They sat in silence for perhaps 45 minutes. The Field Marshal then sighed and indicated he would like to retire. As they walked unsteadily toward the door, von Kluge made a most unmilitary gesture: he put his arm around the younger man and squeezed him.
“Try to survive, my boy. Try to survive. The war won't last forever.”
First thing the next day, von Kluge issued new orders: All forces were to escape the Falaise Pocket without delay. The Führer be damned. Ironically, Hitler gave the same order later in the day, after von Kluge left for Germany; a withdrawal was finally permitted.
As von Kluge's plane approached the military airport near Berlin, his batman shook the Field Marshal to stir him from a deep sleep. He felt a chill on the Field Marshal's face. Von Kluge was dead. He had slipped a vial of poison into his mouth during the flight.
In the previous few days, Dietrich had given up any hope of surviving. In spite of what von Kluge said, death was simply a matter of time. As there was an acute shortage of officers, he volunteered (truly, this time) to fill in as a tank commander. Somewhat to his distaste, he was asked to fill a spot in an SS division, the fanatic Hitlerjungend. His task would be simple, but perhaps hopeless: to lead a group of tanks through the tightening noose.
16 August 1944. Patton's 3rd Army Headquarters near Alençon.
Almost, but not quite, thought Patton. We must close the trap before the Huns slip out. His men were still pushing forward, but they needed more help from the north. He put in a call to Bradley, the overall commander of American ground forces. After a few pleasantries, he got down to business:
“We need help from the Brits, and we need it now. If we don't get it, we'll miss a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
Patton was silent for a moment, listening to Bradley's response. He then continued, his voice rising into the squeaky range in his agitation:
“But Montgomery may dilly-dally, Brad. He doesn't like to attack unless he has overwhelming odds. He already has odds; the Germans are beaten. We've got to trap them now, not let them slip away to fight another day.”
Another silence, then Patton exploded:
“Well you can tell Montgomery that if he doesn't get off his ass, I'll push forward. When I cut off the Germans, I'll keep right on going. I'll drive him back into the sea. It'll be another Dunkirk.”
Patton hung up.
Montgomery didn't need prodding. He had already ordered the Canadian army—with the Polish Armored Division attached—to attack toward Falaise.
17 August 1944. With Canadian and Polish forces northwest of Falaise.
By the time they received the order from Montgomery, the Canadians and Poles had regrouped and were ready. But they still faced the same problem: how to close on the deadly 88s before the Germans could see them coming. This time, they would not wait for dark. Their initial cover would be a smokescreen laid by B-25s; it would be supplemented by the dust thrown up by the vehicles, and by additional smoke if needed. They had now advanced to the relatively open countryside, and their attack would be along a much broader front of several miles. In order to avoid the straggling and chaos of the earlier attack, when one wrong turn led a whole group of tanks astray, they were given very simple instructions: proceed through the smoke, toward the sun, until they met the enemy.
This time, the tactic worked. They pushed through the weakened German defenses and were soon in Falaise.
The Poles were now ordered to move southeastward from Falaise, along the Dives River, to block the German escape. They were an obvious choice, even though they had arrived in France only recently and were the least experienced of all the divisions under Montgomery's command. They longed for an opportunity to smash the Nazi legions in their moment of peril, to avenge the humiliations of 1939. They met their order to attack with cheers.
Because of the length of his experience in Normandy—a whole month with the Canadian armored division!—Kaz was chosen to lead the column that would aim for the further of the two bridges that the Germans were using as escape routes. His task was to reach this bridge, at Chambois, as soon as possible; to take the high ground above the bridge; and to use this position to deny the bridge to the enemy. “As soon as possible” meant exactly what it said; he was to avoid unnecessary contact with the enemy until he reached his objective. Because they would be confronting enemy tanks at Chambois, they were provided with six of the new “Fireflies”—Sherman tanks equipped with high-velocity, armor-piercing guns.
The initial advance was much less eventful than Kaz had expected. There was only sporadic contact with the enemy, who faded away when they were fired upon by his powerful column. The Poles encountered fierce action just once, and then only as spectators. As they rounded a curve on a hill, they observed a column of a dozen German tanks interspersed with a large number of trucks, horse-drawn artillery, and lighter vehicles on the narrow road below. It was an inviting target, but his orders permitted no delay. Perhaps the orders could be stretched? Fortunately, the temptation was suddenly removed. Three Typhoons came sweeping in, firing rockets at the lead tank, setting it ablaze and blocking the road. Several more Typhoons quickly followed, attacking the rear vehicle and trapping the hapless column. The Typhoons, now accompanied by Spitfires, began to proceed methodically down the line, setting one vehicle after another ablaze with rocket, cannon, and machine-gun fire.
Kaz had already instructed his radio operator to get on the air—quickly—to inform the British pilots of their location, to avoid a terrible mistake. He wished he had time to watch the aircraft complete their deadly task, but he ordered his column to press on, to reach his target as soon as possible.
After several more hours, the French guide announced that they had reached their goal; Chambois lay immediately ahead. Kaz was puzzled. He thought that the bridge was on the near side of Chambois, yet a bridge was nowhere to be seen. Nor could he see the commanding heights that he was to occupy. He sent out several runners, on foot, to find out where they were. The runners were back in a few minutes. They were not at Chambois, but Champeaux; apparently the French guide had misunderstood the heavily accented words of the Poles. There was nothing for it but to patiently—and this time carefully—communicate their objective to the guide.
Soon they were on their way, this time towards the real Chambois. On either side were rolling hills of what apparently was wheat, but was now beaten down by the weather, never having been harvested. Much of it was chewed up by the tracks of tanks and other heavy vehicles. They then moved into more hilly country, mostly covered with trees. The trees, too, showed the effects of war; many had been knocked over, and the forest was pockmarked with shells.
Going over a rise in the road, Kaz, in the lead tank, saw a German column directly ahead, passing through an intersection in the center of a small village. He was about to give the order to fire when the traffic controller halted the German column and waved for Kaz's tanks to pass through. Kaz was astonished; didn't the soldier recognize the Shermans? He quickly gave the order: hold your fire. Commanders, keep your heads up out of the hatches, as usual. Do not rotate your guns in a threatening way. But be ready to fire, aiming at the armored vehicles first, if anyone starts shooting.
As they got to the intersection, Kaz looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with the German controller. He crossed his fingers as his trucks began to pass through the intersection. But soon the whole column—thirty tanks plus fifteen trucks and other miscellaneous vehicles—was through without event.
Now Kaz could think back to his earlier question: is it possible that the traffic controller didn't recognize the Sherman tanks? Or the American-made trucks? No, very unlikely. He had to admire the German's quick thinking. One cool corporal. He didn't relish a pointblank encounter with Shermans. Perhaps others in the German column also recognized the Poles, but decided they wanted to live. Kaz found himself thinking: I hope he survives the next few hours, to become our prisoner. Some day, I'd like to talk to him.
Later, that evenin
g, one of his officers raised a question with Kaz: why hadn't he attacked the Germans, who were no match for the Polish tanks? Kaz's answer was brief: True, but they would have created a shambles in the village, and been delayed at least an hour. If the Germans had gotten off a couple of lucky shots and knocked out one or two Shermans, the Polish advance would have been blocked; the delay would have been much longer. Their job was to get to Chambois, and quickly. Their mission was to trap Germans, not kill them. At least, not this time.
Nevertheless, their trip was not entirely uneventful. About three miles further along, beside the road, Kaz saw an old castle. He stopped briefly: it was an ideal spot for a German ambush. To attack the castle made no sense: they would expend valuable ammunition, and they couldn't really demolish it, anyhow. Should he play it safe, and make a detour, or chance it, passing close to the castle? Once more, the decision was made for him. A white flag began to wave from the castle's tower, and soon a group of forty German soldiers began to file out, their hands in the air. Kaz decided he didn't want to be encumbered with prisoners. He left eight infantrymen, who herded their prisoners back into the castle.
Once again he was puzzled: Why hadn't the Germans used their fortified position to fire on his tanks? One of his men, who spoke German, came back with the answer:
“They heard the Poles were coming. They didn't want to start a fight. If they made us mad, they weren't sure we'd take prisoners.”
Only a few miles further, they took more prisoners. As they reached the top of a hill, they found their progress blocked by a group of vehicles, apparently the remnants of a Panzer regiment: ten or eleven tanks, two with their treads off, and the others looking decidedly shopworn. They were surrounded by a scattering of other vehicles and men, many of whom were lying down, either exhausted, wounded, or both. Kaz gave a hand signal for five other Shermans to come up alongside him.
He noticed that none of the German tanks had its gun pointed in his direction. He sent a message to the other tanks: Regardless of what I do, hold you fire unless the Germans swing their turrets in our direction, or unless we get other incoming fire.
He then took aim at the treads of what, to him, looked like the least damaged of the German tanks. He fired a single shot. The tread clanged as it was blown off the wheels. Kaz waited. Soon, white flags began to appear.
Again, it was up to the infantry to take and guard the prisoners. Kaz now had a difficult decision. He was encumbered with prisoners; if he proceeded, he would have little or no infantry protection. Worse, he was running low on food and fuel; the diversion to Champeaux had been costly. He decided to leave his main force behind and concentrate all his extra fuel for a minimum force of ten tanks.
As the fuel drums were being brought together, an excited lieutenant reported that they had just captured the remnants of the 2nd Panzer division. His men had been looking through the pay books of the prisoners, and found familiar names: Wysoka and Naprawa. These were the sites where, five years earlier, the 2nd Panzers had chewed up the light tanks of the Polish armored brigades.
A young sergeant had found something even more interesting: an undamaged communications truck crammed with radios and other equipment. Kaz jumped up into the back of the truck and slid into the operator's chair, in front of a complicated-looking typewriter. It had an extra set of letters above the keyboard, and at the bottom was a tangle of wires plugged into a board. “Looks like coding equipment,” he thought. “And complex. I wonder how it works?” Just as he was about to start playing with it, Captain Pulaski came up to inform him that the ten Polish tanks were ready to leave.
Kaz spoke briefly to Pulaski, who would be in command of the twenty tanks and infantry that would be left behind. Because of the shortage of fuel, they should take up defensive positions on a nearby hill; their task would be to block any Germans attempting to escape eastward along the roads at the base of the hill. Before moving to the hilltop, they should blow up the German tanks, but the communications truck must be saved for Intelligence; it looked too important to destroy. “I wonder,” mused Kaz, “if it is some sort of secret newfangled coding equipment.”
He also gave Pulaski a blunt warning. It was all very well to capture veterans of the early Polish campaign. But he wanted to make sure that things didn't get out of hand. He wanted to find all the prisoners alive when he got back.
19 August 1944. 10:00 hrs. With Polish armor near Chambois.
As they reached the heights at Chambois, Kaz ordered his ten tanks into an extended arc commanding the river below. Through the haze and greasy smoke of battle, they gazed down at the grim panorama of war. To the right, the road was cluttered with burned-out tanks, smashed assault guns, and broken carts dragged by terrified horses, straining to break loose from their harness.
The sides of the road were littered with the detritus of war: disabled trucks, staff cars, and ammunition carts that had been rudely shoved off the road. A jumble of small arms and nondescript fragments of equipment cluttered the ditches, interspersed with corpses, both men and horses, some whole, some dismembered. As the wind shifted, Kaz was overwhelmed by the oppressive, sickening stench of death.
Through the shambles, a dozen German tanks were picking their way toward the narrow bridge. One tank was already across, and quickly accelerating towards the escape route to the east. Kaz gave the order: his men were to fire at will at the other tanks as they looped around the bend and came to the bridge, presenting ideal targets. Within a few seconds, a German tank was disabled in the middle of the bridge, its near-side tread blown off. The crew scrambled from the hatches, slipping down behind their tank and thence into the river below to protect themselves from the machine guns and heavy fire from above.
A second tank moved up behind, its treads skidding on the damp bridge as it strained to push the lead tank out of the way, off the bridge and into the river. Its uncertain efforts came to an abrupt end when several direct hits set it on fire. Only one trooper emerged, but, as he got half way out of the hatch, he slowly came to a stop. After a second's pause, he slid back into the tank, his battle suit in flames. A few moments later, the tank exploded, blowing the heavy turret ten feet into the air.
It was at this point that Kaz received a shouted message from his radio operator: the main Polish column, proceeding on their left parallel to the river, had just made contact with Patton's Third Army advancing from the south. The Falaise Pocket was at last closed; the main lines of German escape were cut.
Kaz had little time to reflect. The blazing hulk blocked a German escape across the bridge; most of the crews were abandoning their tanks and fleeing on foot towards the river. But two of the German crews were intent on escape, edging their tanks along the bank of the river toward a strip of white water that marked a shallows. For Kaz and the others on the hilltop, they were now out of range.
Kaz glanced to his right; another German tank was approaching in the distance. Apparently, its crew had been warned of the dangers ahead. They had left the road, and were slowly proceeding on a parallel path toward the shallows, safely out of range of the Poles on the hilltop.
Kaz had to make a decision: would he attempt to block the escape route across the shallows, or count on the main Polish force and the Americans to stop the Germans further east? It was too late to stop the first two German tanks, but their was still time for the third, and, perhaps later, a fourth, fifth and sixth. To take up a blocking position on the far bank, Kaz would have to cross the river. This would be no problem; there was a second shallows almost directly below the hill, where he could cross under the protection of his tanks remaining on the bluff. But he would then have to cross the road and proceed along an open, flat lowland edged by woods. It presented a considerable risk. He had left his infantry behind, and thus would be vulnerable to enemy soldiers who might be lurking in the woods with their Panzerfausten—the snub-nosed, single-shot, hand-held antitank weapon. But once they reached the treeless bank opposite the white water, they would be in an ideal posit
ion to block approaching German tanks. There was a ridge behind which they could take cover, overlooking the shallows.
His reflection was over; he would stop the German. His orders were to block the escape route. And he had waited too long to avenge the losses on that crisp September morning almost five years before. Leaving Jan with eight tanks to maintain their commanding position on the hill, he signaled Ciezki to accompany him. The two Polish tanks picked their way down the steep slope, then crossed the shallows and the road to the caked, cracked clay of the river flats beyond. He and Ciezki pulled up and waited behind the ridge. With little more than their turrets vulnerable, they would have the Panzer at a disadvantage. And they had their new tanks with high-velocity guns.
Kaz wanted to improve the odds even more. He sent a message to Ciezki: hold your fire until the German tank is in the middle of the river and unable to maneuver.
They waited. The German approached cautiously, pausing briefly on the far bank before moving slowly into the river. Kaz and Ciezki rotated their turrets, waiting for a pointblank shot.
Suddenly there was an explosion. Ciezki's tank rocked sharply and erupted in flame. With his head out the hatch, Kaz could feel the sudden burst of heat on the side of his face; he held his hand up for protection as he ducked down and slammed the hatch.
Kaz had been focusing so intently on the tank crossing the river that he hadn't seen a second German tank approaching from the left, along the far bank of the river. Because of the angle, it had a clear shot at Ciezki.
Now, it presented an immediate peril to Kaz and his crew. They swung their turret away from the tank in the river, and opened fire at the newcomer. The German's side was exposed as it moved along the bank; the Poles' first shot hit home, passing between the wheels and into the interior. Smoke began to belch from its hatch.
Kaz quickly turned his attention back to the enemy in the river. The German was struggling with unsteady footing on the slippery stones of the riverbed, and he was completely exposed. Both tanks fired at the same time; each hit its target. The Panzer slipped sideways, its gun pointed at an odd angle, in the general direction of the bridge. It had lost power; its turret no longer moved.
THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel Page 32
