“There, Bert!”
“Where?”
“Over there! Lone Jerry, twenty five yards, at two o’ clock!” The assistant machine gunner pointed. “A Hun pretending to be dead. He’s been sneaking up on us, hiding amongst his dead mates!”
“Crafty devil!” Bert said with grudging admiration. “Well, let’s help him join his dead mates, Ernie. Permanently!”
“Eric!” Blucher shouted. “The Tommies have spotted the Colonel!”
Halder watched as the British machine gunners opened fire on Ulrich, sending a sustained burst of rounds thudding into the bodies that provided him with his only cover from fire.
“We’ve got to give the Colonel a chance to get close to the pillbox! Give covering fire, Hans!” Halder ordered as he squeezed the trigger of his Schmessier.
Ulrich realised that the enemy machine gun had switched fire. He grabbed the flamethrower, jumped to his feet, and sprinted the last twenty-five metres to the bunker. He slammed his back against the front of the pillbox. Ulrich knelt down, adjusted the controls of the flamethrower, pushed the nozzle into the bunker aperture, and squeezed the trigger. He threw himself to the ground as flames shot out of the pillbox port. The British machine gunners were still screaming in agony as they staggered out of the bunker where they collapsed and lay in a burning and smouldering heap of cooking meat. Ulrich ran up to the next bunker, which was disguised as a house, before its occupants realised that their partner had been put out of action. He pushed the nozzle into the pillbox port and squeezed the trigger. Jets of flame shot into the bunker, setting the machine gunners on fire and triggering explosions as the ammunition blew up. The defenders also ran out and were cut down before they could run a dozen paces.
Ulrich dumped the flamethrower on the ground and shouted at the top of his voice, “The pillboxes have been destroyed! Everyone across the bridge! Let’s go!”
Ulrich’s orders were answered with a ragged cheer as paratroopers seemed to rise from the ground like Hydra’s teeth, and started to fire and manoeuvre across the bridge, shooting their weapons from the hip.
Ulrich stumbled wearily across the carpet of corpses like a sleepwalker, to where he had left Halder and Blucher. “Thanks, boys. I couldn’t have done it without you. I’ll make sure that you get medals for this.”
But Blucher and Halder wouldn’t be receiving medals from anyone, unless it was awarded posthumously. Their glassy eyes stared up at Ulrich. He sank to his knees beside them and wept unashamedly. A thin stream of tears carved a wet path through his soot, dirt and blood-encrusted face. His men had sacrificed their lives in order to protect his.
“Right, lads, this is it,” Oberleutnant Alfonin said. “We’re going to go over the top and into the river any minute now. Remember your training. Row straight for the other side, and don’t bunch up with the other boats: the Tommies will aim at two or three boats bunched up rather than one single boat on its own. Machine gunners provide covering fire when the Tommies open up; rowers remember to compensate for the river current as we practised.” Alfonin looked at the circle of camouflaged young faces that surrounded him. Apart from his platoon sergeant, not a single one of his men was over twenty-one and they were petrified and absolutely scared out of their skins. “Remember that you are Potsdam Grenadiers, lads, Germany’s finest. We are the tip of the spear and we are right where we deserve to be: in the position of honour, in the first wave.” Alfonin paused as he let his words sink in. He could see a few of his young soldiers nodding their heads in agreement. “I know that General-Major von Schnakenberg is looking down on us from heaven as we speak, and I know that he wishes that he could be here with us.” Alfonin could not help his eyes from moistening with tears at the thought of how the General had been cruelly snatched from them when the Regiment had needed him the most. Alfonin stood up from his kneeling position. “So let’s make the General proud: for the General, the Regiment and Germany! Potsdam! Potsdam! Potsdam!”
Alfonin’s platoon stood up as one man. “For the General, the Regiment and Germany! Potsdam! Potsdam! Potsdam!” his men echoed.
Alfonin smiled like a proud father. He looked at his watch as the artillery bombardment suddenly stopped. It was exactly six o’clock. “I’ll see you on the other side. Let’s go!” he ordered.
Alfonin grabbed hold of the rope that ran around the outside of the inflatable dinghy, and his men followed his example. “On my command, lift up!” Alfonin ordered. His men did as they were told. “Up and over the bank and into the river!” Alfonin ordered. Alfonin braced himself as he reached the top of the bank for a volley of machine gun rounds, and breathed a massive sigh of relief when the Tommies did not open fire. He sneaked a quick look across the river to the town. The entire north bank of the river was shrouded in a thick blanket of smoke and all of the houses appeared to be burning furiously. Berwick-upon-Tweed looked and smelled like a fiery inferno. Alfonin allowed himself a smile. Perhaps the Luftwaffe and the Artillery had managed to destroy the British machine gun and artillery positions after all.
Alfonin held onto the rope as the MG 42 machine gunner and his assistant climbed into the ten-man dinghy. They took up a position at the front of the boat and knelt up with their machine gun aimed at the opposite bank. Alfonin waited for the rest of his squad to climb into the dinghy, and then he climbed in last. He looked up and down the river. The twenty-four ten man dinghies of the first wave of Potsdam Grenadiers and Oberschutzen Jaegers were ready to row. As one unit, the entire first wave started to paddle across the river. Alfonin looked at his watch again. It was five minutes past six. The river crossing should take no more than half an hour. Alfonin looked behind him. The engineers were already starting to assemble their pontoon bridges. The plan was to build six bridges: three bridges would be for the infantry, and three bridges would be for the panzers and lorries. The engineers hoped to have the first bridges operational by nine o’clock, and at the pace that they were working Alfonin was confident that they would be able to meet their target. Alfonin scanned the opposite riverbank with his binoculars. Still no sign of any Tommies. Alfonin heard a flurry of splashing behind him as the second wave started paddling across the river. A quarter past six. The second wave was bang on time. He turned around to face the front. His men were rowing confidently in rhythm, and judging by the smiles some of them even seemed to be enjoying themselves. At twenty-five past six the dinghy was less than one hundred metres from the north bank.
“Right lads, remember the plan: our job is to secure the river bank. Second platoon will take up defensive positions facing towards the town with One platoon on our left and Three platoon on our right. The second wave will push through our position and clear the town. Clear?”
Before his men could reply a burst of machine gun bullets lacerated the front of the dinghy, instantly killing the machine gunner and his assistant. They toppled back into the boat as the next volley of rounds killed the half dozen men rowing in front of Alfonin.
“Take cover!” Alfonin shouted as he tried to burrow like a mole into the deck of the dinghy. The machine gun switched fire. Alfonin poked his head up. He was completely surrounded by dead men. His squad had been cut down at virtually point-blank range, and the boat was ankle-deep in blood. Nobody was rowing the boat; and Alfonin gradually realised that the river was taking the dinghy out to sea, and if he didn’t act quickly he would soon find himself floating out to the North Sea. Alfonin quickly slid over the back of the dinghy and involuntarily sucked in his breath as the Baltic temperature of the water hit him. He started to push the boat towards the north bank. He ducked his head every time a volley of rounds came near him but he soon realised that the machine gunners were not wasting their bullets on boats full of dead and dying men. The Tommies had now switched fire to the second wave.
Alfonin eventually reached the north bank, where he pulled himself up onto a riverbank that was intricately interlaced with reels of barbed wire. He lay panting like a beached whale as he recovered his breath.
Alfonin spotted several more figures lying on the bank, but most of them did not appear to be moving. He looked back across the river. Tracer rounds continued to track their targets as the machine gunners lined up on each dinghy in turn. The Tommies spent no more than half a dozen seconds drilling holes into each dinghy before they decided that it was time to switch fire to the next boat. The entire river was full of boats that were either sinking or drifting aimlessly as they were carried by the current out to sea. Barely a handful of boats were still rowing towards the north bank. Above the staccato sound of the machine guns firing Alfonin could hear a constant wail of pain, anger and despair as wounded men cried for help and for their mothers, as they drowned in their sinking dinghies.
Alfonin punched a fist into the palm of his other hand in impotent fury. Tears ran in rivers down his cheek as he watched his men, his Grenadiers, being massacred. All work on the pontoon bridges had also stopped abruptly. The bridges were barely ten metres long and they were covered in a thin film of dead and dying engineers who had been knocked down like so many skittles. “Grenadiers! Grenadiers!” he shouted at the men lying on the river bank. “Make your way to me!” he ordered.
Several figures slowly lurched to their feet and started to stagger their way towards Alfonin.
“Be careful, lads!” Alfonin warned. “Watch out for land -!”
Too late one of the soldiers stepped on a land mine that exploded and sent him tumbling head over heels back down the steep river bank towards the Tweed. He toppled in and sank before any of his shocked comrades could react and save him.
“Use your bayonets and prod the ground for land mines!” Alfonin ordered.
Eventually half a dozen wet and weary, miserable and thoroughly bedraggled soldiers reached him.
“Grenadiers?” Alfonin asked.
“No, sir,” The most alert soldier answered. “Jaegers, sir. We drifted downriver when our dinghy was hit.”
“No matter,” Alfonin said. “Any engineers?”
The men shook their heads.
“Anyone carrying explosives then?”
One of the Jaegers raised his hand.
“Excellent.” Alfonin smiled like a wolf. “It’s time for us to hit back and give the Tommies a taste of their own medicine. Let’s get back into the war and even the score a little bit.”
Chapter Twenty One
A runner arrived at Mendoza’s slit trench. “Colonel Mendoza?”
“Yes, Stabsgefreiter.” Mendoza noticed that the runner was a corporal, which was exactly Hitler’s rank and occupation during the last War.
The corporal saluted. “Sir, the first three waves have failed to secure the north bank of the river. The Grenadiers and the Jaegers are no longer combat effective.” The corporal waited for this unwelcome news to sink in.
“Do you know if anyone made it to the north bank?”
The corporal shook his head. “No, sir. The entire north bank of the river is covered in a thick blanket of smoke and fire. It’s impossible to get an accurate situation report. We’ve heard nothing on the radio, nor have we seen any signal flares. We’re assuming that they’ve been wiped out.”
“I see,” Mendoza said grimly. “What are my orders, Corporal?”
“The Artillery is going to commence firing at the north bank in ten minutes time at oh seven hundred hours, sir. They will also lay down a barrage of smoke to cover your river crossing, which you are also to commence at oh seven hundred hours. They will cease fire when you reach the other side, sir.”
“Start firing at the other side?” Mendoza repeated in confusion. “But will the artillery not kill some of our own men?”
“Yes, Colonel.” The corporal looked at Mendoza as if he was talking to the village idiot. “But we’ll kill some of theirs as well. We do have another brigade in reserve, sir.”
“Understood.” Mendoza nodded his head.
“And then you are to proceed with your mission, Colonel, push straight through Berwick, and relieve the paratroopers at Beattie, Robinson and Auchterlonie.”
“Understood.”
“Do you have any further questions, sir?” the corporal asked.
“No, Corporal. Thank you,” Mendoza replied.
“Best of luck, sir.” The corporal saluted and ran off.
“Keep paddling, men!” Mendoza shouted above the sound of the British machine guns as they searched blindly for targets through the thick smoke. “Fire at where the tracers are coming from!” Mendoza ordered. “Disrupt their aim!”
Mendoza looked around him. In contrast to the Grenadiers and the Jaegers, Mendoza had decided to launch all of his forty-eight dinghies at the same time. The entire regiment was crossing the Tweed at once. Mendoza reasoned that there were only a fixed number of machine gun posts and if he launched all of his boats at the same time then the British would not be able to spend as much time shooting at each individual dinghy. As a result, there was a veritable flotilla of boats rowing across the river. Mendoza could not help but be awed and impressed by the sight: this is what the armada must have looked like. The British machine gunners were firing blind on pre-arranged lines of fire, and they were hitting targets especially where adjacent machine guns fields of fire interlocked. However, the smoke was helping to camouflage their movement, and more dinghies were moving than were staying still or drifting aimlessly down the river. The British were firing mortars and artillery shells at the fleet and Mendoza and his men were soaked to the bone. Mendoza ducked as a high explosive round scored a direct hit on the boat beside him. The shell sent the unlucky Legiónaries flying high up in the sky, and Mendoza and his men were showered with blood and body parts. Mendoza gritted his teeth. “Keep paddling, men!” Mendoza ordered. “We’re nearly there!”
Mendoza allowed himself a smile. He started to think that they actually might make it to the other side. Mendoza suddenly wrinkled up his nose. What was that smell? It smelt familiar…
“Colonel! Look! The Inglese have set fire to the river!” a Legiónary shouted in alarm.
Mendoza looked behind him. A wall of flames suddenly shot up from the river into the air and engulfed the dinghy less than fifty metres behind him. The Legiónaries screamed in agony as their clothes caught fire. The soldiers jumped into the water to douse their burning clothes but the very river itself was on fire, and the Legiónaries were soon consumed by the flames.
“Madre Dios!” Mendoza said in horror with his hand on his mouth. “The Inglese have poured petrol into the river and they’ve set it on fire…”
Mendoza watched as the burning oil slick was carried down the river by the current. It caught up with and consumed all of the dinghies in its path. The Legiónaries in its way rowed frantically to escape, but to no avail. The oil slick moved faster than they could paddle. Tears ran down Mendoza’s face as he listened helplessly to the sound of his men screaming, as they were burned alive. Mendoza looked at his men. They had all stopped rowing and were looking at the fiery inferno in fascinated horror.
“Legiónaries! Look to your front!” Mendoza ordered. “There’s nothing that we can do to help our comrades. But we can help ourselves. If we stay on this river we will be burnt alive as well. We have a job to do and a mission to complete. Row for the north bank!”
As his Legiónaries started to row, Mendoza looked to his left and his right. Barely a dozen boats had survived the fiery oil slick.
“Sitrep?” Ulrich demanded.
“We have captured both ends of the bridge, sir, but the British are continuing to launch constant counterattacks,” the young second lieutenant reported.
“What is our strength, von Mackensen?”
“Forty-five men, sir.”
“Forty-five men out of one hundred and eighty?” Ulrich exclaimed in horror. “Well, I just hope that our reinforcements reach us pretty damned quick.”
Von Mackensen coughed. “Sir, that figure includes paratrooper reinforcements. The paras are drifting into our position in dribs and drabs three or four m
en at a time…”
“Mein Gott!” Ulrich swore. “Any word from Robinson or the Auchterlonie Bridge, Untersturmführer?”
Von Mackensen shook his head. “No, sir. We haven’t heard any word on the radio and we haven’t been able to make any physical contact either with the platoons tasked to capture Robinson or with the platoons tasked to capture the Auchterlonie Bridge, sir,” he reported. “However, there is the constant sound of small arms fire coming from Robinson, sir, so we can presume that at least some of our men are still alive and are trying to accomplish their missions.”
“We’re in a tight spot,” Ulrich thought aloud.
“We’re on our chin straps, sir.” Von Mackensen nodded as he confirmed Ulrich’s rather understated observation. “We are rapidly running out of ammunition, medical supplies, food and water, sir. Unless more reinforcements reach us soon it can only be a matter of time before the British crash through our defences and capture the bridge.”
Ulrich nodded in agreement with von Mackensen’s assessment of the situation.
“What are your orders, sir?” von Mackensen asked.
“Tell the men to salvage whatever equipment that they can from both our own and the enemy’s dead and wounded. Tell the men that the infantry will have crossed the Tweed by now and that reinforcements are on the way. Tell the men that we need to hold on until the Spaniards relieve us,” Ulrich said grimly.
Young Lions Roar Page 26
