Elsewhere, a wave of attacks went in, providing pressure on all points of the enemy defence.
The light tanks and armoured cars of 3rd Guards Motorcycle Battalion had cut the road west, and they now demonstrated against the rear of the Legion position, although more carefully than before now that they understood that enemy anti-tank troops were there in numbers.
They actually were not as numerous as the motorcycle troops thought, but Peters’ men had plenty of weapons and the will to use them profligately, as the ruined T-70s and 80s indicated, the last of which had fallen to a shot from an enemy Tiger I tank that arrived in the nick of time.
Zilinski’s attack plan simply required the motorcycle unit to remind the defence of its presence, not expose itself to greater harm, an order followed with great enthusiasm.
The Legion perimeter buckled but held, the tirailleurs pinned in place by the bastions provided by the survivors of the 1er BCL.
The Centurions were both still operational, although von Mecklenburg’s fellow commander had been killed during the last attack.
His position was taken by the commander of the overheated ARL-44, his vehicle having seized up and stubbornly refusing to move.
1er BCL was down to five running tanks.
Two Centurions, the Tiger II, a Wolf, and Lohengrin.
The M-24 and one M-26 Pershing were still fighting, but neither could not move.
The ISU-122 had succumbed to enemy RPGs and grenades, and the Wirbelwind had died spectacularly when an 82mm mortar bomb had dropped into its open turret.
The initial explosion had been impressive enough, but the subsequent fireworks were remarkable as its mass of 20mm ammunition exploded like a children’s party display.
Elsewhere, nine Panthers of various types clung to the ruins.
Jorgensen’s tank-destroyers had survived well, losing solely two Jagdpanthers and, as always, the Einhorn remained supreme with seven kills to its name.
The surviving Legion mortars were down to a handful of rounds and already the crews’ thoughts turned to the moment when they would have to pick up their weapons and become infantrymen.
For now they waited, sights almost on minimums, waiting for the order to fire their last few rounds at the point of most concern.
They had very little time to wait as the positions of 2e Compagnie of 3e/5e RdM were overrun by a wave of screaming guardsmen from Artem’yev’s 361st Regiment.
Mortar shells started to land amongst the second echelon of the 361st’s men, which gave the survivors and two platoons of the reserve 1er Compagnie to counter-attack, supported by a pair of Jaguars.
They nearly succeeded but the mortar shells ran out and the Soviet reserves surged forward in time to stop the Legionnaires in their tracks.
Leaving one platoon to bolster the front positions, Lieutenant Tüpper, the de facto commander of 1er Compagnie, recovered his men and got them resupplied and readied the reserve unit for the next call to action.
His force was swelled by the arrival of men from the werkstatt and supply units, under the command of the ever-cheerful Commandant Walter Fiedler.
They had little time to sort out the niceties as the tirailleurs buckled under a surge of tanks and infantry.
With only one Jaguar [fr] as support, Fiedler led off his group and two section of Tüpper’s men to restore the line.
En route, Fiedler met Knocke, who was doing the rounds of his men, keeping up morale and learning as much as he could about the situation.
“Look after yourself, Walter!”
“Have no fear, Oberführer. I’ll survive to keep your rust buckets going!”
He dashed off into the battle ahead, followed by his men.
Knocke moved on again, surrounded by the military police, led by Maillard, and protected by the bodies of Hässelbach and Ett, who had replaced the unfortunate Lutz.
Despite Knocke’s annoyance with their close presence, the two made sure they kept as tight to him as they possibly could.
Soviet mortar rounds started to rain down again, and two of the MPs went down hard as shrapnel ripped into their bodies.
One man would never rise again, but the other still lived, so a soldier was detailed to carry him back to the aid post for treatment.
The party moved on once more.
Ahead, a sharp crack indicated that a large gun was in operation.
The party moved cautiously until they could observe the position.
A Pak 44, served by a single man, was resisting a pair of enemy tanks and their infantry support.
Around the huge anti-tank gun there were Legion infantry in the rubble, their weapons pouring bullets towards the advancing Soviets, seemingly without effect.
“Leave it to me, mon General! Gallet! Blanc! You two, with me!”
Maillard sprang up and, with the two men in close attendance, sprinted towards the Pak 44 and its lone gunner.
Gallet had once served in artillery, so Maillard assigned him to load and to direct himself and Blanc as to what to do.
The German legionnaire gunner appeared completely mad and laughed his way through the brief conversation as to who would do what.
“Put it up the pipe and I’ll send it to our cousins, kettenhund!”
He grabbed Maillard’s shoulder and tapped the breech of the huge gun.
“Just keep your turnip out of the way of that or you’ll need a new one. Kapische?”
“Oui.”
“Right… let’s kill the bastards!”
A shell burst behind the gun, fired by one of the T34s hiding in the ruins.
Blanc screamed as a piece of his ear was slashed by a brick fragment.
It was messy and painful, and made the man curse constantly as he moved back and forward from the crates containing the huge shells to the waiting hands of Gallet.
“Right, kettenhund! Watch out!”
The breech flew back as the shell leapt towards its target.
“Fuck and abhorrence. Again… faster now!”
Wagner was no longer sane in the real sense, the butchering of his crew, his old comrades, having unhinged his mind.
“Loaded!”
“Good, good, kettenhund… we’ll make a gunner of you yet… watch out!”
Again the Pak spat a shell at the Soviet force.
Maillard wrinkled up his nose in disgust as the heavy shell moved through the space occupied by a Soviet soldier, leaving nothing more than a pair of legs before it raced on and penetrated the T34’s hull.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Trick shot… more!”
Another shell went home as the barrel rotated to line up with the other tank.
Bullet struck the gun’s armoured plate as a Maxim was got to work from the first floor of what had once been a tailor’s shop.
“You cheeky bastards!”
Rather than killing the tank, Wagner chose to engage the machine-gun.
The 128mm cracked again and the shot smashed into the position adjacent to the Maxim team.
The Soviet machine-gun and its servants ceased to be a problem.
“Blessed Christmas to you and yours, you bastards… fuck with me, will you?”
He turned around and found Maillard still waiting with an open breech.
“Kettenhund, kettenhund, wherefore art my fucking shell, kettenhund?”
Wagner pulled out his Walther pistol and started firing over the top of the gun shield.
‘Totally fucking mad!’
Maillard was not the only one thinking it, as Knocke and his men were observing everything.
Content that the position would hold for now, the Camerone commander and his small contingent moved on.
“I see the aerials, Hauptsturmfuhrer. No shot.”