The French were using an old Hotchkiss M1914 machine, unusually equipped with the 250 round belt, and the young Frenchman using it had no compunction about firing off every round, the shock of the Katyusha strike wearing off with the pleasure of retaliation.
One more man was injured in the hailstorm and all vehicles made it back into the woods.
Skotolsky, conscious of the passage of something unspeakable down his face, snatched up the microphone and called in a report.
By the time the unhinged de facto commander of the 3rd Battalion had finished, those listening believed that half the Allied Army was fortified within the confines of Hurlach.
The 76th’s Katyushas, already lined up for the next strike, were retasked, and let loose again on the small German village.
186th Tanks were redirected to take advantage of the west approach, intent on hooking up through Schwabmühlhausen and round the west flank of the Hurlach defences. More elements of the 11th were to accompany them as infantry support.
Unfortunately for Semenchenko, the new Commander of 10th Tanks, he received a call from Colonel General Poluboiarov, who had recently taken over from the terminally-ill Volsky.
The man was impatient for news of success and, on being informed of the hold-up, ordered instant action, regardless of losses.
Perturbed, the normally calm Semenchenko quickly considered the options and made contact with the commander of the 44th Engineer Special Company.
Orders given and acknowledged, he moved on to Skotolsky, pinning him in place until the 44th had arrived and then ordering him to support closely.
In the short period of time he had been commander of the 10th, he had not been able to acquaint himself with all his unit leader’s, so was unaware that Skotolsky was not the normal commander, otherwise he might have acted differently, especially as the 11th’s commander was close at hand in Landsberg.
But he didn’t, so he left the battle in the hands of an inexperienced engineer Captain, and an incompetent, panic-stricken wreck of a Major.
Mercier listened attentively as an NCO reported on the Soviet forces, although the evidence was in front of his eyes.
They had stopped, and more than that, had stopped in a fixed position.
Such things are the recipe of disaster.
He beckoned his radio operator forward, detailing the unit he wanted to contact.
There was no reply.
“Merde! Try another.”
The operator consulted the frequencies, altered to suit, and again transmitted.
Nothing.
A third try and the set chirped into life as an Oriental accent acknowledged the cry for help.
“Tell him to stand by,” shouted Mercier, fumbling with his map.
He wrote down the map reference details and the coordinates and relieved the operator of the handset.
“Roger that, Emile Two-Four-Alpha. Shot on the way.”
Lieutenant Mercier had no idea what the 552nd was equipped with, but judging by the ranging shell that arrived and ploughed into the woods, it was very large and very deadly.
“Raleigh Two-Six, fire for effect, repeat, fire for effect.”
Ten OT-34/85’s of the Special Tank Company, 44th [Motorised] Engineer Brigade leapt into view, driving hard in column until they cleared the edge of the woods, then shaking into line.
The young Captain in charge went by the book, organising his tanks as if back in Officers School.
An experienced officer would have contacted the infantry, ensuring they were advancing with him but he was carried away by the moment.
An experienced officer would have spotted that the infantry were rooted to the spot and halted his advance, diving for cover as quickly as possible.
An experienced officer might well have destroyed his command in the doing, as the 155mm and 8” Howitzers of the American battalion placed their heavy shells right on the money, wrecking tree and vehicle in equal measure, transforming the former into lethal splinters that decimated the motorised troopers and converting the latter into funeral pyres for their occupants.
Men died ten times over, tossed and smashed by the heavy barrage, buried alive or driven mad by the relentless assault. The US artillery strike coincided with another salvo by the Katyushas falling full sqaure on the French positions.
FFI soldiers who had risen to enjoy the view of the artillery, succumbed in large numbers as the rockets crashed down.
The radio operator and his equipment became victims immediately, and Mercier could no longer speak to the American artillerymen miles to the rear.
This was unfortunate, as the Soviet armour approached his position in a steady line.
Had he fought the T-34 before then he may have noticed the difference, but he hadn’t, so the surprise was as complete as the horror they brought to the battle.
OT-34’s were modified for Engineer use, the hull machine gun removed and an improved ATO42 flamethrower installed, which flamethrowers now started to spit fire at the French positions.
It was too much.
Some ran, some stood and stared, some surrendered, and some died in the most horrible way.
Two American engineers lurked with explosive charges, waiting for a moment to dash out and destroy a tank. Two ATO’s found them and transformed them into living torches, thrashing blindly in the ruins until they were dispatched by a sympathetic burst from their corporal’s grease gun.
Skotolsky’s unit had started to move by themselves, a handful of vehicles and men moving out of the artillery death trap to close on the relative safety of the village.
Crying like a child, the Soviet Major was curled up in the back of his M3 Scout car, the driver having moved forward of his own volition, in search of safety, and to hell with the idiot in the back.
The young Corporal, sat opposite Skotolsky, spat in contempt. The only other conscious survivor in the vehicle, he shouted at his officer, cursing, swearing, trying to stop the man’s shocked babbling.
Making the road, the M3 ground forward, all four tyres punctured and coming apart, finally surrendering to the inevitable as the vehicle ground to a halt close by the first fiery barricade.
Too close as it happened. Paint started to bubble immediately and petrol from a holed fuel container set fire to the nearside front.
The Corporal grabbed his PPS and screamed at his Major, pointing at the growing fire.
Skotolsky saw the flames and reacted, throwing himself theatrically over the side and landing face first.
The shock of the fall, and of the facial impact, seemed to calm him, and he rose shakily to his feet.
Bleeding from both nostrils, he drew his Tokarev automatic and staggered into the village.
The 44th’s flame-throwing tanks had set fire to over half the buildings, and acrid smoke filled the air, stinging eyes and torturing lungs.
French resistance was broken.
Survivors from the motorised infantry had closed up and had started herding the French survivors into a small field, west of Meitinger Straβe.
The Major saw two of his men supporting a French soldier, the man’s foot blown off at the ankle, carrying him to the collection area.
The Tokarev fired and the prisoner dropped lifelessly away from the shocked men’s grasp.
“No fucking prisoners! No fucking prisoners!”
He continued repeating the order as he staggered unsteadily up the street, shooting an already dead body he passed on the junction with BahnhofStraβe.
By the time he got to the small field he needed to reload, having shot another live prisoner and wasted bullets on four dead bodies.
Twenty-one battered and dazed prisoners were sprawled in the field, some being tended to by medical orderlies from both sides.