Like an automaton, Von Scharf reloaded.
‘I’m too exposed… too far forward…’
His thoughts were interrupted by calls from his right.
“Oberleutnant! Stay in cover… stay in cover!”
He needed no second invitation.
The corridor burst into life as an MG34, brought up under Keller’s orders, turned most of the doors and walls into matchwood.
“Raus!”
Men swept past Von Scharf’s hiding place, men in German uniform with murder in their hearts.
The firefight at the end of the corridor was brief and one-sided.
Keller appeared, grinning with relief that his officer was relatively unharmed.
“The enemy MG?”
“Kaputt, Herr Oberleutnant. Now, the Sani for you I think.”
The wound in his foot stung to high heaven so, with the position taken and the competent NCOs in charge, Von Scharf was helped to the medical station.
By the time that Von Scharf had returned to lead his men, they had forced the bridge, and Otto Pausch was dead.
Pausch had spotted the opportunity to push across and form a bridgehead, and he was not a man to ignore such gifts when the gods of war presented them.
His orders had taken a good portion of Von Scharf’s remaining force over and into a fan shape around the head of the river bridge.
The old Lieutenant was struck down by enemy mortar fire as he organised the defence, one of only eleven casualties sustained in the crossing.
Riedler’s platoon had fought a bitter battle on the right flank, when Soviet infantry tried to sneak down the west bank behind the bridge assault force.
One of the STUGs had been sent to bolster his defence, but had thrown a track en route, the sound of hammers and curses betraying the hard work the crew were putting in to get their vehicle back into the fight.
The other STUG was still west of the river, its track shattered by a near miss, but in an excellent position to provide support to the defence, as the burning T-34 amply demonstrated, taken out with a single shot through the hull within a few seconds of its appearance.
The ammunition situation was acceptable, but the units over the bridge could not afford to be profligate, especially as the Soviets had it back under direct fire. The German defenders were troubled by mortars whenever something worth shooting at was seen.
Having risked the dash across the bridge, Von Scharf found that the previous owners had left him a more than acceptable bunker from which to exercise command.
“Glad to see you back, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Scharf’s pack had already been brought forward, which pleased him no end.
“We’ve checked the bunker for booby traps, command wires, and demolition charges. Nothing found, Sir.”
“Excellent work, Keller, excellent. Now, do we know where their damned OP is?”
“I have an idea, Sir.”
He moved to the map the Soviets had left behind in their haste.
“My Russian’s a bit rusty but I think that’ll be it there.”
Von Scharf looked at the map like it was gold dust, which it technically was.
“Mein Gott! This has their full position marked out, man.”
“I was going to send it back to battalion, but I thought you’d want a look at it before it went, Sir.”
It was an excellent call by the NCO.
“Right, let me get this copied over quickly and we’ll set about that nest of vipers very shortly,” he tapped the map on a point some two hundred metres away from where he presently stood.
Von Scharf screwed his eyes up, trying to read the legend under the Soviet scrawl, ignoring the growing throbbing in his injured foot.
‘St. Bartholomäus. ’
He searched his memory.
“Ah yes, the flayed saint.”
“Sorry, Sir?”
“St. Bartholomäus was skinned alive.”
Keller screwed his face up at the thought.
“Right, get me a runner so this can go back, and then the STUG can fix the bastards. I’ll radio the Oberstleutnant.”
By the time the runner had arrived, Von Scharf had transferred all he needed to his own map, and the priceless original was quickly sent back to the battalion headquarters.
But all was not well.
Unteroffizier Hermann Keller sensed the tension in the atmosphere as he entered the bunker.
Scharf was seething.
Battalion command had forbidden the destruction of the tower, citing its use for the same purpose under German control as the reason that Von Scarf’s infantry would now lose men negating the enemy OP.
However, he had a job to do.
“We’ll go to the church with… two platoons, I think.”
He added an after-thought.
“Leave Rielder’s lot alone. Let them rest.”
Fig# 146 - Von Scharf’s assault on St Bartholomäus.
The two platoons waited as the seconds clicked away.
There was no sophisticated plan of attack, just the standard fire and movement that marked infantry tactics the world over.
Gathered in the houses overlooking Hospitalergasse, there was a twenty-five metre gap, partially rubble and partially undergrowth, before the advancing troops would find cover again.
Once across that piece of open ground, the two platoons would split and proceed to attack the church from either side, although, to save friendly fire casualties, only second platoon would enter the building itself in the first instance.
1814 became 1815, and the ubiquitous whistle sent third platoon scurrying forward by sections.
Beside Von Scharf, his unit’s sniper took a shot that presented itself and worked the bolt, searching for a second opportunity.
“Herr Oberleutnant, that’s where they sit for sure. I think I just popped an officer in the belfry, and there were other faces too. Heads are down now…”
Von Scharf took his eyes off the advancing platoon as the sniper’s briefing cut short.
The Kar98k barked again.
“Heads are now well and truly down. That’s another of the schwein with lead poisoning, Herr Oberleutnant.”
“Stay here until you hear our grenades, then push up. If safe… only if safe, klar?”
The man hummed his understanding, his eyes firmly glued to the scope.
The whistle sounded on Von Scharf’s lips, and first platoon surged forward.
Ahead, small arms fire started to rattle and grow in volume.
Making an instant decision, Von Scharf waved a hand and took his group left, the platoon’s commander already ahead and to the right.
The section with him sped up demonstrably, as hot metal started to ping around them.
Behind them, two men of their platoon had gone down, as Russian fire spat from upper windows in front of them.
The lieutenant leading his platoon crashed into the rubble face first, as a bullet passed through his throat.
His men surged, opening wider to create more gaps in their line.
Another soldier spun away, his thigh ruined by the passage of a Mosin bullet.
The de facto platoon leader, an experienced Feldwebel, grabbed at a stick grenade as he ran, weaving quickly as he unscrewed the cap and grabbed the cord.
In one easy movement, he lobbed it through the open first floor window, narrowly avoiding the body that was thrown out by the blast.
A landser shot the moaning lump as he ran past.
Inside the building, the defending Soviet soldiers were quickly overtaken by a combination of bullets and bombs.
To save time, Von Scharf detailed one of third platoon’s sections to make up the shortfall in first platoon, adding his own group to third platoon.