“Stay put and hold!”
Hawkes dropped three running enemy with a swift burst from his Thompson,
“Incoming!”
One grenade was clearly thrown well short, but the other was accurate.
Hawkes threw himself to his left, catching the deadly egg, and throwing it back, all in one movement.
It exploded in front of the position, claiming no victims.
‘Hot damn!’
“Jesus, Sarge, you should be playing for the Yankees!”
There was no time to celebrate, as the mass of enemy grew ever closer.
The .30cal next to Hawkes stopped, the gunner reeling away as two bullets smashed his shoulder.
The loader was already out of the fight, his life claimed by a mortar fragment moments beforehand.
Hawkes dropped to his belly, unceremoniously pushing the wounded gunner out of the way.
The man’s wailing was drowned out by the .30cal resuming its duty.
“Layder, ammo me up!”
The old hand rolled across the side of the position and set to work.
Elsewhere, the attack seemed to be faltering, but, for some reason, the boldest and the bravest all seemed to make for Hawkes’ position.
As they got closer, so the NCO’s voice became louder and louder, almost attracting enemy soldiers to him.
“Fuck off, you bastards, fuck off!”
The barrel swivelled frantically, with only occasional breaks in the relentless stream of bullets.
Three men made a surge and Hawkes swivelled the weapon, knocking them all down in the blink of an eye.
“I said fuck off!”
“Nearly out, Sarge! One belt after this one!”
Without pausing in his personal crusade, Hawkes directed Layder to find some more.
When the temporary loader returned, the firing had ceased.
There were two bullets left on the belt…
…and the Russians had gone.
Out of the nine hundred and thirty men who comprised the 273rd Regiment of the 63rd NKVD Rifle Division, only three hundred and thirty-two returned to their starting positions intact.
The rest lay upon the field, dead, alive and cowering, or wounded, bleeding, wailing, suffering until death made a judgement.
In the tent that served as the 273rd’s HQ, the radio crackled with more orders, the fanatical Divisional Commander ordering another full-frontal attack on the ‘weakly armed’ paratroopers.
“Stand aside, Hagan.”
A single bullet ripped its way through the radio set.
The Lieutenant Colonel, his face like thunder, returned his automatic to his holster.
“Message not received, Comrade Polkovnik!”
NKVD Serzhant Hagan, the now redundant radio operator, stared silently as his commander broke down in tears.
Crisp had gone forward to see the situation for himself, and, in the case of Second Battalion, to see how the replacement leadership was handling matters.
The Soviets had launched another attack, this time aimed at First Battalion.
Most of the infantry were motorised, ranging from motorcycle to half-track, which made it a more dangerous proposition than the assault on Second Battalion.
It had run in close, and some enemy soldiers had made it into the trenches, before being thrown back out by a surge of two reserve platoons from Plötzin.
The paratroopers’ bazookas had proved extremely effective against the infantry vehicles, as well as light tanks that had accompanied the attack, whose rout from the field discouraged the infantry from pressing home the attack just at the moment when pressing might have brought about a breakthrough.
As per the NKVD attack before it, the push by Shtrafbat 299 and elements of the 92nd Motorcycle Battalion withered bloodily, and the survivors fell back.
The Soviet units were in disarray, and it was not until nearly two o’clock that a pair of senior Red Army officers arrived on the field to take charge and organise the disparate units into one coordinated fighting force.
Across No Man’s Land, a quick telephone exchange satisfied Colonel Crisp that the situation was again stable.
Ordering one platoon from each of Third Battalion’s companies to double westwards to form an additional reserve, Crisp quickly organised his regimental assets.
The recently promoted Captain Desandé now found himself as de facto Battalion commander, and, as Crisp slowly smoked his way through a Chesterfield, he watched the young officer grow into the role.
Hawkes arrived and offered up his own report, the commander of C Company having sent him, hoping that the notorious scrounger could also scare up some more ammunition.
Report complete, Hawkes responded to the gesture from Crisp and sat down.
“First Sergeant.”
“Colonel.”
“How are you getting along with those rifles you acquired?”
“Well, Sir… the Sergeant Major has them at the moment. We’re just waiting your say-so.”
‘Simpson didn’t tell them… of course he didn’t.’
“Hell, I need all the firepower I can muster, First Sergeant. Green light from me, just keep me informed.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“How are the boys doing?”
Crisp knew he would get the bottom line from the experienced NCO.
“Most of them are just fine, Colonel. Funnily enough, it’s the veterans who are itchy.”
“How come?”
“They know how these things work, Colonel… how we always end up swinging our balls in the breeze for much longer than the brass say we will.”
“Ain’t that the truth, First Sergeant.”
Hawkes looked at Crisp quizzically, but quickly understood that his Colonel saw himself more as one of the doughs than brass.
“For what it’s worth, Hawkes… I truly believe we just have this one day to stand ‘fore we’re relieved.”
He accepted a cigarette and lit it and Hawkes’ with one easy motion.
“Keep an eye on things in Second for me, ‘kay?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Both men rose and donned their helmets, a distant whooping and cheering suddenly apparent.
The noise of engines revving broke through the human noise.
‘What the…?’
Grabbing his Garand, Crisp stuck his head out of the bunker entrance.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
Hawkes slid in beside Crisp, trying to get a good view of the arriving jeeps.
A Major dismounted from the leading vehicle, waving the remaining fifteen, some towing trailers, into cover behind a large barn.
Once his unit was tucked out of sight, the Major hopped back in his jeep and rode the remaining yards to the CP.
The glider-infantry officer spotted Crisp and dismounted, showing his experience by not saluting.
Once inside the headquarters, military protocol was satisfied before Crisp took the Major’s report.
“Major Field, 327th Glider, Heavy Weapons. General Taylor ordered us over here. Reckoned you need some extra firepower, Sir.”
Crisp nodded enthusiastically.
“We sure do, Major. What do you got for us?”
“I’ve got six vehicle mounted M-20s, and twelve M-18s on tripods, thirty rounds to go with each, plus the crews, Sir.”
Crisp had just been given the capacity to inflict a whole load of extra hurt on any attacker.
The M-18 was a 57mm recoilless rifle with a capability for firing HEAT, High Explosive, and White Phosphorous.
Its bigger brother, the M-20, had a calibre of 75mm, with the same range of shells.
Captain Louis Desandé, proving that he was on the ball, spread out a map of the 501st’s full defensive position before being asked, enabling Crisp and Field to work out how best to utilise the new arrivals.