The defensive fire of the Highlanders also started to slacken, the men tired of firing, refusing even the easy targets of retreating men’s backs, as the Soviet infantry moved away from the field.
Soviet mortars again opened up, this time dropping a mix of HE and smoke, trying to cover the withdrawal.
Green’s backside was hurting like hell, and he could not find a position that was comfortable.
Arching his back, he became aware of one of nature’s glories, the spectacular phenomenon curving across the autumn sky, its colours rich and vibrant, as the sun gave full vent to its powers.
As is the want of every observer of such things, many an eye followed the rainbow’s curves to establish where it came to ground.
Green and Strecher looked at the rainbow, and then looked at each other.
It terminated at the rail bridge, from whence came the sounds of extreme violence, punctuated by the flashes of guns and shells, as the Soviet main assault charged forward.
“Next bridge up river’s under attack too.”
“You don’t shay.”
Hässler slithered in beside Rosenberg, and ignored the usual provocation.
“Well, we have problemsh of our own, Mashter-Shergeant.”
To their front, occasionally obscured by the renewed downpour, but visible enough to see their intention, Soviet infantry were sneaking forward through the sparse wood.
Soviet mortars had been falling for a few minutes now, to their rear, and to little effect, as far as Hässler was concerned.
US artillery was zeroed in on the area either side of the rail track, and 105mm shells were ripping gaps in the loose Soviet formation.
From the direction of Rechtern came crashes, this time recognisable as tank and anti-tank guns, as more bad news visited itself upon the Allied defences.
A recent arrival to the field was a composite group of survivors from the 554th AAA Battalion, now boasting eight SP weapons, and just about enough men to make them function.
The two surviving radars were set up, and immediately went to work mapping out the Soviet mortar positions.
The Red Army had learned the hard way, and now repositioned constantly, in order to avoid the Allies extremely effective counter-battery fire.
The Guards Mortar men of the 36th Rifle Corps had been in constant combat since 6th August, and they knew to relocate, doing so after a standard four shells were launched from their 82mm mortars.
Major Deniken waited in cover with his soldiers, the tired units not yet committed.
His binoculars swept the immediate battlefield, but the spectacle of the full-scale assault was ruined by the downpour.
To the right, mortar men from his own regiment redeployed, moving uncomfortably close to the overgrown hill on which his force was concealed, just east of HülsmeyerStraβe, and a full kilometre from the rail bridge.
He watched as the mortars quickly set up and fired four rounds, relocating again, and becoming lost in the rain as they moved forward into the outskirts of Gothel.
The rain was a huge problem for the tankers, not the least of whom was Arkady Yarishlov, his ability to effectively command virtually lost in the deluge.
The ground to the west of Gothel was sodden, and had already claimed some unwary tankers.
The track known as Hunteholz was suitable, but single file only. Another similar track, Stichweg could be used, but clashed with those forces assaulting the middle bridge.
Yarishlov had made a decision to risk some of his tanks in an attempt to gain good firing positions and the best cover for his infantry support, and so he had committed two companies of T-34’s in column, straight up the railway line. This gained advantage from the harder going, and the height, but at the cost of risking their vulnerable sides to anti-tank weapons, and placing them in a position where they could be more easily seen.
‘Such decisions are the privilege of rank.’
The thought was not a happy one, and he strained through his binoculars to observe how the exposed group was doing.
He had ordered it to advance at good speed, accepting the loss of immediate infantry support for the bonus of kilometres per hour.
The lead tank blossomed into a fireball, and he gripped his binoculars tightly, relief sweeping over him as he realised it was just a mine, and only a track had been lost.
Relief quickly gave way to concern, as the tank seemed to be blocking the route, slewed as it was, almost sideways across the rails.
Relief came again as the second tank pushed past, risking more mines to follow the orders and keep the advance going.
Combat engineers from the 36th Guards Rifle Corps moved up, intent on removing as much of the hidden menace as possible.
Yarishlov switched his attention to the Hunteholz, the combination of rain and trees doing an excellent job at hiding his tankers.
The infantry were pushing on through the woods, and were clearly involved in a heavy fire fight with the enemy soldiers across the river. The frequent flashes illuminated the grey damp world he was trying so hard to decipher.
He had chosen to be here, at the rail bridge assault, because of its key nature. However, the assault through Duste and Rechtern could prove to be the battle winner, and a huge part of him wished to be there too.
That force was led by his 1st Battalion Commander, backed up by a good portion of the 36th Guards Rifle Corps.
Turning in his turret, Yarishlov checked the squat shapes of the four IS-III’s he had positioned in between two small hillocks, either side of a track known as Sonnenkamp.
He had been disappointed when the ‘Regiment’ of heavy tanks he had been promised materialised as four battered tanks, commanded by a young Lieutenant, who barely seemed old enough to drink, let alone command the Soviet Union’s best battle tank.
Still, Kriks had chatted to some of the old lags in the 6th Heavy Tanks, and it seemed their faith in the young man was unshakeable.
Yarishlov was broken from his reverie by the crash of artillery, US 155mm’s hammering the road from Brockmannshausen, hoping to catch support and supply elements in the open.
The shells destroyed grass and wood; nothing more.
He looked back to the railway line again, and was encouraged by what he saw. His tanks had moved on, and none seemed affected by the defensive fire, which increased in volume as he watched.
Ramsey replaced the receiver, puzzled, but none the less in receipt of a direct order.
Blake was nowhere to be seen, believed dead, and the 2IC sounded like he was coming apart at the seams.
None the less, he had ordered Ramsey’s Highlanders to go to the support of the rail bridge defence, an area that he was not supposed to be involved with in any of the discussed defence options.
None the less, the order was there, and had to be obeyed.
“Sarnt-Major, get them up and ready to move immediately. We are off to the railway bridge.”
Robertson was on the case immediately.
“Iain, I want you to take fourth platoon, and bring up all the ammunition you can manage, clear?”
Aitcherson seemed fine, his melancholy shaken off by the presence of the enemy.
“Absolutely, Sir. Shall I take some of the half-tracks?”
Ramsey thought about that.
“Yes, do, but do not bring them up into the combat zone. Load them up, by all means. Drive them forward, but stop short. Move the ammo in by hand, as it will be too risky otherwise.”
A swift look at the map provided him with firmer thoughts.
“Here, Iain, bring your tracks in here,” his finger ran down the length of ‘Immenzaun’, terminating in some railway land, some three hundred metres from the bridge.