At the time, it was described as a lull. Historians writing about the war later described the period of January, through to mid-March 1946, as a respite, an enforced break, and, in territorial terms, nothing of note changed hands.
But to those who froze and struggled to survive, it was anything but.
To those who flew, day in, day out, the war went on in its normal savage way, but with the extra complications of extreme temperatures and the very worst conditions.
The Soviet incursion that was driven back by the 2nd US Infantry and Legion Corps D’Assaut was the last large ground action on the European front, as the continuing winter combined with logistical problems, low morale, and growing non-combat casualties, creating a general malaise that affected both sides of No Man’s Land.
The lull; a time when the armies stood quietly apart and exchanged artillery.
The respite; a time when the air forces of both sides did what they could to keep the enemy on the back foot, the Allies with far more success than the Red Air Force could ever have hoped to achieve.
The enforced break; a time when the dying stopped?
Far from it.
The group had shrunk considerably since the heady days of its early successes, when the enemy was less organized, the targets more numerous, and the cold was a thing of the future.
Now, Kommando Bucholz was virtually on its last legs, out of supplies, nearly out of ammunition, with only hope and iron will sustaining them, and the former was fading fast.
At one time, the Kommando had risen to a strength of fifty-two men. The first casualties were all caused by enemy action, but, since the snows came, winter had extracted its price from their ranks, as well as the constant NKVD patrols, leaving only nine men alive.
Their base at Ekelmoor had served them well until it had been discovered, and its loss, and that of nineteen men, had set the Kommando on a downward spiral. Offensive action was almost impossible as they were constantly hounded from position to position by the pursuing Soviet security forces, unable to get any supplies, unable to rest, and unable to respond effectively.
An attempted ambush had cost the Kommando another dozen men, without any notable improvement in their condition.
Lieutenant Staunton, late of the Carleton and Yorks, had succumbed to wounds that morning, two weeks after the mine had taken his right foot and ravaged his body with shrapnel.
In the end, it was a merciful release, as their limited medical supplies had not lasted as long as the ravaged young Canadian.
Now ‘Bucholz’ had nothing but the nine men; no food, no supplies, only the nine men and the weapons they carried.
Soviet policy in the area had been harshly implemented, and numerous farms that could have given them shelter and food now lay black, where the occupiers had burned them to the ground. The Soviets moved whole families into ‘holding areas’ and collected foodstuffs into more easily defended locations, effectively cutting off their civilian support.
The survivors had found refuge in a derelict hut in the Brakenwald, a modest forested area surrounded by boggy moorland. It was a double-edged sword for them, the awful conditions keeping the enemy at bay whilst providing them with little let up from the harsh temperatures, save the dubious comfort of the ramshackle building, whose holes were too numerous to plug with snow.
Unable to light a fire, the survivors huddled together under blankets and greatcoats, gathering their strength for the evening’s foray.
Driven by hunger and cold, they had decided that the small Soviet supply dump at Hollenbeck would receive a visit.
It was not wise, neither was it well thought through, their desperation driving them to make decisions based on survival, not military reasoning.
Unfortunately, their desperation was anticipated, and their arrival was expected.
Having rubbed his stump back into life and re-attached the prosthetic limb, Schultz and Irma settled into position, the lovingly cared-for Mosin sniper’s rifle cold against his cheek.
Admittedly, without night sights, Irma would be of limited value, but Schultz also had the flare pistol to hand, ready to send up illumination if there was a problem, illumination that would bring the superb weapon into play.
The rest of the Kommando were implementing the hastily-agreed plan, with four men moving up on each side of the Oberdorf, the long road they intended to use to close on the depot quickly, using the hedgerows as cover.
MacMichaels, the Canadian Seaforths’ Sergeant, led the assault group, moving ahead of the second support group by thirty metres. Its commander, ex-Hauptmann Müller, once of the GrossDeutschland Division, drove his weary men on, knowing in his mind that the raid might prove to be a risk too far, but that necessity and survival held sway in his decision making.
Up ahead, the Soviet facility, set in the field adjacent to the junction of Oberdorf and Stahlmannskamp, displayed little by way of life, and what little movement there was betrayed sentries struggling to stay warm, rather than on high alert.
At the main entrance, a Soviet soldier was stamping his feet and slamming his arms against his sides, desperate to maintain blood flow whilst he did his stint outside, whereas his two comrades tucked themselves up in the guard post, complete with stove and extra blankets.
Across the Oberdorf, a line of lorries were parked in a wired-off area, backs towards the main gate, almost ready to reverse in and load up at a moment’s notice.
The two open guard towers showed no presence, the sentries clearly skulking below the woodwork and staying out of the icy wind.
That same wind was cutting through the clothing of Kommando Bucholz, bringing already debilitated men to the edge of their tolerance and capacity to endure.
Corporal Forbes, another of the ex-POW Canadians, grabbed Müller’s arm as the German amputee’s false leg slid away on the ice, threatening to send him flying.
“Steady on, boss. I got ya.”
“Danke, Forbes.”
The effort of movement left neither of them capable of more words.
Fifty metres from the wire, MacMichaels signaled the groups to ground, allowing himself a few moments to take in the base and the challenges it might pose.
A curtain fluffed at one window in the facility, a building MacMichaels immediately assumed to be a barracks.
Despite his cover, the Sergeant shrank back as two Soviet soldiers padded round the inside of the barbed wire, moving as quickly as they could in the circumstances, clearly wishing to be back inside in the warm.
He watched and congratulated himself when they both disappeared into the suspected ‘barracks’, which building subsequently disgorged another two men to take over the perimeter patrol.
Müller’s unit had swung left, approaching the south-west corner of the supply dump, keeping their attention firmly fixed on the front gate and the nearby tower.
MacMichaels nodded to the man adjacent to him, who slipped his rifle over his shoulder and extracted the wire cutters that would get them inside the facility.
Using his fingers to indicate his chosen point of entry, the Canadian settled behind his PPSh, watching and covering the US engineer as he slid forward over the virgin snow.
The quiet magnified the explosion.
The detonation was followed by screams of extreme pain.
Followed by a moment’s silence.
The US Engineer had lost half his face, all of his left arm, and his body had a hundred holes, all leaking blood, fluid that was no longer pumped around his body as the heart was already motionless.