Jurgen Förster, the Soviet Union’s top living night fighter ace, formed a superb team with Hans Braun, both of whom were died-in-the-wool committed German communists.
The Heinkel drove in hard, but both men were confident that the enemy aircraft would see the error of their ways and draw off.
They did not, and the situation became even more tense when another two enemy night fighters dropped in astern of the He-219.
“Seems like they’re playing to new rules tonight, Oberleutnant.”
“One more time and I’ll… Mein Gott!”
The world went white as shells hammered into their fuselage, and Förster instinctively flipped the Heinkel into a tight right diving turn.
“What the fuck… Jesus, Jurgen… they got the transports, all three are going down… Scheisse!”
Had Förster been able to look he would have seen that the three Lisonov-2 aircraft had succumbed to Schräge Musik fire, the vertically mounted cannons in the German night fighters ripping open the tender bellies of the transports and dispatching each to a fiery death below.
Tracer bullets flashed past the canopy and Förster improvised into a rolling dive loop that pushed the pair of them back into their seats as the G-forces acted upon them.
“Get on the radio… tell base exactly what’s going on here!”
“But I don’t have any idea what the fuck’s going on here.”
Braun flicked the transmit switch and instinctively knew something was wrong.
“Radio’s out.”
He looked at the screen and shouted a warning.
“Target dead ahead… watch out man!”
Förster had but two seconds to react; it was enough.
Six 20mm MG151s put hundreds of bullets into the void and quickly closed down the gap, many smashing into the enemy aircraft, one of the DRL’s much vaunted FW Ta-154 Moskito.
It simply came apart and spread itself and burning jet fuel across the night sky.
Their wingman lost the unequal struggle first, and the awful squeals over the open radio told them of the death of their friends.
The old veteran radar operator screamed for his wife and children all the way down as his Heinkel burned around him.
The unsettling noise stopped, either by contact with the ground or by fire spread.
Neither man had time to reflect on the loss of comrades.
They were suddenly in a sky all alone with five enemy jets whilst the ground below sparkled with guns firing.
“Try that fucking radio again!”
Braun fiddled with it and saw it stutter into life.
“Yes! It’s wor…”
Six 30mm cannon shells entered the side of the crew compartment, striking everything that was vital.
Braun lived long enough to see his friend’s head simply disappear as one shell transited without exploding.
The nose of the aircraft was already coming apart as the last but one shell struck the corner of his radar set and exploded.
The final shell did further ignominy to Braun’s flayed carcass and the disintegrating Heinkel prescribed a slow fiery arc as it dropped away to the battleground below.
Chapter 192 – THE REENGAGEMENT
The most persistent sound which reverberates through men’s history is the beating of war drums.
0200 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, Europe.
In numerous locations, the special teams had gone to work prior to H-hour, and men had died long before they realised that the war had gone hot again.
At 0200 precisely, artillery shells started to land amongst Allied units and created the first frontline casualties of the renewed ground war.
Officers ordered counter-battery fire, or barrages on suspected concentration points, or strikes on areas where an attacking enemy had to be, and quickly the artillery of both sides were working with gusto.
Aircraft, no longer confined by orders, ranged freely and killed with equal freedom.
Reports flew back to corps and army commands on both sides of the line, with accusations of treachery on every officer’s lips.
German and Polish units, already alert and ready to roll for an exercise, suddenly found themselves tasked with moving forward to respond to the obvious and imminent Soviet threat.
In Frankfurt, George Patton was woken from his slumbers to find himself in the position he had always coveted.
Solely in charge of his own war.
He sought information before making his decisions, but he also empowered each and every one of his senior commanders to do everything they could to do the enemy harm.
0200 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, Camerone Headquarters, Staszow, Poland.
Knocke was up even at that late hour, not because of official duties, but because of the anguish brought on by the communication he had received from his wife.
That his daughters were both safe was a blessing.
That the unborn child appeared unharmed by the experience seemed to be a miracle.
He read the section again, where the injuries sustained by his wife and Armande Fleriot were described, seeking something he may have missed; a word indicating matters to be more serious or an unspoken hint of greater harm than directly described.
Ernst-August Knocke could find nothing.
His family had been delivered from harm once again.
At first he thought it was a spring storm, as his solitude was disturbed by a flash-lightened sky.
But only for a moment, as a veteran of the Russian Front knew exactly what was creating the flickering night sky.
“Scheisse!”
He grabbed his tunic and kepi and dashed from his quarters to the command centre, where the duty watch were rapidly being drawn from their shocked state, as telephones and radios burst into life.
The irrepressible Lutz arrived at his shoulder bearing a mug of coffee.
“Here we go again, Oberführer.”
The situation board was still blank but the words coming through from the numerous devices told of death and destruction being visited upon the men of Camerone.
“Mon Général, Général St.Clair’s headquarters for you.”
Knocke moved quickly to the proffered handset.
“Knocke.”
He listened intently as his counterpart in Alma told his own story, one that seemed less of an issue, given what was now appearing on the situation board.
“I have no idea at the moment, Celestin…none whatsoever. I do know that I’ve artillery and mortars incoming on my forward positions, from where I meet up with the German Army north of Czyżów Szlachecki, south to Obrazów.”
Hässelbach arrived with a handful of heavily armed legionnaires, the headquarters security immediately beefed up and highly alert.
“No… nothing about ground action as yet… no, I have no orders… yes… you do that. Thank you, Celestin. Bon chance.”
He tossed the handset back and swigged the hot coffee as he examined the situation board.
“Nothing on the ground yet?”
“Non, mon Général.”
“Has Colonel Uhlmann reported in yet?”
“Oui… there’s nothing with his command, except the detachment placed in support of the infantry near Radoszki, which is under fire from heavy artillery. No casualties reported at this time, mon Général.”
Colonel D’Estlain, the acting CoS for Camerone, was matter of fact and controlled in his delivery, something his commander greatly appreciated.
“Anything from General Lavalle as yet?”
“No, Sir.”
“Alma are trying to contact him whilst we sort out what is happening. Not much happening on their front as yet.”
“And us?”