“Our casualties were already considerable and they rose even higher when the main assault finally started in the early morning on the 16th of September. We soon discovered that the Poles had plenty of small arms ammunition and light arms, thanks to the munitions depot in the fortress, but had almost no anti-tank weapons. However, our advance was halted by the last of the FT tanks which were piled up, sealing the northern gate of the fortress. By nightfall, despite further heavy losses, we finally captured the northern part of the citadel. We had killed around 2,000 Poles, almost half of the defenders.”
“So that’s when they gave in?” asked Wohl.
“A sane man would have done, but we were faced with fanatical lunatics. At dawn the next day General Plisowski ordered part of the Polish forces to retreat from the easternmost fortifications and regroup to the other side of the river and southwards. We were too weak and too exhausted to continue fighting into the night. It was a big mistake. Most of the evacuation was completed by early morning. The only Polish unit to remain in the fortress was drawn from the 82nd Infantry Regiment under that crazy Captain Radziszewski, who decided to fight to the end. We fought on with these fanatics in the ruins and tunnels and cellars throughout the day of the 17th of September.”
“The parade day,” interjected Junge.
“Correct, Junge,” said von Schroif. “This proved to be a significant day because that was the day when the Red Army finally crossed the Polish border and started its quick advance westwards. We had no sooner put the last bullet into the last of the Poles when the Soviet tank brigade reached us. I can’t recall his name… What was his name, Junge?”
“He was Brigadier Krivoshein. They reached the area on the 17th and took over the fortress from us.”
“At least we didn’t have to bury the bodies,” announced a deep booming voice from the darkness. “We left the Reds the job of burying the untermenschen.”
The unmistakeable voice was that of SS-Hauptscharführer Knispel, who now levered himself free from the gunner’s hatch and jumped down into their midst, snapping to attention and saluting as he did so.
“Ah, Knispel, just remembering a few of your past glories,” said von Schroif, who was obviously pleased to welcome this celebrated member of his battalion.
SS-Hauptscharführer Michael Knispel, known to everyone as ‘The Prussian’, was a Berliner, born in 1910. He demonstrated all the stoic characteristics of that undemonstrative breed but, like many from that great city, he was as hard as iron underneath. By the age of seventeen he was already a veteran SA man and street fighter par excellence. His reputation as a fierce street brawler, the scourge of the Berlin communists, had projected him to local fame. Knispel had been picked up and processed by the party machine and turned into a formidable boxer. In the eyes of his comrades he had achieved lasting greatness in the boxing ring by beating the fearsome Max Diekmann in just six rounds, who himself had beaten the great Max Schmelling.
Knispel and von Schroif had been together for four years, since their days in the Legion Condor. They saw eye to eye on most things, except Knispel’s undying passion for poaching deer. They had exchanged words on the subject in Spain, Poland, France, Yugoslavia and Greece. To von Schroif’s chagrin there was sure to be a Sauer hunting rifle stowed somewhere on board the StuG and, as a former land owner, von Schroif harboured an inborn grudge against poachers. Although he turned a semi-blind eye, Hans von Schroif was a proud man and his pride would not allow him to accept defeat. He was determined to find it one day. In the meantime, an uneasy truce prevailed. As long as Knispel was not too overt in his activities, von Schroif did not push too hard to discover the whereabouts of this unauthorised nonregulation weapon. He possessed a sense of soldierly duty which was too strong to give in and completely relent, and even the delicious aroma of fresh roast venison could not persuade von Schroif from pursuing his duty.
However, Knispel was an amazing marksman. His skills had made the difference between life and death in France and Greece and von Schroif knew when to lose the odd battle in order to win the war. Knispel’s grey battle dress tunic was festooned with wound badges, assault badges, his Iron Cross second Class, and war merit medals. He also proudly displayed his Marksman’s Lanyard, and it was well earned too. He was far too good a man to lose over such a minor issue as an infraction of one tiny section of military law. Therefore the policy adopted by von Schroif was to ask no questions and accept his portion of the ‘roast horse meat’ frequently proffered by Knispel when the vehicles went into laager for the evening in a forest glade.
“I can’t recall much in the way of glory back there, Hauptsturmführer,” said Knispel, gesturing in the vague direction of the fortress. “All I can remember is a bloody mess with no ammunition. As I remember, we had to fight with sharpened spades in those confounded tunnels with those maggots who didn’t know how to surrender. We came out covered in their blood and shit and Guderian tells us we have one hour to get ready for a big parade! While we were still grappling with the bastards underground Junge was washing the armoured car and polishing our dress tunics! Crazy days, but that’s war for you.”
“Surely not?” queried Wohl, suspecting his leg was being pulled.
“I give you my word of honour, Wohl,” said von Schroif. “Strange things happen in combat. Heaven and hell can coexist within yards of each other. While Wohl and Wendorff were getting ready for the parade, we killed their Captain Radziszewski, who was the last of them, with our daggers and went straight into the joint German-Soviet parade that was held in the town while his blood was still warm in our scabbards.”
“It was certainly the weirdest day of my career,” said Knispel. “We paraded once through the town and then kept going straight across the Bug River, over the bridge there, and started fighting the Poles again an hour later.”
“Things were easier after Brest-Litovsk, until Plisowski pulled things together down in Moravia,” said von Schroif, “but I don’t think the Ivans will prove as tough as the Poles. The Radziszewski bunch were real lunatics.”
“And full of shit too. It sprayed all over you when you carved them open with a sharpened spade,” said Knispel, remembering the gruesome details of the horror of his underground fight.
“Well, let’s try and use high-explosive this time, eh?” said von Schroif.
“I’d like nothing better, Hauptsturmführer,” replied Knispel earnestly. “I don’t go about looking to grapple with untermenschen in tunnels. But the tunnels are still there, the underground barracks are still there, the fortifications have all been repaired, and who’s to say the Reds won’t prove as tenacious as the Poles?”
“Well, the Finns kicked their asses,” offered Wohl hopefully.
“That was in the snow and the trees. The Reds will have learned their lessons.”
“You’ll never know for sure with Ivan,” said von Schroif. “I spent five years among them at KAMA. Some days they were bright and resourceful, on other days stupid and slothful. There were times when they appeared unable to grasp the most basic engineering concept, only to amaze you with an astonishing advance of their own.”
“Never a truer word was spoken,” said a strange voice, and SS-Sturmbannführer Voss stepped out of the shadows. The group immediately sprang to attention. Before Wohl could ask what KAMA meant, Voss picked up the thread of the conversation.
“As you were,” said the older man with familiar ease. “In my experience, it is possible to predict how virtually every soldier of the western world will behave in a given situation◦— but not the Russian. The characteristics of this semi-Asiatic untermensch, like those of his vast country, are strange and contradictory. Disregard for human beings and contempt for death are other characteristics of the Russian soldier. I fought on the Russian front in the last war and I have personally witnessed him climb, with complete indifference and cold bloodedness, over the bodies of hundreds of fallen comrades in order to take up the attack on exactly the same spot.”