scream from the Fallschirmjager officer, as his broken rib sliced at internal tissue with increasing success.
The schwimmwagen leapt forward, almost bowled over by an adjacent bursting shell.
The second vehicle was not as lucky, and a 45mm HE shell exploded against the driver’s door, killing all six men clinging to it.
Containing only the dead, the shattered vehicle rolled over and over, disintegrating as it went.
Behind the escaping group, the NKVD troopers closed in, accepting surrenders and executing wounded, until the survivors consisted of twenty-eight ‘Storch’ troopers, four Polish soldiers, and thirteen Luftwaffe personnel.
As Bancke’s driver slowed to enter the water, the pursuing tanks fired their last shells, none of which came close.
“Propeller!”
Bancke, familiar with the vehicle’s workings, ran to the back and fixed the propeller in placed, folding it down from its normal travelling position. When in the ‘water’ position, the propeller axle came in contact with a drive in the back of the schwimmwagen’s bodywork.
With the extra man aboard, the driver took it carefully, and the ‘swimming car’ entered the water at low speed.
By turning the steering wheel, the vehicle used its front tyres as rudders, and the overloaded car went with the flow of the Vistula, heading northwards to the Baltic.
The last sounds of battle split the night, as jubilant NKVD troops executed all but the sole officer from amongst the survivors.
The officer’s interrogation, under the direct supervision of Colonel Volkhov, was thorough. For the young Leutnant, it would be a long painful night, but a short life.
The opening engagement of Pantomime had been an unmitigated disaster.
0500 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, Kolberg, Pomerania.
The highest point in the ravaged town of Kolberg was the old water tower, which made it the place that the local NKVD commander had commandeered for his personal observation post
“I swear I saw something, Comrade Polkovnik.”
All five men had binoculars pressed to their faces, using the modest light of the stars and moon to search out to sea.
NKVD Colonel Ilya Bakhatin spoke arrogantly to his Polish superior officer.
“Are your soldiers ready, Comrade Mayor General Kieniewicz.”
The General, commander of the 4th Polish Infantry division, answered positively, although he suspected that the NKVD bastard meant something entirely.
By now, Soviet officers and NCOs attached to units within 1st Polish Army, should have been either taken prisoner or met a silent end, the choice wholly theirs, dependant on their reaction to the impending change.
Colonel Bakhatin of the 4th Polish Infantry’s integral NKVD battalion was Kieniewicz’s responsibility, one he had been relishing.
Removing the binoculars from his face, the Polish General took a step back and nodded to the waiting men.
A few rapid sounding steps drew Bakhatin’s attention, but he had no time to turn before a rough hand clamped over his mouth and a cruel blade punched deep into his
vitals.
The Polish General spoke softly in the dying man’s ear.
“Die, you Russian piece of shit. Your war is now lost.”
The Polish general whispered to himself.
‘So, now it starts.’
He viewed the bodies of the six slaughtered NKVD soldiers with disinterest.
“If you please, Chorąży.”
The Warrant Officer had been ready for the order since the contingent had arrived on the roof of the water tower and, in short order, he had three flares floating in the breeze, red-white-red, the signal that the liberation of their homeland was about to start.
The 101st Airborne had landed in the right place, and most of the reduced size division was moving according to orders, although some notable contingents were missing.
Colonel Chappuis, commander of the 502nd, had disappeared, along with every man from his aircraft; divisional command feared the worst.
Bud Harper, Colonel of the 327th Glider Infantry, had recently returned to active duty following a broken foot. That foot and the attached leg were now the subject of debate, as doctors in the casualty clearing station fought to save the damaged limb, following Harper’s glider crash.
Overall, the new and leaner 101st had come off pretty well, with less than a hundred men killed or injured in the drop.
Evidence suggested eight aircraft lost on the flight, which meant that the division was still effective and able to do what it was supposed to do.
That could not be said of the Polish Parachute Brigade to the north-east, who had suffered under the night-fighters and flak, losing a number of valuable aircraft and gliders.
Part of the unit, nearly three companies in total, jumped over unfriendly forces, receiving ground fire from Soviet NKVD troops and members of Polish 2nd Army. The latter had no idea of the identity of their attackers as they had not been involved in the Polish deception.
Polish soldiers of the 36th Regiment, 8th Infantry Division, slaughtered over two hundred paratroopers of the Polish Parachute Brigade.
