‘Lack of movement?’
Before the rebuttal sprang to Malinovsky’s lips, Savvushkin’s eyes betrayed another presence.
“Greetings, Comrade Mayor General.”
Malinovsky turned as the round faced NKVD officer strode in with his normal arrogant gait.
“Greetings, Comrade Marshal. How goes the fight against the Capitalist forces today? It seems their Air Force was very lucky earlier?”
Mayor General Vladimir Budarev was the Chief Counter-Intelligence Officer and Commander of the SMERSH Western Front units, and normally to be found at the European Forces HQ.
He had avoided the destruction of the main headquarters at Nordhausen and was now, acting under instructions from Beria, and ultimately Stalin, moving between the various front command centres and ensuring full Soviet enthusiasm for the unyielding defence and subsequent counter-attacks.
Which, in the present military circumstances, made him a very dangerous man indeed.
Without any hint of sarcasm, Budarev made comment on the map notations.
“So, what skilled plan have you devised to push the fascists back, Comrade Marshal?”
The abundance of arrows were unclear in their meaning to a man like Budarev, whose position had been earned on the basis of political reliability and a fanatical obedience of all orders, not military knowledge
“We are recovering 4th Motorised from the Ahlen area, in order to make the enemy overextend himself.”
Savvushkin moved his hands rapidly around the markings, whilst Malinovsky kept his amusement firmly hidden.
“So, you are conceding ground to the enemy?”
“Yes, we are retiring under orders, whilst still in contact with the enemy. The Marshal has arranged our remaining anti-aircraft assets to cover the build-up of forces as we compress into this area, before launching a counter-attack aimed at relieving Beckum by retaking Hamm.”
Budarev made the noises of a man studying the situation, and both senior officers wondered if he actually believed he was fooling them, or even fooling himself with his ponderings.
“When this is approved, I wish you every success, Comrades. Now, I must report back to the Chairman.”
Formally saluting, Budarev disappeared as silently as he had arrived.
Waiting an appropriate time, Malinovsky looked at his 2IC with a quizzical look.
“So, I’ve ordered my wealth of AA assets to cover a counter-attack against Hamm, have I?”
Savvushkin replied with a deadpan expression.
“Not wholly untrue, Comrade Marshal. A reserve AA regiment has been sent to cover the withdrawal of 4th Mech assets…”
“And Hamm?”
“I suspect that your masterful plan will be overtaken by events.”
Malinovsky slapped his man on the shoulder in his normal hearty fashion.
“Quick thinking, Mikhail.”
Hands on hips, the commander of the 1st Red Banner Army of Soviet Europe eased the stiffness from his back.
“Right, no more worrying about Budarev. Let’s concentrate on saving the 4th and stopping the Allied advance. Give me some alternatives, Comrade.”
Within ten minutes, Malinovsky sent the order that relieved Inutin and replaced him with his 2IC. It was accompanied by another that again ordered 4th Motorised to move back to bring the line level with Beckum, especially as the German attack there had been halted so convincingly.
Part of that repositioning required the defenders of Ahlen to stand and die or, more accurately, to attack and keep Allied attention firmly fixed on the small German town.
4th Motorised was to sacrifice one of its units so that the others could escape.
As the young soldiers of the 513rd charged with fanaticism, the rest of 4th Motorised Army, or at least what was left of it, disengaged and fell back, unobserved in the first instance.
Allied artillery and night attack aircraft harried the retreating columns once the withdrawal was detected, but the Soviet air defence commanders had called upon all of their remaining night fighter assets, and the Allied attacks were often spoiled.
And whilst the movement of divisions took place, the danse macabre in Ahlen reached a peak.
A fortunate by-product of the artillery cover was the amount of firelight that spread around the church, illuminating any enemy movement, whilst the fires themselves denied many areas to the gathering Soviet soldiery.
It was added to by the two burning T-34s, which had both been knocked out by direct strikes from Panzerfausts.
Scharf failed to see it as a success, as only one man from the six who had attacked the tanks returned.
The remains of the five others lay in clear view, three ravaged bodies entwined behind a pile of rubble to the left of his vision; to the right the two others, less distinguishable as German soldiers, the effects of HE having spread the two brave men for yards around.
The sani had finished redressing his foot, and Scharf felt the improvement immediately.
It had been over ninety minutes since the enemy had last attacked and, for young boys, Scharf could only admire the effort that drove them to the walls of the church itself and, in one instance, through a window.
The three enemy bodies had been placed to one side and the position reoccupied by the dwindling defenders.
Scharf had started the assault with sixty-eight men, and achieved the church with a group numbering thirty-one.
One section of eleven men from the other platoon group arrived during a lull and brought his strength up to twenty-seven fit or slightly wounded soldiers; the rest lay either dead or severely wounded amongst the church stalls.
One in two men were presently resting as the other kept watch.
It was a rude awakening as Savvushkin’s alternative arrived on cue.
“Alarm!”
The cries rang out, not only in the church of St Bartholomew, but at the bridgehead, as the commanders of the 513rd Motorised Rifle Division threw their ravaged battalions forward, the sacrificial lambs to cover a swift withdrawal of more valuable units, such as the Guards Engineers.
The defenders cut loose, knocking down the leading attackers, their silhouettes easily picked out against the shifting orange background.
Scores went down, scythed like corn in a field, but there were hundreds more of them.
“Keep it up, menschen!”
Schneider spotted the Soviet stick grenade deflect off the stonework of the small window.
“Grenata!”
He threw himself forward and grabbed the charge, flinging it into the nearby stone recess.
No one even noticed his heroism.
The Soviet pressure was immense and started to tell as weapons flailed at windows, showing where the attackers were close enough to lash out with rifle butt and bayonet.
“Schneider! Don’t leave your radio, man!”
Von Scharf scuttled over as bullets pinged around the stonework.
“Tell Surfer… we’re being overrun… fire on our location immediately!”
Appreciating the significance of the order, Schneider was immediately on the radio and commenced an exchange with the US artilleryman some ten miles away.
Von Scharf caught only one side of the brief conversation.
“Yes, we’re all in the church, over… yes… it’s intact, over… right. Thank you, out.”
Schneider looked at his officer.
“They are firing now. He said they have VT so keep away from the windows.”
Whatever VT was, Scharf decided to take the advice, and immediately got his men to keep their heads down and deal with the enemy outside solely with their few remaining grenades.
Within a few seconds, modified M-101f shells, with proximity fuses, started to arrive around the church.