Artillery fire was being mainly directed at the enemy forces opposite Everstorfermoor, and Lascelles was loathe to switch it to support ‘B’ Company until the Oste bridge was blown.
He rolled the unlit Cuban cigar between his fingers rapidly, a sure sign to his staff that all was not well.
Lascelles, not raising his eyes from the map, spoke to no-one in particular.
“Get on the line to Charteris and tell him to get that flaming bridge blown!”
The radio burst into life immediately as the operator requested acknowledgement from the engineer platoon.
“Sunray, Sunray, Forest-two-six receiving.”
Nothing but static returned.
The operator repeated the message, with the same result.
“Keep trying Barrington. Kevin.”
Lieutenant Barrington turned back in to his operator and placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder as Acting Major Kevin Roberts, temporary OC of ‘D’ Company, stepped forward.
Making sure that the reliable Roberts was paying attention, Lascelles pointed at Everstorfermoor.
“Grab the RSM and his merry men. Get over to here and get it sorted please Kevin.”
The pristinely turned out young officer saluted as if on a parade ground.
“Sah!”
Lascelles found the moment of humour lightened his feeling, which was the Major’s intention, for Roberts was no parade ground warrior. Immaculate he may be but his chest showed that he was a fighting soldier, sporting the DSO and MC, won in hard fighting on Sicily and in Europe.
The moment of humour passed as the radio burst into life.
“Forest-two-six to Sunray, come in.”
“Sunray, go ahead Forest.”
“Lieutenant Charteris dead. Sergeant Parks dead. Under enemy sniper fire. Charges not complete. Need support. Over.”
Every face in the room swivelled to Lascelles.
“Who is that?”
The operator made the request for information.
“Forest-two-six to Sunray. Corporal Harris, over.”
“Tell him help is on its way, Barrington. Tell him the bridge must come down. It must come down.”
The message was sent.
“Acknowledge Forest-two-six, acknowledge.”
A few moments of static, then nothing.
“Acknowledge Forest-two-six, acknowledge.”
Silence.
Corporal Harris knew very little except that the pain was extreme. The bullet had taken him in the upper chest as he raised his head over the sandbags, the heavy impact throwing him backwards. Unfortunately for him, he now lay on top of Parks, his platoon sergeant, the extra height raising him subtly above the cover line provided by the sandbagged firing position. Another bullet thudded into his left side, but there was little pain of note, a strange coldness and numbness being the worst of it.
His head lolled over to the left side and he could see no enemy the other side of the river. The body of Charteris lay strangely posed, knees on the ground, backside in the air and what was left of his face flat to the road surface, the corpse almost perfectly reflecting an Arab at prayer. By the Lieutenant’s side lay the firing cables he had been trying to mend when he had been shot.
All around him lay two dozen still forms from the engineer platoon and the German Kommando, men who had tried their best and died.
The radio continued to call him but he was past caring.
‘Cold, so cold.’
Starshy Serzhant Olga Maleeva was also cold, but her coldness was within her mind. So far, her spotter tallied her at nineteen confirmed kills for the day, and it was extremely satisfying. The British deserved it of course, but she felt more joy when a German died, enjoying the vision thru her PU scope.
Sergei stirred her to greater efforts.
“He’s still alive. You’re slipping, sweetheart.”
That would have earned him a playful blow, and might still do later, but concealed as they were, it would not pay to make quick movements and attract the enemy’s gaze.
Admitting to herself that she had hurried the last shot, Olga took more care, ignoring Sergei’s jibe.
The sights settled on the face of a man in pain but she felt no sympathy for the wounded corporal.
Steadying herself on target, she released her breath slowly and pulled the trigger at the optimum moment.
The instantly ruined head jerked, Maleeva grunted in satisfaction, and Sergei searched for other targets.
The leader of Kommando Bucholz watched as the man he had summoned dashed in an ungainly fashion across the open space between buildings and fell headlong into the old Gasthaus on the edge of Everstorfermoor.
He moved to the top of the stairs and looked down upon the panting figure.
Never a man to beat about the bush, the impatient ex-Captain of Armoured-Infantry hollered at the man who had just dived into his position in response to his Kommandoführer’s urgent summons.
“Erwin, get up here, first floor, and bring your secret weapon!”
Despite his disability, the new arrival took the stairs two at a time and formally presented himself, saluting at the attention, resplendent in his German army uniform.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann. What can I do for the Herr Hauptmann this evening?”
Choosing to ignore his old friend’s mock formality and the huge grin on Schultz’s face, he pointed the man towards the rocking chair in the corner of the room. Once Schultz was seated, he spoke quickly but softly.
“The pioniere’s have had a hard time of it. We spotted two of the sniper’s, and they’re dead, but it cost us too.”
Schultz had noticed the five bodies placed reverently outside, at the rear of the old gasthaus.
“So you need Irma and me to sort the problem out?”
Balancing on his good leg, Müller kicked a broken stirrup pump that lay amongst the rubble on the bedroom floor.
“Indeed I do, Feldwebel Schultz, but only if you are up to it obviously.”
“Depends if you are going to play the damned hero part whilst I work, Herr Hauptmann.”
Nearby members of Kommando Bucholz were unsurprised by the exchange, for the two were old comrades, members of the ‘Grossdeutschland’ from its early days until they were both seriously wounded during the Battle of Michurin-Rog. Each had lost a leg in the action, Hauptmann Müller in the act of destroying two tanks that threatened to overrun his company headquarters, and Feldwebel Schultz in reflecting the same achievement, and also in rescuing his wounded officer, whose leg had been blown off by a mortar shell. However, Schultz had also used an MG34, Müller’s Walther, and a bag of hand grenades to drive off the Russian infantry company accompanying the four tanks, leaving over forty dead as they retired from the field.
Equipped with prosthetic limbs, neither had been fit to return to active duties and had trained replacements until dismissed from service in late April to return to their homes.
Both men wore their field uniforms, each man’s decorations mirroring the other’s, save for the Knights Cross dangling lazily at the throat of the junior man, courtesy of the senior’s recommendation for his actions at Michurin Rog that bloody day.
“There is no cure for throat ache now, Herr Hauptmann, so keep your head down and pull whatever stunt you have to pull.”