The other four units of the 116th Infantry either held the Hunte, sat close by ready to respond, or in the case of the 1st Battalion, waited silently in Dreeke and Duste.
The 116th Regiment had absorbed the survivors of the 175th, and was unique in having four reasonable sized battalions, plus Yorke Force.
They would all be needed.
The human wave approached the Hunte, and defending commanders gave the order to fire.
Much of Barnstorf was in ruins already, but the use of defensive artillery, mortars and grenades, did little for the remaining architecture.
The assaulting troops ducked down low, using the rubble and ruins to mask their approach, but the bursts of high explosive often grabbed the running soldiers, tossing men skywards, grim indicators of the progress of the attack.
7th Black Watch was pouring fire down the channels, hacking down any soldiers brave enough to try and form for a direct assault on the bridge.
The Soviets were already seeking a solution, working their way through the wrecked houses and shops, getting closer in safety, if not in sufficient numbers.
Such a group inadvertently betrayed themselves, a helmeted head popping up directly opposite Ramsey’s position.
Two Mills bombs removed the threat quickly and permanently.
Bullets clipped off the road surface around the Black Watch position, as some distant Maxim machine-gun tried to give support, its crew oblivious to the friendly casualties they caused amongst another group, previously enjoying a measure of safety behind the rubble from a collapsed building.
The infantry attack in the town ground to a halt, and the Soviet commander screamed for tank support.
A gaggle of T-34’s pressed forward, confined to the roads, and vulnerable, but none the less answering the call.
Behind the bridge was a piece of high ground, not lofty, but sufficiently raised for an anti-tank gun to be able to work efficiently from its crest.
One of the 61st’s six-pounders barked, the high-velocity shell burning white-hot as it roared down Osnabrücker Straβe, crossing above the bridge and striking the turret of the lead tank, two hundred metres beyond.
Sparks flew, but no great harm was done, the medium tank advancing slowly over the rubble, its machine-guns lashing out at the defending Scots.
Again, the six-pounder fired, this time missing altogether, the gunner almost beside himself with fear.
A steadying hand was placed on his shoulder, the gun commander, a young subaltern, himself a boy of twenty years, calming the frightened youth with his presence and soft words.
The T-34 fired at its tormentor, decapitating the anti-tank officer. The torso stood rigidly in place for a full two seconds, which was long enough for the gunner to put his own shot on target, penetrating the hull and the driver. The shell travelled at high speed through the fighting compartment and exited the rear wall, before the engine block put up enough resistance to prevent further travel.
Thick black smoke filled the street within seconds, enabling the surviving tank crew to get clear unhindered.
The tank behind commenced pushing its damaged compatriot forward, offsetting the risk of track damage for the bonus of extra protection that the smoking hulk offered.
A scream startled Ramsey. The veteran Lance Corporal next to him sank to the ground, clutching what had been his shoulder.
A large chunk had disappeared, leaving ivory bone on open display.
The medic sprang forward, dropping into cover, and immediately setting to work to stem the flow of blood.
The medical orderly didn’t scream when the bullet hit him, his death instantaneous, as the metal passed through the back of his head.
“Stay down, stay down. Sniper has us, Lads.”
“I canna see him, Boss.”
McEwan had his own weapon ready, a beautiful precision engineered Lee-Enfield.
“Well, he has us bang to bloody rights, Corporal!”
Another bullet ended the life of the wounded Lance Corporal.
McEwan whispered in self-congratulation.
“I see ye.”
The muzzle of the Enfield shifted almost imperceptibly and fired, the muzzle flash greatly reduced by the special flashless ammunition McEwan always seemed to have access to.
In less than half a second, the Scot was squealing in pain, as the rifle was hammered from his grasp. A bullet tore away the telescopic sight and struck the body of the rifle, just in front of the redundant rear sight.
His right index finger protruded at a funny angle, dislocated by the impact of the rifle as it was knocked aside.
“Ah jings, but yon man is good!”
“Is good or was good, McEwan?”
“Oh, the bas is still there, Boss. Make nae error on that.”
Staying in cover, Ramsey made a quick assessment. The positions to either side were firing as normal, clearly unseen by the enemy marksman. The assault forces were still not grouped enough to attack successfully, so he estimated he had time to do what was needed.
“Right-ho McEwan. Is that bundook still working?”
The Scot had retrieved the Enfield, showing his open horror at the abuse caused by a Soviet rifle bullet.
“Well, the sights and mounts are fecked.” Almost as if examining the grazes on the knee of a beloved child, McEwan continued his inspection.
“Damage is nae so bad. Rear sight is fine, so I can fire, but I canna vouch for the accuracy n’more, Boss.”
“Will it do the job?”
“Aye, it will do the job for the now, but the bas will have shifted his sen, Boss.”
“Sort your bundook out man, and I will find a way to flush the quarry.”
McEwan’s interest peaked, the opportunity of revenge overtaking common sense.
Patiently, Ramsey alternated between glimpses of the fighting either side of him, and the slow deliberate actions of McEwan reassembling his pride and joy.
He knew better than to rush the man.
A bullet pinged off the brickwork, forcing him back into cover.
Sitting against the wall, with his back to the enemy, the Black Watch Major slid his canteen out and washed away the accumulated smoke and brick dust, his throat welcoming the clear, cool liquid.
‘Dear God, a bloody mirror!’
As he raised his mouth up to drink, his eyes had followed, and there it was. A previously unseen mirror hanging in the hole between floors, perfectly angled for him to see the road to the bridge and beyond.
He watched closely.
Nothing, save two burning T-34’s, the second one having fallen victim to something unseen as it pushed forward.
Robertson scurried through the door, momentarily exposed.
“Get down, Sarnt-Major!”
The bullet must have missed the NCO by no more than an inch.
“Got him. McEwan?” Ramsey looked over to his number one marksman, receiving a businesslike shake of the head, “Junction about two hundred metres up from the bridge. House on the left as you look. Three holes in the roof. Have a careful look at the middle one.”
Slipping his middle finger into the trigger guard, the Corporal edged the rifle carefully into position. McEwan stopped as a barrage of rockets hammered the area behind them, the Guards Mortars firing as fast as they could in support of their infantry comrades.
The rifle moved forward again.
The whine of artillery shells interrupted McEwan’s concentration once more, but this time it was friendly 4.5” shells from the 127th Field Artillery.
The Enfield slipped into position and McEwan took sight on the damaged roof, in time to see the first of two impacts.