Baines, the NCO in command of the nearest track, missed the message, but knew his trade well enough to order his M5 into some excellent cover, mainly provided by a thick stone wall.
The woods swallowed up the rest of the men and machines, as Love Company pulled back.
There was a sudden silence in Towers’ ear, as the insistent voice stopped demanding situation reports, offering him a chance to reply.
Towers shouted back into the radio, blood flying from his lips, split open when he collided with the back of the driver’s seat.
“Jupiter Six, I’ve five tracks down, including my air co-op… probably twenty of my boys outta the fight. Can’t advance without armor, Sir. The commies have got heavy MG’s cited everywhere to my front, some to my flanks. Mortars coming in all over, accurate too. Ground’s open and all white. No cover at all. I’ve a hatful of men down… I need air… and more men and tanks…above all tanks. Over.”
A mortar shell sent snow and pieces of undergrowth flying over the frozen pond he was sheltering beside.
“Jupiter Six, yessir, that’ll be great. I’ll wait for them to arrive…”
Apparently, that was not the Colonel’s plan.
“Say again, Jupiter Six.”
Towers found himself hugging the snow as the angry zips of passing bullets seemed to grow in intensity and volume.
“Jupiter Six, I know that, Sir, but suicide’s still suicide, and that’s just what you’re ordering me to do.”
Removing the handset from his ear, the exasperated infantryman calmly handed it back to the radio operator and then exploded
“Goddamned son of a fucking bitch!”
A figure tumbled in beside Towers, sending up a flurry of snow.
“Goddammit, soldier!”
Wiping the snow from his face, Towers checked out his panting 2IC.
“You’re hit, Harold.”
“Just a scratch, Cap’n.”
Henderson played with the material, demonstrating the passage of a bullet.
“Get that arm looked as at soon as you can, Harold.”
“It can wait, Cap’n.”
Towers held out his map, ending the exchange.
“We’re here. They’re here, here and… I guess… here.”
“Definitely seen fire coming from the road ahead. Nothing from those trees yet though, Cap’n.”
“Forget air. It’s all gone sour… Colonel Bell, bless him, wants us to push on a-sap… straight up the goddamned road. Barrel through, he says.”
Henderson wrinkled his nose up in disgust.
“Well, that ain’t happ’nin is it?”
“No way. Neither am I going into the woods to the right there. That stinks to me.”
The two pored over the map, subconsciously registering the decrease in enemy fire.
“Here, Harold, just here. That’s where I’m going. I’ll leave you some of the boys, plus the heavy weapons… and the arty boys. All you gotta do is make enough noise to keep them occupied. I’m going to hook up here, moving left, almost to Baasem… and then come hard up these roads, parallel with Route 110.”
It was a plan, better than the frontal assault ordered, but the area was restrictive, as was the timescale placed upon the 90th Division, pressure that had cascaded down to find a place firmly on the shoulders of Captain William Speke Towers, commanding Love Company, 359th Infantry.
Both men risked a look over the edge of their cover.
Towers gesticulated right then left.
“Over there, see? Looks perfect, don’t it? Bet yer ass they’ve sown it all up ready. On the left flank here it’s more open in many ways, but I reckon we can deploy out of sight, and use those tracks and the hedges to get close enough.”
Henderson could see the reasoning behind the call, but still felt that the left was too exposed, and said so.
“I hear you, Harold. But we’re behind the goddamned eight-ball. Can’t stay here, and we can’t go straight up the road, so it’s the best I can do.”
A mortar shell arrived nearby, making both men duck. The screams that followed drew their gaze, and the cries of ‘medic’ told them all they needed to know.
“Goddamnit! I’m moving off at 1230. Get your heavy weps online to support me.”
He consulted the map once more.
"I think the airfield, up on the left flank here, may be necessary, once we’ve taken the village, but have your boys ready to switch fire to this area here," Towers circled a patch of trees and open ground around Route 110 as it wended its way northwest, past the old Luftwaffe Dahlemer airfield.
"If any surprises come, I want the heavy weps ready to put down some fire on it, ok? I’ll dial Travers in on that location too."
He checked the air, almost as a dog does when sensing change.
“Best shift the boys some. Betcha this is all vectored too. Keep a good eye on the right flank there, just in case, Harold. I don’t trust those woods. And if the tanks turn up, make sure they come to me first, but hang on to enough to make noise up the main road, ok?”
“Gotcha, Cap’n. Good luck, sir.”
“And to you, Lieutenant.”
Towers checked first and leapt up, running for all he was worth towards the halftrack he had shouted at earlier. He arrived, breathless and aching, his backside reminding him of its recent brush with Soviet metal.
The radioman barrelled into him, helped by the nearby explosion of something larger than a mortar.
The wood that Towers had declined to occupy disappeared in a volley of Katyusha rockets, fired by a unit missed by the ground attack squadrons.
Towers got his men into position, and found enough time for a face to face with the Artillery support officer.
2nd Lieutenant Travers had upped his game since the mistakes on the Argen River, and the 359th had managed to keep him close, getting him transferred into the 345th Field Artillery.
Sergeant Baines welcomed the arrival of his CO with a wave, his own facial injury preventing effective communication for the moment.
A piece of mortar shell had removed four of his teeth and opened his cheek from ear to lips.
It hurt, and bled like hell.
Back on the radio, Towers briefed in the platoons he was taking with him and then checked his watch.
‘Time to get moving.’
“OK Driver. Move over to the left there. Nice and steady.”
He grabbed at the .30 cal side mount as the halftrack surged backwards.
Placing a reassuring hand on the young driver’s shoulder, Towers tried to calm the frightened boy.
“Easy, son, easy. Try not to shake the old man around too much, eh?”
Again, the halftrack surged, causing him to grab at the mount again, this time moving forward and to the left, but with more control this time.
Dropping his mouth down to ear level, Towers gave the driver directions.
The halftrack stopped behind a wooden barn, adjacent to another vehicle, this one undoubtedly belonging to First Sergeant Micco.
Most of Love Companies tracks sported a .50cal as main armament, with two .30cal on either side.
Micco’s track benefitted from some serious scrounging; the .30’s had been replaced with .50’s, the pulpit .50 removed and the position field modified to take a 20mm Oerlikon.
It gave the unit an extra bit of firepower, and Micco was Micco, so even Towers let it go.
Acknowledging the wave from Micco, Towers spoke into the radio.
“Tombstone Four-Six to all stations Tombstone Four-Two, Tombstone Four-Three, move ’em out.”
Two platoons of Tower’s company pushed forward out into the fields to the west of Route 110, seeking out the tracks that would take them closer to Dahlem, willing the halftracks to shrink beneath the level of the vegetation that covered the approach route.