The commander of the 5th Battalion’s tanks got a shot away; a high-velocity armor piercing that did just what it was supposed to do.
The young Soviet tank officer was the sole survivor as firstly the shell and then the vehicle innards it displaced, scythed through the four men, two in the hull and two in the turret.
“Sturmbannfuhrer?”
Derbo looked at the orderly bandaging his leg and nodded at the enquiry.
“Feels fine, Willi… thank you.”
He stood up and tested the leg, wincing at the initial pain, but soon getting himself under control.
He patted the old medical orderly on the shoulder.
“I owe you a drink, Kamerad. Are you free later, say, eight o’clock in the promenade bar?”
More than one of the weary Mountain troopers managed a laugh, and more than one was too exhausted to hear.
Rettlinger’s perimeter had shrunk as the Soviet attackers redoubled their efforts, and no one there was under any illusions as to what would happen next.
He was still clinging to the two road junctions, having pulled all his men into the five hundred metre long oval that covered Route 9’s junctions with the 135 and 7.
Actually, he had pulled back nearly all his men, for a small group had become isolated in the village cemetery, on the northeast edge of St Petite Pierre; they were still fighting.
It seemed that the heaviest combat of all rolled through the monuments and headstones, the screams of the frightened and the dying often louder than the sounds of the weapons doing the Grim Reaper’s work.
The fighting had started to lessen, but it had taken nearly an hour for silence to descend on the positions.
Eight men filtered back from the bloodbath in the cemetary
The Castle Lützelstein had already been abandoned, its defence pointless, a few white flags left to shield the handful of wounded that had remained, unable to be moved. They retained their weapons, just in case, and each man had a grenade, should something more unpalatable than death threaten them.
Some seven hundred metres from where the ex-SS officer moved amongst his men, another commander was exhorting his troops to one final huge effort.
“Listen to that, Comrades, listen.”
The sounds of exploding artillery, and the crack of tank cannons were timely.
“That’s the enemy trying to get through to this bunch that we’ve bottled up.”
Astafiev favoured his right leg, a growing bruise on his thigh indicating where he had contacted the tree stump that lay hidden beneath a layer of snow.
“We’ll make one last effort, a final attack. We will overrun them,” the emphasis on ‘will’ made a number of faces swivel his way, “And then prepare this position against the forces that are coming to relieve the SS swine.”
The former identity of the defenders had become known some time beforehand. That information quickly passed from mouth to mouth, bringing an increased savagery to the Siberian’s attacks.
“Comrade Mayor Toralov.”
He looked at the once-immaculate figure, now black from head to toe, and carrying a dozen wounds.
“Comrade, I need one last effort from you.”
Toralov stiffened by way of reply, his broken jaw not permitting anything above a grunt here and there.
“You’ll command the wounded, who’ll all be assembled at this point here.”
Astafiev indicated a pair of houses that had yet to burn, although they had not escaped unscathed.
“On my command, you’ll open up upon the Germanski and keep firing until you see us on their position.”
The Major nodded and eased the PPD on his shoulder, looking around at a few of the men who would share the duty with him.
“The rest of 2nd Battalion will hold behind this position, ready to come forward to prepare the defence, once 1st Battalion has overrun the last defenders.”
The sound of aircraft gave him pause, and the Soviet Colonel looked up as a number of twin-engine aircraft swept over La Petite Pierre without engaging which, for the 415th Rifles, was good, as they bore the white star of the USA.
“Air support, Kameraden. Air support at last. Help is not far away now, so we must stand firm. They’ll come again, and it will be all-out so be aware. We must hold out, not long now, but we must hold out. If we fall, our Amerikan allies will have a hard time of it.”
Such was the perimeter that the Mountain Battalion now occupied, that Rettlinger could see every pile of bricks or scrape in the snow that was held by his men.
The last enemy assault had overrun the new battalion medical post and Koch’s platoon had been unable to take it back.
Koch himself had not returned from the effort and his fate was unclear, with some of his comrades believing him killed as he ran forward, whilst others thought they saw him gain the canvas and wood position.
Either way, an experienced officer had been lost.
Milke was now in command of the emergency unit, reduced to nineteen men, including those who had been retained by Derbo.
“You know what you have to do, Bernhard.”
It wasn’t a question. Ex-Hauptsturmfuhrer Milke was an old and trusted soldier.
“Remember, Kameraden. They are coming for us. You know it; you can hear them coming. Hold on… hold on just a little while longer… and I’ll buy everyone a drink, not just Willi!”
The first laugh was drowned by the arrival of Soviet mortar shells, falling all over the position, no more than 300 metres across at its widest point.
“Hals und Beinbruch, Kameraden!”
Dropping into a low crouch, or as low as such a mountain of a man can get, Rettlinger moved off quickly to his chosen point of defence; the part of his position nearest the enemy.
Heavy firing started behind him, quickly accompanied by the sounds of distress from men recently wounded.
He dropped into his position, struggling for breath, and rubbed his aching thigh, trying to prepare for what he knew came next.
Astafiev had decided to lead his men from the front, and the point he had chosen to attack was the obvious one. The shortest distance between his positions and that of the hated enemy.
He moved amongst his assault force, slapping a shoulder here, or shaking a hand there.
Some distance away, Toralov’s small force had started laying it on thickly as the mortars expended their last few rounds of smoke and HE before dedicating themselves to finding more ammunition to the rear.
Asatafiev risked a look over a broken brick wall, and was greeted with a gift from the gods.
The nearest building was now bathed in smoke from two mortar rounds, the adjacent structure adding more smoke to the situation as fire took hold.
Holding his Tokarev pistol firmly, he stood and yelled at the men of the 1st Battalion.”
“Comrades! To Victory! Urrah!”
The cry grew in three hundred and forty throats as his men rose up with him and plunged across the small but deadly piece of No man’s land, where fire from unsighted enemies plucked the life from man after man.
The momentum was unstoppable and, firing as they ran, the Siberian infantry smashed into the Mountain troopers positions.
At first, submachine guns, grenades and pistols ruled.
One Siberian soldier stumbled through a walkway in a snowdrift and found himself behind a group of three Legion troopers, who themselves were throwing grenades and firing into a struggling section of soldiers caught between some barbed wire and a larger snowdrift.
Even as the grenades exploded and claimed many lives and limbs, the single Siberian killed all three Legionnaires with a prolonged burst at close range, which turned the snow crimson, and decorated it with small pieces of their bodies, blasted away by the sustained fire from the PPSh.