by Leo Kessler
Outside the Fuhrer was gasping to one of his enormously tall aides, busy forming the snowballs for his master to throw at the yapping alsatian, ‘Most times you can’t trust a man, not to mention a woman, Lieutenant, but you can always trust a dog, can’t you, my sweet little Blondi? ‘
‘What a soft sentimentalist he really is, this Master of Western Europe!’ Jodl told himself and he began to toy with Keitel. ‘Naturally the Fuhrer will immediately demand the sending of troops to relieve the Godforsaken place once he hears this baker chappie is there,’ he said.
‘Of course, of course,’ Keitel said eagerly, his wooden-face showing as much animation as it could ever show.
‘But naturally we must drive that idea out of his head,’ Jodl snapped.
Keitel ‘s face dropped. ‘Why?’ he asked crestfallen.
‘Because we haven’t got the troops to involve ourselves in an adventure,’ he emphasized the word with a sneer, ‘of that kind. We need everybody we can find to hold the river line. Because that’s where the other chaps will attack next.’
‘I expect you’re right Jodl, you always are—’
‘Mostly,’ Jodl agreed, with a little smile on his thin calculating lips, as he wondered how long it would take Keitel to begin his special pleading for the Kirn fellow.
‘Of course, there is Peiper to consider,’ Keitel countered unexpectedly, ‘I know the Fuhrer regards him highly and he is one of our boldest and best young commanders. He’ll be a general before he’s thirty. The Fuhrer himself told me that.’ He looked expectantly at Jodl.
‘He is of the SS. I feel we would sleep sounder in our beds, Keitel, if our best and boldest young commanders came from the Wehrmacht, where we can control them, instead of Himmler.’
The reply took the wind out of Keitel’s sails for a moment, and he fell silent.
Outside the Fuhrer was saying, ‘I’ve always had dogs, Lieutenant, even in the trenches during the First World War out in Flanders and I can state categorically they have never betrayed me one single time.’
Jodl sniffed and waited.
‘The Fuhrer is on “thou” terms with Gauleiter Kirn,’ Keitel said, ‘And there are only two other men who can boast that high honour.’
‘There ‘s his dog,’ Jodl countered cynically.
Keitel flushed crimson. ‘I do not think, Herr General,’ he snapped icily, ‘that that remark was called for.’
‘Perhaps not, Herr General,’ Jodl replied, his eyes full of amusement. Keitel was the boot-kissing lackey that the staff thought him. What did they call him behind his back? Lackeitel.
‘The Fuhrer will demand some sort of action,’ Keitel said with as much firmness as he could ever muster.
‘Naturally.’ Jodl waited, not letting Keitel off the hook, making him sweat, while he made up his own mind about what should be done.
‘How will we advise him, Jodl?’
Outside the Fuhrer was talking doggie language in his thick Upper Austrian accent, as he fed Blondi a few titbits, the signal that exercise period was over and that he would be soon coming in to be welcomed by his steaming hot peppermint tea, sickly cream cakes and the usual handful of tablets supplied by his quack.
‘His beloved SS have refused to help. That butcher-boy Dietrich has declined to assist the baker-boy.’ Jodl smiled sourly, while Keitel stared at him wooden-faced, wondering how he was to keep the Fuhrer from falling into one of his blind rages if Jodi could not find an acceptable solution. ‘Nor are we of the Wehrmacht in a position to do anything. So?’
‘So?’ Keitel echoed puzzled.
‘So that leaves the fly-boys.’
‘But how can the Luftwaffe help, Jodl?’
Jodl picked up his belt from the hook and bound it round his trim waist. Automatically Keitel did the same, though he had more difficulty with his gross stomach. Jodl checked his uniform. All his buttons were done up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So my dear General Keitel, shall we now go and tell the Greatest Captain of ALL Times what he must do...?’
TWO
Obersturmbannfuhrer Jochen Peiper’s spectacular breakthrough put new heart into the hard-pressed garrison of the shattered little Russian town, even though his men were as starved as the defenders were. That very same day, Schulze snapped out of his lethargy and organized patrols from Spanish and Wotan volunteers to loot the Russian tanks and dead for food and ammunition. Their haul was meagre, but the volunteers found enough millet and the dried kiska fish the Russians always carried with them in combat to provide one hot meal for every man, washed down with the last of Little Napoleon’s supply of cognac.
Peiper was in high spirits, although he gave his own mug of cognac to his gunner as a prize for having knocked out three T-34s, pleased by the final success of his mission in spite of all the odds against it.
Speaking informally and without any pretence, although he was aware he was known to every man in the room from his photographs on the cover of the Signal and the heroic prose of Schwarze Korps, he sketched out the situation as he saw it and outlined their chances of being relieved now that he had managed to get a radio message through to the rear.
‘Comrades,’ he said, with only a trace of a Berlin accent in his hard, incisive voice. ‘You can rest assured that our own people will begin to take immediate steps to relieve us here now, more especially when the Fuhrer is informed that his old comrade Gauleiter Kirn is part of the garrison.’ He looked over at Kirn, who was stuffing his mouth with the tiny, dried fish, tails and all. The Golden Pheasant waved a happy hand, too busy with the food to reply. Peiper winked at Schulze knowingly.
‘When the Fuhrer realizes just how much his old comrade is suffering here in the frontline, he will undoubt-edly order a major force into action.’
The Wotan men grinned at Peiper, but then the young colonel’s pale face hardened once more. ‘Now it is simply a question of sticking it out till our rescuers arrive. The Ivans got a bloody nose this morning. But do not underestimate them. They will be back. Therefore we must maintain an aggressive defence with what resources are available to us. We must encourage them to believe that we are larger and fitter than we really are.’
‘Blind ’em with bullshit!’ Schulze shouted, carried away by the new spirit of hope and resolution that the handsome colonel had brought with him.
‘Exactly, Sergeant Schulze.’ He raised his empty mug. ‘For those of you lucky swine who still have some damned firewater left, I give you a toast.’
The men followed suit, whether their mugs were empty or not.
‘Comrades, let us blind ’em with bullshit!’ Peiper called.
‘Blind ’em with bullshit!’ a hundred hoarse, delighted voices roared back and next to a beaming Schulze, Matz growled, ‘You know, you big barn-shitter, I think that gent up there is going to pull it off...’
*
The next twenty-four hours passed uneventfully, save for the hourly Soviet ‘hates’, when their artillery blasted the defenders’ positions with five minutes’ intensive shelling. But in spite of the relative calm, the defenders were uneasy and on edge, continually glancing to the west and anxiously waiting for the first sight of the relief force. Twice Schulze sent out volunteer patrols as far as the thick pine forests, but they returned with the disappointing news that the most likely spot for the relief troops to re-group ready for the break-in was empty.
In the end, just as even Peiper was beginning to despair that perhaps his radio message in clear had not got through after all, the first sign that action was being taken appeared — but not from the direction the hard-pressed defenders had expected.
Just before noon on the second day, while the Spanish cooks laboured at preparing a gruel, made from tree-bark and boot-leather, and given body with a sack of sawdust that they used normally to heat their stoves, a sentry alarmed the camp with the cry of: ‘Aircraft approaching -ten o’ clock!’
Immediately the alarm bells started to sound every-where, with the NCOs shrilling their whistles urgently, whi
le the men staggered wearily to their duty positions.
Peiper snapped, ‘Sergeant, give me your binoculars.’
Readily Schulze handed his own glasses to the young colonel, who sprang easily onto the deck of the nearest Panther and raised them to the sky.
‘What are they, sir?’ Schulze asked, taking in three black dots advancing terribly slowly on the horizon. to the west. ‘Ours?’
‘Famous last words,’ Matz sneered at his side, as the flak on the enemy side of the line opened up with a roar, indicating that the three slow planes were indeed not Russian.
At a steady one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour, the planes advanced towards the watching men, who stood there everywhere, necks craned as they tried to make out the nationality of the strange machines, heedless of the copper driving bands and pieces of shrapnel dropping from the Soviet flak all around.
Suddenly Peiper let out an uncharacteristic yell of triumph. ‘They’re ours!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good old Auntie Jus! ‘
‘Auntie Jus!’ the men yelled, as they, too, recognized the slow old three-engined Junkers 52 transport, flying towards them purposefully like ancient harbingers of good tidings.
The flight-leader waggled his clumsy wings and began to descend. The other two did the same.
‘They’re not going to attempt to land here, sir?’ Schulze cried in alarm, ‘It’s too rough!’
‘No,’ Peiper snapped back, his glasses fixed on the planes. ‘They’ve got their doors open. They’re going to make a drop.’
‘Drop!’ Schulze echoed excitedly. ‘Did you hear that, you little arse with plush ears?’
‘Yeah, lovely flyboys, they’re gonna drop us some grub.’ Matz licked his lips in anticipation. ‘Perhaps there’ll be a drop of firewater as well.’
‘Keep it down to a low roar,’ Peiper commanded, concentrating on the planes which were descending in perfect formation despite the enemy flak exploding all around them in frightening black puff-balls. ‘Get ready to send out a party to recover the ’chutes.’
‘Sir!’ Schulze barked and cupping his hands around his mouth, bellowed at the Butcher hiding in the nearest foxhole now the falling shrapnel was getting really thick, ‘Haul ass, you cowardly shit! Get a party together ready to pick up the ’chutes and do it now!’
By this time, the three Junkers were at tree-top height, sailing across the steppe and trailing their black shadows over the surface of the snow. Now Schulze could quite clearly see the pale faces of the pilots and make out the dispatchers in the grey coveralls and parachutes clinging to the open doors, the wind whipping their uniforms, ready to eject the supplies.
A near miss sent the lead plane skidding fifty metres to the right. Schulze caught his breath. It had nearly smashed into the second Junkers. The harassed pilot caught it just in time and swung it back on course and Schulze, his heart beating furiously, could imagine just how the unknown flyboy had felt as he fought the controls.
‘Standby now!’ Peiper barked.
‘Standby recovery party,’ Schulze commanded.
The Butcher and his hastily assembled force poised. All around the Spaniards were cheering wildly. ‘Viva Alemania... Viva ’Itier... Viva el Fuhrer....’ They cried over and over again, swarthy faces aglow with excitement.
The first bundle tumbled from the lead plane, hurtling towards the ground at a tremendous rate.
‘Shit on the shingle, it’s not going to—’ Matz cried. There was a sharp grating crack. Silk mushroomed from the top of the bundle and the long, torpedo-like shape slowed almost instantly. It started to float down, swinging gently from side to side.
‘A food-bomb,’ someone identified the long container happily. ‘It’s a food-bomb!’
That act of recognition made even the Butcher forget his cowardice. ‘Follow me, you cardboard-soldiers,’ he commanded and started running heavily to the spot where the container would land.
Now the other two planes started to drop their loads too, ignoring the flak which peppered the air all around them, while Peiper watched anxiously for the smaller parachute, which would indicate the long awaited message from HQ.
Then tragedy struck, just as the drop seemed to be going off so successfully. With the recovery party running everywhere across the snow in front of the perimeter to rescue crate after crate, ignoring the suddenly angry Russian small-arms fire, the lead Junkers going into a gentle bank was hit.
Peiper gasped as the three-engined plane staggered visibly.
‘He’s bought one!’ Matz cried.
‘No, he’s gonna be all right,’ Schulze corrected him, as the pilot caught the plane just in time and prevented it from diving. The squat nose with its radial engine rose once more and the pilot completed his bank, while the other two of the flight did the same. ‘He’ll get home—’
Schulze broke off abruptly. Thick black smoke had started to pour from the leader’s right engine. Madly Peiper focused his glasses on it. The engine was on fire. Now he could see the tiny tongues of greedy yellow flame licking up in the smoke. The stricken Junkers pitched lower and lower, while above it the other two hovered helplessly.
‘Rescue party, sir?’ Schulze asked.
Peiper lowered his glasses and shook his head miserably, as the plane started to head for its doom. ‘I don’t really think, Schulze,’ he said slowly, ‘that we can do very much for the poor brave bastards. I don’t really.’
‘But, sir, we can try. I mean they did—’
The rest of Schulze’s words were drowned by the screech of the Junkers’ wildly protesting engines, as it went down into its last dive. Desperately the pilot fought to keep the plane’s wings level. To no avail. The starboard wing tilted dangerously. ‘Get it up, man, get it up!’ Peiper yelled, digging his nails into the palms of his hands painfully, willing the unknown pilot to make it.
He couldn’t. The wing struck a fir. The wing fell off and started swirling to the snow like a great, gleaming metal leaf. The Junkers careened to the right, completely out of control now, and then with a great rending crash that seemed to go on for ever, it smashed directly into the forest and exploded in a blinding burst of violet light.
Wordlessly Peiper raised his gloved hand to his cap in silent salute, while all around him the cheering died away...
*
Ivan the Terrible had watched the air drop in angry impotence. All that morning the Cossacks had been working their way through the woods, labouring through the deep virgin snow which came up to the bellies of their steaming mounts, as they attempted to outflank the Fritz positions, probing for a weak spot in the enemy perimeter. Now the drop and the crash of the plane, burning fiercely somewhere on the other side of the hill, the spot where it had come down still marked by a thick mushroom of slowly ascending black smoke, made the Cossack leader change his plans.
He reined his horse and stood high in his stirrups, while the Sotnik waited anxiously at his side for his commander’s orders, which more often than not meant plenty of headaches for him.
‘Horoscho,’ Ivan the Terrible said and tugged his black beard. ‘No Fritzes in sight. Looks as if it’s all right. And if it is an ambush Comrade Sotnik,’ he grinned maliciously, revealing a mouthful of gleaming stainless steel teeth, ‘you ‘ll make a sweet corpse.’
‘What am I to do, comrade?’ the Sotnik ignoring the CO’s so-called humour.
‘Take a troop and go to that crashed plane. I am curious to know why the Fritzes were stooging around here. If you find a Fritz alive, which I doubt, don’t kill him, bring him back here.’
‘Why comrade?’ the Sotnik asked puzzled. In the Red Cossacks they invariably killed prisoners.
‘Because there are a few little questions I would like to ask the Fritz, Sotnik. That is why.’ Ivan the Terrible laughed softly. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Involuntarily the Sotnik shuddered.
*
‘Dismount,’ the Sotnik ordered softly, as the riders halted in the cover of the trees.
While his men did so, t
he young captain surveyed the scene: the long black furrows through the snow, the severed wing, the engine torn loose by the tremendous impact and catapulted high into the trees where it now hung grotesquely and finally the shattered fuselage itself, its nose bent back like a peeled banana.
He frowned. It seemed impossible that anything could live through that. Still, orders were orders. He turned to his senior sergeant, ‘Vassily, take half the troops and secure the flanks. I’ll take the rest and look the wrecked crate over.’
‘Da, Tovaritsch Sotnik,’ the white-bearded NCO replied, and dividing his force in half, set about his task.
The Sotnik turned to the rest. ‘Five metres’ distance. First sign of trouble — disappear!’
‘Pity,’ a cross-eyed trooper sighed. ‘There’ll probably be some of that glycol in those engines. Good as pepper vodka when it’s mixed with a dash of lemon-juice.’
The Sotnik flashed an angry look and the Cossack closed his mouth swiftly. In a long file, with the Sotnik in the lead, they cautiously approached the wrecked plane, stepping over the pieces of metal debris and equipment which lay scattered everywhere, till finally the Sotnik halted them at the door, which hung on its hinges at a crazy angle. ‘Hold your positions,’ he commanded, ‘I’m going in.’
He pushed aside the door and entered the green gloom of the shattered plane, feeling his way to the cockpit. A dead man — or what was left of him — barred his way. It was the radio operator, still slumped at his little table, with the battery-powered radio still crackling very faintly, but minus his head.
The Sotnik’s eyes instinctively searched for it; then he gasped with horror. The head, eyes wide and staring at him as if in accusation, hung swinging from the roof, still suspended in the earphones. He swallowed the green bile which threatened to choke him and pushed on.
The cockpit was a shambles, the perspex a spider’s web of gleaming splinters, both pilots slumped over their shattered controls, their faces a blood-red mess, slashed to pieces by the flying metal. Hesitantly the Sotnik touched the shoulder of the first pilot and then that of his comrade. Both were dead.
