It did not take long, as 18th Corps was spread pretty thin, but at least Ridgeway had reacted quickly to the threat to the Maas.
It was some time before he realised that he was already too late.
Randolph Black was wide-eyed, despite the rivers of water than ran off him.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Fucked if I know, Sarge, but now it’s dead, ain’t it?”
That could not be denied, as the unknown light tank was wreathed in flames, two bazooka hits having stopped it dead on the road, just before the junction with Aan het Broek.
The hissing of water turning to steam on the super-heated metal rose above the sound of the torrential rain.
The Soviet Union had stopped producing light tanks in 1943, but they kept everything, and the T-80 that was presently incinerating its dead crew was a prime example of their habit of using everything they had, and never throwing anything away.
“Call it in, Cowboy.”
The corporal radio operator got through to his company headquarters with the contact report.
The Sergeant doubled back through the undergrowth, finding the mortar platoon, alert and ready for action.
Slipping into the small bivouac, Black enjoyed a moment out of the driving rain.
“Milletti, stand by now. They’re coming down the north road from Tüddern. Gimme your map.”
The junior Sergeant handed it over, and Black satisfied himself that the information tallied with his own.
“Set up on ‘Philadelphia’ right now. That seems most likely, Milletti.”
“Roger that, Sarge.”
“And if we have to skedaddle, then haul ass fast, and get set up here,” Black extended the map, marking the new location with his finger, “As quickly as possible, ready to support us when we fall back, kapische?”
“Capisco, Sergente.”
Satisfied that the mortars would do their job, Black headed back towards a frontline that suddenly erupted in explosions.
‘Commie artillery. Jesus!’
The journey back to his modest platoon headquarters took much longer, as he constantly dropped into cover, as shell after shell pounded the northeastern area of Sittard.
He also battled against the increasing mud, sucking at his boots, and clinging to his clothing, as he slipped and slid towards the front positions.
He didn’t recognise the headquarters when he got there, so transformed was it by the two direct hits.
Cowboy Morris, the whinging Texan, had disappeared, probably evaporated by high-explosive force.
Gillman, the bazooka king, was still there, or at least the two-thirds of him that still bloodily spluttered away the last few moments of life.
There had been six men in the position when he had left, and Gillman represented the largest piece of meat that Black could recognise.
Forward of the mangled site, a .30 cal machine-gun started pumping bullets into the tree line. Black’s eyes focussed on indistinct movement there, the details hidden by a haze, partially smoke, partially small particles of earth and other matter being tossed around by explosive force, the whole vision being through a wall of water coming from the heavens.
‘Commie infantry!’
Momentarily forgetting that the radio and its operator had disappeared, Black looked to send a message to the mortars.
‘Goddamnit!’
He looked behind him to where the Soviet barrage had advanced, gauging his chances of getting through to the mortars on foot.
‘Fuck that!’
He took another look at the wood line. The Soviet infantry had stalled there, as the remaining paratroopers hit them with accurate small arms fire.
He spotted the unfamiliar men in US combat uniform, appreciating the shape of the walkie-talkie instantly.
Launching himself forward, he dropped into the shell crater beside the petrified OP team from the 907th Artillery.
The Lieutenant had taken a shell splinter in the face, the right side packed with blood soaked bandages, masking the hole where his jaw, teeth, and tongue used to be. The man’s stare looked all the way back to America, and Black knew the man was in shock.
The other two Glider artillerymen were firing their carbines at nothing in particular, clearly unhinged by their experiences.
“Hey! Knock it off, you guys!”
To his surprise, both privates stopped immediately, and slid down the slight bank back into cover, dropping their lower bodies into the water that was filling the hole.
Easing the walkie-talkie from the glassy-eyed officer, he tasked the two soldiers to evacuate the man.
With orders that spelt safety, both artillerymen moved at speed, sweeping up the wounded officer, and heading to the rear.
Dialling the radio in to the right channel, Black tried the set.
“Diamond-one-niner, Diamond-one-niner, this is Diamond-one-four over.”
“One-four from one-niner, I got you, Blackie. Talk to me.”
“Put it on ‘Chicago’, all you got Milletti, over.”
Screams brought his attention back to the escaping artillerymen, all three struck by a single shell burst. Whichever one of them it was that hung from the tree, briefly screamed a second time before dying. The other two were already dead.
There was no time for the horror of the sight to affect him, as a grenade exploded a few feet away.
The Russians had pushed forward, the mortar barrage landing uselessly amongst their dead and wounded in the woods, on the area designated ‘Chicago’.
Black went to roll away, but he had no strength in his right arm, the muscle ripped and flayed by shrapnel. Similarly, his right thigh was opened to the bone by a large piece of stone, thrown in his direction when the Soviet grenade exploded.
The tears flowed involuntarily, his pain extreme.
None the less, Black grabbed up his carbine just in time, shooting the first man who dropped into the hole.
The wounded man dropped close by him and the sergeant squinted for a better look.
“Oh fuck! Oh god, I’m sorry Clancy. Oh Jesus!”
Clancy Mann had been with the 101st since week one, day one. Black’s bullet had taken him in the right side, breaking a rib and driving the broken bone into his liver.
None the less, Mann put two bullets from his Garand into a Soviet infantryman, who loomed large over the edge of the hole.
The next Russian received the same treatment, even as Black dragged himself painfully over to the paratrooper he had wounded, pulling out a field dressing from Mann’s pouch.
Another enemy infantryman fired blindly into the shell hole, his arms waving the PPSh around, sending bullets everywhere.
Mann was hit seven more times, none immediately fatal, but the combination sufficient to bleed him out in minutes.
Black was hit twice; the first carrying away his left little finger, the second striking him in the head, and bringing instant darkness.
Seven hours later, Sergeant Randolph Black opened his eyes, taking in the sights in silence, his ability to hear taken away by the head wound.
His arm and finger stump had both been bandaged, the pure white linen standing out against his naturally dark flesh. His leg, presently held aloft by a set of wires, was encased in plaster.
His head was pounding, and generally, he hurt like hell.
However, he was alive.
The nurse eyed him suspiciously, but gently held his head up, so she could administer an oral dose of pain relief.
Black thanked her, and detected a faint buzzing in his jawbone as he spoke.
Her reply was mumbled and unintelligible, so he gave her his best smile.