Kaiser dismounted and walked to the second Kubelwagen, where his platoon sergeant, Scharfuhrer Schmundt, stood nonchalantly smoking a fragrant Russian cigarette. Schmundt was a couple of years older than Kaiser and veteran of fighting in France and Russia. He came to attention as Kaiser faced him, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and looked at the young officer warily but respectfully.
“What do you think, Scharfuhrer Schmundt?” said Kaiser curtly.
“Think about what, sir?”
“This road—we’ve been stopped nearly an hour with no signs of partisans, or an ambush.”
“Yes sir, seems a dead end,” said Schmundt. He was not one to shy from a fight, but he was not averse to returning to his comfortable barrack in Lubin either. The other soldiers looked at the lieutenant expectantly, hoping that indeed he intended to collect the mines, turn the column around, and drive back to the Kaserne in time for a late dinner. Kaiser looked down the darkening road and kicked at a broken piece of brick. He’d accomplished his mission—found the minefield, cleared it, and invited a partisan attack. That the patrol remained unmolested likely meant there were no longer any partisans about, having laid the mines and vanished long ago. Kaiser was about to turn about when he thought again of Rommel. Great soldiers did not win their laurels by doing only what was necessary, but by pressing on, seeking action.
“Mount up, Schmundt,” said Kaiser in what he took to be a decisive and jaunty tone. “We are not done yet. We’ll push down this road another kilometer or two before heading back. Tell the cyclists and the engineers.”
“Jawohl Herr Untersturmfuhrer,” said Schmundt smartly, mildly disappointed. A minute later the column was on the move again, carefully wending its way around the marked mines and pressing on into the shadowy woodland. They drove another two kilometers with without seeing any sign of human habitation beyond the occasional fallow field or deserted barn. The cyclists had detected no additional mines. Kaiser was about to turn back, when several hundred meters ahead it appeared that the rutted byway opened up into a shallow valley. Curious, he pushed on and was rewarded with a change of landscape. Meadows extended to the north and south of the road which ran through a pair of low forested ridges a few hundred meters further on. According to Kaiser’s map the ridge on the left was Hoehe 31—the hillock to right Hoehe 28. After the claustrophobic drive through the dreary wood, the valley looked open and inviting, as if offering itself up to his conquest. Instead of turning back he ordered the column forward.
Kaiser saw the first cyclist fall in a shower of sparks before he heard the rippling echoes of a light machinegun. The BMW slew out from underneath its rider, and the SS man in his leather coat went rolling along the dirt track. The trailing cyclist pulled up short and dismounted quickly, running for cover by the roadside, only to be cut down, dust and blood erupting in a fine mist from his back. Kaiser looked around for sources of fire, but to his dismay could see nothing. He had been trained to expect tracer rounds but saw none. The incoming bullets made a snapping hiss as passed by, just like during his dangerous but realistic training. Then they started bouncing off the armored sides of his half-track. The two SS men in the third motorcycle pulled off the road, dismounted safely and began shooting to the northeast. There must be a target there thought Kaiser. He called out excitedly to Schmundt. “Do you see where the fire is coming from Schmundt?”
Schmundt didn’t. The sergeant calmly ordered his men and the engineers to dismount their Kubelwagens and find cover, then turned and trotted to the back of Kaiser’s half—track, ignoring the bullets that angrily snapped around him. When Schmundt reached relative safety behind the armored vehicle, Kaiser shuffled through the cramped half-track to meet the sergeant at the rear hatch. “They are firing from everywhere” said Schmundt simply. “The sources of fire are hard to detect—the positions are well camouflaged.”
Another brace of bullets hit the half-track and Kaiser yelled to the machinegunner to shoot back—anywhere The powerful MG-42 began spraying rounds at the distant ridgeline. Kaiser felt a little better for it. He crawled over to his radioman, also crouched in the armored cabin of the track. He told the signaler to report the contact back to Lubin, and ask for further orders. Suddenly a blast rocked the half-track. A trooper had tripped one of Roskovsky’s simple but effective booby-traps—made from a German hand-grenade—hidden in the brambles along the roadway. Schmundt peaked around the track and saw his three man team splayed by the side of the road and their Kubelwagen peppered by shrapnel and its left—side tires blown. One soldier appeared dead, the other two wounded and in shock. For the first time since he’d come under fire that day the SS sergeant felt upset and uncertain. Schmundt looked back into the half-track at Kaiser, now hoping for the young officer’s support.
Instead, Kaiser kicked the radioman. “Report!” he yelled.
“Nichts!” said the frazzled signaler, who looked barely eighteen. “There is just static on the set.”
Kaiser screwed up his courage, and with Schmundt looking on, defied the screaming bullets to stand erect in the track. He raised his binoculars and scanned the ridgelines. Having stood up Kaiser was surprised that he was not more terrified. His training was kicking in. He guessed that the column was under fire from at least three enemy positions. Kaiser detected a flashing weapon on the ridge to the north and was about to direct his machinegunner to it when several bullets richochetted off the armored shield of the gun, and the young trooper fell back, his right eye shot away.
The the lieutenant had had enough. “Schmundt! Climb aboard!”
“Those men are wounded lieutenant!”
“Then fetch them,” ordered Kaiser nervously, “but hurry.”
Schmundt dashed round the half-track and signaled the engineers in the second Kubelwagen to help him. Sticking to the foliage in the roadside, Schmundt and the engineers managed to help the two wounded troopers to the the track, and shove them in.
“Schmundt, let’s go!” yelled Kaiser.
The sergeant clambered into the half-track, realizing by doing so he was abandoning the bodies of the dead troopers—not good form, but he’d had enough, and orders were orders. Kaiser kicked the driver. “Reverse!” he yelled.
Schmundt signaled to the engineers from the second Kubelwagen mount up and pull back. One of the engineers ignored the order and ran toward the dead man from Schmundt’s Wagon, but gave up as another burst of fire danced at his feet. He dashed back to his own vehicle, which turned violently down the broken track, out of the line of fire.
The surviving cyclists, though slightly wounded by bullet fragments, mounted the BMW with the sidecar and did the same, roaring off like motocross contestants. Kaiser grabbed the MG-42 and fired the rest of the ammunition belt at the northern ridge. Having covered the retreat he ordered the track to turn about. The driver nervously backed the vehicle into a tree, then spitting dirt and stones regained the roadway. With the engine screaming the half-track rumbled down the road, chasing the other vehicles to safety.
Kaiser’s battered column reached the main road several minutes later, leaving behind hundreds of torn up paving stones, the dug up mines, three SS troopers, two motorcycles and a Kubelwagen. Kaiser’s signalman was finally able to raise Lubin. Chagrinned but duty bound, Kaiser reported his losses. But said the lieutenant, he had found plenty of partisans.