by Colin Gee
“We need your tank… quickly… the bastards’ve broken through… northeast corner… the Oberführer’s leading our last reserves… I’ll direct you… but we must hurry!”
“Hang on tight then. Driver, forward!”
“Yes! Yes! We have the shits now!”
Zilinski punched his fist into his hand as his forces surged forward noticeably.
The pressure had mounted and Zilinski seized the opportunity and sent in the last of his reserve, the full company of rifleman and four tanks enough to overcome the struggling legionnaires and sunder the line.
The key had been the huge anti-tank gun that dominated the vital approach, although the Panthers that had protected its flanks were now all destroyed and it would have inevitably followed them into hades as his infantry approached it from the flanks.
One of the surviving T34m46/100s had finally put a shell right on target, and the attackers had been rewarded with the vision of the gun and its crew cartwheeling in all directions and coming apart before their eyes.
Shouting at anyone in range, Zilinski was overcome with joy and rage in equal measure.
Joy because they had finally broken the SS bastards, and rage because of the cost of it all.
“Inform Comrade General Deniken that we’ve broken the defence.”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik.”
The radio sparked into action, relaying the good news, news that spread across the Soviet units.
They had been discussing the enemy prisoners before Zilinski’s headquarters had come on the radio to announce impending victory.
Deniken greeted the report with his now usual bad-humour.
“And about fucking time too. He’s used up half my fucking division and he celebrates like it’s fucking May Day in Moscow!”
He accepted the tea that was thrust into his hand and turned back, mug in one hand, binoculars in the other, seeking out the problem to his front.
“So where did the bastards go?”
Ivan Lisov, the 1st GMRD’s 2IC, had no answers.
Sometime beforehand, a small mixed group of enemy vehicles had come into view and an exchange of shots had taken place, one that left a Legion halftrack knocked out on the Floriańska.
The enemy group had dropped back out of sight and nothing more had been seen of them since.
A few mortar shells had been sent in their general direction, but went unrewarded by any evidence of secondary explosions.
Shortly after the encounter, a small detachment had been sent out to reconnoitre, but had not yet reported any contact.
“It could still be their main force, Comrade Mayor General.”
“True, Lisov… very true… but there’s heavy contact at Skrzypaczowice. They wouldn’t be so stupid as to try and break out both ways… and Route 79 makes more sense… distance… and the presence of the relieving force.”
Lisov finished his own tea and sought a refill before airing his thoughts.
“Unless Skrzypaczowice is a diversion… and they’re coming this way with their full force, Comrade Mayor General?”
“Why? Why would they do that? It’s a longer, more difficult route… and they have to know that we’re all over Sulisɫawice by now surely?”
They lapsed into silence, considering the situation, racking their brains for more information.
Deniken had a moment of clarity.
“That’s why they’re coming this way.”
“What?”
“Because of Sulisɫawice… that’s why they’re coming this way, Lisov.”
Deniken lit a cigarette before explaining.
“Because it’s the least likely thing to do… because Sulisɫawice is important to them… it’s a rescue mission as much as an escape from our trap!”
“Rescue what? Rescue who? Sulisɫawice is ours all but a few bricks.”
The radio sprang into life before Deniken could say another word, and the message immediately showed him to be correct.
“The bastards’ve caught us with our cocks out! “
Deniken pulled the map closer.
“They’ve cut through the tracks… Beszyce… the bastards… bastards…right… move our reserve to here… form a line and make sure they stop the swine right there.”
He drew a pencil line across the road to the east of Skwirzowa, from the heights, south to a modest rise adjacent to the Floriańska.
“Stop them there, Lunin.”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor General...” Lunin looked over at the forlorn group of French soldiers, presided over by a dusty and bloody senior officer, “… and them… have you decided?”
Deniken looked across and read the hate in Emmercy’s eyes.
“We’ve no place… no time for them, Comrade. Are we clear?”
“Gelbkopf-two-one, Gelbkopf-one, don’t stop… whatever you do… keep going, out.”
Haefali’s second battalion had crashed into the Soviet lines at Beszyce and taken the defenders by surprise, greatly assisted by the subterfuge of leading with a captured T34m46/100.
Behind it came the surviving Jaguars of 3e/1er RCDA, and behind them the majority of the combined forces of Haefali’s and Uhlmann’s assault groups.
Elsewhere, on the road to Łoniów, a small force under Durand and Braun, was making noisy demonstrations against the Soviet blocking units, desperately trying to seem a lot more powerful than they were.
The legion artillery and mortars helped in creating that illusion, an illusion that successfully hid the true axis of their advance and fooled men like Deniken and Lunin until the last moments.
The lead elements smashed through the Soviet line and the rest of the joint force poured through, opening up the gap.
Haefali’s command group moved up, positioned in the middle of the swarm of Legion vehicles.
“Gelbkopf-one, Fisch-three-one, over…”
The recon force commander, now in charge of the combined remnants of both 1st and 3rd companies of the reconnaissance battalion and 3rd company of the engineers, sounded calm and business-like.
“Fisch-three-one, Gelbkopf-one, go ahead, over.”
“Gelbkopf-one, Fisch-three-one, conditions favourable, request permission to execute Plan one, over.”
‘Yes! Our ploy’s worked!’
“Fisch-three-one, Gelbkopf-one, execute plan one. Out!”
There was actually only one plan, and the gap opened up by the infantry and tanks was quickly filled with the fast-moving vehicles and light tanks of the 1er REC and the 1er Genie.
‘Don’t stop… whatever you do… keep going!’
A mixed group of AFVs from the RDCA and Blindé were to follow on with all speed.
‘Don’t stop… whatever you do, men… keep going!’
Haefali was jubilant but still understood there was so much more that needed to go right for their operation to be a success.
‘Now… it depends on…’
The radio burst into life once more, both making his heart race and calming his nerves in the same instant.
It was the Air liaison officer.
“Gelbkopf-one, Gelbkopf-one, Adler, over.”
He acknowledged and waited for the all-important words.
“Gelbkopf-one, Gelbkopf-one, Adler… waiting, over.”
‘Yes! Now for Braun and Durand…’
“Adler, Adler, Gelbkopf-one, execute, over.”
Haefali hardly heard the response as his plans came together.
He could imagine the lined-up aircraft streaming down upon the Soviet forces on the road to Łoniów, hammering the enemy troops, all to provide breathing space for the diversionary force to disengage and return to the main body for the march on Sulisɫawice.
Soviet resistance to his front was growing, so he applied himself to the business of defeating the force to his front and keeping the Floriańska open.
0848 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, the hell that was Sulisɫawice, Poland.
The warning message from Lunin to Zilinski did not arrive.<
br />
The radio, operator, and half of Zilinski’s headquarters group had been obliterated by an 88mm shell, one of a number that were fired into the Soviet incursion by the redeployed ‘Lohengrin’.
In truth, Köster had made a huge error and overrun his own positions, ending up inside a cordon of angry Russians, but he fought his way out, and in the process removed the commander of the encircling Soviet forces.
Zilinski had not expected to see an enemy soldier, let alone five encased in a battle tank a few metres away from his position.
Stunned by the bursting shell, he simply walked like a zombie into a stream of bullets from Wildenauer.
Further back, the Russian Guards Lieutenant-Colonel who was left in charge was battered and shell-shocked.
Uniform smoking and covered with blood, not all his own, the officer struggled to control his twitching hands as he listened to the requests for orders.
Unable to think clearly, he simply ordered a full out frontal assault all around the Legion positions.
Lohengrin’s machine-guns stuttered and swept the area in front of the tank, claiming victims with every burst.
The guardsmen were like ants swarming over larger prey, intent on submersing the Tiger in a sea of bodies.
They nearly succeeded, and one man got an RPG shot in, one that hit the large pannier on the rear of the turret and destroyed most of their reserve MG ammunition.
The final reserves were committed, led by Knocke himself, and the Soviet thrust was beaten back.
And then they came again.
0853 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, the hell that was Sulisɫawice, Poland.
“Alarm! Here they come again!”
There were less of them now, but they had recovered weapons and ammunition from the wounded and the dead of both sides, so the defensive fire from the shrinking perimeter was still heavy, as the attacking Guards soldiers found out.
Knocke had reformed a small reserve and it sat in the middle of an area that was no more than three hundred and fifty metres wide in any direction.
The enemy surge was immense, almost as if the devil himself were behind the Russian soldiers, whipping them forward with promises of unspeakable horrors should they fail again.
The Legion lines recoiled as the surge bought the enemy the first line.
A second effort mainly fell away in the face of withering fire, but not on the eastern side, where infantry got in close and killed two of the last Panzerjager, leaving solely the Einhorn as a runner.
“Go, Köster, go!”
Knocke waved his hand to the east as a runner gasped out his report on the crisis point.
Looking around him, and listening to the details of the situation, Knocke decided that he could not hold his reserve back.
He clapped the exhausted runner on the upper arm.
“Right. Take a breather here. When you’re ready, return to your unit. Klar?”
“Oui, mon Général. Merci… bon chance.”
Knocke waved his arm and led the reserve off to the eastern side.
The roar of Lohengrin’s 88mm drew them off to the main road.
Hässelbach still insisted on staying close to his leader, making sure he walked in front at all times.
It was his warning that saved them.
“Cover!”
The veteran soldiers disappeared from view in an instant as the source of Hässelbach’s warning drove past.
An IS-VII, not that they knew what it was exactly, rattled past, its crew seeking a position from which to outflank the two Legion vehicles.
“Kameraden, let’s go tank-hunting!”
The three men with the AT weapons found themselves the focus of attention, and were up and following Knocke and Hässelbach round the bend, as the others provided security for the stalking teams.
Four Soviet soldiers were jogging up the road in the wake of the huge tank, and they were surprised to find enemy soldiers where they thought there were none.
One went to bring his AK-47 up, but a burst of fire smashed him to the ground.
For a moment there was hesitation, but the remaining three soldiers threw down their weapons and raised their hands.
“Scheisse… no time for this… sorry.”
An old NCO shot all three down and moved his group on in support of Knocke and the AT soldiers.
With Hässelbach in the lead again, the group moved quickly through a half-collapsed restaurant and almost ran into the back of the IS-VII, the idling engine unheard above the noise of battle.
Overhead, a long line of Allied aircraft flew on their way to somewhere else, intent on creating excitement for Soviet soldiers throughout the river valley.
The closeness of the tank created its own unique problems.
There were no easy shots that wouldn’t risk the AT soldiers too.
The tank’s huge gun fired, dislodging bricks and dust within the rickety structure, some of which fell on the men, some of which fell on the tank.
The turret turned slightly and stopped, the sound of the electrical traverse turning more intense as it struggled against a problem.
Unknown to the crew or the AT stalkers, a joist had perched itself on the hull front, vertically held in place by the old restaurant’s sign mount and the IS-VII’s towing cable, providing an obstacle that prevented the main gun traversing.
The turret hatch opened and a head poked out cautiously, seeking the problem, finding it, and deciding on a solution.
Knocke grabbed Hässelbach and dragged him forward as he started to run.
“Leg up!”
The NCO grasped his leader’s intent but didn’t get his posture right and Knocke’s first effort failed.
Hässelbach meshed his hands, providing a step for Knocke’s left foot, and he propelled himself up onto the back of the tank.
The head started to turn, recognising the scrabbling sound for what it was, but too late.
Knocke shot him in the face at point blank range.
The wounded man fell back into the tank screaming, followed by the muzzle of an MP-40.
The magazine discharged twenty-five rounds in the blink of an eye, and they flew around the interior of the heavy tank like wasps, wasps whose sting was deadlier than any insect.
“Grenade!”
Knocke had none so he called for one to be thrown up.
Catching the phosphorous grenade that one of the AT soldiers threw up, he warned the men around him.
“Keep clear, kameraden!”
As he pulled the pin, the men moved away at high-speed, not wishing to get caught in any blast.
Knocke dropped the grenade into the tank and dismounted, heading towards Hässelbach’s knot of soldiers.
The grenade ignited with a modest plop and smoke immediately started to pour from its open turret hatch.
There were also screams from wounded men.
“Move on, kameraden!”
The screams continued briefly but ceased abruptly as the fire took hold.
Although the IS-VII burned fiercely, it did not explode, but the fire still spread to the old restaurant and adjoining houses, transforming the structures into raging fires.
Ahead, machine-guns stammered, and they quickly stumbled across Lohengrin and a knot of legionnaires under intense pressure.
Taking up positions on the flank, Knocke and his men started to pick off the Soviet attackers, careful not to fire towards their own.
A group of his men moved round further to the left, led by the NCO who had executed the Russian prisoners.
Establishing an MG-42, they ripped shreds off the men gathering for a flank move against the position, putting a platoon size force to flight.
The men closer to the knot of legionnaires pressed harder, knowing safety lay closer to their foe.
The superior numbers started to tell and soon the fighting was up against Lohengrin herself.
Knocke called his men about him and surged forward.
With careful bursts, he swept a f
ew men away from his chosen path, and the rest crashed into the sides of the attacking Russians, firing as they went, stabbing and slashing as they came into close contact.
The repulsed Soviet platoon made a second effort to advance, but the MG-42 kept them at bay.
Barrel changed in the blink of an eye, it swept the road and small square any time there was a target to shoot at.
The opportunities grew less and less as courage deserted the Soviet soldiers.
Around Lohengrin, the fight was savage and without mercy.
Men clawed at each other’s throats when weapons failed or were lost.
The stench of blood, urine, and faeces was overpowering, as men descended into the depths of their bestial natures in order to fulfil life’s most important mission; that of surviving, come what may.
Hässelbach shrieked as a burly Russian bit a huge chunk out of his ear, the man screaming with animal passion as he spat the savaged flesh in his opponent’s face.
Stimulated by pain, he grabbed the Russian’s head and pulled it down, planting his forehead on the top of the man’s nose at speed.
Both men were howling with the pain of their injuries as a body cannoned into them, forcing them apart.
They both kicked out at the new arrival, not knowing if he was friend or foe.
Another legionnaire confronted the big Russian and slashed a spade at his neck, severing the jugular in one swipe.
Hässelbach looked around for Knocke and saw him stood at the back of the Tiger tank, pistol in hand, picking off selected targets here and there as they threatened one of his men, or tried to climb on Lohengrin.
“Watch out!”
He shouted uselessly as Knocke fumbled for a fresh magazine just as a Russian charged around the rear of the stationary tank.
The man fired his rifle and the blow knocked Knocke’s leg out from underneath him, even though the bullet simply transited his muscle without hitting anything of consequence.
Working the bolt, the Guardsman struggled with locking the lever down.
With Knocke on the ground, Hässelbach took the shot and the rifleman was thrown backwards by the impact of bullets.
