Artem’yev ordered them forward once more, but this time, his platoons moved through the buildings, manufacturing holes in the brickwork with explosives, spades and bayonets.
As many of the houses had been damaged, and there were small ways through between the houses in any case, the new Soviet attack made good progress.
The headquarters personnel, ready and waiting for their General to return, suddenly realised that the firing was in their own building, a small but determined group of Russians at first floor level, battling to take the stairwell.
Three of the officers moved to investigate, and found a solitary trooper using his BAR to good effect, holding back the enemy force.
Two fragmentation grenades added to the defence, and drove the Soviet infantrymen further back.
Outside, Higgins was tossed against the wall of the hotel, a medium artillery shell exploding nearby, the blast picking him up like a piece of chaff.
Artem’yev was incensed; the order to cease fire on the Markt had been clear and unequivocal, the latest barrage endangering his own men.
Snatching up the radio, he discovered that his orders had actually been followed to the letter.
The artillery was American.
Winded, and bleeding from a broken nose, Higgins had just reached the same conclusion.
One shell landed squarely in a 6x6 full of wounded, tossing the bodies and bits of bodies over a wide area.
Higgins strode purposefully back into the headquarters.
“Find out which fuck is firing at us, and tell him I am going to pull his fucking ass up over his shoulders if he is lucky enough to survive this shit!”
The normally cool Higgins was clearly raging inside, the combined effects of seeing his men killed by friendly fire, and his own injuries, taking their toll on his mental resilience.
Even as he stood silently, listening to his officers searching for the guilty US artillery unit, the darkness that was spreading around his eyes, as the bruising made itself known, was shared by the darkness spreading in his mind.
‘Pull yourself together, man!’
He shook his head, and with that, his momentary melancholy departed.
“Anything from Corps?”
“No, Sir.”
‘Much more of this and there will be nothing left to save General,’ he wondered if he was rehearsing pleading to Maxwell-Taylor, or asking himself if he should make a more difficult decision.
The answer was not forthcoming, Von der Heydte’s return destroying any chance of resolution.
“Herr General, we must withdraw. My men cannot hold. Tanks and infantry have cut my force in two.”
He grabbed the map.
“Here, Herr General, here they are now.”
‘Sweet Jesus!’
A rough calculation put the mixed enemy force less than a kilometre from Einighausen.
‘If you don’t go soon, you ain’t going at all, General.’
“How long can you hold, Herr Oberstleutnant?”
Von der Heydte considered his reply.
“If they come with all their might, then about as long as it takes to smoke a last cigarette, Herr General.”
“Do your best please, Herr Oberstleutnant. I will try and get you some more men, but it is imperative that we have a corridor of escape for when that order is given.”
This was clearly understood by the experienced German officer, who saluted, and left without ceremony.
Before Von der Heydte had returned to his unit, or the handful of reinforcements Higgins had found to give the German were on the move forwards, the Soviet forces came together at Einighausen, totally surrounding the Screaming Eagles.
The two senior officers pored over the map.
They had been in each in each other’s company for ten minutes, and the last two of them had been spent checking that their decision would work.
The German was the first to stand back.
“Ja, Herr General, it is the best way.”
Maxwell Taylor stole another look back at the basic and risky plan, and concurred.
“Then it’s a go, Field Marshal Guderian. 0200hrs?”
“Ja.”
The order was given.
The 101st was to be rescued.
Not for the first time that day, Artem’yev was beside himself with rage.
His guardsmen had achieved miracles, eventually displacing the tough American paratroopers from the north-west edge of the Markt, seizing all the buildings, including the enemy hospital set up in the next-door church. Soviet and American medical personnel worked side by side, keeping alive ‘Boris’ or ‘Chuck’, without any discrimination.
Despite the sacrifices of his men, the attack had stopped dead, for no other reason than a lack of munitions.
He had no grenades. Literally. The whole surviving assault force of two hundred or so men did not have one grenade between them, and lightly wounded soldiers were presently scavenging the battlefield for anything of use.
Many of his men possessed only one magazine, or a partial one, still fixed to their weapon.
As the Colonel toured his positions, glad that the rain had gone once more, he found many of his men with American weapons, and laden with spare enemy ammunition.
His guardsmen had already acquired respect for the Garand rifle. It was a prized possession, and one that was rarely traded or given up, once a soldier had ‘liberated’ one of his own.
The pride that Artem’yev felt in his men’s courage and skill was challenged by the anger that churned him up, as the advantage of their efforts was gradually lost waiting on resupply.
The 179th’s supply train was not responding to calls, and he promised its commander a hard time when they met.
The row of trucks was burning fiercely, occasionally illuminated more dramatically by a secondary explosion, a box of grenades here, a stock of mortar shells there.
The supply column was utterly destroyed, man, horse and vehicle smashed by the lightning surprise attack.
The Lieutenant Colonel commanding the 59th Guards Rifle Division’s supply column fought against the pain, his moans low, as his mind raced.
‘Where did they come from? Where are they going?’
Through glazed eyes, he saw a strange vehicle illuminated by the fires, its single large ‘eye’ sweeping the area.
‘What is that?’
The question died with him, as the Panzers rolled past towards their first objective.
“Yessir, we are ready.”
Finally, the engineers had prepared the main bridge at Berg.
“Not before time, Major, not before time. Standby to drop that sucker, but hold until the 101st gets back over it, clear?”
“Yessir!”
“But, if the Soviets arrive in force, you drop that bridge, or there will be hell to pay, clear?”
“Yes, Sir, that is clear.”
It was silent in the 18th Corps headquarters, no translation necessary.
Guderian was enjoying the fresh coffee, and raised his mug in acknowledgement of what he had heard.
The plan had been communicated to the Eagles, and they were ready to go.
So now, the two officers just needed to wait.
The Soviet tank commander was confused; how could the enemy tank reach out in the darkness and kill them with one shot?
Dropping off the side of his smoking tank, he managed to lean up against the wheels, the darkness of the night hiding the loss of most of the flesh below his left knee.