The team that moved through the rooms hit by the bazooka found less resistance, much of the grisly work already done by high-explosive.
As soon as the upper hall was secured, Hawkes hollered the agreed word down the stairs.
“Geronimo!”
Identical shouts rose to meet his own, and quickly fellow troopers were springing up the stairs, confident that the way was now clear.
A rattle of automatic weapons gave them a direction in which to move, and the first four men moved to the back route to support Hawkes’ men.
The next group secured the landing area, and were accompanied by a bedraggled Major Crisp, now sporting a head bandage.
In reply to Hawkes’ unspoken question, the officer grinned the grin of a man made slightly mad by the proximity of detonating explosives.
“Someone was passing on the plan and yelled ‘Geronimo’ to his men.”
By the way Crisp looked at the back of the Corporal positioned defensively at the top of the stairs, and the way the man hunched in shame, the responsible party was close at hand.
“I ran out and got blown up for my goddam troubles!”
The Corporal seemed to shrink further.
“No harm done, and lesson learned.”
Crisp slapped his hand on the shoulder of the Corporal by way of forgiveness, although he promised himself a quieter and sterner word when the battle was over.
Lieutenant Timmins, his jacket bloodied and rent, gingerly mounted the stairs.
“Hell, I thought you were a goner, Lootenant!”
Hawkes moved forward and assisted the wounded officer through the gap in the barricade.
“Fortunately he was a lousy shot and just clipped my side. Also I fell on something soft.”
His words coincided with everyone realising that something truly awful was clinging to his battledress, a realisation that was both visually and nasally challenging.
As one, the men surveyed the unfortunate man, unconsciously moving away from the awfulness he carried on himself.
Crisp couldn’t help himself.
“What the fuck have you been swimming in, JJ?”
Tearing his eyes away from the apparition, Crisp acknowledged a signal from a Sergeant, indicating that his team had swept the area clean.
“A dead cow, boss.”
Looking at himself, he added, unnecessarily.
“A long, long, dead cow.”
The putrefaction was all pervasive, and a hand pressed to the face, seeking to seal the nose, did nothing to keep the abhorrence at bay.
Speaking through his fingers, Crisp issued a swift direction.
“Jesus, JJ, but go and get yourself cleaned up before the cavalry decide they don’t wanna rescue us after all!”
The afflicted officer made his way back down the stairs, but the awful smell lingered long after he had gone.
However, for some reason known only to those who have shared the rigours and comradeship of combat, wide grins like Cheshire cats were everywhere, even on the Corporal who had nearly killed his commander.
“Right men,” and pointing to Hawkes, “Let’s get this place secured,” and to his radioman, “And get me King Company on the horn now.”
Finding a stepladder, Hawkes and two men prepared to check out the loft.
It contained only the dead bodies of three Soviet soldiers.
The reports were all in from Crisp’s units, every objective having been carried in good time.
Fox Company had taken more casualties but the Soviets had fallen back, resorting to light mortaring, seemingly closing up shop for the day.
George Company had done their job in record time, and King Company had suffered few casualties in achieving their first objectives.
For Item Company, 370th Colored Infantry Regiment, the Rothaus has indeed proved a tough nut, earning its name as it ran with the blood of men from both sides.
It had taken three assaults to clear the position of enemy, costing thirty-eight dead and as many wounded.
Perversely, it was the ravaged Item Company that was first relieved by a unit from Petersen’s force, the recon troops of the 2nd/1st Brazilian Cavalry, late to the field but now in the van.
Along the 101st’s line, purple smoke marked friendly positions to the relieving forces as the mission moved from success to success.
Soviet artillery now started to build in its intensity, both George and King companies taking casualties.
A tank and infantry appeared to the south, driving hard straight at them, following the west bank of the stream at speed.
“Enemy to front!”
No order to fire was given but the Airborne started to lash out, Soviet soldiers dropping to cover immediately.
The tank crew were confused, expecting friendly troops in the farm ahead.
Beside them, the infantry got a DP28 working, its bullets seeking targets in the nearest windows.
The bazooka team sprang into action and moved to the stream, hugging the bank in an effort to close with the T-34.
They were spotted by the infantry and both men picked off in short order.
More Soviet infantry appeared, following in the tanks track marks, coinciding with some of the arrival of the American rearguard elements from Eggenthal.
The tank, satisfied now that the enemy were ahead, started to pump high-explosive shells into the farmhouse.
The second shell started a fire on the ground floor, the smoke from which soon pervaded the whole building and made conditions awful for those inside.
The Airborne battalion’s mortars were directed to hit the new arrivals but their fire was inaccurate, and the burning farmhouse and accurate machine-gun fire prevented any decent sighting and direction.
Under cover of their DP and the T-34, the Soviet infantry, now swollen to about sixty in number, launched a flank attack, utilising the cover of the stream.
Crisp had anticipated this and had positioned one of his surviving .30 cal’s to guard the route, supported by a squad of troopers.
The Soviet assault failed, the soldiers pulling back, leaving a dozen dead and wounded men behind.
As they gathered themselves for another effort, their tank took a telling hit, the engine compartment starting to burn fiercely. A second hit blew the turret off the vehicle and the whole crew perished in an instant.
Two Pershings from B/702nd had engaged the Soviet tank from behind, and killed it.
The imminent arrival of tanks and armored infantry in their rear, combined with the stubborn defence of the Airborne to their front, was too much and the Soviet infantry threw down their weapons and started to surrender.
An officer started to shout and scream, threatening his men with everything the Soviet State could throw at them, but to no avail. He sunk to the ground when he realised his men were done, throwing his pistol into the stream and hiding his head in his arms in shame.
Crisp, returning from having overseen the repulse of the stream attack, noticed an important omission and screamed at his men.
“Purple Smoke! Use purple smoke now!”
An E8 Sherman moving alongside the Pershings, had spotted movement and, even as the airborne men threw their markers, a shell was sent on its way.
The 76mm high-explosive shell clipped the corner of the farmhouse, deflecting very slightly from its course, zipped across the putrefying corpse of a cow, and into the garage.
Inside the garage was an aid station, where the wounded of both sides were being given comfort by the 2nd Battalion medics.
Twenty-one died in the blink of an eye, the highly effective shell exploding against the far wall just below a high window.
Three men were pulled from the flames, two Russians and one badly wounded Eagle.