He waited patiently. An occasional bullet pinged off the armour, fired from the enemy’s positions by one of the few still mentally capable of that simplest of military tasks.
Those who spoke of what they witnessed post-battle, talked of a blood-soaked Hawkes, his hair cut in the Huron style, making him appear like a bloodthirsty savage of old, clinging to the side of the armoured train, illuminated by the fires and explosions of the battlefield.
The later descriptions of their NCO normally included words like ‘mad, ‘lunatic, or the universally popular ‘the devil.’
The metal shutter on which Hawkes concentrated, started to shift upwards, and he readied himself.
Unknown to Hawkes, the car’s officer intended to have a look before surrendering his command.
The shutter moved open just enough and Hawkes lunged.
Everyone inside the armoured wagon knew exactly what it was, and the screams started long before Hawkes pressed the trigger.
In his efforts, the NCO lost his grip and fell from the armoured train.
No matter, one burst, in that confined area, was enough.
The flamethrower hung from the opening by its barrel, now bent beyond use by the weight of Hawkes as he fell. The tank dangled above Hawkes as he shook off the latest indignity of his fall.
Inside, the twenty men and two women were noisily incinerated.
Paratroopers swept forward, and the wounded of both sides were recovered and taken to be either tended or eased into the next life.
No-one went anywhere near Hawkes, who sat on a discarded ammo box, chain smoking whatever he could find, Russian or American, staring at something a thousand miles away
Anyone who came within twenty yards felt threatened, albeit silently.
Moving around the battlefield, Colonel Marion J. Crisp was apprised of Hawkes’ state, and immediately moved to help resolve the situation.
Grabbing another box, the paratrooper Colonel took a seat and lit his own cigarette in silence.
Hawkes had no idea he was even there.
This was not the first time that Crisp had seen such an event; he understood the risks of touching the NCO, but did it anyway.
Hawkes struck his hand away.
“Steady, Monty. It’s me… you know me… c’mon Monty… take my hand now.”
Hawkes looked vacantly at his Colonel.
“Hi Monty. Now then… take my hand ‘kay, eh?”
Hawkes stared at Crisp’s hand, covered with the Colonel’s own blood, then his own hand, cut, bloodied and bruised, almost as if reacquainting himself with a long lost friend.
After some moments, he extended it.
The two hands met and Crisp took a firm but gentle hold.
“I think we might go now, Monty… don’t you?”
“Can’t.”
“You can’t? Why can’t you come with me, Monty?”
“Haven’t been relieved. Must be relieved.”
Crisp could only smile.
“First Sergeant Hawkes.”
The eyes that looked at Crisp were changing, reflecting the ongoing departure of whatever it was that had transformed the NCO into a berserker.
“Colonel, Sir?”
“First Sergeant Hawkes, you are relieved.”
“Did we hold ’em, Colonel?”
Crips nodded, trying not to think of the cost of victory, for, despite everything, that was what it was.
“You held them, First Sergeant.”
Hawkes’ eyes softened, and Crisp seized the moment.
“I think we should go now, Monty. Stand up.”
Still holding hands, the two came to their feet and officer helped NCO from the field.
As soon as was practicable, Crisp made time to visit the position of the Naval support team, for no other reason than to congratulate them on a job well done.
As he neared their position, he became aware of bodies, lots of bodies, mainly clad in the uniform of the enemy, but occasionally those of men from his own command. He even recognised some dead troopers from regimental headquarters, sent up to ride shotgun over the Naval officer and his radio operators.
“Damn.”
His voice drew a challenge.
“H-Halt! Who goes th-there?”
He recognised the voice immediately.
“Colonel Marion J Crisp approaching, Lieutenant Commander.”
“You m-may approach, C-Colonel.”
Bathwick’s Lanchester sub-machine gun was a large piece to drag into the field, but it seemed to have proved effective, given the dead enemy surrounding the Naval officer’s position.
The Killick, Harrington, was fiddling with his radio, teasing the top performance from it. The other rating was laid out reverently, alongside two of Crisp’s men, seemingly fast asleep, but decidedly dead.
Bathwick’s hands were shaking like a man with the DTs, the shock debilitating him as sure as any bullet.
There was little purpose to deep conversation whilst the man was so wiped out by his experiences, so Crisp went for easier fare.
“One day, Lieutenant Commander, you must tell me what happened here. I’ll bet it’s one hell of a story.”
Without trying, the Airborne Colonel had managed to see over forty enemy bodies within fifty yards of the positions the Naval OP and his men had held.
A cloud of cigarette smoke from one pile of earth and wood indicated that some of his men were still alive, and he rose to make his way over, maintaining the crouch that veterans use to move around with in the presence of the enemy.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. You made all the difference.
“T-Thank you, Colonel.”
As Crisp engaged the survivors of his own Headquarters covering group, the sound of approaching engines drew cries of alarm from along the 501st’s lines.
“Stand to!
“Here they come again!”
But the sound grew behind them and, accompanied by great relief, units of the 1st Free Polish Armoured Division arrived.
The same was repeated at other positions on the paratroopers’ front, as the well-equipped units of Polish X Corps caught up with the demanding timetable.
101st US Airborne Division had held until relieved.
The 501st suffered 35% casualties during the first day of the landings, the majority of which came from the battered First and Second Battalions. Two hundred and thirteen of their casualties were dead, the same as the regiment lost in the duration of its commitment to the D-Day landings.
It was subsequently estimated that the naval shells from Warspite and Nelson, claimed a minimum of six hundred and fifty Soviet lives in less than two minutes.
But for the naval support, the Soviet night attack would probably have achieved its objectives.
As it was, Kudryashev’s and Rybko’s initial plans came to nothing.
They would do much better next time.
The hole was constantly filling up with water, the marshy terrain unsuitable for foxholes, but occupying one was far better than being exposed if the Russians lobbed mortar shells in their direction, so the picquet grinned and bore the wetness with stoicism.
A pair of sentries from the Fallschirmbatallion Perlmann, 7th FJR/2nd Fallschirmjager Division, posted to watch for any activity in the lake, sat closely observing the far bank, conscious that something was occurring.
The senior man wasted no time in calling the events in, and soon the readiness squad was deployed either side of them, commanded by an Oberfeldwebel, and with Major Kurt Schuster in tow.
A plume of orange flame leapt into the night sky across the dark waters of the Vilm-See, the largest lake in Pomerania, illuminating furious activity, easily observed despite the thousand metres that separated the two forces.
The sound of an explosion quickly followed, causing many of the Fallschirmjager to tighten their grips on their weapons, whilst understanding that whatever it was, it wasn’t directed at them.