CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN – Part Four
Operation Hammerhead
Kuyavia Region, Poland
Village of Gniewkowo, south of Toruń
10:28 A.M.
June 8, 1941
Over the crackling flames that burned merrily among the abandoned buildings of the village could be heard the moans and cries of wounded and dying men. Over that pitiful, and in some cases heart rending, noise could be heard muttered curses as healthy men tended to what wounded they could and others prepared for yet another attack. Checking his own personal ammunition level the officer in charge of the cursing men, Colonel Malcolm Drake, joined the cursing when he found that he was down to two magazines of bullets for his L1A1 assault rifle. His cursing was to himself, was much more vehement and was directed solely upon himself. Even as he did so he knew that neither his superiors nor the Paras around him would find fault with the actions he ordained that led he and his men into their current situation. After all a Para officer was supposed to take the fight to the enemy, create as much confusion and disruption to the enemy as possible and do so regardless of the odds. That notwithstanding, Drake was still irritated at himself for not foreseeing the possibility that the German defenses for the entire region might not be centered within the city of Toruń but outside of the environs of the city.
With one more silent curse he shut down that line of thinking and delved into thoughts pertaining to survival of his Paras in the upcoming minutes. Slamming his last full magazine of 7.62mm rounds into his rifle Drake glanced around for his immediate subordinate officer, Captain George Tyler, company commander of A Company. “Captain Tyler! What is the ammo status of the rest of the company?”
“Quite of few of the lads have taken use of scrounged Jerry small arms to conserve our own ammunition, Colonel,” Tyler replied, not noticing look Drake was covertly directing in his direction. Drake, and most of the entire battalion for that matter, had a decidedly poor opinion of Tyler due to the man’s categorically lack of initiative in searching out contact with the enemy. Yet it was also, in some cases stubbornly so, agreed that once he was engaged with the enemy he was like a lion among the sheep. Drake had started the morning having thoughts of finding away to remove Tyler from the Paras entirely but now he was having second thoughts and could not yet determine if the officer was salvageable enough to stay within the Para community. “So while we are not as in good a shape as I would like, we have enough for the time being.”
Nodding his head to acknowledge Tyler’s information, Drake glanced back in the direction the Germans had attacked from over the last several minutes. Thanks to the initiative of several of Tyler’s Paras the four Hanomag armoured half-tracks that the Germans had with them in their initial counterattack upon the Paras had been reduced to one, the Paras turning the German’s own 88mm artillery pieces upon the troop carriers. The last of the German armoured vehicles, a Sdkfz 251/17 Schwebenlafette, a half-track armed with a FlaK 38 20mm anti-aircraft gun, had escaped after knocking out two of the Rheinmetall artillery pieces and killing several Paras and was still a threat to Drake’s position. Rather than dwelling on threats he had no control over Drake concentrated on what he did have control over, namely the coordination of his battalion. Taking the R/T receiver from the ever present Lyons, he knelt down and looked at the map he had spread out on the ground beneath him. “Dragon Six to Dragon Five, over.”
“Dragon Five, here,” Major Reginald Chadwick’s strained voice replied.
“Are you in position, Five?”
“We will be there in mere moments, sir.”
Drake’s response was interrupted by a flurry of gunshots and A Company’s Colour Sergeant bellowing, “Here they come, lads! Give ‘em what fer!”
Speaking back to Chadwick, Drake was surprised to hear how calm his voice sounded when his felt far the opposite. “Jerry’s back, Reggie, so move your ass! Dragon Six out.”
Toss the receiver back to Lyons, Drake raised his assault rifle to his shoulder and in the blink of an eye the first German soldiers appeared from cover, firing as they rushed the Paras. Firing slow to conserve his remaining ammunition, Drake watched dispassionately as his rounds struck and killed one, two, and then a third German soldier. His aim on a fourth German was soured when the unmistakable deadly sound of a bullet passing within close proximity with his face caused him to jerk as he squeezed the trigger. Despite the spoiling his aim Drake’s fired round connected with the unlucky German, striking the man in the thigh, crushing his hip bone and driving him screaming to the ground to begin bleeding to death. Of this Drake never saw as he had twisted himself about to face the direction from which had been fired upon, and cursed vehemently aloud as he saw a group of German soldiers racing upon his position clearly having successfully moved around A Company’s right flank. Flipping the fire selector on his L1A1 from single shot to automatic, more concerned about halting the German’s progression than conserving his ammunition, Drake fired inaccurate bursts of fire, dropping three of the soldiers and forcing a handful more to dive for cover. But then the bolt snapped open signaling that his magazine was empty.
Once more on their feet and rushing toward Drake, his position obviously a command post, the Germans were confident that they would be successful in the very least eliminating the Para leadership, if not capturing it whole. They failed, however, to take into account that the reputation for fierceness in combat that the Paras had gained was justly deserved. Calling attention to the on rushing Germans, Drake, Lyons and the remaining members of Drake’s security detail focused their attention on their attackers. Due to the close proximity of the Germans, Drake elected not to attempt to reload his rifle and instead pulled his pistol from his hip holster. The American Colt Model 1911 .45 APC, a virtual a hand cannon, had been a present from an American exchange officer several months ago and had quickly become a favorite of Drake’s, even with the limited availability of ammunition. The only drawback he had been able to find to using the weapon was the very distinctive report of the pistol being fired had a tendency to draw more attention to than was sometimes wanted or needed. However in this particular moment, Drake determined that the more attention the better as it would bring more arms to bear on the Germans.
Standing with his right arm extended, the Colt pointing like an extension of his arm, his L1A1 swept behind his back and held in place by his left arm, Drake sighted down his arm, through the small iron sights on the pistol, and on to an individual German racing toward him. He had a brief glimpse of the screaming face of the young looking attacker before he fired and the flame of the muzzle blast obscured the clarity of the picture. As the smoking brass cartridge was ejected from the pistol and another round was chambered Drake’s arm was moving to target the next on rushing soldier, the first German’s now lifeless body not yet falling to the ground. In quick succession, far quicker than his conscious mind could follow, Drake fired all eight rounds held within the massive pistol. With the rapid precision that only training provided, he ejected the now empty clip and just as the spent magazine dropped from the handle of the pistol a fresh one was slammed into place, the next round was chambered, and he continued to fire.
Only aware of the threats surrounding him Drake knew that his position was beyond being precarious as there were more Germans amid his men than was healthy. Knowing he could do nothing about that fact if he were dead, he continued to fire his Colt at any unlucky German who crossed his path and began to look for a spot to rally his troops. Ejecting the second clip as the slide of the Colt rocked back and locked upon due to being empty, Drake reached for his third magazine but it was too late and a pair of German soldiers reached him. Not even thinking about the adversely lethal position he was in, Drake threw his prized pistol at the smaller of the two Germans while diving toward the second soldier. The smaller German’s stride was thrown off as he twisted to avoid the flying pistol and slid to the ground just as his companion’s torso came into contact with Drake’s thrown body and the two fell to the ground grappling.
Once upon the ground the fight between Englishman and German intensified, each man straining to not just survive but to vanquish their foe. The German was able to strike a telling blow first, driving the butt of his Schmeisser machine pistol into Drake’s back, driving the air from his lungs explosively. Unwillingly releasing his hold upon the German as his body reacted to the blow and the damage caused, Drake fought that reflex knowing that to give in to his body’s demand would mean his death. The German struggled to extract himself from the Englishman’s grasp, was able to pull himself to his knees and begin to swing his Schmeisser around to shoot his foe in the back rather than continuing to grapple with the Para. Beginning to squeeze the trigger on his machine pistol and finish the fight he was stopped by a sharp hot pain exploded in his stomach, the pain leaching his breath and strength in a lighting bolt quick flash. A foul stench filled his nostrils as his eyes focused downward to see Drake’s hand upon the hilt of a dagger that was buried in his belly, knowing from experience that the blade had pierced his bowels and his death was now not a matter of if but only how soon. Growling with this recognition the German attempted to complete his interrupted action and take his foe with him into Death’s waiting arms and began to squeeze the trigger again. A second explosion of sharp hot pain erupted throughout his body and again thwarted his intention, Drake pulling the German’s own dagger from his hip and driving it up under the man’s ribs and into his heart. Sliding backward the German’s vision began to rapidly dim to blackness as his mind struggled with the thought that what had just happened was simply not fair.
Six feet away the smaller of the two Germans was just struggling to his feet, the elapsed time only being several seconds, and stifled a grunt at the sight of Drake rolling off his companion’s body leaving two dagger hilts protruding from his torso. Seeing that the British Para was unscathed the German screamed in rage and leaped forward, the bayonet on the end of his rifle leading the way. Encumbered with his legs being tangled with those of the German he had just killed Drake was severely disadvantaged, but was far from ready to give up with a fight and while still on his knees swung his L1A1 around and used the rifle to ward off the attack of his enraged enemy. The soldier found his initial thrust pushed aside by a counter-thrust by the kneeling Englishman and pulled back to swing his rifle about to club the Para’s rifle out of his arms. A resounding crack was heard as the butt of the Mauser made contact with the Englishman’s rifle and sent it flying from numbed hands. The German’s follow through found his boot making contact with Drake’s chest and driving him to his back and the Mauser being brought about to drive the bayonet deep into the Para’s belly.
Even as he prepared to ward off the impending thrust Drake knew that there was no way he would be able to prevent the German from gutting him like a fish and he prayed not to survive, for that would be asking far to much, but that his wife and sons would forgive him for being taken from their lives and that they would remember him. Focusing upon the descending blade instead of the wild eyes of the German towering over him Drake was stunned when the man suddenly stiffened and then had his torso explode in a bloody mess. Furiously blinking the abrupt rain of blood from his eyes Drake reached for the falling German’s rifle to deflect the now unguided weapon and prevent being speared. He was only marginally successful as the German bayonet slide along his side, slicing through his smock and uniform with ease and parting his skin along his left ribs with even greater ease. Cringing as he felt the blade scrape across bone, Drake grabbed the stock of the rifle with one arm and shoved his other arm up into the bloody mess that was the falling German’s torso in hope of keeping the corpse from falling upon the rifle and making his wound any worse.
The weight of the dead German was unexpectedly no longer against his arms and Drake opened his eyes to watch Lyons and Booth yank the dead man up and away. Having a dead man’s grip on his Mauser, as the German was pulled away the rifle came with him, drawing the bayonet back out of Drake’s flesh and exiting with a small fountain of blood. Kneeling beside Drake and reaching for the wound while Booth knelt and fired at the backs at the new retreating Germans, Lyons growled concernedly, “Bloody ‘ell, Colonel, what are you doin’ playin’ fist-o-cuffs fer?”
“O’Rourke has clearly become a bad influence upon you, Danny,” Drake winced as he pushed Lyons away and pulled himself up into a seated position. Glancing down at his sliced open side he felt a wave of pain suddenly explode from the wound and hissed, “Dammit! Why the bloody hell does it always hurt more once you look at it?”
“It’s the body’s way of tellin’ one not to be a bloody fool an’ try an’ ignore the hurt, Colonel,” Lyons said a touch sarcastically as he widened the tear in Drake’s smock and attempted to place a dressing upon the wound. “An’ yes, I did learn that from O’Rourke, Colonel. Now sit still so I can finish, please, an’ then Henry an’ I’ll get you to your feet.”
“It is probably not as bad as it looks, Danny,” Drake grunted as he attempted to bat Lyons’ hands away from the wound, “but I haven’t the time to worry about it right now. Get me to my feet so I can see what the hell our situation is.”
Lyons shot an exasperated look at Drake, a look quite similar to the one that O’Rourke was fond of displaying when he felt Drake was doing something foolish in the name of being a good officer. The tone in Lyons’ voice echoed the look as he answered, “Yer not bloody well goin’ anywhere, Colonel, until we at least get a dressin’ on this wound. As fer our situation, Major Chadwick, Captain McDaniels an’ the lads from F Company ‘ave arrived an’ Jerry is beatin’ a hasty retreat.”
“Colonel, for the love of God,” spoke the thus far quiet Corporal Booth still kneeling on one knee and scanning the area from behind the sights of his rifle, “if you do not sit there and let Lyons bandage that nasty gash I swear I will sit on you so that he can!”
The shocked that Drake felt must have crossed his face because Booth, satisfied that there were not forthcoming immediate threats turned and continued speaking. “No disrespect to you rank, sir, but the most that you can do to me is take my chevrons. O’Rourke on the other hand can and would make my life a living hell if anything happened to you while I was in charge. Again, no disrespect, Colonel, but I’ll take my chances with you.”
“I have really got to have a talk with that Irish lout when we get back to Berlin,” Drake chuckled as he squinted his eyes shut as the dressing bandage slipped against the raw edges of his wound.
Looking back over to Booth, Drake found the man extending a hand holding Drake’s discarded Colt. The look on his face was concern mixed with pride and a touch of relief. “It seems you dropped this, Colonel.”
“Thanks, Henry,” Drake said as he took the proffered pistol, wincing again as Lyons tied a knot in the bandages in an attempt to hold the dressing in place. Ejecting the spent magazine, he pocketed the empty clip and slid his third and final clip into the butt of the pistol before holstering the large Colt.
Hearing the R/T set he had left in his fighting position squawking indignantly, and unable to finish the placement of the bandage upon Drake’s wound, Lyons scowled with irritation, making sure that his look was well seen by patient whose actions were proving to be quite uncooperative. Twisting around to spy a small group of Paras nearby Lyons barked out, “Hennessey! Get yer arse over here an’ deal with this!”
Glaring at the bemused look Drake gave him, Lyons scampered over to the R/T while the small Irishman, one of the battalion’s medical orderlies, bounced over. Taking a quick glance at the carnage the surrounded his Colonel and then as the still bleeding wound in his side, the Irishman whistled softly. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary, Colonel! I believe yer takin’ this leadin’ from the front idea a tad to far! Ye could get yerself killed ifin ye keep these kinda shenanigans up! Now lie back an’ let me take a look at that that nasty pig sticker wound.”
“Hennessey,” Drake snorted as another wave of pain from his ribs joined his rising anger at the cost to his Paras from the German attack, “Go and attend to the more seriously wounded and leave me be. I’ll be fine, it’s just a scratch… a painful one I’ll admit, but still just a scratch.”
“Seein’ as I’m da one wit’ da doctorin’, Colonel,” the Irishman snorted in return, “I can tell ye that yer painful scratch is at least a six inch gash dat’s gone all da way ta da bone. Yer damn lucky ye donna have a bloody broken rib to boot! Now, let me do me job an’ then I’ll let ye do yer job, eh?”
Clamping his jaws tight, Drake exhaled sharply as Hennessey removed the partially attached bandage. The Irishman did so with the apparent vindictiveness that all medical orderlies seemed to have trained into them, almost as if they were punishing the wounded for allowing themselves to be wounded. “Why is it that I seem to collect the most bullheaded and disrespectful enlisted men within the British Army to my battalion?”
“Now, Colonel, ye know ‘tis not disrespect ye be receiving,” Hennessey said with a wink as he opened his medical kit. Showing a proficiency that could only be gained from battlefield experience he poured a quick shake of sulfa powder on the wound and began stitch Drake’s wound closed while ignoring the blood that continued to leak out. “’Tis instead a manly way o’ showin’ da care an’ concern yer lads ‘ave fer ye. Now, sit still so I can finish sewin’ dis so da Colonel’s darlin’ wife ‘as a nice scar ta admire an’ not an ugly one.”
Wincing yet again, and hating the fact that he kept doin so as the Irishman did his job, Drake acknowledged the truth in the words while attempting to grapple with the sentiment voiced in the words. His concentration was diverted when Lyons strode back over with the R/T unit carried on one shoulder. Kneeling down opposite Hennessey, he handed the receiver while saying, “Colonel, I’ve got a most insistent call for you. He is identifying himself as Cavalier Six.”
**
Up Next: Is the battle over? Who is Cavalier Six? And why is he most insistent?
Stay tuned to find out!
