The initial explosion blasted the whole of the roof skywards, the top floor accompanying it, as the blast split the upper storey into fragments.
The Soviet sharpshooter was ripped apart, all shape or form lost in the unforgiving process.
As the pieces started to descend, another 4.5” shell plunged through the building, exploding on the fifth step of the basement stairs.
Nine members of the Bergmann family, taking shelter there, evaporated in a split second, never to be seen again.
The whole building imploded, collapsing spectacularly, and killing a dozen Soviet guardsmen as it came to ground around their ears.
Ramsey’s position could now respond, free from the threat of the Soviet marksman, and they added their weight to the defence once more, the stalled attack becoming even more bogged down, as dead bodies and vehicles started to clog the streets.
At the middle bridge, the story was different, there being less cover to mask the Soviet approach, and less cover to grant them some scant refuge from the storm of bullets.
The men of the 1st Black Watch had a score to settle, and they did so, ably supported by two venerable Vickers machine-guns.
Both weapons fired continuously, their water jackets hissing, as the heat generated steam, and steadily consumed the coolant.
Men brought water from the river, or urinated into buckets, anything to keep the guns firing.
The constant rain of bullets matched the driving storm for ferocity, hacking down scores of Soviet infantry as they tried to advance.
It was the nearest thing to murder possible in war, but not one Jock tear was shed, for the 1st had been on the receiving end themselves, and this was payback time.
At the rail bridge, the situation was again different, those attackers to the north of the tracks vulnerable; those to the south better off, gaining cover from the woods and embankment.
The US defenders enjoyed almost limitless supplies of ammunition, and flayed the woods with bursts of .50 and .30 cal from machine-guns spread all along the Hunte.
Again, huge gaps were torn in the Soviet ranks.
T-34’s rushed through, intent on getting into a firing position, and ripping up the defences whilst their infantry comrades formed for another assault.
Equipped with a number of bazookas, the 116th’s doughboys smashed T-34 after T-34, leaving seven dead on the field before the tanks drew off again.
Not without cost, as the bazooka teams themselves took heavy casualties in order to keep the tanks at bay.
The courage of the attacking Russians was impressive, the infantry rising up again, shouting their ‘Urrahs’, and throwing themselves forward, the human wave coming to a high water mark only four yards from the end of the bridge. Its terminus was marked by a pile of bloody bodies, men smashed into the ground by the soldiers of Yorke Force.
As the surviving Soviet guardsmen started to give ground, Yorke stood up and called to his men.
“Up and at ’em, men! Charge!”
Some of the younger soldiers started to rise, only to be dragged back into cover by older hands.
Yorke charged forward, his Thompson spitting at the backs of distant men.
Not one soldier followed.
Each man kept his own thoughts on the fool who disappeared into the rain to their front.
Brigadier Blake was in good form, doing the rounds of his battered, but unbowed, infantry, the sights of the enemy dead in front of the river impressing him greatly.
Ever the stickler for the military niceties, he formally saluted the hallowed piece of ribbon.
Major John Ramsey, 7th Black Watch, returned the salute, and reported on the state of his unit.
“Jolly good work, Ramsey. Tell your boys, a big well done from me.
Old though he may be, with his best soldiering years behind him, you could not help but like the affable old man.
“That I will, Sir. Now, may I offer you tea?”
Again, Blake was impressed, the seemingly empty position suddenly yielding strong hot tea, just as he liked it.
“Thank you, Corporal,” he grinned at the NCO who thrust the mug into his hands, the look fading slightly as he took in the strange angle of the man’s index finger.
Ramsey beat him to it.
“I will get it sorted directly, Sir. Just leaving him be for the moment, but I will sort it.”
The tea was divine, and Blake hated to spoil the moment, but he had made a decision.
“Ramsey, we have about an hour or so before the next phase, if they play the game according to form.”
Plucking a tatty map from his pouch, Blake showed the infantry officer his intentions.
“I want you to wait here until relieved by the Argyles,”
‘That is music to my ears,’
“And set your company up here, at Nagelskamp.”
‘Couldn’t be more perfect,’
“And be ready to act as my reserve force when I call,”
‘Sod it!’
“Just the job for you, eh Ramsey?”
The slight delay was deliberate.
“Delighted, Sir, really.”
“That’s the spirit, old chap!”
“Now, I have arranged for the Argyles to leave enough of their transport there,” he indicated the agreed position, “So you can have mobility in your role.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Command of the 3rd Battalion will now pass to Major Cound of the Argyles, who I have detached from 2nd Battalion, so all you need to worry about is being in the right place at the right time.”
“Now,” he drained the last of his tea, returning the mug to the magically reappeared Corporal, who had clearly been listening from a concealed position, “Get yourself and your men back into reserve, and be ready when I call, and not before I call if you please, there’s a good fellow.”
Throwing up a magnificent salute, Blake was gone in the blink of an eye.
Robertson emerged from the same hidey-hole that had spat out McEwan a moment before.
“Och! Oot of the fucking frying pan, intae the fucking fire, Sah.”
“I think that puts it rather well, Sarnt-Major!”
Ramsey finished his own tea, pressing the mug into McEwan’s reluctant hand.
“Get the men ready to move, once the Argyle’s get here, if you please, Sarnt-Major.”
“Sah!”
Despite the fact that intelligence had briefed them on the probability of a follow-up attack, the defenders were nearly taken off-guard.
The Argyle’s CO, Beattie, an old Major, whose experience, it was humorously rumoured, went back to Balaclava and beyond, had a sudden seizure.
The sight of their commander thrashing around on the floor, frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling in his head, unnerved some, and distracted all.
Inadvertently, the Soviet commander had put in his attack five minutes before schedule, for no other reason than the Artillery’s need to move on with the main body quickly.
Attention strayed from the fitting man to the eastern approaches, once again full of charging enemy infantry.
The Argyles rose to the challenge, and put up a terrific defence, stopping the assault cold, forcing the enemy to again seek the advantage of shelter in the ruins of Barnstorf.
Despite being without a head, the 2nd Battalion still functioned well.
In the flooded fields, west of Gothel, bogged down tanks from the first attack lent their firepower to the second assault, but to no avail, the defences proving too strong. The American and British soldiers recognised the difference between the second half-hearted attack, and the all-out assault of the first wave.