Operation Hot Gates

OPERATION HOT GATES

A Jagdpanther’s Last Stand

By Frank Keith

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Keith

All rights reserved

The contents of this work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any way or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

Table of Contents

PRELUDE

FLOTSAM AND JETSAM

SCHADENFREUDE

GATES OF THE MOUNTAINS

ENTER THE ENEMY

SUPERHEATED STEEL

VAE VICTIS

Other books & services by Frank Keith

PRELUDE

There have been uncountable episodes in military history were rearguards, made up of merely a handful of brave and determined men, staved off superior enemy forces. The stories of most of them were soon forgotten, having been too small and insignificant to be noted in thick history books. But for the men who took part in them, these actions were momentous. They knew what likely fate awaited them. These measures were by their very nature typically desperate ones, and their outcome had almost always meant inevitable annihilation. But their love of their land, families and their camaraderie too, gave them the needed strength and determination to help them overcome their fear of the predictable fate: Death. Will the difficult operation described within these pages follow the same pattern?

FLOTSAM AND JETSAM

"They’ve been rumbling along this old dirt road for hours. Always following the wake of vehicles ahead of them and trailed by others behind. It was a mundane job … a job that’s become a habit of late. They are a part of a beaten army group. Not long ago it was smashed by an enemy force ten times more powerful. Like shards from a broken glass, the splintered surviving rest of the army were scattered everywhere.

The fragment that this story tells about is a column of several dozen vehicles. They had survived the meat grinder of battles and were now trying to make their escape. They range from motorcycles to trucks to heavy tanks. While these tired men and worn machines were being hounded by a relentless enemy, they in turn were chasing after a thin hope … a hope of bare naked survival. It’s lying somewhere ahead, they know, somewhere far ahead. They moved onward, driven by the desire to get there … to get home … and to an uncertain future.

How’s that? Alban asked his comrades.

The answers he heard through the headset were a few unenthusiastic grumbles. Alban sat there and studied his script while he waited for his comrades’ opinions. He knew they needed time to digest what he wrote. It was always like that.

Alban didn’t realize in what strange ways his words had affected the other men … that those few words caused his comrades to sink into deep thoughts. They really didn’t like being reminded in what a miserable predicament they were in. The truth bothered them. They were indeed a part of a beaten army. They were indeed a few of the lucky shards to escape the enemy’s grasp. The situation for them and the rest of this military column was indeed a desperate one, despite having survived and gotten away. And they also know that the kid, their youngest crew member, could be strung up by his neck in the nearest tree if the wrong person sees his manuscript. They’ve told him this on several occasions. But Alban didn’t heed the warnings.

Karl was the first to utter an opinion. Just don’t let the wrong ears hear those words, Alban, that could put your neck into a noose.

Yeah, Heinrich chimed it. Certain guys don’t like hearing anything about defeat. You ought to know that by now.

Then Ralf spoke up. You said, ‘rumbling along this old dirt road for hours’ and earlier you said ‘a few days ago’. You ought to work on those parts; they are confusing. Otherwise it doesn’t sound bad.

Alban was a little upset. "You guys are always so … negative! Except for you, Ralf. Thanks. I didn’t catch that."

The intercom remained silent after that. Only the steady roar of the heavy motor thundered throughout the vehicle. Although no one admitted it, everyone kept thinking about Alban’s words. They happened to be words meant for Alban’s new book. Actually, it’d be his first book.

Alban loved to write. He was always writing something. Alban wanted to become an author … when this shit is over, he told his fellow crewmen maybe a dozen times. His rucksack contains more booklets and papers than military gear, or so it seemed. He had started a half a dozen books since he joined the crew three months ago. None are finished. They’re the basis for real books, he told them the other day, when they made fun of his writing that never ends. Of course they don’t really mean it in a degrading way. It’s just the usual playful infighting between men who are actually good comrades.

Alban’s newest book is about their retreat. He started it today; three days after the Red Army broke up their defensive lines. The others asked him who in their right mind would want to read something like that. People want to read about victories, they told him, not defeat.

Alban’s answer was, You guys have no inkling about literature. Look at Poe.

Poe? Karl asked with a twisted expression. Do you mean the River Po?

Alban sighed. Where did you guys go to school at, huh? Some of them smirked, the others looked bored. Edgar Allen Poe, Alban said, sounding like a frustrated teacher. He was an American writer and critic.

An American? Karl asked. Alban, you better watch it, if the wrong ears catch wind of your—.

Don’t worry about my neck all the time, Karl! Alban heard Karl’s warnings a hundred times already. Karl was always concerned about his neck. Alban is not a very good Nazi, his comrades know. As a matter of fact, he hated them. They became his personal enemy ever since they made a celebration out of burning books. To Alban this deed was a horrible crime. To him, Nazis were buffoons and idiots.

What about this Poe? Ralf asked. Actually, he had been bored with this subject, but Alban stimulated his curiosity with this American author.

Poe lived in the eighteen hundreds. He wrote dark and mysterious works—.

Dark … that’s our situation all right, Karl threw in, but not mysterious. We know what brought us here and what’s after us.

The others laughed.

The conversation died down after a while and then only the engine uttered its grumblings. Alban scribbled a few corrections on his sloppy manuscript. Writing in a tank was no easy task. This piece of paper could indeed be viewed as a rough draft. He asked the commander what their location was. The tank commander said that he thought they were either somewhere in eastern Czechoslovakia … or in southern Poland. He wasn’t sure. Did it even matter anymore?

A bad part of the road shook the vehicle and jerked Alban’s pencil across the page. With a sigh, he realized that it was futile to continue writing anymore. He put away his paper and pencil and then peered through the machinegun sight. The headphones on his head remained silent.

It would soon be daylight; a time to get off the road and into the forest to hide. It had quickly become a ritual for them; travel by night and hide during the day. The dangers the men faced weren’t only from an enemy chasing after them by land, but from above too … in the air. How long ago had it been since German planes swept through the skies? Too long ago. When they heard engines from above, it was usually from enemy airplanes. For a long time it had been Soviet planes, but yesterday they spotted their first American planes. Yes, Germany was being squeezed together from all sides, Alban thought bitterly. Karl was right the other day when he said that it was no mystery which buffoons got them in this mess. Karl’s words were a catalyst for a new subject matter that Alban could write about. Alban would write about politicians and their screwy politics … how they start wars and caused misery yet were the ones far away from it. Even though Alban was still quite young, he knew that it’s always the little guys who must stand in the mud, to go hungry, to fight and to die. Always!

The radio suddenly squawked. It brought Alban back into reality. The scratchy voice in his headphones announced; To all units, get off the road and camouflage for the day! You know the procedures, men. Over and out.

Herr Leutnant, we’re to get off the road, Alban told the commander, Lieutenant Richard Keller.

Keller peered through the periscope for a few moments. Karl, he said to the driver through the intercom. Pull over into that gap of trees to the left, fifty meters ahead!

Yes sir.

One by one, the vehicles in the convoy disappeared into the forest. Some went to the left and others to the right. An almost ghostly silence ensued in the forest after the last engine was shut down. Early birds were singing their songs. Now, it was only their high-toned peeps that were echoing through the trees. But not for long.

Moments later, a hasty activity broke out between the tall stand of evergreen trees. Commands were given, utterances exchanged, curses cursed and even a chuckle could be heard here and there. Men everywhere started chopping and sawing branches and small trees, adding them to those already stuck and tied to the wildly mixed conglomerate of vehicles. There were trucks, tanks, Kübelwagen, Sturmgeschütz and half-tracks. The sounds of Jerry cans being handled now mixed with the other noises. Many a vehicle was being filled up with the very precious liquid.

They must be finished with their efforts before the allied air forces appear. They usually arrive quite early in the morning and came in waves, lasting throughout the daylight hours. Roads,