The M-101f had a fragmentation core instead of the supplementary charge, which made it a great shrapnel killer. Combined with the T-76E1 proximity fuse, the 155mm shell was an airburst with immense killing potential.
The effect upon the massed soldiers of the 513rd Motorised was similar to the simultaneous firing of a hundred shotguns.
Men went down everywhere, including inside the church, as the angle of burst inevitable propelled metal in through the windows and other holes in the structure.
Fanaticism had driven the young Soviet soldiers all the way to stand toe to toe with their enemy; the carnage and inevitability of death in the open herded them into the church, despite dying in their droves.
“Keep it up, Kameraden! They’ll break… they’ll break!”
For every two or three that went down under an MP-40 burst, one got close enough to grapple with one of Scharf’s men, and within seconds, only Schneider and Scharf were not close up and personal with a screaming Russian.
Swinging his Gewehr from side to side, the Oberleutnant selected single targets, where there was no risk of hitting his own men.
In front of him, superior size and build, combined with years of experience, meant that the landser were killing and wounding in great numbers, but occasionally a veteran would go down, allowing more enemy into the fight.
An American shell, its fuse faulty, crashed into the ground in front of the main entrance.
Outside, there was carnage.
In the entranceway, there was carnage.
The shrapnel and pieces of stone pathway continued through the men fighting in the main church, cutting down German and Russian without favour.
Even though he was appalled, Von Scharf seized the moment.
“Fall back, on me! Menschen! Fall back on me!”
Disciplined as ever, the survivors moved quickly back to the corner area, removing the threat of a rear attack.
The Soviet boy soldiers threw themselves forward again, perhaps realising that the end was near for one or other of the two combatants.
Scharf put a bullet through the face of a blonde haired youth. The scream pierced every ear and went on for some time.
Caught as he inserted his last magazine, the Oberleutnant could only parry the thrust of a bayonet.
The momentum carried the enemy soldier forward and Scharf swung the Gewehr, slamming the butt into the left ear and mashing the skull in an instant.
The next attacker received two bullets in the chest.
Schneider was puffing and squealing as he rolled over on top of another boy, one of heavier build and greater strength than most, trying to throttle the life from the Russian.
Wading in quickly, Scharf kicked out, landing hard on the boy’s forehead as he squirmed his head from side to side. The stunning blow robbed the Russian of his strength, giving the radio operator time to grab his knife and open up the farm boy’s heart.
A sharp pain focussed Schneider.
The bayonet sliced through his side and then ripped the flesh as the weight of the thrust carried the weapon forwards.
Instinctively, he turned and flailed with the blade. He was rewarded with a squeal of agony and felt the heavy bump of flesh contacting his hand.
Not that he cared, but the blade had cut across the man’s eyeball, which spilled clear fluid in an instant.
Schneider punched his blade into the soldier’s throat, killing the enemy NCO in a heartbeat.
Von Scharf discharged his Gewehr for the last time, the final round missed its immediate target, but hit enemy flesh in the mass behind.
He bought himself a valuable second by throwing the useless weapon at his next assailant, taking up the Mosin dropped by Schneider’s nemesis.
The enemy’s bayonet thrust rammed hard into the stock and skipped off under Scharf’s right elbow.
Using the damaged butt, the Oberleutnant shoved upwards with his right arm, breaking two of the man’s fingers as they gripped his rifle, before angling off the Soviet soldier’s shoulder without landing a heavy blow.
Another German soldier dispatched the wounded Russian with a butt thrust to the back of the head.
His attention drawn to saving his officer, the man was quickly set on.
Stabbed in the gut by a bayonet, Grun went down and in an instant, he was underneath two boy soldiers, whose combined age was probably less than the veteran Obergefreiter.
Von Scharf moved to help, but was immediately knocked off his feet by two more Russians, ending up in a similar predicament to Grun.
Hands scrabbled at his neck, mouth, and eyes.
The corner of his mouth gave way, splitting towards the right ear in a squirt of blood.
The pain was intense and Von Scharf bellowed.
The split caused the enemy hand to lose purchase. The returning fingers found themselves lodged firmly between Scharf’s teeth as he took three digits down to the bone in an instant.
The other Soviet soldier relinquished his hold on the officer’s throat, as Schneider slammed his bayonet into the back of the man’s skull, scrambling his brains.
A hand came across Von Scharf’s vision, hooking its fingers into the screaming boy’s nose, moving the head up enough to permit a knife to sever anything of value in the soldier’s throat.
Ignoring the hot blood that gushed over him, Scharf pushed away at the dead bodies, trying to regain his feet before another threat arrived.
Keller wiped his knife on the enemy’s greatcoat and held a hand out to his officer.
Köhler arrived with the dead sani’s pack and started to work on Von Scharf’s disfigured face whilst Schneider helped himself to a bandage for his side.
Unteroffizier Keller called his men forward, intent on posting one of the dozen or so survivors on each window, from which the enemy seemed to have melted.
Only two live Russians were in the church, lying amongst their own fallen on the cold floor and moving in the slow and considered fashion of the badly wounded.
The artillery had stopped of its own accord, something that Von Scharf only now appreciated.
Sixteen men remained alive in the end, one of which was still seeing stars; Scarf’s other men would never see anything again.
It appeared that grenades had done for the German wounded at some time during the combat, the alcove in which they had been housed showing clear signs of an explosion.
Only Keller had not acquired a new wound, although his helmet and uniform showed signs of his close calls.
Köhler had sustained another wound, a clip on the thigh; nothing serious but enough to make his eyes water when Schneider bumped against him.
Von Scharf sat on one of the intact pews to take Keller’s report, his face afire with pain.
His watch had been broken at some time in the hand-to-hand fighting so he ‘borrowed’ one from Grun’s corpse, vowing to see it returned to the dead man’s family.
It was midnight.
Keller came to attention in front of him.
Scharf waved him to sit beside him.
“No ceremony now, Unteroffizier. Report.”
At least, that was what he intended to say, but he couldn’t manage an understandable word.
In any case, Keller made his report.
“The enemy has disappeared completely, Herr Oberleutnant. There is no one between us and Berlin, or back to battalion, as far as I can see anyway.”
He coughed violently, probably because of the smoke that invaded every space in sight, then took out his canteen. Scharf refused the proffered container but allowed his NCO a moment to drink.
“The men are keeping watch, and I have the remainder scouring the bodies for ammunition and supplies.”
Keller took another swig.
“It seems that I am the only man unwounded. Fourteen men capable of duty, including yourself, Sir.”