Opening Moves

The Capitaine commanding the Tabor of Goumiers sought out Haefeli and took rapid orders, leading his men swiftly off towards the battle.

The Goumiers were Moroccan irregular troops, their courage and ferocity much respected by their allies, as well as their former German and Italian enemies. Their new Soviet adversaries would soon appreciate their courage and recoil at their ferocity.

A platoon of legionnaires were having a hard time at the main entrance, suffering casualties as they tried to overcome the same problems that had cost the Soviet paratroopers so dearly. Their advantage lay in the fact that the Russians were less organised for defence and were now low on ammunition. None the less, over a dozen men lay dead and wounded on the ramp leading to the main gate, including the platoon commander.

A second platoon mustered on the main road below the entrance, preparing to force the route by rapid storm. Suddenly, slipping quietly through them, came the Goumiers. Moving relentlessly forward, the sloped ascent mastered by their ancient North African tribal skills.

Again, the Goumier commander paused, consulting with the Legion officer before moving on after his men. Even though a Frenchman by birth, his own climbing skills were no less impressive than those of his men and he was also soon swallowed up by the trees and bushes.

The legion platoon found the angled pathway and ascended at the double towards the next road level, already falling behind the nimble tribesmen.

From the west end of the plateau came the sounds of combat, proof that Mardin’s legionnaires had engaged the enemy as they pressed hard to seal up the Château.

For the final time, the Capitaine in charge of the Goumiers halted to exchange information with a fellow frenchman. The Legionnaire Sergent-Chef, a sunburnt African veteran of advancing years, was newly installed as commander of his platoon, courtesy of the Russian rifle bullet that had slain his officer. As senior, the Capitaine took the lead and quickly explained the brief.

With no hesitation, the Goumier officer stood and called to his men in their tribal tongue.

The Sergent-Chef had spent many years amongst the Berber peoples and understood the shouted exhortation perfectly.

“Come brothers, these new enemies have not yet learned to fear us. Let us enlighten them!”

Bullets reached out and took lives amongst the heavily clad tribesmen, but less than before, despite the advantage of the increasing sunlight. Leaving half a dozen of their number on the stone, the Goumiers swept forward and into the South Ward, using both main and side entrances to good effect.

As the Sergent-Chef prepared to send his own men forward he hesitated, the sound of a whistle and increased firing within the Château giving him a moment’s pause.

0609 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.

Two grenades bounced off the door and headed in different directions within the Armoury. One dropped at the threshold, causing the attacking paratroopers to dive for cover once more, losing the advantage they had hoped to gain by following up swiftly. The second rolled erratically into the room, causing the defenders to seek cover as quickly as they could.

Both exploded simultaneously.

Perversely, the one by the door killed one of the defenders, a large piece of metal claiming the life of the Savoy orderly, punching into his heart as his slower reactions spelt his end.

The closest grenade took Von Hardegen out of the fight, the blast throwing him against the rounded arch support, knocking him senseless.

Rettlinger cut down the first Russians into the room, his newly liberated PPSH doing deadly work in the narrow doorway. A paratrooper positioned at the base of the door and obscured by bodies, poured fire into the defenders, claiming three lives.

Rettlinger and Dubois were the only men left standing, and the comatose Von Hardegen the only other living man in the room. Both men dropped Russians as a surge brought the enemy close. Dubois ran out of ammo and was clubbed to the ground before he could react, a rifle butt smashing into his forehead and skinning the skull to the bone, the bloody flap of skin pushed up on his head like a flat cap.

Rettlinger shot the man down, and two more besides until his gun fell silent. A single paratrooper stood before him, panting, drawing air noisily in the way of a condemned man at the gallows.

Realising fate had spared him, he threw his own empty PPS at the huge German and lunged for the discarded rifle, butt sticky with Dubois’ blood.

The PPSH remained silent, similarly empty and useless. DerBo threw it at the Russian, a man not much smaller than himself. It struck the hand scrabbling for the rifle, noisily breaking fingers and bringing a howl from the crippled man.