‘Fucking misfire!’
The leading enemy soldier threw himself over the trench parapet, colliding with the US officer and sending both into a disorderly pile of arms and legs, falling on top of the wounded machine-gunner.
His screams added to the animal-like snarls as the two men struggled for a handhold.
Other Russians leapt in.
Some fell in, riddled with bullets; others dropped onto the snow short of their objective.
Rosenberg sensed rather than saw the danger, and flung himself aside as he shouted.
“Grenade!”
The charge went off, adding four more men to the growing total of wounded.
A Soviet officer, his own white all-in-one stained heavily with blood, dispatched two of the wounded with his PPd before Scharf, his immaculate appearance ravaged by the intense combat, dropped him with a burst from his SMG.
By now, Hässler had gained the ascendency, both his hands choking the life from his weakened opponent, the man’s own efforts being solely concentrated on trying to prise the iron grip from his throat.
He failed, and Hässler relaxed his grip as a new flare burst and revealed inert and glassy eyes.
Dragging the dead Russian off the machine-gunner, he checked the man quickly and discovered he was still alive.
“Medic!”
Out of breath, he looked around for his Garand. Grabbing the weapon, he had no time to check the misfire before a Soviet soldier appeared in the trench.
The soldier lunged forward with his Mosin rifle, trying to drive the bayonet through Hässler’s stomach.
Lurching to one side, Hässler parried the thrust with the Garand, deflecting the line of the blade, before allowing the man’s momentum to bring him onto a short swing of the rifle butt.
The blow demolished teeth and bone, as the butt plate easily won the contest between metal and flesh.
Dropping onto his knees, the Soviet soldier clutched at his ruined face. Hässler, his eyes performing a quick check to make sure he was not immediately threatened, performed another short arm jab with the Garand, this time from behind, crashing the butt into the rear of the soldier’s skull.
Death was instantaneous.
A quick look revealed nothing immediately wrong with the Garand, but he decided against attending to it now, preferring to rely on his automatic pistol.
A scrabbling sound made him swivel and point the Colt, but his reactions held firm, preventing him from shooting one of his own medics… just.
“Fuck!”
“Jeez Lootenant!”
There was no more to be said.
Leaving the man to tend to the machine-gunner, Hässler risked a quick look over the parapet. Although only one flare provided any light, fizzing away as it reached the end of its life.
There was no movement.
He then became aware that there were no sounds of fighting from within his positions.
Deciding to remain and cover the medic while he worked, Hässler alternated between looking over the silent snows in front of the position, to checking the sounds of movement further down the trench line.
“Herr Leutnant Hässler?”
“Here.”
Scharf stuck his head round the trench wall, his MP-40 held ready for any eventuality.
“Alles klar?”
Hässler nodded and relaxed.
“Alles klar, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Scharf unwound from his crouched position and moved into the gun position.
Two of Rosenberg’s party followed him in, assisting the medic to evacuate the wounded gunner.
When the party had moved out of the position, two more men entered to take over the .30cal, leaving Hässler and Scharf free to move back.
Rosenberg was crouched at the junction of the trench and platoon HQ bunker.
“Shalom, shalom. Thought they’d done for you for a moment.”
Hässler shrugged in a manner that let his friend know that things had been tight.
“Report, Rosie.”
“We’re clean. No more bad guys in our positions. Including your two .30cal boys, eight casualties.”
Rosenberg’s unspoken enquiry brought an immediate response.
“Plus one dead, one wounded, bad.”
Rosenberg nodded.
“OK, that makes it six dead, four wounded. All the bad guys are down. Four are prisoners, but two of those ain’t gonna make it. That will make nine of them down in our positions, who knows how many out there.”
Nodding his head towards the mined area, he wiped at his face, removing some irritating dirt from his cheeks.
“We’re secure and the raiding party’s spread out here to keep the numbers up. The reserve moved up, of course, and is being held back at the bowl.”
He referred to an area just behind the platoon HQ, where a small spinney, set in a round depression, provided excellent cover for the back-up, should they be needed.
“Thanks Rosie. You stay here and keep this lot tight. I’m going to report this and have a chat with our prisoners.”
He slapped his old friend on the arm.
“Good effort, Sergeant, We’ll make a soldier of you yet.”
“Feh! Same old shtick. You wouldn’t know a good soldier if you saw one.”
The two parted to the sound of laughter.
Scharf had sustained a wound, although for the life of him, he had no idea how or when.
It looked like a bullet graze to the medic who cleaned the shallow scrape in the German officer’s side.
Stripped to the waist, Scharf was exactly the same shade of white as the wounded Russian who was similarly undressed, his own shoulder wound already dressed by the medic.
Using the little Russian language at his disposal, Scharf attempted to interrogate the Soviet NCO, but fell short of understanding anything of value in the conversation.
However, the cameo presented Hässler with a great deal of information on the enemy opposite his position.
Scharf was solidly built, muscular and well proportioned, a fact emphasised by the complete opposite presentation of the Soviet soldier.
His ribs were apparent, his muscles less pronounced, and generally, the man’s physique seemed to have suffered great deprivations.
Calling a guard to take the man away, Hässler lit two cigarettes, passing one to Scharf as he redressed.
“So?”
Scharf took a deep draw on the Chesterfield.
“Remarkable, Herr Leutnant. The man’s from a guard unit. They get the best of everything in the Red Army.”
Hässler hadn’t known that, and the simple fact made the discovery more important.
Drawing deeply on his cigarette, his eyes bored into those of the German.
“And yet?”
Scharf nodded his understanding.
“And yet they are starving.”
Hassler stood abruptly.
“Skinny as fuck. This I gotta phone in, Herr Oberleutnant.”
The communication caused a ripple effect all the way to Bradley’s desk, where it arrived, annotated by the various officers across whose bows it had travelled, complete with the latest intelligence reports on Red Army logistics.
It all made tantalising reading.
‘Munitions over food? Surely not?’
Bradley mused on the why’s and wherefore’s.
He dialled in a number.
“This report on the starving commie soldier. Get it all firmed up and revaluate our reports on Soviet logistics. On my desk by 1500 sharp. I want this to be with SHAEF today.”
Putting the phone down on his Intelligence chief, Bradley suddenly felt a lightness spread in his body, a feeling that something had changed, something positive for the Allied cause, a something that would help them down the road to victory.
The phone was in his hand again. He could not overcome the feeling of elation and needed to share it quickly.