by Gee, Colin
“So, is there something you want to tell me, my darling?”
0752 hrs, Tuesday 28th August 1945, Soviet medical facility, Former Concentration Camp [Nordhausen sub-camp], Rottleberode, Germany.
The nurse and doctor had flitted in and out through the rest of the night, but neither Tatiana nor her husband were aware of their presence, the former still tired from her illness and the latter, being a veteran soldier, making the most of the opportunity to rest.
Yuri Nazarbayev stirred a little as the door opened, his eyelids parting to take in a shape entering the room.
They closed again, seeking to promote more sleep before his brain started to bring him round, warning him that he should now be alert.
His eyelids shot open and he was greeted by the uniform of a Colonel-General stood quietly over his wife’s bed.
His body responded instantly and he shot to his feet, assuming the attention position, automatically reporting to the Senior Officer.
The old general stopped him in mid flow.
“Stop now Yuri Romanovich, you will disturb your wife. At ease, Comrade.”
His confusion was now complete, unused to being addressed in such a way by such a senior man.
“The doctor’s tell me she has come back to us.”
As if to prove the point, Tatiana provided a gentle snore for the moment.
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik General. She regained consciousness during the night.”
The older man nodded, turning to gaze at his most valuable asset.
“I had to come to see for myself, but I will not disturb her now she is resting. Look after her well, Yuri Romanovich, and please tell her I came to see her.”
“Apologies, Comrade Polkovnik General, but who shall I say called?”
“Ah my error, Comrade. I made an assumption. I am Polkovnik General Roman Samuilovich Pekunin.”
‘The head of the GRU? Govno!’
Pekunin understood the silent processes taking place before him.
“Do understand, Comrade. Your wife is my very best intelligence officer, and extremely valuable to the Motherland.”
Pekunin turned to leave, but halted and turned back.
“As you are most certainly aware, Tatiana also has some extremely powerful friends.”
Pekunin nodded and made to leave, but he turned back yet again and grinned, adding, “I don’t normally do hospital visits, you know.”
No matter how fatherly the man presented himself as being, Yuri Nazarbayev was still in the presence of an extremely senior officer and could not unbend.
Pekunin understood.
“Comrade Nazarbayev. My sympathies for the loss of your son. Be proud of him.”
Exchanging salutes with the Starshina, he left quickly, leaving the elder Nazarbayev to return again to the question of his wife’s position in the hierarchy of the Motherland.
1142 hrs, Tuesday 28th August 1945, Sector Six, Soviet Air Defense Command Facility, Butzbach, Germany.
USAAF bombers had already struck hard at the important rail junction in Friedberg that morning, leaving behind a radically altered landscape and miles of ravaged track.
Soviet fighter regiments were caught on the hop, and few intercepted the American bombers. Those that did were heavily engaged by the accompanying Mustangs.
Reports of another approaching bomber force were examined carefully, the new enemy following the precise route of the first attack.
None the less, the Soviet air commander was not a fool, and ordered some of his interceptors into action on the line of flight, retaining the rest to protect the suddenly vital junction.
A phone call from the new Air force Commander had focussed him on the inseparable link between the preservation of the rail link and his own career.
Perhaps that was what made him retain more assets to protect Friedberg then he needed.
Air raid warnings went out, covering the line of the enemy flight, and his fighters rose into the skies for the second time that morning.
1151 hrs, Tuesday 28th August 1945. Airborne at 20,000 feet, ten miles from and approaching Limburg, Germany.
“Five miles to target, Major.”
“Roger.”
USAAF Major Ronald Sterland had recently brought his 401st Bomb Squadron back from Florida, settling the unit back into its old base at Bassingbourne, England.
This was the first combat mission they had flown since that return and, so far, it was an absolute daisy.
Be that as it may, having fought in the skies over Germany for two years already, he, along with his experienced crew, could not help but feel uneasy at the sight of the fighters flying above them.
Feeling similarly strange, Hauptmann Kreuger of the 16th Jagdstaffel, had often piloted his FW-190D to attack the aircraft he was now tasked with protecting, and with great success, having knocked out a confirmed eleven of the giants from the skies over the Fatherland.
16th Jagdstaffel consisted of fourteen FW-190D’s, of which twelve were presently riding shotgun over the Flying Fortresses of the 401st and the other squadron’s of the 94th Combat Bombardment Wing. One FW aircraft had simply refused to start, leaving its experienced pilot fuming and harrying the ground crew. The other aircraft was probably still burning, having crashed on take-off, consigning Maior Dörn, the Staffel commander, to a fiery death.
The bombers were outnumbered by fighter escorts, the Luftwaffe Focke-Wulf’s sharing the sky with scores of USAAF Thunderbolts and Mustangs.
The heavies settled into their bombing run, preparing to visit hell upon the area five miles west of Limburg.
Messages from the area, some from German civilians, one even received over the still working telephone system, and a radio message from a cut off platoon of Rangers, had established that the Soviets were using the wooded area bordered by Hambach, Hirschberg and Görgeshausen as a hidden gathering point. The reports indicated that units that crossed the River Lahn overnight hid up there during the day, before moving on when darkness again gave them some respite from the increasing number of fighter-bombers.
94th Bombardment Wing was the first of five USAAF bomber wings tasked with obliterating the area in which the enemy were hiding.
The Soviet air controller vectored some of his fighters in to attack, and they found the 401st in the van, already on its bomb run.
The cries of warning reached Kreuger’s ears. Checking the sky and locating the threats, he oriented himself before ordering his Staffel to dive to the defence.
Identifying the enemy as La-7’s, the Focke Wulf pilots knew they were facing a speedy and robust enemy.
The Soviet aircraft belonged to the 32nd Guards Fighter Regiment, so that added combat experience and skill to the mix.
None the less, the breakneck dive of the FW’s deflected the Soviet regiment, even though no hits were apparent from the first pass.
Both sides jockeyed for position, the fifteen Lavochkin’s favouring an approach that brought them nearer to the bombers, the FW’s moved anywhere that gave them a chance to hack the enemy from the sky before they got at their charges.
Neither side were wholly successful.
The close escort Mustangs now had their own issues, as two regiments of Yak’s appeared from the south, boring in hard on the squadrons behind the 401st.
Further Mustangs from the top cover relocated, moving to assume the close escort position.
A flash occurred in Kreuger’s peripheral vision as one of the Lavochkin’s fireballed, the disciplined voice of a Luftwaffe veteran calling the kill in.
Within as many seconds, two more Soviet fighters were knocked out of the fight, both streaming away with smoke pouring from them, pursued by hardened men not inclined to mercy.
An FW came apart in mid-air, its yellow impeller leading the front section forward, the severed fuselage and wing section fluttering downwards like a sycamore seed.
Two Lavochkins closed upon the flank of the B-17’s, their triple Berzarin cannon seeking out and finding a
target.
The Mustangs failed to intercept them, a swarm of Yaks barrelling into them as they dived.
The ‘Lady Loo’ took seventeen solid 20mm hits, of which six were in her cockpit, reducing the flight crew to bloody offal.
The large silver aircraft rolled over on its back and described a curve all the way to the ground, burying itself and its green ‘first mission’ crew deep in German soil.
The US bombers screamed out for help, but a quirk of fate had robbed the 16th Jagdstaffel of its English-speakers before they had deployed to combat height.
None the less, the language of fear is universal, the tone and pitch of the transmissions searing into the Luftwaffe pilots’ brains.
Kreuger ordered his aircraft to protect the bombers, breaking off from the fighters in order to get back closer.
Another of his FW’s was missing, its pilot skilfully gliding away with a dead engine, right up to the moment he dropped into a defined flak zone. Soviet anti-aircraft gunners enjoyed the slow target and plucked it quickly from the sky.
Two more Lavochkins were attacking the rear B-17 in the American defensive box, and their success was apparent as the tail plane simply came away, leaving a slender upright section.
However, the B-17 was renowned for its ability to take punishment. A waist gunner underlined the aircraft’s ability to resist by lashing the engine and cockpit of the Soviet fighter with his .50 cal.
The La-7 dived and rolled away, its robust design also ensuring its survival, although the pilot was made of more vulnerable material. His eyesight was taken by fragments from his instrument panel, and he flew blindly away from the combat.
Kreuger hauled his FW round in a tight arc to get behind an attacking Lavochkin, only to find another FW had got there first, selecting short bursts with its 20mm MG151 cannons.
The pilot was missing badly and the Lavochkin scored hits on the target B-17.
Yells of alarm had preceded the attack and continued afterwards, the defensive machine guns engaging both the La-7 and the FW.
Kreuger screamed into his radio, “Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen!”
An American voice excitedly replied in schoolboy German, “You shot at us, you fucking assholes!”
Responding angrily in his own language, Kreuger pulled his fighter round and up in a rising hard port turn
“He was engaging the Russian fighter!”
Air combat rarely gives a man opportunity for conversation and Kreuger had exhausted his time, flicking right as an La-7 dropped in behind him.
A comrade overshot the dangerous Lavochkin without engaging, leaving Kreuger to manoeuvre hard to shake the obviously experienced enemy pilot.
The American-German voice cut in again, this time with even more anger and urgency.
“Bastards! Stop shooting at us! You killed Woody!”
Hauling back on his stick and executing a perfect loop, Kreuger lost his tail and stole a look at the B-17’s. The formation’s corner Fortress was smoking badly from both starboard engines.
Thinking on his feet, he ordered the Staffel not to close the bombers but to engage the fighters further out, passing that on to whichever of the bombers it was that spoke German.
A sixth sense made him roll away, the air he had occupied cut with tracers as an La-7, probably the one he had shaken off previously, attacked from below.
The Soviet airman made a mistake and turned the wrong way, the veteran Luftwaffe pilot taking the offer of the Lavochkin’s belly and transformed the sleek craft into a jumble of fiery pieces with one sustained burst.
The American-German screamed across the air waves.
“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus! You kraut bastards!”
Kreuger sought out the stricken plane, its whole right wing a mass of flames, smoke also pouring from the waist gunners hatches, as fire progressed through the crew spaces of the dying Fortress.
He also noticed that the killer was still firing.
He also noticed that it was an FW-190.
‘Götz?’
“Götz! Cease fire, you fucking idiot,” which OberFeldwebel Götz did, but only because the B-17 was already doomed.
It was Götz who had flown into the attack before, deliberately missing the La-7’s to hit the bomber beyond.
‘Bastard.’
Keying his mike, Kreuger spat out his words.
“Achtung! Götz in nine is a communist! He’s shooting at the Amerikanski! Take him down immediately!”
Only two of the German pilots responded immediately, the idea of shooting down a comrade, even a traitorous one, too much for the others.
Neither was successful and Götz, showing a skill not previously witnessed, slid underneath a third B-17, walking his cannon shells along its belly, the doors still open from when the 401st other junior crew had dropped their bombs.
The La-7’s were still in play, but the FW’s seemed to be on top of the situation, and the whirling mass of fighters started to fall behind.
The three FW’s now bore in on the one rogue aircraft, all seeking to preserve their new allies.
A tail gunner on ‘Rock of Ages’ saw his opportunity and took the wing off an FW neatly, a long burst severing it at the root.
Kreuger screamed into the radio.
“Nicht Schiessen! Friendly aircraft shot down!”
The other FW hauled off, the situation beyond him, as those he sought to protect hacked his friend from the sky.
Götz, having got off a burst at ‘Rock of Ages’, pulled up and rolled back right, determined to make another attack on the fortress.
By his estimation, he had very little ammo left, so he decided to close to where he could not miss.
Kreuger, approaching from the rogue FW’s starboard flank, saw his opportunity and pressed the button.
Silence.
‘Verdamnt!’
2nd Lieutenant Dominic Di Mattino could see the eyes of the German pilot, but was powerless to act. Both his arms had been shattered by the first attack, so his rear gun station, although perfectly positioned to knock the kraut out of the sky, stayed silent.
In slow motion, the yellow impeller came from left to right as he watched incredulously, smashing into the other FW even as it fired its cannon.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
Sacrificial.
Courageous beyond measure.
The collision took place fifty yards from his face and Di Mattino watched as the impetus crushed the cockpit of the rogue FW, bending the aircraft like a reed, as the other Focke-Wulf came apart, wings folding together like hands clapping.
The mass of scrap metal dropped like a stone. Di Mattino shifted painfully to watch it fall.
Nothing emerged from the aircraft that had fired at them, the pilot very obviously destroyed by the impact.
A rag doll detached from the second aircraft and tumbled away.
The air gunner watched fascinated, horrified, sickened, as the form descended, trailing useless cords from a useless harness.
Spiralling.
Falling.
Without hope.
The attacks were beaten off and the bomber’s mission completed.
In silence, the 401st had turned and, in silence, it was escorted back by the remaining six FW-190D’s of 16th Staffel.
At the allotted point, the fighters took their leave, the final words left with the senior American officer.
“Thank you 16th, and good luck.”
And, in silence, the two ravaged squadrons returned to their own bases.
The mission had been a massive success, Götz aside, the only problems being caused by those Soviet Air Defence response regiments that intercepted just in advance of the bomb zone.
On the ground, units of the 3rd Guards Army had been devastated, packed tightly as the intelligence suggested.
The 87th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment had been totally obliterated, its IS-II’s nothing more than expensive scrap metal. 140th Gun Artillery Brigade was so badly hit that i
t was withdrawn from the order of battle and its survivors used to fill gaps in other artillery units.
6th Pontoon Bridge Brigade lost much of its equipment but luck preserved over half of the qualified engineers.
However, it was the infantry of 22nd Rifle Corps that sustained the worst of it, with virtually the whole Corps written off.
In the most devastating single air raid of the war so far, the Red Army had lost over four thousand dead. The same number were wounded in various measures, but no-one who was under that attack came away unscathed, the psychological effects breaking many a hardy soul.
In the air, the La-7’s of the 32nd Guards Fighter Regiment had been decimated, the other Soviet regiments more fortunate but unable to engage close their prime targets, losing three Yaks to four Mustangs.
The Thunderbolts were not engaged, much to their annoyance.
The 401st lost more B-17’s than the rest of the force combined, six aircraft being lost with one, ‘Rock of Ages’, crash-landing on return.
Highest casualties were meted out to the Luftwaffe pilots of 16th Jagdstaffel. Including the unit commander, who crashed on take-off, seven FW’s had been lost, although the Jagdstaffel Intelligence officer was loathe to record seven losses and stated six, crediting the additional kill to Hauptmann Kreuger’s record before adding the simple and poignant word.
‘Gefallen.’
The report of the 401st’s commanding officer made its way up the chain of command and was acted on within SHAEF’s headquarters, the final approval resting with Eisenhower himself.
It was then forwarded to Washington, where other minds decided to decline its approval, given the full nature of the day’s events.
The matter was revisited under Eisenhower’s presidency, and he set aside time during his informal visit to Bonn on 26th-27th August 1959 to rectify the omission, at which time he presented the Medal of Honor to the wife and son of the still missing Hauptmann Walter Kreuger.
The ever-thoughtful Ike also ensured that the surviving men from the B-17 ‘Rock of Ages’ were all present, with their families, to complete the honouring of a very brave man.
