The group synchronised watches on command.
“We go at 1930 hrs. OK, let’s break it up and get the job done. Good luck.”
Not unexpectedly, Gosling beat everyone out of the lean-to, sprinting away at top speed, anxious to find out what his men were engaging.
Crisp fell in beside Timmins and clapped the Easy commander on the shoulder.
“No problems, JJ?”
To the younger man’s credit, he spoke his mind.
“Just hoping I’m up to the job, Major, that’s all.”
Crisp’s face split into a grin that had charmed and relaxed many a man over the years.
“If I didn’t think you could handle the detail you wouldn’t have it. Now, get ‘Easy’ on the move and take that goddamn farm.”
Crisp received the report of the Soviet attack with mixed feelings. The experienced Lieutenant making the report was a solid trooper, and his view was that it was already fading out.
The loss of Gosling was keenly felt, shrapnel cutting him down as he arrived in Fox Company lines. A medic had saved him from bleeding out, and the Captain was already installed in one of the half-tracks, ready to be evacuated.
Soviet mortars continued to drop their shells on the town, but the infantry attack had petered out almost as soon as it had started.
Crisp wondered why that was but thanked God for the reprieve in any case.
Quickly checking that the new commander of Fox Company was up to speed on orders, he decided to move off to join Easy in their attack on the farm, spurred by the sudden firing coming from that direction.
Easy Company had taken casualties and was now stalled one hundred metres short of its objective.
Three outbuildings had been cleared with sub-machine guns and grenades, particular attention being paid to the Soviet DP gunners that had exacted a high price from the assault platoon. Each of them received additional confirmation of death from the bayonets of those nearby, mainly in retribution for the killing of two highly regarded NCO’s.
Major Crisp and his party moved up the line of a small stream, using the banks as cover where possible.
The Soviet infantry holding the farm started lobbing rifle grenades in their direction, and not without success, as a yelp from one of his signaller’s revealed. The man hobbled on, his hand slapped hard to a bloodied hip.
In the cover of a small stand of trees, he found Timmins being bandaged by a medic.
“Why have you stopped?” the absence of Crisp’s normal friendliness not wasted on anyone present.
“Sir, Sergeant Hawkes is organising some troopers with the Russian machine guns to give us a base of fire. We have no support from the 370th yet, so I figured we are going to get only one bite so we would do it right, Sir.”
The unhurried calmness of the reply immediately removed Crisp’s concern.
“Fair enough, JJ, but we have got to move it soon. How’s his head?”
The medic spoke without stopping his work.
“Bleeds a lot, and the Lootenant will have a powerful headache come sun up, but he’ll live, Sir.”
Timmins smiled at his CO.
“Guess that reinforces the theory that I’m a meathead then.”
“Dirty that bandage up some before you stick your turnip up JJ. Ivan will see you coming a mile off.”
Another rifle grenade dropped nearby, shrapnel fizzing through the tree above them and dropping a smattering of twigs and leaves on Timmins and the medic.
“Right, let’s get this show on the road. Take me to Hawkes so we can coordinate.”
A short run across open but sheltered ground brought the group to the south-westernmost building, wherein Hawkes had placed the two captured DP’s, with crews and a security squad.
The Sergeant was in animated discussion with the 2nd Lieutenant commanding the point platoon.
The one-sided discussion ended with the appearance of the unit CO.
As per the habit of a combat veteran, Hawkes saluted neither officer.
“Sir, we’re set up and ready to go. The stream is good for cover up to the track and beyond. We can use it to get within about thirty yards if I’m right. At least a coupla squads, Sir.”
Easy Company’s second platoon had previously been posted in ‘Goodnight’ and Hawkes had confirmed the geography with them.
“Good work, Hawkes,” the wounded officer pulled his map out and knelt beside the Sergeant.
The two others also took a knee.
“I will drop some mortars on them…here,” he looked at both men for agreement, which was immediately forthcoming.
“King Company can bring some fire on the farm. They should be up by now.”
Timmins thought for a second.
“Last minute, the mortars stick down some smoke across the frontage here, the squads in the stream put in a flank attack. Once the Russians are confused we go straight up through the smoke and in the front of the farm.”
He got no argument from either man. As swift plans went it was as good as any.
“Get King Company on the horn.”
Crisp watched the reinvigorated officer go about his business, the confidence flooding back despite the nasty head wound he had suffered.
A work party had finished policing up ammo and grenades from the dead and wounded and were distributing their spoils amongst the living.
2nd Battalion’s Commander helped himself to a pair of frags and spent a moment rechecking his Thompson.
Easy Company prepared to advance again.
On the mark, the high-explosive changed to smoke and the farmhouse became a hazy shape before disappearing completely, the lack of any wind helping the plan.
Fire from both King Company and the captured DP’s stopped in an instant.
The squads of Second platoon rose from the stream bed and rushed the edge of the ‘Goodnight’ buildings, preceded by a swarm of grenades.
They caught the Soviets looking the wrong way.
Bullets ripped into vulnerable Soviet flesh, as the mechanised infantrymen suddenly found themselves without appropriate cover.
Shouts of alarm focussed the defenders on the new perils and a volley of ill-aimed shots hit flesh before Second Platoon had found cover.
None the less, find cover they did, although there was an immediate territorial dispute as a group fell on top of a Maxim machine-gun team concealed behind a destroyed wall, silently waiting their chance to spring a surprise on the Amerikanski.
One of the Russians got off a pistol shot before all six were taken down by carbines and Garands at close range.
Hawkes reloaded his Garand, looking around but failing to locate the platoon commander.
A grenade landed next to two troopers whose sole intent was to keep their heads down out of the increasing torrent of Soviet fire.
One of them swung his rifle butt and batted it away, making himself small once again as the deadly little charge exploded out of harm’s way.
‘Home run,’ thought Hawkes. A Soviet soldier threw another grenade, trying to learn from his mistake and hanging on to it a tad longer. It exploded too soon and only caused his comrades to seek cover. A small piece of shrapnel laid his cheek open to serve as a permanent reminder.
Through the smoke, dissipating now that the mortars had stopped firing, swiftly moving silhouettes could be seen closing on the Soviet positions, obviously men from the main assault force taking advantage of his diversion.
The ping of a bullet off the brickwork next to his head reminded him that not all had turned to face the main force.
The attackers had now swarmed over the first positions, and Hawkes could see some men engaged in hand to hand struggles.
“Smoke!” he shouted, pulling his own smoke grenade and arming it in one easy movement.