None the less, the paratroopers fought back. Grenades overwhelmed the defenders and the .50 calibres fell silent.
The Schloss was defended by a full company of experienced infantry from the 70th U.S. Infantry Division, and it seemed like every window of the three storey structure bristled with weapons.
Russian casualties were murderous.
Some troopers were armed with scoped rifles and started to methodically work the windows, killing defenders, clearing complete areas to enable an assault to succeed.
Finally, the Soviet paratroopers broke into the building and slowly cleared room-by-room, thankful that they had brought additional grenades for each man.
Again, they were ruthless, leaving no man alive, killing even the wounded, be they in uniform or civilian clothing, even as experienced American reinforcements began to arrive.
The battle in and around Schloss Kransberg began to abate as the surviving groups of paratroops were methodically eliminated room by room. By the end of it, only ninety-three Russians were left alive of the seven hundred and forty who had dropped on Kransberg, and many of them were badly wounded. Of the American defenders, symposium attendees and their German instructors, only three men was found alive, two of which were devoid of any identification, too wounded to talk and close to death. Six allied divisions and four corps had lost their commanders as a result.
Chapter 38 – THE CHÂTEAU
The essence of war is violence. Moderation in war is imbecility.
Makarenko had chosen to go with Zilant-4 for more than one reason. Firstly, it was the assault that the least preparation had gone into and most likely to need his leadership. Secondly, it was the furthest distance to travel and therefore the greatest risk of detection en route. Thirdly, it was the most difficult target by far. Fourthly, there was no information on what force was defending the Château. Finally, he had seen the place with his own eyes in the mid-twenties when, as a young Captain of twenty-five, he had visited France as part of a military mission after the Great War.
As he looked around him at the other nineteen men confined within the dark red interior of the Li-2 transport aircraft he felt an icy hand grip him inside. He remembered how a light-hearted conversation between junior officers in the Autumn of 1925 had become serious, turning to military matters and, more specifically, how to assault the Château. They had concluded that modern weapons would make it an extremely costly exercise indeed.
The General had selected the 3rd Battalion 298th deliberately, as the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Oleg Potakov, was one of his very best officers. Capable of independent thinking and quick in adapting to tactical situations, the old hand had qualities that would be much in demand in the coming action.
They were also the fittest of the combat units, again all due to Potakov’s regime. This was essential for the assault, as the gradients involved in reaching the Château were severe and would test the strongest and fittest of men, even without the additional load of weapons and equipment.
Not for the first time that night, Makarenko prayed to a god he did not believe in. Thus far, they had not been fired at by ground forces, and no enemy aircraft had engaged them. However, his god had already turned his back on him, for the paratrooper battalion’s veteran commander and part of his headquarters group were already dead. Their Li-2 experienced catastrophic engine failure and turned into a fireball trying to land shortly after take-off.
Looking around at his soldiers, Makarenko smiled and tried to encourage a relaxed attitude whilst all the time filled with foreboding. Smoking was forbidden on the aircraft, not the least of reasons being the two flame-throwers assigned to members of his group, both sitting snugly between the legs of their nervous owners. However, that did not mean that they could not drink, and so a bottle of Moscow Crystal vodka was doing the rounds, calming butterflies and bringing a warm glow to otherwise white faces.
All the men with Makarenko were veterans of Leningrad, the Svir River, through to Vienna. None of them expected to survive this night’s action but still they went.
Opposite him was the sleeping figure of his best sniper who, although still a relative boy of nineteen, had taken the lives of over one hundred Axis soldiers with the Nagant rifle he was cradling. Yefreytor Aleksey Nikitin was renowned for his ability to sleep, even in the middle of an artillery barrage but, even so, Makarenko thought it showed great calm to do so on this night of all nights, and he envied him the ability to rest.
Makarenko caught the enquiring gaze of a young Senior Sergeant and smiled back with genuine affection. He knew him well, the competent and lionhearted Nakhimov, for he had decorated him with the Order of the Patriotic War [first class] for his bravery when the 100th attacked over that damn Reichsbrücke Bridge in Vienna. They might still be trying to get over that river now if it had not been for Nakhimov killing those SS gunners with nothing more than grenades and a Nagant rifle. The hand to hand fighting had been bestial. Bayonets, knives, sharpened spades; all brought their own bloody wickedness. A shudder ran down Makarenko’s spine at the thought of the abject terror of that close-quarter fight. His inner voice spoke to him in respect of men long dead. ‘Govno! How those Germans had fought, even when defeated and doomed to die.’ His mind wandered to the calibre of the men with him, similarly doomed, and then to the unknown nature of the men they would face this night.
He checked his watch, intimately familiar with the timings of the whole Zilant operation, mentally checking off another milestone, as his group should now be on the final run to target. Given the difficult nature of the terrain on approach, Zilant-4 was designed to arrive before the others, to allow time to get into position for a simultaneous attack by all four Zilant groups.
The vodka bottle arrived back with him, an expensive purchase obtained during one of his recent visits to the capital, and one he shared with his men quite easily. With a smile, a raised eyebrow, and a raised bottle, he put the glass top to his lips and swallowed some of the smooth quality vodka. Re-stoppering the third-full bottle, he passed it to the air force crew chief, shouting over the drone of the engines.
“For you and the pilots, as thanks for the ride Comrade Sergeant.”
“Thank you Comrade General,” and no sooner had the words come from his lips than the bulkhead red light illuminated, drawing every single pair of eyes in the aircraft.
“I wish you luck sir,” said the Sergeant, who stiffly saluted and issued the orders that set in motion preparations for jumping.
As in all paratrooper arms, checking belts and buckles was all-important, and the troopers, now standing, went over the arrangements of the men in front and behind.
Parachutes secure. Weapons secure. Kit secure. Hooked up.
The Air Force Sergeant opened the door and all felt the chill of the high-speed air that rushed in.
With a last check to make sure the magazine of his PPSH was firmly in place, Makarenko moved forward to the door and gripped the vertical rails that he would use to throw himself out into the night.
One of his Majors had jokingly asked for a transfer to the Navy the previous evening, and right now that seemed like an excellent alternative.
With no more thought than to understand the meaning of the forceful pat on his back and the now green light in the corner of his eye, Makarenko launched himself into the night sky over Alsace.