Part of the Grossdeutschland battlegroup pressed ahead and crashed straight into the fires and destruction that was Kamieniec and showed that Schemmerring was wholly correct, for the surviving Russians fell back in disarray before them.
His main force, the remainder of the GD group plus his own 116th Division Kampfgruppe, turned to the southeast and pressed down Route 758, pushing the stunned Soviet guardsmen before them.
The headquarters of the Legion Corps D’Assaut was a hive of activity; some of it well focused and direct, some of it the work of men who were clearly rattled by the worsening situation.
Lavalle took a minute to himself with a cigarette and coffee, observing the map as it was updated, and no amount of reappraisal could make it look anything other than a disaster of monumental proportions.
Either the Legion had been tremendously unlucky and simply attacked into an unknown major Soviet assault, or it had walked into a well-concealed trap.
Whichever it was would be decided by men other than he, who would have time to consider everything in their enquiries.
Time was not a luxury he had.
‘What else can I do? What els…’
“What was that, Maurice? What did he say?”
Delacroix smiled as he replied.
“Good news, mon Général! Our comrades in the German Army have driven back the Soviet incursion northwest of Klimontów. They report good progress and anticipate relieving Colonel Emmercy within the hour.”
“No… no… not that… what did Haefali say?”
Delacroix turned back to the radios and refocussed on the one man who was recording the words of the third assault group’s commander.
The operator finished writing, acknowledged receipt, and handed the paper to an NCO who handed it on to the Legion’s CoS.
He skim read it and moved to the map, reading its subtle lines and colours as he translated the words into the battle situation.
“Mon Dieu! He can’t be serious, Sir?”
Lavalle read the report and laughed aloud, albeit briefly.
“He’s deadly serious, Maurice. Absolutely deadly serious. Now, let’s get Alma prepped up for this… maybe… no… definitely get the part-brigade from 1st Division moved up to Route 9. No sense in keeping them back in reserve now. We need to distract as much as possible if this is going to work. Get onto air… we need as much as they can give us. We also need to tell our DRH comrades. Merde… he’s either brilliant or suicidal… and I can’t decide which. Now, if you please, Maurice. No time to lose!”
Delacroix sped away to do his commander’s bidding as Lavalle headed for the telephone to report to the Army Commander.
After some questioning, he escaped his leader’s wrath and incredulity, and returned to the map table.
Lavalle relaxed as much as he could, and the moment of lessened tension gave him a clarity he had lacked in the previous moments.
He nodded to himself and smoked another cigarette as he wondered why he hadn’t understood in the first instance.
Delacroix disturbed his thoughts.
“All communications sent and acknowledged, mon Général. You look like you’re happy. Something the Général said?”
“Hardly, Maurice. He said if that doesn’t work you’re being transferred to the Camel Corps.”
The comment hit the spot and his CoS guffawed loudly.
“I’ll take you with me, mon Général. But why the smile? Have I missed something, Sir?”
“We both did, Maurice… we both did.”
The colonel waited expectantly, casting his eye over the map to find signs of Lavalle’s revelation.
A finger was tapping on convergence of two routes.
Route 9 and Floriańska.
Sulisɫawice.
Delacroix didn’t understand.
And then he did, and simply nodded.
‘Knocke’.
0654 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, Sulisɫawice, Poland.
They were still holding against all comers or, as Knocke thought to himself, the Russians were simply not trying as hard.
The hastily-dug trenches had proven invaluable as the remnants of the group clung to the rear end of Sulisɫawice and the small hamlet of Skwirzowa-Młyn to the south.
They had resisted everything the enemy had thrown at them, and exacted a terrible price from the attacking Guards, but not without cost to themselves.
Knocke’s bodyguard was now down to one man, with Lutz seriously wounded and near death in the aid post, his stomach perforated by a burst of PPSh fire.
Amongst the dead was Colonel Renat-Challes, cut down by a mortar splinter as he organised the eastern defences.
Commandant Truffaux was there too, killed up close and personal when his position was overrun and he refused to leave a wounded officer behind.
A counter-attack by his men recovered his shattered body before the position was lost once more.
Companies were now platoons, and units were led by sergeants and corporals.
There was no man now who was safe and away from direct fighting.
Nearly every legionnaire was in the front line, for they were surrounded and there was no place to hide.
The sounds of fighting to the northwest grew louder, but the ring around them remained.
Solid and impenetrable.
Zilinski, coordinating the attack, winced as the orderly handled his ankle.
He had mounted a ruined wall to better observe the enemy positions and it had collapsed, snapping his ankle and tearing flesh from his calf.
He had ordered the bone bound as tight as possible so that he could manage to move around in some way.
The pain was immense and he had slugged a couple of glasses of vodka before the doctor had slipped him something outside of army issue to help ease his suffering.
His mind was now relaxed, almost emptied of the stresses of battle, unless he focussed hard on the problems he faced.
Which were twofold.
Firstly, the ex-SS and their lackeys fought every bit as hard as they had done in the Patriotic War.
He hadn’t fought them in the new war until this point.
Now he knew that the rumours were true, and they were still the hardest men the Allies could field.
Secondly, his commander, the ill-humoured Major General Deniken was on his back, threatening and cajoling him to complete his mission and secure the roads in and around Sulisɫawice.
His units, such as Deniken insisted that he should be attacking and winning with, were great on paper.
But his battalions had shrunk to companies and his command structure was ravaged.
As always, the enemy killed the leadership whenever the opportunity arose, and they had given the Legion bastards plenty of opportunities.
Leaving his mortars and artillery to put shells into the enemy defensive perimeter, Zilinski had earlier met with the commanders of 53rd Guards Tanks, and the 361st, 167th, and 171st Guards Rifle Regiments, in order to plan one last coordinated attack.
0700 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, Sulisɫawice, Poland.
“Urrah! Urrah!”
“Alarm! Alarm!”
Shouts came from men on all sides, as the Guards rose up and charged once more, the tanks moved forward, and men stood to their weapons for the final defence.
Again, it was the tirailleurs of the 7e RTA, battered and reduced to a shadow of their former strength, that suffered the focus of Zilinski’s attack, his 167th Regiment augmented by his own headquarters troops and those of the 53rd Guards Tank Brigade, mainly consisting of two companies of SMG troops.