Ideally, he would have liked to put his forces down on the more level and easier ground to the south of Orschwiller but the distance was too great. Too much chance of the alarm being raised.
Therefore, the drop zone was located to the north-west of Saint-Hippolyte, in an area that was reasonably free of jutting stones and mature trees but none the less angled and dangerous. Makarenko had little doubt that many of his young troopers would die in the jump.
Overall, four hundred and ninety-three Russian paratroopers were targeted against the Château, which number had been reduced by the loss of the battalion commander and two further losses as aircraft aborted through malfunction.
Four hundred and forty-one jumped from their aircraft over France and all made it to the ground, although twenty-seven would never rise again and another forty-six sustained injuries that took them out of the fight.
The dead and injured were mainly gathered together on roughly the four hundred metre height line, near le Luttenbach, a small stream that ran from the heights towards Hippolyte, just west of a small road that led in the direction of the Château.
Leaving a security force and medical personnel behind, Makarenko set off uphill, gathering stragglers to him as he advanced. It was a testament to the air force crews that nearly all his units had been dropped on the correct location and the benefit of that was immediately apparent to the General as he was quickly in command of a substantial organised force. With the stragglers came more injured who were either directed or escorted to the aid station by the stream.
As Makarenko moved onwards and upwards, his senior officers gravitated towards him, eager for an update on the plan. In addition, the specially briefed and equipped point party assembled and took the lead in front of the General.
The absence of Potakov was discovered, and a disappointed Makarenko appointed Major Rispan, the able 2IC, to command until the Lieutenant Colonel showed up.
As such, the plan was very simple. Being paratroopers, they could rely solely on what they carried with them and many of the young troopers were laden with grapnels and lines. Others, from the engineer platoon, had explosive charges and detonators. The ever-present sniper rifles would be useful as ever but Makarenko’s ace in the hole was the mortar unit who hurried along at the rear of the column, having judiciously found every single round possible before joining the advance. Their four tubes would give the General an edge, provided a suitable place could be found to establish them. Field radios were the final essential tool, in order to ensure that the attack was as coordinated as it could possibly be.
Despite all best efforts, over three hundred and fifty men moving through rough terrain in the dark cannot be a quiet affair, and so it was that the advance group had little notice of the presence of a small vehicle until its headlights announced its imminent arrival, stark against the darkness of the woods. A swift hand gesture and the paratroopers disappeared in an instant, most struggling to control their lungs as their systems demanded more oxygen.
The men prepared their weapons but understood the general briefing that no shots were to be fired until the actual assault on the Château got underway. Yet again, the planning had taken into account the need for stealth and a small number of silenced weapons were available. The point party’s commanding officer crouching with Makarenko had one, a Standard HDM .22 calibre pistol. Across the other side of the track, the experienced eye could make out at least two S40 silencer equipped Nagant rifles and Makarenko knew that the Senior Lieutenant Nazarbayev commanding that group also had an HDM.
As the vehicle grew closer Makarenko became aware that they were almost at a road junction, and from memory, he could see the map and recall the track running in from the west as the road they were on hair pinned back on itself. Less than four hundred metres from where he stood lay the gateway to the Château.
The vehicle, a jeep all buttoned up, slowly descended from the west until it stopped roughly two hundred metres from the junction. Inside two lights could be distinguished, one swift in the act of lighting a cigarette, one constant as a torch was switched on. The jeep looked almost primeval, as its split screen, so illuminated, seemed almost to look malevolently upon the hidden paratroops.
By some sixth sense, Makarenko understood the situation and stepped out into the road calling to two others, switching on his own torch and waving it from side to side. With him stood a relaxed pair of Russian officers concealing weapons of silent death.
The internal light went out and the jeep started forward towards the group, the driver dipping the lights so as not to dazzle the ‘damn Frenchies’.
It ground to a halt alongside Makarenko.
The side of the jeep was thrown open and a stocky American officer stepped out. Had Makarenko had the time to study American uniforms he would have seen the insignia of the 101st US Airborne Division. All he recognised was the rank of Major.
The man stretched and spoke lazily, reaching into the jeep for his map.
“Thank Christ you French guys are out here. I’ve been driving round for ages trying to find that damn Château.”
He stopped stretching in an instant, suddenly aware that the uniforms were just not right and that there was hostility in the air.
A glimpse of a concealed weapon emerging made him go for his own automatic but he was dead before his hand made it halfway, two silenced pistols taking his life in an instant.
The driver was only faintly aware that something was not quite kosher before a second pair of bullets meant another American boy would not be home for Christmas.
Some troopers quickly slipped out of hiding and carried the bodies into the woods.
Nazarbayev extracted the clip and slid two replacement rounds home as he spoke to the General.
“Comrade General. The American spoke of finding the Château. I think he was going there.”
Ever the opportunist, Makarenko immediately saw the possibilities.
“Are you sure young Vladimir?”
A smile and a vigorous nod was all he needed.
The jeep would be their Trojan horse and unlock the gates to Haut-Kœnigsbourg.
Quickly he consulted his own map with his officers and set in place a plan.
The main body moved on, ignoring the road and tackling the ascent on a more direct but less easy fashion through the woods.
After some delay, the jeep and its new crew in American uniforms took to the road, crossing the track of Makarenko’s force twice on its way upwards.
Slowly it ground towards the final bend to the west of the Château itself, where the up road meets the down road, and where the first French checkpoint was located. The assault force gathered to the south-west of the entrance gate. Parties scurried away, cutting communication wires when they found them. Others formed ready to make their own secondary attacks on different sections of the wall using line and grapnel. The mortar section set up ready to bring down a barrage on the Château or the road, either to break the defenders or stop reinforcements in their tracks, whichever was required. A blocking party was positioned on the approach road for just that purpose, with one of the precious radios.
The jeep approached the first checkpoint.
A barbed wire framework was across the road, decorated with the universal ‘stop’ sign. More barbed wire, this time fixed in place, surrounded the site and prevented access other than by the road. The guard post was completed by a tiny wooden hut and sentry stand, wherein three commandos undertook the most hated duty on the guard roster. As was the habit, the sentry stand was occupied by a single man, the other two finding what solace they could in the Spartan interior of the hut.