Known to the Wehrmacht as an MP2K (the ‘-K’ meaning ‘Kurz’ or ‘Short’), it had been derived from the full-sized MP2 that was coming into widespread use throughout the Wehrmacht and was arming NCOs, non-combat troops and Military Police everywhere. His encounter with the dead panzer crewman had been the first time he’d come across this smaller, more compact version, and Kransky could imagine how handy it’d be in an environment such as a armoured vehicle where space was at a premium.
Another high-pitched female scream pierced the night and roused him from his momentary reflection, cut painfully short by a second pair of shots that had all come from the same type of pistol by Kransky’s experienced reckoning. A second or two later, a general shout of alarm rose from the troops outside as a small figure darted from the open doorway and bolted across the open space between the farmhouse and a large wooden barn, a few dozen metres to the left. It was a young boy from what Kransky could see, who managed to get past two or three soldiers out of sheer surprise before he was finally caught and held captive near the centre of the open floodlit area.
Without a second thought, the American suddenly shifted position and dragged the rifle from his back, slinging the tiny machine pistol in its place. Using the stone wall as a rest, he lifted the semi-automatic sniper rifle and sighted carefully through the 4-power Zeiss scope mounted above the weapon’s receiver. With the help of its magnification he could clearly see what was happening. The boy, no more than five or so, was struggling and kicking for all he was worth and Kransky could now hear his cries of childlike rage and terror. It was all to no avaiclass="underline" a pair of SS troopers held him securely by both arms.
As he watched it occurred to him that there was something strange about the scene he couldn’t quite pin down. As he swept the rifle to either side and took in more of what was going on, the reason came to him in a flash: the troops standing there seemed exceptionally ill at ease about something. Expressions were strained and grim with some troopers clustered together and speaking in what were even at that distance obviously hushed tones. The two holding the boy seemed more than usually unhappy about the task, as if what they were doing were positively distasteful. To see that level of unease with the Waffen-SS in relation to the harsh treatment of the local population was unusual indeed.
Another figure stepped from the farmhouse, moving toward the men holding the boy, and he followed the newcomer’s progress through the scope. The tall, blond-haired man was an SS officer — old enough to possibly be a captain or major from what Kransky could see although rank insignia wasn’t clear. The most telling part of the scene, one that chilled him to the bone and brought feelings of rage welling up from deep within him, was the sight of the man buckling his belt as he left the house. The image left no doubt in Kransky’s mind as to the reasons behind the woman’s screams of a few moments ago.
A senior NCO followed close behind the officer, pistol in hand and presumably the source of the gunfire so far. Kransky realised in that moment why the troops seemed upset by the situation: regardless of enemy propaganda, most soldiers in any given army — even the Waffen-SS — weren’t generally predisposed toward atrocities. Certainly there were isolated incidents that occurred in the heat of battle, but this wasn’t such a situation and concepts such as cold-blooded murder and rape were obviously as abhorrent to these soldiers as they were to most normal human beings anywhere.
Kransky was also suddenly very concerned for the fate of the boy the troopers now held. Even if they were unhappy about the situation, he knew that troops conditioned to obeying orders wouldn’t prevent the officer in charge from murdering everyone at that farm if he so desired — and if those in the house were already dead there was little likelihood the boy would be allowed to live. As the pair drew near to the child, Kransky made a serious life decision in an instant: a decision that went against every basic rule as a sniper or guerrilla fighter…he decided he had to get involved.
He drew back the rifle’s cocking handle, sliding a cartridge from of the 10-round magazine and into the breech. The most difficult decision in that moment was that of whom to target. He dearly wanted to put a round through the head of that blond-haired officer but that wasn’t likely to free the boy. Instead he placed the aiming point of the scope’s central crosshair over the head of one of the men holding the struggling child. He hoped the boy could run and had somewhere to run to: there’d be only precious seconds of confusion and he wouldn’t get a second shot — if he fired again they’d have his position and he’d probably be captured or killed. Once the boy was free he’d be on his own.
There were few men of any rank about as Ritter and Meier walked from the maintenance hangars that evening, passing rows of silent aircraft on their walk back toward the barracks area in the darkness. Orders they’d received that afternoon had come as a surprise to all and were the source of some discussion and excitement. Staff Flight and Number One Gruppe of ZG26 were to prepare for immediate relocation to I/LG3 north of Paris for conversion training to a new type of aircraft. The rest of the wing was to be considered stood down from any active service and on R&R until they too could be transferred to Paris for similar training.
Although the orders had come through the proper channels — from Fliegerkorps, via Luftflotte offices — they’d been authorised by the OKW directly…signed by Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters himself. That fact intrigued the officers greatly.
“So what do we know of these new planes, Carl?” Meier inquired as they walked without jackets, ignoring the freshness of the night. “What’s the story on these ‘Lion’ fighter-bombers?”
“Well they’re not classifying them as ‘fighter-bombers’ for a start: they’re instead being listed as ‘attack aircraft’.”
“Is that going to affect our designation as a zerstörergeschwader…?”
“There’s no implication ‘Horst Wessel’ will lose its name or designation…but I think our mission statement will change. It looks certain we’ll be called on more in an attack role from now on than as a heavy-fighter unit, although I hear these new planes are wonderful to fly. Fast as an RAF Hurricane and almost as manoeuvrable when flying ‘clean’ — and they can carry nearly four thousand kilograms of ordnance over short ranges.”
“Viertausend kilogramm…?” Meier was impressed. “That’s as much as a Junkers or a Heinkel! Will they be replacing the…?” He was cut off in mid-sentence as the first pistol shot rang out in the distance. They halted for a moment, staring pointedly off in the direction from which the sound had come. A few seconds later, two more shots roused them from momentary inaction.
“The farmhouse…?” Meier ventured, a frown crossing his features “…and that SS troop went through here not long ago…!”
“Too close to my airfield for my liking! Let’s find out what’s going on, yes?” Ritter snapped curtly, knowing which farmhouse his XO was referring to, and for some inexplicable reason he felt the stab of a sharp, icy feeling at the pit of his stomach. “Get a squad from the guardhouse and meet me there!” He ordered, breaking into a run toward the manned gate opening onto the southern termination of the Route de Wisques beyond the far end of the hangars. “Make sure they’re armed…!”