best,
Nibelung
THE FORUM HEROES--REVENGE!!!
Moderator: Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Revenge Part Four
Sturmmann Hansen found Oberleutnant Dietrich’s unit easily enough. If the lines of the 787th Infantry Division resemble a vast “U” laid on its side, with the bulge of the “U” curling around Ivanograd, then Dietrich’s unit was at the very tip of the Southern of the “U”. With some trepidation, Hansen realized that the unit’s flank was totally “up in the air”. Just as bad, from Hansen’s point of view, Dietrich’s soldiers were from the 644th Infantry Regiment, which had beat a hasty retreat from the lines in front of the 585th Really Heavy Battalion’s last encampment. And the 644th I.R. was a sister regiment to the 645th I.R., one of whose soldiers Hanson had personally executed in order to stem an impending rout.
All of this did not inspire in the hard-bitten S.S. Sturmmann much confidence in his new assignment. Warily, he walked through the company’s positions. Their commander had chosen a low string of hills to build his line on and it was with some satisfaction that Hansen noted that the strong points had interlocking fields of fire and were, in fact, well sited and well built. But he also noticed that the soldiers he saw either pretended not to see him or looked at him with thinly disguised anger.
It came as a pleasant surprise when he found Oberleutnant Dietrich in the middle of inspecting a dugout, and cursing out a soldier for not cleaning his weapon. Hansen saluted. The Oberleutnant, whose back was to him and didn’t initially appear to even notice him, smartly wheeled around and returned the salute.
“Sturmmann Hansen, I take it.”
“Yes sir. I and my platoon have been subordinated to your command.”
Dietrich nodded, “Let me show you where I need you”. He quickly walked out of the dugout and towards Hansen’s troopers dismounting from their trucks. Pointing towards the western end of his line, he said, “I want you to dig your troops in deep here. As you can see, you are our left flank. I want strong points and individual foxholes, we don’t have enough men for a regular trench system but don’t stretch them too far.
Pointing over his shoulder, he indicated an even higher line of hills behind them. That is our fallback position, I’ve already got men working on fortifying it. And we have a battery of artillery up there. The gap between the end of your line and the fallback position will be covered by a Luftwaffe unit and 88s taken from the town’s railroad yards. FlaK protection for rolling stock is rather low on our priorities right now.”
Hansen smiled. The Oberleutnant obviously knew what he was doing and the Iron Cross around his neck was reassuring, especially since Hansen could make out the spider lines of a thin white scar running down Dietrich’s right cheek and neck and disappearing under his field blouse. He was obviously a veteran and spoke like one.
Hansen got his men in motion, pointing out where he wanted each man and each MG crew while Dietrich watched. Each man was measuring the other in subtle ways. Finally Dietrich called Hansen aside and walked away from the troopers with him.
“I’m happy to have you and your men”, Dietrich said. “But I want it understood about one thing. If you “accidently” or otherwise shoot one of my men, you’ll answer to me.”
Hansen stopped walking and turned to the Oberleutnant, but before he could say anything, Dietrich continued bluntly,
“You may have had good reason to do what you did, I’ve no cause to judge you as I wasn’t there. But the tale has made the rounds of the Division and I will not tolerate divisiveness in my command. You’re a professional soldier, so am I, so we both understand my meaning and this is the last I’ll ever say about it.”
Hansen considered for a moment, but confined himself to a “Yes sir!”
“Good,” Dietrich said. “Dinner is at six--dine with me at my command bunker tonight. I still have a bottle of liberated French wine and a few bottles of even better German beer.”
With that, Dietrich walked back towards the line. Hansen was somewhat impressed by the officer’s honesty and attempt at smoothing things over. But there was much work to be done, so he didn’t dwell on the conversation and went back to getting his men underground as quickly as possible.
Scarcely had he finished with Hansen when another convoy of trucks pulled up. Luftwaffe FlaK troops in trucks and four prime movers towing 88s as well as another truck full of what were obviously combed out troops from rear echelons in Ivanograd. The Luftwaffe men and their guns he handed over to his Leutnant Wegner, who had exact instructions on where to emplace them to cover the gap between Hansen’s troops and the fall back position. Wegner was a clever fellow and very reliable.
The infantry he distributed sparingly within each platoon, knowing that his own men and non-commissioned officers would keep an eye on them. The one set of reinforcements that puzzled him momentarily was a squad of Latvian S.S. men. These he gave to Hansen for lack of a better
solution. Besides, he thought, the S.S. should look after its own, right?
Rottenfuhrer A.A. Arajs and Sturmmann Max Hansen stared at each other.
“Where’s your salute Sturmmann?” Arajs said stiffly in passable German.
Hansen didn’t move. “Who the Hell are you?”
“Rottenfuhrer Arajs, Latvian S.S.! Who the Hell are you?”
“Sturmmann Max Hansen, Waffen S.S.”
“I outrank you!” Arajs declared. His men began to cluster around him, but Hansen’s men had also developed an interest in the conversation. Hansen threw his head back and laughed. The mere idea of a Latvian giving him an order, no matter his apparent rank, was to him the equivalent of suddenly finding out that the Earth was flat.
“These are my men, son,” Hansen said condescendingly, “don’t you ever give me or my men an order. We don’t speak Latvian here and you’re a long way from home.”
Arajs fury exploded, “You German pig! I’m an S.S. Rottenfuhrer and you’re a mere Sturmmann–what makes you think that you don’t have to take orders from me?”
“I don’t take orders from any half-Slav bastard!”
"Well in that case you can kiss my half-German ass!"
Arajs and Hansen flung themselves at each other, but Janis Vitols and one of Hansen’s troopers leaped between them.
Then the Russians attempted to put a temporary stop to the argument by lobbing over a dozen or so mortar rounds.
Once the bombardment was over, Oberleutnant Dietrich rushed over to the S.S. troopers, who by now were divided into two equally hostile and armed groups.
Arajs insisted loudly on his rank being respected. Hansen insisted with equal passion that Arajs’ rank was only applicable to Latvian S.S. or other non-German troopers. It was the kind of ideological mess that not only was Dietrich unsuited as an Army officer to sort out, but also one that he simply didn’t have the time for. So, despite Arajs’ vehement protests, he sent the Latvians to support Leutnant Wegner and the Luftwaffe flaK outfit.
As Arajs’ men marched sullenly away, Oberleutnant Dietrich turned to Hansen.
“Not a diplomatic bone in you body is there? I think I’ll have dinner alone tonight.”
Unrepentant, Hansen saluted without replying and got his men back to the job of building their positions.
Some German soldiers always likened the Red Army to a group of ants. That is, they saw the Red Army as a mindless overwhelming horde that once given an order always followed it, despite any consequences. There was a certain amount of truth in that analogy. Certainly individual initiative was discouraged in favor of the strictest discipline. What the Germans failed to credit the Red Army for, until the very end of the war, was its ability, like ants to pursue a goal with both fanatical determination and extreme organization. The lull in the Soviet advance on Ivanograd, which General Stuck preferred to see as a sign of possible exhaustion, was anything but that. In the days since the 645th I.R. had been knocked back to the gates of the town, the Soviets were building a great mass of men and artillery towards the goal of cutting the fortress off from outside intervention and smothering it through weight of shellfire and infantry assaults. No one on the Soviet side expected it to be an easy affair, despite the thin ranks of the 787th Infantry Division. In fact, since the failure of the Guards Tank Corps, the Soviet generals expected a hard, bitter fight and scaled their forces accordingly.
While Dietrich absorbed a few remnants and comb-outs as reinforcements, the Red Army concentrated four Rifle Divisions with supporting artillery and rocket troops around Stuck’s 787th. Now they were in the process of probing forward, to determine the main axis of their offensive. Those first few mortar shells that drove Hansen and his men to cover were but a prelude and the scene had been repeated over and over again on the front lines of each of the Division’s regiments.
Sturmmann Hansen found Oberleutnant Dietrich’s unit easily enough. If the lines of the 787th Infantry Division resemble a vast “U” laid on its side, with the bulge of the “U” curling around Ivanograd, then Dietrich’s unit was at the very tip of the Southern of the “U”. With some trepidation, Hansen realized that the unit’s flank was totally “up in the air”. Just as bad, from Hansen’s point of view, Dietrich’s soldiers were from the 644th Infantry Regiment, which had beat a hasty retreat from the lines in front of the 585th Really Heavy Battalion’s last encampment. And the 644th I.R. was a sister regiment to the 645th I.R., one of whose soldiers Hanson had personally executed in order to stem an impending rout.
All of this did not inspire in the hard-bitten S.S. Sturmmann much confidence in his new assignment. Warily, he walked through the company’s positions. Their commander had chosen a low string of hills to build his line on and it was with some satisfaction that Hansen noted that the strong points had interlocking fields of fire and were, in fact, well sited and well built. But he also noticed that the soldiers he saw either pretended not to see him or looked at him with thinly disguised anger.
It came as a pleasant surprise when he found Oberleutnant Dietrich in the middle of inspecting a dugout, and cursing out a soldier for not cleaning his weapon. Hansen saluted. The Oberleutnant, whose back was to him and didn’t initially appear to even notice him, smartly wheeled around and returned the salute.
“Sturmmann Hansen, I take it.”
“Yes sir. I and my platoon have been subordinated to your command.”
Dietrich nodded, “Let me show you where I need you”. He quickly walked out of the dugout and towards Hansen’s troopers dismounting from their trucks. Pointing towards the western end of his line, he said, “I want you to dig your troops in deep here. As you can see, you are our left flank. I want strong points and individual foxholes, we don’t have enough men for a regular trench system but don’t stretch them too far.
Pointing over his shoulder, he indicated an even higher line of hills behind them. That is our fallback position, I’ve already got men working on fortifying it. And we have a battery of artillery up there. The gap between the end of your line and the fallback position will be covered by a Luftwaffe unit and 88s taken from the town’s railroad yards. FlaK protection for rolling stock is rather low on our priorities right now.”
Hansen smiled. The Oberleutnant obviously knew what he was doing and the Iron Cross around his neck was reassuring, especially since Hansen could make out the spider lines of a thin white scar running down Dietrich’s right cheek and neck and disappearing under his field blouse. He was obviously a veteran and spoke like one.
Hansen got his men in motion, pointing out where he wanted each man and each MG crew while Dietrich watched. Each man was measuring the other in subtle ways. Finally Dietrich called Hansen aside and walked away from the troopers with him.
“I’m happy to have you and your men”, Dietrich said. “But I want it understood about one thing. If you “accidently” or otherwise shoot one of my men, you’ll answer to me.”
Hansen stopped walking and turned to the Oberleutnant, but before he could say anything, Dietrich continued bluntly,
“You may have had good reason to do what you did, I’ve no cause to judge you as I wasn’t there. But the tale has made the rounds of the Division and I will not tolerate divisiveness in my command. You’re a professional soldier, so am I, so we both understand my meaning and this is the last I’ll ever say about it.”
Hansen considered for a moment, but confined himself to a “Yes sir!”
“Good,” Dietrich said. “Dinner is at six--dine with me at my command bunker tonight. I still have a bottle of liberated French wine and a few bottles of even better German beer.”
With that, Dietrich walked back towards the line. Hansen was somewhat impressed by the officer’s honesty and attempt at smoothing things over. But there was much work to be done, so he didn’t dwell on the conversation and went back to getting his men underground as quickly as possible.
Scarcely had he finished with Hansen when another convoy of trucks pulled up. Luftwaffe FlaK troops in trucks and four prime movers towing 88s as well as another truck full of what were obviously combed out troops from rear echelons in Ivanograd. The Luftwaffe men and their guns he handed over to his Leutnant Wegner, who had exact instructions on where to emplace them to cover the gap between Hansen’s troops and the fall back position. Wegner was a clever fellow and very reliable.
The infantry he distributed sparingly within each platoon, knowing that his own men and non-commissioned officers would keep an eye on them. The one set of reinforcements that puzzled him momentarily was a squad of Latvian S.S. men. These he gave to Hansen for lack of a better
solution. Besides, he thought, the S.S. should look after its own, right?
Rottenfuhrer A.A. Arajs and Sturmmann Max Hansen stared at each other.
“Where’s your salute Sturmmann?” Arajs said stiffly in passable German.
Hansen didn’t move. “Who the Hell are you?”
“Rottenfuhrer Arajs, Latvian S.S.! Who the Hell are you?”
“Sturmmann Max Hansen, Waffen S.S.”
“I outrank you!” Arajs declared. His men began to cluster around him, but Hansen’s men had also developed an interest in the conversation. Hansen threw his head back and laughed. The mere idea of a Latvian giving him an order, no matter his apparent rank, was to him the equivalent of suddenly finding out that the Earth was flat.
“These are my men, son,” Hansen said condescendingly, “don’t you ever give me or my men an order. We don’t speak Latvian here and you’re a long way from home.”
Arajs fury exploded, “You German pig! I’m an S.S. Rottenfuhrer and you’re a mere Sturmmann–what makes you think that you don’t have to take orders from me?”
“I don’t take orders from any half-Slav bastard!”
"Well in that case you can kiss my half-German ass!"
Arajs and Hansen flung themselves at each other, but Janis Vitols and one of Hansen’s troopers leaped between them.
Then the Russians attempted to put a temporary stop to the argument by lobbing over a dozen or so mortar rounds.
Once the bombardment was over, Oberleutnant Dietrich rushed over to the S.S. troopers, who by now were divided into two equally hostile and armed groups.
Arajs insisted loudly on his rank being respected. Hansen insisted with equal passion that Arajs’ rank was only applicable to Latvian S.S. or other non-German troopers. It was the kind of ideological mess that not only was Dietrich unsuited as an Army officer to sort out, but also one that he simply didn’t have the time for. So, despite Arajs’ vehement protests, he sent the Latvians to support Leutnant Wegner and the Luftwaffe flaK outfit.
As Arajs’ men marched sullenly away, Oberleutnant Dietrich turned to Hansen.
“Not a diplomatic bone in you body is there? I think I’ll have dinner alone tonight.”
Unrepentant, Hansen saluted without replying and got his men back to the job of building their positions.
Some German soldiers always likened the Red Army to a group of ants. That is, they saw the Red Army as a mindless overwhelming horde that once given an order always followed it, despite any consequences. There was a certain amount of truth in that analogy. Certainly individual initiative was discouraged in favor of the strictest discipline. What the Germans failed to credit the Red Army for, until the very end of the war, was its ability, like ants to pursue a goal with both fanatical determination and extreme organization. The lull in the Soviet advance on Ivanograd, which General Stuck preferred to see as a sign of possible exhaustion, was anything but that. In the days since the 645th I.R. had been knocked back to the gates of the town, the Soviets were building a great mass of men and artillery towards the goal of cutting the fortress off from outside intervention and smothering it through weight of shellfire and infantry assaults. No one on the Soviet side expected it to be an easy affair, despite the thin ranks of the 787th Infantry Division. In fact, since the failure of the Guards Tank Corps, the Soviet generals expected a hard, bitter fight and scaled their forces accordingly.
While Dietrich absorbed a few remnants and comb-outs as reinforcements, the Red Army concentrated four Rifle Divisions with supporting artillery and rocket troops around Stuck’s 787th. Now they were in the process of probing forward, to determine the main axis of their offensive. Those first few mortar shells that drove Hansen and his men to cover were but a prelude and the scene had been repeated over and over again on the front lines of each of the Division’s regiments.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Doktor Krollspell
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First of all, Comrade Commissar, the Sanitäts-Gruppe Dr. Krollspell are in Festung Ivanograd for a good reason, because when the going get tough, the tough get wounded!I do feel a little bad about Dr. Krollspell, Prit and Locke being in Ivanograd......they're sort of stuck with Stuck......for the moment...
Stabsartz Dr. Krollspell only problem is that most of Russia is as ugly as it is flat. He's sometimes longing for the beautiful Alps of his native Styria, land of real men. But luckily, Locke, the MG42 (and Buttar of course) is as spirited a company as ever...
...and as always, a good read!
Krollspell
Last edited by Doktor Krollspell on Sat Jul 09, 2005 3:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Wie es eigentlich gewesen ist"
Leopold von Ranke (1795-1886)
Leopold von Ranke (1795-1886)
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Revenge Part Five
Leutnant Wirbelwind and Major Gunter Rausch sat in the two over-stuffed leather chairs in front of General Stuck’s oak desk. Major Rausch had just flown in and began to brief the General on the air assets available to Fortress Ivanograd. Wirbelwind had met hm on the steps of the building and they hadn’t had the opportunity to speak, except to confirm each other’s identities. So Wirbelwind knew as little as General Stuck about their situation.
Major Rausch was still wearing his flight suit and his black hair was uncombed. That and the strain obvious on his face served to emphasize the urgency of his visit.
“I am Gruppenkommandeur of KG zbV 10. My Gruppe consists of three Staffeln of nine HE-111 bomber-transports. That’s 27 airplanes, maximum. We have been assigned tactical support and supply duty for Fortress Ivanograd.” The Major said.
Stuck was massaging a large silver coin between two fingers of his right hand. It seemed to distract him and it took him a moment to speak.
“Twenty-seven bombers? That’s all? I ask for air support and they send me a major with twenty-seven old bombers at his command? Did your orders come from Corps? From General Lamming?” Stuck’s voice was an odd mix of anger, suspicion and desperation.
“You intend to support my entire Division with twenty-seven bombers?”
Rausch swallowed visibly. His face was thin but handsome, despite the “worry lines” at the edge of his eyes and the black bags beneath them. “Twenty-seven is an optimum Sir, it is rare that all of the machines are operational at the same time. My orders originated in the highest quarters of the Luftwaffe in Berlin. Personally, I have no illusions of what my Gruppe’s capabilities are.”
General Stuck recognized that as an honest answer and seemed to relax, although he was pondering how his enemies had reached even Luftwaffe Headquarters in Berlin. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the coin even harder.
Major Rausch tried to get the conversation moving again. “An HE-111 can’t carry the standard two ton load of a JU-52, it was designed as a bomber, not a transport, so we must have some idea of your supply situation, the tonnage and type of equipment you will need.”
General Stuck snorted. “The equipment I need can’t be carried in your airplanes. Get me some panzers and heavy artillery! Find me another two divisions and enough transport to carry them!”
Rausch continued undaunted. “We can fly in ammunition, fuel and food, in whatever quantities your staff requires contingent upon the weather and the operational readiness of my Gruppe.”
Stuck flung an arm up into the air. “I have supplies, food and ammunition, even fuel brought here by rail before the Soviets cut the rail lines South. What else can you do for us.”
Rausch resented the barely masked implication that his Gruppe’s efforts would be irrelevant. He had flown as a bomber pilot since the invasion of Poland. “We can provide close air support and fly your wounded out. This is Leutnant David Wirbelwind, I’ve chosen him as your air support coordinator.”
“David?” Stuck questioned. “That’s a Jew name isn’t it?”
“It’s a Biblical name Sir.” Wirbelwind corrected the General without thinking of that he might be considered impudent. Thinking about the moment later in private, he decided that he had been in combat too long to care about offending a general...
“Well,” General Stuck sighed, “I appreciate your making the flight here. I will hold a Staff meeting at 1300 hours. Major, I expect you to make yourself available for the meeting and we will get down to brass tacks. Leutnant David, as you are to become the Division’s Air Liaison, go to the motor pool and pick up a one ton halftrack with the proper radio equipment. I’m assigning you to the 644th Infantry Regiment, South of the Fortress, it has an open flank that worries me. I expect you to be there by 1200 hrs. tomorrow.”
Major Rausch appeared slightly perplexed, although it may have been another emotion that he dared not display. At any rate, General Stuck half-turned in his chair.
“That will be all Gentlemen.”
The two officers stood, saluted and left.
Feldwebel Kohler was waiting for them by the kubel outside. But the two officers didn’t immediately get into the car, instead they held a whispered conversation which ended with Rausch patting Wirbelwind on the back and walking away.
After they left, General Stuck used his office intercom to his secretary. “Have Uncle Sasha bring me a cup of tea”, he ordered.
“Uncle Sasha” was sort of a generic name used for any elderly Russian servant. The old man’s true name was Andrei and General Stuck knew it well. He arrived as quickly as his age allowed and set a samovar of tea on the desk.
Stuck looked up at him. “I want to talk to your man,” was all the General said before looking down bleakly at the coin clutched tightly in his fist.
Andrei didn’t reply, he bowed and hustled off.
“So how did it go?” Kohler asked as they drove away.
“General Stuck is an.....” Leutnant Wirbelwind stopped himself from saying the last word out of sheer military propriety. But his cheeks were still red from being called “Leutnant David”.
Kohler chuckled. “I know how you feel, I sometimes feel that way about all officers.”
Wirbelwind ginned. “Well, at least we’re being sent out of this town. We’re getting a halftrack and being sent to the 644th to the South.”
That’s where Hansen and his guys went.” Kohler said. I hope he has a few bottles for a reunion celebration.”
“I think we’d better find our own while we’re here.” Wirbelwind responded. “By the way, where are we going.”
“Ah, I asked around, we’re headed for the field hospital–remember what Oberfeldwebel Paum asked you?”
Doctors Buttar and Krollspell had finished their shift and were relaxing outside the hospital–which meant that they were engaged in a loud argument over surgical techniques–when Wirbelwind and Kohler pulled up. Much to their surprise, the two doctors recognized them immediately and shook their hands and clapped them on their backs, asking about some of the men in the 585th. Apparently, although their trip had been successful and they had saved a number of their patients because of it, the two doctors were being driven stir crazy by being tied to a building instead of roaming the field.
This struck Wirbelwind as very strange behavior, but then he couldn’t remember a time when their behavior hadn’t struck him as very strange.
Wirbelwind gave them a quick update on the Battalion and the two doctors, in hushed tones, asked them to step around the corner into an alley. Curious, Kohler and Wirbelwind followed.
They walked down the alley and into a small wooden shack. To their amazement, hidden under a large tarp, was the unit’s Sd. Kfz. 251, complete with its pink crosses. Prit quickly covered it again, just as nurse Locke walked into the makeshift garage.
“I thought I saw you two sneak into here,” she scolded the doctors. “You weren’t going to leave me in this hellhole were you?”
“Nurse Locke you know we’d never leave you”, the two doctors swore.
But Wirbelwind caught something in their tone that made him wonder.
“We’re busting out of this prison soon.” Dr. Krollspell said as Dr. Buttar nodded in agreement. “Our work is on the battlefield, where we’re really needed.”
“This town is officially a fortress.” Wirbelwind reminded them. “If you’re caught leaving without orders, they’ll hang you.”
Nurse Locke looked closer at him and Kohler. “Say, don’t I know you two?”
Kohler smiled and made the introductions. The he said, “Oberfeldwebel Paum asked us to check on you”--he hesitated deliberately and added--“all of you, just to see if you had made it alright.”
“Paum? The panzer commander?” Nurse Locke said.
Wirbelwind nodded. So Paum she remembered by name and didn’t even recognize him when he was standing in front of her. He felt a tinge of jealousy, but quickly put it all down to the mysterious attraction women have for tankers, fighter pilots, and movie stars.
Krollspell, Prit and Locke invited both of them to dinner. They would have a reunion celebration after all and perhaps another the next day.
Leutnant Wirbelwind and Major Gunter Rausch sat in the two over-stuffed leather chairs in front of General Stuck’s oak desk. Major Rausch had just flown in and began to brief the General on the air assets available to Fortress Ivanograd. Wirbelwind had met hm on the steps of the building and they hadn’t had the opportunity to speak, except to confirm each other’s identities. So Wirbelwind knew as little as General Stuck about their situation.
Major Rausch was still wearing his flight suit and his black hair was uncombed. That and the strain obvious on his face served to emphasize the urgency of his visit.
“I am Gruppenkommandeur of KG zbV 10. My Gruppe consists of three Staffeln of nine HE-111 bomber-transports. That’s 27 airplanes, maximum. We have been assigned tactical support and supply duty for Fortress Ivanograd.” The Major said.
Stuck was massaging a large silver coin between two fingers of his right hand. It seemed to distract him and it took him a moment to speak.
“Twenty-seven bombers? That’s all? I ask for air support and they send me a major with twenty-seven old bombers at his command? Did your orders come from Corps? From General Lamming?” Stuck’s voice was an odd mix of anger, suspicion and desperation.
“You intend to support my entire Division with twenty-seven bombers?”
Rausch swallowed visibly. His face was thin but handsome, despite the “worry lines” at the edge of his eyes and the black bags beneath them. “Twenty-seven is an optimum Sir, it is rare that all of the machines are operational at the same time. My orders originated in the highest quarters of the Luftwaffe in Berlin. Personally, I have no illusions of what my Gruppe’s capabilities are.”
General Stuck recognized that as an honest answer and seemed to relax, although he was pondering how his enemies had reached even Luftwaffe Headquarters in Berlin. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the coin even harder.
Major Rausch tried to get the conversation moving again. “An HE-111 can’t carry the standard two ton load of a JU-52, it was designed as a bomber, not a transport, so we must have some idea of your supply situation, the tonnage and type of equipment you will need.”
General Stuck snorted. “The equipment I need can’t be carried in your airplanes. Get me some panzers and heavy artillery! Find me another two divisions and enough transport to carry them!”
Rausch continued undaunted. “We can fly in ammunition, fuel and food, in whatever quantities your staff requires contingent upon the weather and the operational readiness of my Gruppe.”
Stuck flung an arm up into the air. “I have supplies, food and ammunition, even fuel brought here by rail before the Soviets cut the rail lines South. What else can you do for us.”
Rausch resented the barely masked implication that his Gruppe’s efforts would be irrelevant. He had flown as a bomber pilot since the invasion of Poland. “We can provide close air support and fly your wounded out. This is Leutnant David Wirbelwind, I’ve chosen him as your air support coordinator.”
“David?” Stuck questioned. “That’s a Jew name isn’t it?”
“It’s a Biblical name Sir.” Wirbelwind corrected the General without thinking of that he might be considered impudent. Thinking about the moment later in private, he decided that he had been in combat too long to care about offending a general...
“Well,” General Stuck sighed, “I appreciate your making the flight here. I will hold a Staff meeting at 1300 hours. Major, I expect you to make yourself available for the meeting and we will get down to brass tacks. Leutnant David, as you are to become the Division’s Air Liaison, go to the motor pool and pick up a one ton halftrack with the proper radio equipment. I’m assigning you to the 644th Infantry Regiment, South of the Fortress, it has an open flank that worries me. I expect you to be there by 1200 hrs. tomorrow.”
Major Rausch appeared slightly perplexed, although it may have been another emotion that he dared not display. At any rate, General Stuck half-turned in his chair.
“That will be all Gentlemen.”
The two officers stood, saluted and left.
Feldwebel Kohler was waiting for them by the kubel outside. But the two officers didn’t immediately get into the car, instead they held a whispered conversation which ended with Rausch patting Wirbelwind on the back and walking away.
After they left, General Stuck used his office intercom to his secretary. “Have Uncle Sasha bring me a cup of tea”, he ordered.
“Uncle Sasha” was sort of a generic name used for any elderly Russian servant. The old man’s true name was Andrei and General Stuck knew it well. He arrived as quickly as his age allowed and set a samovar of tea on the desk.
Stuck looked up at him. “I want to talk to your man,” was all the General said before looking down bleakly at the coin clutched tightly in his fist.
Andrei didn’t reply, he bowed and hustled off.
“So how did it go?” Kohler asked as they drove away.
“General Stuck is an.....” Leutnant Wirbelwind stopped himself from saying the last word out of sheer military propriety. But his cheeks were still red from being called “Leutnant David”.
Kohler chuckled. “I know how you feel, I sometimes feel that way about all officers.”
Wirbelwind ginned. “Well, at least we’re being sent out of this town. We’re getting a halftrack and being sent to the 644th to the South.”
That’s where Hansen and his guys went.” Kohler said. I hope he has a few bottles for a reunion celebration.”
“I think we’d better find our own while we’re here.” Wirbelwind responded. “By the way, where are we going.”
“Ah, I asked around, we’re headed for the field hospital–remember what Oberfeldwebel Paum asked you?”
Doctors Buttar and Krollspell had finished their shift and were relaxing outside the hospital–which meant that they were engaged in a loud argument over surgical techniques–when Wirbelwind and Kohler pulled up. Much to their surprise, the two doctors recognized them immediately and shook their hands and clapped them on their backs, asking about some of the men in the 585th. Apparently, although their trip had been successful and they had saved a number of their patients because of it, the two doctors were being driven stir crazy by being tied to a building instead of roaming the field.
This struck Wirbelwind as very strange behavior, but then he couldn’t remember a time when their behavior hadn’t struck him as very strange.
Wirbelwind gave them a quick update on the Battalion and the two doctors, in hushed tones, asked them to step around the corner into an alley. Curious, Kohler and Wirbelwind followed.
They walked down the alley and into a small wooden shack. To their amazement, hidden under a large tarp, was the unit’s Sd. Kfz. 251, complete with its pink crosses. Prit quickly covered it again, just as nurse Locke walked into the makeshift garage.
“I thought I saw you two sneak into here,” she scolded the doctors. “You weren’t going to leave me in this hellhole were you?”
“Nurse Locke you know we’d never leave you”, the two doctors swore.
But Wirbelwind caught something in their tone that made him wonder.
“We’re busting out of this prison soon.” Dr. Krollspell said as Dr. Buttar nodded in agreement. “Our work is on the battlefield, where we’re really needed.”
“This town is officially a fortress.” Wirbelwind reminded them. “If you’re caught leaving without orders, they’ll hang you.”
Nurse Locke looked closer at him and Kohler. “Say, don’t I know you two?”
Kohler smiled and made the introductions. The he said, “Oberfeldwebel Paum asked us to check on you”--he hesitated deliberately and added--“all of you, just to see if you had made it alright.”
“Paum? The panzer commander?” Nurse Locke said.
Wirbelwind nodded. So Paum she remembered by name and didn’t even recognize him when he was standing in front of her. He felt a tinge of jealousy, but quickly put it all down to the mysterious attraction women have for tankers, fighter pilots, and movie stars.
Krollspell, Prit and Locke invited both of them to dinner. They would have a reunion celebration after all and perhaps another the next day.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Sat Jul 09, 2005 6:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
- Moderator
- Posts: 4823
- Joined: Sun Sep 29, 2002 7:22 pm
- Location: New Jersey
REVENGE PART SIX
Major Rosselsprung held the letter in his hands while sitting on his bunk. A bitter little smile appeared briefly, then disappeared. The familiar smell of that perfume reminded him of so much that he was reluctant to open the letter before both enjoying and hating the memories it provoked.
It was a letter from his former fiancé, Serena Kinsela. The first he had received in four empty years. How she had found his feldpost was quite beyond him. Their breakup, like their affair, had been total. The intensity of his attraction to her had mirrored itself in the intensity of his dislike for her after she had rejected his marriage proposal. True, he was only a student halfway through his studies and not settled into a career while she came from a well-off family and had every right to set her sights higher than his position in society. But, he would never have guessed her capable of such cold-hearted practicality.
He opened the letter from the woman he remembered as the most beautiful, self-centered bitch he had ever known. Parts of the letter were written in French--those were meant to ensnare him with the pretense of intimacy. The beginning of it was a long apology for not remaining in touch, “as a friend”. He chuckled cynically at that. He had quit his studies in Venice and joined the Army the day after she rejected his proposal. Then there were the parts in French that reminded him of how much he had meant to her and the good times they had shared. Finally he came to the real point of it–she had apparently fallen on hard times. Her husband had left her for another woman (not that Rosselsprung had known she ever married after she broke up with him) and her parents had been killed in an air raid that destroyed her home. She was living with distant relatives and supporting herself by tutoring children in French and giving piano lessons.
The letter ended with her sincere prayer that he reply to her letter.
Rosselsprung folded it neatly and tucked it into a pocket. Whatever satisfaction he might once have felt didn’t come to him now. There were too many miles and too many scenes of death separating the letter from his feelings. He had learned--and she had been his first teacher--that protecting one’s feelings was as important in the end as protecting one’s life in the field. Indeed, often the two meant the same in war.
Captain Nibelung walked in with a bulky wooden box.
“From Headquarters,” Miha said cheerfully, “I think these are the medals and citations we requested!”
“Hmm? Already? Things must be worse than we thought.” Rosselsprung joked. It was a contention of his that when they were wining medals took longer to approve and actually came slower than when they were losing.
Nibelung pried open the box. Inside were smaller presentation boxes and their accompanying citations. Out of curiosity, Miha opened one.
“Wow! Did they change designs recently?”
Rosselsprung shrugged, “I guess so. Never saw anything like that before. Kind of gaudy.”
Despite the jokes and cynicism, both men knew as soldiers and as leaders how important medals and commendations were to morale. Winning or losing, a medal was recognition by the Reich–and more importantly–by one’s fellow soldiers of the finest qualities a fighting man possessed. Rosselsprung had won his Iron Cross 1st Class in 1942, as had Nibelung and the awarding of them remained among the fondest memories either man had of his military service.
“There is a memorandum in here saying that many of these medals are of a new design and we are one of the first units to receive them.”
“I hope the men understand.” Rosselsprung replied. “Let’s sort this out and parade the troops this afternoon for a presentation ceremony. Might as well do this as soon as possible, no telling how soon we’ll be back in action.”
Nibelung agreed and summoned an orderly to bring the unit’s diary.
Rosselsprung looked over the Iron Cross First Class due to be awarded to Oberfeldwebel Heinrich Paum. It didn’t feel exactly right. The weight was off. “You’re certain the memorandum says this is a new design Miha?”
Nibelung nodded, adding, “Well after all, they can’t be counterfeits, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not like they’re worth anything on the civilian market or ever will be. I remember my father saying that in the great depression after the war, you could buy an Iron Cross on the street for pfennigs. Trust me, their only worth is to the soldier and no one will ever try to counterfeit an Iron Cross or a Knight’s Cross–not in a million years.”
At 1500 hrs. the Battalion was on parade, the panzer men standing in front of their tanks and the rest of the outfit drawn up in columns at attention and wearing their best uniforms. Major Rosselsprung gave a speech of congratulations from a small platform the repairs section had erected. Then he called the individuals forward, read each awards certificate and pinned the medals on. He saved the best for last. Leutnant Beppo Schmidt was the first soldier of the 585th Really Heavy Tank battalion to receive the famed Knight’s Cross. Everyone in the Battalion was proud of him and proud that he attained the distinction of putting a member of the unit into the pages of Knight’s Cross recipients.
Beppo threw his chest out when his name was called an marched forward in an immaculate uniform. Miha handed Major Rosselsprung the presentation box as the Leutnant stepped up on the platform. It was surprisingly large, but no one noticed in the excitement of the moment.
The Major made a short, well-received speech–Beppo was popular with just about everyone, not just because of his skill and his bravery but also because of his generous and friendly nature. He was the exact opposite of the arrogant Panzer Ace sometimes portrayed by the newspapers.
Rosselsprung read aloud from the award certificate;
“And for his bravery in action and the achieving the feat of destroying fifty Russian tanks, Leutnant Beppo Schmidt is hereby awarded the Knight’s Cross Mit Bling!!!”
At that he opened the case and removed an enormous black metal cross, trimmed in gold. The arms of the Balkancross were at least five inches across from one tip to another. In its center was a clock, a full two inches in diameter, the hands of which were those of a black swastika that moved with a soft tick, tick, tick. The entire heavy assemblage was suspended from a thick, puffy gold chain that Rosselsprung hung around his neck.
“The Knight’s Cross mit Bling?” Miha asked himself under his breath.
Beppo’s eyes widened in disbelief, he looked at Rosselsprung who was having his own problems absorbing the sight of the huge medal but also desperately trying to maintain the solemnity of the event.
Rosselsprung saluted sharply, Beppo returned the salute and, somewhat self-consciously, stepped down from the platform and back into the ranks.
Major Rosselsprung held the letter in his hands while sitting on his bunk. A bitter little smile appeared briefly, then disappeared. The familiar smell of that perfume reminded him of so much that he was reluctant to open the letter before both enjoying and hating the memories it provoked.
It was a letter from his former fiancé, Serena Kinsela. The first he had received in four empty years. How she had found his feldpost was quite beyond him. Their breakup, like their affair, had been total. The intensity of his attraction to her had mirrored itself in the intensity of his dislike for her after she had rejected his marriage proposal. True, he was only a student halfway through his studies and not settled into a career while she came from a well-off family and had every right to set her sights higher than his position in society. But, he would never have guessed her capable of such cold-hearted practicality.
He opened the letter from the woman he remembered as the most beautiful, self-centered bitch he had ever known. Parts of the letter were written in French--those were meant to ensnare him with the pretense of intimacy. The beginning of it was a long apology for not remaining in touch, “as a friend”. He chuckled cynically at that. He had quit his studies in Venice and joined the Army the day after she rejected his proposal. Then there were the parts in French that reminded him of how much he had meant to her and the good times they had shared. Finally he came to the real point of it–she had apparently fallen on hard times. Her husband had left her for another woman (not that Rosselsprung had known she ever married after she broke up with him) and her parents had been killed in an air raid that destroyed her home. She was living with distant relatives and supporting herself by tutoring children in French and giving piano lessons.
The letter ended with her sincere prayer that he reply to her letter.
Rosselsprung folded it neatly and tucked it into a pocket. Whatever satisfaction he might once have felt didn’t come to him now. There were too many miles and too many scenes of death separating the letter from his feelings. He had learned--and she had been his first teacher--that protecting one’s feelings was as important in the end as protecting one’s life in the field. Indeed, often the two meant the same in war.
Captain Nibelung walked in with a bulky wooden box.
“From Headquarters,” Miha said cheerfully, “I think these are the medals and citations we requested!”
“Hmm? Already? Things must be worse than we thought.” Rosselsprung joked. It was a contention of his that when they were wining medals took longer to approve and actually came slower than when they were losing.
Nibelung pried open the box. Inside were smaller presentation boxes and their accompanying citations. Out of curiosity, Miha opened one.
“Wow! Did they change designs recently?”
Rosselsprung shrugged, “I guess so. Never saw anything like that before. Kind of gaudy.”
Despite the jokes and cynicism, both men knew as soldiers and as leaders how important medals and commendations were to morale. Winning or losing, a medal was recognition by the Reich–and more importantly–by one’s fellow soldiers of the finest qualities a fighting man possessed. Rosselsprung had won his Iron Cross 1st Class in 1942, as had Nibelung and the awarding of them remained among the fondest memories either man had of his military service.
“There is a memorandum in here saying that many of these medals are of a new design and we are one of the first units to receive them.”
“I hope the men understand.” Rosselsprung replied. “Let’s sort this out and parade the troops this afternoon for a presentation ceremony. Might as well do this as soon as possible, no telling how soon we’ll be back in action.”
Nibelung agreed and summoned an orderly to bring the unit’s diary.
Rosselsprung looked over the Iron Cross First Class due to be awarded to Oberfeldwebel Heinrich Paum. It didn’t feel exactly right. The weight was off. “You’re certain the memorandum says this is a new design Miha?”
Nibelung nodded, adding, “Well after all, they can’t be counterfeits, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not like they’re worth anything on the civilian market or ever will be. I remember my father saying that in the great depression after the war, you could buy an Iron Cross on the street for pfennigs. Trust me, their only worth is to the soldier and no one will ever try to counterfeit an Iron Cross or a Knight’s Cross–not in a million years.”
At 1500 hrs. the Battalion was on parade, the panzer men standing in front of their tanks and the rest of the outfit drawn up in columns at attention and wearing their best uniforms. Major Rosselsprung gave a speech of congratulations from a small platform the repairs section had erected. Then he called the individuals forward, read each awards certificate and pinned the medals on. He saved the best for last. Leutnant Beppo Schmidt was the first soldier of the 585th Really Heavy Tank battalion to receive the famed Knight’s Cross. Everyone in the Battalion was proud of him and proud that he attained the distinction of putting a member of the unit into the pages of Knight’s Cross recipients.
Beppo threw his chest out when his name was called an marched forward in an immaculate uniform. Miha handed Major Rosselsprung the presentation box as the Leutnant stepped up on the platform. It was surprisingly large, but no one noticed in the excitement of the moment.
The Major made a short, well-received speech–Beppo was popular with just about everyone, not just because of his skill and his bravery but also because of his generous and friendly nature. He was the exact opposite of the arrogant Panzer Ace sometimes portrayed by the newspapers.
Rosselsprung read aloud from the award certificate;
“And for his bravery in action and the achieving the feat of destroying fifty Russian tanks, Leutnant Beppo Schmidt is hereby awarded the Knight’s Cross Mit Bling!!!”
At that he opened the case and removed an enormous black metal cross, trimmed in gold. The arms of the Balkancross were at least five inches across from one tip to another. In its center was a clock, a full two inches in diameter, the hands of which were those of a black swastika that moved with a soft tick, tick, tick. The entire heavy assemblage was suspended from a thick, puffy gold chain that Rosselsprung hung around his neck.
“The Knight’s Cross mit Bling?” Miha asked himself under his breath.
Beppo’s eyes widened in disbelief, he looked at Rosselsprung who was having his own problems absorbing the sight of the huge medal but also desperately trying to maintain the solemnity of the event.
Rosselsprung saluted sharply, Beppo returned the salute and, somewhat self-consciously, stepped down from the platform and back into the ranks.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Mon Jul 11, 2005 10:34 am, edited 1 time in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Rosselsprung
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Great job Commisar D!
The Knight's Cross mit Bling? What's next? Beppo rolling across Russia with spinners on his Tiger's wheels, his RK mit bling on a gold chain, "Beppo's ride" in gold plated letters on the side of the Tiger, and a radio blasting the rap-version of the Panzerlied across the battlefield?
By the way, as Major Rosselsprung has a former former fiancé, he also needs a full name. Wolfram Erwin Rosselsprung. It's a mouthful, but so are most German words.
The Knight's Cross mit Bling? What's next? Beppo rolling across Russia with spinners on his Tiger's wheels, his RK mit bling on a gold chain, "Beppo's ride" in gold plated letters on the side of the Tiger, and a radio blasting the rap-version of the Panzerlied across the battlefield?
By the way, as Major Rosselsprung has a former former fiancé, he also needs a full name. Wolfram Erwin Rosselsprung. It's a mouthful, but so are most German words.
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Commissar D, the Evil
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