Rostock

By Edmund Kingham

Rostock, the last remaining industrial city left in Germany, is now under siege as the Allies and the rapidly advancing Soviet Red Army move in for the kill. The last stronghold of Germany's war machine is facing total destruction as both British and Russian forces race to capture the city. Its strategic position on the northern coast of Germany's mainland allows access to the Baltic Sea, which in turn, if captured, will give complete control and dominance of the region, but unknown to the advancing Armies at this time is a lone wolf pilot who is determined to stop them. He is a highly trained and skilled warrior in aerial combat and is sworn to never surrender to the enemy closing in all around him. Unable to locate his position, he is able to freely attack enemy positions and cause untold damage and chaos to any air raids on defenseless German citizens as they flee for their lives. Against his better judgment, he leaves the safety of his mountain hideout and ventures deeper into the countryside to the east to determine what his fate will be. He soon learns of the horrors being committed against his people and is shocked by what he witnesses. After returning to base, he begins to formulate a plan so secretive that only "German high command" is aware of its existence, but in a strange turn of events and hell-bent on revenge, he becomes blinded by the sinister plot that Berlin wants executed against Stalin and the Russian people-a scheme so diabolical that only the wicked can comprehend!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781644689950

Book preview

Chapter 1

Raubvogel (The Raptor)

I could very easily end this war right now if I wanted to, for I have in my possession ‘pure death!’ Concrete and steel will not stop it. Buildings can be rebuilt, and the earth can be resoiled, but all over Europe mankind will suffer if I unleash this deadly weapon. What should I do? What must I do? How does one justify the foulness of their actions? How can one man knowingly and willingly perform such hellish acts of destruction and yet still control the destiny of Germany?

I harbored these thoughts for many hours as I stared across the cold Baltic Sea, waiting for the Allies to bomb us again. I was a German pilot, a Stuka Ace with many kills sent from the front, holding on to the bitter end. I vowed never surrender to the enemy under any circumstances. Berlin had abandoned the war, but I was far from finished.

I had experienced years of war, and I had the skill to take out any allied bombers flying over the city of Rostock or any armed forces that came too close to our northern coastline. Rostock was the only industrial city left in Germany and was vital to our campaign. It was only sheer luck that it had not been destroyed, but it was just a matter of time.

The Allies had come close several times, almost taking out the Sea Wall which would have blocked the harbor entrance to the Baltic. If they had been successful, we would have been trapped, cut off from escaping the inevitable end that was coming. I did not fear dying in combat, but I made promises to Andras, a Hungarian farmer forced into fighting for the Soviet Red Army who had managed to escape and defect, and Eric, an engineer from Sweden, secretly working for us.

Eric was no ordinary engineer. He came from Stockholm and was highly trained in building structural and subterranean foundations deep underground. He worked for years in Rostock on advanced weaponry. This made him a target for capture, but I was never going to allow that to happen. If I could not get him out of Germany alive, then I was to shoot him myself—orders from the Third Reich.

They’re coming, Andras shouted. Same formation as before.

How many this time? I shouted back.

I can’t tell, too many clouds.

There’s never too many clouds, Andras, you cannot bomb what you cannot see!

The Allies were now flying daily bombing missions, and there was nothing we could do to stop them. The Royal Air Force had successfully crippled our Luftwaffe and were now flying almost unchallenged as they joined the American long range bombers targeting whatever was left of our industries. When I heard from all reports that Hamburg had suffered tremendous damage to its infrastructure, I knew it was just a matter of time before Rostock would meet the same fate.

Hamburg was only two hours away to the west, and I saw it with my very own eyes as I flew on one of my missions the infliction that was set upon the city. I saw many buildings on fire ravaged by incendiary devices that were being dropped from enemy planes. Such a cruel and dirty trick, I thought.

Allied bombers were only flying at night when I first encountered them. They were too slow in the air from all the heavy loads they carried and feared being targeted in the daylight, so I took full advantage of that fact as I used the darkness for cover and easily shot them down one by one. So many kills that I actually can’t remember the count.

As I expected they would, the Allies added fighter planes in an attempt to protect the bombers, then switched tactics by adding daytime raids. It was very effective against us, but I could not risk open combat in broad daylight. For me to inflict as much damage as I could, I had to fly at night to remain in stealth. My plane was the only one left in Rostock, and I was quite possibly the only Stuka fighter left in all of Northern Command still engaging this enemy. For me, personally, it was a sobering thought: I was alone up there.

I kept the plane hidden from the air in a secret location cleverly built by Eric. Not even the locals in town knew it was there. I also removed all markings and identifying numbers on the plane’s wings and body. Andras camouflaged it by painting it black—a crafty technique that we used to avoid detection. After all, I was prepared to continue on fighting, but the last thing I wanted was to get myself shot down by the RAF and then captured. I simply reserved no honor at all in being a prisoner of War.

Come, sit, let’s have a Brandy together.

Dare I ask where you stole that from? Eric chuckled.

I am a high-ranking Luftwaffe officer. Who do you think I stole it from?

Eric and Andras began laughing, and I managed a brief smile. Years of war had dampened my humor, but through it all I remained civil—civil enough to share a brandy or two. I had developed a strong relationship with these two men. They were loyal, and I trusted them as I hoped they had trusted me when I told them I would get them out safely.

Eric was here long before I arrived, overseeing the complex and making sure everything was built to specific requirements. I knew about the bunkers down below that were storing the ammunition and fuel, but only Eric knew the true capacity of what lay hidden down there.

Unlike Eric, the story of Andras is not so secretive, in fact the opposite. At one point during the war, the Hungarian army was fighting bravely alongside us. Unfortunately for the Huns, they were swiftly defeated and suffered brutality from the Reds. A Siberian death march or die fighting—that was his only choice!

Both of these men have a history, as do I, and one night over brandy, I will hear their stories and they will learn of mine, but not tonight. The enemy is getting closer, and I have work to do.

Andras, am I fueled and ready to go?

Yes.

Help Eric open the doors.

The only road in and out of the complex was perfectly straight and flat but was not a true road in the sense that the materials used were not concrete based. Wehrmacht (army) engineers had designed the road surface made entirely of crushed pebbled stones that were raked across sand dredged from the sea. A heated clear liquid was then poured over the stones allowing the road to expand and contract.

Engineers discovered that the natural green color of these stones blended in perfectly with the surrounding fields making the road almost

Impossible to spot from above. I must admit that I was impressed the first time that I saw it, but it was not new German technology. The "Romans’ had beaten us to the punch long before we built our Autobahns.

The two iron doors that Andras and Eric were opening could only be opened manually because electrifying them posed an obvious security risk. If saboteurs were able to bypass the magnetic locks, then there would be nothing to stop them from entering and setting off detonations. So the doors were designed to be heavily reinforced and physically bolted from inside the complex to eliminate that problem.

Six inches of armor plating made the doors very heavy and bombproof, which made them extremely difficult to breach, but they were also hinged perfectly and could easily be swung open to allow my plane to exit.

I fired the engine and began checking for any problems. Every time I flew, I was fully aware that once I left the safety of this hideout I was on my own. I was fully aware that my Stuka JU87 was not the fastest plane in the skies, but I modified it and improved its abilities by removing the excess weight.

I removed all of the heavy protective casing around the wheels and the landing gear, dismantled all the bombs, and then replaced them with two high-powered machine guns. I also dismantled the air sirens on the wings that were supposed to create psychological terror when we dive bombed our targets but in reality was so horribly deafening to our own pilots that the screaming sound they emitted became unbearable at times.

This action that I took lightened the weight of the plane by at least a thousand pounds, making me faster and more elusive in air to air combat. A valuable advantage, to say the least!

As I was exiting the complex, I gave Andras the thumbs-up and prepared myself for war sporting a stern look on my face until I saw Eric holding up my bottle of Brandy in the air and toasting himself.

Just in case, he shouted.

You’d better not drink all of that without me, I shouted back.

After take-off, I flew out across the Baltic Sea and began climbing to five thousand feet and then to ten thousand. At first I encountered no enemy planes, but I could see a red glow way off in the distance spreading across the night sky. Suddenly, a squadron of Allied bombers appeared above me flying around fifteen thousand feet and heading south. I was not carrying bombs, so I knew I could reach them at that height and engage them head on.

The only major city to the south from Rostock was Berlin. That’s where they had to be heading. So I was now faced with a decision. Attack now and disrupt this raid or live for another day to defend Rostock. I noticed that there were no fighter planes present and observing that the bombers were completely unaccompanied made me realize that the Allies were flying so deep into German territory, fighter escorts protecting them could not keep up. The smaller fuel tanks restricted them from leaving the air bases on the French coast. This was obviously a major strategic blunder in my eyes. The Allies had advanced too far and too quick. This left their prized bombers vulnerable to a surprise attack.

I wasted no time exposing this mistake and took out several of their bombers as they desperately, and blindly, returned fire into the darkness.

Camouflaged in black paint, I went undetected the whole time as I ran amok on them. Even when my fuel gauge ran dangerously low, I just kept attacking and attacking relentlessly.

"Biz Zum Tod, Biz Zum Tod" (to the death).

War is war, and I felt no sympathy for those pilots as they burned. I’m not ashamed of it. I saw them only as the enemy, foreign invaders in my beloved fatherland, and I was determined to seek revenge against them for all of the destruction that I witnessed.

I was at eleven thousand feet when I started my descent and immediately began free gliding to conserve what little fuel I had left in the tank. Free gliding was a technique that all German pilots were trained to do—a lifesaving skill that was crucial for surviving engine failure.

As I drifted on the wind, I started visually checking for the lighthouse on the sea wall at the entrance to Rostock harbor. It was as old as the city itself, dating back to 1419 when the Danes and the Swedes built it. In those times, a huge fire would continually burn on the stone tower to light the way for Scandinavian ships at night. The German war council rebuilt it with hydroelectric turbines, the very same technology that powered our U-boats as they lay submerged in the rivers like sharks waiting to slip out to sea.

Way off into the distance, I could see the lighthouse and its beam stretching for miles across the open water, so I began focusing on all my instruments in the cockpit as I was trained to do. Longitude and latitude. If you don’t fully understand those principles, you will perish without them beware. Out here, the lay of the landscape can all look the same and the sea mirrors the sky.

At three hundred feet, I fired the old bird back up. The engine roared, spitting out fumes as I levelled out and began looking for the beacons to guide me. Andras had cleverly dug shallow holes every twenty feet along the side of our makeshift road and placed into the holes, small disused cans, basically anything that could hold gasoline. As I made my approach, I could easily see the lit fires, so I headed for the runway and prepared to land. As always, Andras was there to guide me down safely. He had learned of this trick from the Reds when he was stationed on the frozen tundra outside Kiev. Fires were lit in cans and placed on the snow to guide Red Army soldiers away from thin ice as they crossed with their heavy tanks and equipment over the lakes and rivers. When the Red Army was in short supply of