by Colin Gee
“Enemy infantry just appeared to our front, Comrade Leytenant. The swine must be dug in up there.”
“Halt!”
The BA64, moving forward with the advancing infantry, slid to a halt immediately, allowing Junior Lieutenant Sukolov to survey the ground.
That which his driver had spoken of leapt into view through his lenses.
He saw men moving forward to help the hard-pressed Spaniards.
‘Amerikanski!’
Wishing to convey his calmness and professionalism to the driver, Sukolov slowly took hold of the radio and made his calculations.
“Shall I move back, Comrade Leytenant?”
The nervousness in the driver’s voice was apparent, his own combat experience only slightly more than that of his commander, for whom this battle would be his first time under fire.
Casualties in the Soviet reconnaissance units were always extreme, but this conflict had brought them to a new level.
Not deigning to give the man a response, Sukolov spoke into the radio, establishing contact with the Major commanding his battalion.
After the preliminaries were exchanged, he got down to business.
“Enemy troops in probable company strength minimum, occupying dug-in positions east of Drulingen, set to west of water line. Request anti-infantry fire mission, Gorod-Five-Two over.”
0504 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Drulingen, France.
Illumination rounds burst in the sky above.
Barkmann swept the ground in front of him, his binoculars suddenly feeling very heavy.
His ears suddenly exploded with noise.
“Jesus!”
Too late, Barkmann slapped his hands to his ears as the nearby 3” AT gun sent its version of death hurtling across the battlefield.
The crew may have been new to the battlefield, but missing such an easy target was more than they could manage, and the Ranger officer heard their cheers, marking the death of something with a red star on.
Turning back, he could see Soviet infantry now apparent on the edge of the woods and ordered covering fire for his and the Spanish troops still struggling back with an increasing number of injured men.
One of the Rangers’ two 50.cal heavy MGs lashed out, and Barkmann could see the deadly bullets ripping men apart, forcing the advancing soldiers to drop into cover.
Garands and .30cals added their own chorus, the Ranger line erupting and then quickly quietening again, as targets became scarce.
In it all, Lukas Barkmann heard the distinctive sound of a Springfield rifle as his sniper, Corporal Irlam, engaged specific targets.
Irlam was generally considered to be one of B Company’s greatest assets, despite the fact that everyone in the unit considered him to be totally mad.
His skill with the Springfield was legendary, bringing him regular awards and prizes in Army shooting competitions and, at least at first, earning his comrades many dollars in side wagers against over-confident opponents.
However, his weapon of choice was the dirk, a small Scottish blade.
The one he fussed over on a daily basis had been given to him by his father many years beforehand, and it was kept sharp and deadly, for there was nothing that Irlam liked more than to slide it into some defenceless body without warning.
In times of peace, Irlam might well have found himself in an institution, slated as a psychopath, but in times of war such men are useful, and so he found himself a decorated veteran of the Rangers’ war, and one of 2nd Rangers top soldiers.
The Springfield spoke again, sending another son of Russia to his maker.
Just to the right, an enemy vehicle burned.
“Gorod-five-two come in, over.”
Static.
“Gorod-five-two come in. Report, over.”
Static.
“Blyad!”
The Major in charge knew that Sukulov would never report again.
A recent arrival himself, he tried to work out what was happening, consulted the map, noting the markers suggesting where his point observer had been at that moment and working out where the enemy were.
He tapped the map and nodded to himself.
‘You will not have died in vain, Ilya Mikhailovich!’
He ordered the artillery to fire on the point under his grubby fingers.
Fig# 128 – Soviet forces at Drulingen
The Spanish troops were all now within the Rangers’ lines and Lukas Barkmann was busy sorting them out as best he could.
To their credit, the survivors were still up for the fight.
Ford had a little Spanish language to play with, and two of the Rangers had more than a little Mexican in their blood, so between the four of them they were able to get the battered Spanish soldiers sorted.
The wounded were taken back to the aid station, set up towards the rear of Drulingen.
Detailing his two Mexican-Spanish speakers as escorts, Barkmann organised the remaining forty-one men into a reserve group, and sent them back into the village to lick their wounds in the Protestant presbytery on the Rue Durstel.
No sooner had they been sent on their way than Soviet artillery shells started falling on and around B Company positions.
To the Rangers’ front, the Soviet infantry had melted away, going to ground whilst their artillery and mortars worked on the defenders, and whilst their support gathered itself.
Barkmann, back at his command post, radioed his commander with a situation report.
0513 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Headquarters, 16th US Armored Brigade, Fénétrange, France.
Greiner read the message slip and checked off the details against the situation map.
“General, we have enemy contact reports from Ranger units here... and here...” he touched Bettwiller, then Drulingen.
The position of the 16th showed the advance units still short of the target hold line.
“Infantry and light artillery fire only at the moment.”
Pierce consumed his fifth coffee in quiet thought.
“2nd Infantry and Lorraine?”
“Not a squeak from 2nd, but Lorraine are receiving incoming artillery and have had light contact around Eschbourg.”
Indicating the location of that clash, Greiner waited.
“Anything more from the Spanish?”
“Nothing of use, General. They are still piecing together a better picture. From what we have so far, it seems they have broken open on Routes 9 and 178, here at Petit Pierre... and also on the 919 here at Tieffenbach.”
Pierce accepted yet another refill as he thought aloud.
“So the deepest move we have yet is against the Rangers front there at Drulingen. Is that because the Spanish folded easily on that line, or is that the centre of this attack, Ed?”
Greiner knew enough to know that Pierce had his own idea already.
“My gut tells me that they want to cut the route north-south. At Drulingen... well... they pretty much already got it sown up, seems to me. They will want to expand that some. I’m thinking two-pronged, Drulingen and Bettwiller, which takes out the railroad too, Sir.”
Pierce frowned.
“Nothing more expansive, Ed?”
Greiner shook his head emphatically.
“I don’t see it at the moment. Intel gives them limited resources as it is, certainly nothing has suggested any sort of major attack. My money is on a local op with limited scope for a specific purpose. Someone wants to remind the bosses that he’s about and on the ball.”
“How do you make that read?”
Greiner accepted the challenge.
“It reeks of a limited op run with assets to hand. No air force support. Yes, we know they are crippled, but if it was significant, then they’d have put some air up. The artillery sounds like divisional at best. Traditionally, they line the goddamn guns up wheel to wheel for full ops, whole divisions worth. Our recon has been excellent, the flights go out relatively unchallenged at the moment, so we pretty sure they haven’t moved anything new into the
area, plus we’ve wrecked their infrastructure so bad they’d find it difficult anyway.”
“Not hedging your bets, Ed?”
Pierce’s smile was genuine, for he knew his CoS always told it how it was.
“I get the big bucks to make you look good, Sir.”
“OK then. So, looks like we have some options here. Weather?”
“Seaweed watchers reckon -15°, no snow, clear day all round.”
“Air?”
“All we want, and then some.”
Pierce finished the coffee and placed the mug down with an air of finality and decisiveness.
“I think we bring them on in outta the woods, get the bastards in one place... and turn air on ‘em.”
The two officers leant on the map table, eyes drawn to Drulingen and Bettwiller.
“OK, we pull the Rangers back, once we have a secure perimeter here...” Pierce drew a rough pencil line up the 1061.
“Draw the commies on and then wipe the bastards out. Let Lorraine and 2nd be the rocks on our flanks as we feign a withdrawal to this line and bingo. Then we roll them back, all the way to the start line.”
Greiner stood.
“I’ll cut some orders immediately, Sir.”
0525 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Drulingen, France.
In Drulingen, the pressure was mounting, as the artillery fire intensified.
“Al, orders from above. We gotta hold for another hour and then bug out as fast as we can to Weyer.”
“OK. Should we start moving some of the wounded back now, Lukas?”
“Good idea. Use any of the vehicles, ‘cept the mobile reserve force ones. Get the wounded evac’d and that’ll be less for us to worry about when the time comes.”
Another 76.2mm HE shell landed close enough to shower the men with snow and earth.
“You get the feeling they’re going to push us soon?”
“Sure as shit… they ain’t here to admire the view, Lukas.”
Gesualdo’s grin was infectious.
“Get the wounded out a-sap then, Al.”
The 3” AT rapped out a shell, again causing ears to be assaulted by the sound.
“Goddammit!”
Barkmann saw, rather than heard, the replying shell, a supersonic streak of metal move across his vision, just missing the AT gun.
Both Ranger officers looked at the enemy lines and saw that the battle had changed.
“Fuck! Get ’em the hell outta here now, Al!”
Gesualdo was up and running in an instant, turning his back on the solid metal shapes that had materialised on the 319 to their front.
Barkmann grabbed the radio.
0533 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Headquarters, 16th US Armored Brigade, Fénétrange, France.
“Tanks?”
“Yessir... at least company strength by the reports.”
“Not good, not good. Can they pull out now?”
“Might just have them overrun as they try, less’n we can interfere. Too early for air, so artillery?”
“I’ll scare them up what I can, Ed. Get something going for ground back up and give the commander permission to withdraw back as soon as he sees fit. Warn up the flank units on that score too.”
Leaving Greiner to his work, Pierce sought out Hamlett, the bespectacled artillery commander.
“Barksdale, what have you got set up ready that can help us here?”
Colonel Barksdale Hamlett Jr produced a sheet of paper from his folder and checked, more for confirmation than anything.
“396th is online and ready to go, General.”
105mm Howitzers could have a very negative effect on tanks, so Pierce was more than happy.
“Get them dialled in to support the Rangers at Drulingen, fast as you can, Barks.”
0529 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Drulingen, France.
No sooner had Barkmann finished his exchange with headquarters than the 396th came on air, offering up their fire support.
Spreading a map across his knees, the Ranger Captain jotted the coordinates down and relayed them to the waiting artillery.
Leaving the airwaves silent for a moment, Barkmann moved up to the edge of his position and waited for the incoming shell.
Disappointingly, it arrived in the woods behind the advancing tanks and infantry.
They seemed an awful lot closer now and so Barkmann made the call for full fire.
“Drop three hundred and fire for effect, Boxer-six, over.”
A lifetime later, or at least that was how it seemed, the landscape around the advancing Soviet elements erupted in high-explosive, immediately yielding two huge secondary explosions, as shells struck home on thin top armour.
Barkmann shouted at his nearest soldiers.
“Pour it into ‘em, boys!”
The Soviet infantry of 24th Rifle Division started running as fast as they could, savvy enough to understand that it would be much safer the nearer they were to the capitalist positions.
Veteran tankers from the 25th Tank Corps started to speed in all directions, keen to avoid the rain of death, but also conscious of the presence of the anti-tank guns that had so far claimed two of their number.
One T-34/85, some five hundred yards to the Rangers’ front, drew in behind a pile of explosively turned snow, the commander leaning over to consult with the infantry huddled in the flimsy cover.
As Barkmann watched, he saw the man’s neck disintegrate and then heard the crack of the Springfield, as Irlam neatly put a round into the tank officer.
The roar of the 3”, followed immediately by whooping from the crew, indicated more success for the gunners. Off to the right, another T-34 spilt black smoke over the field as its crew made off to the rear, helped along by fire from the Rangers.
The whooping stopped in an instant of blinding light as a 76.2mm artillery shell dropped millimetre perfect onto the breech block of the 3” weapon, where it exploded with full force.
The gun and its crew disintegrated in a micro-second, as explosive power ripped the metal and flesh apart, scattering deadly fragments in all directions.
The 3” shell that the loader had been holding fell with a heavy thud, point first, into Barkmann’s position, coming to rest in the ground, upright, and roughly six inches from his right hand.
‘Oh shit!’
It remained dormant.
Something wet clung to his face and formed oily, bloody teardrops as it dripped downwards.
Other bits of men and weapon fell to earth all around him and his nearest positions, and not all missed other targets.
Irlam was struck by, of all things, a pencil, the wood shaft sticking out of the side of his neck like a medieval arrow sans feathers.
A Ranger Corporal, bringing forward more .50cal ammo, was struck in the midriff by the fast moving nearside tyre assembly, which folded him neatly in half and propelled his dead body many yards away. The corpse came to rest in the side of a small snow drift, leaving only a set of hands and a set of feet protruding, either side of the shredded rubber tyre.
Two other Rangers, relocating with a .30cal, were directly struck by whirling pieces of gun, both fatally.
A Soviet shell fragment punched through the chest of a Ranger rifleman stood next to Barkmann, killing the man instantly.
The .50cal fell silent in horror as the loader coughed out his life, his throat and upper chest destroyed by something very solid moving at speed. His gunner did what he could, pulling away at the offending object, unconsciously registering the shape of a Colt 1911A, packing the wound and administering morphine before he accepted that his friend had stopped clinging to life.
Barkmann shook his head, trying to clear the mist that descended after the explosion. Since Hattmatt, he seemed more prone to such things and now was not the time.
From his own position, Barkmann was powerless to do anything but shout.
“Get that goddamned ma deuce back into action, now!”
In the time that the .50
cal had been silent, the wave of enemy had covered many yards.
It stuttered back into life as the dead loader and stunned gunner were pushed aside by Ford.
To the right of the weapon, Barkmann saw movement and realised that the enemy were closer than he imagined.
A surge of enemy soldiery issued from behind a low snowy hump, bearing down on the .50cal position.
There was no time.
Shouldering his Garand, Barkmann worked the line, dropping the enemy into the snow from left to right.
The clip pinged out of the weapon as he emptied it into the running group.
He had put six on target, missing two.
That left five enemy soldiers.
“Ford, to your right! To your right!”
The .50cal blotted out his voice, and the Sergeant and gunner-now-loader continued, oblivious to their approaching doom.
‘Oh shit!’
He stood and yelled.
“Yaaaaaahhhhh!”
Before he knew what he was doing, Barkmann was up and out of his position, screaming at the top of his voice, and charging towards the five surviving enemy.
The combination of the death of their comrades, and the blood red and gun oil black-faced lunatic closing in on them was more than enough to make them forget everything in favour of sheer survival.
They fled, just as Barkmann ran out of shouting power.
He dropped in beside Ford, gasping for air, and charged his Garand.
A Soviet shell exploded behind the trench and a small piece of metal pinged off the top of his helmet.
“More ammo,” shouted Ford, masking a grunt from his companion.
The former gunner slid into the bottom of the position, coming to rest in a growing pool of blood, his sightless eyes not betraying the momentary agony he had felt as shrapnel had ripped into the back of his head.
The .50cal rattled again as the Ranger Captain dashed out to recover two ammo boxes from where the hapless Corporal had his high-speed encounter with the AT gun tyre.
He prepped the box ready, but Ford ceased, leaving twelve rounds hanging at the end of the belt.
