The commando leader paused to get a better picture of the fighting. Within a minute the Israeli commandos had gunned down all the SS in the platform area and most of the Ukrainians. A few were in mid-flight. Yatom didn’t see any German who made it away, although he assumed a few did. Some Jewish workers lay dead as well, hit by stray or misaimed Israeli bullets, or shot down in a last bloodletting by the desperate Germans. Fortunately, most of the Jewish workers had fallen to the ground, out of the line of fire.
Yatom ordered Ilan to the top of the rail car in order to snipe at any Ukrainians in the guard towers that surrounded the camp. The men in the towers, armed with deadly MG-34 machine guns, had not opened fire, most likely, Yatom figured, out of confiision and a lack of orders. Yatom decide to leave Perchensky in the car with Mueller, and sweep the platform with teams Bet andAlef. He left the car, his men hard behind him, and moved into Sobibor.
Shapira waited to hear the sound of gunfire from the front of the train before pushing open the heavy wooden door on his cattle-car. Next to Shapira were Bolander, the machine-gurmer Roi, and his radioman/grenadier Chaim Ben David. As the door slid open, Shapira saw several Jewish men in blue coveralls standing directly in front of him. Immediately behind them was an SS man with an extremely large dog and four Ukrainians. Shapira had hardly squeezed the trigger on his Tavor when the scene in front of him erupted in fallen bodies and blood. Roi and Chaim had been fast on the trigger too. Shapira managed to plug the SS man with the dog, but spared the animal, which wisely scampered off. The Jews in front of them also escaped, fleeing over the German and the dead Ukrainians.
Shapira ordered De Jong and his platoon out of the car. William the Young leapt from the train like a man twenty years his junior, followed by the newly minted soldiers who rushed from the door of the railcar like men possessed. De Jong led them with a guttural yell that only a real Dutchman could bring forth, and they imitated him, screaming in three or four languages as they piled off the train.
De Jong steered the gaggle toward the Forward camp at a run.
They moved so quickly that Shapira momentarily froze, uncertain of his next move. Bolander didn’t wait for orders, and opened fire on a guard tower that loomed across the camp to the northwest, about 100 meters away. Bolander hit the guard tower with a burst of fire that knocked out the two machine-gunners just as they directed their weapon at the train. The marksman swung his Tavor about looking for other towers, but he couldn’t see any from his position by the train.
“Where are the other towers?” he shouted excitedly to Shapira.
The lieutenant turned his head toward Bolander, whose words shook Shapira out of his momentary funk. “I don’t know!” he shouted, but we can’t stay here—let’s go!”
De Jong and his men had almost reached the Forward Camp, forty meters or so from the train. A locked gate guarded by two Ukrainians with rifles barred their way. De Jong gritted his teeth and raised his pistol as he continued toward the Ukrainians. They raised their weapons uncertainly. De Jong saw them talking excitedly to each other, panic in their eyes. Ten meters from the gate the Dutchman abruptly stopped aimed the pistol. Behind him his men awkwardly halted, some running into the men in front of them, or tripping, shouting and cursing.
De Jong swung the Walther at the two Ukrainians, who in turn raised their Mausers. For an eternal second, the adversaries stared at each other without firing. Then De Jong pointed the weapon at the chest of the closest Ukrainian and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He was stunned—like everybody else, he’d taken his weapon off safe as soon at the train stopped at the camp.
“Shoot them!” cried Porchak, one of De Jong’s squad leaders, who though armed with an Uzi had also neglected to fire.
The Ukrainians instinctively turned toward Porchak and both shot at him, managing to hit him with one bullet in the shoulder.
While the two Ukrainians desperately worked the bolts to their Mausers to load another round, De Jong cleared the chamber of the pistol and pulled the trigger again. This time the Walther worked. De Jong emptied the magazine at the Ukrainians, his ears ringing, unused to the loud 9mm blasts from the small handgun. Somehow he managed to hit them both. Through the dust and his gun smoke he saw the two grey clad men on the ground, one wreathing in pain, the other trying to crawl away.
De Jong had the presence of mind to reload his weapon, while one of the other squad leaders forced open the gate. The Dutchman glanced back at the wounded Porchak, then put it out of his mind and stepped into the Forward Camp. Behind him a couple of the unarmed Jews grabbed the weapons of the fallen Ukrainians and finished them off by smashing their heads with the butts of the heavy Mausers.
Another man grabbed Porchak’s weapon.
Directly ahead of De Jong, according to the rough map that Shapira had sketched out for him, were the two Ukrainian barracks, and beyond those, the quarters of the camp commandant. A third Ukrainian barrack was across the way to the right. He was to attack the Ukrainians first, then move onto the commandant’s quarters.
Beyond these buildings and several others, were the SS barracks. He would attack those last if it proved necessary. In the meantime he had to watch out for fire in that direction.
Shapira stopped his team just outside the gate to the Forward Camp. He’d barely seen De Jong’s confrontation there, but was pleased with the result. A wounded Jewish man lay on the ground nearby, comforted by a comrade. Shapira had neither the time nor resources to help. From where his team stood they could put fire on the Ukrainian barracks, but not those of the SS, which were blocked from view. He watched nervously as De Jong struggled to organize his men and get them moving against the Ukrainian buildings. They didn’t know if barrack buildings were occupied, but assumed at least one or more must contain the night watch platoon. In fact, the Ukrainian watch platoon was located in a single barrack building—the one nearest to the commandant’s quarters. Inside, the twenty-three Ukrainian guards had been roused by the sound of fire coming from the unloading area, but generally ignored it.
There was occasional gunfire in Sobibor, either from troublesome Jews during unloading, during the execution of older or infirmed Jews who couldn’t manage the walk to the gas chambers, or from target practice by their fellow Ukrainians or the SS. Most of the soldiers simply turned in their bunks and attempted to get back to sleep. Only their Ukrainian platoon sergeant, Gorobets, who feared the SS, got up and bothered to look out a window. What he saw turned his bowels to water. The gate into the Forward Camp had been breached and the two guards lay face down in the dust. Around them was a motley group of armed prisoners heading straight towards the barrack. He turned and screamed frantically at his drowsy men.
De Jong led his men to the first barrack building, gritting his teeth and squinting, expecting at any second to be fired upon. Behind him his men ran instinctively hunched over, as if they expected a heavy rain. They reached the building without incident. De Jong went directly to the door, his men crowding behind him. Had the building been defended they would have made inviting targets, but a few quick glances through the windows indicated that this building was empty.
De Jong called forward one of the young grenadiers anyway, and ordered him to toss a grenade inside. The boy, about sixteen, ran up to the door, opened it—it was unlocked—and tossed in the grenade without pulling the charging cord. It landed on the wooden floor with a thump.