by Colin Gee
“You will not walk away from this one, you German bastard.”
Perhaps it was the fact that there was no perceived threat from this particular officer… perhaps it was a matter of gender… certainly, it had to be because none of Molyneux’s entourage knew who she was…
Molyneux became aware that all was not well and that the pressure in his throat was probably caused by the cold business end of a handgun, pressed hard into his flesh by a beautiful woman with cold and deadly eyes.
“Touch Général Knocke again and I’ll blow your head… mon Général.”
The military title she delivered to him could not have been delivered with less respect and more venom.
Something about the woman stilled Maillard and his men.
They now understood something that they had previously completely missed.
The beautiful woman with the curvaceous form and long curly hair was a person not to be crossed, something her eyes announced to everyone she made eye contact with, even Molyneux, who was suddenly very afraid.
“So… how do we resolve this? I can pull the trigger and we’ll be rid of you and your stupidity forever, or I can step back, and leave you to withdraw.”
Maillard offered his own suggestion.
“You can surrender that weapon to me and hope that the courts-martial will be lenient to you, Commandant.”
He used Anne-Marie’s rank with more deference than he felt, as he had already assigned the bitch to his list of traitors ripe for destruction.
“That will not be necessary, Captain.”
Knocke spoke, his pain evident in his clipped words, pulling himself back upright to deliver his message.
“Under orders given to me by General de Lattre de Tassigny less than one hour ago… I must inform you that you have been relieved of the command of the Legion Corps D’Assaut… effective immediately that I delivered his order to you. You will return to your former headquarters and wait for further orders to arrive. You will no longer issues orders, but will be afforded the privileges of your rank, until such times as your fate is decided.”
Ignoring Molyneux’s blustered rebuttal, Knocke switched immediately to Maillard, licking a tinge of blood from his lips before he spoke.
“General de Lattre was specific about any officers presently under your command…” the veteran tank officer splutter and coughed, a mixture of spittle and blood causing concern amongst those around him, “…They are to be permitted to return to their duties, in the full understanding that they have acted under orders that they believed to be fully lawful. There will be no repercussions… so long as the response to this command is total and immediate.”
Maillard was a man in turmoil.
His natural hatred for the ex-SS around him was bolstered by the presence of the French General who had issued him with definite orders.
On the other side of that, was the presence of a gun at the throat of that same General, and the orders that the German bastard had just passed on from De Lattre…
‘… from De Lattre?’
“Show me these orders.”
Knocke could not, and said so, and explained why.
He turned to the communications officer, seeking reconnection with De Lattre’s First Army headquarters.
The attempt quickly proved in vain, the General not being available to take a further call.
“So, we have a problem, Capitaine… I need to plan an attack to break through the enemy positions ahead. I can’t do that while you stand there with your guns, refusing the orders of the Army commander.”
Knocke left that hanging for a moment, hoping to reinforce that message with the silence.
“I have no order… just the words of someone I came here to arrest.”
Maillard left off the bit about the swift courts-martial and inevitable sentence that had been loosely discussed with the vengeful Molyneux.
In his mind, the single most important factor was the automatic pistol rammed into Molyneux’s throat, held there firmly by a woman who clearly knew how to use it… and would do so without a second’s hesitation.
De Walle held up his hands in a placatory gesture.
“Gentlemen, we’re all military men here,” which was the first of his lies.
“There is a war to prosecute, so let’s find an arrangement that will allow us to do so properly, and without duress.”
Eyes swiveled to him and gave him their full attention, all save Anne-Marie de Valois, who kept hers firmly on the men with guns drawn.
“We clearly have an impasse.”
To Maillard, he spoke firmly, but with an even voice.
“You have acted under orders from authority and, as Général De Lattre’s orders state, shall not come to harm. So there is no pressure on you to act precipitously in any way.”
He looked at his ‘Deux’ comrade.
“My colleague has acted as she believes correct in the circumstances that have presented themselves. I know her… and know she will not hesitate to remove the Général’s head from his shoulders.”
That was definitely no lie.
De Walle looked at his watch, gauging the time of the events he knew were in operation.
“Might I suggest the following compromise until we can get definite instructions from higher authorit…”
“I am high authority, De Walle, I a…”
The pistol pushed just a little harder.
“With regret, Général Molyneux, I think we have yet to have that point decided.”
The Frenchman wisely decided to await the rest of De Walle’s proposition.
“I believe we should place our weapons away from use, clear the headquarters of unnecessary personnel, and get about the process of organising a successful attack.”
Everyone, except Molyneux, understood that the words had been directed mainly at Maillard.
De Walle decided on a different tack.
“Perhaps, Capitaine Maillard, it would be appropriate for you to remain in here, purely as an observer? Retaining your firearm as befits your rank. Similarly, I think Commandant De Valois will remain in comparable state.”
The reaction was slight but noticeable, and the wily intelligence officer knew he had his man.
“Général Molyneux, I would suggest that we all refrain from unhelpful threats and orders… and that… for the moment… you remain purely in an observer’s role… whilst we make the greatest possible efforts to ascertain the present circumstances.”
Restricted by the recently increased pressure on his windpipe, Molyneux wisely decided to give solely a curt nod.
Turning to the assembled Legion officers, his eyes took in Knocke’s bloody lips and grey face.
“I trust that is satisfactory to you all.”
His eye gave the slightest of winks.
Bittrich moved forward carefully, picking up the disorganized sheaf of intelligence photos.
He brought the men of Normandie back to business.
“Perfect… now let’s move on with the war, gentlemen.”
A wave of relaxation and relief swept through the command tent, the last sign of which was the sudden absence of the pistol at Molyneux’s throat.
The martinet General turned to De Valois and, staring at the female officer as evilly as he could manage, spat a threat with his most venomous voice.
“Regardless of what happens here, you will pay for that. I will have my day with you, Commandant.”
Anne-Marie leant closer, and her tone gave greater weight to her words than Molyneux ever thought possible, and he felt the sudden return of fear.
“I’ll be ready, mon Général… I won’t be stood open and vulnerable so you can just strike me down with a rifle butt or your cane… I’ll be prepared… so… when it comes to it… we’ll see who will have their day with whom.”
The beautiful face contained the eyes of the Grim Reaper.
De Walle coughed.
“Commandant De Valois, stand down if you please.”
&nb
sp; She held Molyneux’s gaze for three seconds longer, then relaxed her posture, slowly removing the weapon that had reappeared at his throat and bringing it down to her side.
The Frenchman rubbed his neck, the presence of the muzzle, even though absent, still seemingly apparent and urgent on his flesh.
Uncharacteristically, although perhaps not surprisingly, Molyneux moved to the table in silence, ready to observe the planning in progress.
Bittrich nodded to him and set about the task of regaining the initiative.
[*Author’s note – For RG purposes, the French designated the refined ST-45 as the CEAM m46. I have retained the former German nomenclature for ease.]
1400 hrs, Monday, 24th June 1946, Holzhausen, Germany.
The atmosphere had gradually calmed down, although occasionally it would rise to a little peak, most often with an outburst from Molyneux, mainly objecting to part of the military plan. His contribution ended each time with a simple gesture or cough from De Valois. No more was required.
However, the plan was finished and the unit commanders arrived to receive their brief, all having been tactfully intercepted outside by De Walle’s men and apprised of the unusual circumstances they would find inside.
The briefing commenced, with Bittrich laying down the overview.
His words were cut short by a kerfuffle at the entrance, and, like the Red Sea opening to Moses and the children of Canaan, the officers moved aside to let De Lattre enter, accompanied by two very agricultural looking NCOs.
The salutes were numerous and impressive, all of which were returned with a single simple gesture as the commander of French First Army took centre stage.
Molyneux went to speak, but a hand stopped him on the intake of breath.
“Wait please, Général Molyneux. You will have your opportunity later.”
“Général, I must insist! I…”
“Later.”
“I must insist!”
De Lattre paused and looked at the red-faced officer and immediately decided to change his plans.
“Very well then. We’ll get this out of the way immediately.”
De Lattre held out his hand and one of his staff officers swiftly slid an official document into it.
“This is your transfer to the Foreign Ministry in Paris, effective immediately. You will go straight there, and report to the Minister who, at my suggestion, will assign you to the Ambassador’s diplomatic staff in Senegal, in the role of special military advisor. I envy you this opportunity to serve France.
Molyneux took the orders like a man in a trance, read them, and still didn’t manage a word by way of reply.
“Now, Molyneux, we have work to do here. We wouldn’t want to keep you from your important assignment, so if you don’t mind, we’ll move on. Bonne chance.”
Turning to the nearest man, De Lattre continued, ignoring the barely concealed grins on a number of Legion faces.
“Capitaine, you will remove yourself from this command post and wait outside. Consider yourself under my direct orders until further notice. Am I clear?”
“Yes, mon Général!”
Maillard saluted and left immediately, following in the trail of the disgraced Molyneux, not knowing what his future might bring.
Finally, De Lattre turned to Anne-Marie De Valois, his face softening in an instant.
“You may also leave, Commandant De Valois. I will wish to hear your version of these sorry events once I have finished here.”
He turned away to the table, the sounds of the departing disgraced Molyneux and party fading as he concentrated on the maps and notes before him.
“You are unwell, Général Knocke?
He had spotted the man nursing a clearly tender stomach.
“No, thank you, Sir, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Knocke brought himself more erect, controlling his reaction to the growing pain in his stomach.
“Honestly, Herr General, I’m fine. The plan…”
De Lattre shrugged as only a Frenchman can shrug.
“Mes amis, I regret… this plan… it will not come to pass. I bring news of change.”
Over the next thirty minutes, the new plan was discussed and the Legion’s attack was modified.
1525 hrs, Monday, 24th June 1946, Holzhausen, Germany.
The Legion artillery had been raining down for twenty minutes, sending death and destruction all over the Soviet front and rear line positions.
Fig # 191 – Allied Order of Battle – the Fulda River, 24th June 1946.
The leading echelons of Group Normandie had already enjoyed a spectacular display by medium bombers and ground attack aircraft.
Smoke, fire, and explosions from the air raid melded with the additional destruction wrought by the Legionnaire’s guns.
At 1525 precisely, mortars commenced throwing smoke shells downrange, bathing the area in front of the Soviet line in chemical smoke.
The recently arrived US 161st Chemical Smoke Generator Company started churning out large volumes of concealing smoke, which was carried in the right direction by the gentle and cooperative breeze.
Late to the field, Knocke had ordered one of his infantry companies to help with setting up the generators.
The African-Americans and the Legionnaires were wary of each other at first, but had soon found how to work together.
The M2 generators had been readied in record time, in purpose-built positions, complete with spare oil stocks, as the black Americans and ex-SS troopers worked and sweated side by side.
Fig # 192 – The Legion’s second battle on the Fulda.
Many a legionnaire had pockets stuffed with Luckys or Chesterfields, and in return, the 161st soldiers had secreted bottles of cognac or calvados. The Legion artillery switched from HE and fragmentation to add their own smoky contribution to the mix.
The perfect gentle easterly ensured that the Soviets could hardly see their hand in front of their face.
Nervous Red Army soldiers, sat astride Route 3223, started firing at nothing but a waft of smoke, convinced that the devil incarnate was upon them.
At 1530, soldiers and gunners from Camerone fired back, aiming blind into the smoke, but with the advantage of having marked many targets before the smoke engulfed the battlefield.
The plan moved ahead like clockwork, as elements of the 7e Regiment du Marche launched a noisy diversionary attack against Fuldatal, to the south of the main defensive positions around Route 3233.
Centrally, a battalion of the 7e RdM, supported by some of Uhlmann’s tanks, kept up a steady fire through the smoke screen, which was ably topped up by the smoke generators and indirect fire from support weapons.
Their job was to pin the defenders in place, suggesting a further advance, but actually keeping their heads down in the hasty positions they had assumed.
It was the attack of 1er Regiment du Marche, supported by a hard wedge of the 1er Chars D’Assaut, both units from Camerone Division, which had the task of breaching the enemy defensive positions.
Moving fast and light, two battalions of Camerone’s 1st Regiment du Marche pushed into the woods to the west of Holzhausen, negotiating the brooks and streams that were commonplace, running between the roots of the tall trees.
With them came the Wolves and Hyenas, the converted tanks ready to knock down any heavier support that the assaulting foot soldiers might encounter.
Close behind the lead elements came the reserve 3e Bataillon and themajority of the 1er Régiment Étranger de Cavalerie, Camerone’s small reconnaissance unit.
The flank attack slammed into modest Soviet positions in the woods northwest of Wilhelmshausen and quickly overran the distracted defenders.
In the handful of hand-to-hand combats that occurred, the Soviet defenders were quickly overwhelmed, their continued physical decline a huge contributory factor to the one-sided close quarter fighting.
The 1er REC and the reserve battalion, the 3e/1er RdM, quickly followed th
rough and led off, striking northeast towards the bridge at Wilhelmshausen, seeking to capture it intact.
2e/1er wheeled to the south and drove into the rear of the main line defences, supported by half of the Wolves of 1er Regiment Char D’Assaut, who quickly scored successes when they overran a redeploying company of 100mm anti-tank guns.
1er/1er mopped up and secured the area, suffering a few casualties rooting out diehard Soviet soldiers.
7e RdM reported unexpected success in their diversionary attack, so Knocke, not one to miss an opportunity, ordered them to drive on through Fuldatal and seal off any escape by the Soviet forces to his front.
Bittrich had already placed the 1er Bataillon Amphibie Spéciale at the disposal of the Normandie commander, and the unit was swiftly dispatched to cross the river at Fuldatal and drive up to Wilhemshausen, thus taking the bridge from both ends.
A map reading error brought the 1er BAS into the column of units destined to move through Knickhagen, some kilometres north of where Bittrich had intended them to be.
The disaster of the first action was quickly washed away by the success of the second, and the mood was lifted throughout Camerone and the rest of Normandie.
The main Soviet defences crumbled and the reports quickly filtered back to the command post.
The Soviets were running.
Knocke ordered the smoke generators stopped, the artillery and mortars were called off, and his main force was prepped for an immediate advance, pending confirmations that he had already asked for.
Such was the euphoria of the moment that no one noticed his pale features, the sweat running down his face, and the controlled breathing of a man in pain.
He sat down heavily, holding his stomach, finally attracting attention.
“Mon Dieu! Ernst!”
“Ernst! Mein Gott!”
De Walle moved swiftly for a big man, Bittrich similarly for a man not wholly well, but neither was quick enough to stop the now unconscious tank officer topple off the chair, face first into the leg of the table, adding a nasty facial wound to the ruptured stomach that Maillard had inflicted with his butt.
