Seven Il-10’s of the 118th Guards Assault Aviation Regiment had stumbled across the M40 guns as they were redeploying, smashing the already depleted US Artillery Battalion to a meaningless group of shattered survivors, before finding themselves on the receiving end of an attack from a group of vengeful NF30 Mosquitoes. The RAF’s 29 Squadron, normally tasked with night-fighting operations, was aloft this day on the back of simple courage, and with no small help from their onboard radar sets.
One IL-10 escaped, one Mosquito was lost, and the 118th Guards were stricken from the Red Air Forces’ order of battle.
As the NF30’s quit the airspace over the battle, more rain began to fall upon the combatants below, lightly at first, but gathering in its weight and intensity.
The Allied defence was relatively leaderless, but, worse, the officers in the front line did not know it.
Worst of all, there was a force at work that destroyed much of the cohesion.
Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Dunn, his unexpected prominence the result of the loss of so many senior ranks, was now the senior officer in 154th Brigade’s headquarters. Feigning competence, he issued orders to units, sending reserve companies of Gordon Highlanders in all directions.
Contact from the now leaderless 116th brought more disaster, and his orders pushed the 1st Battalion northeast from Dreete.
They ran into Yarishlov’s 1st Tank Battalion and lost the unequal struggle, retreating in disorder, and leaving a third of their men on the field.
Back at Rechtern, matters were taking a bad turn for the Allies, as the detached Soviet Guards infantry found that some fallen trees had made the crossing of the Hunte a possibility.
Quickly, a platoon was pushed over and established itself. It was rapidly reinforced by a second platoon, and Yarishlov informed of the development.
Deniken was ordered forward again, but timed to strike after the two platoons had announced their presence on the north bank, a noisy diversion to draw the defenders attention at a critical moment.
With perfect timing, the ancient M4A2 was turned into a fireball, an AP shell reaching across the river from the east bank. The US tank exploded almost immediately, providing a distraction greater than the attacking forces could have dreamed of.
Taking advantage of the unexpected lack of Allied artillery, Deniken harried his men into a full-scale leg race for the bridge, the enemy fire slackening as allied casualties mounted, the supporting fire from the mortars and the supporting T-34’s becoming increasingly effective.
The surviving M10 decided that discretion was called for, beating a hasty retreat to a position further back.
Yarishlov urged his armour forward, prepared to accept the disadvantages of the boggy field for the closer support he could offer Deniken’s guardsmen.
The US mortar platoon increased its rate of fire, self-preservation lending speed to the process of reloading, but to no avail.
The first of the Guards infantry crossed the bridge over the Hunte, and dropped into the trenches and foxholes beyond, some occupied, some not.
Vicious disputes for ownership erupted, and the GI’s were rapidly thrown out of the positions.
Two of the 2nd Battalion’s T-34’s were badly bogged down, their thrashing tracks doing no more than digging the metal monsters deeper in the quagmire.
Aware that bullets were still pinging off their armour, the crews wisely decided to stay put until such times as the field was in friendly hands. Both continued to provide the best close support they could, despite the nervousness caused by their immobility.
The nearest T-34 to the river, enjoying a stable firing position, planted an 85mm shell in the surviving M10 as it moved away in the distance.
Damaged, its main gun useless, and its crew badly knocked about, the tank destroyer moved away to the west, in no condition to take any further part in the battle.
Three Soviet tanks, two 76mm T-34’s and a later model with the larger weapon, rolled over the bridge in close column, fanning out immediately.
The remaining allied infantry decided enough was enough, and the defence crumbled.
Yarishlov watched through his binoculars as the retreat gathered pace, becoming a rout, more and more Allied troops adding to the flow.
Running men swept through the US mortar positions, urging their comrades to come with them.
At first the mortar men started to dismantle their weapons but, as the tide grew stronger and the voices more panicky, most left their tubes behind and fled the field.
A short company of the 154th’s 1st Battalion, all Gordon Highlanders, mistakenly, but fortuitously ordered forward by Dunn, ploughed headlong into the retreating US troops, sweeping many of them up, and adding to their numbers as they moved forward.
The Jocks stopped at the mortar positions, and swiftly dug in on the edge of the woods, just to the east of the rail line, defending the southern flank of Barnstorf.
Other men had run in the direction of Dreeke, and were similarly met by men from the 116th’s 1st Composite Battalion.
Again, the running men were taken onboard and a strong position established in the wood line, either side of the west running Rechterner Straβe.
A tentative probe by one Soviet platoon was swiftly repulsed by this blocking force, but the Gordon’s were, for now, left alone.
The lone Mustang fighter left a smoky trail behind it, product of a close encounter with Soviet AA fire.
None the less, the pilot circled the position for two minutes before closing the ground and dropping his speed.
An object was seen to fall from the aircraft, dropping onto the rail line directly where Route 48 crossed the metal tracks.
The P51 increased speed steadily and flew off to the south-west, disappearing into a sky once again become grey before its time.
One of Aitcherson’s men retrieved the bundle. The white silk aviator’s scarf continued a notebook, held open by a rubber band on the appropriate page.
The Cameron Highlander officer consulted with Robertson, the RSM in no doubt as to the significance of the message.
With Aitcherson’s blessing, RSM Robertson and two men doubled away to find Ramsey, and give him the bad news.
Ramsey was found in strained discussion with the US Engineer officer, Fielding.
“It’s not enough, Major. Simply put, if I try bringing it down with what I have, I may as well goof off, Sir.”
“Is there nothing that you can do, Fielding?”
“Unless you have about a thousand pounds more Composition C, then I reckon not, all save wreck the tracks, Major.”
Hässler, witnessing the conversation, whispered to Robertson, bringing the Senior NCO up to date on events.
“Some douche bag in supply sent up crates of ‘C’ for the engineer boys. Wrong goddamn size, half pound blocks, instead of full pounds, and then only a part of what was asked for.”
Shaking his head, Ramsey brought up his binoculars, the landscape to his front devoid of any Russians, save the dead and dying, his focus upon the stout rail bridge.
“Sah, I have bad news the now.”
Although he said nothing, the Black Watch Major’s face spoke volumes.
He accepted the notebook.
“A Yank pilot dropped it tae us, Sah.”
Ramsey read the brief message, his face turning to thunder by the time he had finished.
“Gentlemen, our flyer friend informs us that about three miles to the east is a large concentration of enemy forces, oriented this way, estimated at over divisional strength.”
The silence was deafening.
“He also insists that there are two armoured trains sat with them, ready to move.”