by Gee, Colin
It was as easy as that. A decision that was to move uncountable numbers of men hundreds of miles and condemn thousands of others to instant death.
The orders flowed around Europe and by midday on the 28th, large contingents of German prisoners were moving eastwards. Driven on foot by their guards, most were glad to be leaving their accommodation but all shared the trepidation that accompanied a clear move to the east and away from their homelands.
Other groups of Soviet security troops were tasked very differently and the killing started.
Military officer figures, Captain had been selected as the lowest rank to be liquidated, were herded away from the large groups on some pretext.
The plan was simple.
Move the German prisoners away from the logistical routes so they could not cause problems. Use the returning transport to expedite the move swiftly. Kill as many German officers as possible.
Katyn had been cited in Stalin’s office and it was a fair comparison.
From camps the length and breadth of Soviet occupied Europe, columns of men were on the move whilst assassination squads worked feverishly before moving on to the next assignment.
As was bound to happen, some camps realised what was happening and there were outbreaks of rebellion. In such cases, five in total, everyone was killed out of hand. In those five camps alone Seven thousand prisoners were efficiently murdered. Flamethrowers were employed to burn the bodies in their huts after the surviving prisoners had stacked their comrades and been shot in turn.
One incident outside of Ostrava saw a column of nine hundred and fifty prisoners denied use of the bridge over the Opava River.
Men who had been run into the ground for hours previously were forced into the water in a bid to reach the other bank. Comrade struggled to help comrade; those who could swim attempted to assist those who could not through ability or injury. They drowned in their hundreds.
Less than two hundred men formed on the other side and of them, only one hundred and twenty-six made it to the railway line, the rest falling dead or dying on route.
About two thousand men crowded into a modest steamer were lost in the Baltic when it ran into a floating German mine off Danzig.
Trains crammed with prisoners flowed eastwards in the daytime and back again at night, filled with very different cargoes.
Some trains hauled only bodies to special sites where they were swiftly interred and all traces removed.
It was murder on a huge scale.
Some have been thought brave because they were afraid to run away.
Thomas Fuller
Chapter 25 – THE BOY
1210 hrs Friday, 27th July 1945, Tank Laager, Stendal, Soviet Occupied Germany.
He was the product of his country’s military machine, twenty-two years of age, finely honed, schooled in war and all its intricacies and yet, both fortunately and humiliatingly, he had seen no combat. Short and thin, he was unassuming to the eye but had abilities which were apparent to all those who taught him during his formative years.
Selected for the officer training as much because of his connections as for his obvious talents, Junior Lieutenant Vladimir Stelmakh had eventually been given command of a brand new development in Soviet armour, namely the Iosef Stalin III. A beast of a tank, some of his peers and one of his class mates had ridden them into action in a small skirmish south of Berlin, and quickly immolated two tired old Panzer IV’s and a battery of 105mm Flak guns without a shot being fired back at them.
Yet more of his friends had been dispatched across the country to serve in the upcoming Manchurian Operation but he, both to his chagrin and relief, still languished in barracks outside the German capital.
Son of a distinguished Red Army General, a man of impeccable political roots as well as of the highest military credentials, Vladimir had done all the things a good up and coming member of the party should do. Meetings attended, works carried out with the Young Communists, forever earning the praise of those who now watched over his progression.
His father had met his death at the hands of the Luftwaffe on the South-Western Front near Kalach in late 1942, leading his troops from the front in one of the many desperate counter-attacks of those fraught times.
The full nurturing of Vladimir’s career meant he was not thrown into the final days and was extended the honour of serving with the 6th Guards Heavy Tank Breakthrough Regiment, 12th Guards Tank Corps, equipped with the revolutionary IS-III, ready to engage the heavier German tanks on even terms with a vehicle of excellent armour defence and hitting power.
Whilst it was an honour to be selected, it was a double-edged sword because to the son of a holder of numerous of his nations highest awards, Vladimir would obviously need to claim some glory of his own if he was not to fall forever under the shadow of his predecessors. Even his grandfather had, in the Czar’s time, won fame and accolades in the Great War, although the final and highest accolade had admittedly also been accompanied by untimely death.
The prospect of serving in the crushing of Japan’s Manchurian army had been similarly raised his hopes, which crushed in turn, and he remained behind as classmates and comrades took their tanks off to fight in the final battles of the war in the east.
It was difficult for him to indulge so wholeheartedly in the European victory celebrations with his comrades when all that sat on his chest were his political awards, not one earned for risking his life in combat or leading his troops in swift victories.
The majority of his unit were veterans, survivors of many bitter clashes with the hated panzers, those whose wits had preserved, skills had saved, or lady luck had plucked from certain death. They had meted out their share of destruction upon the Germans and carried the rewards of their bravery on their uniforms as proudly as they bore the scars sustained earning them beneath them. Alongside them, Vladimir felt equally shamed and relieved, as there was nothing he could do to rectify the situation, so he would probably forever be bereft of evidence of his prowess in combat and commitment to his Motherland.
The American officers with whom he often enjoyed off-duty time had no idea the metal on his chest came from non-combat achievements so, with them at least, he could relax a little. That was perverse, for they represented a system as much despised as the national socialist system that had brought his Motherland so much death and destruction. The capitalists had been useful during the patriotic struggle, that was true, but their system was corrupt and would undoubtedly fall in time.
Whilst others found the Western Allies offensive and considered them as much an enemy as the Germans so recently crushed, Vladimir found solace and comfort in their company solely because they had no idea of his failure to contribute to the event of the century.
In his duties, he was impeccable, training to the highest standard, preparing his troopers for a battle already over. He learned the intricacies of his new tank in depth, and was quick to pass on his knowledge to all his men.
His crews loved him all the same, recognising the hurt in him alongside the extraordinary abilities of the natural born leader. They strove to be the best they could be, partially because memory told them they had needed to be and partially to make their leader proud of what he had made them into.
If the hated Germans rose again, then the heavy tank platoon commanded by Junior Lieutenant Vladimir Stelmakh would walk tall on the battlefield and give such an account of itself that his name would eclipse that of his forebears.
However, he knew that the German was a vanquished foe and that he would never take his men into glorious combat, and for that, he was both sorry and happy, for Vladimir was a coward.
I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives. I like to see a man live so that his place will be proud of him.
Abraham Lincoln
Chapter 26 – THE PARATROOPER
0705 hrs Monday, 30th July 1945, Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.
He was twenty-five and home was a thing of distant memory for
Captain, Acting Major, Marion J Crisp of the 101st US Airborne Division. It would have been even more distant if his application to join the newly formed 13th US Airborne Division had been approved, for that unit was being prepared for the invasion of the Japanese homeland. That would be no brief encounter and certainly no picnic.
However, others had been chosen in his stead and so he was now resigned to either joining the slow but steady stream of US service personnel returning to their own country after service overseas or remaining on the continent policing the remains of Europe.
Neither seemed a rosy prospect.
Crisp had joined the army to fight, for he saw across the Atlantic the Nazi threat to his country, if not realistic now then certainly for the future. With the Japanese attack had come a focus elsewhere. He resolved to seek transfer to a combat unit destined for service in the Pacific until the formation of the paratrooper units caught his eye and assaulted his senses with tales of glory, action, élan and professionalism and he was hooked.
After completing his training, Crisp was given his platoon and he took them across the Atlantic to train and prepare for combat. Billeted outside the small Berkshire village of Hungerford, close to the Wiltshire border, Crisp brought his men up to and beyond excellence. Skills were honed in manoeuvres through the green fields and country lanes of England. His utter professionalism and drive pushed him to the forefront of a unit of similar professionals and his silver bar came quickly.
It was as a First Lieutenant that he made the jump on D-Day with the 501st Airborne Infantry, Charlie Company, 101st US Airborne Division.
On that bloody day, he had earned his Silver Star rescuing under fire the dying pieces of a man that had once been his Captain, and leading the remnants of the company in successful action against a German paratrooper force. Paratrooper fighting paratrooper always carried a special meaning and ferocity, and that combat had left him with less than half the men he had jumped with still on their feet. His first purple heart was nearly the last award he received for the bullet that creased his head would have ended his life if it had been an inch to the left.
Acting as infantry for many weeks after the initial assault, his paratroopers engaged the cream of Germany’s forces, and gave good account of themselves, in particular dealing roughly with the 17th SS Panzer-Grenadiere Division and, in turn, receiving a mauling at the hands of the 2nd SS Panzer Division.
After being withdrawn to England for recovery and the integration of reinforcements, some lunatic had come up with the nightmare plan of Market-Garden and again he dropped with his men into German territory. Fate dealt him a heavy blow, and he was unfortunate to break his leg on landing. He never fired a shot during the operation and never saw a German. His company went forward to battle once more with SS panzer troops but this time fought only to a bloody draw.
He returned to the unit before his leg had properly healed and just in time for the move forward to Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. It was here that the Distinguished Service Cross was earned. During an engagement with the 9th SS Panzer Division the young Captain, still inhibited by his aching damaged leg, ran, crawled, and stumbled through a storm of fire to successfully destroy three German panzers with his bazooka, and crowned that with using a discarded MG34 to destroy a German platoon outflanking his own position.
There was a school of thought that he earned that medal of medals more than once in those cold and bitter days, as his inspirational leadership, guts and determination carried his unit through some terrible times in the face of everything that the enemy could throw at them.
His conduct in the drive into Germany proper had brought him a second DSC for taking the village of Nussdorf single-handedly, by the act of driving into it alone in a jeep and speaking with the garrison commander under a flag of truce. Legends were built around what he may or may not have said to that SS Major, but the fact that three hundred and forty heavily armed SS diehards gave themselves up without so much as a bun thrown was huge testament to the personality of the man.
The German surrender had found the unit in Southern Germany, on the Austrian border near Berchtesgarten. Most of the paratroopers who had survived heaved their collective sighs of relief and awaited their passage home, for they were certainly assured they would be amongst the first. Some, like Crisp, volunteered for the Japanese assault but were not afforded the opportunity to transfer into the newly forming airborne units and some, unlike Crisp, got their orders and were already on their way to death or glory in warmer climes.
The 501st was separated from the division and settled into France for retraining prior to being shipped to the Pacific in its own right after the assault.
Which brought him round to today, Monday 30th July 1945.
He stood in front of the ornate full-length mirror and adjusted his tie, before working his experienced eye over his uniform from head to foot. With a nod of approval to himself, he walked to the window and looked out over a stunning view, vineyards and villages spread out as far as the eye could see.
A check of the newly installed wall clock, which had ticked relentlessly through the still of the night, indicated that breakfast time was already upon him, his first meal since his late Sunday evening arrival.
One last look of appreciation for his baronial surroundings and he left the room in search of the mess hall.
At the bottom of the hexagonal stairs, he found no clues but luckily an orderly emerged from the kitchens.
“Excuse me. Could you please show me to the mess hall?”
“Of course Commandant, follow me if you please.” Crisp was conducted back upstairs and shown into the impressive stone columned dining room, wherein sat a number of allied officers eating large breakfasts and chattering incessantly.
His eyes took in the officers, none of whom noticed his arrival. Twelve French and four Brits, with solely one other in the uniform of the US Army.
And so it was that the last member of the third class sat down for breakfast in the grand dining room of the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg.
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
William Shakespeare
Chapter 27 – THE CHANCE
1659 hrs Monday, 30th July 1945, Bossong’s, Quai de Pêcheurs, Selestat, French Alsace.
Whilst the great men sat in the Kremlin and made decisions affecting the lives of everyone on the planet, and allied officers listened to the sage words of Germans in the symposiums, a conversation took place in a vintner’s in Selestat.
Bossong’s was an old shop, a symbol of a bygone age, but it still served its purpose well. Ancient wooden shelving created specifically for housing delicate vintages surrounded the open central area, where stood a tall table with all the paraphernalia associated with the tasting of fine wines.
The layer of dust and mulchy smell were all part of the image, as were the huge oil lamps that cast their flickering shadows around the room.
A gothic style wall clock loudly chimed five o’clock in the afternoon, completing the scene.
The owner had continued trade as well as he could over the German occupation and, with the coming of the allies, had recovered some of his considerable hidden stocks for sale to the allied liberators at a fine profit.
Loose tongues had immediately wagged and a requisition order from the French Army had arrived, born by a smartly turned out French Commando officer, reducing his best Alsatian stock to a bare minimum. Admittedly, he would be paid but not at the rate he was securing from the allied officers who presently frequented his establishment.
One such, a Polish liaison officer with the French First Army, had visited for his regular bottle of Trimbach, only to find the owner sympathetic but not forthcoming.
Despite the fact that the previous Friday there had been well over a hundred bottles available, today the owner had none for sale.
“But Monsieur, surely you can find a bottle for me? I have promised my girl some of your fine Trimbach.”
“Command
ant, I regret I cannot, even for a good customer such as yourself. I have none available and neither do I have any Edelzwicker either, for both supplies have been requisitioned by the Army of France.”
The Polish Major leaned forward, inviting the proprietor into conspiracy.
“Surely they would not miss one bottle Monsieur Bossong?”
The owner looked up at the doorway, even though he knew no one was there.
“Commandant, again I regret, but I have signed a document and must deliver them all to the Château where they will be checked in. The figures are precise.” The owner consulted a document on the desk.
“One hundred and six bottles of Trimbach and fifty-eight bottles of Edelzwicker by tomorrow afternoon. I have even been given a permit and military transport has been detailed to arrive here at 2pm tomorrow. For me to be paid I must ensure they are all checked in at the Château.”
The owner wrung his hands in the manner common to all those of subservience over the ages.
“Forgive me Commandant, but I cannot appropriate one for you as I will not risk the wrath of ‘Deux’. Please feel free to select another wine and I will sell it to you at cost as a token of my apology.”
The Major grunted acceptance and looked over at other wines arranged in a large wooden rack down one long wall. He studiously picked up a particularly good Moselle and chose his words carefully.
“Surely one soldier looks like another in our uniforms Monsieur. And besides, French Military Intelligence is all over at Baden-Baden with their top brass.”
