With Hässelbach in the lead again, the group moved quickly through a half-collapsed restaurant and almost ran into the back of the IS-VII, the idling engine unheard above the noise of battle.
Overhead, a long line of Allied aircraft flew on their way to somewhere else, intent on creating excitement for Soviet soldiers throughout the river valley.
The closeness of the tank created its own unique problems.
There were no easy shots that wouldn’t risk the AT soldiers too.
The tank’s huge gun fired, dislodging bricks and dust within the rickety structure, some of which fell on the men, some of which fell on the tank.
The turret turned slightly and stopped, the sound of the electrical traverse turning more intense as it struggled against a problem.
Unknown to the crew or the AT stalkers, a joist had perched itself on the hull front, vertically held in place by the old restaurant’s sign mount and the IS-VII’s towing cable, providing an obstacle that prevented the main gun traversing.
The turret hatch opened and a head poked out cautiously, seeking the problem, finding it, and deciding on a solution.
Knocke grabbed Hässelbach and dragged him forward as he started to run.
“Leg up!”
The NCO grasped his leader’s intent but didn’t get his posture right and Knocke’s first effort failed.
Hässelbach meshed his hands, providing a step for Knocke’s left foot, and he propelled himself up onto the back of the tank.
The head started to turn, recognising the scrabbling sound for what it was, but too late.
Knocke shot him in the face at point blank range.
The wounded man fell back into the tank screaming, followed by the muzzle of an MP-40.
The magazine discharged twenty-five rounds in the blink of an eye, and they flew around the interior of the heavy tank like wasps, wasps whose sting was deadlier than any insect.
“Grenade!”
Knocke had none so he called for one to be thrown up.
Catching the phosphorous grenade that one of the AT soldiers threw up, he warned the men around him.
“Keep clear, kameraden!”
As he pulled the pin, the men moved away at high-speed, not wishing to get caught in any blast.
Knocke dropped the grenade into the tank and dismounted, heading towards Hässelbach’s knot of soldiers.
The grenade ignited with a modest plop and smoke immediately started to pour from its open turret hatch.
There were also screams from wounded men.
“Move on, kameraden!”
The screams continued briefly but ceased abruptly as the fire took hold.
Although the IS-VII burned fiercely, it did not explode, but the fire still spread to the old restaurant and adjoining houses, transforming the structures into raging fires.
Ahead, machine-guns stammered, and they quickly stumbled across Lohengrin and a knot of legionnaires under intense pressure.
Taking up positions on the flank, Knocke and his men started to pick off the Soviet attackers, careful not to fire towards their own.
A group of his men moved round further to the left, led by the NCO who had executed the Russian prisoners.
Establishing an MG-42, they ripped shreds off the men gathering for a flank move against the position, putting a platoon size force to flight.
The men closer to the knot of legionnaires pressed harder, knowing safety lay closer to their foe.
The superior numbers started to tell and soon the fighting was up against Lohengrin herself.
Knocke called his men about him and surged forward.
With careful bursts, he swept a few men away from his chosen path, and the rest crashed into the sides of the attacking Russians, firing as they went, stabbing and slashing as they came into close contact.
The repulsed Soviet platoon made a second effort to advance, but the MG-42 kept them at bay.
Barrel changed in the blink of an eye, it swept the road and small square any time there was a target to shoot at.
The opportunities grew less and less as courage deserted the Soviet soldiers.
Around Lohengrin, the fight was savage and without mercy.
Men clawed at each other’s throats when weapons failed or were lost.
The stench of blood, urine, and faeces was overpowering, as men descended into the depths of their bestial natures in order to fulfil life’s most important mission; that of surviving, come what may.
Hässelbach shrieked as a burly Russian bit a huge chunk out of his ear, the man screaming with animal passion as he spat the savaged flesh in his opponent’s face.
Stimulated by pain, he grabbed the Russian’s head and pulled it down, planting his forehead on the top of the man’s nose at speed.
Both men were howling with the pain of their injuries as a body cannoned into them, forcing them apart.
They both kicked out at the new arrival, not knowing if he was friend or foe.
Another legionnaire confronted the big Russian and slashed a spade at his neck, severing the jugular in one swipe.
Hässelbach looked around for Knocke and saw him stood at the back of the Tiger tank, pistol in hand, picking off selected targets here and there as they threatened one of his men, or tried to climb on Lohengrin.
“Watch out!”
He shouted uselessly as Knocke fumbled for a fresh magazine just as a Russian charged around the rear of the stationary tank.
The man fired his rifle and the blow knocked Knocke’s leg out from underneath him, even though the bullet simply transited his muscle without hitting anything of consequence.
Working the bolt, the Guardsman struggled with locking the lever down.
With Knocke on the ground, Hässelbach took the shot and the rifleman was thrown backwards by the impact of bullets.
The Tiger’s engine revved, a pre-arranged sign it was preparing to move and anyone around should beware.
Knocke struggled out of the way as Lohengrin slipped backwards, coughing as the acrid exhaust fumes affected his breathing and sight.
The turret traversed and a shell flattened a building from which a DP had just started firing.
Testing his right leg, Knocke grimaced as pain shot up and down the limb.
Running his hands up and down, he found more stickiness around the calf and pulled out a wood splinter that he hadn’t even felt.
When he’d fallen, his leg had crashed into a baulk of timber, and there were two more such pieces embedded in his flesh.
“Let me help you, Oberführer.”
Grabbing the extended hand, Knocke pulled himself upright and put weight on the damaged leg.
“That aches a bit, I’ll bet, Oberführer. Let’s get you bandaged up.”
The two hobbled over to a small public bench that had become the focus of medical activity.
There was no time for either of them, as the two medical orderlies did all they could to save men who were dying.
“I lost my weapon… not sure where.”
“I’ll find you a replacement as soon as we’re fixed up, Oberführer.”
Knocke recognised a man whose head was swathed in bandages.
“Felix! Good to see you. How are you?”
“I’ll live, Oberführer, I may have problems wearing glasses, mind you. Bastards had my nose off.”
In truth it was his own driver who had braked hard, causing Jorgensen to lurch forward and smash his face into the cupola just as he was getting out. His nose had been virtually ripped off by the impact. The driver was amongst the hideously wounded men around him, and would not survive to see the following dawn.
“Cigarette?”
“Danke, Oberführer.”
Three more hands appeared from out of the group of battered men, and rich smoke enveloped the smokers, bringing its own kind of calm and relaxation, despite the sounds of renewed fighting close at hand.