The Rangers’ commander had suffered no wound that could be seen, but was insensible and could not be roused, having been thrown from the jeep by the force of the explosion. He came to rest in a snow drift that received him far more gently than a stout tree accepted the Colonel’s driver. The dead man remained wrapped around it in an embrace of death, his bones shattered by the unforgiving immoveable trunk, his ankles almost touching the top of his head.
Barkmann shifted his eyes from the sight and concentrated on the job in hand.
“Ok fellahs, we’ve got some more armor now. Rocket-equipped Shermans. They can get close enough to put down a world of hurt on the Commies in the tree line.”
The Sherman concealed nearby fired at something distant and, even through the sound of the steady enemy barrage, the officer group heard whoops of joy celebrating that something with a Red Star on it died.
The tank’s commander, the senior man of B Company, 5th Tank Battalion, celebrated with a smile and a joke.
“Seems like the boys are doing ok without me!”
Barkmann spread his map on the pile of snow that counted as a table.
“Captain, the 712th boys wanna go in just behind you. They need to get closer.”
“Makes sense,” Captain Ewing conceded, “They’ve only got the 75, so they’re under gunned for this party.”
Barkmann nodded and accepted a cigarette with a snort of derision.
“Still smoking these goddamned corks, Al?”
Gesualdo pretended offence.
“Only Herbert Tareyton’s for me, Lukas. My body’s a temple.”
Barkmann took a deep draw and feigned disgust before continuing.
“We’re going to go on 0830.”
He looked around the other Ranger officers, the weariness evident on each dirty and bloody face.
“Those Legion boys need us. Reports are that they are close to being overrun in Pierre. There’s nothin’ from Neuwiller at all. The northern relief force has run into a whole bunch of trouble. It’s stuck and going nowhere fast.
“So, it’s the normal shitty deal, but it seems that it’s all up to us.”
“So, we lead the way again, eh?”
“Very poetic, Al. I’ll remember that.”
Gesualdo had referred to a statement made by General Cota, in Normandy, which later became the basis of the Ranger motto.
“The attack will focus on the flanks… here and here,” Barkmann pointed out the tracks that ran parallel to, and north and south of, the main road, Route 233.
“We’ll push hard both sides, and then close around their positions like a jaw. Once we’ve done that, we’ll re-evaluate but old man Pierce wants our asses in Neuwiller pronto. We have the promise of some air, but not yet. Arty is available as before. The 712th will plaster the wood line as soon as they’re in range, but remember, the goddamn things fly everywhere, so keep tight and don’t push up too far until they’ve pulled their show. ‘Kay?”
Murmurs of understanding were enough for him to proceed further.
“I have 0820…on my mark… three… two… one… mark.”
Watches were synchronised.
“Right. Keep your heads down, but push hard. Those Legion boys are counting on us. Questions?”
“Yep. Your boys riding or walking?”
Inside, Barkmann scolded himself. His Rangers would know automatically, but not the tank officer.
“Shit. Apologies. Tight in behind, I think, No sense in creating targets for their MG’s.”
Ewing nodded.
“Right, anything else?”
The silence told him all he needed to know.
“0830 it is. Good luck.”
The group broke up, leaving Gesualdo and Barkmann finishing up their cigarettes.
"Task Force Barkmann, eh?"
"So Pierce now calls us, Al."
"I’m honoured to fight alongside such a famous warrior."
"Fuck off."
Both men sniggered, then fell into silence again.
“Something occurred to me before the briefing, Al. Weird.”
“I figured. You think too goddamned much.”
The smile betrayed Gesualdo despite the deadpan delivery.
“Legion Etrangere.”
“Yes, the Foreign Legion. Top of the class, Lukas.”
“No, you pea brain. Look.”
Barkmann wrote it out in his notebook and showed it to his friend.
“Ah, I see… well I’m damned. A sign… or a divine message perhaps?”
They chuckled, and finished their cigarettes.
Barkmann took one last look at the pad before putting it away.
Shaking hands with Gesualdo, they went their separate ways.
As Gesualdo dropped down beside his own NCO’s, he could still recall the message that Barkmann had penned.
‘l-e-g-i-o-n e-t R-A-N-G-E-R-e.’
‘Son of a bitch.’
Ewing’s Shermans were doing great work, burning and smoking enemy vehicles and guns were littered throughout the Soviet positions, marking success after success. Not without cost. Four of the 5th Battalion’s Shermans had been knocked out of the fight in as many minutes.
Ranger casualties had been very light, even to those groups whose metal shields had been knocked out.
However, some unheard command changed all that, as the edge of the woods came alive with spitting fire, a veritable hail of bullets searching the battlefield for soft flesh.
Barkmann’s soldiers started to die.
He dropped into a small gully, his own tank cover left behind, engulfed in flames where some large shell had stopped it dead.
Raising his binoculars, he felt a frustration that the Calliopes had not yet done their job.
Sweeping either side of his position, his company was moving up the slower central route, one damaged tank caught his eye.
“Goddamnit!”
“Sir?”
“One of the 712th has been disabled already, and they still haven’t fired.”
First Sergeant Ford was an old hand, and had an alternate explanation for the one that was foremost in his officer’s mind.
“It’d be easy for them boys to loose off their whizz-bangs and bug out, wouldn’t it? They’re just doing it proper and getting in range, Lootenant.”
To Barkmann, the army consisted of the 2nd Rangers, and then some other units. He considered Ford’s words.
“Fair comment.”
He dropped his binoculars to his chest, and prepared to advance. The 712th then showed what they could do.
“What the fuck?”
The remaining six T-34 Calliope tanks started to unload their 4.2” rockets, sixty each, the tube sets aimed simply by adjusting the main gun on each tank.
It was an awesome sight, but more so when the rockets arrived on target.
Whilst the rockets were relatively inaccurate, there were a hell of a lot of them, and the 712th transformed the Alsatian landscape into a montage from the Great War.
Grabbing the radio from his operator, Barkmann spoke rapidly.
“Boxer-Six, Boxer-Six to all units, all units. Press in hard and fast, roll over them whilst they’re still reeling. Out”
The responses came back as he passed the handset on and sprang forward, followed by the rest of his company, green Ranger uniforms contrasted by the snow.
Across the battlefield, infantry and tanks pressed forward, although the tanks sensibly kept close to their infantry protectors.
The 712th pushed in tight, wisely as it proved, for the Soviet artillery started to hammer the ground in front of the ravaged defensive position. Most shells fell uselessly on unoccupied ground.
A bullet tugged at Barkmann’s trousers, the hot metal sliding across the side of his calf painfully. Perversely, it also cut through the euphoria caused by the Calliope strike, and brought his ankle problem to the fore.