“Get my goddamn vehicle out front, now! Macey, with me. I’m going to visit myself upon them yellow sonsofbitches!”
He waited.
The Colonel, his face betraying the strain of command, concentrated on his watch, the steady growl of the T-44’s engine hardly a distraction.
The second hand swept with agonising slowness, finally reaching its zenith.
Patiently, Yarishlov waited, again, time not his friend.
However, when the expected fire arrived, the results were spectacular. No matter how often you saw a Katyusha Regiment put down a barrage, the sight was still an awesome one.
“All units advance! Driver, forward.”
The T-44 moved gently off, Sergeant Lunin’s skills easing the thirty-five ton beast into motion without so much as a sway.
Ahead of Yarishlov, the entire strength of his 1st Battalion was already edging forward, intent on overrunning the Allied defences on the nearby tributary of the Hunte, along with men from two of the 16th Guards Rifle Division’s shattered regiments, banded together to make a special unit, charged with a single purpose; to cross the Wagenfelder Aue river.
He had switched his own position from the Rail Bridge, expecting his presence would ensure that the 1st Battalion pressed as hard as it could.
Accompanying Yarishlov’s tanks were all the surviving Guardsmen of the recently reinforced 49th Guards Rifle Regiment, under the command of the newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Deniken, and a full battalion of the 77th Engineers waiting to rush forward if things went wrong.
The 49th had taken a hammering over the previous two months, but had been bolstered by the arrival of men from units that were disbanded after receiving heavy casualties, bringing the regiment up to about 75% strength, all being veteran soldiers.
Ahead, the first wave engaged, and the radio waves were filled with the sound of orders and calls for assistance.
The red brick timber mill sat adjacent to the west end of the bridge, its windows sandbagged, indicating its nature as a strongpoint, and the centre of the US bridge defence.
From each window, at least one weapon was being fired, sometimes as many as four. Carbines to heavy machine-guns, the whole range of automatic weapons available to the defenders of the 116th Infantry was on display.
All along the riverbank, foxholes and hastily dug trenches held more men, all of which were up and pouring fire into the advancing Soviet infantry and tanks.
The position was completed by wooden strongpoints, created from interlocked tree trunks, four such positions holding heavy machine guns, two containing anti-tank guns, all at the front line and, further back, another eight providing cover for the mortar support.
The Soviet soldiers were knocked over in great numbers, an individual man often struck by four or five bullets at a time, the defending Americans profligate with ammunition to balance their lack of numbers.
One of the anti-tank guns revealed itself, seeking out a T-34, but the shell went wide of its intended target, wiping through a command group from one of the infantry companies. It left only the senior officer unwounded.
The experienced tankers of the 1st Battalion did not miss in their turn, the wooden structure, and the gun and men it held, disappearing as five HE shells struck home.
A mine claimed the lead tank’s track, an unavoidable problem for the Soviet armour, given the sodden nature of the surrounding fields that confined them to a narrow approach.
The second vehicle immediately moved up and commenced nudging the disable T-34 forward.
Almost immediately, another mine exploded, on the same side as before, sending a pair of heavy road wheels flying.
The tank’s commander emerged from the hatch and waved off the pushing tank.
Once the shoving had stopped, the tank crew attempted to evacuate, the driver’s broken leg fatally slowing him down, his body left hanging from the hatchway. The defending machine-guns switched their attention elsewhere.
The shoving started again when another vehicle moved up, and two more mines exploded as the advance picked up pace.
The second anti-tank gun joined the fight, its solid shot bouncing off the glacis of the abandoned T-34.
A volley of tank shells missed the gun position, but the crew, unnerved and already worn down by weeks of fighting, abandoned their gun, and ran from the field.
From his own command bunker, Ramirez observed the slow but inexorable advance of the tanks.
He motioned to Oakley, knowing that he could be sending his friend to his death.
“Captain Oakley, I need that gun in action a-sap. Take three men from the Reserve platoon; get it up and running yesterday. Clear?”
His delivery was matter-of-fact, cold, impersonal, all designed to hide his anguish.
“You got it, Major.”
Returning to his binoculars, Ramirez could hear the Captain sorting out a small group from the reserve, shaking out men with some AT experience. Then it was quieter again, the would-be gun crew moving off at speed.
To his front, the tanks had crawled to within one hundred yards of the bridge, their main guns starting to inflict casualties upon the defenders. High explosives shells proved particularly useful in pummelling the red brick timber mill, occasionally blasting men out of windows, as another point of resistance was silenced.
As the T-34’s drew closer, they spread out in a fan shape, following their orders, and readying to commence the infantry assault.
A bazooka shell smoked its way over the water, the shot speculative and ill advised.
Ramirez gripped his binoculars tighter as another of his precious AT weapons was lost, a single HE shell blotting out the gunner and loader in the blink of an eye.
The mortar officer, three yards to his left, redirected the fire, bringing his unit into action against the concentration of tanks at the end of the bridge.
Success was immediate, and one of the tanks started to burn, a direct hit on the engine deck causing a fire, disabling the tank.
The crew decided there was no future in their staying put, and attempted to retreat. Emerging into a hail of bullets, they quickly reassessed that, for now, remaining within the cast metal was the safer option.
The infantry attack rolled over the top of the T-34’s, the US mortars ripping holes in the mass of men, holes that were further widened by the heavy defensive fire.
But still they came, pushing on at the running crouch, the famous ‘Urrah!’ accompanying their advance.
The attack floundered halfway over the bridge, the new wall of bloodied bodies providing some cover for those whose courage failed them in the face of extreme fire.
A young Lieutenant stood and screamed at his men, most of them old enough to be his father, exhorting them to greater efforts for the Motherland.
He sprang towards the mill building, advancing only two yards before being struck down by numerous bullets.
Inspired, the survivors rallied and surged forward again, many suffering the same fate, but a few made it over and broke into the ground floor of the mill, clashing with the defenders there, as the upper floors received the undivided attention of the supporting tanks.
The Soviet infantry commander launched his second wave immediately and, although many were cut down from positions on the riverbanks, the bulk of his men made it across, fanning out and pushing the 3rd Battalion’s doughboys away from the bridge.
A T-34 nosed onto the bridge and quickly rushed across, no thought for the mangled meat it left in its wake, as it crushed dead and wounded alike.