“Well, kameraden… I think Moscow may be beyond us for a day or two.”
The laughs were punctuated with sounds of pain and coughing, as men’s wounds protested at the movement caused by their amusement.
“Apologies, kameraden. Just thought you should know the situation.”
Deniken knew they had failed.
They had been denied victory, not by the damned SS, but by the enemy’s air force.
Admittedly, his forces had been split by the bold thrust towards Sulisɫawice, and he had lost heavily in the same village itself, but the main damage had been done on the road to Łoniów, and throughout the second echelon of the attack, where the fighter-bombers had ranged across the land, having gained air dominance, firing their damned rockets and dropping their damned bombs without check.
‘And the firebombs… always the firebombs!’
His senior commanders were all dead or wounded; the same went for Artem’yev’s regiments.
There was no information available on the 1st Guards Engineers, or on 6th Guards Tanks Corps, but for sure they would have suffered.
He had established contact with the commander of the 91st Tank Battalion, but the man was no wiser than he on such matters.
Contact with Rybalko had been lost nearly an hour previously, and much had happened in that time.
He decided that he would reform his line either side of the Floriańska and then move up towards Sulisɫawice, maintaining a broad front, although the military power to project himself up the planned route had long been spent in the valley of the Koprzywianka River.
“Comrade Lisov… we’ll move up behind the second battalion. Get everything ready.”
“But Comrade Mayor General, there’s still a question of…”
“I need to move up now. I need to see what’s happening. Now. Get us ready to move.”
Lisov’s objection died in his throat and he turned to get the small staff organised and back on the road.
Six minutes later, the command group was on the Floriańska, heading towards Sulisɫawice.
“Attack in line, watch your spacing. Dive, dive, dive.”
The four Thunderbolts of the French 13e Escadron, once the RAF’s 345 Squadron, dived upon the rich pickings on the valley floor beneath them.
Around the supply point established at Krysin, the Soviet AA gunners were wide-awake and put up a furious barrage.
The lead aircraft staggered under the impact of cannon shells and turned away to port, streaming smoke and sparks.
His wingman followed him, acting on the shouted instructions of his section leader.
The two flew northwards at an increasingly slower speed as the Capitaine nursed his ruined aircraft back to friendly air space.
Behind them the two remaining Thunderbolts put their RP-3 rockets into the soft-skinned vehicles in and around the small junction, creating chaos and destruction with the 1st GMRD’s logistical column.
“Don’t take your rockets home, Canard-trois.”
“I’m staying with you, leader.”
“I’m getting rid now. Find a target. I’ll fly straight and level, don’t mess about and just do it, Pierre.”
“Roger, leader.”
Canard-trois lost height slowly and Pierre Haufranche sought a suitable target.
A burst of AA fire attracted his attention, and he focussed his mind on the target ahead.
Blobs of glowing metal rushed past his cockpit as the desperate gunners tried to stave off his attack.
The blobs shifted slightly and started chewing into the metal fuselage, and two hit the boss of the propeller, causing the whole assembly to shake and rattle, and begin tearing itself apart.
Further shells opened up the wing tanks and bathed the whole aircraft in fire.
Haufranche opened the canopy and propelled himself out into space as the Thunderbolt started to disintegrate in mid-air.
His commander watched in fury as the glowing shape detached from the burning aircraft and deployed a parachute that was quickly engulfed in flames.
Mercifully, the journey to the earth was short and Haufranche’s pain was terminated on impact.
Screaming at no one in particular, the French section leader elected to put his aircraft into a dive and put all his focus into the display in front of him, ignoring the flak that streamed up at him once more.
The engine ran super-hot but he still powered into his dive, intent on extracting revenge for his cousin.
The flak struck his aircraft again, but he was not to be turned, and the RP-3s leapt from their rails.
His aircraft was hit again.
Canard leader turned but found a lack of response.
Pulling back on the stick, the Thunderbolt tried to overcome the damage caused by the hits and the airflow through the numerous holes, and only just failed.
The wingtip clipped a lorry and Canard leader flipped over and cartwheeled end over end across the Floriańska highway.
“That’s fine shooting, Lisov. I’ll decorate the gunner and commander of those guns.”
“The other one’s coming in, Comrade Mayor General. Heading for the AA guns themselves it looks like.”
Deniken grunted.
“Move!”
The BTR moved forward at increased speed, intent on pulling ahead of the SPAAs and their personal fight with the diving plane.
“He’s fired… not at us!”
Lisov’s words were superfluous as it was obvious that the rockets were aimed at the guns.
“They got him!”
“Bastard!”
The rockets struck amongst the SPAA vehicles, sending two into fireballs.
The enemy aircraft was low and turning, too low and too slow…
“Watch out!”
Deniken shouted uselessly at the supply lorry as the Thunderbolt streaked in and the wing hit the cab.
Deniken and Lisov could only watch as the spiral of metal and flames ate up the ground between them, inexorably spinning itself into a whirlwind of death.
What was left of the Thunderbolt collided with a BTR-152 of the 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division’s headquarters, containing both the divisional commander and his 2IC.
There were no survivors.
0915 hrs, Tuesday, 1st April 1947, Sulisɫawice, Poland.
The Soviet forces had pulled back to the edge of the village, licking their wounds and trying to get organised, and the tired legionnaires and tirailleurs found time to catch their breath, if only for a moment.
A shot had come from no one knew where, but its effect had been catastrophic, and the old Legion NCO had flown backwards, dead before he hit the wall behind.
His MG-42 team decided on self-preservation and ducked down behind the brickwork.
“Sniper!”
Around the small square, men headed for cover and prayed that they were not in the sights of the deadly rifleman.
Others on the edges had crashed through ruined doors and windows and escaped the line of fire.
They started to work through the ruins in search of the deadly rifleman.
Another shot brought more suffering as a tirailleur officer fell without a sound as the back of his head flew off, spraying his men with the contents of his skull.
One younger soldier screamed and rose up to run, but was immediately knocked back by another bullet.
He whimpered his way through the last painful seconds of his life.
The sniper, there were actually three of them, settled into a new firing position, one that offered a better angle on the small square.