Young Lions Roar (32 page)

Ulrich thought about the last orders that Brigadeführer Herold had given him before he was killed: “Obersturmbannführer Ulrich, your mission is to seize the Beattie and
Auchterlonie Bridges and the village of Robinson and hold until relieved.” The mantra repeated itself in Ulrich’s mind: hold until relieved…hold until relieved.

A sudden jolt abruptly interrupted Ulrich’s daydream. “What was that, Captain?” he asked anxiously.

“Flak, sir,” the glider pilot answered nonchalantly. He pointed ahead of the glider, where there was a sudden bright flash and a puff of smoke. The glider shook as the shock waves
from the explosion reached them. “I used to be a bomber pilot, sir, before I was transferred to the Glider Squadron. The Tommies probably think that we’re a group of bombers heading for
Edinburgh. They often open fire on us as we cross over the border, but they rarely hit anything. Flak should be random and light, sir. Absolutely nothing to worry about,” the pilot said
confidently.

“I’m happy to hear that, Captain,” Ulrich replied with relief.

The glider rocked from side to side as a flash and a puff of smoke appeared to the left of the glider, and then another flash and puff of smoke appeared to the right. Ulrich watched,
open-mouthed with horror, as the next flak shell scored a direct hit on the glider to the left. The aeroplane instantly disintegrated into a thousand pieces and Ulrich’s glider rocked and
rolled violently from the vibrations from the blast, as the fuselage was hit by a shower of shrapnel that consisted of pieces of plane and paratrooper. A body landed on the cockpit window with a
massive thud and then slid off to fall away to the ground below. The window was splintered like a spider’s web and looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of blood over it.

“This flak isn’t random and light!” the pilot shouted.

A flak shell suddenly tore a massive hole in the left wing of the Junkers Ju 52 towing Ulrich’s glider.

“Casting off!” the pilot shouted immediately, and released the towing cable without a second’s hesitation. He had been on enough bombing raids to know when an aeroplane was
going to crash and burn and he didn’t want his glider to be dragged down with it.

The Ju 52’s entire left wing tore off and the transport plane started to fall away, cartwheeling through the sky as it plummeted towards the ground. Ulrich breathed a sigh of relief as
three parachutes billowed out from the Ju52 as the stricken aeroplane’s crew bailed out.

“Making our approach!” the glider pilot shouted.

His co-pilot didn’t reply. He sat with his head slumped forwards onto his chest as a thin trickle of blood dripped from his lifeless fingertips.

“Link arms!” Ulrich ordered. The paratroopers did as they were told and also raised their feet off the ground.

The glider dropped like a stone through a shower of flak and brightly-coloured tracer rounds, hit the ground, bounced once and skidded along the ground at one hundred and fifty kilometres per
hour until it came to an abrupt stop.

Ulrich patted the pilot’s shoulder. “Thank you, Captain. That was a fantastic piece of flying.” But the Captain did not answer. He would not be answering anyone’s
questions ever again. The metal skid that ran along the bottom length of the glider had snapped on impact and had ricocheted through the cockpit window. The pilot was impaled through the chest to
his chair, and stared with sightless eyes into the darkened distance in front of him.

“Everybody out!” Ulrich ordered.

The two paratroopers nearest to the door kicked it open, jumped out, and were immediately cut down by a fusillade of machine gun fire.

“Gott in himmel!” Ulrich fired a burst of bullets through the cockpit window and then knocked out the shattered pieces of glass with the barrel of his Schmessier. He crawled through
the gap and jumped to the ground, where he took up a firing position. “Follow me!” he ordered. Ulrich fired short, sharp controlled bursts of rounds in the general direction of the
British machine gun, as his men followed him out of the cockpit window and lay down around him like the hands of a clock in a position of all round defence.

Ulrich tried to get his bearings as his eyes gradually regained their night vision. It was difficult to see in the darkness through the haze of smoke that hovered over the battlefield. Brightly
coloured British tracer rounds swept the ground as the machine gunners searched for German targets. There was the constant cacophony of grenades exploding, the yelling and screaming of men in pain,
the bark of men bellowing orders and the runaway train crashing noise of gliders landing either under the control of their pilots or as they smashed out of the sky, burning to the ground.

Ulrich searched for a familiar landmark. “Mein Gott! I don’t believe it!”

“What is it, sir?” one of his officers asked.

“Look!” Ulrich pointed.

“Mein Gott, sir! Beattie Bridge!”

“Yes! Despite the flak the pilot landed us right where he was supposed to!” Ulrich shouted above the noise of the raging battle. “Listen in, men! We’re about one hundred
metres from Beattie Bridge. We’re going to carry out a squad attack on the enemy pillbox guarding the left hand side of the bridge! Stumpff: you, Kesselring and Brauchitsch will form Delta
fire team and you will provide covering fire whilst myself, Halder and Blucher form Charlie fire team and assault the position. When we take cover we will provide covering fire whilst you assault
the position and so on. Clear?”

“Clear, sir!” the stormtroopers replied.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Stumpff, what is it?” Ulrich asked, as he checked that he had a full magazine of rounds and a couple of hand grenades close at hand.

“Sir, is it wise to assault the enemy position? After all, we only have six men,” Stumpff asked with a lowered voice.

“With six men or with sixty men, the numbers don’t matter, Stumpff. Everyone else might well be dead for all we know. We attack with what we’ve got, as always. What counts here
is not numbers, but surprise and daring!” Ulrich looked at his men. “Besides, do you want to live for ever?”

“No, sir!” his paratroopers answered with the light of battle burning fiercely in their eyes.

“Does that answer your question, Hauptsturmführer Stumpff?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then let’s go! Halder and Blucher, follow me!”

Hauptsturmführer von Stein steadied himself as the Ju 52 veered to the side again. A massive explosion lit up the sky as the transport plane immediately in front blew up.
“Look out!” von Stein warned, as a stick of paratroopers floated into view in front of von Stein’s aeroplane.

“Up! Up! Up!” the pilot ordered, as he and his co-pilot used all of their strength to pull back on their controls. The Ju 52 responded slowly and started to climb steeply upwards.
Von Stein held his breath as the aeroplane just missed clipping the parachute of the last soldier.

“What the hell is going on, pilot?” Von Stein demanded after the near miss.

“We’re all supposed to fly at the same height, sir, to make sure that we don’t hit any of our paratroopers. However, our barometric pressure altimeters aren’t as accurate
as we’d like them to be so it’s difficult for everyone to fly at exactly the same height. Mein Gott!”

A burning Ju 52 suddenly appeared in front with its right wing on fire heading towards von Stein’s plane on a collision course. “We’re going to collide! Get out!” The
pilot flicked the switch, signalling the green light to jump.

“Everybody out!” Von Stein ordered, and threw himself out of the aeroplane. As his parachute opened he looked behind him and watched open mouthed in horror as the two Ju52s collided.
The aeroplanes exploded, sending burning pieces of wreckage hurtling through the sky. A piece of wing tore through a paratrooper and ripped him in half as if he was made of paper. Another piece of
burning fuselage set a parachute on fire and sent the soldier screaming and hurtling to his death. Von Stein watched as a paratrooper floated helplessly towards a burning building. The soldier
disappeared into the inferno with a last desperate cry for help before he exploded. He must have been carrying anti-tank grenades. Von Stein looked above him. He was alone. No one else had jumped
out of his aeroplane.

Ulrich wiped the sweat from his dirty brow with a filthy hand, and raised himself slightly to look over the body of the dead paratrooper that he was using to provide cover from
fire. The entire distance between himself and the pillbox was covered in a carpet of German bodies. He could have used the bodies of his fallen comrades as stepping stones to reach the bunker
without touching the ground. Ulrich cursed. He had not realised that the innocent looking house to the right of the bridge had been transformed into a pillbox. The real house must have been
demolished and replaced with a bunker that was disguised and camouflaged to look like the house that it had replaced. That rather significant development had not been noted and included in the
briefing plan. Stumpff, Kesselring and Brauchitsch had paid for that intelligence oversight with their lives. They had been cut down as they made their first attack.

“What now, sir?” Halder asked desperately. “The Tommies are killing us!”

Ulrich spotted exactly what he was looking for amongst a pile of dead paratroopers. He turned to speak to his two surviving men. “I’m going to crawl towards the flamethrower and then
I’m going to crawl towards the pillbox and burn those bastards alive. Then I’m going to fry the Tommies in the house next door. You two provide covering fire if the Tommies spot me.
Understood?”

“Understood, sir. Good luck!” Halder wished. Ulrich nodded grimly. He stripped off his webbing and back pack to help him crawl easier. He checked that his Luger pistol had a full
magazine and left behind his Schmessier, which was awkward to carry when crawling. Ulrich stuffed a couple of hand grenades into each of his jacket pockets. When he was ready he kissed the crucifix
that hung around his neck and peered over the top of the dead paratrooper again. He needed to be definite about the direction in which he was going to crawl.

Ulrich started crawling slowly towards the pillbox in short bursts. He would crawl until there was a bright flash of light as an aeroplane blew up in the sky, or if an artillery or mortar round
exploded on the ground. Ulrich would then stop crawling so that the Tommies would think that he was just another dead German. Eventually, he reached the flamethrower. He swore as he realised that
the straps were hopelessly entangled and he wouldn’t be able to physically separate the flamethrower from the body of the dead operator. Ulrich reached for the hilt of his SS dagger. Shit, it
wasn’t there. It must have fallen out somewhere. He looked around. There. He spotted a bayonet on a dead paratrooper’s webbing belt. He slowly drew it out and started to saw the
straps.

“There, Bert!”

“Where?”

“Over there! Lone Jerry, twenty five yards, at two o’ clock!” The assistant machine gunner pointed. “A Hun pretending to be dead. He’s been sneaking up on us,
hiding amongst his dead mates!”

“Crafty devil!” Bert said with grudging admiration. “Well, let’s help him join his dead mates, Ernie. Permanently!”

“Eric!” Blucher shouted. “The Tommies have spotted the Colonel!”

Halder watched as the British machine gunners opened fire on Ulrich, sending a sustained burst of rounds thudding into the bodies that provided him with his only cover from fire.

“We’ve got to give the Colonel a chance to get close to the pillbox! Give covering fire, Hans!” Halder ordered as he squeezed the trigger of his Schmessier.

Ulrich realised that the enemy machine gun had switched fire. He grabbed the flamethrower, jumped to his feet, and sprinted the last twenty-five metres to the bunker. He
slammed his back against the front of the pillbox. Ulrich knelt down, adjusted the controls of the flamethrower, pushed the nozzle into the bunker aperture, and squeezed the trigger. He threw
himself to the ground as flames shot out of the pillbox port. The British machine gunners were still screaming in agony as they staggered out of the bunker where they collapsed and lay in a burning
and smouldering heap of cooking meat. Ulrich ran up to the next bunker, which was disguised as a house, before its occupants realised that their partner had been put out of action. He pushed the
nozzle into the pillbox port and squeezed the trigger. Jets of flame shot into the bunker, setting the machine gunners on fire and triggering explosions as the ammunition blew up. The defenders
also ran out and were cut down before they could run a dozen paces.

Ulrich dumped the flamethrower on the ground and shouted at the top of his voice, “The pillboxes have been destroyed! Everyone across the bridge! Let’s go!”

Ulrich’s orders were answered with a ragged cheer as paratroopers seemed to rise from the ground like Hydra’s teeth, and started to fire and manoeuvre across the bridge, shooting
their weapons from the hip.

Ulrich stumbled wearily across the carpet of corpses like a sleepwalker, to where he had left Halder and Blucher. “Thanks, boys. I couldn’t have done it without you. I’ll make
sure that you get medals for this.”

But Blucher and Halder wouldn’t be receiving medals from anyone, unless it was awarded posthumously. Their glassy eyes stared up at Ulrich. He sank to his knees beside them and wept
unashamedly. A thin stream of tears carved a wet path through his soot, dirt and blood-encrusted face. His men had sacrificed their lives in order to protect his.

“Right, lads, this is it,” Oberleutnant Alfonin said. “We’re going to go over the top and into the river any minute now. Remember your training. Row
straight for the other side, and don’t bunch up with the other boats: the Tommies will aim at two or three boats bunched up rather than one single boat on its own. Machine gunners provide
covering fire when the Tommies open up; rowers remember to compensate for the river current as we practised.” Alfonin looked at the circle of camouflaged young faces that surrounded him.
Apart from his platoon sergeant, not a single one of his men was over twenty-one and they were petrified and absolutely scared out of their skins. “Remember that you are Potsdam Grenadiers,
lads, Germany’s finest. We are the tip of the spear and we are right where we deserve to be: in the position of honour, in the first wave.” Alfonin paused as he let his words sink in.
He could see a few of his young soldiers nodding their heads in agreement. “I know that General-Major von Schnakenberg is looking down on us from heaven as we speak, and I know that he wishes
that he could be here with us.” Alfonin could not help his eyes from moistening with tears at the thought of how the General had been cruelly snatched from them when the Regiment had needed
him the most. Alfonin stood up from his kneeling position. “So let’s make the General proud: for the General, the Regiment and Germany! Potsdam! Potsdam! Potsdam!”