The Devil's Shield (Dogs of War)

by Leo Kessler

  Blow the bugle, beat the drum!

  Clear the street, here comes the Wo-tan!

  Steel is our weapon

  To hew through bone.

  Blood our purpose,

  Wotan hold close.

  For Death is our Destiny …’

  Marching Song of SS Battle Group

  Wotan, Autumn 1944.

  In the grim autumn of 1944, the fifth year of the war, Colonel von Dodenburg’s SS Battle Group Wotan had become the ‘Führer’s Fire Brigade’, the elite unit of the German Wehrmacht, to be thrown into any battle as a last desperate measure to redress the balance. Its men, teenage veterans who had grown savage and brutal on the battlefields of half Europe, owed no loyalty to their nation, their Führer or their state. Their sole loyalty was to their comrades, their beloved commander and their very weapons.

  Dedicated to death, knowing that their dreaded silver death’s head cap badge condemned them as war criminals, they felt no fear, fighting savagely against overwhelming odds for a cause already long lost. Thus, in the grey September of that year, Colonel von Dodenburg’s black-uniformed troopers came to Aachen, Germany’s ‘Holy City’, with the Führer’s order to hold it ringing in their ears. SS Battle Group Wotan was fighting on German soil at last!

  Leo Kessler. Trier,

  Germany, 1974.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Poem

  One: The Holy City

  Section 1 One

  Section 1 Two

  Section 1 Three

  Section 1 Four

  Section 1 Five

  Section 1 Six

  Two: The Death Squad

  Section 2 One

  Section 2 Two

  Section 2 Three

  Section 2 Four

  Section 2 Five

  Section 2 Six

  Three: The Big Push

  Section 3 One

  Section 3 Two

  Section 3 Three

  Section 3 Four

  Four: The End

  Section 4 One

  Section 4 Two

  Section 4 Three

  Section 4 Four

  Section 4 Five

  Section 4 Six

  Section 4 Seven

  Section 4 Eight

  Also by the Same Author

  Copyright

  ONE: THE HOLY CITY

  ‘This goddam Catholic Aachen is Charlemagne’s city – the heartland of Germany, not National Socialist Germany, but all Germany … Aachen must remain German!’ SS Police General ‘Devil’ Donner to Colonel von Dodenburg, September 1944.

  ONE

  ‘FREEZE!’

  Fearfully the little reconnaissance patrol dropped into the damp grass at the river’s edge, weapons gripped tightly in suddenly sweating hands, and stared hard into the little valley beyond.

  The September sun was going down now. Long black shadows were sliding into the valley from the east. The silence was thick and unnatural, heavy with menace. Even the persistent rumble of the artillery to the west seemed to have vanished.

  Staff Sergeant Warner Holzinger, the patrol leader, who had rapped out the order, raised himself cautiously on one knee and stared at the wrecked bridge which led across the border river and into the valley. The Krauts had destroyed it only hours before. They had heard the thick crump of the explosion distinctly as they had felt their way carefully behind the retreating Krauts. That he knew for certain. What he didn’t know was whether they were now hidden up on the darkening heights, waiting for his little patrol from the US 5th Armored Division to cross into their territory before beginning the slaughter.

  ‘What do you think, Sarge?’ Corporal Driver asked as he crouched next to him, grease-gun at the ready. ‘That stream sure looks deep. Hell, the whole goddam place gives me the creeps! Shall we hightail it out of here?’

  Sergeant Holzinger licked his scummed, cracked lips, ‘Listen, fellers,’ he whispered, ‘You know the CO’s screaming for info. He’ll screw us real hard if we goof off now. We’ve got to check the place out. You know that, don’t you?’ He looked hopefully around the little patrol’s worn unshaven faces. But his men avoided his eyes. Holzinger knew they were as scared as he was. Still they weren’t noncoms. They didn’t have to make the goddam decisions. He did.

  ‘Okay then,’ he commanded, raising his voice. ‘This is the deal. I’m going to check the creek out. Frenchie,’ he nodded to their French guide. ‘You give me cover. Once we’re across, the rest of you guys follow. And get the lead out of yer asses. I don’t want the Krauts catching you in mid-stream with yer skivvies down. Get me?’

  Raising his .30 carbine to his chest, the young American sergeant stepped cautiously into the fast-flowing border stream. Slowly and carefully he started to wade into it, followed by a tense, half-crouched Frenchie. The icy water reached up to his knees. Then his thighs. He was half way across now. Still no sudden, high-pitched burst of mg fire from the other side. Nothing, just a faint icy wind heralding the night.

  Holzinger struggled on, fighting the current and the slippery stones underfoot. The water began to recede. It fell to the level of his rubber-soled combat boots. With a last grunt, he tugged his right foot clear and stepped on to the muddy bank – ‘a historic moment,’ the Stars and Stripes1 was going to call it later – carbine pressed tightly against his hip, ready for trouble. But still there was no sign of the Germans. Sergeant Holzinger wasted no further time. He spread the fingers of his hand out on the crown of his helmet – the infantry signal for ‘rally on me’ – and started up the steep slope, followed by a still tense Frenchie. Moments later the rest of the reccon patrol had joined him and, like the combat veterans they were, had spread out in the attack formation, advancing cautiously up the darkening hillside to what looked like a cluster of poor, rundown farm buildings.

  But their caution was unnecessary. When they reached them, they found them empty, obviously hastily abandoned by the fleeing Germans only hours before. They found more too. They weren’t farm buildings, but cunningly camouflaged bunkers, their walls behind the rotten wooden slats thick slabs of ferroconcrete.

  ‘Jeez, sarge,’ Driver breathed, running his flashlight around the dripping grey walls, unbroken save for the gun slits. ‘You know what this place is?’ Holzinger shook his head, as puzzled by his discovery as the rest of the reccon platoon.

  ‘It’s the Siegfried Line. We’ve gone and penetrated the goddam Kraut Siegfried Line!’

  Holzinger’s mouth dropped open as he absorbed the information. ‘Brother,’ he exclaimed suddenly, his face lighting up, ‘I think you’re goddam right! Wait till the CO hears this!’

  In the cold gloom of the bunker, heavy with the stench of German soldiers’ black tobacco and unwashed bodies, they grinned jubilantly at each other. But Holzinger knew there was no further time to be wasted. He pulled the walkie-talkie from Private Locke’s shoulder and pressed the speech switch.

  ‘Hello Sunray One,’ he called urgently, ‘Hello Sunray One. Charlie One here … Do you read me? Sunray One, do you read me? Over.’

  The little instrument crackled into life and the CO’s voice came through distinctly from his forward CP on the Luxembourg side of the border. ‘Hello Charlie One … hello Charlie One, reading you loud and clear. Over!’

  Sergeant Holzinger hesitated, aware suddenly of the significance of the message he would now give through. He cleared his throat. ‘Hello Sunray … hello Sunray. Charlie One speaking. Time eighteen zero fire hours, eleven September forty-four.’ He coughed. ‘Charlie Patrol has just crossed into Germany northeast of Stalzemburg. We have penetrated Objective A. No opposition. Positions abandoned by the enemy. Over!’ For a long moment there was silence, brok
en only by the static and the tense breathing of the men crowded round Holzinger in the centre of the German bunker. Then the CO’s voice came through loud and excited, radio procedure thrown to the wind.

  ‘Holzinger, you goddam lucky sonuvabitch! You’ve just become the first goddam enemy soldier in history to cross into Kraut territory since the days of that frog Napoleon!’ The CO gasped for breath. ‘Now get your butts back on over here, while you’ve still gotten them in one piece. I want you to tell this particular bit of info to the commanding general personally! Hot shit, Holzinger, he’s gonna be tickled pink that it was his division of the whole goddam Allied Army which was the first to penetrate into Kraut country. Now move it! Over and out.’

  ‘Roger and out,’ Holzinger snapped, thrusting the walkie-talkie into Locke’s hands.

  The sergeant needed no further urging to get out of the bunker and back to their White2 hidden in some pines on the Luxembourg side of the Our.

  ‘Okay guys,’ he announced. ‘Appears we’ve gone and made history or something. Now let’s get the hell out of here – this place is colder than a well-digger’s ass. And I just don’t trust them Krauts …’

  As the Amis scrambled down the hillside, slipping on the suddenly dew-soaked grass in their haste to get back to their White before the sinister little valley was completely dark, the little bespectacled signaller, who had stayed behind, rose from his hiding place. He breathed out hard with relief and wiped the sweat off his dirty, earth-stained brow with the sleeve of his tattered grey uniform jacket. He would have dearly loved to have had a smoke. But he knew there was no time and his hands were trembling like leaves as it was. He would not have been able to hold one of the Wehrmacht issue cancer-sticks. Besides he didn’t have one. He had smoked his last one after Lieutenant Rausch had ordered him to stay behind and report while he withdrew the rest of their decimated, demoralised battalion. Trying to control his trembling, he whirled the handle of the field telephone.

  Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, as if he were afraid that the Amis now wading through the stream might hear him, he whispered, ‘Can you hear me, sir?’

  ‘Of course, I can hear, you four-eyed shithouse,’ Lieutenant Rausch’s familiar, schnapps-thickened voice answered. ‘I might not be altogether right in the head for not getting out of the stubble-hoppers, but I’m not shitty well deaf. Get on with it, Meier, what have you to report?’

  ‘Beg obediently to report,’ the little signaller began, using the traditional Army formula for addressing an officer.

  But Rausch cut him short with a, ‘Go shit in the wind, man! What did you see?’

  ‘Ami panzer troops, Lieutenant. Just one armoured car. But I could hear the noise of a lot of tracked vehicles on the other side of the river. They’re out there in force, sir. Now can I come back?’

  Rausch did not answer his plea for a moment. Instead the signaller, who had been with the officer ever since they had started the long, bloody, panic-stricken retreat from France at the beginning of August, heard his CO sigh heavily as if he were weighed down with the cares of the Führer himself.

  Then Rausch said wearily ‘Well, Meier, you pale-faced pineapple-shitter, you know what this means, don’t you?’

  Meier, who knew that the CO meant the expression to be regarded as a form of endearment, was not offended.

  ‘No, sir, what does it mean?’

  ‘It means, you horned ox, that tonight or tomorrow morning, those sodding Amis will start the attack on Aachen and that by tomorrow night you and I will be running for our precious lives once more.’ The CO’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘The dream’s over, Meier. The glorious Greater German Wehrmacht is beaten at last.’

  Notes

  1. GI newspaper.

  2. White Scout Car, standard reconnaissance vehicle in US Army in World War II.

  TWO

  ‘Will you just take a look, sir, at those rotten currant-crappers,’ Schulze groaned, as the line of infantry holding the heights broke finally and began to run. ‘The whole shitty lot of stubble-hoppers are beating it.’ He spat contemptuously and looked at his young blond CO perched next to him on the deck of the Royal Tiger. ‘What the hell are we going to do with a bunch of wet sacks like that, sir? I ask you.’

  Colonel von Dodenburg, the commander of SS Battle Group Wotan, drawn up in readiness in the thick, fragrant pine wood, five kilometres west of Aachen, took his eyes off the ragged line of panic-stricken infantry streaming across the plain towards them. An officer was unsuccessfully trying to hold them back. The guns of the US VII Corps were beginning to plaster them. Soon the enemy Jabos1 would add weight to the softening up prior to an all-out Ami attack on the old Imperial City.

  ‘Wet sacks, did I hear you say, Sergeant-Major Schulze?’ he queried calmly, as if he were watching a movie and not the breakdown of the German line in front of Aachen. ‘I’m a little surprised at you – a senior NCO in the Armed SS’s most elite formation – saying such a thing.’

  The big-shouldered, ex-Hamburg docker, who had served with von Dodenburg on every European front since the Wotan’s earliest days, made an obscene gesture, thrusting his thumb between his two big fingers.

  ‘That’s what I think of those African warthogs out there, sir,’ he said contemptuously.

  The handsome, aristocratic colonel, clad in a black leather jacket, devoid of any decoration save the gleaming black and white enamel of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with palms and jewels, smiled. But there was no answering warmth in his hard blue eyes. ‘Those – er – African warthogs as you describe them, my dear Schulze, are German soldiers. The same men who marched to Moscow, conquered half of Europe, are fighting against a world in arms. All they are doing is what I believe our leaders call so delicately, a “correction of the front”. Tut, tut, Schulze, how can you say such things about the Führer’s beloved stubble-hoppers?’

  ‘And if I may humbly make the observation, Colonel – the Colonel is a cynic, sir.’

  Von Dodenburg’s reply was drowned by the screech of the Ami Jabos streaking in at 500 kilometres per hour. Angry purple lights crackled along the length of their wings. The fleeing stubble-hoppers scattered wildly. The vicious red and white tracer sliced yawning cavities in their ranks. Men went down everywhere, arms flailing, screaming as the Ami Lightnings swooped high into the grey September sky, twisting and turning exuberantly at the success of their sudden strike.

  Still the rest of the retreating stubble-hoppers came on, stamping over the bodies of their dead and dying comrades, pressing them deeper into the mud, ignoring their fervent pleas in their frantic attempt to escape.

  ‘Stand by!’ Colonel von Dodenburg yelled, swinging round to check that the black-clad crews with the gleaming SS runes and death’s head on their collars were alert and ready.

  Lightly he dropped off the tank’s deck and pushed his way through the bushes into the open. Feet spread apart, hands clasped on his hips, apparently oblivious to the Ami artillery barrage, he waited for the fugitives to reach their positions.

  ‘Great crap on the Christmas Tree,’ Schulze groaned. ‘Here we fucking well go again!’

  Nevertheless he followed his CO into the open, signalling the crews of the leading Tigers to join him. Now they formed a long silent line, machine-pistols unslung and at the ready, as the first of the stubble-hoppers came running towards them, chests heaving violently, helmets and rifles gone, one thought uppermost in their panic-numbed minds – escape! A boy drew level with them. His eyes were wide with fear, his hair tousled and disordered, his breath coming in short, leaden-lunged gasps.

  ‘Stop!’ von Dodenburg commanded.

  The boy did not hear him. He blundered on, hands stretched in front of him like a blind man.

  ‘Schulze!’ von Dodenburg bellowed without turning round.

  The big Hamburger thrust out his foot. The boy stumbled over it and fell full length. Schulze kicked him in the side of the head. He sprawled unconscious on the ground. Now the f
ugitives were everywhere, trying to break through the line of grim-faced, black-clad SS men.

  ‘The Amis,’ they gasped and wheezed. ‘The Amis – they’re coming … on the other side of the hill …’

  ‘Stop them!’ von Dodenburg thundered, still not taking his eyes off the heights over which the first Amis were expected at any moment.

  The black-clad SS men raised their butts and drove them into the faces and bodies of the panic-stricken stubble-hoppers.

  ‘Hey, give over,’ a fat-faced stubble-hopper with grey hair shouted. ‘We’re German just like—’ The words died abruptly in a mouthful of hot blood and shattered teeth. He staggered back, clutching his ruined mouth, his eyes wide and damp-gleaming with shocked outrage and pain. A young SS soldier slammed his nailed boot into the man’s crotch. The SS man did not even look down. He stepped over the fallen stubble-hopper, writhing in agony in the mud, and crashed his butt into the next one’s face.

  In a matter of moments the rout had been stopped and the surviving stubble-hoppers were standing there, crestfallen, their bleeding, battered faces staring down at their comrades lying moaning in the mud.

  As the first Ami Shermans breasted the hill with the infantry crowded behind them in tight frightened tails, Schulze bellowed: ‘All right, you perverted banana suckers, get in that ditch! And don’t a one of you dare to stir out of it till I tell you to.’ He raised his hamlike right fist. ‘Because if you do, you’re gonna get a knuckle sandwich which will keep you from getting hungry for a month of Sundays. Now come on, you jam-shitting stubble-hoppers – move it!’