He grimaced as he recognised two notations in prime position.
‘Shit.’
“George.”
Lieutenant Colonel George S Williams, commander of the 2nd Ranger Battalion, had already worked it out and knew what was coming.
“Yes, Sir.”
His voice betrayed him.
“You got Neuwiller and Petite Pierre, George. Just get in there and keep them ours. The Legion boys are having one hell of a time.”
Pierce wished it could be otherwise, but the 2nd Rangers was it. He still tried to sweeten the pill.
“I’ll shake you out some armored support… and some artillery too, George.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Your orders are to move to Petite Pierre, through Neuwiller, as quickly as possible. You’ll defend both villages in harness with the Legion Mountain Battalion in situ… and you will not, repeat not, relinquish your hold on them. When the 2nd Division arrives, then give ’em Pierre, and focus on Neuwiller. Are we clear, George?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The 2nd Rangers had been to hell and back over the last few days, and had been placed in a rear position to recuperate. The Soviet counter-attack changed that but they, as well as their commander, were tired and washed out.
Pierce knew this, but difficult decisions are always the privilege of rank.
“Good luck, George. Get your boys moving. I’ll send the support to… Griesbach… to rendezvous with you.”
Williams saluted and turned on his heel, followed by the other Ranger officer. Both men had arrived the evening beforehand to plead in person for some reinforcements and time out of the line, and now left with a half-cocked mission that would cost more Ranger lives.
As he watched their backs, Pierce felt a spreading chill of belief that he was sending them into the fires of hell.
‘Goddamnit!’
Daring to venture outside once more, Rettlinger rolled across the small gap and crawled up behind the MG position.
He came to rest face down in the crotch of the loader.
The former SS-Gebirgsjager was quite dead, a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth being the only indicator of his passing.
“Just happened, Sturmbannfuhrer. Fucking mortar round.”
To his front, the building was burning fiercely, adding to the illumination from other fires that were gradually claiming Petite Pierre from end to end.
Cradling the ammo belt in his left hand, Ackerman pulled the weapon’s trigger, sending round after round into a group of enemy soldiers forming for a rush.
“Could do with some more ammo, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Casting his eye around, Rettlinger could only see the one belt, and that was around the fresh corpse.
Pulling the man up, the cause of death became apparent as the head lolled to one side, and a huge hole was revealed in the rear of the soldier’s skull and neck.
Derbo clipped the fifty round belt to the end of the one already inserted into the deadly machine-gun.
“I’ll get more to you as soon as I can.”
Rettlinger didn’t wait for a response and threw himself back across the gap and into the doorway of the headquarters.
Scrambling further inside, he grunted in pain, his wounded arm announcing its displeasure at a thumping impact with the doorframe.
“Sanders! Grab as many of those as you can carry and act as loader on the ‘42 outside.”
The Sergeant, once an Oberscharfuhrer in the 24th SS Gebirgs Division “Karstjager”, moved swiftly to obey, snatching up four boxes of ammunition and disappearing from sight.
“What news, menschen?”
“General Pierce’s coming from the east; he’s moving his forces now, Commandant. Nothing from the western force, but we are assured they are on their way.”
The French officer was clearly rattled but still doing his job, not prepared to let his country down in the face of the Germans.
“Good. And us?”
Milke, the Battalions Operations officer, produced a hand drawn map.
“Sturmbannfuhrer. This is our perimeter. We may still be able to breakout to the south-west… if you order it.
The short Captain waited for a moment to let Derbo think on that.
“Do we have orders to withdraw, Hauptsturmfuhrer?”
“No, Sir. General Lavalle’s orders are to remain in place for as long as possible. This is an important junction, and it protects the Amerikan Panzers rear.”
“Then we move on to matters of defence.”
“Sturmbannfuhrer, the untermensch penetrated our lines here, here, here, here, and here. We have counter-attacked successfully here and here. They still hold these other positions. For now, the enemy attacks have stopped.”
“Reserves?”
“Us.”
That drew laughs from the veterans present, which bemused the French reporter, whose German language skills were insufficient to share the joke.
The camera now shared the shoulder quite comfortably with the grease gun, the thrill of killing a new and wondrous thing to him.
Rettlinger consider the sketchy map.
“Well, we must have some bodies. Take them from here, where we have not yet been pressed. One in three… and here also… but make it one in five only. That should give us,” he made the quick calculation. “Thirty-two men.”
Milke made it less, but he would manage to find the extra bodies to make his commander’s maths a reality.
“Right, that’s one twenty man storm group. Who to command?”
All but the reporter stepped forward.
“Koch. Plug any hole, retake any position. Reform your men once the situation is restored. Klar?”
“Zu befehl, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“The remainder will be positioned here under my command. Any questions?”
The Mountain Battalion made its preparations for the next bloodletting.
“Hell yes! We’re going to war, Major. We’re goddamned going to war!”
Major Carter had already seen enough of what war had to offer, unlike his new Regimental commander, a recent arrival, sent to replace the one recently promoted to be Cheif of Staff for an infantry division just arrived in theatre..
Colonel Albert Mortimer James Jnr was a stereotypical pompous asshole, portraying himself as a ‘Southern gentlemen’, but who was, in reality, a man who existed without many of the redeeming features of those he so badly caricatured.
His Regiment had been banded together with some extra support elements, rebranded as Task Force James, and hastily sent to the support of the French Foreign Legion forces now floundering in the face of the increased Soviet military presence.
He saw himself as Custer-like figure, leading his men to the rescue, and had said so a number of times.
Carter, a student of American History, glibly reminded him of Custer’s fate, which reasonable observation earned him a fifteen minute tirade.
James apart, the leadership of the Task Force were all combat veterans, so the tanks and infantry were soon rolling towards their rendezvous with the Legion at Neuwiller.
The column of smoke and the noise of the explosions announced the problem before the radio crackled into life.
Colonel James was relieving himself outside the command track, so it fell to Carter to receive the report of contact from the lead elements at Petersbach, three kilometres up Route 9.
The point, part of the 2nd Recon Troop, had taken solid hits on the outskirts of Petersbach, losing two vehicles to enemy fire.
The unit’s commander was calm enough to identify T-34 tanks as responsible for the ambush.