Cirisse now started to feel the pain again, the numbing effect of the cool water overcome by the severity of his injuries.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to pull himself from under the wreckage, almost screaming as his exertions produced some forward movement, and he felt his flesh tear on the rough edges.
A Soviet guardsman, wounded and scared, saw the struggling Belgian officer and went for the easy kill.
The bullet struck the road in front of Cirisse and clipped his ear on its way past.
Despite his pain, Cirisse swept up his Sten and was more accurate in returning fire. The wounded Russian was thrown back into a deep puddle, the escaping blood creating a swirl of colour in the brown water.
He quickly drowned.
The front line was a mess of orange and red, brown and black, as sub-machine guns and grenades threw up mud and blood, the Russians trying their best to close with the defenders, the Belgians and Germans trying equally hard to keep the enemy at arm’s length.
A DP team dropped to the road, oblivious to the presence of the wounded Cirisse, so intent were they on firing into the flank of the defenders.
Again, the Sten gun chattered away, and the two men were hit. The machine-gunner died face down in the gutter, the single bullet having smashed into the back of his neck.
The loader, howling with pain, his ankle shattered, got off a hasty shot with his Mosin rifle.
Cirisse emptied the Sten gun into the man, who fell back against his comrade, his eyes wide open in horror and fear, full of disbelief that his life’s blood was escaping from the holes across his chest and abdomen.
It was beyond the now exhausted Cirisse to reload the Sten, and he painfully eased the Browning Hi-Power out of its holster.
With a magazine holding thirteen rounds of 9mm, the Hi-Power was a serious handgun, capable of putting an enemy down at fifty metres.
Unfortunately, in this instance, the enemy was encased in Soviet steel. The killing of the DP crew had been witnessed by the commander of T-34 3882 of the 5th Guards Mechanised Corps.
Bouncing over the scattered bricks on the road, 3882 completed the work started by the collapsed building, and Captain Cirisse became a red smear on the track of the Soviet vehicle.
The Soviet attack surged forward, and the Belgians and Germans had no choice but to withdraw, their position now outflanked on both sides.
The remaining 327th Glider boys had taken over, relieving the 501st’s 1st Battalion, and they had immediately faced an onslaught.
The attacking Soviet infantry had been flayed and sent packing, the high water mark of their failed assault clearly marked by numerous still forms.
Soviet artillery, enjoying the liberty offered by the awful weather, pounded the small village, and neighbouring Limbricht, causing more casualties amongst the exhausted glider troops.
Colonel Harper toured the positions, encouraging his men, checking on their welfare, all the time with an eye to the north, and the enemy lines.
“Govno! Govno! Govno!”
Colonel Artem’yev had seen some serious fighting in this new war but this was the first time he stared defeat in the face.
His regiment, the 179th Guards, had started the campaign at a good strength, over eighteen hundred sons of Russia, all soldiers with experience gained in the harshest combat.
After the severe battles on the road to Wurzburg, an advance that had culminated in the encounter with the American Armored Command at Rauschenberg, the 179th was on its last legs, less than a third of its men still standing, the rest spread evenly between aid stations and cold graves.
The first attack on Guttecoven had been a hasty affair, ordered by a Divisional Commander under pressure from above.
Another hundred of Artem’yev’s men had paid the price of the General’s folly, some fifty-nine now lay bleeding in the aid stations to the rear, forty-one left inert on the Dutch soil.
The field telephone rang.
Eyes blazing, the angry commander snatched the receiver up.
“Artem’yev.”
Those standing nearby could hear every word.
“Polkovnik, if you want to keep your fucking head, stir those fucking girls of yours into action, and take that fucking village. I want no excuses. Understand?”
Artem’yev’s knuckles went white around the receiver.
“General Karamyshev. I just lost one hundred men for nothing. Another frontal attack like that is nothing short of stupidity. I need time to …”
“You need no such fucking thing, Polkovnik. The Amerikanski are collapsing. I’m ordering you to make another attack. By 1800, you will be in possession of Guttecoven. Am I clear?”
A deep breath controlled Artem’yev’s rage sufficiently for him to reply, although it failed to hide his anger from the commander of 59th Guards Rifle Division.
“Comrade General, I will send my men forward, but not in some foolish gesture, ordered by someone sat at a comfortable desk. I need artillery support and I need armour. Without them, I will lose what’s left of my regiment in front of that Dutch village.”
The silence was electric.
Slowly, in measured angry tones, the commanding General replied.
“Comrade Artem’yev. The 179th Regiment will attack, and will take Guttecoven, completing its capture by 1800hrs at the latest. Acknowledge that order.”
“Give me the tanks and guns, Comrade General.”
“Do it with what you have, Artem’yev, or I’ll find someone who will, and you will answer for your fucking failures.”
Artem’yev laughed, a laugh without humour, the sort that the mad emit just before they go berserk.
“One hundred of men have already answered for my failures, Comrade General. I owe it to them not to fail again. Now, I need tanks and artillery.”
“Pass the telephone to PodPolkovnik Fyokhlachev immediately.”
Extending the hand holding the telephone, Artem’yev looked at his second in command with a forced smile.
“The General wishes to speak to you.”
Taking the receiver in his good hand, Fyokhlachev took his time before speaking.
“PodPolkovnik Fyokhlachev here, Comrade General.”
“Ah Fyokhlachev. You are now regimental commander and temporary Polkovnik. You will attack Guttecoven as soon as possible, and be in possession of the village by 1800 latest. You will first arrest that imbecile there, and place him under guard until the NKVD come for him. Have you understood your orders, Polkovnik Fyokhlachev?”
“I have understood your instructions quite clearly, Comrade General.”
“Excellent, Fyokhlachev. Now…”
Standing slightly more upright, the Lieutenant Colonel looked directly into his commander’s eyes as he spoke to the man on the other end of the line.
“I have understood your instructions, but I am unable to carry them out, Comrade General. Comrade Polkovnik Artem’yev is absolutely correct. An attack without tanks and artillery would be suicidal.”
“This is fucking mutiny! Obey my orders, Fyokhlachev!”
Very deliberately, the phone was passed back to the signalman who, like the rest of the staff in the 179th’s headquarters, sat wide-eyed and speechless at what had just happened.
“Thank you, Nikita, although I fear you may just have signed your own death warrant.”
Von der Heydte knew the Fallschirmjager were on borrowed time; the pressure on his regiment was building, as his ability to deal with it reduced, the casualties mounting by the minute.