The forward HQ of the 1st Guards Mechanised had moved up but the writing was unintelligible, hastily scrawled by a young officer under increasing pressure.
“Yes, that’s HQ 1 GMRD, Comrade General.”
“Good. I want him and his reserve force sat astride the Floriańska now. He commands and nothing… but nothing… escapes this trap.”
“And Zilinski, Comrade General?”
“Tell him enough that he’s aware of the possibility, but keep him focussed on Sulisɫawice… and 0900 stands… more need now than ever to get the fucking place in our hands. Questions?”
There were none and Ziberov was quickly away to get things organised.
Rybalko took a sip of his sweet tea and summoned his air liaison officer.
“Comrade Polkovnik, I want you to relay the following to the Frontal Aviation commander… as a priority.”
Even as Rybalko passed on his needs, the men of the trapped Legion assault groups smashed into part of the 171st Guards Rifle Regiment just east of Beszyce.
The breakthrough to Sulisɫawice had begun in earnest.
0752 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, Sulisɫawice, Poland.
“Stillgestanden!”
The bow gunner was new to the tank crew, so had no idea what he was about to witness.
All he knew was that the divisional commander had just walked up to the tank and he was the only man who wasn’t snoring.
Knocke would have let the men sleep, but it was too late now.
Köster looked like a man from another planet, a man who had just been woken from the deepest of deep sleeps, which was indeed wholly accurate.
Meier looked only slightly more focussed.
The other two men, Hans Jarome and whoever it was, looked like they had been smoking something wholly unauthorised, their eyes no more awake than the boots on their feet.
“At ease, kameraden… at ease.”
He moved forward, nodding at the alert crewman who was so in awe that he forgot to report to the senior officer.
“Rudi… Klaus… Hans…”
Knocke held out his hand and all three men took it in turn as they started to wake up quickly, as one does when confronted by senior ranks in unexpected places.
“Relax now.”
Knocke nodded to the two new members and took a seat on a convenient fruit box as Hässelbach made himself comfortable on a piece of brickwork.
“How are we doing, kameraden? Alles klar?”
Rudi Köster gave a brief but full resume of their fighting state and running condition.
“How are the bolts now, Klaus? Still holding?”
“Yes indeed, Oberführer. No problems at all. Good quality… and I got hold of a spare set… just in case.”
Knocke returned the grin.
“But of course you did.”
Köster had his cigarettes out and they did the rounds.
“Coffee for our guests, Linus.”
The sentry, shocked at the informality, even though he had heard how these men had fought alongside Knocke at Brumath, busied himself with producing six mugs of steaming coffee from the saucepan that sat above a modest fire to the rear of the Tiger’s bulk.
He passed the drinks round and realised he had miscalculated, so went without himself.
“A hard fight, kameraden.”
“Yes… yes it is, Oberführer. We’ve lost a lot of old comrades today.”
Knocke raised his coffee mug.
“To our old comrades.”
They echoed the sentiment and drank in silence.
Knocke’s thoughts were dark indeed.
‘More old comrades than you know, my friends.’
“And who are your new comrades?”
“This one’s the quiet type, Oberführer. Farber… Gunther Farber.”
The general and private exchanged nods.
“And this one is Linus Wildenauer… apparently he trained as a vet but wanted to fight, so here he is, in our steel horse.”
The crew laughed and Knocke assumed it was a well-rehearsed private joke, which it was.
Again, he exchanged nods with the new man, and then beckoned them all to sit.
“So, of course you understand the shitty situation we’re in. Well, so does General Lavalle, and he’s put together a relief to pull us out of this mess. In the meantime, we hold and that’s that.”
There was no reply needed.
“You’re my only mobile reserve, so expect to get called early, and to go all over the plateau. How you off for fuel, Klaus?”
“All topped off, Oberführer, but I doubt there’ll be another load. Once the Panthers have drained it down, I suspect it’ll all be gone.”
Which was in line with what Knocke had heard earlier.
“I hear they’ve got some of the big boys out there, Oberführer. Stalin tanks, all shapes and varieties.”
“Seen one myself to the east side, but Jorgensen and the Panzerjager are there and dealing with them quite nicely.”
“There’s no more ammunition for our gun, Oberführer, so I’m running with a half-load, but we’ve stashed as much machine-gun ammunition as we can on Lohengrin, just in case we can’t get back to here to rearm again.”
“He’s after promotion, Oberführer. Trying to be efficient but it was Jarome’s and my idea. We run the tank. He’s just a glory-hunting figurehead.”
Knocke smiled but stayed silent, not wishing to steal Köster’s moment.
“In which case, with your permission, Oberführer, I’m excused duties and off to have a fish in the river. You can put this one in charge. His mouth will bore the enemy to death and we’ll have final victory assured.”
Jarome guffawed loudly and slapped Meier on the shoulder.
“That’s you all fucked up then, driver Meier. Am I relieved too, Oberführer?”
Knocke would have normally have played the game, but he simply didn’t have the right frame of mind for it.
“Unfortunately… today I cannot spare any of you…”
He punched Köster on the forearm in a soft and playful fashion.
“…even the glory-hunting figureheads.”
They all shared a laugh at that, even Köster himself.
Knocke stood, bring all of them to their feet.
“Well, I thought I’d come round and see how you all were. Take care, kameraden. There’ll be more battles to come. Hals- und beinbruch!”
They took their leave of each other, but Knocke still dwelt at the side of the old Tiger, in which he had fought as a tank commander one bloody day at Brumath all those months ago.
He touched his hand to the cold steel and smiled.
Hässelbach coughed by way of reminder, and the legend that was Knocke simply slapped the legend that was Lohengrin before moving on to another group of soldiers.
0820 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, the hell that was Sulisɫawice, Poland.
The Katyusha strike arrived.
Accurate and deadly, the rockets plunged down amongst the defenders of the crucial junction and maimed and claimed men’s lives all over the village.
Ett was struck down by shrapnel in the legs and was carried away to the aid post, still protesting his ability to fight.
Amongst those killed was Maillard, not by a rocket strike, but as a result of a secondary explosion at one of the small ammunition points.
Knocke had ordered such points established at the beginning of the battle, in order to minimise losses should a shell strike one, as occurred when the Katyusha rocket plunged into the small brick outhouse.
A piece of brick struck Maillard in the temple and he fell instantly, never regaining consciousness.
As the last rocket descended, the cries went up from around the perimeter, as Russians rose to charge, and legionnaires and tirailleurs braced themselves to fight for their lives.