‘Is the old dog right?’
He worked the bolt smoothly, but oiled it a little more in any case.
‘Has Iska seen something I’ve missed?’
By the time the SVT-40 was in pristine condition, Chekov had decided upon a change in his defences.
The 14th had not been idle in defence. The ‘gardeners’, as Iska had called them, had worked into the small hours to finish preparing the approach route for any enemy attack.
Trees had been cut down, creating a modest killing zone in front of the engineer’s defensive positions, the trunks used to create solid bunkers and machine-gun posts.
Chekov had oriented his men on the reverse slope as they waited, expecting some sort of enemy artillery fire to seek out defenders on the western edges of the peaks.
Only listening posts remained exposed, ready to give warning of an enemy attack and bring the defenders forward.
The alterations that Chekov had made were implemented, with half of Balyan’s men spread through Third Company’s platoons, under the watchful eye of Kapitan Vsevelov, a new arrival, but a competent officer, even in Iska’s eyes.
The other half, plus ten men lifted from each of First and Second Company’s, formed the sole reserve available to Chekov, and he took it under his personal command, with Balyan as his 2IC.
The Starshy Serzhant was noisily bawling out two of his men over some minor infraction.
Now that Iska had sown the seeds of doubt, Chekov began to see the confident swagger, the self-belief, behaviour he had seen before in men trying to hide their fears and doubts behind a wall of bullshit.
‘Engines?’
More than one head turned to the sky.
‘Aircraft engines?’
“Take cover!”
One minute ahead of schedule, the Teutobergerwald Hills were visited by a combination of British and American technology in the hands of men who acquired their skills with the Luftwaffe between ’39 and ’45, namely the DRL’s 3rd Kampfgeschwader.
The 19th Kampfstaffel had been equipped with B-25 Mitchells, twin-engine aircraft considered more suitable for pilots and crews who had once flown Dorniers and Heinkels over London.
Carrying three thousand pounds of high explosives apiece, the eighteen aircraft flew in perfect formation, their precise approach and delivery uninhibited by the modest flak defences.
No matter how many times you saw it, the vision of a ground target being worked over by bombers was always impressive, albeit less so for those closest to the display.
Chekov and his men watched as Hill 334, the Tönsberg, disappeared in flame and smoke, the very ground beneath their feet shuddering in protest at the violation.
Another group of aircraft, set in a wider formation, approached in the same leisurely manner, content that their fighter escort had seen off the handful of Soviet planes that had risen in challenge.
Oerlinghausen suffered a similar fate to the Tönsberg.
Chekov understood what was happening.
The enemy were bombing backwards, so the target approach was not obscured by smoke.
The change in wind direction meant that they were bombing to a reversed attack plan, visiting the Tönsberg first, instead of last.
‘Fuck!’
“We’re next, Comrades. Stay down! Stay down!”
As 19th and 18th Kampfstaffels flew away, 13th Kampfstaffel prepared to rearrange Chekov’s defensive positions.
Von Scharf and the other company commanders had assembled on a temporary raised platform, called together by Prinz to observe the effects of the medium bomber’s attack.
Through the tree tops of the wood into which they would soon advance, the officers watched high explosive pour down upon the waiting Russians.
Prinz was first to break away from the sight.
“Kameraden. To your men… and yourselves… the very best of luck. Dismissed.”
Salutes were exchanged and the officers rushed back to their units, knowing that the DRL had not yet finished mauling the enemy positions.
As the company leaders picked their way forward through the trees, 7th Kampfgruppe’s three staffels of Mitchell Bombers arrived, only one minute behind schedule, to work a repeat upon the enemy below, hoping to catch their quarry emerging from cover.
The waiting soldiers of 266th Infanterie Division’s assault force heard the noise of explosions and felt the earth complain beneath their feet, the vibrations carrying over that of the enemy artillery fire that had started to arrive in the trees ahead of them.
Hauptmann Von Scharf arrived as Keller was making his men go through the last minute checks associated with infantry assaults.
Webbing, ammo, slings, grenades, close-combat weapons, boots…
“Unteroffizier!”
“Herr Hauptmann?”
“Medal presentation has been sorted for next Wednesday. Once this is over, we’ll be relieved and reinforced. The FeldMarschal himself, no less. You should be honoured.”
Keller shrugged with indifference. It would have suited him better to have an informal handover from his Company commander, but Division was insisting, as, apparently, were Guderian’s staff.
Von Scharf leant in closer.
“Mail’s arrived. I left it up at battalion. Best the men stay focussed on this attack.”
The two shared a cigarette as the time to advance approached.
His relationship with Keller had altered. He saw the man as more than an extremely competent NCO…
‘Now I understand those two Amerikanski.’
He smiled at the thought of the diminutive Jew, Rosenberg, and the German-American officer, Hässler, and then at a man he considered his friend.
“We’ll move off soon”, he announced.
‘Not yet though! One more little surprise for you communist bastards!’
He angled his watch towards the Unteroffizier.
‘0825’.
Keller nodded his understanding as the sounds of low flying aircraft suddenly penetrated the nearby artillery explosions.
“Good luck, Herr Hauptmann.”
They shook hands as the first of 19th Jagdstaffel’s P-38 Lightnings flew low over the Tönsberg defences.
The sound was like nothing the two men had heard before and, even though they had been told what was going to be dropped, the enormity of it suddenly hit home.
Keller, a religious man, crossed himself at what sounded like the opening of the doors of Hades.
Twelve DRL Lightnings deposited over two thousand gallons of napalm, concentrating on the peak and the reverse slope.
Soviet Engineer Guardsmen died by the score, burned to death in an instant.
Others died quick as the intense heat destroyed them, even in cover.
Yet more died as the oxygen was burned away, leaving nothing for the lungs that drew so desperately on the boiling air.
More than one tank crew, secreted on the rear slope, died silently in their boiling metal tombs.
Anti-tank weapons on the ridge, set-up to crossfire on the main road, lay black and burned, surrounded by the charcoal remains of the men that served them.
And then there were those who did not receive the mercy of a swift death.