Opening Moves

Opposite him was the sleeping figure of his best sniper who, although still a relative boy of nineteen, had taken the lives of over one hundred Axis soldiers with the Nagant rifle he was cradling. Yefreytor Aleksey Nikitin was renowned for his ability to sleep, even in the middle of an artillery barrage but, even so, Makarenko thought it showed great calm to do so on this night of all nights, and he envied him the ability to rest.

Makarenko caught the enquiring gaze of a young Senior Sergeant and smiled back with genuine affection. He knew him well, the competent and lionhearted Nakhimov, for he had decorated him with the Order of the Patriotic War [first class] for his bravery when the 100th attacked over that damn Reichsbrücke Bridge in Vienna. They might still be trying to get over that river now if it had not been for Nakhimov killing those SS gunners with nothing more than grenades and a Nagant rifle. The hand to hand fighting had been bestial. Bayonets, knives, sharpened spades; all brought their own bloody wickedness. A shudder ran down Makarenko’s spine at the thought of the abject terror of that close-quarter fight. His inner voice spoke to him in respect of men long dead. ‘Govno! How those Germans had fought, even when defeated and doomed to die.’ His mind wandered to the calibre of the men with him, similarly doomed, and then to the unknown nature of the men they would face this night.

He checked his watch, intimately familiar with the timings of the whole Zilant operation, mentally checking off another milestone, as his group should now be on the final run to target. Given the difficult nature of the terrain on approach, Zilant-4 was designed to arrive before the others, to allow time to get into position for a simultaneous attack by all four Zilant groups.

The vodka bottle arrived back with him, an expensive purchase obtained during one of his recent visits to the capital, and one he shared with his men quite easily. With a smile, a raised eyebrow, and a raised bottle, he put the glass top to his lips and swallowed some of the smooth quality vodka. Re-stoppering the third-full bottle, he passed it to the air force crew chief, shouting over the drone of the engines.

“For you and the pilots, as thanks for the ride Comrade Sergeant.”

“Thank you Comrade General,” and no sooner had the words come from his lips than the bulkhead red light illuminated, drawing every single pair of eyes in the aircraft.

“I wish you luck sir,” said the Sergeant, who stiffly saluted and issued the orders that set in motion preparations for jumping.

As in all paratrooper arms, checking belts and buckles was all-important, and the troopers, now standing, went over the arrangements of the men in front and behind.

Parachutes secure. Weapons secure. Kit secure. Hooked up.

The Air Force Sergeant opened the door and all felt the chill of the high-speed air that rushed in.

With a last check to make sure the magazine of his PPSH was firmly in place, Makarenko moved forward to the door and gripped the vertical rails that he would use to throw himself out into the night.

One of his Majors had jokingly asked for a transfer to the Navy the previous evening, and right now that seemed like an excellent alternative.

With no more thought than to understand the meaning of the forceful pat on his back and the now green light in the corner of his eye, Makarenko launched himself into the night sky over Alsace.

0420 hrs Monday, 6th August 1945, Zilant #4 Group, Saint-Hippolyte drop zone, French Alsace.

Ideally, he would have liked to put his forces down on the more level and easier ground to the south of Orschwiller but the distance was too great. Too much chance of the alarm being raised.

Therefore, the drop zone was located to the north-west of Saint-Hippolyte, in an area that was reasonably free of jutting stones and mature trees but none the less angled and dangerous. Makarenko had little doubt that many of his young troopers would die in the jump.

Overall, four hundred and ninety-three Russian paratroopers were targeted against the Château, which number had been reduced by the loss of the battalion commander and two further losses as aircraft aborted through malfunction.

Four hundred and forty-one jumped from their aircraft over France and all made it to the ground, although twenty-seven would never rise again and another forty-six sustained injuries that took them out of the fight.

The dead and injured were mainly gathered together on roughly the four hundred metre height line, near le Luttenbach, a small stream that ran from the heights towards Hippolyte, just west of a small road that led in the direction of the Château.