French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  Shriver climbed to 1,000 meters above the ground and turned east to Shklov. The flight east was generally unpleasant, the Storch buffeted by choppy air, an unusual condition for any flight before sunrise. Turbulence was more common in the late afternoon as the uneven heating of air caused by the natural rises and dips in the earth’s features produced instability. More uncomfortable than dangerous, Shriver was pleased he did not have Sandmann groaning behind him at every dip or jerk in the Storch.

  When his head wasn’t banging off the ceiling of the Storch, Shriver absorbed the sheer vastness of the Soviet Union. The land between Minsk and Shklov appeared nearly uninhabited. He expected to see farms and towns as his flight track took him 30 kilometers south of and parallel to the Minsk-Moscow road but found only empty spaces. To the south were the Pripyat Marshes, the impassable swamp bogs offering cover even as no military force could survive in them for long.

  Two hours of flying took him to the wide and winding Dnieper River. To the north was Orsha where the Second Panzer Division had established a temporary headquarters. He contacted division HQ on the radio, and advised he was five minutes from them. Shriver located Shklov and the north-south dirt road that was to be his landing strip. He noticed smoke rising from the town’s center then drifting to the northeast. The smoke was all the information he needed to tell him wind was light and from the southwest. A pilot endeavors to land into the wind and Shriver had no intention of breaking this rule. He circled once and made a smooth crosswind landing southbound on the road to Shklov.

  Bumping to a stop a few meters off the road, he was greeted by HQ personnel, which included Karl Wheilerd the Luftwaffe Flivo assigned to the division. The propeller had barely stopped turning when Wheilerd called out, “Oberleutnant Shriver, welcome to beautiful Shklov.”

  “Herr Oberleutnant Wheilerd!” answered Shriver. The two held the same Luftwaffe rank even though Whielerd accompanied the Second Panzer Division rather than serving with other Luftwaffe members. In their frequent communication, Shriver in the Storch and Wheilerd on the ground had developed a comradeship belying Shriver’s Mischling status.

  Wheilerd leaned on the Storch’s wing strut, “How was the flight?”

  “It was shit. Bounced around the whole time,” Shriver grunted. “I get lonely up there, not many people live in this country.”

  “You should see the ones who do,” said Wheilerd, pointing to Shklov. “Nothing but stinking Jews.”

  The words fluttered from his mouth drawing little reaction from Shriver. He understood that for most Wehrmacht officers, Jews were a vague concept, something to be disliked, even hated in the abstract. As a Mischling Shriver could identify the true believers, who would eye him, heads tilting, eyes squinting as if trying to spot the “Jew” in him. Others such as Wheilerd were unabashed in their hatred of the tribe but did not see their comrade as one of “them.” Wheilerd could denounce the enemies of the Reich even as he accepted Shriver as a comrade in arms, his background a mere accident of birth.

  Wheilerd drove Shriver to Shklov to attend the Divisional briefing. The officers had collected in a tent, where a map identified the organized German units and the scattered Red Army units. Confidence brimmed among members of the Second Panzer Division, contemptuous of their enemy and dismissing the possibility that the Russians could offer any organized defense between Shklov and Smolensk. The Second Panzer Division would resume the offensive in two days; the brief respite consumed with the feverish servicing of panzers and vehicles while replenishing supplies. Shriver would be responsible for scouting the ground for approaching forces or defensive works that might slow the advance.

  After the briefing, Wheilerd drove Shriver back to the Storch, the quiet ride interrupted by an unusual request. “Can I go with you?”

  “Are you crazy? If I get shot down, the Division will be without its Storch and without its Flivo. It will have no eyes and no lightning bolts to unleash from above. The Blitzkreig doesn’t work too well without Stukas.”

  “The Stukas are too far in the enemy’s rear. They take too long to reach the Schwerpunkt when they are needed.” Wheilerd wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If I go with you I can identify likely targets today and plan attacks.”

  The car stopped and Shriver considered his friend as he sighed. “As you wish.” He opened the Storch’s door and pointing to the observer’s seat, concerned he was making a mistake.

  0

  Three days had passed since Sasha discovered his beloved barely alive. Much had changed. Marina regained some of her old sparkle having cursed Sasha when she discovered him watching her bathe in the creek. Sash struggled with temptation but he knew Marina was in danger, the countryside bulging with thousands of men, hungry and desperate as they wandered behind the German lines. For protection Marina was transformed into an adolescent male. Scouring the Kolzhov for clothing he located baggy clothes to hide her femininity and a low cut hat to conceal her face. From a distance anyone would see two males, a sight easily ignored.

  They had taken a northeast path toward Vitebsk. During their long days Sasha became convinced the city in the corner of Belorussia had yet to fall into German hands. As with Igor, Sasha limited their traveling to night but nature conspired against them, a new moon leaving them in the dark while clouds covered the sky on other nights. It left Sasha and Marina thrashing in the undergrowth.

  They were further slowed by Marina, usual vigor depleted by her ordeal. Her weakness forced Sasha to search alone for food and water after he prepared their shelter each morning. He had become proficient in creating a lean-to out of the underbrush, providing shade in the heated days and protection from the soldiers wandering the fields.

  As Sasha watched Marina nap on their third day together, he bottled his fear. He knew their fate whether discovered by German or Russian soldiers. Yet they did not lack for protection; Sasha keeping close the Mauser rifle retrieved from the dead German. His ammunition pack included 26 bullets, enough to defend them even after Sasha used some to practice his aim. Sitting outside their shelter, Sasha hefted the rifle, planting the stock against his shoulder and aiming at a low hanging branch ten meters distant then pulling the trigger.

  When he awoke, Sasha’s ears were ringing, shoulder aching, a trickle of blood matting his hair, the force of the rifle sent him back until his skull connected with a rock. Worse yet the branch remained, unmolested by Sasha’s poorly aimed shot.

  Struggling to his knees, Sasha eyed the still dozing Marina, then he skittered over to a more secure place, positioning his back against a tree, loading a bullet, lifting the rifle, squinting at the branch and firing. Sasha remained upright as did the branch. One, two, three shots built his confidence but not his aim. It did not matter. Sasha’s real targets would be larger and easier to hit than the branch.

  Marina stirred, stretching her arms above her head “What are you doing?”

  “I must know the gun.” Sasha placed the Mauser at his side. “It is a long journey to Vitebsk.”

  Marina blinked. “I cannot make it, you should go yourself.”

  “We can make it.”

  Marina shook her head. “Smolensk, the Germans will not be there. The army will never surrender to them. ”

  “The Germans are in Smolensk.” Sasha had no way of knowing, but Marina did not question him. “The war has passed us.”

  “Then what do we to do, go back to the kolkhoz?” Marina pursed her lips, and dipped her head until her chin rubbed against the rough peasant cloth. “I do not want to go back there - ever.”

  Sasha shook his head, “We can’t stay here. We must go to Vitebsk.”

  “What will we eat? We are almost out of food.”

  Sasha tapped the Mauser, “I can hunt with this. We can get fish from the stream.”

  “If the army is in Smolensk.”

  Sasha stiffened. “It does not matter who finds us. If we are captured by the fascists, it will be bad. If we reach the army they will shoot us as we cross or capture an
d imprison us if we succeed. Vitebsk. We must go there.” He crossed his arms, looking hard at Marina.

  Marina shut her eyes, either tired or out of silent acquiescence. Sasha had taken command, and Marina accepted his decision. More importantly her spirit had returned.

  0

  “How you doing?” asked Shriver, glancing over his shoulder towards Oberleutnant Wheilerd. The clear skies hid currents under 1,000 meters, producing a bumpy and unpredictable ride.

  “Fine,” Wheilerd grumbled. This was not his first time in a Storch and did not appreciate Shriver’s tone. “I thought this area was controlled by the Socialists.” He squinted through the sunlight toward the ground. “I don’t see any live Russians.”

  They had flown about half way from Shklov to Smolensk, following the south side of the Dnieper River. A ribbon of concrete, the Minsk-Moscow highway, was cluttered with dead bodies, mangled horses and burned out vehicles.

  “Lots of dead,” observed Wheilerd.

  “Did you feel that?”

  “What?” The question triggered Wheilerd’s earlier pilot training. Though he had washed out of flight school, he had progressed to his first solo flight and understood the instrument panel. He checked the oil pressure and RPM’s, and both looked fine. Eyeing the ground for a suitable spot for a forced landing he asked, “What are you talking about?”

  Shriver laughed. “We just crossed the boundary between Belorussia and Russia. You didn’t feel anything?”

  Wheilerd ignored his friend and focused on the battlefield. The Red Army had pulled back but he could not spot any defensive preparations around Smolensk.

  “The Bolsheviks have retreated to Smolensk,” chimed Shriver. “Looks like nothing for at least 70 kilometers east of Shklov. Shall we turn back?”

  “Continue at least until we see a peasant,” Wheilerd said. “My map is shit, the scale is useless for tactical planning. I would like to see where we are attacking.”

  “As you wish Herr Oberleutnant.”

  Moments later Shriver spotted black smoke on the eastern horizon and pointed it out to Wheilerd. “Smolensk is burning.”

  “Closer.”

  Twenty-five kilometers west of Smolensk, a flight of Heinkel 111 medium bombers passed overhead heading west for more bombs. In the distance Smolensk resembled a volcano, as massive geysers of black smoke rose to the heavens. Suddenly small arms fire pinged around the Storch, tearing holes in the fabric of the wings and fuselage.

  “Looks like we found the Red Army!” shouted Shriver banking to the south. Despite being small and made almost entirely of wood and fabric, the Storch was amazingly tough. The rifle fire dissipated.

  “Look at the size of those tanks,” exclaimed Wheilerd.

  He counted four of the monstrous T-35 multi turreted tanks. Soldiers were digging pits in preparation for burying the tanks, the dirt a measure of protection for their thin skins. A dozen smaller tanks remained on the parade ground.

  “The tank base must be reduced.”

  “A Stuka attack might soften it up nicely,” Wheilerd offered.

  “Against tanks?”

  “The dug in T-35 monsters are no different than pill boxes, much better targets than the smaller, moving tanks for our 500 kilo bombs.” Wheilerd paused, “I’m going to request a Stuka attack on the base, targeting the emplaced T-35’s and the barracks.”

  Shriver was, unconvinced but knew it was not his decision. He was to spot the obstacles, and it was Whielerd’s task to remove them. He guided the Storch back to the grassy landing strip; duty done.

  24

  May 26, 1940

  “This is boring,” Franz Werner, Helga’s loader, kicked an empty can at the panzer, the thin metal clanging off the machine’s steel exterior like a poorly aimed pistol shot.

  “Doesn’t seem like Blitzkreig anymore, just sitting here,” Wolfgang Braun agreed.

  “At least its overcast today,” said Corporal Adolf Brauch. “I’m sick of the heat.”

  Rudi watched his crew members lolling in position outside of Skhlov. Static for a week their only enemies being boredom, heat and mosquitoes. Like everything else in Russia, its breed were particularly bloodthirsty as massive swarms the size of Volkswagens attacked his men. The respite enabled them to fix up Helga as best they could in the field but even resting in the heat and swatting mosquitoes, they had completed the task two days early. Inactivity was a calamity for soldiers, even for those as well trained as his men.

  “We have to wait for the infantry to close the ring around Minsk,” Rudi said.

  “I thought Minsk had surrendered,” Brauch said.

  “It did but the Russians remain. At least with the Minsk-Moscow highway open we have plenty of supplies.”

  “Only when they move them up during the day. The Russians control the night.” Wolfgang said.

  “The Slavs are a mob of thieves, not soldiers,” this from Corporal Brauch.

  Rudi gazed westward over the Dnieper. Smoke rose in the distance, a telltale reminder that while the city of Minsk had surrendered not all Russians had surrendered. “It is lawless, just like the old American West. Something will happen soon.”

  Rudi sounded more confident than he felt. Their orders were to prepare to move at a moments’ notice even as they whiled away the empty hours improving their positions, facing east for a possible counterattack that did not come. At night, Russian stragglers from inside the Minsk pocket tried to slip through their lines. They were halted by machine gun crews with little effort; the fleeing Bolsheviks had discarded all of their heavy weapons and vehicles to speed their escape. They had not discarded their generous vodka rations and most of the fleeing Russians were drunk and disoriented.

  “No Luftwaffe today men. Ceiling is too low,” Lieutenant Schmidt announced “We are blind. Keep a sharp lookout for a counterattack.”

  Everyone nodded their head seriously but without enthusiasm having heard the warnings of a counterattack for days. Schmidt motioned Rudi several meters toward the banks of the Dnieper.

  “The antitank battery is in position,” said Schmidt, pointing to the 50 mm towed cannons. “Lieutenant Lunge did excellent work organizing the position.”

  “Ja, I can hardly see some of the guns.” He tilted his head at Schmidt. “Shouldn’t we be moving east rather than waiting for an attack that will never happen?”

  “I do not question division headquarters and neither should you, Sergeant.” Schmidt’s expression held an undertow of warning.

  “Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant. My men’s morale is -,” Rudi paused.

  “Sergeant speak freely.”

  “Not as sharp as at the start of battle.”

  “Then Sergeant Kleime it is your responsibility to keep them busy and motivated,” Schmidt said. “You are not new to the Wehrmacht.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant. I will tend to it immediately.” A standoff ensued, neither man’s gaze wavered.

  “Kleime, it is not for us to worry about. We are soldiers with orders.”

  Rudi nodded, acting as if he did not understand Schmidt’s reference.

  “Sergeant, the issue in Shklov a few days ago.”

  Rudi looked at the briskly flowing waters of the Dnieper. The water was unappealing, brown with man-made debris striking its banks. The odor of rotting death ensured no one was tempted to take a drink in a thirsty moment. Rudi turned toward Skhlov and gestured. “Lieutenant, they took away all of the Jews in the town, we all saw them. Where did they take them? Did they shoot them? What military purpose did it serve?”

  Lieutenant Schmidt raised his right hand and stopped Rudi, “This is not an ordinary war. We are fighting for the survival of the German people, for the Reich, for our Fuhrer. We cannot concern ourselves with the actions of the Special Detachments.”

  He paused to allow his words to sink in to Rudi then continued. “You should be cautious Sergeant. Your questioning could be misinterpreted. Do not allow sympathy for the communists or Jews to impact our mission. The
re are many such as Groesbeck who favor the Party over their unit and comrades. If they believe you hold unacceptable views they will report you and I will be forced to report what you have said to me.” He wet his lips. “I would not like to do that as I believe you are an outstanding soldier, an effective leader and a credit to your town and family.” He patted the sergeant’s shoulder. “We should forget this.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant,” replied Rudi with a salute. Schmidt saluted back and walked the thirty meters over to Helga; he took care to examine their position as if he had not seen it only a few hours earlier.

  “What is this?” Schmidt pointed to a wooden crate like structure attached to Helga’s rear deck.

  Corporal Brauch approached. “I made it with wood I scavenged from the town, Herr Lieutenant.”

  “I assume it is to store provisions.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant. I measured it so it could easily fit eight standard sized petrol or water cans,” Brauch explained. “I think we will use it mainly for fuel. We don’t want to run out at the gates of Moscow.”

  “Very good, Corporal. I like it.” Schmidt fiddled with the crates joints. “If it is acceptable to you Corporal, I will have the other crews look at it.”

  “Absolutely, Herr Lieutenant,” grinned Brauch.

  Schmidt nodded at Rudi then strode away. “It’s not difficult Kleime, keep them busy and praise them. Good morale will follow.”

  II

  May 26, 1940

  “Will our men stop the Germans?” Natasha asked.

  Reilly shifted on the hard wooden bench, stomach rumbling, eyelids drooping, sound sleep as rare as food in Smolensk. He remained with Natasha; their current accommodations could be extravagantly called a calving shed.