French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  Sasha puzzled over Igor’s sudden change of heart. The older man feared the Red Army but suddenly he wanted to return to them. Sasha only desired home and family. “We can wait,” he held up a knapsack where he collected rations. “There are streams near Barysaw, there is the Berezina, much water and food...

  Igor could not be convinced. “We must find a unit and surrender to it.”

  They would not have long to wait as a group of a dozen soldiers trudged east on the path. Igor gripped Sasha, holding the boy as he called out to the soldiers. ”Comrades.”

  Rifles were raised in the direction of Sasha and Igor.

  “Comrades! We are friends!”

  “Show yourself,” commanded their leader, a grimy, pock marked sergeant.

  “We have no rifles…we are unarmed,” Igor calmed the tremor in his voice, death closer now than anytime on the battlefield. He emerged from his hiding spot and approached the path. “May we join you?”

  The sergeant eyed Igor, “How many?”

  “Me and a boy.”

  “Do you have food or water?”

  “No.”

  “No rifles, no food, no water?” spat the sergeant. “You are no use.”

  “Comrade Sergeant, what else are we to do?”

  “We do not care.” Sasha appeared, drawing the sergeant’s eye. He hesitated and motioned to the west. “Get to the end of the column. Make no noise. You will get no food or water from us. If you find any, we will take most of it, maybe all.”

  “Yes, thank you Comrade Sergeant! I am Igor and this is -.”

  “Stop. Names are only useful to the NKVD.”

  They trudged for two hours. Igor’s legs grew wobbly from a lack of sleep and food, but the younger Sasha moved faster. The two men were silent, eyes focusing on their path, marching more as prisoners than as soldiers, paying little attention to their surroundings. Igor stumbled but kept his grip on Sasha. He wondered if he could continue, his only saving grace would be a Red Army unit also marching west. The dozen ragged conscripts collided with the remnants of a division, their sudden appearance drawing fire. The first to fall was the nameless sergeant. Other fell, unable to return fire, but Igor pulled Sasha behind a tree and they waited to be rousted by one of the soldiers. Within moments they were facing an NKVD lieutenant who was displeased to see them.

  “You are all subversives and deserters. Who is your leader?” Silence greeted the question.

  Igor stepped forward “Comrade Stalin is our leader.” The lieutenant approached.

  “What do you know of Comrade Stalin?”

  “We are loyal party workers who want rifles to fight the Fascists.”

  The lieutenant straightened, unnerved by Igor’s brazenness. He turned and talked to a Red Army major, while the prisoners watched and strained to overhear the conversation.

  The Lieutenant returned to the line. “You shall have your wish to fight the Fascists as part of a penal Battalion. Tonight you shall lead the attack against the Fascist invader. The Lieutenant matched Igor’s gaze. “With or without rifles.”

  III

  “Guderian will shit his pants,” Lieutenant Waltraud Shriver murmured as he eased the Storch over the Minsk-Moscow road. “Hoth beat him.”

  Shriver wagged his wings in greeting as he passed over the lead elements of the First Panzer Division and Hoth’s northern pincer. Everyone assumed Guderian, mastermind of the Blitzkreig concept, would arrive first at the meeting point.

  Shriver banked and rolled out on a heading of 180 degrees in an effort to find the Second Panzer Division. After six kilometers he saw the problem, a collective farm clogged with Red Army troops, rifle fire snapping around the Storch.

  Shriver banked west and climbed to safety before turning to offer a better view to his observer, Rolf. “What do you see?” He asked, able to see only the crumbling barns and barracks that were part of the collective farm. Having an observer was especially helpful, allowing Shriver to concentrate on avoiding small arms fire.

  “Infantry, no tanks. One light gun, two trucks, nothing more than a regiment.”

  “We will send it in to HQ. I only wish we could call the Stukas directly.”

  Rolf continued peering at the Russian forces through his field glasses.

  Several minutes later, Groesbeck’s motorcycle platoon roared into position, its men deploying to one side of the road leading to the collective. Shriver’s warning had reached them.

  0

  “We received small arms fire up that road. The Flying Jew spotted an infantry regiment at a farm complex,” Groesbeck reported to his assembled junior officers and Schmidt. “The Flivo has called in Stukas. For now we wait.”

  The insult, spoken so blithely, would have angered Shriver. Rumors spread quickly through a fighting force and the Second Panzer Division’s officers knew the details of Shriver’s bloodlines. The pilot’s reports had saved many lives on the ground and for the men on the front line remaining intact was more important than his heritage. Groesbeck was not among them, however, his dedication to the Nazi philosophy went beyond saving the lives in the regiment and division.

  Schmidt was less certain suffered confused emotions. The Jewish Bolsheviks had forced the war on Germany and they had undermined the fatherland during the Great War then forced the Versailles humiliation on all Germans, making them enemies of the Reich. Shriver, though, was none of those, his reports from above earning Schmidt accolades from division and corps headquarters as they sped around the Polish and then Russian forces that confronted them. The lieutenant knew more of his men would be dead without the pilot and he could abide the flying Jew as long as Shriver remained in the air.

  Returning to his PzKpfw III Schmidt tightened the rope holding the large red Nazi flag on the rear deck, his only protection from a Luftwaffe attack. Rudi approached him. “What’s the plan?”

  “The Bolsheviks have a regiment of infantry but no tanks. When the air support arrives we will be able to clear the five kilometers leading to the Moscow highway. The division will reach the meeting point before nightfall.” Schmidt traced the route to the Minsk-Moscow road, and avoided the large circle representing the farm complex.

  “We cannot get bogged down at the farm. The plan is to swing east at the end of the Stuka attack and link up with the northern pincer at Barysaw before dark.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Rudi lit a cigarette.

  He returned to Helga and revealed the plan to his crew. “Make sure the MG 34’s are limber. The Stukas might break them apart or we might have to fight our way through.” Rudi hoped the air support did its job.

  0

  Hans Oswald approached his Stuka, Sandmann’s gaze.

  “Are we going again, Herr Oberleutnant?”

  Hans pounced, face inches from Sandmann’s, “What is wrong with you? Of course we are going, there is a war on.”

  “But we’ve destroyed all the Bolshevik aircraft that were on the ground. We’ve been flying all day, every day.” The tinny whine irritated the pilot who found such complaining beneath a Luftwaffe officer.

  Hans stared, bit his lip then lost control. “What about Das Heer and our brave men on the ground? Perhaps they would like some help?” He glared at Sandmann’s discolored flight jacket, stained with the remains of his last meal.

  Sandmann remained on his stool as Hans counted the remaining Stukas. There were eight out of the original nine; the single casualty the result of ground fire as they had yet to see a Red Army plane in the air. Five minutes passed as Jolanthe was fueled and armed.

  Hans clenched his jaw and tried to be civil. “Our target is a concentration of infantry at a socialist farm complex. The Second Panzer Division has outrun its artillery. We will be their artillery.”

  Sandmann gathered his gear, and within ten minutes he was leading a Ketten of three Ju-87 Stukas towards the collective. It was their fifth sortie of the day.

  0

  Sasha and Igor sat on a log in the woods with the other members of the p
enal battalion. Their boots sank into the wet and mushy ground, the moisture spurring their thirst but there was no water. The hundred or so members in the new penal battalion were isolated from the soldiers who drank liberally from their canteens. Igor eyed the collection of stragglers and dispirited conscripts, which did not resemble anything close to a “Battalion.” Fewer than a third of the men carried rifles while many brandished axes and knives. A third group that included Sasha and Igor would have to depend on their wits in the upcoming battle.

  Igor moved close to Sasha. “When the battalion attacks remain close to me. It may be possible to escape.”

  Sasha’ face puckered at his words, confused by another change in Igor. He had surrendered them instead of continuing to Barysaw, but was suddenly speaking of escape from their supposed “saviors.” “They will shoot us if we run, but if we help in the attack, they may spare us.”

  “We have no weapons, no grenades or machine guns,” replied Igor. “What will we use against the German tanks?”

  “If we surrender to the Germans they will shoot us.”

  “Not surrender, escape,” Igor said. “We must be ready.”

  Igor’s desire to escape had been undermined by his quick tongue. Their first morning the battalion was lined up for inspection by the NKVD lieutenant, who began issuing orders.

  “Midnight we relieve the Minsk garrison. The penal Battalion will lead the way.”

  “We do not have rifles.”

  The lieutenant quickly located the dissenter Igor. “I see plenty of rifles. When a comrade falls, his rifle should be picked up by a man without one.”

  Igor started to speak but the Lieutenant held up his hand. “If your men do well, it will be considered when they answer for their crimes.” He considered the older among the group, the lieutenant paused as if he expected Igor to protest but he remained quiet. “Your silence is wise. Pick ten of your men and bring them to Division Headquarters. We have provisions.”

  “I am not a soldier,” Igor said.

  “You are now sergeant,” smirked the Lieutenant. “Pick ten men.”

  Igor had no problem rounding up ten men with the promise of food. Headquarters was an hour’s walk and the food consisted of damp brown bread. Even worse their weapons lacked ammunition.

  Igor was not quiet “What about water?”

  “This is all you will need,” the supply sergeant laughed, pointing toward a dozen cases of cheap vodka. “Take three.”

  Bravery fueled by a bottle guaranteed disaster, yet facing the last day of their lives Igor’s “men” snatched up their supply, hoisting the bread and alcohol onto their shoulders for the long walk back to the battalion. As the vodka was distributed, Igor pulled Sasha aside, “Do not take even a sip, it means certain death in battle.”

  Sasha nodded and suddenly looked above as three gull winged aircraft flew overhead. Igor followed his eyes as the Stukas begin their dive, a few kilometers east of their position east of the Berezina. The others were devouring brown bread and vodka.

  0

  Hans led the attack, rolling Jolanthe into a near vertical dive. With the speed brakes out, the Stuka was a remarkably stable platform. His target was an infantry howitzer and two horse drawn carts. The Russians dashed at the sound of the approaching planes, too busy seeking cover to offer ground fire.

  He aimed the 250 kilo bomb on the howitzer and set about his routine. He confirmed the air siren was functioning and frightening the mob below them. The contact altimeter illuminated and Hans released the bomb, the automatic dive recovery system engaged and Jolanthe climbed.

  “On target?” Hans barked over the intercom. He was never forced to ask the question of the simple, uneducated Emil who knew he was to watch the path of the bomb.

  “I...didn’t… see it hit,” Sandmann choked, voice clouded by the remains of his meal working free of his stomach.

  “How could you not see it?”

  “I think it was on target.”

  Hans shook his head. Sandman was as useless at tits on a boar, and he was determined to rid himself of the bothersome Austrian.

  The Russians were too consumed with fright to offer resistance. The unopposed Ketten repeated their attack with 50 kilo wing mounted bombs. Once the bombs were dropped, the Stukas strafed anything moving. Hans saw only burning buildings with dead horses and smashed carts dotting the ground and scores of Bolsheviks dead or faking death.

  To the south, he noticed a Fiesler Storch, loitering a few kilometers from the target area and reporting on their success. Hans swelled with pride; he knew his Ketten had cleared the path for the panzers at the Schwerpunkt or point of main effort. Buoyed by his first command, Hans imagined the medal he would receive for his efforts.

  “Enough for one day, Sandman,” said Hans. “I’m ready for a Beck’s.”

  Sandmann grunted. He tilted his head to eye the ground without upsetting his stomach and realized he was in better shape than the Russians on the farm.

  0

  Lieutenant Shriver’s refueling schedule nearly made him miss the battle around the collective farm. The Stuka attack had begun and the lieutenant received his first up close look at the panzers in action; he was impressed with the devastation they wreaked on the helpless Red Army.

  Rolf described the action. “The Russians are running, fleeing.”

  Shriver looked down and confirmed Rolf’s observation; his view unconstrained by ground fire. “Ja, the complex has been abandoned, report to the ground forces.”

  “Immediately, Herr Lieutenant.”

  Shriver guided the Storch lower over the collective farm revealing twisted metal and mangled bodies. “The Stukas wiped them out.”

  0

  Rudi and his men relaxed for the remainder of the afternoon, the danger passing with the elimination of resistance. Groesbeck and his motorcycle platoon raced ahead with the PzKmpfw II’s and an infantry platoon mounted on the halftracks. They made contact with Hoth’s northern pincer at Barysaw, surrounding the Russians whose only hope to escape was seeping through the lines in small unorganized groups.

  The brief rest was fortunate, the scene at the collective farm much worse than anything encountered in Poland. Rudi’s platoon rumbled through the destruction, some of the burned vehicles continuing to hiss from the heat. The soldiers were scattered, the Stuka’s bombs ripping arms and legs from torsos, their owners never to be identified. For Rudi it reminded him of Poland, though with fewer horses.

  Lieutenant Schmidt was quick to issue orders, knowing morale suffered if his men were allowed too long to witness then reflect on what they had done. “Assume positions facing west across the river. Have a clear line of fire on the bridge.”

  “A Russian counterattack, Herr Lieutenant?” asked Rudi.

  “The Russians are unpredictable Rudi, they are wild men. All they see is inside the Minsk pocket is certain death. As soldiers we would attempt to escape.”

  “But we are not like them. We are trained soldiers not animals like the Russians and our morale is excellent.”

  “We are not like the Russians but the army group has decided they will attempt a breakout.” Schmidt admired their positioning. “We can rest but be prepared for any attack at any time, most likely at night.”

  Rudi eyed the rotting wooden bridge over the Berezina, “I cannot understand how the Russians can live like this,” he motioned. “That bridge would be torn down in any town in Germany.”

  Schmidt chuckled. “The Slavs are idle and lazy, the Bolsheviks cannot make them work, and that is why we will defeat them like the Poles.” Schmidt spread his arm across the vista. “Have you ever seen such shit for farm equipment?”

  “Ja, I think it was bad even before the Stukas.”

  The two PzKpfw III’s sat 50 meters apart, beyond the river bank. The infantry dug foxholes and set up their MG 34’s while sentries were posted. Rudi positioned Helga with a clear view of the bridge. The waiting and watching were a relief from the mangled bodies strung alon
g the farm buildings. Within minutes of settling into Helga, he drifted off to sleep.

  22

  May 15, 1940

  Sasha’s eyes glistened. “The lieutenant said we are attacking a Fascist position on the other side of the river,” He began bouncing on the dirt, waking the lightly sleeping Igor.

  “The Berezina runs through Barysaw. North of Barysaw is my kolkhoz. If we can survive this battle, we can make our way there.”

  “It will be full of Nazis,” warned Igor.

  “The Lieutenant said the fascists have been thrown back. He said they were halted at the gates of Minsk.”

  “Why are we attacking east towards Mogilev?” Igor asked, voice rising. “Why not turn to the west and join our heroic brothers? Have you seen the air force? Did the planes have red stars on the wings?”

  “You are wrong Igor.”

  Igor grabbed Sasha’s collar and pulled him close enough to see his red, blank eyes and smelled his breath, heavy with vodka. “I warned you to stay away from the vodka. It clouds your judgment. If it does not get you killed today, I will kill you tomorrow.” Igor shook his head, disgusted he had fallen asleep and left the boy unsupervised.

  Sasha held apart his fingers. “Only a small glass. I might die in the attack, so why not?” Sasha leaned in to Igor’s ear. “The others are very drunk.” He slumped and closed his eyes.

  Igor growled into his ear. “Drink no more, you must stay next to me during the battle. I will protect you the best that I can.”

  Sasha nodded his head, sliding into sleep; dreams filled with images of summer and his girl Marina with her full breasts.

  His sleep was interrupted an hour later as another platoon of NKVD guards arrived. The lieutenant addressed the penal battalion. “This is a chance to save yourselves. Lead the attack across the Berezina River. The bridge must be taken.” He stopped to look at the men for the last time, and sneered at what he saw. Most were too drunk to comprehend his words. “Those who cross the bridge and fight the fascists will be welcomed back as comrades. Those who do not cross the bridge will be shot.”