The garage burned steadily, consuming the dead; five Soviet soldiers and thirteen US Paratroopers, along with three medical personnel, including the newly-arrived replacement Battalion Medical Officer.
Purple smoke wafted around Goodnight Farm, taunting the defenders and the relieving force, reminding the survivors that the damage had already been done.
Satisfied that nothing more could be done, Major Crisp occupied himself with organising the removal of the remaining wounded and getting his force out intact.
Soviet artillery was beginning to draw closer to his position, so there was some urgency to his efforts.
Hawkes and a squad had been detailed to sweep up the surrendered Soviets. Timmins was tasked with getting the men loaded on to the halftracks when they arrived.
Liaising with his unit commanders by radio, Crisp satisfied himself that all was going well elsewhere, so dedicated his efforts to Easy and the remnants of the rearguard.
Tanks and vehicles from ‘Petersen’ moved up, ready to get involved if any counter-attack should materialise.
The E8 remained at distance, the crew knowing only too well that they had fired on their own, albeit accidentally.
Meeting up with Timmins, Crisp noticed that the man was soaked through.
“Dumped myself in the stream, Boss. Didn’t wanna mess up the infantry’s vehicles.”
Crisp sniffed the air and discovered that the stream had not removed the whole legacy of the fall onto the cow.
“Well, JJ, I gotta say, you are a sorry looking, sorry smelling sonofabitch.”
And that was true. Grubby head bandage, faintly resembling a Japanese head scarf, complete with rising sun marking, this particular circle of red being the product of his head wound.
A medic had bandaged his side, the whiteness of the dressing noticeable through his rent jacket.
An additional wound, a split thumb web, dripped blood steadily onto the ground.
“Jeez, but you must want the Heart so badly, JJ.”
Marion Crisp referred to the Purple Heart, an award mainly given for combat wounds.
“If you promise me not to stick your head up again today, I will write you up for it this very evening.”
“I already got one, Boss,” the young officer grinning from ear to ear, pausing in his discussion to show four fingers at ‘Rocky’ Baldwin, a cue for the senior non-com to move another unit off to safety.
A diminutive figure approached, clad in the uniform of a US Infantry Major.
“What the fuck?” The words had barely left Timmins’ mouth than the short, stocky officer was on top of them.
Too experienced to salute, the new arrival contented himself with a small bow at each man before introducing himself.
“Takao, 100th Infantry Battalion.”
Major Chikara Takeo was a challenging sight, businesslike and professional to the eye, every inch a combat soldier. But as always, when he was encountered for the first time, it was the sword that took the eye, even though only the handle could be seen, as it was presently slung across his back.
Obviously, the two officers were staring.
“Don’t worry, I save it for the enemy.”
Takeo was a member of the elite Combat Team 442, of which the ‘One-puka-puka’, 100th [Nisei] Infantry Battalion, was an important part.
Comprised mainly of Japanese-Americans, most of whom had been interned after Pearl Harbor, CT442 had earned a reputation for steadfastness and bravery in combat, a reputation second to none in the US Army.
‘One-puka-puka’ came from its Hawaiian birth, formed from various territorial and national guardsmen.
Perhaps more surprisingly, CT442 was the most highly decorated Regiment in the history of the US Armed Forces.
“Crisp, 101st,” and indicating his still unsavoury companion, “Acting Captain Timmins.”
Hands were shaken and Crisp deliberately ignored the surprised look on his companion’s face, the field promotion dropped into conversation without warning.
Artillery was creeping closer now, and a direct hit threw a fireball into the darkening sky as a halftrack was struck.
“We need to get everybody outta here pronto, Major. My boys will hold the line while you fall back. 702nd will remain here with me until I move out.”
As if to reinforce his words, groups of Japanese-American infantry moved forward, setting up defensively here and there, creating a barrier between the Soviet lines and the exhausted airborne troopers.
Anticipating Crisp’s protest, Takeo gripped the younger man’s arm.
“You have done enough, Major. See to your men and get them out. Then, I can get mine out too. OK?”
“OK Major.” Crisp nodded, and to Timmins he continued, “Nothing fancy now, the 100th have the ball. Get everyone up and moving back right now. Quick as you can, JJ.”
“Sir,” the newly-promoted Captain Timmins scuttling away to put a burr under the ass of any trooper he saw.
As Crisp had been passing his orders on, Takeo had taken in his surroundings, the sights and the smells of deadly combat. Here, a pile of Russian dead, thrown unceremoniously together, as their medics strove to clear space for new arrivals. There, a neat row of airborne troopers laid out under tarpaulins, silently waiting their turn to evacuate with the rest of their comrades.
From the still burning garage, the sickly sweet smell of roasting flesh pervaded everything.
“Looks like you boys have had a hell of a time, Major.”
Crisp shrugged, his head bandage unravelling as if to illustrate the point.
“It was a tough fight. These Russians are hard bastards for sure.”
His eye had only recently started to ache and water, the swelling of the impact beginning to make itself known as it became more agitated by the smoke and fumes.
“Looks like you need a medic, Major Crisp?”
The exhausted paratrooper could only shrug.
“All in good time Takao, all in good time. For now, I must see to my men.”
Crisp extended his hand and grasped that of the Hawaiian.
“Thank you and your men, Major. Good night and good luck.”
“Just to satisfy my curiosity, Major. What was that shit on your man’s battledress?”
Crisp laughed wearily.
“Matured cow,” he paused for thought.
“Very matured cow.”
Takao understood perfectly, releasing the handshake, and nodding at the exhausted airborne officer.
“Safe journey to you and your men, Major Crisp.”
“Take care, Major Takao.”
Crisp walked off, slinging his Thompson over his shoulder.
Waiting for him was a group of six of his men, three from his command group plus Baldwin, Hawkes and Timmins.
A halftrack driver gunned his engine, keen to let the passengers know he was ready and willing to depart.
Crisp stopped short of the group.
“A hard day, troops.”
He got no argument on that score.
“Right, let’s mount up and get the hell outta here.”
The six climbed aboard and turned to help their Major up.
Crisp turned to the farmhouse and saluted formally.
The GuteNacht Bauernhof was a wreck, a burning wreck, but it would become part of the folklore of the 101st from that day forward.
A wry look set on his face.
“Good night.”
The irony was not wasted on anyone.
And with that, they were away, leaving behind them a steadily growing fight, marked by the pronounced flashes from guns of all types firing in the rapidly growing darkness
All units of Crisp’s command successfully escaped the pocket, although the Soviets did not properly reinforce their forces, assisting both the escapers and relieving forces greatly.
The Nisei infantry and 702nd tankers withdrew after repulsing one heavy attack, inflicting crippling casualties on the Soviet infantry who were so profligate with their lives.