by Colin Gee
Passing the map to Keller, Von Scharf took a careful swig from his coffee.
The experienced NCO looked at the map with disgust.
“Marvellous. When do we go, Herr Hauptmann?”
“I haven’t briefed my officers and other NCOs yet! But, as you ask, orders group’ll be here in,” he checked his new watch, “Nineteen minutes. We move off at 0900.”
Keller enjoyed the taste of real coffee and, in savouring the last few dregs, missed his cue to speak.
“Pardon me, Herr Hauptmann.”
“Help yourself to a refill, but leave enough for the briefing.”
Keller needed no second invitation.
“We’ve been handed the prize. Our regiment’s to take a line from Oerlinghausen to Hill 334… the Tönsberg.”
Keller considered the map with this in mind, and quickly offered his considered opinion.
“Scheisse!”
Von Scharf laughed.
“I’ll drink to that.”
The coffee mugs clashed.
“So there you have it, Kameraden. Order of March has us placed last, which probably means that we’ll be regimental reserve.”
The inexperienced pair of Lieutenants brightened at the thought, where as those who had already made acquaintance with all that war had to offer did little more than grimace in understanding of the likely butcher’s bill.
Von Scharf decided to bring the two new boys down with a bump.
“For those of you that think that’s a good thing... it isn’t. Understand that means we’ll go where it’s hardest when our time comes. Klar?”
All eyes were on the new pair as they mumbled their understanding.
“Any questions?”
His briefing had been thorough, so there were none.
The officers all shaped to go but Von Scharf brought them back to him.
“Before you go, kameraden, I have a few formal announcements to make.”
His eyes floated around the room, taking in veteran and infant soldier alike.
“It seems that our leaders have streamlined a process that took considerable time in our previous fight.”
He delved into his tunic pocket and extracted an official document.
“Following the Battle at Ahlen, I submitted a list of recommendations to Battalion.”
He held the document aloft, just to add a touch of drama.
“I received this letter from Feldmarschal Guderian’s headquarters less than two hours ago.”
Everyone missed the clue in that statement.
Most of the men in the briefing were honoured up to and including the Iron Cross, First class, including a German Cross in Gold for the man reading the list, an addition that had been made by Oberstleutnant Bremer himself.
Words of congratulations floated round as each award was greeted with gusto.
“In addition to that, our soldaten have their own crop of tin. Your recommendations and mine have been accepted en masse, it seems. Twenty-eight awards to the boys in total. Anyway, there’s no time now to parade the men formally. Battalion inform me that there will be official presentations when we are next withdrawn. So please pass on my congratulations to those not here, and assure them we’ll have our time together and do this all properly when this attack is over.”
Unsatisfactory, but they all understood that there was little choice.
Von Scharf’s grin widened, and those that knew him well understood he had been a little mischievous.
“Oh… I nearly forgot. It appears that our leadership has seen fit to also honour our comrade… Unteroffizier Keller… with an award.”
Keller was not a glory-hunter, although his uniform already sported numerous awards from a grateful nation, up to the First Class Iron Cross. He had not even thought of his absence from the list of those honoured.
Von Scharf moved forward and extended his hand, grasping Keller’s firmly and in real comradeship.
“Kameraden, let us congratulate our new Ritterkreuzträger, Unteroffizier Keller.”
A cheer went up, and Keller’s hand was in great demand.
By the time that the battalion had lorried forward and was set in its positions to the west of Oerlinghausen, a more than passable version of the Knight’s Cross had been manufactured by his men and dangled proudly around Keller’s neck.
It was a popular award to a popular soldier.
[Author’s note - The previous awards procedure had involved any submission for the Knight’s Cross having to pass across a large number of desks before it arrived with the highest authority.
The process now, whilst observing the previous values regarding no distinction in rank for recipients, was to be speeded up and could be approved or disapproved at Army level, requiring ratification from the Republican Armies highest-ranking active soldier, namely Guderian himself.
Given that he was extremely busy, the FeldMarschal had delegated the task to a man of great honour and worth, whom he trusted implicitly. Oberst Bernd Freytag von Loringhoven had once been his aide and, in spite of his close association with Hitler in the last days in the Berlin Bunker, was of unimpeachable character.
Only once had Guderian disagreed with Von Loringhoven’s recommendations, and that was in approving an award of the Knight’s Cross that the Oberst had felt not quite merited.
Unteroffizier Hermann Keller was the 28th recipient of the Knight’s Cross of the new German Republic.]
Fig# 148 - Oerlinghausen and the Teutobergerwald, 1st April 1946.
1549 hrs, Saturday, 30th April 1946, 899th Grenadiere Regiment Headquarters, Gastatte Dalbker Krug, Lippereihe, Germany.
Lieutenant Colonel Bremer cast his eyes over the soaked men who had assembled to receive the Colonel’s orders.
The rain hammered down outside, reducing visibility to fifty metres, maybe less.
Much of Lipperreihe had been reduced to rubble, first by the advancing Red Army, and second by the air and artillery forces of the Allied Armies.
The close quarter fighting had been bloody but brief, the Soviet forces quickly pushed back into the Teutobergerwald.
None the less, Colonel Prinz, the regimental commander, had found a reasonably comfortable headquarters in the Gaststätte Dalbker Krug.
“Stillgestanden!”
The men came to full attention as Colonel Lothar Prinz entered the extensive dining room.
“At ease, meine herren.”
Prinz had commanded the 899th since before its surrender at Brest in September 1944.
When the new Republican Army had been thrown together, the 266th was reconstituted as was, as much of its soldiery and staff were still intact, albeit ex-POWs.
Although still a two regiment division, it was a different proposition to the static division in Brittany that had been supplemented by numerous ‘Ost’ units.
“Now, to the point. The attack is postponed.”
The silence held a maelstrom of feelings; disappointment, elation, relief, indifference…
“The Luftwaffe simply cannot fulfil their obligations in this foul weather, and the spotters will also have difficulties, obviously.”
He turned to the map that held all the vital details of the attack.
“The plan remains almost the same, just a few changes in the order of battle to cater for; the timings will change of course.”
He picked up a curtain pole that served as a perfect pointer.
“We’ll now not have the Panzer-Grenadiere group from Army reserve. They’ll be needed elsewhere.”
Bremer and Von Scharf caught each other’s eye and exchanged silent words.
‘Almost the same? A few changes in the order of battle?’
They were not alone in their thoughts.
Prinz knew that his officers were rattled and moved on quickly.
“The plan is now one of central diversion and feint, and our emphasis will fall on the two flank thrusts.”
‘Scheisse!’
“I have organised three special groups fr
om divisional and regimental troops, fitted out with a lot of transport. They will feint centrally and keep the enemy focussed on Route 751. The STUG’s of 244th Abteilung will provide close support, but will be positioned with the special groups to give the centre the appearance of weight.”
The plan raised the mood a little, although the reserve unit commanders now knew they would not escape the day ahead.
“Division is going to use the extra time to put more assets on the ground.”
He drew their attention to the secondary positions.
“Third Battalion will reorient, purely covering First Battalion’s assault. 2nd Pioneer Kompagnie has been allocated some inflatable boats, should the Menkhauser Bach prove an issue,” he looked out the window at the downpour, “Especially if this shit continues.”
The pointer descended again.
“We have 266 Fusilier Battalion assigned to act as reserve for Second Batallion’s assault on the Tönsberg.”
At last, some smiles appeared amongst the leadership of 899th Grenadiere Regiment.
“That’s it for now, meine herren…moment…”
He beckoned a waiting staff officer forward.
Reading the message, he signed his name and passed the board back.
“So, we now know with whom you’re going dance tomorrow. Photos yesterday showed no tanks, and dug-in anti-tank guns are registered by our artillery and on all your maps already.”
Turning back to the map, he ran his finger over the Tönsberg and down into the town itself.
“Your old friends are here, Bremer. 1st Guards Engineer Brigade… much reduced by recent events but… still… they’re hard men, as you know. Intelligence estimates run between six and eight hundred men.”
Shifting to the other side of Route 751, he tapped the heights that guarded the north-western side of the battlefield.
“35th took a prisoner yesterday. That’s the report I just received. A new unit’s set up here. A 14th Guards Engineer Battalion. Apparently, they’ve had a hard time of late, so perhaps First and Third will have the easier task tomorrow, especially as intel believes they have only two hundred or so men.”
He turned back to his officers.
“Menschen, return to your units. Use this extra time wisely. Check your concentration and assembly points, radio call signs, artillery plans… leave nothing to chance.”
The normal chorus of voices told him that they were still worried.
The group dismissed.
The Colonel made his way up into the attic where an observation post had been established.
Hasty waterproofing had just about kept it dry and functioning.
The ageing Artillery Oberwachtmeister sprang to attention but Prinz waved him down to relax, pulling out his binoculars and joining the First World War veteran in surveying the sodden countryside, as best the rain would allow.
Prinz had once been a history teacher by calling, before the war had given him another cause.
He didn’t blame his officers for being worried; he was himself.
In another time, the rains had descended on another conquering army, an army that disappeared into history in ignominious defeat.
In 9 AD, the Roman Legions of Publius Quintilius Varus were slaughtered by the Germanic tribes in the Teutobergerwald.
On cue, the rain lessened sufficiently for an indistinct dark outline to become apparent.
Prinz felt a chill of foreboding.
“Quintili Vare, legiones redde!”
“Pardon, Herr Oberst?”
He had not realised that his mouth had given voice to his thoughts.
“Quintili Vare, legiones redde… it’s Latin, Oberwachtmeister… a quote from another age. It means…”
“Begging your pardon, Herr Oberst, but it means ‘Varus, give me back my legions’.”
Prinz looked at the old man with surprise.
“That it does, that it does.”
The Oberwachmeister smiled at the unspoken enquiry in the Colonel’s voice.
“I was a history teacher once, Herr Oberst… in another age.”
The rain increased again, masking the shadows of the Teutobergerwald hills, noisily beating down further attempts at conversation, and defeating the puny attempts to waterproof the observation post.
Fig# 149 – Allied Forces at the Teutobergerwald.
2046 hrs, Sunday, 30th March 1946, 14th Guards [Ind] Engineer-Sapper Btn HQ, the Menkebach, Oerlinghausen, Germany.
“So that’s that then. They’re not coming again today.”
“Seems that way, Comrade Polkovnik.”
The rain beat down on the canvas tent hidden in the woods on the edge of the small body of water called the Menkebach.
Both men were dry and warm, and the view through the open doorway was, despite the downpour, very easy on the eye, and they could almost have forgotten that there was a war going on around them.
Except for the shell holes, of course.
“Night attack?”
“I doubt it, but we’ll cater for it none the less eh, Comrade Polkovnik?”
Chekov stretched contentedly, enjoying the extended period of quiet that the rain had afforded.
“Of course, Pavel… but I don’t think they’ll come. The bastards will save everything up for tomorrow. The Guards’ Polkovnik assures me it’ll be fine weather from first light, so their aircraft will be up and there’ll be hell to pay for the bloody nose we gave the Fascists yesterday.”
Pavel Iska, now a Senior Lieutenant and commander of the First Company, had been a major contributor to repelling the German attack.
14th Guards had seen a great deal of action since their first outing at Trendleburg, and very few of the original personnel were left, providing a small hardcore around which the unit had been brought up to strength, ready for the renewed offensive, only to find itself pitchforked into defensive actions against the Fascist assaults.
Chekov, now a full colonel, commanded the survivors, a force of two hundred and two men, led by himself, two other officers, and three senior NCO’s.
The commanding Colonel of the 1st Guards Engineers had given him the forty-two surviving men of 1st Battalion’s 1st Company, under the command of a ‘Hero of the Soviet Union’ award-bearing Senior Sergeant.
Whilst small in number, the extra bodies were appreciated.
“So, Pavel, what do you think of our ‘Hero’?”
The two men had been through enough together for the junior man to speak freely.
“Personally, I think the man’s a prick and a half.”
Chekov choked loudly.
“A fine assessment, Starshy Leytenant. And on what evidence do you base this opinion?”
“Way he talks… way he walks… too full of piss and importance… plus… he’s an Armenian, isn’t he? Untrustworthy carpet-munching fuckers they are too, Comrade.”
Iska was a wonderful soldier, but some of his other qualities remained well hidden; qualities such as forbearance, understanding and the avoidance of prejudice.
“Armenian or not, he wears the star, Pavel. Who told you he’s Armenian anyway?”
“Balyan… it’s an Armenian name.”
“Old Yurakin told me the lad said he comes from Stavropol, so you may have it wrong.”
The junior man hawked and spat out of the open flap, into a noticeably lighter rain.
“Old Yurakin’s as deaf as a corpse, so who knows what he heard.”
“Set against him, aren’t you?”
“Well, Comrade Polkovnik, we’ll know soon enough, won’t we? Tomorrow, the green toads will come, and they won’t make the same mistakes. I say, watch him and his men. I don’t trust them and their swaggering ways.”
“Bit harsh, Pavel.”
Iska rose to take his leave.
“I’m off to check that our gardeners have finished the job. I’ll walk the lines and set the night’s routine in place. One in three, Comrade Polkovnik?”
One in three men awake at all time
s and in their defensive positions was the standard way of life since the Allied attacks had begun.
Chekov nodded.
“You mark my words, Comrade, those strutting bastards’ll let us down tomorrow. You know what day it is, eh?”
“Yes, I know, Pavel, the first day of April.”
“You mark my words, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Fig# 150 – Soviet Forces at the Teutobergerwald.
Iska was already out into the wet evening before his Colonel could reply.
Chekov recommenced cleaning his automatic rifle, with half his mind thinking about the worth of the forty-two men led by Starshy Serzhant Ivan Alexeyevich Balyan, Hero of the Soviet Union.
‘Is the old dog right?’
He worked the bolt smoothly, but oiled it a little more in any case.
‘Has Iska seen something I’ve missed?’
By the time the SVT-40 was in pristine condition, Chekov had decided upon a change in his defences.
0757 hrs, Sunday, 1st April 1946, the Teutobergerwald, Germany.
The 14th had not been idle in defence. The ‘gardeners’, as Iska had called them, had worked into the small hours to finish preparing the approach route for any enemy attack.
Trees had been cut down, creating a modest killing zone in front of the engineer’s defensive positions, the trunks used to create solid bunkers and machine-gun posts.
Chekov had oriented his men on the reverse slope as they waited, expecting some sort of enemy artillery fire to seek out defenders on the western edges of the peaks.
Only listening posts remained exposed, ready to give warning of an enemy attack and bring the defenders forward.
The alterations that Chekov had made were implemented, with half of Balyan’s men spread through Third Company’s platoons, under the watchful eye of Kapitan Vsevelov, a new arrival, but a competent officer, even in Iska’s eyes.
The other half, plus ten men lifted from each of First and Second Company’s, formed the sole reserve available to Chekov, and he took it under his personal command, with Balyan as his 2IC.
The Starshy Serzhant was noisily bawling out two of his men over some minor infraction.
