None the less, the action cost the 116th Infantry two of its company commanders, one dead, the other wishing he were, his triple amputation promising a mundane life of care, above the few functions he would be able to perform with his remaining leg.
The plan seemed to be working, although the heavy rain made verification more difficult.
Best information put the enemy shadowing force off to the south, following the units of the 11th Guards, as they rolled the attack further away from Barnstorf.
The heavy rain was a double-edged sword, providing good cover for the ground operations, and keeping the potent enemy air force out of the sky, offsetting the loss of visibility, the reduced effectiveness of his artillery support, and the restriction of movement caused by flooding.
Major General Obinin decided, on balance, to accept its presence as a positive.
“All units, attack. Artillery, standby.”
The order was relayed, and the assault group moved forward as one, intent on forcing the Hunte, and opening the way for the 6th Guards Army.
Silently, the lead units moved forward, the rain, if anything, growing in its strength and fury, visibility at a hundred and fifty yards at best.
‘Perfect! Keep raining!’
Blake was drinking more tea, wishing his batman had the skills of the unknown Scottish corporal who had conjured such delights from god knows where.
None the less, he was determined to enjoy the brew.
‘Warm and wet, that’s all a man ever needs.’
Blake had never heard of atheroma.
He stifled a belch.
‘Indigestion.’
He rubbed his chest, convinced the stewed tea had affected him adversely.
Another piece of atheroma, this one larger, joined the first, starting on its own short journey.
The first piece lodged in a coronary artery, diameter reduced by the build-up of fatty material, complimented by years of bodily abuse, the effects moving quickly beyond simple indigestion in a blink of an eye.
His left arm suddenly became incapable of holding the mug, and it dropped to the ground, smashing noisily. His jaw set firmly, the pain in it causing him to freeze all movement therein.
The second piece of atheroma, a detached piece of fatty deposit from the inside of an artery, came up against the first blockage, and caused a near-perfect seal, resistant to the pressure of blood trying to go on its way.
The pain was intense, cutting through every sensation, every sense, until it was all-pervasive.
Blake slid to the floor, his arms heavy and useless.
Behind the blockage, a long-standing weakness in the coronary artery decided that its time had come, and the artery gave way under the pressure build-up caused by the pumping of the heart itself.
The commander of the 154th Brigade was dead before he could blink.
“Stand to! Stand to! ‘Undreds of the bas!”
The Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders were caught unawares, but quickly recovered, although the Soviet rush had made it to within one hundred yards, the volume of fire quickly stopped them in their tracks, dropping men to the sodden roads and pavements, never to rise again.
The Argyle’s Major was on the way to the rear, destined never to fight again, command of the ad hoc company now in the hands of a young Captain, whose heaviest responsibility before this bloody day had been organising the battalion boxing competition.
None the less, Brian Jesmond came from soldier stock, and was up to the task.
Within seconds, he had organised a mortar barrage on the lead elements, and a minute after that, artillery started to fall on the echelons behind.
As dictated by the Soviet battle plan, contact meant that their own artillery and mortars commenced firing, falling behind the river, restricting the movement of the local reserves.
To the north, Soviet forces were rushing the river line from Eydelstadt, the survivors of the 31st Guards Rifle Division, intent on pinning the defenders in place at least, although men of the 77th Engineers followed closely behind, in case opportunity arose.
The British 154th Brigade was under greater pressure than before, as much by the surprise of the assault, as its severity.
Back at the courtyard on the Nagelskamp, Ramsey heard the growing sounds of fighting and, along with his men, grew restless, not knowing that Brigadier Blake was unable to issue instructions.
Blake’s 2IC was struggling to control the battle already, thoughts of self-preservation more paramount in his mind.
Without thinking, he had dispatched one of the reserve companies of his 2nd Battalion, directing the men of the 5th/7th Gordon Highlanders to the defences at Walsen, passing them through the local reserve force of the reduced C Company, 2nd Seaforths.
Whilst the fight at Walsen was intense, the commander on the ground was content that he could hold, the assaulting troops being kept at a suitable distance from the water.
All of a sudden, he had an embarrassment of riches, and was able to report confidently that the line would hold.
Kommando Friedrich’s 1st Alarm Kompagnie had shifted north, mirroring a Soviet move, pushing up to a line between Rödenbeck and Aldorf, slotting in beside the other Seaforths, mainly members of the old 2nd Battalion.
Spurred on by the example of some Red Army NCO’s and officers, a handful of brave men tried to swim across and were machine-gunned in the water, Brens, Stens, and Enfields turning the water maroon with blood.
There was no room for mercy on the Hunte that day.
However, there was opportunity for error, and the petrified acting Brigade commander made more gaffs, as he struggled with his inner demons.
The remaining company of 2nd Battalion, more Gordon Highlanders, was sent forward into the mill, at the main road bridge, compacting the defenders, bringing problems as enemy mortar fire started to yield three or four casualties a shell, rather than the one or two had the units been properly spaced.
Junior officers and NCO’s tried to sort out the problems, some of them joining the ranks of the fallen, as they bravely exposed themselves in the effort.
At the bridge itself, Soviet infantry swarmed forward, accepting terrible losses for speed of advance, a brave rush bringing the survivors to the ruins next to the east bank.
Grenades flew one way, and then the other, casualties screaming as flesh was sliced by hot metal.
As if to try and mask the sounds of suffering, the rain redoubled its efforts, the noise drowning out screams and gunfire to all those but those closest.
Five hundred yards upstream, the fight for the middle bridge was intense, the assault force being backed up by some tanks, including those still bogged down from earlier attacks.
1st Black Watch were exhausted, but still fighting, their casualties higher than other units, as the Soviet mortars proved more effective, causing many casualties with tree bursts.
The commander urgently called for assistance, knowing that his position was dire.
A Soviet mortar shell had landed alongside one of the old Vickers, tossing it forcefully into the air.
It dangled from the tree still, accompanied by the detritus of its gunner.
Two men had been wounded trying to knock it back down to earth before the attempt at recovery was abandoned.
The other machine-gun continued to wreak havoc with the advancing Soviet infantry, although they had taken to crawling forward, their bellies deep in the mud and puddles, edging closer to the river line.