Hitler calmed slightly then gave Sporrenberg his orders called Führer Directive 525, he then made Sporrenberg repeat these orders to him.
“I understand mein Führer. We will defend the base to the last man, Die Glocke and professor Gerlach are the most important asset and must be protected at all costs. If it looks like they are about to be captured I will personally see to the execution order, then will destroy everything in the lab. Nothing will remain mien Führer… If it comes to that.
Hitler seemed pleased.
“Heil Hitler,” Sporrenberg shouted then the radio clicked off.
That was it Sporrenberg had his orders, his men were already topside manning the defense of the base. The time for talking was over. ‘I won’t fall into Russian hands.’ He thought to himself as he played with the cyanide pill hidden in his back left molar.
Sporrenberg readied his pistol then radioed down to the two men guarding the entrance to the laboratory.
“Get the demolition charges readied, we may need them.”
“Yes, Gruppenführer.”
The two men left the lab entrance to gather the explosive devices. Inside the bolted thick iron blast door Walther Gerlach failed to notice them leave; he was too busy with the preparations for the final test.
The troops stationed outside were in their final preparations for battle. They each took a single Pervitin pill, they craved the feeling of unlimited energy and invincibility. They checked all the weapons were loaded and that there was enough ammunition to keep on fighting. Each to a man knew this would be a fight to the death but they were ready to die for their Führer, for their country but they were especially ready to die for Sporrenberg.
The SS troops were well equipped with some of the latest cutting-edge technology. They had a surprise for those Bolshevik bastards, they had thought that they had three days more to prepare but clearly those cowards in the Wehrmacht had caved in much earlier than expected.
Hauptsturmführer Berndt Krause cursed under his breath. He then straightened his hat, keeping the cold morning air away from his head, making sure his jet black uniform was in pristine condition.
An alarm rang out from the base, this was it, enemies were on their way. Krause readied himself, he knew what must be done and he was going to kill everyone who dared get in his way. A broad smile crept across his face, he took his Pervitin pill and all was right in his world.
Darkest Before Dawn
Half an hour had passed since the last briefing had finished. General’s Eisenhower and Arnold had left in their respective cars right after the briefing; they left no trace that they had ever been there.
The troops of the 7th Ranger battalion had their orders; the Armor and infantry had already moved out twenty-five minutes earlier and were cautiously en-route to the open fields set east of the Owl Mountains.
Staff Sergeant Brooklyn Johnson swept back his black hair, he desperately wanted a smoke but he knew that could give away their position so he suppressed the urge. Johnson had just finished the walk around checks of his P-51 Mustang. The mechanic finished refueling her and gave his thumbs up.
The P-51 D Mustang was the stallion of the skies, Johnson loved the power given by the Packard V-1650 7 liquid cooled V-12 power plant; he also loved the security he felt from the six 0.50 caliber Browning machine guns spread out along the front of the rectangular wings. The squadron was also outfitted with two underwings mounted 1000 lb. bombs for this mission.
Johnson gave his bird a loving tap on the side before he climbed up into the open bubble shaped canopy. Gently he slid into position strapping himself in as he went. Johnson felt at home in the cockpit, His bright blue eyes locked over a familiar picture, he moved his hand over the image of his young wife and child who were smiling back at him; it was a moment in time that he cherished dearly. Johnson shouted a warning before he started up his engine. The P-51 roared into life with a puff of dark smoke, the propellers span awake and Johnson tested his throttle a little.
P-51’s across the airfield all began to come alive one after the other. They were soon joined by the primal roar of the four “Cyclone” engines, dust and frozen soil plumed up into the air as the great bombers taxied into takeoff position and then there they sat burning fuel, waiting for the signal to go.
The B-17’s were loaded with only four thousand lbs. of bombs each; they needed the extra range to get to the safety of a base in Italy after they had unloaded over their targets. The ten-man crew hunkered down. The gunners were checking the ammunition and were ready for an uncomfortable journey. The radios were silent; the usual banter was nonexistent as everyone single person knew the secrecy of the mission was paramount.
The long columns of Sherman tanks slowly cut swaths through a small wooded area; they were clearing the way for the troops to follow behind them, Intel had not suggested any minefields in their direct path but it was not worth taking the risk; high commands intelligence was notoriously inconsistent.
The troops from the 7th had left the base just over an hour ago and were nearly in position; they were instructed to wait for the air force to begin their assault before their own ground attack could begin. The tank commanders were nervous as only the cover of darkness and the sparse woodland was keeping them concealed.
The sound of hard fighting sounded off in the distance accompanied by a fiery haze far off on the horizon. Artillery pieces fired barrage after barrage making a faint sound much like distant thunder.
“It’s all kicking off over there ay lads!”
“Hell yeah.” A young private said.
“Would love to see the Jerry’s and the communists kick shades of shit out of each other.”
“Be a hell of a spectacle.”
“Alright, boys that’s enough. Keep it down otherwise, the Nazi scum might catch us with our pants down without any protection.” Master Sergeant Robert Miller ordered sternly.
The men under his command were instantly silent.
Robert Miller was born in Washington D.C but had moved to the country to live with his aunt and uncle at an early age. His dad had died in world war one while Robert was only three. His mum could not take the heartache and shipped him off to his uncle’s cattle ranch.
Before the outbreak of world war two Robert’s five-foot-eleven inch frame had grown to become a successful cattle rancher; he was known to be tough but fair, he expected total commitment from his staff but also rewarded them greatly for a job well done. The Master Sergeant carried this on into his military career and very quickly rose in the ranks with a reputation as a fine leader of men.
The men under Miller’s command respected the twenty-nine-year-old as he was calm under pressure and always seemed to make the right decision. His steely brown eyes gave the impression of a man in control of any situation, even if the soldiers around him had completely lost their composure.
Miller slowly moved his way in the dark to the side of the lead Sherman. He leaned up and whispered.
“Pete, what do you make the time? Shouldn’t our boys be here by now?”
Commander Jim ‘Pete’ Parker was forty-two years old; his cold grey eyes had seen many battles during the war. Pete and his platoon had fought through Africa than Italy before eventually fighting through France.
He sighed, “Is that, you Miller? You know they are always late. It will be dawn soon and we will be fucked if they don’t give us cover before then.” He paused to take a swig of bourbon. “So get back into fucking position and pray they turn up.”
“Yes, sir.” Miller said. He mumbled under his breath.
Pete shook his head. ‘These young pricks don’t have any idea or patience,’ He thought.