The rain had finally stopped.
Crisp took a moment in the entrance to the church. He ached from head to toe, the strain caused by weeks of combat was beginning to take its toll, and carrying the wounded Pfc had eaten into his dwindling reserves.
“Light ’em if you got ’em.”
He took in the views around him.
Saint Michael’s Church, across the Oude Markt from the 101st’s headquarters, housed in the Hotel de Limbourg, had been set aside as a hospital, a fact easily deduced from the liberal blood trails that marked the route taken by the stretcher cases.
Crisp, and a number of his officers, had brought more wounded troopers with them, depositing the damaged bodies with the overworked staff of 326th Medical Company.
Both St Michael’s and the ‘Limbourg’ fronted on to the main square, an open space that thronged with more medical facilities, triaging many of the new arrivals, as well as military vehicles and stores in equal measure.
The Soviet threat to Einighausen had been too great, and the facilities there had been hauled into the centre of Sittard at record speed, leaving only the Belgians behind.
His officers waited, taking advantage of the delay, drinking whatever was in their canteens and smoking their cigarettes.
Crisp was too tired to even get his packet out, a fact realised by Reeves. The G Coy commander lit up an extra Chesterfield and passed it to his boss.
Crisp nodded his gratitude.
“Damn, but if this isn’t one hell of a goddamn mess.”
He got no argument.
Suddenly the veterans hunched automatically, the response of their combat sense to an approaching shell.
The sound, almost like a sudden deep intake of breath, was followed by a moment’s silence.
Then the five-storey building across the square exploded outwards, a 152mm shell exploding at second floor level and turning the upper floors to a collection of wood and brick moving at high speed.
The cries of ‘medic’ rang through the failing sound of the explosion, men hit by the debris screaming in pain at their awful wounds.
By comparison, the mortar shell that followed it did next to no damage, creating a modest hole in the square itself.
Bits of shell and road flew out from the epicentre, striking indiscriminately.
Reeves shielded Crisp from the blast, his body taking the fragments that would have hit the Regimental commander.
He sank to his knees, blood spilling from his mouth, coughing as the warm liquid filled his lungs.
Galkin, Fox Company’s CO, dropped heavily to the road, his left leg knocked away from under him by the impact of a lump of stone.
Others in the square lay silent, or rolled noisily in pain.
Two medical staff that had emerged for their own tobacco break, crossed themselves in acknowledgement that their God have saved them from death, and carried the moaning Reeves into St Michael’s for immediate treatment.
The Russian-born Galkin held up his hand, seeking support, and pulled himself upright with the help of Crisps’ firm grip.
“How is it, Con?”
The Captain tested the leg, ignoring the pain, seeking to find out if the damage was more than just flesh.
“Hurts like hell, of course. Do I get leave?”
Crisp snorted, appreciating the man’s efforts, despite the obvious pain he was in.
“Not a snowflake’s.”
Sizing up the injury, and satisfying himself that Galkin could walk, Crisp was happy that he hadn’t lost another company commander
“Get yourself seen to, Con, I want you back on line a-sap.”
“Roger that, Colonel.”
“And check up on Josh when you are through, please.”
Galkin was already hobbling away to the nearest triage point.
Making his way across the narrow lane, Crisp and the rest of the men entered the Hotel Limbourg.
Opposite the main entrance was a sunken beer cellar, cleared out, and filled with the artefacts of command, now the combat headquarters of the 101st US Airborne Division.
Brigadier General ‘Joe’ Higgins broke off his animated discussion with Bud Harper, commander of the 327th Glider Infantry.
“Lieutenant Colonel Crisp, thanks for coming. Take the weight off.”
He gestured at one of his array of NCO’s, and a coffee magically appeared in front of the weary Crisp.
“So how goes it with the 501st?”
“We are holding, Sir, but each time there are less of us to fight back. We may have to concede some ground, shorten our lines some, but we will hold.”
Raised voices at the main door interrupted the conversation, and a bloodied Von der Heydte moved quickly through and into the headquarters.
“Apologies, Herr General. There is a problem. We have lost our radios, so I am here.”
Harper produced a lily-white handkerchief, extending it to the German so he could remove the blood from his eyes.
“Danke, Herr Oberst.”
Moving to the map table, Von der Heydte drew everyone to view the problem.
Problem was an understatement.
“The Communists have penetrated deeply here, and split my command.”
Experienced military brains worked the problem, the collapse of part of the Fallschirmjager’s front at Munstergeleen, permitting a deep incursion almost to the railway line.
The edges of both Sittard and Geleen had held firm, but the Soviets had developed a penetration five hundred metres wide, and it threatened to cut the defence in two.
The sound of small arms fire started to develop, coming nearer, and growing in intensity, so much so that the fire fight drew the attention of all present.
Higgins was about to direct one of his officers, but spotted Crisp’s signal to a nearby NCO, who quickly slipped out the door in response.
As quickly as it took the group to refocus on the map, Rocky Baldwin crashed back through the door.
“Russians! Just down the road here. Platoon strength, coming in fast!”
Weapons were grabbed and cocked, the headquarters staff shocked that they should suddenly find themselves close to the action, but unaware that the worst day of their lives was about to begin.
The St Petrus school building was burning brightly, illuminating the corpses of both sides, victims of Artem’yev’s swift assault.
The subterfuge of using the captured transport had worked well, and a little play acting with some of his own men firing at the vehicles but wide of the mark, ensured that the airborne troopers let the lorries through with no checks.
Bailing out from the 6x6 Dodge’s, the Guardsmen of the 179th Regiment fell upon the American airborne from behind.
The frontline was overwhelmed in minutes.
A smaller, but equally effective repetition got the Soviet infantrymen into the outskirts of Sittard, where they slowly moved forward, the only casualty being a Dutch civilian whose curiosity proved terminal.
Until they moved into Walramstraat.
A roadblock at the junction with Overhovenerstraat looked unoccupied.
It wasn’t, and the .30cal machine-gun posted there knocked down the lead squad of Soviet infantry, the rest taking cover, either behind the rubble and wreckage in the road, or by kicking in doors on either side of the killing zone.
More Dutch civilians died, some for no reason other than they got in the way, others for protesting at the intrusion of armed men in their homes.
Making their way through the gardens, a determined group of soldiers flanked the roadblock, and rushed the defenders.
Four MP’s from the 101st’s police unit fell, two dead, two wounded. The only man untouched by the Soviet volley got off a shot with his Garand, putting down the NCO leading the group, a destroyed knee bringing screams of agony.
Hands were raised, but ignored, and all seven MP’s were dead in a heartbeat.