Chapter 36
Yatom was working on the bunker line when he saw Lieutenant
Kaiser’s motorized patrol enter the low valley that led to Biali. Now he’d been surprised by the Germans. Sentries should have been posted along the Lubinstrasse, near where it met the high road, but for some reason the men had not shown up that day. Only a few of the carefully constructed bunkers on the ridgelines were manned, mostly by complacent and untested men and boys.
The SS column emerged near the end of the woodline and moved forward confidently. The vehicles were carefully painted in an elaborate camouflage scheme of mustard yellow, overpainted with green splotches—so different from the dull gray vehicles Yatom had so far seen in Poland, and for that matter, in the movies. The column followed the dashing motorcycle outriders. He recognized the bigger vehicle in back as a kind of half—track, similar to vehicles the IDF had used for generations.
For a moment, the Israeli commander simply admired the scene. Yatom’s instinct was to stay down, hide and let the vehicles pass. They would hit a mine eventually, as Roskovsky had sown a thick field across the road between the main ridgeline, where Yatom was, and the smaller hillock to the south. Having encountered the minefield, Yatom reckoned that the Germans would probably secure their losses and turn about, as the Polish police patrol had done a couple days before when they encountered the mines near the high road. Yatom realized that somehow the Germans had avoided those mines off the high road, which was disturbing in itself.
Any hope of laying low was dashed when a nearby bunker manned by three excitable Jewish teenagers with an MG-34 cut loose on the German cyclists. Yatom’s annoyance was softened by admiration for the boys’ aggressiveness. He got on the radio to alert the rest of the sayeret and Biali’s defenders in case they were needed.
Yatom, along with De Jong and Nudelman, ran to an unoccupied bunker and waited for the German reaction. But before the Germans could respond, a second hidden Jewish position at the base of the hillock opened up on the column—a Bren gun by the sound of it. The position was so well camouflaged Yatom missed it when scanned the little hill. Nudelman smiled as he saw German cyclists fall in the spray of bullets, while the Kubelwagens slewed left and right to avoid the fire. It was the first time the architect had ever seen Germans under attack—and from Jews no less. Yatom raised his binoculars again, though dust from bullets and the wheels and tracks of the German vehicles made it hard to see clearly. Two more Jewish positions now joined the ambush—another MG-34 and a small team of by the sound of it. Suddenly, De Jong and Nudelman threw themselves on the ground as German bullets snapped over their heads. The halftrack’s machinegun was spitting out bullets toward them at an alarming rate, the gunner spraying the hillside like a man trying to knock grime off his car with a water hose. Yatom raised his Tavor.
Yatom saw a flash through the rifle sight and then heard the crump of the booby—trap as it mangled a German infantry team and their Kubelwagen. Nudelman let out a little holler, and Yatom shook his head in admiration Roskovsky’s jury-rigged device. Still, the machinegunner in the halftrack was pouring fire onto the ridge—he was bound to hit something eventually. Yatom aimed the Tavor at the machinegunner. The range to the half-track was long—about 300 meters—but within Yatom’s comfort zone and the weapon’s capabilities. Using his day sight he put a visible laser dot on the target. Conscious of his dwindling ammo he fired three shots at the drumming machinegun, and watched with satisfaction as the gunner fell away. Several German soldiers from the second Kubelwagen shot back toward the nearby bunker filled with the Jewish teenagers. Then the enemy soldiers scrambled to their feet and dragged two of their wounded into the half-track. Yatom held his fire.
“Relax Nir,” said Mofaz, “I’m not reading Dr. Feldhandler’s books. The German army” Mofaz paused hating what he was about to say “in our time, still uses this weapon—they call it the MG 3. That’s how good it is—fires 1000 rounds a minute—or something like that.” He put the weapon and a box of ammo in the trunk. They threw the shot up motorcycle into the damaged Kubelwagen, then hooked it up to the staff car for a tow back to Biali—no point in wasting spare parts or fuel. Roi uprighted the good BMW and threw on the leather coat.
“I always wanted one of these!” said the young commando, as put the machine in gear and gunned the engine. Roi took off down the road toward the village, his Negev machinegun bouncing on his back as the bike sped eastward.
That evening, Yatom, Mofaz, Feldhandler and the Biali leadership sat down to discuss the day’s events. Shapira was absent, having already set off for Belzec with Chaim and the troop of demolition men.
“What do you make of today?” Jezek asked Yatom glumly. “It is not good?”
“No, it’s not good,” agreed Yatom. “Your men—boys—did well. We lost one. But they fought and that’s important. The bunker system worked, even sparsely manned, and the mines and booby-traps are proving useful. But…”
Feldhandler took over. “These men were SS—the most brutal combat troops the Germans have. And it was just a patrol. I think they will come back in force and most likely very soon—maybe tomorrow or even tonight.”
Jezek frowned. Sobel looked horrified. “We’ve moved a company of troops to the bunkers along with weapons and ammunition” said Yatom. “A second company is on alert. The third will stay in reserve until we see what the Germans have in mind.”
Yatom looked at Mofaz. “These German troops are much better than what we’ve faced so far. Make sure the men know this.” Mofaz nodded.
“Did you get any information from the captured German?” asked De Jong.
“Some,” said Feldhandler. “The man—a boy really—has broken arms and ribs. He is in and out of consciousness, and doesn’t know much except the unit that he is with, and what happened in the fight. According to his paybook he’s been in active service about eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks—that’s all?” asked Mofaz.
“Maybe the unit is rebuilding. But these recruits are still fanatics.”
“What’s his rank?” asked Sobel.
“He’s a Schuetze, a private—as low as you can go in the SS, so he can’t offer much. The unit is Regiment 4 of the 2nd SS Panzergrenadier Division. Regiment 4 is called… Der Fuehrer”
Sobel snorted.
“It’s not funny” continued Feldhandler. “They are an elite outfit and utterly ruthless—even if filled out with new recruits. If they break through, they will kill everybody in Biali—again.”
“What equipment?” asked Yatom.
“He only knows about his own company, which is a recon detachment. And we pretty much already know what that is. But he did say the regiment had at least some tanks or assault guns.”
“Artillery?” asked Yatom.
“Doesn’t know.”
“Any good news?” asked Mofaz biliously.
“Yes,” said Feldhandler proudly. “Their radios didn’t work. His sergeant couldn’t communicate with the platoon leader, and he had the impression that the platoon leader was also out of communication—at least before he got blown up—which means our little electronic warfare station is working.”
“I am glad you and your men are still here,” sighed De Jong. “You are not going to leave us in the lurch are you?”
“No. We’re not going anywhere until Lieutenant Shapira and Sergeant Ben David return” said Mofaz sourly. “Besides, our arrangements are not made anyway.” He looked bitterly at Feldhandler.
With nothing more to say, the Israelis left De Jong, Jezek and Sobel to their own devices in the town hall and assembled the rest of the sayeret in the yard. They were down to nine, with Itzak’s death and the departure of Shapira and Chaim. Mofaz briefed the men as to the quality of the SS as Yatom had asked. The young commandos took it in stride—they’d fought Hezbollah and the Revolutionary Guards hadn’t they?