by Colin Gee
Now that Iska had sown the seeds of doubt, Chekov began to see the confident swagger, the self-belief, behaviour he had seen before in men trying to hide their fears and doubts behind a wall of bullshit.
‘Engines?’
More than one head turned to the sky.
‘Aircraft engines?’
“Take cover!”
Fig# 151 - Oerlinghausen - Soviet Positions.
One minute ahead of schedule, the Teutobergerwald Hills were visited by a combination of British and American technology in the hands of men who acquired their skills with the Luftwaffe between ‘39 and ‘45, namely the DRL’s 3rd Kampfgeschwader.
The 19th Kampfstaffel had been equipped with B-25 Mitchells, twin-engine aircraft considered more suitable for pilots and crews who had once flown Dorniers and Heinkels over London.
Carrying three thousand pounds of high explosives apiece, the eighteen aircraft flew in perfect formation, their precise approach and delivery uninhibited by the modest flak defences.
No matter how many times you saw it, the vision of a ground target being worked over by bombers was always impressive, albeit less so for those closest to the display.
Chekov and his men watched as Hill 334, the Tönsberg, disappeared in flame and smoke, the very ground beneath their feet shuddering in protest at the violation.
Another group of aircraft, set in a wider formation, approached in the same leisurely manner, content that their fighter escort had seen off the handful of Soviet planes that had risen in challenge.
Oerlinghausen suffered a similar fate to the Tönsberg.
Chekov understood what was happening.
The enemy were bombing backwards, so the target approach was not obscured by smoke.
The change in wind direction meant that they were bombing to a reversed attack plan, visiting the Tönsberg first, instead of last.
‘Fuck!’
“We’re next, Comrades. Stay down! Stay down!”
As 19th and 18th Kampfstaffels flew away, 13th Kampfstaffel prepared to rearrange Chekov’s defensive positions.
0809 hrs, Sunday, 1st April 1946, III/899th Grenadiere Forward Headquarters, on the Schopkettalweg, Lipperreihe, Germany.
Von Scharf and the other company commanders had assembled on a temporary raised platform, called together by Prinz to observe the effects of the medium bomber’s attack.
Through the tree tops of the wood into which they would soon advance, the officers watched high explosive pour down upon the waiting Russians.
Prinz was first to break away from the sight.
“Kameraden. To your men... and yourselves... the very best of luck. Dismissed.”
Salutes were exchanged and the officers rushed back to their units, knowing that the DRL had not yet finished mauling the enemy positions.
As the company leaders picked their way forward through the trees, 7th Kampfgruppe’s three staffels of Mitchell Bombers arrived, only one minute behind schedule, to work a repeat upon the enemy below, hoping to catch their quarry emerging from cover.
The waiting soldiers of 266th Infanterie Division’s assault force heard the noise of explosions and felt the earth complain beneath their feet, the vibrations carrying over that of the enemy artillery fire that had started to arrive in the trees ahead of them.
Hauptmann Von Scharf arrived as Keller was making his men go through the last minute checks associated with infantry assaults.
Webbing, ammo, slings, grenades, close-combat weapons, boots...
“Unteroffizier!”
“Herr Hauptmann?”
“Medal presentation has been sorted for next Wednesday. Once this is over, we’ll be relieved and reinforced. The FeldMarschal himself, no less. You should be honoured.”
Keller shrugged with indifference. It would have suited him better to have an informal handover from his Company commander, but Division was insisting, as, apparently, were Guderian’s staff.
Fig# 152 - German Republican Army assault force - Teutobergerwald, 1st April 1946.
Von Scharf leant in closer.
“Mail’s arrived. I left it up at battalion. Best the men stay focussed on this attack.”
The two shared a cigarette as the time to advance approached.
His relationship with Keller had altered. He saw the man as more than an extremely competent NCO…
‘Now I understand those two Amerikanski.’
He smiled at the thought of the diminutive Jew, Rosenberg, and the German-American officer, Hässler, and then at a man he considered his friend.
“We’ll move off soon”, he announced.
‘Not yet though! One more little surprise for you communist bastards!’
He angled his watch towards the Unteroffizier.
‘0825’.
Keller nodded his understanding as the sounds of low flying aircraft suddenly penetrated the nearby artillery explosions.
“Good luck, Herr Hauptmann.”
They shook hands as the first of 19th Jagdstaffel’s P-38 Lightnings flew low over the Tönsberg defences.
The sound was like nothing the two men had heard before and, even though they had been told what was going to be dropped, the enormity of it suddenly hit home.
Keller, a religious man, crossed himself at what sounded like the opening of the doors of Hades.
Twelve DRL Lightnings deposited over two thousand gallons of napalm, concentrating on the peak and the reverse slope.
Soviet Engineer Guardsmen died by the score, burned to death in an instant.
Others died quick as the intense heat destroyed them, even in cover.
Yet more died as the oxygen was burned away, leaving nothing for the lungs that drew so desperately on the boiling air.
More than one tank crew, secreted on the rear slope, died silently in their boiling metal tombs.
Anti-tank weapons on the ridge, set-up to crossfire on the main road, lay black and burned, surrounded by the charcoal remains of the men that served them.
And then there were those who did not receive the mercy of a swift death.
Men ran around, consumed in fire, screaming and crying, until the flames won the one-sided battle.
Others, hideously burned, lay screaming beside more fortunate silent comrades, their flesh bubbled and spilt, blisters weeping the fluid so necessary for life.
A few, a handful, survived with enough mental faculty to get themselves out of the affected area; some even paused long enough to grab a damaged body and drag it to some sort of safety.
The hillside was on fire; vegetation, bunkers, clothing, leather, flesh, all added their flavoured smoke.
One shattered P-38 had smashed into the ground a few metres short of the Tönsberg, downed by defensive AA fire, the only casualty of all the aircraft in the DRL assault.
It is said that quality troops can stand when others will fall back, and the 14th Engineers were quality troops.
But fire is a great leveller, and it equally held that the flamethrower will take the heart of even the bravest.
Many men of the 14th panicked and started to break.
A few started to move back, walking, sliding, crouching, before breaking into a blind run to safety.
Chekov had to act, and act quickly. He fired in the air.
“Stop! Stop, for fuck’s sake, stop!”
The first man went down as the Colonel shot him in the leg.
“You idiots! Stop! Go the other way! The other way! Over the hill top... quick as you can.”
One or two men heard and heeded, reversing their intended route, inspiring yet more to follow suit.
But many still plunged down the slope to the illusion of safety ahead.
Gasping for breath, Chekov flung himself into a small hollow on the enemy side of the ridge, just as the 11th Jagdstaffel arrived to finish the job.
The whoosh as the Napalm consumed the air around it was intense, the wind of replacement air sweeping up and over the prone soldiers gathered around their Colonel.
>
Screams, awful screams, rose above the other sounds of battle, as the immolation on the Tönsberg was repeated.
To the rear, the Soviet mortar positions were swept with 20mm and .50cal, as the German pilots, many of them veteran pilots who once went to war in the ME-110, returned to expend some ammunition on targets of opportunity lying outside the smoking attack area.
The mortars had a hard time of it, as did the few flak positions that exposed themselves to drive the Lightnings off.
At the bottom of the slope, German eyes watched second hands tick into the vertical as 0835 arrived, and with it, the attack.
“Back, Comrades, move back... quickly... make ready... the green toads will be coming!”
Men rose up on his command, barely believing that they had survived, knowing full well that many a comrade had perished in those few minutes.
The internal battle between elation and sadness was writ large on every soldier’s face.
The surviving engineers moved quickly back to barely recognisable positions, staffed by barely recognisable human forms, and surrounded by barely recognisable bodies bent by the extremes of temperature and pain.
Around thirty or so men had stayed put, and none had survived.
Radio communication was out.
Telephone cables were out.
Selecting two men as runners, Chekov sent them in either direction to obtain reports from any surviving leadership.
“Comrade Polkovnik.”
Balyan saluted with a red raw hand, his uniform still smoking.
“Good to see you, Comrade. Report.”
“Thirty-two men under my command. Two light machine guns. Now back in reserve position, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Chekov’s mouth refused to close.
“How did you manage that, Balyan?”
He turned and pointed at the distant recently constructed bunker containing reserve ammunition.
“On my orders, when the Amerikanski started to drop their bombs, I sent my boys to take cover. I thought the enemy wouldn’t know it was there as we only built it two days ago, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Chekov toyed with the concept of taking cover in company with the battalion’s reserve ammunition and HE stock as he composed his answer.
“Well done, Starshy Serzhant, well done.”
The younger man soaked up the praise,
“Now, send twelve of your men to me, all with spare ammunition, and return to your troops. I’ll be down when I’ve sorted this mess out.”
Balyan was already moving.
The dozen men were sent to flesh out the frontline, but in no way made up for the losses.
Iska’s positions had taken a beating, the HE turning the organised trenches and bunkers into a moonscape, albeit a defendable one.
“Our orders, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“Our orders are to hold, and we’ll hold, Pavel. The enemy seem to want this bit of Germany, so we must hold it for as long as possible.”
Chekov looked towards the south.
“If the 1st cracks, we’re in the shit. Orders or not, if they fold, we’ll retreat immediately. We’ll still sit on Route 751... so, if we have to run, Asemissen will be the rally point. Clear, Pavel?”
“Asemissen. Understood, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Chekov slapped Isla’s shoulder.
“Look after yourself, Pavel.”
Iska stared after the running shape.
‘You too, Gennadi.’
Fig# 153 - Oerlinghausen - Allied assault.
First Battalion had already stepped off, moving through the woods and up the gently rising slope.
No battle formation or line abreast.
Squads moving through the smoke with stealth, using trees as cover, clumps of undergrowth as a base of fire, inexorably moving upwards.
There was no shooting.
Nothing except the fading sounds of agony and terror ahead.
A large explosion broke the calm, closely followed by the screams of the wounded.
A single shattered trunk swept downwards, severed by an explosive charge, triggered by a careless step.
Another man was crushed as the heavy lump of timber crashed to earth.
“Achtung! Trip wires!”
The fruits of the ‘gardener’s’ labours were about to be realised.
Too late the warning, as another crump rang through the woods.
Then two more, as a falling tree set off other charges nearby.
The First Battalion commander urged his men to advance with care, knowing the delay in bringing up the pionieres would allow the Russians too much time.
He yelled at the radioman who relayed the leading company commander’s request for engineer support.
“Tell him no! No! No! He must push on quickly and press the enemy before they recover.”
First Battalion moved on.
A sharp crack marked the ignition of an anti-personnel mine, the cries of bloodied men marked its efficiency.
More and more mines exploded, occasionally accompanied by the heavier sound of an HE charge, and the resulting fall of a tree.
A few enemy mortars started to lob shells into the area, adding to the growing confusion.
Officers and NCOs tried to regain order and push their men forward, with some success, but some groups floundered, and a few decided to go no further.
Those squads and platoons that carried forward found more mines, and a high proportion of the leadership fell, dead or wounded, victims of the anonymous killers.
The leading grenadiers reached the top and found the small clearing cleared by the defenders.
The gunfire exchange started, as the remaining German leadership worked to find a suitable way to assault across the deadly space.
Two fallen trees suggested the place, and Second Company immediately launched an attack, using the smoke and debris as cover.
The defending engineers had also realised the significance of the fallen trees, and the concentration of firepower they had built up stopped Second Company halfway across.
The radio hummed with exchanges between the mortar companies and the lead element.
Mortar shells started to arrive on the concentration of Russians, causing casualties and a change of thinking.
The defenders spread out more, reducing casualties, but also reducing effectiveness.
First Battalion gathered itself for an assault.
Sounds of air combat drew upward looks from both sides and, to the horror of the Germans, and wonderment of the Soviets, two smoking Shturmoviks appeared, flying down the same line the Mitchells had used a few minutes previously.
The FW-190s swarmed around them, but both seemed indestructible, right up to the moment that the rearmost exploded in mid-air, sending pieces flying in all directions.
The lead Ilyushin jiggled out of one attack and dropped two large packages that seem to come apart in mid-air.
The FW-190s, wishing to avoid the burst of whatever had been dropped, pulled away sharply, granting the Shturmovik a moment’s grace, which it took advantage of and drove hard for the ground and the route home.
The Ilyushin was a superb ground attack aircraft, but its efficiency and accuracy depended greatly on the skill of the pilot, and this pilot had a great deal else on his mind other than accurate bombing.
He tossed his two AB-250-3 bombs into the woods to the west of the leading German units, completely missing his intended target.
Not that Third Battalion celebrated as the ex-Luftwaffe cluster munitions came apart, each sending one hundred and eighty two-pound bomblets into the woods on and around them.
Many burst above ground level, adding wooden splinters to the terrible metal pieces that flew through the Teutobergerwald.
Others dropped to ground, some exploding on contact, the rest delaying their ignition to catch the unwary, unhinged, or dazed.
More than one disoriented soldier set off a waiting charge as he stumbled around.
Tree charges and mine
s added to the confusion, some set off by the cluster munitions, others by the feet of frightened men.
Collapsing trees often found more unexploded bomblets, starting the process of killing all over again.
For the men of Third Battalion, it was nothing short of hell on earth.
Eight and Nine Companies came off worst, losing over seventy men between them. Counting the wounded, both companies had been rendered almost combat-ineffective by one single aircraft.
Von Scharf’s Seven Company lost only one man slightly wounded.
His men were in awe of the events that unfolded in front of them and, in truth, most were unnerved by the scale of the destruction and death.
The radio crackled into life with demands for a report from Battalion Headquarters.
Scharf did his best to describe what had just happened to Bremer’s second wave.
It almost seemed that Bremer was shouting so loud that a radio was superfluous.
“Attack... you must press home the attack! Von Scharf! I make you personally responsible! Attack... take that fucking ridge and push the swine back. That’s an order! Att...”
Hauptmann Von Scharf tossed the headset back to Schneider in disgust, understanding that Bremer was losing his mind under the pressure.
‘Attack with what, you arse!’
“Unteroffizier Keller!”
Within seconds, the NCO appeared.
“We continue with the attack, Keller,” he held his hand up as the objections formed on Keller’s lips, “No... a different attack.”
Keller looked unconvinced, even though Seven Company was still fighting fit.
“We’re going to go round the left flank... move in that direction,” he tossed a careless hand to the north, “Two hundred metres should do... and then we go over the hill top and sweep along their line.”
Scharf took a swig from his canteen and then offered it up to Keller, who refused.
“A simple move, that’s all. The Communists have got to be shattered by the bombing.”
Keller shrugged as all NCOs shrug when faced with orders that sound like death sentences, but he knew Von Scharf, and knew the officer would do his best, although it seemed that this time he was offering nothing but a suicide mission.
