Whether the 22nd was currently alive was a matter of opinion, so ravaged was it by the fury of the US assaults.
As normal, many casualties were caused by air and artillery strikes, but the horrendous weather had brought a respite from the former, one that had provided the experienced soldiers with opportunities to strengthen their positions and get ammunition forward.
Not enough on either count, as it proved, the expenditure of bullets far in excess of norms for far less return in the murky wet conditions.
The removal of the only undamaged bridge over the Torysa River to their rear also contributed to the slowing trickle of ammunition that reached them.
3rd Battalion had been given the prize position, that of the hill, castle and adjoining slopes, a position that was presently stacked with their dead and wounded, and one that had shrunk considerably over the last eleven plus hours.
What was left of 3rd Battalion clung to the summit and ruins, Takeo’s last attack having wiped out the remaining groups that had not been able to pull back up the slope.
“Comrade Kapitan! The Amerikanski are moving!”
Kazakov sprinted to the right side of his position to where one of his senior NCOs pointed down the slope.
At the same time, bullets and mortar rounds started to arrive, marking the start of Baker and Dog companies covering efforts.
“They’re focusing on this side, away from the town.”
“I think so too, Comrade Kapitan, Your orders?”
“Hold them back, Vassily. I’ll bring more men over, and see what help our mortar comrades can provide for us.”
Kazakov could no longer contact the artillery support, his radios and operators long since departed, victims of accurate artillery.
In any case, it was of little import, given that French Typhoons had found the allocated support regiment on the move and scattered guns and prime movers to the winds with their rockets and cannon fire.
The Cossack captain moved quickly back, occasionally throwing a glance at the areas into which small arms fire was arriving, and was more often being rewarded with the sight of his men, well hidden and safe.
Here and there the sight of a newly-killed corpse was apparent, but for the most part there were few casualties to the blizzard of fire.
He ducked inside the castle ruins and found his team hard at work, new telephone cables installed but already made redundant by the last barrage.
“Get it sorted, Comrade Starshina!”
The man’s protestations were cut short and the NCO signaller, newly arrived with 3rd Battalion and unaware of his commander’s lack of good grace, returned to organising another wire-laying party.
“Ammunition parties?”
“Comrade Kapitan, I have sent more men back. Not one of the last two parties has returned. We have what we have.”
The NKVD Lieutenant shrugged, which simple action riled the volatile Kazakov, but he stayed his hand. Now was not the time to get embroiled with the Chekist who, despite his youth and fanatical devotion to the ‘fucking party’, was actually quite an efficient officer.
None the less, the Cossack officer’s words contained a certain barb.
“This is your responsibility, Comrade Leytenant. We need more ammunition or we’ll be swatted off this fucking hill… and it’ll be your name that tops my fucking report. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Comrade Kapitan.”
Kazakov motioned to his second-in-command as he lit a cigarette.
“Boris, the Amerikanski are preparing for an attack on our right, using the hill to mask our support elements in the town. I’m going to need a response group. That’s where you come in. Reform my reserve.”
He leant out of one of the numerous holes, encouraging Boris Tarkovsky to look where he pointed.
“That’s diversionary fire… I’m sure of it. I’m going to risk everything on that decision. I want two men in three withdrawn right now. No heavy weapons… leave the machine-guns behind… DPs only on that score. Form two platoons, ready to act as reserve, under your command. I want you position there,” he pointed to an area covered with rubble and the shreds of vegetation, “Organised for defence to the north and northwest, but ready to move on my orders… or your own, of course.”
He moved across the area with surprising speed and pushed the camouflage netting upwards.
“I want what’s left organised in three equal groups. Send one to me immediately at Vassily’s position, and have the other two organised similarly north and northeast.”
Kazakov stopped for a moment, partially to draw down on his cigarette and partially to consider an important question.
He resolved it with a nod of his head in the direction of Junior Lieutenant Ryabkov.
“Young Klimenti has command of that. Any questions?”
“General orders. Comrade Kapitan?”
“Hold the hill… kill them all… any more questions?”
Kazakov slapped his friend on the shoulder.
“Good. Let’s move. The bastards’ll be upon us shortly.”
He sprinted from the headquarters position content that he had done all he could do, but worried by the fact that his last magazine was already on his weapon.
At his waist was his Tokarev.
In his scabbard was his shashka.
At his side was a kukri that once belonged to a Gurkha soldier whom he had slain with the man’s very own weapon…
…which, by Kazakov’s reckoning, also made it his.
1201 hrs, Tuesday, 18th March 1947, base of Height 570, Medzany, Czechoslovakia.
Captain Ishuri cried.
Cried for his wife… his sons… his mother… his life.
Within seconds of rising from the ground to lead his men forward, a sniper’s bullet had smashed its way through his stomach and shattered against his vertebra beyond, destroying both bone and delicate spinal cord in the process.
In truth, he cried more for the life he expected now to live, more than the possibility that it might now be ending.
The medic did what he could with the stomach wound, rolling his captain gently onto his back, and in the doing ensuring that the spinal cord was forever sundered, as sharp bone moved and completed the process of creating a paraplegic.
Takeo could spare Able Company’s commander no time as he shouted the men forward up the increasing slope.
The shell holes and detritus of war proved both a godsend and an impediment, as the task of moving upwards was made more difficult, interspersed with moments when the attackers were safe within sheltered ground.
Naturally, the men started to enjoy these moments, and Takeo found the steam going out of his attack.
“Get moving! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
Here and there a man would go down and not rise. But the fire was surprising light, almost to the point where Takeo wondered if there was some trap in store.
He dropped into a small depression and extended his hand for the walkie-talkie.
As he started to speak, he realised he was kneeling in over a foot of water.
‘Shit.’
“Kapuna-Seven-Six, Kapuna-Six-One, over.”
“Kapuna-Six-One, Kapuna-Seven-Six receiving, over.”
“Kapuna-Seven-Six. Shoot X-Ray now. I repeat, shoot X-Ray now, over.”
“Kapuna-Six-one. On the way, over.”
Takeo stuck his head up and decided to leapfrog to another hole before the mortars came down.
They dropped pretty much on the money and he decided not to issue any corrections.