by Gee, Colin
Not all were so disposed, and word quickly spread amongst the townsfolk, with many braving the early Wednesday morning to witness the sight.
Ernst-August Knocke and his staff saw every unit off their transport and on the road to their temporary base. Camerone’s commander was everywhere, chivvying up a unit that took too long to disembark here, praising efficiency in assembly there, and often using names of even private soldiers, a gift of memory that was granted few commanders.
As quickly as the units formed for the march they moved off, anxious to be safely quartered in the woods east of Muggensturm before any Soviet aircraft found them.
0857 hrs, Wednesday 22nd August 1945, Chencun, China.
It was bound to happen eventually, and in many ways, Nomori Hamuda was surprised that it had taken this long.
The Soviets had supplied the captured German vehicles and manuals for their maintenance. They had also provided qualified manpower, in the form of captured German Panzer-Pionieres, who had little choice but to conform.
At first, the Germans had been confused.
They had been captured by their deadly enemy and then shipped half a world away to service their own tanks, which were now in the possession of their ally, Imperial Japan.
Initially, they had applied themselves and the Panzers had run smoothly, despite the difficulties of operating in a climate for which they were not designed.
American prisoners were suspected of sowing the initial seeds of mass discontent, informing the Germans about the new world political map, and, more importantly, that Imperial Japan was no longer their friend.
The quality of work was hit first, and the tanks started to drop out of line. Fully half of Hamuda’s First Company was strung out on the road back to Guiping, none lost to enemy action, engine failures robbing him of their firepower.
He had tried to encourage the mechanics, failing to secure any noticeable improvement.
Today, he would try a different tack.
Arriving at the temporary service point at Chencun, just east of Guigang, the lack of industry was immediately apparent, despite the presence of two of his precious Panthers, one with a serious transmission problem.
With the Marquis Hirohata by his side, and a squad of infantry led by Kagamutsu at his back, Hamuda approached the leader of the German mechanics, a Captain Bauer, formerly of the panzer maintenance company, 19th Panzer Division, until his capture in 1944.
Previous conversations between Hamuda and Bauer had become increasingly strained, not assisted by the fact that their only common language was English.
“Good morning, Captain,” Hamuda always addressed the Germans by their rank, and in the case of Bauer, he gave the courtesy of a salute.
“Good morning to you, Captain Hamuda,” the absence of a salute being wholly deliberate and intended to convey the German’s position.
“I need my tanks back. When will your men have this two ready?”
“Three days I think, certainly not sooner.”
“That is not acceptable, Captain.”
“That is reality, Captain Hamuda. The Bergepanther is fucked,” gesticulating loosely at the recovery tank sat under camouflage with its engine sat on the rear hull.
Hirohata shifted like a dog straining at his leash. His command of English was superior to Hamuda’s, but he had a different job this morning.
“What is reality is that you and your men is failing. When we start, a transmission was being doned in a day,” Bauer shrugged, “A day maximum, Captain Bauer. Now my tanks are disappeared, left by the roadside, and your crews go back to mends them and are not seen for days.”
Bauer looked up from the report he was reading and made eye contact.
“We do the best we can with what we have. We don’t have enough spare parts now and we have to manufacture many items ourselves. It all takes time.”
Hamuda looked around the maintenance site, noting the men in various stages of activity. He was no fool and very quickly understood that there was little being achieved.
“That man there,” he pointed with his cane, “He has undo that bolt and then tighten it twice since I have stood here. Explain.”
Bauer took a look at the man and turned his head back.
“Perhaps he finds your presence daunting and is put off, Herr Hauptmann?”
The look on Bauer’s face crossed the threshold of insolence in an instant.
“Captain Bauer. Understand this,” and Hamuda raised his voice so that any other English speakers amongst the prisoners could hear his words, “Your usefulness here is centres around these tanks. Your existence is centres around these tanks. You will keep them running or we will have no use for you. Can I make me any clearer?”
Both Hamuda and Hirohata detected a few reactions amongst the German audience.
“I rather doubt that you will kill any of us, Hamuda. We are too valuable to you. Who else would mend the tanks eh? Your men? They couldn’t maintain a fucking hard on in a brothel. We do what we can, as quick as we can.”
A number of sniggers came from the listeners, further proof that others listening could understand his words.
The die was cast.
Hamuda took a moment to calm himself.
“Very well. You leave me no choice.”
Moving off to one side, the tank Captain raised his voice, drawing all attention to himself.
“You men are been treated well and want for nothing. All we have asked is for your most work. Once we were Allies, but that has now changed.”
He sought eye contact with one of the senior NCO’s from the prisoners but the man refused it, dropping his eyes once more to the engine he was ‘servicing’.
“None the less, we has being decent to you all, and you repay us with your laziness and,” he turned to a grinning Bauer, “Your contempt.”
The grin seemed to sharpen further, becoming a full blown sneer.
“Enough. It stop now.”
He emphasised his point by slapping his cane against his boot, producing a sound not unlike a gun shot.
The German NCO looked up in time to witness the pre-planned act.
The slap was the signal that Hirohata had been waiting for, as well as an attempt to ensure everyone’s attention was fixed on what was about to happen.
Hirohata’s katana was out, flashed across the intervening space, and parted Bauer’s head from his shoulders in the blink of an eye.
The body dropped to the ground and the head, still bearing its sneer, rolled away, coming to rest in the middle of a group of mechanics that had been stripping down a dismantled engine.
Hamuda looked around for the surviving senior man and picked him out with a stab of his cane.
“Lieutenant, you is now responsible for my tanks,” and pointing at the headless corpse, he emphasised the point, “In the same way as he is responsible.”
He let that sink in before finishing up.
“Both of them will be back operational by tonight or I will return.”
Spinning on his heel, he nodded to Kagamutsu, who ordered his tough looking group to spread out into positions from where they could monitor the mechanics as they worked.
Hirohata wiped his blade and slid it back into the scabbard with more than usual ceremony, his face lacking any visible emotion, and he followed his commander away from the scene.
Both Panthers were ready for combat by 1800 hrs.
1200 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd August 1945. Headquarters, 1st Legion Brigade de Chars D’Assault ‘Camerone’, The Rathaus, Waldprechtsweier, Germany.
Now that the French officers from First Army had left, Uhlmann had taken the opportunity to report to Knocke on his unit’s readiness, and the two had enjoyed coffee together as they went over the details of the move and the recent ‘acquisition’ of the nineteen ex-Wehrmacht Panzer-Pionieres who had been willing to join ‘Camerone’.
The men, mainly ex-21st Panzer Division, had welcomed the opportunity to serve with the ex-SS, although Uhlmann later
admitted to his commander that he had ‘forgotten’ to tell the men that they had a choice.
Most of the new arrivals already sported the insignia of the German Legion formation, a decision that had been taken by Knocke to encourage the ‘unit’ to take root in each man’s psyche as soon as possible.
Lavalle had promised that every member of the Corps would have their insignia before the end of the month and, from the consignment that had met them when they arrived at their present location, it appeared that he was holding to his word.
Both men had been up all night, and both were dead on their feet, in need of sleep.
By mutual agreement, the meeting drew to a close and Uhlmann departed, passing on Knocke’s request not to be disturbed for two hours.
He saluted to the Polish Officer who had been chatting to one of the Brigade’s staff officers, and left to find some rest in his own billet.
The staff officer knocked on the commander’s door and received permission to enter, the tone of the reply indicating that Knocke was clearly less than happy with the immediate failure to observe his wishes.
After a small exchange, the Staff Captain emerged and ushered the Polish Major in to see Knocke, closing the door behind him.
Salutes were exchanged, and Knocke motioned the new arrival towards the seat, still warm from Uhlmann’s occupation.
“Coffee, Herr Major?”
“Not for me thank you, Sir.”
A second’s hesitation before Knocke decided that more caffeine was probably a good idea, and so he poured himself one before sitting opposite Major Kowalski.
“Captain Weiss tells me that you wished to speak privately on an urgent personal matter.”
“Yes, that is true, Herr Standartenfuhrer.”
Knocke held his hand up immediately, failing to stop the word tumbling from Kowalski’s mouth.
“No longer of the SS, Major Kowalski. I am now Colonel of the Legion if you please. Now, what do you want of me?”
“Your compliance in a small operation that I am overseeing for my superiors.”
Alarm bells were ringing but no-one could hear them except Knocke, the tone and poise of the man opposite giving cause for immediate concern.
“But first, allow me to introduce myself. I am Sergey Andreyevich Kovelskin, Kapitan in Soviet Military Intelligence, and here to give you a message, Herr Standartenfuhrer.”
The Soviet agent sneered his way through Knocke’s former rank adding, “Oh yes I know, now a Foreign Legion Colonel. Well, not to me. Once an SS bastard, always an SS bastard as far as I am concerned.”
Kowalski/Kovelskin was holding a Walther PPK in his right hand, a fact that Knocke had only just become aware of.
“This is just to ensure that you listen to what I have to say, Knocke.”
His own Walther was still in its holster, attached to his belt, the same belt he had taken off a few minutes beforehand when he expected to get some rest. It sat in his line of sight immediately behind the Russian, taunting him with its nearness and yet infinite distance.
“You have my attention. Say your piece.”
Knocke’s mind was working hard, different parts looking at alternatives, planning and processing options.
As Kovelskin spoke, that all changed, every cell in his brain focussing on the simple statement that preceded the Russian’s business.
“Greta and your daughters say hello.”
1207 hrs, Wednesday 22nd August 1945, On Römerstraβe, south-west of Baiswell, Germany.
Being able to see out of only one eye was an inconvenience at the best of times. A clod of earth and grass had been propelled by an artillery shell and hit him directly in the left eye. Marion Crisp was finding it hard going but there was nothing he or the medics could do to restore his sight at this time, so he bore it as best he could.
Anyway, it was the least of his problems, as the 101st US Airborne was bleeding out trying to stem the Soviet advance.
2nd Battalion, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, Crisp’s command, was still in reasonable shape, but other units throughout the division were shadows of their former selves.
In fact, the situation was so fluid that the division, indeed all the divisions in the area, had started to lose their cohesiveness, units out of place and fighting alongside comrades wearing different insignia and sometimes national uniform.
At the moment, Crisp was withdrawing from a perfectly good position at Baiswell, forced back to Eggenthal by Soviet advances to the north and south.
The handful of trucks he had remaining were loaded up with the wounded, and an advance guard briefed to start setting up a defensive perimeter at Eggenthal; all had set off an hour beforehand.
As Crisp pushed his men hard down the road, the grim wrecks of two of his trucks gave testament to the activities of Soviet ground attack aircraft, both vehicles’ passengers still aboard, having been either too wounded or too drugged up to be able to save themselves from the subsequent fires.
The paratroopers had heard the air attack behind them as they were driving off the Soviet infantry in the last enemy attempt at capturing Baiswell.
Now, they had handed the insignificant German village to the enemy for nothing, high-tailing it back to the next defensive point as fast as their legs could carry them.
Just off the road lay a shattered Soviet aircraft, an Li-2, the Soviet copy of the DC-3.
His senior non-com had organised a small group to check out the wreck, although it wasn’t fresh and had probably been down since the start of the Russian attacks.
The Master-Sergeant dropped back to Crisp’s group with his report.
“Three enemy dead aboard her, Major. Stinking to high heaven, so been there a’while. Preacher Manley found this and I confiscated it before he did his thing.” They exchanged grins, conjuring up a scene of fire and brimstone centred around the devout Christian Manley and the devil of alcohol.
“Anyway, now is not the time.”
Crisp took the extended bottle and examined the label. None the wiser, he handed it on to Captain Galkin for translation.
“Moscow Crystal vodka, Major. That’s as good as it gets in Mother Russia.”
Galkin’s father had served with the White Russians and escaped to start a new life in Oregon, USA.
The bottle passed through hands again before coming to rest back with Master-Sergeant Baldwin.
“When we get settled later, share it around, Rocky,” no-one could remember how Baldwin had acquired the name, but it was his none the less.
“Yes Sir. Left a little present in there for our red friends.”
“We will steer clear then. Now, get the boys moving Master-Sergeant.”
2200 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd August 1945, Europe.
Eisenhower had retired early so that he could be up early enough to listen to Operation Gabriel, so Bedell-Smith satisfied himself that all was in motion for tonight’s big plan involving the RAF and the following dawn’s effort by the USAAF. It was an innovative idea and it had to be tried, if only the once.
An orderly presented him with his usual 10 o’clock coffee, the General’s eyes straying to the large clock to confirm the time.
At 2200 hrs, in a dimly lit white church in Eggenthal, Major Marion Crisp discussed the tactical position with his officer group, having already walked the defensive lines, touching base with all his units and assessing the morale of his troopers, noting the now empty vodka bottle in Fox Company headquarters, now acting as a vase for some colourful weeds, courtesy of some wag.
Major Kowalski, his Polish persona now back in being, sat in the officers mess, consuming a modest Riesling, and pretending to read the latest version of ‘Stars & Stripes’ whilst not registering a word as he processed the day’s events. A mess steward presented himself with another glass of wine. Kowalski produced a fountain pen and signed the chit. The steward took away the empty glass, the chit and the pen containing a simple message. The pen was returned to him by an apologetic orderly as the clock lightl
y chimed out ten o’clock.
Kowalski checked his wristwatch, noting with surprise that the mantle clock was out by four minutes.
In his billet, Ernst-August Knocke sat alone, no longer needing to present a normal front to his men, now able to think long and hard about the Russian’s proposal.
‘They are alive!’
War is cruelty. There's no use trying to reform it, the crueller it is the sooner it will be over.
William Tecumseh Sherman
Chapter 69 - THE RAID
0222 hrs, Thursday 23rd August 1945, Europe.
Operation Gabriel had been underway for some time, as aircraft rose from airfields across Allied Europe, intent on closing in on a modest area of Northern Germany and transforming it into a wasteland, consigning anyone and anything in the area to a sustained hell of high-explosives and fire.
The original idea had been floated on the basis of Allied night time superiority. It had been a sound idea and the planners and senior officers had seized on it. The concept grew and the overseers bastardised it into a gigantic beast, a beast that required over half the bombers in the RAF and its Commonwealth squadrons, from the lighter Mosquitoes to old Stirlings hastily serviced and put back into action.
Allied recon had improved in the last few days, the most successful missions being those late in the day, trading lower resolution photos for survivability, at a time when the day transited into night, and the dark skies were ruled by the fighters of the RAF and USAAF.
Tonight, hundreds of bombers were targeted on a specific location, but not on a city, a town or a village; not on a bridge or a viaduct, a road or a canal. They were all targeted on a point on the map, representing a large number of living beings, assault divisions of the Red Army identified to be preparing for an attack.
