The firing stopped, and the Master Sergeant was veteran enough to understand that the sounds of only Russian weapons closing the action meant just one thing; Pritchard had been defeated and was probably running to the river.
“No time for subtlety, let’s roll!”
Performing hand signals for the benefit of the other vehicles, Hässler was thrown about as ‘Liberty’ leapt forward and picked up speed, the others falling in behind.
Near Diembot, all was confusion.
An ad hoc aid unit, formed of personnel from the 363rd Medical Battalion, was loading up wounded GI’s and German civilians, the sounds of nearby battle lending speed to their efforts.
Security was provided by a handful of green replacements that had been destined for the 263rd Engineers, but were now officially attached to the medical group as protective infantry.
Covering one route was Private Homer Laidlaw, who manned a .50cal M2 machine-gun and imagined himself holding back the whole Soviet army for weeks, mentally seeing the red hordes buckle under his fire. He was eighteen years old, nineteen on Thursday, as he had proudly informed the nurses in the aid post.
John Evans, his number two, was an equally beardless youth, who only smoked to make his voice lower. His eyes were sharper, and his hearing more acute, and it was he who shouted a warning, readying the belt of APIT rounds the pair had loaded into their fearsome weapon.
Coming from the direction of Werdeck, an armoured vehicle burst from the woods, driving hard and fast with no other purpose apparent than to ride down the two youths.
Laidlaw’s great-grand pappy had been honoured in the Union cause at Chickamauga, and the family never stopped talking about it.
Now was his chance.
The .50cal burst into life, tracers betraying his wayward fire. Showing a calm well in excess of his year, he walked the bursts into the vehicle, using the star as an aiming point and was rewarded with hits.
APITs, or Armour-Piercing Incendiary Tracer rounds, were designed for soft skinned and lightly armoured vehicles, and at the five hundred metre range at which they first engaged the vehicle, their penetration exceeded the armour thickness of the target.
The half-track slowed and wobbled, before ramming and riding up upon a tree stump, stopping abruptly, and sending one man flying forward to bounce on the unforgiving road.
The damaged form tried to rise, but Evans picked up his Garand. The beardless youth had spent much of his youth potting squirrels, so he found that putting a bullet into a large man was easy enough.
The two patted themselves on the shoulders until they saw three other vehicles rounding the bend.
They heard screams and believed they were coming from those left alive in the smoking vehicle. That was before Evans was propelled forwards into the earth by a body blow, as a US medical Lieutenant barrelled into him.
“What have you done? You stupid bastards! Oh fuck, you stupid bastards.”
Both boys looked at the red-faced officer, and at the target,
Where once there was an enemy vehicle, now stood an American half-track.
Where once there was a red star as a point of aim, now clearly visible was a muddy white star.
As both Laidlaw and Evans started to realise what they had done, the paint started to blister as the fuel ignited by the incendiaries spread through and under the vehicle, so they failed to see the name ‘Liberty’ slip like molten metal off her side.
The other halftracks caught up and started to deploy to attack the enemy force, before realising that a tragedy had occurred.
No further shots were exchanged, and men sprinted to get other men out of a rapidly spreading fire.
Evans remained head down on the ground, sobbing uselessly, never to take up a weapon again in his life.
Laidlaw took off with all the vigour and commitment of his years, and plunged into the burning halftrack.
He laid hands on one olive drab clad figure and pulled him clear, the medical Lieutenant taking the dead man and dropping him to one side. Both pushed back in to the flames and smoke, each returning with a bundle of torn and burnt flesh. The flames grew even higher and the Lieutenant went no more, kneeling to tend to the unconscious and bloody Rosenberg.
Laidlaw took a deep breath and threw himself into the vehicle, his flesh searing and blistering as his hands sought one more soul to save.
He grabbed at something and pulled. It remained stuck. He took a better hold and pulled backwards with all his strength, freeing the man, sliding at speed to the back of the halftrack until he fell out the rear door, bringing Randolph out on top of him.
It was fortunate that the young private was unconscious, otherwise the pain of being wrenched free of his crushed and burnt legs would have been too much to bear. His arms were deeply burned where they had lain in burning fuel but his torso and face showed only mild signs of the heat that had claimed everyone else in the vehicle.
More medical staff arrived and, although some recoiled from the horror before them, they worked the miracle and kept the grievously wounded man alive.
No one saw Laidlaw throw himself back into the halftrack, determined to save one more.
Perhaps, unfortunately, rather than going on his gut instinct, the medical Lieutenant, Acting Captain Thomas Goulding, discussed the matter with his Commanding officer at the first opportunity, and received clear guidance not to make any recommendations on the matter, as the boy’s conduct, brave as it clearly had been, was obviously done out of grief and atonement rather than raw courage.
“And that’s an order, Goulding”
The medical unit departed the area before the halftrack had burned out, and it was left to a Soviet artillery unit to pause long enough to remove the human detritus from the wreck and slip it all into a shallow grave.
Only three men were saved from ‘Liberty’.
Randolph would never have survived his terrible injuries without the instant medical intervention of Goulding and his medics. The hideously injured young man was removed to a waiting ambulance where another team set to work.
Evans had shot sure and the bullet had struck Hässler in the shoulder as he started to rise, snapping his collar bone and adding to the multiple fractures sustained when his body bounced on the road. His journey from the spot where he lay on the road to the ambulance that arrived to spirit him away, was eased by numerous splints and more morphine.
Rosenberg had been propelled towards the front of the vehicle when it struck the tree trunk, his face smashing into the flat edge of Randolph’s machine-gun cupola, removing teeth and crushing bone. His unconscious body had started to suffer burns, until he was pulled clear by Goulding.
Stabilised quickly, he was loaded into the same vehicle as his friend, and both left the field, heading for the comparative safety of the new American lines.
Fox Company had ceased to exist.
The 49th Guards Rifle Regiment slipped through the positions held by the exhausted and bloodied soldiers of the 360th Rifle Division, and headed south to Rotenburg.
A force from 2nd Guards Tank Corps had displaced the defenders of Scheeßel, and the 11th Guards Army Commander, Nikitovich, wanted Rotenburg quickly, in order to trap whatever units the enemy had to the east. A southern approach would be made by forces of the newly-arrived second wave formation, the 4th Tank Army. Its 22nd Tank Corps was sending a force northwards to pinch out Rotenburg, closing the jaws on the enemy troops to the east.
Time was of the essence, and the Corps Commander ordered the 49th to Rotenburg by the most direct route.