by Colin Gee
“They’re bugging out, Captain. All of ‘em.”
Barkmann took a look to confirm Ford’s statement before slapping his NCO on the shoulder.
“Good job, Sergeant, good job. Now I need a radio.”
He bolted back to his position and moved the artillery strike zone back into the woods, just to help the retreating Russians along.
He returned to observe his handiwork.
An extremely agitated Gesualdo arrived shortly afterwards.
“What the hell do you think you were fucking doing, you mad bastard?”
“What?”
Ford turned, unaware of his Captain’s stupid heroics.
“We saw it all! Charging like a mad dog, five onto one. Are you some sort of fucking idiot?”
Barkmann was taken aback by the ferocity of his friend’s words and said the first thing that came into his mind.
“I didn’t have time to reload.”
Gesualdo’s mouth dropped open.
“You’d no fucking ammo in your rifle?”
“I’d fired it all when they went for Ford’s MG.”
“I saw. You put six of them down... and then you charged them... five of them... with no fucking ammo in your gun!”
“No choice, so leave it be, Al.”
“You’re a fucking idi...”
“Leave it be, Al.”
Gesualdo wanted to say more, but another arriving Soviet shell marked the end of the exchange.
“Right, now we’re gonna bug out. Wounded all out, Al?”
“We’ve got more now, but the others are all tucked up behind the 16th’s boys about a thousand yards back.”
“OK. Let’s pull in everybody to Drulingen and then send ‘em straight up the road. F Company and our Spanish allies will be rear-guard. I’ll stay with them and bring ‘em out.”
Both men left their thoughts unspoken, although the vision of the torn corpse of the F Company commander came to both in an instant.
“As soon as possible, I’ll drop ‘B’ back through ‘em and Ford can take ‘em out. The rest of the details of evac, I’ll leave to you, ok?”
“That’s a roger, Lukas.”
“Let’s do it.”
0601 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Drulingen, France.
The evacuation had gone smoothly at first, with B Company already on their way to safety, followed by the engineers and the Spanish mortar unit.
At 0601 things changed.
“Jesus! That’s big shit!”
Second Lieutenant Wallace Mallender, F Company’s only surviving officer, spat the dust from his mouth, as a huge explosion brought down part of the ceiling and blew plaster from the walls.
Barkmann could only agree.
“Sure as shit isn’t seventy-six mil!”
More huge shells followed, targeted on the village and its approaches, each explosion releasing more dust and plaster, as well as shaking the nerves of every man present.
Through the detritus of the explosions, the Ranger Captain saw danger approaching.
“Here they come! We can’t pull back now or we’ll be cut to pieces. We gotta hold!”
Defensive fire was already lashing out at the approaching tanks and infantry, and Barkmann could see men dying before his eyes.
“Wally, get on the horn and get our arty back online. Tell ‘em we can’t withdraw now, so we’re gonna hold.”
Not waiting for a reply, Barkmann sprinted as fast as he could, and headed for the buildings that held the Spanish contingent.
He arrived at the back door just as men started to emerge.
“Captain, are we glad to see you. The whole fucking Russian Army’s coming down the road. We gotta get outta here.”
The young Spanish-speaking Ranger was clearly petrified.
“No we can’t, Carrera. We’ll be overrun on the move. We have to hold ‘em here. Get these boys back to their posts right now. Tell ‘em what you need to tell ‘em, but get ‘em back on the line.”
To Carreras’s surprise, the Spanish infantrymen moved quickly back into the position and readied themselves.
Barkmann moved on to the next building, throwing himself into the snow on three occasions, as 203mm shells came near enough to worry about.
The rattle of small arms betrayed the closeness of the enemy formation, the distinctive PPSh sounds seeming almost on top of him now.
And then they were there, surrounding a position occupied by a group of Spaniards, throwing grenades in and firing bursts through windows and doors.
Barkmann almost laughed as a Soviet grenade entered one window and immediately was thrown out of the adjacent one, bursting amongst the attackers and sending men flying.
Other Soviet grenades were not ejected, and the screams of the injured and dying Spanish reached his ears.
The Garand started its deadly work, taking out a small party forming for an assault at the rear door.
”Move over, boss!”
Two Rangers flopped down beside him and a BAR was got to work, its heavy bullets smashing into the men grouped on the near face of the building.
“Good work boys. Keep it up.”
Discharging the last two bullets in his clip, he reloaded the Garand and moved off to the left, satisfied that the Spanish would hold.
As he was halfway across the road, a wall disintegrated as a T-34 smashed through it at speed.
The hull machine-gun lashed out and he felt the numbing impact of a bullet, then another, as the gunner found his range.
The Garand went flying from his grasp, as the second piece of metal clipped his left wrist and jarred the weapon free.
With a superhuman effort he launched himself over a shallow wall and narrowly missed the two men sheltering there.
“Keep yer head down, Cap’n.”
He turned and his eyes opened in fear as he saw the exhaust end of an M9A1 bazooka, just inches from his face.
Rolling away, he missed the moment of firing.
The back flash rolled over him and he felt and smelt his hair singe.
The roar of an explosion betrayed the accuracy of the shot, but the team did not celebrate. Successful bazooka teams left celebration to later times, when they were safe. The smoke trail of a shell was a betrayal of their position, and teams always relocated if they wanted to survive.
“Move it, Sir, quick as you can!”
The three men ran through the garden and into an open doorway.
The gunner dropped to his knee and the loader slotted home another rocket.
“Good work, boys. Is the bastard dead?”
“Reckon so, Captain. But there’s more coming.”
Flexing his left hand, Barkmann decided that no real damage had been done, although the blood continued to drip from the entry and exit holes.
“Keep at it boys. We’re going to have to stay put so knock the bastards out. Good luck.”
Pausing to pull out his Colt automatic, the Ranger Captain moved off to the front of the house, barrelling straight into a Soviet officer running the other way.
They bounced off each other and both men went down. Behind the Russian, more men followed on at speed.
Lashing out with the Colt, Barkmann struck the enemy officer in the right ear, bringing an immediate flow of blood and taking him out of the fight.
Bringing the pistol round, he fired into the face of the nearest Russian, missing with the first two rounds but putting the third through the bridge of the man’s nose.
He dropped to the floorboards like a rag doll, bringing down the man behind him.
Two shots put down the third in line, the screams instantaneous as the soldier’s right shoulder was virtually dismantled by the progress of two .45 slugs.
The next man threw himself to one side as the Colt spat again, each bullet missing its target until the gun stayed open on an empty magazine.
“Shit!”
Beyond the first threshold, more Soviets arrived at the front door.
“Head dow
n!”
The bazooka shell tore through the air and struck the front door frame adjacent to an enquiring head.
Whilst designed for killing tanks, the HEAT rocket of a bazooka was also quite adept at killing soft targets. The combination of explosive force combined with hi-speed wood and brick pieces devastated the gathering assault force.
Barkmann went to reload his pistol, but the wounds and the recent impact of his left arm on the floor had left him with reduced movement in the limb, slowing him up.
Behind him the Bazooka team reloaded.
In front of him, one man emerged from where he had thrown himself and charged.
Instinct alone preserved the Ranger officer, as he twisted out of the way of the bayonet, which plunged between through his armpit area and into the floor below.
Lashing out with his feet, he tripped the rifleman up, causing him to lose his grip on the Mosin.
Quickly recovering, the Soviet soldier threw himself on top of the Ranger and his hands found Barkmann’s throat.
More Soviet soldiers arrived and a grenade wobbled past the struggling pair, seeking out the bazooka team in the rear room.
A scream spoke volumes, and three men moved forward, leaving their comrade to throttle the life from the Amerikanski.
The light sound of an M-1 Carbine betrayed the presence of fight in the Bazooka crew, and the three dropped back, one of them bleeding from a leg wound.
Behind them, Barkmann was fighting for his life. Desperately trying to knee his opponent, he found himself unable to make contact, or do anything to loosen the strong grip that the man had on his throat.
The Soviet assault party sent another grenade into the rear room, and followed up quickly, leaving the two combatants alone once more.
The Carbine spoke again, albeit briefly.
Summoning up all his strength, and despite the pain in his wounded arm, Barkmann grabbed the man’s face with his left hand, twisting on the nose and lips as he sought a hold.
Shaking his head rapidly, the Soviet soldier easily dislodged the weak attack.
Stars started to explode before the Ranger officer’s eyes as the end approached.
With everything last ounce of energy he possessed, Barkmann dug his right hand fingernails into the hands around his throat and rammed his left hand upwards.
The pain in his left arm was incredible, but he drove it up and into the Russian’s face as hard as he could.
The scream was awful.
The grip around his throat relaxed.
In horror, Barkmann realised that he could only see half his index finger. The rest had entered the Russian’s eye socket and was into the vital matter beyond.
Grasping his face in his hands, the Soviet soldier staggered away, squealing like a pig in an abattoir, blood and other fluids running down his face.
Recovering his breath, Barkmann hauled himself to his feet. The Mosin was still stuck in the floorboards so he pulled it free and finished the job, ramming the blade deep into the hideously wounded man’s chest and ending his pain.
Withdrawing the blade, he finished off the unconscious officer with a thrust to the back of the neck before discarding the rifle and selecting a PPSh dropped by another of his victims.
Grabbing two spare magazines, he continued to breathe heavily, his throat bruised and sore.
In the back room he found the Bazooka team still alive but not long for this world, so severely wounded that the Soviet soldiers hadn’t spared them another thought.
Both died within seconds of each other.
Shouldering the bazooka, Barkmann grabbed the spare rounds container and moved off, the pain of his injuries obscured by the imperatives of survival.
0643 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Headquarters, 16th US Armored Brigade, Fénétrange, France.
“We’ll have air over the field as soon as it’s light enough, General. Meantime, the arty’s doing all it can. The Rangers are holding.”
Pierce knew that his boys were dying out in the snow, holding a piece of real estate that was pretty much worthless, just buying time for his plan to come together.
Such is the lot of a General.
“2nd and Lorraine ready to go, Ed?”
“Lorraine is for sure, General. Garbled report from the 2nd may mean that they’ve got trouble of their own with commie tanks… trying to firm that up right now. The Legion boys are coming in the southern flank with armour, so reckon we’ll still be good to go as 2nd was pretty much just the anvil.”
“OK, Ed, just make sure we do everything we can for those Ranger boys.”
Behind them the radio crackled into life as Boxer-Six reported in.
The command post fell silent as there was a collective holding of breath.
The metallic tones could not hide the weariness in the man’s voice, nor could the mechanical precise military words conceal the greater human story.
The message concluded and all eyes turned expectantly to Pierce.
“Tell them well done and to get the hell outta there right now!”
0647 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Drulingen, France.
“Roger. Boxer-six, out.”
Barkmann let the handset fall from his hand and he searched in his pocket for a cigarette, which effort was thwarted by the violent shakes that now afflicted him constantly.
“We’re pulling out. Now, we’re pulling out now. Pass the order.”
The men of F Company that had stood with him in the last few minutes moved off, calling to their comrades, and spreading the word.
The Spanish NCO and his four companions remained, their eyes moving cautiously around the area, unable to quite believe that the enemy had withdrawn.
Leaning forward, the Corporal extracted Barkmann’s cigarettes and stuck one in the shocked man’s mouth, lighting it with an extravagant flourish of his petrol lighter.
“Thanks. Have one yourselves.”
The Spaniard didn’t understand the words but interpreted the tone correctly, passing them through his men.
The artillery had stopped, both sides seemingly spent.
In the distance, the sounds of retreating diesel engines marked the final disappearance of the surviving Soviet armour, leaving the faint sobs of the wounded to combine with unexpected sounds of bird song and the inexorable sounds of fire.
The Ranger Captain had killed the last T-34 thirty yards from where he now stood, the small hole in the side of the turret betraying a perfect strike.
Smoke rose lazily from the vehicle, as well as from the singed uniforms of the men who had tried to escape from it, still lying where they had been shot down by unsympathetic Allied soldiers.
F Company had taken murderous casualties, fifty-two men dead or soon to be so.
The Spaniards had been whittled down to seven effectives, and few of the wounded expected to see midday.
But they had held, and the hundreds of dead Soviets on the field was testament to their resilience, as well as the skill of the artillery support.
The Soviet tank company, actually the surviving vehicles from two companies, had been savaged, leaving fifteen of their vehicles on the field, three personally removed by the Ranger Captain who was now considered certifiably mad by all concerned.
In the very forward positions something moved.
Pushing the heavy weight off his chest, First Sergeant Ford levered himself upright against the wall of trench. Shoving the dead Russian away, he automatically sought and found his Thompson and checked the magazine.
“Will you keep quiet? I’m concentrating.”
Ford did a double take, only just realising that the dead body alongside him wasn’t actually dead, but was curled up with a Springfield and evil intent.
“Dirk?”
“That’s me. Now, can it, Sergeant. I’m working.”
Carefully sliding to the front of the trench, Ford raised his head.
To their front, he estimated at least five hundred yards, was a senior Soviet officer, ra
nting and brandishing a pistol at anyone he could make eye contact with.
“Think he wants ‘em to go again, Sergeant.”
“I think he might at that, Dirk.”
The officer’s pistol flashed and the man he had been addressing collapsed to the floor.
“Shit, he’s got a bug up his ass for sure. Maybe I should let him kill them off for us, eh?”
Ford shook his head.
“I think not. Can’t risk him getting them all fired up.”
Irlam, not inconvenienced by the pencil sticking out of his neck, clicked the sight twice and settled his breathing.
0649 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Soviet-held treeline, east of Drulingen, France.
“Cowards! You’re all fucking cowards! Now, get ready to advance or I’ll shoot the fucking lot of you!”
Lieutenant Colonel Stromov was known as a martinet, but shooting his own men was new ground.
A second soldier crumpled as he put a heavy bullet into him.
“Cowards! We’re nearly through! You ran away and we were nearly through!”
He waved the heavy Nagant revolver around, singling out men, who automatically shied away.
“Prepare to attack, you bastard cowards! You’re all women... fucking cowardly women!”
“You fucking attack, you prick.”
The Colonel swivelled to the source of the voice, facing a bloodied young Sergeant.
“What did you say to me?”
“I said, you fucking attack, you useless prick. We pushed twice whilst you sat in your fucking hole and drank fucking tea, so don’t call us fucking cowards, you prick!”
No matter what words the young NCO used, Stromov could only see the SVT-40 the boy was pointing directly at his chest.
“Turn your rifle aside, Serzhant, or I’ll shoot you down like the cowardly dog you are.”
“You’ve killed enough today, you fucking asshole.”
“You will turn your weapon and you will prepare to attack, Serzhant.”
“No… no, I will not.”
Lieutenant Colonel Stromov’s finger tightened on the trigger.
