Barney Meade was screaming louder and louder as his death approached. He had not received a scratch in all the combat he had particpated in during WW2, or in any of the actions he had led in the latest bloody affair.
It was a unit joke that he would make it home without the obligatory Purple Heart.
A Soviet mortar shell, one of the few that the enemy unit had got off before Baker Company overran them, had exploded virtually at his feet.
One leg was missing, with next to nothing left for the medic to get a tourniquet on. His testicles and penis were severed, the same shrapnel having penetrated deeper, shredding his bladder and lower abdomen.
More pieces of metal had punctured his upper body and arms, the one piece that hit his head having opened up the right orbit, from whence his mutilated eye hung.
The medic had already put morphine into the grievously wounded Ranger officer, but it hadn’t touched the pain. He selected another ampoule and plunged it into the surviving thigh, exposed when the blast had torn off Meade’s trousers. This brought almost instant relief to the tortured body, or at least, quiet to the tortured ears of the command group gathered around their dying leader.
The radio crackled.
“Angel 6, this is Washington 6, report, over.”
The radio remained silent as no-one moved to answer.
“Angel 6, this is Washington 6, report, over.”
The unit’s senior non-com held his hand out for the handset.
“Washington 6, this is Angel one-three. Angel 6 is down… hard. We’re continuing the attack, over.”
There was a moment’s pause whilst those bland words were consumed by the Ranger CO in the battalion CP..
“Roger, Angel. Keep up the pressure, Reports are they’re cracking. Good luck. Out”
Williams wanted to ask much more, but now was not the time.
‘In any case, Barney Meade’s goddamn indestructible.’
By the time that Lieutenant Colonel Williams had that thought, Barney Meade was dead.
Part of Baker Company was in prime position, unexpectedly so, and its senior officer on the ground called in the good news to a troubled Williams.
Having overrun the mortar position, two platoons of ‘Baker’ had pushed on along the edge of a rise and found a perfect spot that looked over Hattmatt, as well as providing a position from which they could flay anyone withdrawing from the Alsatian village.
1st Lieutenant Barkmann, the senior rank in the two platoons, did not yet know that he was the senior rank still standing in the company but, for now, he had other problems.
A sudden surge of enemy caught his eye and he readied his men for combat.
Flares rose, illuminating an almost surreal landscape.
One of Baker’s .30cal Brownings started lashing out, an unnoticed group of Russian infantry having approached almost to grenade range. A number of the enemy fell, the rest melting back to safer ground to consider their options.
Which options were the same as for the rest of Din’s unit.
Stand and die, or run and live… maybe.
Most chose the latter course of action, and Barkmann’s two platoons had a field day as they lashed the flank of the retreating forces.
Much of the Zinsel’s ice had been broken by artillery, and most of the retreating Russians focussed on the bridge, perhaps not realising that the water was shallow enough to wade, probably dissuaded by the prospect of being soaked in chilled flowing water.
The bridge was being swept clean by the Rangers of Baker Company, more and more men arriving to reinforce Barkmann’s original force, all immediately bringing their Garands, BARs, and Brownings into action, dissuading any real efforts to cross.
Din arrived with a gaggle of his men in tow.
“What’s happening, Leytenant?”
“Comrade Mayor, the fucking bastards have the bridge covered. They’re up on that small rise in numbers. I’ve no Maxims to cover us, but I’ve sent two DPs to the top floor to suppress the swine. My Serzhant is gathering men behind the bushes there,” he pointed across the road, “Ready for when I give the command. We’ve found some old ladders and stuff to throw across the water so we can get at them.”
Din slapped the man’s shoulder.
“Good work, Comrade!”
The younger man stiffened.
“Do you wish to take command of the attack, Comrade Mayor?”
Just for a moment, Din considered the officer, question, and his response to it.
‘Is Burastov looking for a way out?’
‘No. Not Nikanor Burastov. He’s a fighter, remember?’
‘Is he just doing what he thinks is right in offering?’
‘Probably.’
‘If I say no, will I look like I’m backing out?’
‘Who cares?’
“No, Comrade Burastov. You continue in charge. I’ll organise the rear party. Send up two reds when you’re over and have pushed them off. Clear?”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor. Thank you.”
Burastov slammed a fresh magazine into his Tokarev pistol.
‘Good. I was right.’
The two officers checked their watches and agreed on a time designed to allow the Burastov and the Serzhant to be fully prepared, and for Din to get the rearguard ready.
Din didn’t hear the whistle, the agreed signal, but didn’t need to, as the feeble sound was swiftly submersed in a sea of violent noise, as a sudden increase in firing marked the start of the attack.
To his front and right flank, the Amerikanski were pushing hard, and he knew that the road behind him had to be cleared; otherwise, his command would become just a memory.
He risked a look over his shoulder and managed to recognise that his men were closing with the enemy, although he also took in the many still shapes that marked the expensive progress of the assault force.
One of his men shook his shoulder, bringing his focus back to his own immediate problems.
To his front, a surge by a sizeable group of American infantry had gained a foothold, and the two forces were exchanging grenades at close range.
Flares shot skywards, illuminating the scene, offering better conditions for the professional killing to come.
The sharp explosions of grenades, and the subsequent vision of newly wounded guardsmen focussed him, his concentration clearly affected by the nearness of the artillery round that had wiped out his staff.
Bringing his mind back to structured thought once more, Din saw a greater peril as a group of six M5A1 halftracks bore down on his northern flank. The 18th Armored Infantry force decided to bring their tracks to the battle as the conditions permitted it.
Coordinating with the attack to Din’s front, the armoured vehicles .50 calibre machine guns spouted bullets in all directions, few of which came anywhere near their intended targets as the tracks bounced forward.
The 424th had a few anti-tank rifles, and some of these cracked out their 14.5mm armour piercing bullets, claiming hits on the attacking tracks.
Two fell out of the attack, one immediately after the other, as heavy bullets struck home.
The infantry component bailed out of the rearmost track whilst the machine-gunner remained to use the gun in support of the attack. The other crew member, the driver, was screaming in shock and horror as he tried to clean the bits of a 2nd Lieutenant from his face and body, the effects of two hits from PTRD bullets having had a catastrophic effect on the dead man’s upper body.