by Colin Gee
“What are we doing about it, Ivan?”
“General Artem’yev is personally leading a special group from his division to overcome the obstacle and open Route 9 up again.”
“Excellent, excellent… and this?”
“We’re unsure at the moment, Comrade Polkovnik General. Some garbled reports of a small attack… possibly coming from Koprzywnica… they’ve just come in but I’m having them questioned right now. Possibly stragglers from the enemy forces we’ve bottled up in Koprzywnica… possibly a diversion to make us think they’re moving back down the Floriańska… nothing more than that.”
Rybalko frowned and scratched his bald head, seeking out the place that was itching.
It was in his brain and beyond physical contact.
“Tell me your thinking, Ivan. Why would they not come down the Floriańska?”
“A longer route… poorer road really, especially after the artillery and mortars have done their work. Long exposed flanks… it’s not the sensible option… plus we see enemy forces massing here… south of Łoniów, and extra units bolstering the Alma Division between Łoniów and the Vistula. There’s no support available in the direction of Sulisɫawice… except for the small force that Zilinski can’t seem to shift.”
The reasoning made sense.
The Red Air Force had paid heavily acquiring the information about forces behind the enemy’s lines, but it was accurate and up to date.
And yet…
‘And yet these bastards are capable of anything…’
The itch went and Rybalko went into overdrive.
“Order our units here to prepare for attacks to their front from the newly arrived ‘relief’ force. Ivan… the forces here must still be prepared to resist a breakout but…”
Rybalko paused and thought it through one final time.
‘… but of course they fucking would!’
“Order our forces on the Floriańska… and here… and here… to reorient themselves to oppose an attack out of the pocket… towards Sulisɫawice. Tell Deniken… this is him here, yes?”
The forward HQ of the 1st Guards Mechanised had moved up but the writing was unintelligible, hastily scrawled by a young officer under increasing pressure.
“Yes, that’s HQ 1 GMRD, Comrade General.”
“Good. I want him and his reserve force sat astride the Floriańska now. He commands and nothing… but nothing… escapes this trap.”
“And Zilinski, Comrade General?”
“Tell him enough that he’s aware of the possibility, but keep him focussed on Sulisɫawice… and 0900 stands… more need now than ever to get the fucking place in our hands. Questions?”
There were none and Ziberov was quickly away to get things organised.
Rybalko took a sip of his sweet tea and summoned his air liaison officer.
“Comrade Polkovnik, I want you to relay the following to the Frontal Aviation commander… as a priority.”
Even as Rybalko passed on his needs, the men of the trapped Legion assault groups smashed into part of the 171st Guards Rifle Regiment just east of Beszyce.
The breakthrough to Sulisɫawice had begun in earnest.
0752 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, Sulisɫawice, Poland.
“Stillgestanden!”
The bow gunner was new to the tank crew, so had no idea what he was about to witness.
All he knew was that the divisional commander had just walked up to the tank and he was the only man who wasn’t snoring.
Knocke would have let the men sleep, but it was too late now.
Köster looked like a man from another planet, a man who had just been woken from the deepest of deep sleeps, which was indeed wholly accurate.
Meier looked only slightly more focussed.
The other two men, Hans Jarome and whoever it was, looked like they had been smoking something wholly unauthorised, their eyes no more awake than the boots on their feet.
“At ease, kameraden… at ease.”
He moved forward, nodding at the alert crewman who was so in awe that he forgot to report to the senior officer.
“Rudi… Klaus… Hans…”
Knocke held out his hand and all three men took it in turn as they started to wake up quickly, as one does when confronted by senior ranks in unexpected places.
“Relax now.”
Knocke nodded to the two new members and took a seat on a convenient fruit box as Hässelbach made himself comfortable on a piece of brickwork.
“How are we doing, kameraden? Alles klar?”
Rudi Köster gave a brief but full resume of their fighting state and running condition.
“How are the bolts now, Klaus? Still holding?”
“Yes indeed, Oberführer. No problems at all. Good quality… and I got hold of a spare set… just in case.”
Knocke returned the grin.
“But of course you did.”
Köster had his cigarettes out and they did the rounds.
“Coffee for our guests, Linus.”
The sentry, shocked at the informality, even though he had heard how these men had fought alongside Knocke at Brumath, busied himself with producing six mugs of steaming coffee from the saucepan that sat above a modest fire to the rear of the Tiger’s bulk.
He passed the drinks round and realised he had miscalculated, so went without himself.
“A hard fight, kameraden.”
“Yes… yes it is, Oberführer. We’ve lost a lot of old comrades today.”
Knocke raised his coffee mug.
“To our old comrades.”
They echoed the sentiment and drank in silence.
Knocke’s thoughts were dark indeed.
‘More old comrades than you know, my friends.’
“And who are your new comrades?”
“This one’s the quiet type, Oberführer. Farber… Gunther Farber.”
The general and private exchanged nods.
“And this one is Linus Wildenauer… apparently he trained as a vet but wanted to fight, so here he is, in our steel horse.”
The crew laughed and Knocke assumed it was a well-rehearsed private joke, which it was.
Again, he exchanged nods with the new man, and then beckoned them all to sit.
“So, of course you understand the shitty situation we’re in. Well, so does General Lavalle, and he’s put together a relief to pull us out of this mess. In the meantime, we hold and that’s that.”
There was no reply needed.
“You’re my only mobile reserve, so expect to get called early, and to go all over the plateau. How you off for fuel, Klaus?”
“All topped off, Oberführer, but I doubt there’ll be another load. Once the Panthers have drained it down, I suspect it’ll all be gone.”
Which was in line with what Knocke had heard earlier.
“I hear they’ve got some of the big boys out there, Oberführer. Stalin tanks, all shapes and varieties.”
“Seen one myself to the east side, but Jorgensen and the Panzerjager are there and dealing with them quite nicely.”
“There’s no more ammunition for our gun, Oberführer, so I’m running with a half-load, but we’ve stashed as much machine-gun ammunition as we can on Lohengrin, just in case we can’t get back to here to rearm again.”
“He’s after promotion, Oberführer. Trying to be efficient but it was Jarome’s and my idea. We run the tank. He’s just a glory-hunting figurehead.”
Knocke smiled but stayed silent, not wishing to steal Köster’s moment.
“In which case, with your permission, Oberführer, I’m excused duties and off to have a fish in the river. You can put this one in charge. His mouth will bore the enemy to death and we’ll have final victory assured.”
Jarome guffawed loudly and slapped Meier on the shoulder.
“That’s you all fucked up then, driver Meier. Am I relieved too, Oberführer?”
Knocke would have normally have played the game, but he simply didn’t have the right
frame of mind for it.
“Unfortunately… today I cannot spare any of you…”
He punched Köster on the forearm in a soft and playful fashion.
“… even the glory-hunting figureheads.”
They all shared a laugh at that, even Köster himself.
Knocke stood, bring all of them to their feet.
“Well, I thought I’d come round and see how you all were. Take care, kameraden. There’ll be more battles to come. Hals- und beinbruch!”
They took their leave of each other, but Knocke still dwelt at the side of the old Tiger, in which he had fought as a tank commander one bloody day at Brumath all those months ago.
He touched his hand to the cold steel and smiled.
Hässelbach coughed by way of reminder, and the legend that was Knocke simply slapped the legend that was Lohengrin before moving on to another group of soldiers.
0820 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, the hell that was Sulisɫawice, Poland.
The Katyusha strike arrived.
Accurate and deadly, the rockets plunged down amongst the defenders of the crucial junction and maimed and claimed men’s lives all over the village.
Ett was struck down by shrapnel in the legs and was carried away to the aid post, still protesting his ability to fight.
Amongst those killed was Maillard, not by a rocket strike, but as a result of a secondary explosion at one of the small ammunition points.
Knocke had ordered such points established at the beginning of the battle, in order to minimise losses should a shell strike one, as occurred when the Katyusha rocket plunged into the small brick outhouse.
A piece of brick struck Maillard in the temple and he fell instantly, never regaining consciousness.
As the last rocket descended, the cries went up from around the perimeter, as Russians rose to charge, and legionnaires and tirailleurs braced themselves to fight for their lives.
Nearest to the 4e RACE positions, Knocke heard the tell-tale fizz of an X-7 being fired and was immediately drawn to the position, knowing that the missile would not have been expended on a light tank or an armoured car.
The 6th GIBTR had shifted round after its failures on the ridgeline, and now advanced on better ground towards the thin line of defenders, minus another IS-IV, struck down by the unerring aim of Peters, the miracle worker.
The imbalance of forces was obvious, and Knocke’s brain shouted out for a solution.
“Hässelbach!”
The NCO arrived before his name had echoed away.
“Double back to Lieutenant Tüpper and tell him I need thirty of his men here, right now, with AT weapons! Plus, get Lohengrin mobile and tell Köster he’ll be up against Stalin tanks.”
Hässelbach was leaping away as Knocke turned back to his front and sought a place he could sit down and have a quiet moment to himself whilst he waited for the reserve force to arrive.
An old chair met his gaze, missing one leg but still carefully usable, and he settled himself down to gather his thoughts and steel himself for what he was sure was to come…
… and jerked awake.
‘Mein Gott! What have I done!’
Unbelievably, he had fallen asleep.
He cursed himself in a silent and unforgiving scream of rage, knowing he had let every man in his command down by his actions.
Knocke sat up and then struggled to stand as he was neatly positioned between two pieces of brickwork.
Finally struggling upright but feeling decidedly wobbly on his feet, Knocke looked around to see if anyone had noticed his indiscretion…and immediately ducked in self-preservation.
Three Soviet soldiers were almost through the front line and on top of his position, having slipped through between the ruins unseen by Peters’ force.
“Alarm!”
Least he thought he shouted a warning.
He couldn’t hear anything.
The MP-40 was slung around his shoulder as it had been since he had decided to remain fighting with his men rather than escape, and now it refused to come round and act in preservation of his life.
The strap had caught on his holster and no amount of pulling would allow the sub machine-gun to come free.
The three Russians had already risen up, determined to silence the single enemy who had spotted them, hopefully before anyone else noticed the struggle.
That intent saved Knocke’s life, as they declined to use their weapons in order to maintain a tenuous grip on secrecy.
Feeling a momentary panic, the old soldier forced himself into a second’s calm and he grabbed for his holster, which, with the MP-40s strap around it, denied him access to his automatic.
Other choices were denied him as the first man was nearly upon him. SKS rifle held out in front of him with bayonet aimed directly at Knocke’s chest.
Fate took a hand, or rather moved something, as the man pressed down on a piece of rubble causing another part to shift.
He lost his footing and crashed headfirst into another unforgiving piece of masonry.
The SKS flew at Knocke like a missile and struck his thigh, before falling just to one side.
The blow stung and water formed in his eyes, but the gift of a gun was too much to ignore and he swept the unfamiliar weapon up in his hands and turned to meet his new assailant.
The two Soviet motorcycle troopers arrived together and crashed into Knocke with no attempt to bayonet or club him; simply to put him down with brute force.
They succeeded, and the trio of bodies slammed into sharp and solid masonry.
One of the Russians gasped as a rib gave way, but the other landed sympathetically, only grazing his cheek and knuckles.
Knocke felt his ankle twist, and the blow in the small of his back brought on an instant stabbing pain that made him catch his breath.
He rolled instinctively and heard the butt of the enemy soldier’s weapon hit the rubble with force.
“Alarm! Alarm!”
He shouted as best he could, but the exertions of rolling around to avoid the rifle butt robbed him of much of his power. At least he could now hear himself shout, albeit breathlessly.
He stopped rolling, held in place by the strap of the MP-40, which was stuck under an immovable piece of wall.
“Scheisse!”
The Russian fell directly on top of him and his lifeblood flowed across Knocke’s face and into his eyes and mouth.
He felt his neck muscles protest as his chin was forced upwards at an odd angle.
“Get that piece of shit off him!”
The words came from someone else, the someone who had put two bullets through the back of the Russian’s head and saved Knocke’s life.
Daylight was restored as the carcass was dragged off him and willing hands dragged Knocke to his feet.
Walter Riedler, now a much-decorated sergeant and recently returned from an NCO’s course in France, commanded the group of men sent back by Tüpper.
It was he who had downed the man preparing to kill his commander.
The irony of that was not wasted on Knocke, even in his dishevelled and exhausted state, for it was the young soldier Riedler who had once saved the life of his long gone friend, Von Arnesen, a lifetime ago.
“Thank you, Sergent Riedler… thank you.”
The wounded Russian grunted then gurgled as one of the ex-SS soldiers kicked him hard in the throat, and the man struggled for air as the swelling shut off his airway.
He died without attracting any further attention.
“You were very lucky, Oberführer… really very lucky.”
“Yes, I can see that, Sergent. Good shot, I think.”
“I meant the mortar shell, Oberführer. Was really close. We thought you were dead.”
“Mortar shell?”
“Yes. I saw you relaxing so waited for my men to catch up and then boom… mortar shell… must have landed a few feet away from you… sent the chair right over that way. You went up and came back down. Then after a few second
s you got up and the Russians arrived. Couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting you. Then you were down, he was up.”
Knocke hadn’t fallen asleep, which was actually and strangely more of a relief than the fact that he had hadn’t been killed.
“Thank you again, Sergent. We’ll talk after the battle, but for now, get your men over to Peters and make sure you hold.”
Riedler nodded and waved his men forward, the whole group rattling past at the double.
“And watch out for infiltrators. There may be more of them!”
The last man raised his hand in acknowledgement and the reinforcement group moved out of sight.
He felt hands tugging at his MP-40 and sling, as Hässelbach worked to free both weapons from the leather’s grasp.
He hadn’t even realised that his ‘bodyguard’ was there.
“You were luck, Oberführer.”
“So I’m told, Hässelbach.”
“Must be your lucky day, Oberführer.”
“Somehow I doubt that!”
He hoped he would be alive when sunset visited itself upon the Polish village, just to see the truth of it.
“Ready?”
“When you are, Comrade Mayor.”
The motorcycle unit’s attack had stalled, mainly because the tanks had failed to get up and support.
Two of Stelmakh’s tanks were hit, one of them flaming like a Bunsen burner, the second smoking lazily, but both equally dead, although the second had disgorged three shocked and wounded men who found safety with the infantry.
Now it was his decision to lead, as his last few tank commanders seemed reluctant to try again.
“Load HE.”
The metallic clang as shell entered breach and the weapon was prepared were set against a strained silence, as they all knew that ‘Krasny Suka’ was about to take the biggest of risks.
“Driver… advance!”
Stepanov slipped the IS-III into a low gear and edged the tank forward, eyes wide open and ready to respond instantly to any threat or command.
The main gun swung in the direction of their advance as Ferensky tensed like a coiled spring.
