Actually, why does one need need a happy ending? This ain't Hollywood.
Even speaking comedy the end of "Blackadder goes forth" springs to mind. Every actor wants to play a good death scene anyway . Filmwise I'm thinking more more of films like ... Untergang, Zulu Dawn, Alamo, the Great Escape, Bridge on the River Kwai.
Theres a new writing challenge, the "who will survive?" genre style. Went out of style in the US in 70's far as I can gather. Who surrenders, hiding in bombed cellars, attemps escapes by boat and foot, last stands to the bitter end, leave me save yourselves, cliffhangers etc.
DCC, you done great comedy, parody, and action . I say : now do heroic tragedy, it don't get no bigger than gottendamerung.
AAA wrote:Actually, why does one need need a happy ending? This ain't Hollywood.
Unfortunately, a "happy ending" probably wouldn't be appropriate. I know we've already lost one of our nurses. I'm anticipating the loss of several more Heroes in this particular Tale.
While I didn't write my particular Tale about the Iron Crosses to ensure that Tom lived through the war, I know that Tom and The Shadow have both had post-war stories written about them.
I don't know if it counts, but I started an episode in Korea 1951, where the Commissar lived. So did a few others. As it never got further than the first installment, it might not be a guarantee, but...
By definition, even an ad hoc outfit like the Heroes will lose a good number of its strength. Some of us are going to die. As depressing as this Tale is, David has made it very authentic. There is a morbid sense of reality to it. Thus, we Heroes will not pull through unscathed.
Just remember, we're scheduled to meet again in Valhalla. Remember to die with a weapon in your hand, so the Valkyrie will know which souls to recover!
David - not mocking at all; you have to remember that the events of 1944 and 1945 look like a long series of defeats and disasters to US in retrospect...but to those IN them, actually living through them, and living for another day when they didn't expect to see ANY more...they would have seemed more like a long series of "little victories", little personal ones, for those that survived.
Sadly, so many simply weren't to know at the time just how little those little victories would be...but the ultimate end doesn't devalue the winning of each of them day by day by those involved.
"Well, my days of not taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle." - Malcolm Reynolds
In my opinion (if you guys don't mind) this touching, wonderful work needs a real action-ending in which (i really don't wonna say this but) some of the heroes unfortunately die. May be it would be some final brutal ‘clash of the Titans’, final battle like in Saving private Ryan (just as an example).
Tom and other guys have pointed out that the happy ending wouldn’t be appropriate – I think we should add - it can’t be happy ending for everyone because this is the war. Let’s face it, with all due respect to everyone, losses are inevitable (like Cap. John Miller in SPR). But we also should say that those who’ll get over this carnage, who’ll survive in this hell, in this war as well as those who’ve already fallen in battle and those who will – are all great characters who played their own parts in this (I guess right now after what I’ve read I wouldn’t say ‘story’) this novel. And each of them had won their own small victories like phylo_roadking said before. And this novel needs a good ending with a true heroes.
So David, of course you’ll have to make up your mind about this but I’m definitely sure that whatever you write it’s gonna be a beautiful and dignified ending .
P.S. And as Tom Houlihan said before we indeed have to remember that we are all to meet each other in Valhalla so there’s nothing to worry about – guns up, pick up your gear and into the fight meine Kameraden!
All the Best
Ironically or not, one could judge the progress of the battle by the location of General Rosselsprung’s headquarters. Operating with a bare minimum of personnel—mainly signals troops, the occasional orderly and the all-important runners—it was compact enough to have moved around the shrunken perimeter of the city’s defenses at will. But relocation, under the circumstances, simply meant going deeper underground. Rosselsprung had started the campaign in the Mayors’ wood-ornamented office, after its demolition, he moved to the cellar and finally, the entire staff squeezed itself into the sub-cellars of the building.
The longer they fought, the harder the Russian bombardment became, the deeper into the earth they were forced. As it was, a rather morbid Gruber reflected, the headquarters was now sunk further underground than any grave, new or old.
Luckily, this space was rather large, having served for two hundred years as a wine cellar for the city’s officialdom. Well, the wine was gone now……
Gruber handed him the latest sheave of communiques as he sat at the large oak table placed squarely in the center of the largest room and underneath several bare light bulbs that swung on cords with the reverberations of every nearby exploding artillery shell.
“Congratulations, sir”, Gruber said, his expression betraying his humor. “You’ve been awarded the Oakleaves for your “heroic defense of the city”.”
Rosselsprung frowned and turned to the next piece of paper. “Ah”, he said, “Reichsminister Goebbels is calling our stand here, “the noblest form of self-sacrificial fighting against the Jewish-Bolshevik hordes”. He chuckled. “And we‘ve all been mentioned in Whermacht dispatches.”
“Better read the next message sir,” Gruber said.
Unfolding it, Rosselsprung’s eyes immediately slid down to name of the sender: Adolf Hitler. Then he read it ever so slowly.
“Nothing new here Gurber,” he finally said, “no surrender, no retreat, no surrender negotiations, no ceding of even an inch of ground without the Fuhrer’s personal permission. Oh, and immediate counterattacks to regain lost ground!” Rosselsprung laughed softly at that notion and placed the Fuhrerbefehl face down on the table. “Are the officers here yet for the meeting?”
“Yes sir, but I thought you’d want to see that before the meeting.”
Nodding wearily, Rosselsprung instructed Gruber to bring the officers in. Gruber pushed a blackboard salvaged from some now destroyed schoolroom behind the General and hurried out of the room.
Doktor Krollspell was the first to enter the room. Snatched by a runner from his surgery, he hadn’t had time to change. He wore a brown leather butcher’s apron, still smeared with dried blood, over his uniform. It had proven much more practical than his white surgeon’s outfit and, in any case, none of those had survived his duties or the subsequent attempts to wash them.
Next to enter was S.S. Standartenfuhrer von Bellow, the energetic, unsmiling commander of the 95th S.S. Polizei Regiment. He was a somewhat unusual character, being both the son of a Prussian nobleman and a committed Nazi. As of yet, he hadn’t clashed with Rosselsprung—intense combat tended to narrow ideological differences somewhat--but both secretly assumed that such a clash was both imminent and inevitable. Von Bellow combined the fine, old Prussian trait of arrogance with the new found stubbornness of Nazi doctrine and wasn’t regarded as a “friendly fellow” even by his closest subordinates.
Von Bellow’s battalion commander on the Southern edge of the city was S.S. Sturmbannfuhrer Helmut Kessel, a figure whose name had provoked a fair share of jibes in the beginning of Bad Frostberg’s ordeal, but only a certain…bitterness…as the Soviet ring closed in earnest about the city.
And then there was Hauptmann Otto Rath, a Heer officer whose battalion was, even then, engaged in fighting off another Soviet attack on the Eastern perimeter. He was a quiet, dedicated officer, whose only failing was an intense personal despair, which he hid from his men through acts of really outstanding bravery.
Oberleutnant Phylo Konigstrasse, commanding the few armored vehicles, was at the meeting. As was Leutnant zur See Joachim von Ribbentrop, commander of all remaining artillery.
The last, and loneliest, figure to sit at the table was Luftwaffe Colonel Gunther Braun, the garrison’s liaison with the rather rare and scarce air-drops of supplies from the outside. It was said that he avoided contact with the fighting troops out of a well-found fear of being lynched by the troops and townsfolk.
Absent, and presumed missing, was the officer charged with maintaining the Western defenses, S.S. Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirsch. No one had seen or heard from him in days, although that portion of the defenses remained strong enough, if only because von Ribbentrop’s beloved armored train “Erika” shelled the Western approaches regularly and indiscriminately. Von Ribbentrop liked to brag, in his slightly jaded and juvenile manner, that nothing could come into the city from the West unless it had wings and a suit of armor. So far, experience had proved him right.
“Situation report?” General Rosselsprung quickly demanded.
Gruber went top the blackboard, holding a long wooden pointer with a rubber tip. The chalk lines seemed clear enough to everyone in attendance, but Gruber knew the subtleties. In quick order, he summed up the obvious.
“As you can see, gentlemen, the city is completely encircled. The Russians infest our Southern suburbs, blockade the Northern road and launch continuous attacks from the East. We have more men in the lines now, than when this battle began, despite our heavy casualties—some two thousand by my count. We’ve combed out everyone sulking in the rear areas—as much as there are any rear areas. Many stragglers have drifted into our lines from the East, before that door was shut. I understand, circumstances in the East are much worse for Germany than even here. We are”, he continued, “desperately short on everything, food fuel and ammunition. But so far, we are holding.”
There was a quiet, if unenthusiastic acceptance of his presentation from all of the assembled officers. After a moment, Gruber stabbed his pointer at the lines on the blackboard. “Which fact, of course, brings us to the real matter—what exactly are the Soviets doing?”
If this last sentence was meant as a challenge or only as a mere opportunity for them to speak their minds, several of the officers seized upon it.
First, Standartenfuhrer von Bellow grunted sourly and said bluntly, with a sidelong glance at Phylo Konigstarsse. “The infantry is doing everything. Luckily the Russians haven’t used their tank force in any logical manner, as all we have are panzerfausts and panzerschrecks. Under the same conditions, any German force would have chopped us into segments by now. But our men have been able to hold only because of bad tactics on the part of the Bolsheviks and because of the infantry’s steadfast hearts. We can’t expect to continue much longer without reinforcements. ”
“I agree”, Hauptmann Rath joined in. “The Russkies seem to be content with grinding us away in small actions, block by block, house by house. Certainly they have enough tanks to cut us into sections and annihilate each section in turn. Instead, my men have repelled nine or ten company-sized infantry attacks in the last two days.”
Rosselsprung listened intently.
“Their tactics and their intentions certainly don’t seem to mix”, Sturmbannfuhrer Kessel added softly. “We’re fighting a veteran tank corps that seems to have forgotten or is deliberately ignoring every rule of taking a city. They’re letting their infantry bear the burden of the assault and satisfying themselves with gains of a few hundred meters. They’re squeezing us to death when they could just overwhelm us with tanks. God knows we haven’t enough panzers to stop them.”
“Uh-humm.” Phylo Konigstrasse cleared his throat. Like Von Ribbentrop and Braun, he didn’t really want to take on the blame that might be aimed at his branch of the service, but he knew he had to speak up.
“We still have a formidable armored element in the city”, he began cautiously. “My three Panthers are still intact, we have ten surviving Hetzers, a Tiger II, a Nashorn, a Jagdpanther as well as at least a dozen halftracks. What keeps us from intervening more actively is simply the need to ration ammunition and fuel. Perhaps the Russians aren’t willing to take the losses they could inflict. ”
Von Bellow, at least, laughed aloud. “That’s absurd!” He sneered after recovering his wind. “There’s an entire Soviet tank Corps hammering at us! Do you, for any moment, think that they wouldn’t sacrifice thirty or even forty tanks? Even of you could kill three of them for every one of yours, they would still be able to walk over your piddling armor and spit on their graves!”
His emphasis on the word “could” enraged Phylo.
Rosselsprung waived a hand in the air dismissively to stop the impending argument.
Gruber quickly brought the conference back to a point. “So what are they up to?’
The question hung unanswered in the air long enough to prompt him to move on to another topic. “What help can we expect for air re-supply?”
Braun whitened at the question. “Well,” he offered with the utmost hesitation, “Petrol is in rare supply throughout Prussia. But my headquarters has assured me that ammunition and food drops will continue throughout the siege. I’ve already forwarded our ammunition requests and medicinal needs to them, as well as suggestions for additional foodstuffs.”
This brought down the wrath of Doktor Krollspell, who had kept quiet during the purely military aspects of the discussion. “Don’t give me that sh*t! We haven’t received medicine in any of the drops. I have twenty-five hundred wounded laying about on the floor of a railroad warehouse and they haven’t seen a bottle of iodine or a scrap of gauze from your people since this battle began!”
Again Rosselsprung hushed them with a gesture, although he knew that the issues had to be addressed. They were, all of them, under tremendous strain and he couldn’t afford bickering at this time. Perhaps all of them knew that, as they allowed themselves to be silenced without an order, as such, from him.
“What precisely is going on with our Western defenses?” Rosselsprung asked. The officers looked at each other until eventually Von Bellow shrugged.
“Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirsch has disappeared, he’s assumed dead. We have a thin line there, nearly a battalion, but mostly bits and scraps. We’ve had to use old men and boys in that sector in order to use our better troops as reserve of sorts. Untersturmfuhrer Kruger is in temporary command”
“Of sorts?” Rosselsprung probed.
“Three companies, more or less. I’ve mounted one in some of Herr Konigstrasse’s precious half tracks for mobility.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question about the western lines.” Rosselsprung stated. “Gruber, do we have any reliable intelligence at all about that sector?”
“Division has advised us that that they have exactly two armored cars seeking that information at this moment.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a stub of chalk and drew a big question mark in the area beyond the rail yards. “But it has been fairly quiet there.”
Rosselsprung sat back in his chair thoughtfully. “Our orders are to repel by fire any attempt by the Russians to initiate our surrender, but we haven’t received any such offers. The Russians are firmly entrenched in the South, blockading the North and attacking from the East. Oberleutnant Konigstrasse, move your Panthers into the rail yard and prevent any surprises.”
“Jawohl Herr General!” Phylo stood up and pointed at the blackboard. The rest of the heavy armor is guarding the Northern road and the Hetzers are intermixed with the infantry to the South and East to improve their anti-tank capability”. Satisfied that, with these words, he had upheld the honor of the Panzertruppe, he took his seat again.
“Standartenfuhrer, if things do not change radically, how long do you think your troops can hold?” Rosselsprung asked.
Von Bellow looked at his officers for support before he answered. “Provided nothing changes radically, provided we have sufficient ammunition and food re-supply, I would expect us to be able to hold for, at most, a week.”
Gruber considered his estimate to be overly optimistic, but refrained from commenting.
Rosselsprung didn’t see the need to issue any new orders regarding Von Bellow’s troop dispositions, so he merely accepted the words without comment. But a thought did strike him and his own mental exhaustion allowed him voice it. “Fine then Gentlemen”, he said, “A week. And after that, it's death or Siberia.”
Otto Rath hung his head gloomily, while the others stared momentarily at the table.
Gruber picked a box up out of the corner of the room and placed it firmly on the table in front of the General.
“Oh yes, there is some good news from Berlin I forgot to mention."
The officers shook off their own private thoughts and returned their attention back to General Rosselsprung, who reached into the box and slowly drew smaller black boxes from it. He pushed the first box across the table to Von Bellow, then he stood up and handed one to each of them.
“These have been entrusted to me by the highest authorities”, he assured them. “And I myself believe that few men have ever deserved them more.”
Von Bellow grasped his gift immediately, opened it and unfolded the straps from which hung a gleaming Knight’s Cross. He stared closely at it, as if deciding whether or not it was a fake. Finally he grinned and hung it around his neck.
“From the Fuhrer!” General Rosselsprung shouted, hammering a fist on the table.
One by one, the other officers opened their little boxes and un-wrapped their medals. Only Doktor Krollspell put his box on the table pushed it aside and stood up from the table. He hastily brushed past a beaming Leutnant von Ribbentrop as he left the room.
An orderly appeared as he left with a silver tray, two old bottles of wine and enough silver cups for everyone.
The meeting, the first but not the last of its kind, was over except for the ritual of a celebration.
Fine wine and shiny new medals would brace them for the days to come, General Rosselsprung thought as he drank and observed their subdued merriment, but it wouldn’t save them in the end. The real question was, could he save them?
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
A great spout of blood erupted from the Russian sniper’s neck and he fell silently on to the back deck of a knocked out T-34. Not a great shot, W.F. told himself. Only a hundred meters and the shot had been low. And the sniper had been either incredibly arrogant or incredibly stupid to position himself behind the turret of a burned out tank in the first place--a much too obvious position because it was so high off the ground as to afford any sniper excellent visibility.
W.F. crawled to his next hide, a black spot in the angular shadow of a shot down door.
He waited.
His position was well beyond the German “line”, in what was usually referred to as “contested territory”. It was silent that night. No more than the occasional random or purposeful shot. It was those that fired on purpose that he hunted. While noting the nearest Russian positions and sometimes playing his scope over their occupants, he wasn’t interested in those average soldiers or in causing random casualties. W.F. liked to fight thinking that he had a special purpose.
And perhaps he did. The second Russian sniper was setting up on the second floor of a shattered red brick house, calmly spreading his blanket on the floor and placing spare magazines around its edge. Now that was a good position, W.F. thought. The Russian wasn’t going to use the windows—too obvious—but intended to fire instead over the slanting remains of the house’s upper wall. Yes, a nice position and a good plan, W.F. conceded.
W.F. squeezed his round off gently. The Russian sniper grunted softly, grabbed at his chest and fell heavily on the blanket, his rifle clunking to the floor as soon as his dead hands released it.
That insignificant noise compelled W.F. to move again. He stuck to the houses which, although in ruins, stretched in a long continuous line parallel to the street. He figured he could go from one to another and never have to hide in the coldness of a shell hole in the ground. The one thing that did worry him was how to cover his trail, as the snow had covered everything, every room without a roof.
He settled into a position in a relatively intact kitchen. Kitchens were a favorite of his. Plenty of shadows and plenty of metal cover from stoves and iceboxes. And, usually, big tables, chairs and small windows. Kitchens were always the most crowded room in a house, so what better cover than in a kitchen?
But, he did quite ignore that there might be a small problem with scavengers. As the night ran on, found himself more and more focusing on the Russian campfires. A lone hunter at times misses the warmth of a fire and the companionship of equally cold soldiers. One of the men huddling around this particular fire wore the flat epaulets of a Soviet officer and W.F. stirred out of his thoughts to align the scope on him.
“Blam!”
The shot came from behind him and was so close it startled him. A man in Russian fur cap fell forward into the kitchen, gasping several short breaths before dieing. W.F. swiftly turned his gun towards the door, only to find a youthful German soldier standing there with a still-smoking Luger in his hand.
“He saw you”, the German said quickly, nervously. W.F.’s rifle was aimed at the soldier’s belly. He gestured with it for the soldier to get down, which he did, and to crawl over to him.
“So whose pup are you?” W.F. asked.
“My name is Jahn. My unit pulled back without me. I saw you come into the house and I hid--I didn't know whose side you were on—then I saw the Russian sneak up behind you.”
That bit of old news didn’t bring W.F. any joy. Not only had he missed the young soldier when he entered the house, but more fatally, he had somehow allowed a Russian to stalk him.
“Well...thanks.” W.F. offered his hand, which the young man shook furiously.
“I’ve been out here alone for two nights! I couldn’t get back. I lost my rifle, but I found this.” Jahn showed him the P-08 again between sputtering out his story. “I think it was an officer’s gun.”
“Relax,” W.F. said, noticing at last that the young man was shaking nervously. “Just relax. Have you seen any other Germans?”
“Just a few—there are at least three over in that house, but when I moved towards it, they shot at me.” Jahn pointed at a tall house at the corner of the street. It looked abandoned, as did every other house on the street, but W.F. couldn’t help but notice, with his well-practiced eyes, that it commanded a respectable field of fire in at least three directions, all of which faced the Soviet lines.
“We have to move”, W.F. suddenly insisted. “Gather up the Russian’s bread bag--crawl over to him slowly and keep it quiet. We need to find another home.”
He watched for the young soldier’s reaction and was satisfied to see that, even while shivering with fear, Jahn followed his orders instantly and to the letter.
W.F. was the ultimate loner, both by personality and occupation. But, having had his life saved by a kid who was no more than a teenager sobered him and set him firmly towards repaying the debt. It would take some time and a very circuitous route, but he had decided to reach the house on the corner that the kid had pointed out.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
.... Sounds like W.F and I "Jahn" are in for an interesting night , great job as always, cant wait to see whats instore for everyone,
Cheer's
Jonathan
Cheers Jonathan,
Only the spirit of attack borne in a brave heart will bring success to any fighter aircraft, no matter how highly developed it may be.
If the Germans were puzzled by the Guards Tank Corps' actions, they might have taken some slight satisfaction from the reaction by the EviL Commissar’s superiors to his Corps' progress.
Every message he received for the first few days of the siege indicated STAVKA’s deep displeasure with him and demanded a quicker result.
For his part, he sent replies indicating that he intended to capture the place “intact”, although his definition of “intact” wasn’t to be found in either a Russian or a German dictionary.
What he truly planned remained a mystery, even to his much-trusted and ever-loyal friend, Colonel Valery Sonfovich.
“It seems that our superiors have given up on us”, the Colonel reported stiffly. There’s been a great breakthrough to the East and we haven’t received any messages from Front Command in the last two days.
Commissar Davidov was all smiles. “Well, I expected them to stop pestering us eventually.”
“And may I ask why you expected this?” Valery asked curiously.
Davidov had just finished his morning shave and was putting his tunic on over his shoulders.
“Well Valery, my good comrade, obviously someone at higher echelons wanted to slow us down by throwing us against a town we had no need to take. They’ve succeeded and now they’ll let us alone. Some other tank corps will have the honor of taking Danzig.”
“Which doesn’t quite explain why we are still butting our heads against this particular wall”, Valery reminded him.
The Commissar buttoned his tunic casually. “It strikes me that anyone with the influence to stop the entire Guards Tank Corps in its tracks and waste it on obviously useless task, is not someone who needs to be disappointed—yet.”
Valery stroked his own unshaven face.
“How are our casualties?” The Commissar asked.
“The infantry’s taking a bit of a beating. But they were mostly green troops.”
“Yes, green troops are meant to die, like flowers in the fall, but they’ll be veterans after this fight.” When the Commissar waxed poetic, Valery knew to expect some great, devious surprise.
“You should know that several of your senior commanders are questioning your tactics.”
“That’s to be expected, since my tactics are more subtle, these days.”
Sensing that he would get no more out of him, the Colonel saluted. Commissar D returned the salute and began to whistle a song as the Valery strode away.
Whatever he planned for Bad Frostberg and Prussia in general, he had determined to keep a secret and no one, not even Stalin himself, was to be privy to it.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
The difference between Ulrich’s 234/1 eight-wheeled armored car and Tom’s 234/2 Puma was the turret of the latter, whose weight raised that of the 234/2 from the 11.5 metric tons of the 234/1 to slightly over 11.7 metric tons for Tom’s vehicle. This was not much of a mechanical problem considering the 200 hp Tatra diesel that powered both models. But tacking on a 50mm high velocity cannon in an enclosed turret meant that the two sub-types were operated somewhat differently by their crews.
To put it plainly, while you could see more from the open turret of a 234/1, you could kill more of the opposition with a 234/2. And Tom rode the Puma harder and took more risks because he knew it.
However, despite his personal attitude, this was one of those very rare cases where the operational and the logical arts of scouting intersected, as everyone agreed that the weapon mounted on a reconnaissance vehicle should only be used as a last resort. The cars’ greatest advantages still lay in their speed and quiet operation. Even in the snow the eight wheels and powerful engine could take them most places.
During the war, Germany never produced enough of either type to fully equip its panzer divisions. But, in this rare case, the misfortunes of that war combined the two types into a single, lonely reconnaissance unit. This actually produced the best, that is--the most lethal--combination that any Aufklarungs Abteilung could field in these waning days. Tom relied on Ulrich’s vehicle to warn him of any approaching threat, while Ulrich similarly relied on the gun power of Tom’s vehicle for over-watch protection.
A soft white curtain of snow was falling. The trees in the well-groomed forest, a forest cultivated for five hundred years by the local nobles, seemed evenly tall and evenly spaced. The snow had already accumulated in several inches on their branches and limbs, muffling the noise of any intrusion by some mere humans and their machines.
“T-34 approaching from the southwest,” Ulrich whispered into the radio.
Tom knew the drill and they were just far enough into the forest for the drill to work. As wonderful as its many qualities were in a tank, the T-34 lacked, unlike the German eight-wheelers, the essential merit of stealth. So the plan was to knock one out, steal it’s remaining diesel fuel and be off before any retaliation.
A replacement tank, Tom guessed upon sighting her, traveling alone with its crew, except for the driver, merrily hanging about the turret and smoking cigarettes. Men always tend to relax too much behind the lines, Tom thought.
The Puma, whitewashed and parked amid the trees, punched a single 50mm armor-piercing round through the side of the T-34’s turret, killing most of the crew in its passage. The driver tumbled out of his open hatch in the hull and was just as instantly dissected by the Puma’s co-axial MG-34. An easy and efficient kill.
They had been reconnoitering in a large semi-circle, West and South of the Soviet blocking position on the rail line. Now the crews of both machines cautiously approached the dead T-34, looking for food and unstrapping and lowering its precious spare diesel fuel containers from its rear and sides.
“I think you’re right.” Tom said to Ulrich as their men grunted and strained to lower the fuel drums off the tank. “There’s nothing here. Nothing to reinforce the block along the rail line. The Soviets are using this corridor simply to re-supply their units up North”.
Ulrich still had a tiny stash of cigarettes; he lit one and shared it with Tom. “We still don’t know exactly what lies further West—I don’t even think Division knows.”
“True,” Tom replied, “but we have to let the garrison know that there is a weak spot in the ring. You’d better radio it in.”
Ulrich nodded and returned to his car.
Still, in the back of his mind, Tom couldn’t help but wonder about the missing Soviet Tank Brigade.
The chain dogs’ hospital rounds grew shorter and shorter as the misery and stench of the building increased. While they might have earlier relished press-ganging the walking wounded into improvised squads and throwing them back into battle, wading through human excrement, blood and vomit was slowly taking the edge off of their enthusiasm. So now they hurriedly marched through the wider spaces between the wounded on the floor until they reached the back door and quickly exited from there.
Hanson saw them leave, as he did every day, with some relief. It was Moshe who pointed out another group of men to him. There were three of them and as soon as the feldpolizei left, they stripped off their bandages and crept from wounded man to wounded man.
“Well, what do we have here, an Eskimo?’ One of the men joked upon noticing Arajs, who was covered with dirty bandages and apparently prostrate in his sledge. Another leaned closer to him. “Got a watch? Any food?”
Arajs scratched his hair with one hand and caught something between his thumb and forefinger. Without speaking, he crushed the louse and flipped it away.
The first man caught the contempt in his eyes and leaned closer. “What’s in your pockets?”
Arajs’ other hand was under the filthy blanket that covered him and his finger tightening on the trigger of a Russian pistol. He said something harsh in Latvian, which none of the Germans understood, although they correctly interpreted his tone.
“Oh, a foreign bastard. I knew you were a f***g mongrel!” The man spat in Arajs face, the last thing he did with a full set of teeth. Hanson dropped him with a completely unforeseen and unanticipated left hook. He and his friends had been so intent on their prey that none of them even noticed Hanson ease up alongside their group.
Hanson’s right arm still hung in a sling, but that didn’t prevent him from unleashing a string of high explosive curses at the two men who were still conscious. For a few seconds, the two stood there, contemplating what to do—they hadn’t expected resistance. Arajs made their decision much easier by pulling out his weapon.
“Davai!”--which was Ostfront Landser for “Get the hell out of here before I shoot you”--Araj's shouted.
Hanson laughed triumphantly as the two ran off at top speed, tripping now and again as other jeering soldiers gave them the boot or the back of their hands or a stray elbow in the ribs on their way out.
“I’m getting sick of always having to save your arse,” Arajs said weakly in German.
“Didn’t know it was you. If I had, I would have helped them,” Hanson replied with a smile, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at the pair who were now having an increasingly difficult time reaching the exit. Thievery and intimidation had become a major problem in the hospital in the last few days as food became scarcer and men became more desperate. So there were many soldiers present, who, despite their wounds, joined in this opportunity to extract a little justice.
Bending over, Hanson rifled through the fallen thief’s pockets. After recovering what he could, he stepped back and kicked the still unconscious man in the jaw.
Having thus vented some of his boredom, Hanson waved for Moshe to come over and the two of them attempted to move Araj’s sledge to a better neighborhood.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
Gruber was General Rosselsprung’s eyes and ears. That was his job and he took it quite seriously. This meant that, whenever possible, he left the shelter of the command bunker and, following a carefully crafted itinerary, personally visited those areas of interest vital to the survival of the Bad Frostberg. As mentioned, Gruber knew the subtleties of the town’s defenses. So the objects of his tours weren’t usually the obvious ones.
His car of choice was a humble and battered white camouflaged Schwimmwagen. With only one driver and a submachine gun armed guard in the back seat, he found it capable of reaching most places of interest.
The first stop was a minor food distribution point, tucked away on a side street nearly a kilometer from Headquarters. There were quite a number of these food centers, all well guarded and all situated in inconspicuous storefronts on back roads, where the morning queue wouldn’t be so obvious to Russian snipers or artillery observers.
Sperber, his driver, knew the locations of all of them and, being fond of living, wasn’t adverse to either fast driving or unorthodox shortcuts. They arrived at “Center 9” after he literally drove through the living room of shelled out house to bypass wreckage that blocked the road.
In the street in front of the center lay four bodies. One sprawled close to the entrance, the other three were further off, but all of them lay in large circles of freezing blood. One look told Gruber that they were all the victims of small arms fire. The feldgendarme in charge of security for the center quickly approached the vehicle. He was sweating and edgy in his padded white camouflage uniform. His gorget shined in the morning sun, in odd contrast to his feldgrau helmet.
“And this?” Gruber wasted no time as he gestured at the bodies.
“Sir, that one was a Pole with forged food rations”, the military policeman said after saluting and pointing at the body closest to the center. “Those others disobeyed our orders to disperse when the center closed. They hadn’t gotten their rations and tried to start a disturbance. We fired over their heads, but the crowd became…restless, sir. So we had to deal with them summarily.”
All of the dead were civilians—the food distribution centers only served civilians, as that forced soldiers to rely on their units’ commissary. Gruber nodded at the explanation. “Then everything is back to normal?”
“Yes sir.” The soldier thought about it and quickly added, “Until tomorrow.”
Gruber immediately ordered Sperber to take them to their next destination. This was simply one of the remaining walls in the courtyard of the former Gestapo headquarters. It was now in the firm hands of the Feldpolizei, but still served its original purpose. A horse-drawn cart containing five or six bodies was tied up to one end of the long, pockmarked brick wall. The next group of six men was lead out of the building’s basement in handcuffs and ordered to stand against the wall. They all wore uniforms of some branch of the German military.
Gruber motioned for the unteroffiziere leading the firing squad to approach. The man strode over to them and handed him a large folder. Of course, surprise inspections were never really a surprise, Gruber reminded himself as he leafed through the documents.
“All in order.” He handed the file back to the unteroffiziere. “How many more do you have to shoot?”
“About thirty. All deserters at multiple times. They’ve had their second and third chances sir”, the man replied coldly.
“Deserters?” Gruber asked with a smile on his face. “And where were they deserting to?”
“We pulled them out from various houses. None of them were armed, easy business”, the unteroffiziere replied, matter-of-factly.
“Thirty is a lot for one day,” Gruber observed.
“Worse day we’ve had, sir.”
Placing his hands together, as if in prayer, Gruber made his decision. “Shoot these six, then hang them and the other bodies from lampposts with signs around their necks. We won’t tolerate desertion or cowardice. Put the rest into a penal unit where they’ll be either quickly killed or just as quickly heroes. On my authority.”
“Yes sir!” The unteroffiziere saluted and went back to his job. The schwimmwagen drove off. “Internal desertion” was the phrase for this phenomenon and, as Gruber knew, it had occurred over the centuries in every city and every town that ever endured a siege. And it required the harshest measures to root out.
The next stop was further North, but still not close to the front lines. It was another of the few places the over-stretched feldpolizei were ordered to constantly guard. It surprised Gruber as his vehicle drove on to the grounds, to find a Jagdpanther parked in front of the huge building.
He sprang out of the car, closely followed by his bodyguard and hammered the butt of his pistol against the creature’s side wall. The top hatch popped open and a grimy Leutnant dismounted the beast.
Jan-Hendrik saluted snappily when his feet hit the ground.
“You can’t park here,” Gruber said, “this area is off-limits.”
“Yes sir, engine trouble sir.”
Unimpressed, Gruber crossed his arms. “As I understand it, you are assigned to guard the Northern road, Leutnant. That’s still a few kilometers North of here on my map.”
“Yes sir.” Not being a fool, Jan-Hendrik wasn’t about to argue with the Colonel.
A feldgendarm hurriedly ran up to Gruber and saluting, quickly said, “They had engine problems, so I allowed them to stay here for the night.”
“Engine problems!” Gruber had all he could do to keep from laughing. “Well, trust the panzertruppe to develop engine problems when it comes to passing a distillery.”
At that moment, the Jagdpanther’s motor started. Jan-Hendrik gave the Colonel a last salute and clambered back aboard, grateful in the extreme to his driver who had obviously listened in on the conversation.
Gruber remained in place until the errant vehicle had driven some ways up the road. Then he turned to confront a rather red-faced feldgendarm, who braced himself for the storm about to descend upon him.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
TO COMMISSAR D AND ALL THE FORUM HEROES
MY NAME IS CHRIS THE SON OF IRONHORSE {W.F.}, I REGRET TO SAY THAT IRONHORSE HAS PAST AWAY ON THE 22ND OF NOV. 08. BUT HE DID LOVE READING YOUR STORY AND HE KEEP ME UP DATED ON THE LATEST ADVENTURE AND NOW THAT I HAVE FOUND IT I DO ENJOY IT TREMENDOUSLY, SO PLEASE KEEP UP THE GREAT ADVENTURES AND LONG LIVE THE FOURM HEROES, DAD WILL STILL BE READING AND W.F. WILL STILL BE SNIPING.
P.S. WHAT EVER HAPPEND TO MY THREE DWARFS AND THIER HIGH SPEED KETTENKRAUD PAK 37 AND STILL OF DWARVEN SPIRITS? ALSO VILHELM REID HIS PICKLE STAUB HELMET AND HIS COMOHALF TRACK PULLING A FIELD KITCHEN?
P.S.S. I WOULD LIKE TO BECOME A MEMBER OF YOUR FOURM IF I'M WELCOME.
IRONHORSE wrote:TO COMMISSAR D AND ALL THE FORUM HEROES
MY NAME IS CHRIS THE SON OF IRONHORSE {W.F.}, I REGRET TO SAY THAT IRONHORSE HAS PAST AWAY ON THE 22ND OF NOV. 08. BUT HE DID LOVE READING YOUR STORY AND HE KEEP ME UP DATED ON THE LATEST ADVENTURE AND NOW THAT I HAVE FOUND IT I DO ENJOY IT TREMENDOUSLY, SO PLEASE KEEP UP THE GREAT ADVENTURES AND LONG LIVE THE FOURM HEROES, DAD WILL STILL BE READING AND W.F. WILL STILL BE SNIPING.
P.S. WHAT EVER HAPPEND TO MY THREE DWARFS AND THIER HIGH SPEED KETTENKRAUD PAK 37 AND STILL OF DWARVEN SPIRITS? ALSO VILHELM REID HIS PICKLE STAUB HELMET AND HIS COMOHALF TRACK PULLING A FIELD KITCHEN?
P.S.S. I WOULD LIKE TO BECOME A MEMBER OF YOUR FOURM IF I'M WELCOME.
SINCERLY CHRIS AKA SKEEZIX
Chris, please accept my most sincere condolences on your loss. The Ironhorse will be missed, but it seems appropriate the W.F. still snipes.
You will need to join under your own name, but you will be most welcome.
As for the dwarves, their Kettenkrad and their PAK 37, well, they didn't get caught up in Bad Frostberg. That's all we know.
. I say : now do heroic tragedy, it don't get no bigger than gottendamerung.
![:[]](./images/smilies/icon_study.gif "Study"){kind=icon}
.... Sounds like W.F and I "Jahn" are in for an interesting night , great job as always, cant wait to see whats instore for everyone, 
