Christmas, 1941

Source

Cadet Nathan Paddock stepped off the train into the bitter cold of a December day in New Hampshire. The weather had been miserable all the way from New York, drizzle and fog were most prevalent. He had hoped to see snow on the ground for Christmas, but it was not to be.

America was at war. In the two weeks since the attack on Pearl Harbor things had settled down somewhat. Initially there had been frantic activity in the nation, people howling for revenge on the perfidious Japanese, but not at West Point, The cadets knew how woefully unprepared the Army was for total war. It would take time to get ready. Time, Paddock wondered, if events would afford.

He wanted to leave the Academy and enlist, a couple of his classmates already had. The upperclassmen urged them to stay, but the perceived need to do something, anything, was strong in the younger cadets.

"I tell ya, Paddock, there's no sense rushing off to get killed. Hell, they might even accelerate the courses here because one thing a bigger army is going to need is officers, lots of officers. Wait, get your education."

Burt Thompson was a "Cow," a second classman at West Point, he was one of his company's sergeants and Paddock looked up to him. He'd asked the upperclassman for advice on staying or enlisting immediately. It had been his advice to talk to his family before committing one way or the other. Christmas break was upon them.

"Don't make any rash decisions, kid."

Paddock heard his name called, he looked up, it was his Uncle Bill.

"Ain't you a pretty picture, Nate. That uniform looks good on you, course, I can't say I like the gray, you kinda look like a Johnny Reb."

Paddock blushed then laughed, Uncle Bill had been a Marine in the Great War, he still limped from the wound he'd received in the Argonne Forest. He was also, like Paddock's father, a keen student of history.

Paddock was enveloped in a bear hug, it felt good to be home.

Paddock saw his Mom's eyes glistening in the light of the family Christmas tree. She was happy to see her only son, but she was sad as well. She knew that her much loved child might have to go to war, and soon.

"You sure you won't have another slice of pie, Nathan?" she asked.

"Ah, no thank you, Mom. If I eat anymore, I think I'll burst."

"Alright now, you go on to the den, I'm sure your Father and Uncle want to hear all about West Point."

Paddock didn't think so, but he went anyway, he wanted the advice of both men.

His father was adamant, "You will, under no circumstances, leave West Point to enlist. Are you out of your mind? The Army is going to need officers, good ones."

Uncle Bill stirred, "Your Dad's right, Nate. If you enlist you'll just be cannon fodder, a rifleman. Stick to the schooling, I knew a couple of West Pointers during the war. Good men, one of 'em didn't come home, the other won himself a bunch of medals, but more importantly, he helped his men survive, got them home in one piece. I'm with your Dad, stay."

Paddock sipped his coffee, it felt strange to be here, at his parent's house, sipping coffee, when a large part of the world was at war. Soon the United States would be sending men out to fight as well. He wanted desperately to be a part of that. But he knew his father and uncle were right. If the Army needed him now, they knew where he was.

And so that was that, he'd stay at West Point.

Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz, took a last sip of the potent beverage Schütze Dessauer had managed to bring all the way from France. It wasn't great cognac, but it was probably the best cognac within ten kilometers of their dugout. He doubted there was any cognac at all in Leningrad, the city they were besieging.

He pulled his blanket tighter around him, though the dugout had a small stove, it didn't take much to be reminded that he was in Russia, hundreds of kilometers from home, at Christmas. He missed his family and hadn't heard from them in a few weeks. Mail delivery could be difficult at the front, he knew that. But nothing? In weeks?

He was more concerned with his men, none of them had received any mail in the same time period. Morale was a fragile thing, people couldn't conceive how much a single letter could raise spirits.

At that moment a figure came through the heavy curtain sealing the entrance to the dugout, "Jürgen, are you here?"

Von Lüttwitz shook the blanket off and stood, "I'm here, Herr Major."

"Bad news, I'm afraid, I couldn't find anything to bring for Christmas."

Von Lüttwitz laughed, "There's some cognac in that canteen," he gestured towards the small table next to the stove, "help yourself."

Major Kurt Hassel grinned, somehow his boys always seemed to manage.

"Prosit!" Hassel offered as he took a swig of cognac.

Von Lüttwitz tipped his empty cup to his battalion commander, "Prosit, Herr Major."

Stephen Hernandez felt totally out of his depth. He was on a crowded train headed, as near as he could tell, east. Had to be east as the land was rolling and there seemed to be nothing for mile after mile. He figured they had to be in Kansas, they certainly hadn't gone west through the Rockies.

The Army had put him and a couple hundred other new recruits on the train, they were off to basic training. Where? He had no idea.

He decided to catch forty winks, one thing a teacher had told him stood out.

"Stephen, when you get to the Army, sleep whenever you get the chance. Trust me, after a while you'll be able to sleep anywhere at any time. Do so, you won't regret it."

As he settled back in his seat, he glanced out the window. There were no lights and nothing to see anyway, just the vast spaces of the Great Plains. He fell asleep wondering where he was going. Wondering if he'd ever see home again.

1941 Comes to an End

(Source)

His mother was in the kitchen, after telling his parents what it was that he intended to do, her eyes had gotten a faraway look. She had gone to the kitchen muttering that she would have to start getting dinner ready. It was obvious that she didn't want to, or perhaps couldn't, talk about the subject at hand.

He had come home to the small family ranch just outside Divide, Colorado when school had finished. He had talked to the principal at his high school, who was very supportive of what the young man wanted to do. The principal had also mentioned that the young man probably had enough credits to receive his high school diploma early, if he was insistent on his desired course of action. But the older man, a World War I veteran, had insisted the boy talk to his parents first, without their blessing he couldn't go forward until his 18th birthday.

Though his mother hadn't really taken it hard, it was obvious that she was upset. Rather than make a scene, she had retreated to her domain. She needed to stay busy, she didn't want to think at the moment what this might mean for her oldest child.

His father had nodded as his mother withdrew, "I somehow knew that you would want to do this. It is what I would do, were I a younger man. But it is war mi hijo,¹ I have seen war, it is nasty, it is brutal, and it could mean your death. You know that, yes?"

"Sí padre, lo sé.² But this is something I must do, this country has been good to us, she has been good to me. If I don't do this, I could not live with myself."

The father looked at his oldest child, his son, "I know Stephen, I know. When I changed your name from Esteban, it was meant to mark you as an American. You were born a Spaniard, now you are an American. You have my blessing, I will sign whatever it is that must be signed. Your mother knows that this is the right thing to do, but still she is sad. She knows war as well as I do. You were so young when we left Madrid, we tried to shield you and your sisters from what was going on, but you witnessed some of the horrors, even though you never spoke of it. We got out before things got really bad."

"Yes Father, now the Germans and the Japanese want to inflict upon the world what Franco inflicted upon Spain. I know that I must fight this evil, I cannot wait."

Hector Hernandez nodded sadly, he had raised his son a certain way, he was proud of the boy, but he would miss him terribly.

Seven days later, Stephen Hernandez enlisted in the United States Army.

Nathan Paddock, a plebe at the United States Military Academy at West Point, was anticipating the Christmas holiday. His last class was over and he could start packing so he would be ready for the train ride to New Hampshire in the morning. He looked forward to seeing his family. He also needed to have a serious conversation with his father.

Should he stick with West Point? Something deep inside of him wanted to leave the school and enlist immediately. But as his roommate had said, why leave now, it was going to be a long war, better to go as an officer than as an enlisted man.

Paddock wasn't so sure, he read the papers, he saw the numbers of men volunteering for service. He almost felt like a shirker being at school when the rest of the country was going to war.

He thought, Dad will know what to do, I'm sure Uncle Bill will have a lot to say as well.

Uncle Bill was his Dad's oldest brother, he'd been a Marine in the Great War. Wounded in the Argonne fight, he would have good advice. Then again, so would his father, he had been too young to go to war in 1917, but he was well-read and loved history.

He would speak of this to no one until he'd talked to them.

For now, he would enjoy the Christmas holiday.

"What the f**k did you just say?" Johnnie Mastriano said as he threw his cigarette into the gutter.

"I said I'm gonna enlist Johnnie, the country's at war, or ain't ya been paying attention?" Flavio Gentile was short and dark, the neighborhood kids liked to say that he was as wide as he was tall. He knew that his decision wouldn't go down well with the guys he ran with.

"Go off to war with those other suckers? I thought you were smarter than that paisan."

Gentile stood up and poked Mastriano in the chest, "This is my country paisan, I was born here, unlike you."

Mastriano bristled, he'd been born in Naples, Napoli as his parents called it, but he had come to America when he was a baby. "This is my country too, don't forget that. I just don't want to go fight the Germans or the Japs, or anybody. Life's too good here in Philly. Why you gotta leave?"

"I just have to, you might understand some day ..."

Two days later Flavio Gentile enlisted in the United States Army. Two weeks after that,  Giannini "Johnnie" Mastriano enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.

"Frohe Weihnachten, Herr Leutnant.³" Unterfeldwebel Georg Hansen raised his canteen cup. Somehow the platoon's horse holder, Schütze Phillip Dessauer, had acquired a bottle of cognac. Von Lüttwitz suspected it had come from an officers' mess, but probably not within the regiment and certainly not within the battalion. Dessauer was very good at "acquiring" things the platoon needed.

Von Lüttwitz lifted his cup and said, "Prosit!⁴"

It was a quiet day before Leningrad. The Russians were conserving their ammunition, the intelligence von Lüttwitz was given was that a large Russian attack northeast of the city was expected, across the frozen Lake Ladoga. Russian efforts within the encirclement would most likely be directed at the German lines in that direction.

He couldn't complain, they might have a day of peace, even if the cold was enough to freeze your piss before it hit the ground.

It was his third Christmas at war, but the first that he had not been able to go home. He had written his family to let them know not to expect him. The letter he had received from his uncle, his mother's oldest brother, told him just how proud the family was of him. They understood the sacrifices he was making for the Reich.

His uncle had actually referred to Germany as "the Reich," not the Fatherland, not Germany, but by the term Hitler liked to use. Well, at least he hadn't referred to it as the "Thousand Year Reich," that would have been too much, even for his Uncle Otto.

The two men looked up as Schütze Max Ober came into the dugout, a brief gust of wind, laden with snow, came in with him.

"Snowing again, Max?"

"A complete white out, Herr Leutnant, I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. It started just moments ago. The Major was going to come this way, 'celebrate Christmas with my boys,' he said, but he might stay at headquarters if this keeps up."

"Sit down Max, have a drink."

The three men sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind and the distant crump of artillery, each man lost in thoughts of home and better times. Praying that this madness would end some day, sooner rather than later.

End of Part One

¹ My son (Spanish)

² Yes Father, I know. (Spanish)

³ Merry Christmas Lieutenant. (German)

⁴ Cheers! (German)

Adjustments - Leningrad Front, December 1941

(Source)

Major Kurt Hassel stood in the trench watching his battalion moving forward supported by a platoon of PzKw IIIs. He rather hoped that the Russians didn't have any of their T-34s in the vicinity, the PzKw III wasn't really a match for Soviet armor like the T-34 and the big KVs.

But as he'd noticed with Soviet artillery fire, the Russians encircled in Leningrad seemed to be short of everything. Artillery ammunition, fuel for their Panzers, food, short of everything in fact other than raw courage. Your average Ivan had that in abundance.

Regiment had come up with a scheme to remove a small Russian salient which projected into their lines. It wasn't viewed so much as a threat but rather an annoyance. The Russians there seemed to come across every night, making life difficult for the Landsers in that section of the front. So the orders had come down, "Pinch off that salient, straighten the line."

Hassel realized that the fighting around Leningrad wasn't that much different from that he had experienced in the Great War. Extensive networks of trenches and field fortifications which the armies squabbled over day after day. Small gains measuring very little in the grand scheme of things, other than the toll in blood and suffering.

Sighing, Hassel turned to the commander of his 5th Company, Oberleutnant Ferdinand Busch, "Are your boys ready to go in? I gave the initial attack to 6th Company as your boys always seem to get the bulk of the dirty work. But I think Quandt's boys are ready, they've gained enough experience that they're not going to get themselves killed just by moving forward."

"I spoke with Adolf this morning, he was nervous, but his men are ready. So he assured me and I have no reason to doubt him." Busch wanted to be out there, leading the attack, but his men were tired, they'd been called out constantly as the battalion's "fire brigade." It was past time for another company to step up, he'd be content with a reserve role for now.

Hassel's eyes narrowed as he heard the chattering of Russian Maxim guns in the near distance. No doubt his men were even now fighting, killing, and dying as they approached the Russian forward positions.

(Source)

Kazankov shouted at his squad, "Aim low!"

Before he could say another word he heard one of his Ukrainians, Antonyuk he thought, shout out, "That's right lads, shoot the Fritzes in the balls, that'll make them think twice before coming to visit again!"

Kazankov shook his head, Antonyuk was irrepressible. Always ready with a quip, a story, or a clever remark. He liked the man, he was good for morale.

The Germans were getting closer, they were using cover well, moving from position to position. While one group moved, another provided covering fire, the fact that they had tanks made their task a little easier. Kazankov knew that the Russians had nothing to oppose the tanks with. Their own tanks had been pulled back and were being used as pillboxes along the main line of resistance. If they didn't receive resupply soon, he wondered how they could continue to resist.

Most of his men hadn't had a proper meal in days, he knew the civilians were suffering even worse. An old man had wandered into the lines the night before, begging for even the smallest crust of bread. They had found him this very morning, dead. Whether he had starved to death or simply collapsed and frozen to death, one couldn't say. Either way, he would suffer no more.

"All right boys, get ready to fall back, I don't want those tanks to get any closer to us than needs be." Kazankov thought that they had left it too late already. Majór Telitsyn had briefed him the night before that they were to resist for a while then give the Germans the salient. They had lost too many men already trying to hold it.

Busch was watching the progress of 6th Company's attack. He could tell that the attack seemed to be going fairly well. Quandt's men were advancing in short rushes, covered by the fire of their machine guns and by the cannon fire of the three Panzers supporting them. He had seen one or two men fall, his field glasses had lingered on those spots, almost willing those men to get back up. But they did not.

"Johannes!" he shouted to one of his runners, "take a message to 1st and 2nd Platoons, they are to advance in support of 6th Company when I fire a red flare. It seems that Quandt has driven the Russians back."

"Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant!"

Turning to von Lüttwitz, Busch said, "I want your platoon to wait 30 minutes before moving up. I'm not sure if the Russian withdrawal is a feint, or if they are just shortening the line to free up men. It could be a trap, I don't think it is, but ..."

"Doppelt genäht hält besser.¹" von Lüttwitz checked his watch then nodded. "I'll have the boys ready."

Kazankov and his squad made it to the main line with no casualties, they had been lucky. Telitsyn's orderly Kolobkov had been hit, and the Major had had a number of men killed around him.

"Why must he always be in the thick of it?" Berezhnoy grumbled as he cleaned his rifle.

"It's the kind of leader he is, Valerian Dmitrievich. He leads from the front, that's his way." Kazankov explained.

"It's going to get him killed, then where will we be?" Berezhnoy refused to let it go.

"Why, we'll still be here, outside Leningrad. Still cold, still starving, and having to live off Party slogans and admonitions from the Leningrad Council of Deputies. That's where we'll be, Comrade Berezhnoy." Krasnoarmeyets Kyrylo Ihorovych Antonyuk pointed out the obvious, He understood what Berezhnoy was talking about. After all, Telitsyn was a very popular officer. But in the end, it was about survival, nothing more, nothing less.

¹ Literally "double stitched holds better," i.e. "better safe than sorry." (German)

On the Line - Leningrad Front, December 1941

Bundesarchiv

Von Lüttwitz was wondering if it was scientifically possible for it to get any colder. There was a small stove in the dugout he shared with his platoon sergeant and the platoon's three runners, which kept the temperature somewhat tolerable. Wrapped in his blanket, he was staring at the small thermometer on the table they had scrounged from a ruined building. He wondered if it still worked as it hadn't moved off of -15° since two days ago. When it had read -20°.

He decided that it was probably better to get up and move around than lie there shivering, so he shed the blanket and pulled on his greatcoat. Time to make the rounds of the squads under his command.

Just as he was moving the tarpaulin they used to keep the weather out aside, Oberschütze Otto Wandesleben bustled in. "Sir!"

"News, Otto?"

Wandesleben, who had just returned from battalion headquarters, did indeed have news. "We're at war with the Americans!"

That news brought von Lüttwitz up short, "The Americans? Why on earth are we at war with the Americans?"

"The Japanese attacked them at some place in the Pacific, so they declared war on the Japanese. Following that, the Führer declared war on the Americans. We have to support our allies, don't we Herr Leutnant?" Wandesleben asked, as if he truly didn't understand what was happening.

Taking his time before answering, von Lüttwitz finally said, "Of course, Otto. I'm sure Berlin knows what they are doing. Stay here, I'm going to inspect our positions."

As he left the dugout, von Lüttwitz had the thought that Berlin had absolutely no idea what it was they were doing. They were fighting England and the Soviet Union, now as if that wasn't enough, they would eventually be facing the industrial power of the United States. Didn't these politicians learn anything from history?

Oberschütze Hermann Dedekind and his assistant gunner Schütze Max Ehman were at their post, a semi-dugout open to the rear, overlooking no man's land. At least the dugout had a roof and the way it was constructed kept most of the wind and precipitation out. But nothing could keep the cold out.

Though they tried to keep all of the machine guns on the line, they had to occasionally take them back into the living area to check that the mechanism was still functioning, the cold did funny things to machinery. Their gun had just been serviced so they were back on the line. Their platoon commander had managed to set up interlocking fields of fire using only three of the platoon's four MG 34s. Not only did this allow the weapons to be kept in shape, it allowed the gunners time out of the cold.

Although each man in the platoon was qualified on the MG 34, those who were assigned as the gunners were reluctant to let the other soldiers use "their" guns.

"You do know that the MG is the property of the Army, not your personal property, right Hermann?" Dedekind's squad leader Unteroffizier Paul Niehaus had remarked one day after Dedekind had been bitching that Emil Schaab and Viktor Adler had gotten the weapon dirty after their stint on the gun.

"Of course, but could you mention to those apes that the MG 34 is a precision piece of machinery, not some old rifle which you can drag through the mud and still have it function. Do those clowns even realize that their lives depend on this gun functioning as it was intended to function?" Dedekind had started to raise his voice as he unloaded his frustrations on Niehaus.

"I'm sure they do Hermann, but I'd be careful about calling Schaab an ape, he is, after all, a very large fellow."

"You know what I mean." Dedekind said, the anger still in his voice.

"That will be enough, Oberschütze Dedekind. Report back to your post."

Knowing he was going to get no further, Dedekind responded automatically, "Jawohl Herr Unteroffizier, zu befehl!"

Though von Lüttwitz tried not to show any favoritism to his old squad, no one in the platoon minded that he would often stop in to see them first when making his rounds. This day was no exception.

"Sepp, are you keeping these wolves well fed?" he greeted his old assistant, Unteroffizier Sepp Wittman, as he stopped by the 2nd Squad's alternate machine gun position. One of the men had once asked why they had multiple locations in which to set up the MG.

"When we're attacking the Russkis, what do we try and kill first?" he had asked the man.

"Well we try to kill their machine gunners, of course, that way ..." von Lüttwitz had been amused, though gratified, when the light had come on in Schütze Eric Lindauer's eyes. "So we move the guns around, making it harder for the Russians to predict where they might be!"

"Give the man a prize," he had joked with Lindauer's squad leader, Unteroffizier Hannes Kohl, "he pays attention. You might live through this yet Bubi.¹"

Von Lüttwitz noted that Wittmann was one of the men on the gun, the other was Schütze Karl Wachsmuth. Wachsmuth was watching the area in front of the gun intently. Von Lüttwitz tapped him on the leg and said, "Anything out there, Karl?"

"Nothing but dead Russians, you can't see them because last night's snow covered their bodies. It gets very eerie out there at night Herr Leutnant, sometimes you see things which may or may not actually be there."

"If you think you see something, Karl, look slightly away from it. Looking directly at something at night will just confuse your brain as it tries to make what you're seeing fit a pattern. Look away and that which was unclear will often become clear." he looked at Wittmann when he was finished.

"Uh, I knew that Sir." Wittmann said.

"But does the rest of your squad?"

"They will soon."

"Another thing, Karl. Your ammunition belt contains regular ball and tracer rounds, correct?"

"Yes Sir, I believe every fifth or sixth round is a tracer."

"Even without tracer ammunition, your muzzle flash is visible at night, correct?"

"Yes Sir." Wachsmuth was starting to wonder where all this was going.

"Say you're here on your post and you hear something out there at night. What do you do?"

Wachsmuth reached for one of the grenades they had on a shelf below the gun, "I throw one of these at where I thought I heard the noise. So I don't give away my position."

Von Lüttwitz nodded, "Only if it's an obvious attack and you can see lots of Russians moving towards you should you engage with your gun. Of course, everyone will be shooting by then and the Russians might be too busy to focus on your gun. But believe me, you are a target."

Wachsmuth nodded and resumed watching no man's land.

Von Lüttwitz patted Wittmann on the shoulder, "Glad I can still teach you a thing or two."

Wittmann grinned as Von Lüttwitz left to visit the other squads. He knew they had a good officer, someone who actually cared about the men he led. They weren't all like that. Perhaps because von Lüttwitz had once been a simple Landser² like the rest of them, he remembered what it was like.

Wittmann noticed that the clouds were starting to break up towards the east. It would be sunset soon, if the night was clear, the temperatures would plummet. It was going to be a long night.

¹ Boy or lad. (German)

² German slang for a low ranking infantry soldier, similar to the U.S. Army's use of the term "grunt" in Vietnam.

Frozen Meat - Leningrad Front, December 1941

(Source)

Oberschütze Harald Toman and his assistant gunner Schütze Torben Krukenberg were manning their MG 34 in a cramped dugout facing the Russian lines. They had overhead cover and the sides of the position extended back into the trench, which at least kept the wind out. Mostly.

Toman could not remember ever being this cold in his entire life. He was from an area in Germany which seldom got below 0° C and here the temperature had been below zero for the better part of the last week. He had to remember to stomp his feet frequently to keep the blood flowing. Two men from 2nd Company over in 1st Battalion had been evacuated for frostbite two days ago.

Word had come back from the rear that one of the men had lost the tip of his nose and one earlobe, the other man had had to have all the toes on his right foot amputated. No one had died of the cold but the squad leaders and the platoon commanders had to check frequently to make sure that the men took care of themselves. It was far too easy to get complacent.

"Dear Lord, I am so cold, Harald. When do we get relieved?" Krukenberg groaned.

Toman looked at the man, "Rub your cheeks man, they're starting to look white. Pull your toque up. I know it's cold, but we've got at least another 30 minutes out here."

As Krukenberg pulled his gloves off then rubbed his cheeks vigorously, Toman leaned back and looked down the trench towards the squad's bunker. It looked like it was starting to snow again, the wind was picking up as well. He could barely see ten meters.

When Krukenberg had his gloves back on, Toman took his own gloves off and tried to warm his fingers. As he tugged them back on, he heard something, out towards the Russian lines.

"Dear God, that's a tank engine." he then started bellowing "STAND TO! STAND TO!"

(Source)

As Mládshiy serzhánt¹ Ustin Rodionovich Kazankov jogged behind the rattling T-34 he looked around, his squad mates were with him, though it was cold, bitter cold, they were dressed for it. He raised a hand and waved at his corporal, leading the other half of the squad.

Efréĭtor Nazar Danylovych Petrenko waved back, then pushed one of the new man back into position. Kazankov was still bewildered how quickly they had gone from the frying pan into the fire.

They had been cut off behind the lines and they had been settling into their new life as partisans. It was a harsh existence, but free of Moscow and the Party. Even the Commissar who had been parachuted in to them, Kapitán Lavrentiy Alesnarovich Rabrenovich, was a decent sort, rather than fill the men's heads with political slogans, he worked hard to keep their morale up.

Then one day they had been on a raid led by Majór Ivan Filippovich Telitsyn and his ever present orderly Efréĭtor Vitaliy Afanasievich Kolobkov. Things were going well, the German lines were thin there.

As they ransacked a German supply convoy, a column of SS men in armored cars and trucks had come down the road. Sadly Comrade Rabrenovich had gone down in the first volleys. But his death had enraged the men.

When the SS retreated, the erstwhile partisans found themselves close to the Soviet lines. So the Major led them home. Back to the regular army, but the rations, though poor, were regular and they didn't have to sleep in the forest.

A train had taken them north, they were supposed to go to Moscow where they would join a new unit. But fate, and a fascist bombing raid on the rail line, diverted them to Leningrad. Just before the Germans had wrapped the city in a ring of steel.

Now they were trying to break that ring.

Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz was watching the Russians advancing, tanks and infantry, lots and lots of infantry, but so far, no artillery. Perhaps the rumors of ammunition shortages in the city were true. But as of yet, the Germans suffered no such shortages.

Von Lüttwitz nodded to one of his runners and the man fired a green flare towards the advancing Russians. Moments later the sound of incoming artillery filled the air.

Blossoms of smoke and flame began blooming among the Russians. He saw one T-34 take a direct hit which caused it to roll to a stop, then begin to burn. No one got out.

Though the artillery round didn't penetrate the vehicle's thick skin, the shock of the explosion killed the crew instantly. It also set the fuel drums the Russians were so fond of strapping to the backs of their Panzers on fire.

As he watched, he could see the infantry were being slaughtered in droves. The Panzers wavered, then began to back up, the T-34 crews had no desire to advance without infantry support. And those infantrymen were starting to run back to their own lines.

For now, another Soviet attempt to break the encirclement had been driven back.

"How many, Ustin Rodionovich?" Telitsyn asked as he surveyed the survivors.

"All of the new men, they don't know enough to keep their heads down. Kyrylo Ihorovych has a minor shrapnel wound but he'll survive. Those Ukrainians are tough little bastards." Kazankov shook his head, the high command must have thought the Germans would run when they saw the size of the attack.

But with artillery ammunition rationed on the Soviet side of the lines, and not on the German side, the attack was doomed to failure. For once it was the Germans dug in and inflicting casualties with their artillery and those damned machine guns of theirs.

"What were the bosses thinking, Comrade Major?" Kazankov asked in frustration.

"Ah Ustin Rodionovich, what makes you believe there was any thought behind this attack? It should have been coordinated with other attacks, but we throw the men in piecemeal, hoping for a miracle perhaps. But if Saint Barbara² has no ammo to throw at the fascists, what hope do we have?"

"What of this rumor that the lake might be frozen enough to bring in supplies?"

"Ah, it's no rumor Ustin Rodionovich, perhaps tonight."

"Food for the people?"

Telitsyn shook his head, "Food for the guns, which we'll feed to the fascists. The people will have to survive on what little they have until we can break this siege."

Kazankov should have realized that, without ammunition they had no hope. So they would tighten their belts and try again within the week. Perhaps the Germans would all freeze to death before then.

Even Russians were beginning to die from this brutal cold.

¹ Junior sergeant (Russian)

² St. Barbara is the patron saint of artillery.

The End of the Beginning - Western Desert, December 1941

Captured PzKw III
(Source)

Hoffmeister's Panzer was part of a long column of vehicles heading west. The 8th Army had relieved the siege of Tobruk, the Italian High Command had informed Panzerarmee Afrika¹ that it was not possible for Rommel's troops to be re-supplied in their current position. Benghazi was a port, but it was too small to bring in the amount of supplies and replacements needed to bring the Axis forces in the desert back to the strength needed to drive the British back to Egypt.

They had, in theory, enough fuel to reach Benghazi, sticking to the coast road, but would need to refuel there hopefully there were stocks of fuel available in Benghazi. From Tobruk to El Agheila was roughly 675 kilometers by road, they could go about 160 kilometers with a full tank of fuel. They had just refueled in Derna and, due to being part of one of the few remaining bodies of operational Panzers available, they were escorting a convoy of vehicles carrying infantry, towing artillery, and, wonder of wonders, some of the few remaining fuel trucks available to Panzerarmee Afrika.

So fuel wasn't an issue, as long as they stayed ahead of the pursuing Tommies, and the Luftwaffe kept the RAF off their backs. There were far too many "ifs" and "provided thats" involved in this retreat for Hoffmeister's tastes. Retreat left a foul taste in his mouth anyway. After the victories in France and the dash to the Egyptian frontier in the early days of 1941, this felt like a defeat. Something the German Army hadn't experienced yet in this war.

Section Leader Janice Worthington-Morley was not yet aware that she was now a widow. Her ship had departed Alexandria hours before her husband, Reginald Morley, had crashed in the Western Desert during an epic battle with one of the Luftwaffe's top aces.

She was already deeply depressed. Wounded, and left with visible scars, during the Battle of Britain, Morley had kept her going during those difficult days and had inspired her to seek transfer to Africa when her husband had been posted there. She had done well until that one fateful day that she had been chosen to carry some important documents to headquarters in Cairo.

During her absence she had left one of "her girls," as she called them, in charge at her office on the sprawling Ma'aten Bagush base not far from the frontier with Libya. A raid by a force of twelve Ju-88s had gotten through the standing fighter patrols and bombed the base. A stray bomb had hit the building where she worked, killing the woman who was doing Janice's job while she was in Cairo.

She had nearly lost it when she'd heard the news. Morley had tried to console her to no avail. The distress she suffered had left her moody and withdrawn, her commander had decided that she must go back to Britain. She almost didn't care that she would be leaving her husband behind. He had tried to convince not to go to Egypt in the first place.

As she stood by the rail, looking out over the heaving sea, she realized that her husband had been right. She would be sure to tell him that in her next letter.

O'Donnell and Frasier sat up front, both men were armed with borrowed submachine guns. In the back sat Sergeant Pilot William Sanderson and Pilot Officer Billy Preston who had flown with Morley on his last mission.

"Corp, how do we know for certain this is the Flight Leftenant's crash site?" Frasier asked.

From the back Preston spoke up, "The Hun pilot put Reg's identity disk in the packet he dropped on the base. Along with the rough coordinates of the crash site. Now that the Jerries are falling back, we can get there, try to recover Reg's body for a proper funeral."

O'Donnell said nothing, he still couldn't believe that the man whose aircraft he'd been servicing for so long was gone. Squadron Leader Marchand hadn't assigned he and Frasier to a new aircraft just yet. He was using them to help out where needed. O'Donnell missed his pilot, he also missed having his own aircraft to take care of.

Sanderson sat forward and pointed, "There it is, just up that slight slope, you can see the skid marks along the line where the Leftenant tried to put her down!"

Sure enough, O'Donnell saw them too, he pulled off the desert track, fortunately it was mostly hard packed gravel in this area, and followed the trail left by the passage of the dying Hurricane.

They topped a slight rise and there she was, flipped onto her back. O'Donnell could see where someone had cut the side of the aircraft open to get Morley's body out of the cockpit. Not far from the wreck was a rectangular cairn of stone, with a rude cross fashioned from ration crates at its head.

O'Donnell sobbed aloud, then got control of himself. But he couldn't stop the tears from streaming down his face. Frasier had his head in his hands quietly crying. Preston reached forward and squeezed O'Donnell's shoulder.

"If you'd like, Will, you and George can wait in the truck, Sandy and I can handle this." Beside him Sanderson nodded and said.

"'At's right lads, keep a watch, we'll do this for Reg."

As the small truck stopped, O'Donnell sat up, rubbing his forearm across his face he said, "Thanks Sir, but I'd ever regret it if I didn't help poor Mr. Morley from the ground. He was a good mate, a good officer, and, dare I say it, a damned fine man."

The four men dismounted and went to the cairn where they began to pull the stones away.

Frasier collapsed when they uncovered the body. There was absolutely no doubt that Reginald Morley had died in the crash, for there was his body.

The uniform was ripped and bloody, but the Germans who had buried him had tried to tidy him up as best they could. Preston noticed something clasped in his squadron commander's hands. He pulled it free.

It was a Bible, in German, but the Good Book nevertheless. At that point he could no longer hold back the tears.

Some time later, the small truck bearing the body of Flight Lieutenant Reginald Morley bounced along the desert track back to Ma'aten Bagush. Not a word was said on the trip back, each man alone with his thoughts.

In the growing darkness of a cold desert night.

¹ Panzerarmee Afrika (Panzer Army Africa) consisted of : the original Afrika Korps, the Italian units X Army Corps, XX Army Corps, and XXI Corps, the German 90th Leichte Afrika Division (Light Division Africa) and the Italian 55th Infantry Division "Savona."

Debacle - Western Desert, November 1941

South African War Museum (PD)

"Uh, Willi, this beast was refurbished, right?" Gefreiter Fritz Weber was checking out the driver's area in their newly issued PzKw III Aus. J¹.

Hoffmeister paused in his inspection of the turret area, "Yes, why?"

Weber didn't answer as he climbed out of his hatch and proceeded to vomit his breakfast over the side. Shaking his head, Hoffmeister grabbed a rag from one of the turret bins and climbed down to the driver's seat. Sure enough, the men who had refurbished the tank had missed a spot.

Hoffmeister scraped the dried up human remains off of the turret roof next to the driver's hatch, looking around, he found the repair patch which sealed the hole where a round had come through the front of the vehicle and obviously killed the previous driver. He'd complain to the repair depot but it would be wasted breath, those lads were doing everything they could to get the Afrika Korps' Panzer strength back up.

"Fritz, it's cleaned up. Go take a walk, tell the rest of the crew to report in. We're ready as ever."

Hoffmeister didn't think of it as a bad omen, he had no time for such superstitions. Within a couple of hours they would be on the attack. The British were desperately trying to break into the siege of Tobruk and were pressing hard. Time for another counterattack.

Hoffmeister thought they'd be wiser to fall back on their supply lines, pull the British in then hit them when they were at the end of their supply line. At the moment, the German armored troops were scraping the bottom of the barrel with what they had left. Patched up tanks and exhausted troops. A recipe for disaster!

Sergeant Theodore O'Connell's platoon had been rebuilt to full strength, three tanks. He rather liked the way the Germans did things, five tanks per platoon. He doubted though that they were anywhere near full strength now. They had just driven by what appeared to be an entire German tank company, all the vehicles abandoned, either knocked out or out of fuel.

His orders were to press the attack on the airfield at Sidi Rezegh. The attack of his unit was meant to cover the main drive to punch through to Tobruk. At least that's the way he understood things. Like Fitzhugh said, we're just simple tankers, we go where they tell us, kill who they tell us, and get yelled at if the plans fall through. Which lately seemed to be the rule rather than the exception.

But even he could see, they were wearing the Germans and Italians down.

O'Connell turned and watched as the infantry disembarked from their trucks. It took them a moment to get sorted but within minutes they were advancing, rifles at high port, bayonets fixed. His orders were to trail behind and give them support.

"Bobby go out to the right about seventy five yards, Jackie you do the same to my left. Keep your machines about a hundred yards behind the foot sloggers. We should see the arty start any time now."

As if on cue, the big guns began firing, hitting the suspected German positions around the airfield. O'Connell felt as if he was watching a scene from the Great War play out in front of him. Infantry advancing behind a barrage, bayonets fixed, all they were missing was a band. He was sure that if they were Scots he'd hear a bagpipe playing, but these lads were South Africans, a grim lot from what he'd seen.

O'Connell ducked involuntarily as a flight of Hurricanes roared by overhead, on their way to the north to strafe the northern approaches to Sidi Rezegh. Hell, if the airfield was any closer to the coast he was sure the Royal Navy would be in play as well!

The men dug in around the airfield were deep in their dugouts, wincing each time a shell landed close by. They were wincing a lot.

Feldwebel Jost Lindemann looked around at his squad, most of them were veterans, only one man was new. But even the veterans looked shocked at the intensity of the bombardment.

A massive blast close by nearly collapsed their position, one of the palm logs in the ceiling shifted and sand began pouring in. Lindemann could hear screaming not far away, even above the roar of the explosions. From what he could tell from the shouting, a section of trench had collapsed, burying the men within.

Jesus, he pleaded, make it stop.

The first wave of South African infantry began to jog forward as the bombardment lifted. From the look of it, the German position was completely destroyed. They could see collapsed dugouts, sections of trench blasted to oblivion. Some of the men breathed a sigh of relief, figuring that it would be a walk in the park. Those who knew better hunched their shoulders and tried to make themselves small as they advanced. Waiting for the Hell they knew would start soon.

O'Connell had his field glasses out, trying to spot any movement in the German position. He glimpsed something, the tops of helmets and the soft caps adorning the men running bent over down a surviving section of trench. Damn it why didn't they have anything other than armor-piercing for their 2-pounder gun? We could tear those bastards apart!

"Fitzie, slew the turret to 11 o'clock, be ready to engage targets with the coaxial machine gun. Sully, if you something ahead of you that ain't a South African, kill it!"

"How do I know if it's a South African Sarge?" Private Ian Sullivan asked from his bow gunner's seat.

"They'll be the ones not shooting at you lad. Keep your fire high, I'm sure the South Africans will be huggin' the earth soon enough."

Again, as if on cue, O'Connell heard the ripping snarl of German machine guns. Just like his old Da' said, "Doesn't matter how much artillery you dump on 'em, the feckin' Hun'll find a way to survive and man his feckin' machine guns."

Lindemann smacked his gunner on the shoulder and pointed to his right. As the man swung the barrel of his MG 34 in that direction, he saw, and engaged, a party of infantry that were nearly upon the destroyed section of trench.

Before turning to check the other flank, Lindemann saw the enemy soldiers being knocked over like ten pins. The few survivors went to ground, seeking what little cover there was around the collapsed section of trench.

O'Connell spotted at least three of the machine gun positions that were tearing the infantry to red ruin. Frustrated that he had no high explosive ammunition for the 2-pounder, he was nearly resolved to start using the armor piercing, at least it could tear through the cover the Germans were behind.

Before he could give the command, Corporal Bobby Tanner came over the R/T, "Sarn't O'Connell, Hun tanks, a lot of 'em, advancing on our flank!"

Ordering his small platoon to pivot to the right, he ordered driver Private Alan Caddick to find a hull down position.

"I'm looking Sarn't, but the  terrain around here is buggered, too damn flat!" Caddick barked over the intercom, loud enough that he almost didn't need the intercom.

Hoffmeister ordered his reduced platoon of three tanks into wedge formation as they topped the slight rise. There, spread before him as if on a sand table, was the English assault on the airfield.

"All Panzers engage the Tommy tanks! Horst are you up?" Oberfeldwebel Horst Winkel commanded the 1st platoon in the company.

"We're ready, you want us to engage the infantry?"

"Do it! We'll kill the Tommy Panzers!"

As high explosive rounds began hitting the South African infantry, their morale collapsed. Assailed by machine gun fire to their front and now tank cannon fire to their right, they simply had had enough.

They didn't run though, they withdrew in fairly good order, covering each other as they fell back. O'Connell saw them running past as his tanks began to engage the Mark IIIs coming at them. He could see one column of smoke already rising into the desert sky, marking the funeral pyre of a German tank crew.

O'Connell hissed in anger when he saw Sergeant Jackie McAllister's tank take one hit in the engine compartment, then a second tore the right track off.

"Jackie, get out of there, I see smoke on your engine deck!"

He watched as McAllister's crew bailed from their crippled tank and ran back to O'Connell's tank. Leaning out of his hatch, O'Connell bellowed over the roar of gunfire, "Climb aboard lads! Last bus to Cairo leaves now!"

He transmitted over the wireless, "Bobby, fall back. We've got Jackie's crew aboard and looks like the infantry are clear. F**king Huns win another round. Damn it all to bloody Hell!"

"Scheiße! Tommy artillery!" Hoffmeister yelled in frustration as the English guns began to work over the area just to his front. He could also see that the rounds were landing closer even as he watched.

"All Panzers, halt in place. The airfield is safe for now, the English are using their artillery to cover their withdrawal. I don't want to lose any more Panzers today!"

He'd lost contact with Horst Winkel's platoon and had to assume the worst, he could see at least three burning vehicles in that direction. One of his platoon had been mobility killed, he wasn't about to pursue the Tommies with his remaining two Panzers.

The damned Tommies had stopped their attack. Looks like they'd won this round!

¹ PzKw III Ausf. J - The most common variant of the Panzer III, which served in North Africa and the Eastern Front. Hull and turret front armor increased to solid 50 mm plate. Spaced armor was placed around the gun mantlet. Some were produced with 5 cm KwK 39 L/60 gun and later redesignated Ausf. L. (Source)

An Eagle Falls - Western Desert, November 1941

Bf 109Es¹ from I/Jagdgeschwader 27 over North Africa, circa 1941.
Colorized image of a photo in the National Museum of the USAF (PD)

Flight Lieutenant Reginald Morley was briefing his flight in the squadron's operations hut. As usual the heat was nearly overwhelming, even at this early hour.  Sergeant Pilot William Sanderson would be flying on Morley's wing, Pilot Officer Billy Preston was leading the second element with Sergeant Pilot Herbert Vauxhall on his wing.

Preston had checked in with the Met officer and had the latest data on the weather, "The blowing sand should abate by sunrise, Dudley says the wind will die down sufficiently by that time for us to go in with the ground support bombers."

Morley chimed in, "They'll be practically down in the dirt with the Hun tanks and infantry, we'll stay high to guard them from enemy fighters. Keep one eye on them, and another for the enemy."

"Which eye should we use to fly the aircraft?" Vauxhall quipped.

"Don't know about you old boy, but I use my hands and feet to fly the old kite." Preston drawled in his upper class accent.

"Right lads, keep your intervals, wingmen watch our six at all times. So Herbie, I guess you'll need four eyes then, one for the bombers, one for the Huns, one to fly with, and that fourth one to watch my six. I wouldn't blink if I was you."

The flight laughed as one, though Sanderson was unusually nervous that morning, he managed a chuckle.

As they left to go out to the aircraft. Morley pulled Preston aside. "You seem a bit tense today Billy, problems?"

"Nah, Sir, just that ... I dunno, I just have a bad feeling about today, probably something I ate."

"I understand Billy, what is this, your seventh hop?"

"Yes Sir."

"If the Huns haven't nailed you by now, you should be fine. Stay alert and follow my lead, you'll be fine."

"Right Sir, thanks."

Morley paused for a moment as his men walked to their aircraft. It would be at least another 30 minutes before they could taxi out and take off. He had time, time to think. Not always a good thing.

His wife Section Leader Janice Worthington-Morley was due to head back to England on the next available transport out of Alexandria. The War Office had decided that she could better serve the Crown back in London.

In a way he was relieved, it wasn't that long ago that the Germans had raided the base where she was posted. She, and all the other female personnel, had been moved back from Ma'aten Bagush after that raid, which had killed ten men and one of the women. The woman had worked directly for Janice, who had been in Cairo that day. 

His wife felt terrible, she felt that because she had been away from her post, Sheila Masters had died in her place. Morley knew it was simply the fortunes of war, but his wife wouldn't listen. Her work performance had suffered and her commanding officer felt that she was no longer useful in Africa. So she had been posted back to Blighty.

He missed her terribly.

"Everything in order, Will?" Morley smiled as he saw his chief ground crewman look up from checking one of the panels on his bird.

"Right as rain now, Sir. That bloody access panel that was wobbling in the slipstream had a busted fastener. She's good now, Sir. Top drawer in all respects."

"Thanks, where's Frasier?" Morley asked about O'Donnell's second, Leading Aircraftman George Frasier.

"A bit o' gyppy tummy² this morning. I 'spect it was somethin' he ate. We went down to the souk³ yesterday and he bought something off a vendor, said he was hungry. I warned him Sir, the vendor's stall was swarming with flies. But Georgie wasn't put off, said he was hungry."

"Is he all right?" Morley asked with some concern, dysentery was a bigger killer of soldiers than bullets.

"He'll be fine Sir, medicos kept him for observation. But his stomach was settled down this morning by quite a bit."

"Right then ..." Morley looked up as he saw O'Donnell's eyes follow something skyward. Yes, there it was, the flare signaling to man the aircraft, the op was a go!

The German pilot had been in Africa since April, his sojourn in Africa had started badly with engine trouble on the flight to his new home base from Tripoli. He had had to land in the desert and had missed his squadron's move to the front.

He had also, much to his chagrin, been shot down twice in his first two months in country. Though he had scored victories during the operations over England in 1940, he was considered to be something of a loose cannon. His former commander had hoped the assignment to Africa would settle him down.

Now he was leading a flight of four from Jagdgeschwader 27, "Afrika." Blowing sand had almost kept them on the ground, but the wind had died about an hour before sunrise. As the desert sky began to lighten, he and his flight were airborne.

The Afrika Korps was in some trouble, though they were inflicting casualties in both vehicles and men on the British 8th Army, they were slowly being ground down. Apparently 15 Panzer had virtually no Panzers left.

The Royal Air Force was starting to make itself felt over the battlefield and the Army had called for air support. While Rommel insisted they could hold the line, if they received reinforcements, most of the troops were looking over their shoulders towards El Agheila, from where they had set out eight months ago to drive the Tommies back to the Egyptian frontier with Libya.

The pilot didn't worry about such things, he would do his job by killing enemy aircraft. Something he was getting very good at.

"Yellow Leader, Yellow Three, aircraft at two o'clock low."

The pilot saw them nearly as soon as he had glanced in the direction indicated by his second element lead. His eyesight was phenomenal.

"Set your switches gentlemen, looks like RAF Blenheims, probably intent on hitting our supply depots behind the line. Yellow Three, you go in, take the bombers. We'll watch for fighters."

"Will do, Yellow Lead."

"Christ! Two Huns boring in us! Twelve o'clock high, coming on fast!"

Morley heard the transmission from the bomber formation and immediately ordered his second element in to defend the bombers.

"Will, let's climb a bit, I doubt that there's only two!"

"Roger."

Nearly as soon as he had advanced his throttle he heard a scream from his wingman, "Blue Lead BREAK RIGHT!"

Rolling right and pulling the stick back as he firewalled his throttle, Morley saw tracers blazing past just above his aircraft, if Sanderson had hesitated even a second, he'd be dead now.

Glancing in his rear view mirror, he saw the nose of what had to be a 109 boring in on him. Sucking in his breath, Morley chopped his throttle and bunted the aircraft nose, losing airspeed quickly. He gasped as he saw the underside of a German fighter pass within ten feet of his aircraft.

Keeping the nose down to regain airspeed, Morley twisted in his seat and saw the German pull up then gracefully roll onto his back, aiming his aircraft back towards Morley's. Morley gasped as he kept his aircraft in a slight dive, this was no time to lose airspeed.

He kicked in left rudder to skid his Hurricane across the sky, throwing off the German's aim. As the German passed below him, Morley decided to keep his speed up and come around. He had no intention of getting into a turning contest with the 109. Break free, then re-engage, try to seize the initiative.

The pilot had a slight smile on his face, this Tommy was no slouch in the air, a most worthy opponent. Keeping one eye on his target, he twisted around to see where his wingman was. In the distance, surprisingly some distance away, he could see an aircraft trailing smoke, plummeting to earth in a death spiral. Hopefully not Hans, the pilot thought.

He nearly jumped out of his seat, he had been woolgathering for far too long, mere seconds perhaps, but he felt the thumps as enemy rounds impacted the empennage of his aircraft. Kicking right rudder he slipped out of the enemy's bullet stream. He winced as the enemy aircraft nearly collided with his own. This fellow is good!

Morley blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the sweat dripping into his eyes. He was in a fight for his life, this Hun was no ordinary pilot. As he looked back over his shoulder, trying to regain sight of the 109, he began to wonder where he was relative to the front line. If worse came to worst, he wanted the option of coming down behind his own lines. He had no desire to revisit Axis hospitality.

There! There he is! Damn it but this fellow is fast! He could see the camouflaged 109 coming hard at him, slightly to his seven o'clock. Wait, wait, wait ...

There! He could see the winking lights along the wings of the 109, he pulled hard left and kicked in rudder to skid the aircraft. Traces flashed past on his right, then he pulled the stick back into his stomach as he rolled the Hurricane on its back. Dear God, he thought, I hope I have the altitude for this!

O'Donnell and Frasier were at the dispersal hut listening in as reports came in over the wireless. Apparently the bombing raid had been a shambles, they'd been jumped by a pair of 109s and had scattered, jettisoning their bombs as they fled. Only two aircraft had bored in, scoring a few hits on an Italian supply column. Neither of those aircraft had returned.

The flight of escorting Hurricanes had reported briefly before their transmission had been overwhelmed by static. The corporal in the dispersal hut turned to the men waiting and said, "Happens all the time, wind kicks up, sand gets in the air and the radios go to shite. The chaps should be in range in about 20 minutes."

As the two men walked over to Morley's normal parking spot, O'Donnell turned and asked, "So how are ye feelin' Georgie-boy. Still comin' out both ends?"

"Geez Corp, let it go would ya? I don't think my bum is ever going to recover."

"Live and learn laddie, live and learn."

The shadows were lengthening in the desert, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Frasier looked up. "That's an aircraft engine!"

O'Donnell, who had given up on Morley's return, but not on the man's survival looked up, "Come on lad, how many years did ye work for Hawker? That's not a Merlin, sounds like a Daimler, Hun engine. Bastard must be lost."

As the anti-aircraft guns along the edge of the airstrip began firing, O'Donnell saw a very fast-moving shape at very low altitude approaching the field. The AA guns couldn't keep up with the 109, all of their fire was falling to the rear of the swift aircraft.

The 109 flashed very low over the dispersal area and both men saw something drop from the aircraft, so they dove for cover.

When nothing happened, and as the sound of the Bf-109E-7's Daimler Benz engine faded to the west, O'Donnell stood up and walked to where he'd seen something hit the ground. It was a weighted, canvas sack.

Frasier rushed over and O'Donnell cautioned him to stay back, "Let the UXB boys deal with this laddie, might be some sort of Hun trick."

As night set in and the temperature began to drop, O'Donnell and Frasier left the suspicious sack to the men trained to deal with such things. Neither man said a word as they returned to their quarters. They didn't bother to eat either, they were in deep despair.

Your pilot was seen to enter a split  S maneuver as I closed to re-engage him. Unfortunately his aircraft was far too low to complete the maneuver.

The Hurricane  hit the ground, relatively intact, but slid for a number of meters before a wing dipped and flipped the aircraft onto its back. No fire was seen in the wreckage, no movement was noticed in the cockpit area either.

 I later appropriated a vehicle and traveled to the crash sight with the intention of discovering the fate of your pilot. I found him dead in the wreckage. We buried him at the spot of the crash.

My condolences on the loss of your pilot, he fought well.

Marseille, JG27 "Afrika" 

¹ Me 109E is also correct, even the Luftwaffe used both terms. Bf is for Bayerische Flugzeugwerke (Bavarian Aircraft Works), Me is for the designer Will Messerschmitt.

² Upset stomach, usually accompanied by diarrhoea.

³ Arab marketplace or bazaar.

Editor's Note: Hans-Joachim Marseille was the top German ace in North Africa.