Opening Moves

He checked the machine-gun but the DP was bent and useless.

Nakhimov found him there as he quickly looked for stragglers before escaping himself. He too risked a look, which drew fire from the men in the courtyard not wholly immersed in the intoxicating slaughter of the wounded.

“We must go, now.”

Nikitin looked in disgust at his NCO.

“But Alexsey, we will remember these bastards.”

The younger man teetered on the edge of a useless sacrificial gesture, a fact that Nakhimov was only too well aware of and something he was determined to avoid.

“We must go. Now! That is an order Comrade Yefreytor!”

Discipline took hold and Nikitin moved towards the grapnel lines.

Sergeant-Major Nakhimov was the last man in the tower, so he swiftly moved to inform Rispan that the withdrawal was complete.

He stopped on the threshold leading to the battlements, the still body of his Major lying in front of him, still leaking blood on the stone.

“Govno!”

He turned and moved after Nikitin. Checking the situation in the road below, Nakhimov was encouraged to see Makarenko waving at him, signalling the all clear. Nikitin stepped away from the rope and moved off as directed by a Sergeant who returned to the line, holding it tight to assist in Nakhimov’s descent. The line rubbed his left hand badly, breaking the scabs and congealed blood that had sealed his finger stump, but the tough NCO lowered himself without complaint and touched down on the grass below.

Starshy-Serzhant Egon Nakhimov was the last member of Zilant-4 to evacuate the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg.

0620 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, North road approach to the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.

The loss of their young commander had not stopped the 2e Compagnie from pushing hard, and Makarenko had his work cut out to hold the legionnaires back. In truth, the Paratrooper General had not fully appreciated the disaster he was leading and that he was recovering only a fraction of his force from the bloody battlefield.

He pushed his men hard, stopping the legionnaires in their tracks, holding open an escape route for his troopers.

He signalled to Nakhimov and moved to meet the man at the bottom of the line.

“How many more Comrade? Time is short now.”

“I am the last Comrade General.”

Makarenko felt like he had been struck in the stomach.

“Are you sure Egon? Mayor Rispan is not yet here.”

“He is dead sir. They are all dead, including the wounded.”

“Rispan dead?”

Nakhimov simply nodded.

“The wounded?”

“Butchered before my eyes my General. Some dark-skinned bastards, cutting off ears with knives, slitting throats and stomachs. They are all dead, Sir.”

His professionalism as an officer battled hard against the pain and despair of the losses of his comrades.

Professionalism won.

“Right, then let us get what is left of the battalion out of here. Get them moving north now!”

The remnants of Zilant-4 fought their way north, killing legionnaires, being killed by legionnaires, finally evading the enraged French efforts to snare them.

General Makarenko, once commander of the 100th Guards Rifle Division ‘Svir’, once commander of Composite Force Zilant-4, now commander of fifteen shocked and battered survivors of the assault upon the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, led the precious remnants of his force away.

Later, as he and his group found a place to rest, he learned more of what had happened in the final minutes. His shock and anger at the disaster was replaced by a hatred and loathing for the dark-skinned enemy in the striped dress, one which found equal station with the hatred and loathing he had developed for those who had sent him on the mission which had uselessly spent so many young lives. Young lives that were his privilege to command and protect, and lives which he had led to nothing but pointless death on the orders of madmen.

He promised himself that there would be a day of reckoning on both counts.

0623 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, Lower Courtyard, Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg, French Alsace.

Haefeli moved up quickly, partially because he was eager to get involved in the final stages but mainly because he simply had to know who or what it was that Russian paratroopers had come so far to destroy.

Moving quickly up the ramp from the main entrance, he found the dying Goumier officer being tended by one of his men. The man had been hit in the stomach and thighs by a machine-gun burst and the Goumier tending him could do no more than comfort the Frenchman as he travelled into the darkness.

Haefeli motioned to his own medic, whose assessment was already made. A double dose of morphine was administered and the man’s pain ceased forever.

Lavalle strode up, his face cherry red with the extra exertions of catching up, the grimace of pain from exercising his wounded thigh apparent.

“The area is not yet secure Colonel. I have had no reports as yet so we must be careful.”

Lavalle, his face now under control, gestured to his friend.

“Then we must let you go first Albrecht.”