A final tug on the canteen and then the exhausted Unteroffizier put it away.
“Herr Oberleutnant, we have two Panzerfausts, no grenades, depending on what they find amongst the enemy dead, no machine-gun ammunition, two clips for the MPs, three for your Gewehr, and no more than five rounds per carbine.”
Von Scharf nodded his understanding.
‘We are finished here…’
He wrote out a swift message for his man to transmit.
Schneider read it back.
“Contact battalion. Tell them we’re not in contact and are withdrawing back to the bridge for 00:10. Sixteen survivors, including wounded. Blue smoke as marker.”
That got a nod of confirmation from his officer.
The funker got through immediately, and although Oberstleutnant Bremer wanted to speak directly to Von Scharf, Schneider deflected him, knowing that his Oberleutnant couldn’t speak.
Raising himself unsteadily, Von Scharf squeezed Keller’s shoulder in thanks and moved off around the men. Whilst unable to talk, he enquired with raised brows or a throaty sound, and each man replied wearily, assuring him of their ability to keep fighting.
It didn’t take him long to do the rounds.
Taking out his notebook, he wrote a swift instruction, showing it to Keller.
It gave command of the short evacuation to the Unteroffizier.
Accepting the coloured smoke grenade, the Unteroffizier nodded his understanding.
Keller called to the men around him.
“Achtung, menschen!”
He detailed those to take the lead, those to bring the wounded, and those to bring up the rear.
“Alles klar?”
Their voices chorused in understanding.
“Marsch!”
The move back was slow and precise.
Two runners were sent to bring back any survivors from the other group.
They returned empty-handed.
The sniper still sat in his prime position, watching the enemy positions through glassy lifeless eyes. How he had died was not immediately apparent, but he was certainly dead.
The small party pushed on, arriving at the T-junction on Weststrasse, just forty metres short of the bridge.
Keller looked at the exhausted men around him.
“One more hop, Kameraden.”
He tossed the smoke grenade ahead and waited until the smoke bathed the street, its blue colour obvious even in the firelight.
“Marsch!”
The survivors moved off and through the smoke, moving as fast as they could, expecting a bullet in the back with every footfall.
No shots were fired, and the leading men emerged to see comrades waving frantically, gesturing at them to speed up.
Man by man, they tumbled into the German positions, where their comrades helped them down the bank to waiting boats, that carried the survivors across the river.
At 0300, a three-pronged assault squeezed the life out of Ahlen and the area around it.
By 0500, apart from a handful of stragglers, 513rd Motorised Rifle Division and a handful of smaller support units had been utterly destroyed, and there seemed to be a hole rent in the Red Army’s defences.
The Allies hailed it as a victory, whereas Malinovsky knew it was actually his victory, and that he had preserved 4th Motorised Army to fight another day.
As in any army at war, there was nothing quite like combat to bring about advancement, and newly-fledged Captain Von Scharf profited from the woundings and deaths of a number of the 266th’s hierarchy.
Whilst he retained his company, the new rank gave him seniority, in the event that Battalion headquarters suffered more of the sort of discomfort such as was inflicted upon it at the end of the Battle of Ahlen.
An extremely rare Soviet air attack had opened up a number of vacancies for experienced men.
Von Scharf had declined Bremer’s invitation to leave his front line post and join him in Battalion.
His refusal had been met with understanding. Bremer was a quality leader, unlike the oaf Major Hinzig, who was 2IC.
Von Scharf and Hinzig had never seen eye to eye. Von Scharf had been through the latest reports from 3rd Korps headquarters and, in the main, the reading was good, with the exception of the 35th Division’s problems south of Oerlinghausen.
A Soviet tank and infantry force had counter-attacked across lands known well to any German tanker; the Sennelager-Paderborn training grounds.
Panzer Brigaden Europa and the 519th Panzerjager Abteilung had quickly slammed the door on the enemy advance, making the lead elements bunch into a rich target for their heavy guns.
The work had been finished by the 13th Sturzkampfstaffel, its dozen JU-87Ds and four HS-129/B3s completing the rout of the large Soviet force.
For good measure, the retreating force also received the unwelcome attention of two flights of Tempest V’s, decked out with the latest Hispano V cannons and topped off with a pair of two hundred and twenty-seven kilo bombs apiece. The after-battle report made great play of the assistance offered by the French pilots of 3e Escadron de Chasse, led by the famous Pierre Clostermann.
1st Panzer-Grenadiere Division again took up the advance but floundered on the slopes of the Teutobergerwald’s high ground.
Part of the 35th Infanterie Division had been assigned to break the defences to the north, and failed bloodily.
Von Scharf sipped his coffee and re-read the concise report of the 35th’s assault.
A knock on the partially ruined door broke his concentration.
“Ah, come in, Unteroffizier. Take a seat, man.”
Von Scharf’s voice was still not normal, but he had mastered the art of making himself understood, even with the stitches that held his cheek together.
“The men are rested?”
“Another two weeks should see them in top shape, Herr Hauptmann.”
“That would be wonderful, of course”
He passed his NCO a coffee.
“Anyway, I think not, Keller. We have orders.”
The Regiment had been withdrawn whilst a Kampfgruppe from 35th Infanterie Division had been moved in. The 266th Infanterie had only two line regiments at the commencement of the assault, with a third one being organised, with a view to reinforcing the division by mid-April. Until then, the 266th needed bolstering from time to time, so Corps command had a force based around the 109th Grenadiere Regiment to lead the way.
That force, Kampfgruppe Aldegger, named after its now deceased Colonel, had run into severe difficulty north of Sennelager and Paderborn training area, successfully driving the Soviet defenders out of Sennestadt and Lippereihe, before grinding to a bloody halt on the hills that run north-west to south-east through the Teutobergerwald.
“Oerlinghausen.”
Passing the map to Keller, Von Scharf took a careful swig from his coffee.
The experienced NCO looked at the map with disgust.
“Marvellous. When do we go, Herr Hauptmann?”
“I haven’t briefed my officers and other NCOs yet! But, as you ask, orders group’ll be here in,” he checked his new watch, “Nineteen minutes. We move off at 0900.”
Keller enjoyed the taste of real coffee and, in savouring the last few dregs, missed his cue to speak.
“Pardon me, Herr Hauptmann.”
“Help yourself to a refill, but leave enough for the briefing.”
Keller needed no second invitation.
“We’ve been handed the prize. Our regiment’s to take a line from Oerlinghausen to Hill 334… the Tönsberg.”
Keller considered the map with this in mind, and quickly offered his considered opinion.
“Scheisse!”
Von Scharf laughed.
“I’ll drink to that.”