Returning the rifle to its owner, the fanatical NCO slid across to his commander, who was on the radio ordering mortars onto the target.
“Sir, I think I can sort this. I need a smoke grenade and the ST44.”
No explanation was required, indeed, there was no time for it.
The ST44 changed hands for the third time that hour and a nebelgranate was pressed into his hands.
Ensuring the assault rifle magazine was full, Höffman moved to the edge of the trench and prepared his grenade.
“Don’t do anything until I shout, Kameraden,” he spoke with black humour, “If I’m fucking dead, act independently, and send my mother flowers.”
A mad grin split his face and he tossed the smoke grenade over the top and into the trench some thirty yards up.
Giving time for the smoke to obscure the view, he scuttled on his belly, hugging the ground as the Soviet defenders fired speculatively through the spreading cloud, adding random grenades for good measure.
His reflected view had been correct, in as much as there was a depression in the trench floor, framed by the bodies of Soviet guardsmen killed previously.
Sliding into the depression, he organised the dead body to give him both protection and a place to steady his weapon.
The smoke cleared slowly.
Höffman could clearly see two riflemen in cut-outs down the trench sides, but it was another minute before he made out the barrel of a DP light machine-gun some metres beyond.
He made a professional judgement, and settled himself for the shots.
The ST44 was a modern weapon designed for the modern battlefield, range less than a rifle but greater than a sub-machine gun. The intent was to provide improved firepower to the infantry facing the Soviet juggernaut, giving the Wehrmacht superior firepower in the ‘middle ground’ of battles.
The magazine contained thirty short-case 7.92mm rounds, capable of being blazed off on full automatic or, as Höffman intended, in semi-automatic mode.
He could see the enemy peering down the trench and felt that the left side rifleman was becoming far too interested in his hiding place.
He pulled the trigger and sent a burst into the DP position.
The MG fired, its bullets zipping through the air above the Sergeant.
Höffman fired again, assisted by the muzzle flash, silencing the crew.
A bullet nicked his shoulder, the enemy rifleman having got his bearings quickly.
The ST44, momentarily out of control because of the impact, lined up with the guardsman and fired. A bloody body tumbled out of the niche and onto the trench floor.
The second rifleman picked up a grenade, armed it, and threw it high.
Höffman was horrified to see it land the other side of the dead Russian he was using as cover.
He pressed his face into the mud and felt the shock wave as the grenade exploded.
Unharmed but disoriented, he struggled to aim the ST44, not realising that the foresight had been neatly removed by shrapnel.
None the less, he pulled the trigger twice, sending bullets into the right-hand niche, smashing the knee and shoulder of the rifleman, taking him out of the fight.
The sergeant retained enough presence of mind to shout to the assault group.
“Schnell Menschen! Vorwärts!
Needing no second invitation, Von Arnesen’s group crashed around the corner at high-speed, closing down the deadly machine-gun position before it could be brought back into action. The first man there used his MP40 to repulse an attempt to man the DP, leaving three Soviet dead in the trench beyond.
Propping the damaged ST44 against the trench, Höffman selected a discarded PPSh, and slid an extra round magazine under his belt.
The second Soviet rifleman was crying tears of pain, moaning softly as his shattered knee and shoulder brought him to the extremes of agony.
The ex-SS man drew level with the noise and examined the Russian with emotionless eyes. He moved his PPSh into the crook of his left arm, grimacing as the extra weight provoked his new shoulder wound.
Höffman took out his pistol once more.
“Bastard Russich.”
Hate replaced pain in the guardsman’s eyes.
“Germanski bastard.”
The Colt spoke twice, the naked fury in the Russians eyes inspiring Höffman to make doubly sure, the second shot masking the sound of the arming lever on the US issue fragmentation grenade, now dropping from a lifeless hand.
It rolled against his foot.
Höffman’s impaired reactions gave him no chance.
“Du verdammter bastard Russich!”
The first assault had failed, falling short of the enemy position on a small rise two hundred metres from the main road out of Böblingen.
5th RdM’s 3rd Battalion were tasked with Rostov-5 through to Rostov-9, a frontage of just under a kilometre, and they had fallen at the first hurdle.
In fairness, it was not their inability or lack of courage, but the fact that Rostov-5 was bristling with everything in the Soviet infantry arsenal.
Lange, his teeth gritted against the pain as the soldier bound his ankle, swept the approaches with his binoculars, the bodies of 7th Kompagnie’s commander and some of his men still burning bright enough to be remarkable on the extensive battlefield.
A few metres behind Lange and his command group was his headquarters vehicle, its engine wrecked by shells from a light anti-aircraft gun brought into play against the easier ground targets.
Salvaging a couple of radios, the group set up in a shell hole, moving earth to form a raised ridge on the rim, behind which they could more safely observe the battle.
Lange had dislocated his ankle in the mad dash to escape the anti-aircraft gun’s cannon shells, and the swollen joint stuck fast in his combat boots.
Refusing to have them cut off, he allowed one of the signallers to bind it tight with a bandage as he tried to organise his forces.
“Gelbkopf to Gelbbruder-one-two over.”
The second in command of 7th Kompagnie did not have a radio, so no reply was forthcoming.
“Gelbkopf to any unit Gelbbruder come in.”
“Gelbbruder-two-one to Gelbkopf receiving.”
The commander of the 8th Kompagnie was an old soldier, and Lange’s enthusiasm got the better of him, formal radio procedure suspended.
“Status, over.”
“Gelbbruder-two-one to Gelbkopf, one-one is dead, one-two is wounded. I have command. I need Adler on this location immediately, and be aware, light flak is in the target zone, over.”
“Gelbkopf received. I will advise.”
Lange waited whilst the other signaller went to switch his radio channel to contact Adler direct. He was curtailed by an authoratative voice on the main scheme radio.
“Anton to Gelbkopf, Gelbbruder-two-one. Adler will be inbound. Mark Rostov-5 with red smoke, repeat red smoke over.”
8th Kompagnie’s Captain acknowledged and Rostov-5 was bathed in an expanding ruby red cloud within seconds.
Knocke spoke to the air controller, who in turn directed his last support strike in on target.
The self-propelled guns of the anti-tank unit were warned, and readied themselves to move closer still.
Three glass-nosed A-26 Invaders of the 640th Bomb Squadron lined up and attacked.
Many eyes were on their approach. The legionnaires of 5th RdM waited, coiled like a spring, ready to charge into the devastated position.
Knocke and Lange observed from their command positions, ready to react as needed.
The Soviet machine-gunners and flak crew waited, fearful for their lives if they should not knock down the aircraft.
The Invaders carried delayed-action bombs, enabling them to come in low and strafe as they attacked, each aircraft producing a devastating fire from eight nose-mounted .50cal machine guns, a heavy firepower bolstered by a further eight .50cal’s in four wing pods. The combined effect being to place over nine thousand rounds per minute on the target area from each aircraft.