Homeward Bound

Source

Jan Kołodziej groaned and gripped his belly as the train hit another rough section of track. He had been hit, tended to by a Sani then hauled back to an aid station in very short order. He had no idea how lucky he was. His lower intestine had been perforated by metal fragments from his equipment, driven into his body by a Soviet rifle bullet. Had he not been carrying the spare barrel for his squad's MG-34, he would probably have bled out on the battlefield.

The bullet, fired from very close range, had been deflected by the spare barrel, but it had driven metal fragments into his body. The surgeons at the field hospital had patched him up and sent him back to the Reich. The medical staff had given him no more than a 75% chance of surviving.

Infection had been their biggest worry, but so far, Kołodziej's body was successfully fighting to stay alive. But the surgery had required the surgeons to cut into his abdominal muscles and Kołodziej had had no idea how much a man used those muscles.

Just sitting up required assistance. Sleep was nearly impossible as the German military was in the midst of a shortage of medicines. Pain killers were in short supply, morphine was used only on those in such pain as they would scream all night.

Though Kołodziej wanted to scream, he forced himself to bear the pain. One of the orderlies had asked him why.

"If I scream, the army might leave me out here to die. By bearing the pain, I show them I'm a fighter, worth saving."

But the real reason was a letter he'd received, dated August of 1941, it had been from his Elżbieta. The woman he loved more than anything in this world.

The last time he had seen her was in Warsaw, he had been wearing the uniform of the hated Germans. She had recognized him and turned away in shame.

Now, she had written, since that day she had learned much. Poles were survivors, pretend to bend a knee to the conquerors but use the time to prepare to rise up and throw them out. Her own brother had been conscripted into the German Army. Upon that occasion her father had talked long into the night with her.

Elżbieta Chlebek's father had fought in the Austrian Army in the Great War, when their portion of Poland was ruled by the Hapsburgs. As he had put it, "Better to wear an Austrian uniform and fight the Russians, your Jan is doing the same. He is fighting the Russians as well. It's all we can do for now."

Kołodziej had been told that he was being sent back to a hospital in Poland. The Army hadn't decided which one, he was hoping for Warsaw, that's where his Elżbieta was working. She was a nurse there. If only ...

Oskar Olson stepped ashore. He wasn't familiar with this part of Norway, it was much farther north than his home. But the smell of the mountains, the hiss of waves on the shore of the fjord, and the very air itself spoke to him of home.

He had left the country a disoriented conscript. Swept up in the defeat of the Norwegian Army, trapped behind enemy lines with a hodgepodge of British, French, and Norwegian stragglers, he had made it to England where he'd joined the Commandos. Now he was home.

According to the briefing, there was only a small garrison of Germans in the region. They were not frontline troops, but reservists, sent to Norway to free up the more fit troops for the cauldron of the Eastern Front. Perhaps forty men, a platoon, but the Commandos had brought far fewer than that.

Their mission was terror, pure and simple. Slip ashore, kill as many Germans as they could, then leave the way they had arrived, small boats. Head back out to sea and meet up with the Royal Navy destroyer that had launched them.

Olson was an explosives expert now. His job was to booby trap anything which the Germans used. The goal was to have German soldiers dying long after the Commandos had left.

"We might be killing Norwegians as well, Oskar. Do you have a problem with that?"

The Scottish officer had taken him aside to ask that question, he was young, but a good man, he cared about his men.

"Leftenant, I'd rather not kill my own people, but if the Germans hold the country, many more Norwegians might die. We've heard stories of hostages being taken, and killed, for every misfortune the Germans suffer. It's hard to kill one's own, but if we kill more Germans, I can live with myself."

Lieutenant Seamus MacDonald nodded and clapped Olson on the back, "Keep that in your heart all the time laddie, the mission is to make the Germans uncomfortable. Maybe even draw more of them in. If they're occupying Norway, they can't be fighting in Russia or North Africa, might also draw down the forces they have occupying France and Italy. Places we might have a mind to take back one of these days."

Olson nodded as the Lieutenant had directed the men to start loading the boats. They'd be on Norwegian soil within the hour.

Olson watched as the rest of the men came ashore then hid the boats. The night was quiet and bitter cold. Sound would carry a long ways and he had no doubts that the Germans would be indoors next to their fires. Though there might be a sentry or two, they would probably be more concerned with staying warm than watching for attackers.

The first sentry had died under Olson's knife less than 15 minutes later.

Olson had spotted him, pacing back and forth along the town's single, small pier. The man had stopped to piss into the harbor, then moved back to the shelter of the small shed at the foot of the pier. Where he had fallen to Olson's knife.

Lieutenant MacDonald joined the small group shortly thereafter, "Sarn't Magnussen, put out a perimeter, Ollie, get those explosives planted. I want the pier to go up about four hours from now, everything else is a booby trap, someone touches it, they die. Along with everyone around them. Go."

They rendezvoused with their destroyer just before sunrise. In the distance they heard the explosives go off which would destroy the pier. That was meant to draw the Germans to the harbor where they would trip the booby traps Olson had left behind.

The Norwegians were back in the fight.

Preparing for the Return

Source

"Damn it, Gentile, you gotta get lower than that!"

Flavio Gentile grimaced, he didn't think he could get any lower, but damn it, he'd try. As he crawled, lower still, he could hear the zip and whiz of the machine gun rounds whipping by above his head.

The point of the training was two-fold, first it was to induce stress in the men, get them as used to being shot at without actually endangering them. Secondly, assess their agility and ability to function under fire. Again, without actually being under fire.

Some armies trained with live ammunition, he'd been told. Every hundredth round was live, so he'd been told. Recruits actually died in those armies during training, shot by their own during field exercises.

Just as he was reaching the end of the low crawl course, a nearby explosion made him freeze in place. Another recruit, not thinking, jumped up to get away from the blast.

"Cease fire! Cease fire! Goddammit, cease fire!" A number of the drill instructors were screaming at the machine gun team, who had tried to cease firing as soon as they'd seen the recruit jump up. Far too late for the recruit in question.

"Geez Stephen, what are we going to do when we meet the enemy, march around in formation and impress them with our snap?"

Hernandez chuckled, "From what I understand, Juan, it's meant to instill discipline in us and teach us to respond instantly to orders. Even the Germans and the Japanese march around in training, every army worth its salt does it."

The two men had survived the march back from the field problem, now they were drilling not far from the barracks. Left, right, left, platoon halt, platoon march, column left, column right, it was getting so that Hernandez could march in his sleep and stay in formation. It was becoming second nature to him.

"Hernandez! Your other left! Wake the f**k up, recruit!"

Well, almost second nature.

Oskar Olson, late of the Royal Norwegian Army, now a member of Number 5 Troop of Number 10 Commando, was a happy man. After all the screening and investigating of the British which followed after he'd escaped from Norway, they had actually found a Norwegian officer who could positively identify Olson and vouch for him.

The commando training was brutal. Upon arrival at the train station, somewhere in Scotland, Olson wasn't sure where, the recruits had been marched eleven kilometers to where they would begin their training.

It rained a lot and the training was intense. Calisthenics, field problems, learning to read maps and terrain, training on all sorts of weapons, it never seemed to stop. Officers and men trained together, side by side, the instructors treated them all the same, with no mercy.

"Mercy will get you killed you fat Norwegian bastard!" Olson recalled a sergeant screaming at him when he had stopped to help another recruit over a difficult obstacle. "Move, move, move, if the bastard can't keep up, we don't bloody want him in the commandos!"

They even used live ammunition in training exercises, move wrong, stop paying attention, and you could wind up very dead.

But Olson revelled in the training. He couldn't wait to get back to Norway and kill Germans.

Von Lüttwitz stirred, he had been sleeping very deeply, had been dreaming of home, when one of his men started shaking him.

"Wha .. what is it?"

"The Ivans, Sir, they're attacking. Major Hassel wants us in the line!"

Von Lüttwitz dressed, grabbed his gear, and got his wits about him. "Alright lads, don't panic, get your gear and fall out in the trench. Anyone seen Oberleutnant Busch?"

A head poked into the dugout, "Come on Jürgen, what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation from Stalin?" Busch looked exhausted. At least that answered the question of where the company commander was.

Von Lüttwitz gasped as he stepped out of the dugout, when the cold air hit his lungs it actually hurt. He tugged his muffler up over his face and breathed shallowly until the air around his nose and mouth warmed up.

Artillery explosions in the near distance made him realize, this was a serious Russian attack. Where had Ivan gotten the ammunition for this?

"Jürgen, take your boys to the left, set up your machine guns to sweep the ground in front of the burned out T-34. Let's go!"

The 5th company commander was already moving. Von Lüttwitz had his men moving as well. Why did the bastards always attack in the dead of night when it was so damned cold?

The Sting of Winter

Source

"Take him over there!"

The Sanitäter was fairly confident that the wounded soldier would be okay. Though his lower torso was badly torn up, mostly from fragments from the spare barrel container the bullet had hit before going into him, he was certain he'd gotten all the metal fragments out. The bullet had gone completely through the man. He'd patched him up as best as he could, but he needed to get back to a field hospital.

As they started to move the man onto a stretcher, the Sani heard the man groan, "Kurwa, to boli.¹"

"You're Polish?"

One of the stretcher bearers groused at the Sani, "So are we going to stand out in the cold while you two chit-chat?"

The wounded man looked up at the man who had probably saved his life, "Silesian actually. We're an odd bunch of Poles and Germans all intermixed. Name before the Great War was Stellmacher ..."

The Sani chuckled, "Which in Polish is Kołodziej. You lived in Polish occupied Silesia then?"

"Ja, had to learn Polish and German at school," then Kołodziej gripped his side and groaned.

"Yes, that's going to hurt until a surgeon cleans up the wound. Your war might be over."

Nodding to the stretcher bearers, the Sani moved on to the next man.

Mládshiy serzhánt³ Ustin Rodionovich Kazankov wiped his runny nose on the back of his sleeve. His greatcoat was so filthy he doubted anyone would notice. He cocked an eyebrow when two of his three men re-joined the squad.

"Where's Kusma Zakharovich?"

One of the Ukrainians, Efréĭtor Petrenko shook his head. "Poor f**ker took out a German machine gun and its two crewmen, then some more Fascists came up and shot him before he could get away."

"Beriya's dead?" Kazankov was shaken. Beriya had been with him in Finland, now he's dead?

"Damn it, I told you to be f**king careful, Nazar Danylovych!"

"We were, but the Fascists came up very quickly, usually they go to ground and assess the situation before moving. Whoever was leading the other side is either very quick on his feet or very lucky."

Krasnoarmeyets Kyrylo Ihorovych Antonyuk spoke up, "I'd rather be lucky than good."

"Idi na khuy⁴, Antonyuk." Kazankov snapped. Beriya's death hurt.

Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz watched his men closely as they pulled back from the front line. The battalion was going into reserve, division command was trying hard to give the men time off the line, but casualties were high so the respite would be brief.

The men looked bedraggled and exhausted. Winter in Russia will do that, he thought. Most of their casualties were upper respiratory problems and frostbite.

He heard footsteps in the snow behind him, turning he saw his company commander, Oberleutnant Ferdinand Busch.

"How are the boys doing, Jürgen?"

"They're tired, Sir, but game. A few days rest, some hot food, and maybe some fresh clothing and dann will alles in Butter⁵."

Busch chuckled, "That's something my old grandmother liked to say."

Von Lüttwitz smiled, "Mine as well."

¹ F**k,that hurts. (Polish)

² Stellmacher is the German word for "wheelwright," kołodziej in Polish.

³ Junior Sergeant (Russian)

⁴ Go f**k yourself, Antonyuk. (Иди на хуй - Russian)

⁵ German equivalent of "right as rain" - Then everything will be fine.

A New Year

Source

"Hey Gentile! Get your ass over here!"

Flavio Gentile shook his head, why did they insist on pronouncing his name wrong? But here was neither the place nor the time to correct the big sergeant who seemed to delight in tormenting the Italian kid from Philadelphia. Gentile jogged over to the sergeant.

"Yes, Sergeant?" He knew better than to call the man "Sarge," that drove him nuts.

"Yeah, the shitters over in 1st Platoon need cleaning, you go handle that."

"Uh, I'm in 3rd Platoon, can't 1st clean their own shitters? Sergeant?"

Staff Sergeant Vince Magnussen bristled, "Look Gentile, I say jump, you ask how high. I know which f**king platoon you're in. I owe Nelson over in 1st a favor, you're the favor. Now get your ass over there."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Gentile wanted nothing more in the world than to knock Magnussen's block off, but he had no desire to spend time in the stockade either. So for now, he'd tolerate the man. After all, like his buddy Marchetti said, "Training'll be over in a few weeks, why piss anybody off? Save it for the Krauts and the Japs, whichever way we wind up going."

Marchetti was right, Gentile wished that Magnussen was one of those guys who liked to take his trainees out behind the barracks for a little extra training. Shed the stripes, all that man to man stuff, but Magnussen was a coward, he hid behind his stripes.

Every muscle in Stephen Hernandez's body was aching. He was used to hard work but the twenty mile forced march with full gear was much harder than he had expected. Along with the other members of his training platoon he was down on one knee, wheezing like an old man.

"Come on ladies, back on your feet. We need to set up a bivouac."

The men looked at each other, a bivouac, they'd been expecting trucks to take them back to camp.

"Sarge?"

"You do know what a bivouac is, Anderson."

"Uh, yessir, but aren't we going to ..."

"Thinking again, Anderson? What did I tell you about thinking Private Anderson?"

"Uh, I'm not good at it, Sarge?"

"Zackly, now get your shit together. Pitch your shelter halves, get digging a latrine trench, and get set up for the night. This is a field exercise, we march out, do some training in patrolling and such, sleep a couple hours, then march back to camp. Questions?"

Groans went up from the men, but they got to work.

"This is some shit, huh hermano?"

Hernandez turned and grinned at his "battle buddy" Juan Vaca. "Yup, classic Army shit, vato."

Hernandez wondered how his family would react to all of the Mexican slang he was learning and using. There were a quite a few Spanish speakers in the Army, but very few Spaniards. When in Rome ...

The Sanitäter rolled Kołodziej over onto his back, "Easy Jan, it doesn't look too bad, might even be a Heimatschuß¹."

Jan Kołodziej grimaced, no doubt the Sani thought he was being kind, thinking that Kołodziej was German rather than a Pole conscripted into the German Army. But at the moment he didn't really care. They'd never seen the Russian who had spotted them. Guy was a good shot, his first round had killed Paulus outright, his second had gone through Kołodziej's left side, having been deflected by the spare barrel he carried for the machine gun.

Anything to get him away from the vicious fighting against the Soviets would do. With luck, maybe he'd go to the big hospital in Warsaw. At least he'd be back in Poland. But it was a hell of a way to welcome in a new year.

¹ A wound which gets you sent home. Bad enough to require medical care not available at the front.

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.