by Gee, Colin
Too close as it happened. Paint started to bubble immediately and petrol from a holed fuel container set fire to the nearside front.
The Corporal grabbed his PPS and screamed at his Major, pointing at the growing fire.
Skotolsky saw the flames and reacted, throwing himself theatrically over the side and landing face first.
The shock of the fall, and of the facial impact, seemed to calm him, and he rose shakily to his feet.
Bleeding from both nostrils, he drew his Tokarev automatic and staggered into the village.
The 44th’s flame-throwing tanks had set fire to over half the buildings, and acrid smoke filled the air, stinging eyes and torturing lungs.
French resistance was broken.
Survivors from the motorised infantry had closed up and had started herding the French survivors into a small field, west of Meitinger Straβe.
The Major saw two of his men supporting a French soldier, the man’s foot blown off at the ankle, carrying him to the collection area.
The Tokarev fired and the prisoner dropped lifelessly away from the shocked men’s grasp.
“No fucking prisoners! No fucking prisoners!”
He continued repeating the order as he staggered unsteadily up the street, shooting an already dead body he passed on the junction with BahnhofStraβe.
By the time he got to the small field he needed to reload, having shot another live prisoner and wasted bullets on four dead bodies.
Twenty-one battered and dazed prisoners were sprawled in the field, some being tended to by medical orderlies from both sides.
“Get away!” he shouted at the medics, “Go and tend to our own men, you bastards!”
The two Soviet medics rose and moved off to where their own casualties were being collected, well looked after by the newly arrived battalion medical section.
Skotolsky, his eyes now wild, turned to the young Captain, Pryskov of Armoured Engineers, who had dismounted from his tank to share a cigarette with his crews.
“Kill them. Kill them all.”
The engineer officer swallowed hard, exchanging eye contact with his men.
“They are prisoners, Comrade Mayor. No threat now.”
Skotolsky dragged his eyes away from the Frenchmen and spoke in a hiss.
“Kill them now, or I will kill you, Comrade Kapitan.”
The tank’s gunner slipped his hand towards his own holster, unnoticed by the mad Major.
“No, I cannot do that. In conscience, I cannot do that, Comrade Mayor.”
The Tokarev barked twice and Captain Pryskov was dead before his body bounced off the side of his tank.
The gunner struggled with his weapon and also received two bullets, dropping him to the ground, screaming in agony.
“Conscience? Your conscience counts for nothing, you scum!”
Another shot silenced the scream of pain at his feet.
The Tokarev moved to threaten the next in line.
“Kill them, now soldier; now!”
The hull gunner fumbled with his holster and turned towards the nervous Frenchmen.
“Not with that, you fucking idiot! With that!”
The hull gunner climbed the front of the tank and slid inside to where Skotolsky pointed, attracting more attention from the nervous prisoners.
Those guarding them understood and increased the distance between themselves and those about to die.
No gout of flame satisfied the Major’s lust for blood and death.
He shouted in through the open drivers hatch.
“Kill them, you bastard, or you are dead meat. Kill them!”
The petrified gunner had no more petroleum jelly and tried to explain to the mad man, drawing nothing more than point-blank bullets and instant death.
Skotolsky dropped off the front of the OT34, turning to the other tank nearby, waving at the Sergeant in charge.
“Starshy Serzhant, kill them now, or you will get the same. Move!”
The sound of running feet made the man turn, and the Medical Officer from the battalion aid section arrived, with two men in tow.
“What in the name of the Rodina are you doing, Comrade?”
Looking at the Captain with crazy eyes, Skotolsky raised his weapon and fired.
A PPS ripped the relative silence, smashing the lunatic officer against the tank. The bloody form dropped onto the roadway.
Helping the wounded Doctor to his feet, the two orderlies with him applied pressure to his radial artery and hurried him away to the aid station.
The young Corporal driver replaced his half-empty magazine and moved to the tank.
Skotolsky was dying, his body rent by over a dozen bullets, his life blood spilling onto the concrete beneath him.
He looked up at the familiar face and smiled.
The familiar face sneered and spat at the dying man, casually aiming his sub-machine gun.
Then, they both died together.
Acting on their last orders, and in the absence of contrary ones, the 76th’s Katyushas fired another full volley into the French defences.
Skotolsky, the mad man, hadn’t stopped them.
Pryskov, the novice, hadn’t stopped them.
Semenchenko, the new commander and devoid of proper knowledge, hadn’t stopped them.
Five of the valuable OT34’s were lost in that strike, along with many of their crews.
The survivors of the 11th’s 3rd Battalion, gathered in the town but not hidden in cover, suffered badly. After the battle, the battalion was broken up and used to fill gaps in the 11th’s other units.
The medical aid station had ceased to exist.
Two of the American engineers managed to cling to life for a few hours before slipping away, the efforts of the surviving Soviet doctors in vain.
Three French prisoners survived the strike, and two of them lived out the day.
A desperately wounded Corporal of the Regiment du Tchad, who would eventually succumb to infection in the second week of September, and a dazed Lieutenant Alain Mercier, whose broken arms seemed a small price to pay to survive such carnage.
Choices are the hinges of destiny.
Pythagoras.
Chapter 67 - THE POLES
0800 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.
“Well, you sure are a sight for sore eyes, Walt.”
The welcome was genuine, the handshake firm.
“Glad to be back, Sir.”
Major General Walter Bedell-Smith had served as Chief of Staff to Eisenhower during the German War, returning to the States immediately after the end of hostilities.
“Are you well, Walt?”
“Very stiff but my brain still works, Sir”
“There is work for your brain here and then some, Walt.”
Eisenhower looked at his watch and did a quick calculation.
“Get yourself settled in. Have some chow and prepare yourself, Walt. Theatre briefing is at 1000 here. See you then.”
A further handshake was exchanged and Smith was escorted away to a suitable room, where he could shake off the rigours of his awful journey from the States.
Smith had been onboard a Douglas C-54 Skymaster, which had departed Newark AAF, New Jersey, on the morning of 8th August, for the short hop to RCAF Greenwood on Nova Scotia. Having dropped off an RCAF Wing-Commander and his staff, involved with the Tiger Force ‘Very Long Range Bomber’ project, the C-54 was scheduled to deliver its remaining passengers to RAF Northolt, UK.
From there, they would go their separate ways, or at least that had been the plan, which failed the moment the crippled C-54 belly-landed in the Gulf of Maine, thirty miles from anywhere dry.
The survivors, eleven in total, were picked up the following day by a Catalina of the hastily reconstituted 5 Squadron RCAF.
After a period on hospital, Smith again made the transatlantic attempt, his aircraft having to make an emergency landing at RAF Belfast as a fuel leak robbed th
e C-54 of its legs.
He found a ride to Paris in a C-47, and spent the time chatting with one of his co-passengers, a USMC Lieutenant Colonel, who was extremely knowledgeable about the European situation.
Both men travelled together, all the way to the Trianon Palace Hotel, where they went their separate ways.
0912 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, Headquarters of French First Army, Room 203, Hotel Stephanie, Baden-Baden, Germany.
Naked, and steadily dripping water and soap bubbles onto the expensive wool carpet, his still-damp fingers tainted the thin paper, as he examined the written message that the hollow-handled knife had surrendered up. The breakfast tray had been brought to his room by a new man he only knew by sight, the precise staccato sequence of knocks causing him to rush from the bath in the full knowledge that it was not just food that was being delivered today.
Any reply he made would be collected with the dirty crockery, exactly fifty minutes after the tray had been delivered.
The message was comparatively long, directing a course of action that would undoubtedly place him in extreme danger.
He swore in the way he had taught himself to do.
“Skurwielu!”
‘Govno!’
1000 hrs, Monday 20th August 1945, Headquarters of SHAEF, Trianon Palace Hotel, Versailles, France.
The briefing kicked off with the horrendous developments in the area of French First Army, where the remnants of the 14th Infantry had simply disappeared, and the powerful 2nd French Armoured had been all but annihilated, opening up a huge gap.
“And De Lattre says there is no chance of a recovery?”
Bedell-Smith shook his head.
“Then I see little choice, Walt. We have to acknowledge that we are now split, and move our units accordingly.”
Major-General Smith eased his aching back, both hands pushing in on his sides, his eyes not leaving the situation map.
“I understand, Sir. They have guaranteed Swiss neutrality, and we could use the border to ease our situation some.”
Eisenhower knew his man. There was a ‘but’.
“Sir, can we trust that? What if they decide to drive through Switzerland and into France or Italy beyond?”
The Allied Commander drew deeply on the cigarette and composed his reply.
“If we try and hold the line, what damage will be done, could be done? If we prepare to fall back now, then we can gain ourselves some breathing space, some time to establish.”
Ike moved closer to his Chief of Staff, who spoke candidly.
“Munich is lost, that we must accept, but we can form a line... Stuttgart to Ulm... and south on the Iller River to the border,” he pointed at the map, sweeping imaginary lines to better convey his words, “Dropping back onto the Austrian Border where natural defences will help us.”
Eisenhower could see that possibility, but the question of time was crucial and he put the question out there.
“That depends on who we can put in harm’s way to stop them, Sir.”
Ike shook his head.
“Not a lot immediately. We have one hell of a problem with the French.”
The CoS understood the ‘French’ issue only too well, but misconstrued the problem.
Eisenhower continued.
“Some of their units are simply not up to the job. The ones they formed from the FFI mainly.”
Smith could only nod as he had stated his reservations about the worthiness of these units in March, even with Germany in its death throes.
“Not only that but they changed the designation of one of their units, two to five, so we thought we had an additional armoured division because they didn’t make it clear.”
Smith was not a great lover of the Gallic allies.
“What else is coming to the party then, Sir?”
“The Germans, but they are not there at the moment.”
Eisenhower looked around before whispering conspiratorially.
“The Spanish, but again, not at the moment.”
General Smith frowned in surprise.
“I thought that was...”
He trailed off, reading the look in his commander’s eyes.
“I will bring you up to date on that one later, General,” stepping back as a written report was offered to him by a newly-promoted Major.
Eisenhower cast a swift eye at the report, intending to properly examine it later, but stopped in his tracks.
“Anne-Marie, is this accurate?”
Turning back to Eisenhower, the CWAC officer smiled.
“With regard to targets hit, the reconnaissance photography has not yet been done. With regard to the friendly casualties, wholly accurate, Sir.”
Eisenhower nodded, sharing her smile, and passed the report to Smith.
“According to that, our British cousins sent out seven hundred and sixty-four aircraft last night and all but six of them returned home. Six!”
By the standards of the German War, it was incredible. By the standards of the present conflict, it was the firmest indication yet that the night now totally belonged to the Allies.
Smith broke the momentary euphoria.
“What do the Swiss say, Sir? Do they trust this guarantee?”
Momentarily off track, Eisenhower looked puzzled, then realised that his CoS was back on subject number one.
“Yes they do Walter. Historically, no-one touches Switzerland, as you know, and it is the devil of a country to cross in peacetime, let alone with the Swiss Army nipping at your heels.”
Smith grimaced.
“It is a risk but if they do try it, the journey will be long and hard for them, giving us time to prepare something.”
The grimace seemed set to the man’s features, drawing concession from Eisenhower.
“If we cut out two of the newly arrived divisions to babysit the western Swiss border, that should be sufficient for us to take whatever risk this poses.”
“And our German Allies? What do they think of the possibility of more land in communist possession?”
On that Ike could speak with direct knowledge.
“They are already reconciled with the main defence line on the Rhine. They understand that we have to concentrate our assets as soon as possible, and need a secure defensive line from which to operate.”
“So, I must ask again, Sir. What else can we bring to this now?”
Smith’s uncompromising approach had served Ike well in the past and he welcomed the support the General brought to his headquarters.
“OK Walt. I can move 92nd Infantry, in fact they are already moving. The Brazilians are very keen to get involved for political reasons back home I think. They too are moving as we speak.”
“There are two tank-destroyer groups that can get there quickly and I am sure I can shake loose some armor support from both Devers and Alexander.”
“Can we trust the foot soldiers, Sir?”
“Truth is, I’m not sure, Walt. The Brazilians did well but were not badly tested. The 92nd did ok but, again, not as they will be tested now.”
“We need to give them some back-up then, Sir. What’s in the back pocket?”
“The Brits are moving two division but they won’t be quick enough. Our dough’s the same, unless I take risks and move in someone already tasked.”
Smith checked the map before he spoke.
“And the Eagles?”
It was Eisenhower’s turn to grimace. The 101st was the only unit in 18th Airborne Corps that was at full strength and had not seen any fighting in this war.
“I was keeping the 101st up my sleeve for offensive ops, Walt.”
Smith remained silent, pursing his lips, as much in a sign to Ike as it was a marker that his brain was working the problem.
Eisenhower pre-empted him.
“Is this where you tell me that if we don’t nip this in the bud, we may not have the offensive option?”
Major-General Smith enjoyed an excellent relationship with Eisenhower, but that didn’t mea
n he was going to push it too hard.
“The Eagles would have the ball for a week tops, Sir. After that, we drop them back into 18th Corps and rest them, ready for whatever you have in mind.”
Ike wondered if his CoS knew he had nothing presently in mind offensively, and had been talking in general and future terms.
“I think we may have told those boys something like that before, but,” sighing deeply, the decision made, “Ok. Cut the orders and get the machine working. Group the three divisions and hand them to Devers. I will speak with Jake directly.”
Smith started to wind up, dragging staff officers towards him as he began translating Eisenhower’s wishes into proper orders.
1125 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, Camp Châlons, Mourmelon le Grand, Marne, France.
A telephone rang in the headquarters office of the 101st US Airborne Division, the legendary ‘Screaming Eagles’.
Within four minutes, telephones all over the camp were sounding, as the order was relayed from the top, cascading down through all levels of command.
The noise level increased as a camp of troops engaged in training and lectures transformed itself into an airborne division about to go into combat.
The new commander of 2nd Battalion, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment replaced the receiver and took a deep breath.
Of all of his division, he was the only 101st trooper that had seen combat since hostilities began and lived to tell the tale, and his experience had been close-up and personal with Soviet Paratroopers.
Major Marion J Crisp was going back to the war.
1355 hrs Monday 20th August 1945, Cuxhavener Straβe, Two Kilometres North-West of Buxtehude, Germany
The drive forward from Lühdorf had started with fourteen running tanks, in various stages of disrepair, lights knocked off, fenders ravaged, external items destroyed. Only one of the IS-III’s had not sustained damage.
