His positions in the rail yards had shrunk, drawing closer in towards the centre of Geleen, but they still held the Soviet infantry and tanks at bay, although the supply of Panzerfaust was nearly exhausted.
One of his best friends had led a counter-attack, restoring the positions lost when the Belgian fusiliers had been overrun at Urmond. His friend had died, along with many men from the old days.
Picking up his MP40 and pulling his white peaked cap more tightly onto his head, he moved quickly out of the Hotel Normandie, the building in which he had set his headquarters.
The sound of increased firing greeted him as he emerged into the driving rain, the water immediately making him feel cold. He spared a moment to look up at the sign, the irony not wasted on him.
“Head toward the sound of the guns, Kameraden.”
The small group of staff and lightly wounded men took off after their commander, jogging steadily northeast, to where a serious fight was taking place.
Von der Heydte’s last reserve was committed to the fight.
Soviet artillery had just taken a big hit.
Eisenhower had grabbed units from all over the frontline, and sent them to the threatened area, gradually forming some sort of defensive line on the Maas.
Part of that defence was the 309th Field Artillery Battalion; a 155m equipped artillery unit that still retained enough of the deadly ‘Long Toms’ to bring down a world of hurt on the artillery of the 5th Guards Mechanised Corps.
The 122mm Howitzers of the 355th Guards Artillery Regiment were busy pounding Geleen, preparing the way for a huge assault aimed between the two Dutch towns.
Using the methods developed and refined over the past two months, the 309th put a mix of high explosive and air burst on top of the Soviet artillery regiment.
Each of the nine 155’s put eight shells into the area occupied by the twenty-four 122mm, two full batteries of the Soviet heavy howitzers.
355th Guards ceased to be an effective force, the destruction widespread, the survivors mentally shattered by such accurate fire.
Switching their fire to a likely supply route, the 309th put more shells into the air.
Their first target was clear of enemy forces, the only casualties being four Dutch civilians in Vaesrade.
Their second choice fell amongst a horsed supply column of the 25th Guards Mechanised Brigade, wreaking havoc on the unfortunate beasts, and killing many of the supply troops.
Men from the 3rd Battalion rushed back to help, tending the wounded, and shooting the maimed horses.
The 1st and 2nd Battalions attacked Geleen, smashing into Von der Heydte’s exhausted paratroopers.
The Fallschirmjager Commander threw himself behind the body of a dead Dutch civilian.
“Mein Gott!”
The experienced German paratroopers all dropped into cover immediately, disappearing to ground, at the very moment that the squad of Soviet Guardsmen had burst around the corner.
Bullets flew, the majority striking Russian flesh, as Von der Heydte’s group tackled the small breakthrough efficiently.
The Russian survivors turned and ran.
Moving forward quickly, the paratroopers made the same corner, checking around it carefully, expecting more trouble.
As they moved over those they had shot down, their battle experience made them check the bodies for signs of life.
Two of the Russians were still in the land of the living, so a pitiless Gefreiter killed each with a single shot to the forehead.
Around the corner, the Russians that had escaped were stood with their hands up, five men desperate to live.
They had run straight into a small German force that had been sent back to hunt them down.
Von der Heydte motioned his group forward, his eyes away from the surrendering Soviet guardsmen, therefore only hearing the telltale sound of a PPSh firing.
He snapped his head back to find the prisoners falling dead to the road, the PPSh still spitting bullets as they hit the paving.
“NO!”
It was too late.
The Lieutenant Colonel strode forward.
The killer, a senior NCO, clicked to attention to report.
“Herr Oberstleutnant, I beg to report that the prisoners tried to escape, and were shot.”
Both men knew that was not true.
“Oberfeldwebel Bosicki, never again, clear?”
More heavy firing drew a line under the matter, and the two groups of paratroopers moved back to the frontline positions.
The fighting became more desperate.
The blood obscured his vision.
The wounds, although nothing much, bled profusely, and the blood ran down his face, soaking into the neck of his tunic.
A PTRD anti-tank rifle bullet had struck the corner of the wall behind which Von der Heydte had been hiding, missing him, but creating enough projectile stone fragments to transform the paratrooper’s face into a mask of red.
The Mechanised soldiers had drawn off once more, the second attack having been made on foot, their lend-lease universal carriers proving particularly vulnerable to the defensive combination of Panzerfaust and Molotov cocktails.
Many Guardsmen had sprung screaming from the small British and Canadian built carriers, their hair and clothing alight, flesh starting to split and fall away.
This time the killing of unarmed men had been a merciful release.
The Fallschirmjager had held, but only just.
Artem’yev cradled the bloody body as the hideously wounded man screamed and kicked his life away.
As the 179th had swept into Limbricht, a last act of defiance from a 101st trooper had sent a burst from a BAR into the command group, catching the group as it moved up behind the assault force.
One bullet had tugged at Artem’yev’s sleeve, nicking the flesh, painfully reminding him of the fine margins between survival and death with each small movement.
Nikita Fyokhlachev was a mess, one eye rolling around on his cheek, as he thrashed around in agony.
Other heavy bullets had taken him in the chest, stomach, groin, thigh, and both calves.
“No! I can’t die! Don’t want to die! Fuck no! Not here! Oh Please, not like this!”
Artem’yev held him tighter.
“Arrrrggghhhhh!”
His scream seemed to reflect more his fear of death than the pain that was wracking his body.
The medical orderly, himself a victim of the BAR gunner, worked swiftly, trying to stop the flow of blood from the wreckage called Fyokhlachev.
The wounded man vomited, a combination of lunch and blood projecting itself over the orderly.
“Arrrggghhhhhhh No!”
The pain gave him immense strength, and Fyokhlachev broke Artem’yev’s grip, arching his back like a longbow under strain.
A calm settled upon his face.
Fyokhlachev was dead.
Gently easing the body to a position of rest, Artem’yev stood, and took a moment to honour his long-time comrade.
Limbricht had been gained only with the expenditure of valuable blood, and, even though Fyokhlachev’s death hit him hard, the Colonel understood the need to exploit the costly gain.
Approaching the signaller, Artem’yev checked his PPS magazine, using the distraction to steady his thoughts.
“Inform division. Limbricht taken, advancing into the centre of Sittard, need reinforcements.”
Artem’yev peered into the gathering gloom, his eyes straining to identify the vehicles so neatly parked, now beyond the use of their former owners.
‘Why not?’