by Colin Gee
“Menschen, the mortars will put down smoke to cover this end of the bridge, but we will move to the right…here.”
He drew his thoughts in the earth, the leadership craning to see how their commander was going to crack the target.
The previous attack had run into a machine-gun nest and concrete bunker network sat on the edge of the Stadtpark, a solid position that covered the approach to the bridge and dominated Weststrasse.
The first assault had been bloodily repulsed.
“The smoke will be between us and the bunker complex, but we will actually be beyond the killing zone at the end of the bridge, and so should avoid the bastard’s fire.”
The nodding around him showed that the men approved the plan so far.
“The panzerjager kompagnie is not available, so the two STUGs will move up and cover the bridge, bringing the bunkers under fire, and generally supporting our assault.”
He looked up at an old Lieutenant, recently promoted from the ranks.
“Otto, you will keep two platoons here. No-one comes over that bridge and gets on our flank, Klar?”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”
The newly promoted Hauptfeldwebel who had filled Otto Pausch’s shoes was next.
“Riedler, I want you to take one platoon and sit out here,” he stabbed the earth to the right of the assault groups intended position, “To secure our right flank.”
By way of explanation, he pointed further off on the right flank.
“At the moment, we still have contact with the left flank of 2nd Batallion, but that may not last. You’re there to make sure we have no surprises. Klar?”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”
“Right, get your men in order. Two grenades a man minimum, full ammo load. No back packs. Two fausts a platoon, just in case.”
He looked at his watch.
“We attack at 1645. Dismissed.”
Fig# 144 - Soviet forces in Ahlen
1645 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, two hundred metres from the Werse River, Ahlen, Germany.
Fig# 145 - Von Scharf’s assault on Ahlen bridge.
The werfers threw their smoke shells onto the right spot, concealing the end of the bridge.
“Vorwaerts!”
The assault group leapt forward as the Soviet defences lashed the gathering smoke with hails of bullets and high-explosive.
Pausch’s force commenced their own fire, just in case the Russians tried any funny business.
Rielder pushed his platoon out to the right flank immediately, but encountered no problems.
Moving forward in leapfrog bursts, the assault group ate up the ground to the river in short order, with only one casualty sustained, claimed by a stray bullet from the smoke.
Until the two lead men were chopped down, sending the whole group scattering.
“Scheisse!”
Von Scharf drew heavily on the cold air as he rubbed his bruised knee, knowing that some of the bullets had passed dangerously close to him.
“Obergefreiter Grun!”
He got the attention of the NCO lying in the rubble across the pathway.
“Cover fire. I’m going left through that building. Keep the fire up, just enough to keep his head down. Watch for us on target, klar?”
Even though bullets were pinging off the concrete and brick all around them, the NCO understood his task and got his men into position.
Von Scharf called to the men around him.
“Ready, menschen! When Grun starts firing, we go in pairs!”
He chopped a palm in the direction he wanted the group to assault and gave Obergefreiter Grun the nod.
A desultory fire halted the enemy light machine gun and gave its own signal to the waiting assault force.
“Raus!”
The first two soldiers were up and away before the word had died on Von Scarf’s lips, the next two before he could give the second command.
In spite of himself, he found a wave of pride surge over him.
“Gute männer!”
Fourth up was himself and the radio operator, and they made the ground floor without issues, although his old leg wound nearly made him lose balance at one crucial stage.
The fifth pair tumbled in, having tripped each other up in the threshold.
The last two men came under fire and one man had his rifle sent flying from his grasp as a bullet clipped his wrist.
Despite the pain, he dropped to the ground and slid back to retrieve the weapon.
“Köhler… Köhler… nein!”
The wounded man understood and hunkered down whilst Von Scharf led the assault forward.
Finding a set of stairs, the officer sent four men along the ground floor, accompanying the other six upwards to where the enemy machine gun was now firing more steadily.
The lead man fired a shot and a lifeless enemy body stumbled over the balustrade, falling onto the ground floor below.
Von Scharf gestured at a soldier with an MP-40, who nodded and pushed past to take the lead.
Another SMG armed NCO split to the left.
A Soviet soldier opened the door directly in front of the man, and took a burst in the chest and neck.
The body was propelled back into the room behind, in which the Unteroffizier glimpsed at least three men.
“Granate!”
He tossed a British-issue Mills bomb inside and turned to cover his face.
The bang and the screams combined in one awful sound.
Bursting in through the door, each of the bodies, moving or not, received attention from the MP-40.
A quick appreciation of the situation told the NCO that this group, complete with a Maxim machine-gun, were set up to shoot up the flank of any assault made directly against the bridge.
He picked up one curious looking weapon and made his way back out into the corridor.
“Herr Oberleutnant. A new one, I think.”
“Looks like it, Keller. Hang on to it for intelligence. Try not to cut yourself.”
The new weapon had an integral bayonet folded back under the barrel, which left a cutting edge exposed. Intelligence would eventually identify it as an SKS semi-automatic carbine.
Guttural shouts and a burst of fire brought both men back to reality.
“Keller, go and back them up. Send back to me if you need any more.”
The Unteroffizier dashed down the stairs in the direction of the growing firefight.
Ahead, the cry of ‘Granate’ cut through the smoke and dust that was now becoming a problem.
The building shook as one, and then a second grenade exploded.
The tell-tale sound of a PPSh letting rip followed, and brought squeals of pain from some unfortunate along the hall.
Von Scharf moved on.
“Granate!”
Instinctively, the officer threw himself backwards through the open door, understanding that this grenade was incoming.
The door was thrown fully open in the blast and pain speared through his exposed foot as fragments clipped flesh and bone on the way through his boot.
Rolling back over himself, to clear away from the door quickly, Werner Von Scharf narrowly missed being hurt by the second enemy grenade that arrived without warning.
“Grenate!”
A splash of blood was thrown against the open door, marking the passage of metal through unfortunate flesh.
Bringing up his Gewehr-43, Von Scharf instinctively put two bullets into the first shape, the shriek of horror in Russian confirming his suspicion.
A rifle cracked and a second Soviet soldier dropped.
Von Scharf moved to the doorway again and risked a look towards the Soviet end of the corridor.
“Scheisse!”
He shouted instinctively, as fear prompted his survival instincts.
The Gewehr quickly emptied its magazine into the group of enemy that had been moving forward.
Like an automaton, Von Scharf reloaded.
‘I’m too exposed… to
o far forward…’
His thoughts were interrupted by calls from his right.
“Oberleutnant! Stay in cover… stay in cover!”
He needed no second invitation.
The corridor burst into life as an MG34, brought up under Keller’s orders, turned most of the doors and walls into matchwood.
“Raus!”
Men swept past Von Scharf’s hiding place, men in German uniform with murder in their hearts.
The firefight at the end of the corridor was brief and one-sided.
Keller appeared, grinning with relief that his officer was relatively unharmed.
“The enemy MG?”
“Kaputt, Herr Oberleutnant. Now, the Sani for you I think.”
The wound in his foot stung to high heaven so, with the position taken and the competent NCOs in charge, Von Scharf was helped to the medical station.
1744 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, Werse River Bridge, Ahlen, Germany.
By the time that Von Scharf had returned to lead his men, they had forced the bridge, and Otto Pausch was dead.
Pausch had spotted the opportunity to push across and form a bridgehead, and he was not a man to ignore such gifts when the gods of war presented them.
His orders had taken a good portion of Von Scharf’s remaining force over and into a fan shape around the head of the river bridge.
The old Lieutenant was struck down by enemy mortar fire as he organised the defence, one of only eleven casualties sustained in the crossing.
Riedler’s platoon had fought a bitter battle on the right flank, when Soviet infantry tried to sneak down the west bank behind the bridge assault force.
One of the STUGs had been sent to bolster his defence, but had thrown a track en route, the sound of hammers and curses betraying the hard work the crew were putting in to get their vehicle back into the fight.
The other STUG was still west of the river, its track shattered by a near miss, but in an excellent position to provide support to the defence, as the burning T-34 amply demonstrated, taken out with a single shot through the hull within a few seconds of its appearance.
The ammunition situation was acceptable, but the units over the bridge could not afford to be profligate, especially as the Soviets had it back under direct fire. The German defenders were troubled by mortars whenever something worth shooting at was seen.
Having risked the dash across the bridge, Von Scharf found that the previous owners had left him a more than acceptable bunker from which to exercise command.
“Glad to see you back, Herr Oberleutnant.”
Scharf’s pack had already been brought forward, which pleased him no end.
“We’ve checked the bunker for booby traps, command wires, and demolition charges. Nothing found, Sir.”
“Excellent work, Keller, excellent. Now, do we know where their damned OP is?”
“I have an idea, Sir.”
He moved to the map the Soviets had left behind in their haste.
“My Russian’s a bit rusty but I think that’ll be it there.”
Von Scharf looked at the map like it was gold dust, which it technically was.
“Mein Gott! This has their full position marked out, man.”
“I was going to send it back to battalion, but I thought you’d want a look at it before it went, Sir.”
It was an excellent call by the NCO.
“Right, let me get this copied over quickly and we’ll set about that nest of vipers very shortly,” he tapped the map on a point some two hundred metres away from where he presently stood.
Von Scharf screwed his eyes up, trying to read the legend under the Soviet scrawl, ignoring the growing throbbing in his injured foot.
‘St. Bartholomäus. ’
He searched his memory.
“Ah yes, the flayed saint.”
“Sorry, Sir?”
“St. Bartholomäus was skinned alive.”
Keller screwed his face up at the thought.
“Right, get me a runner so this can go back, and then the STUG can fix the bastards. I’ll radio the Oberstleutnant.”
By the time the runner had arrived, Von Scharf had transferred all he needed to his own map, and the priceless original was quickly sent back to the battalion headquarters.
But all was not well.
Unteroffizier Hermann Keller sensed the tension in the atmosphere as he entered the bunker.
Scharf was seething.
Battalion command had forbidden the destruction of the tower, citing its use for the same purpose under German control as the reason that Von Scarf’s infantry would now lose men negating the enemy OP.
However, he had a job to do.
“We’ll go to the church with… two platoons, I think.”
He added an after-thought.
“Leave Rielder’s lot alone. Let them rest.”
1814 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, Werse River Bridge, Ahlen, Germany.
Fig# 146 - Von Scharf’s assault on St Bartholomäus.
The two platoons waited as the seconds clicked away.
There was no sophisticated plan of attack, just the standard fire and movement that marked infantry tactics the world over.
Gathered in the houses overlooking Hospitalergasse, there was a twenty-five metre gap, partially rubble and partially undergrowth, before the advancing troops would find cover again.
Once across that piece of open ground, the two platoons would split and proceed to attack the church from either side, although, to save friendly fire casualties, only second platoon would enter the building itself in the first instance.
1814 became 1815, and the ubiquitous whistle sent third platoon scurrying forward by sections.
Beside Von Scharf, his unit’s sniper took a shot that presented itself and worked the bolt, searching for a second opportunity.
“Herr Oberleutnant, that’s where they sit for sure. I think I just popped an officer in the belfry, and there were other faces too. Heads are down now…”
Von Scharf took his eyes off the advancing platoon as the sniper’s briefing cut short.
The Kar98k barked again.
“Heads are now well and truly down. That’s another of the schwein with lead poisoning, Herr Oberleutnant.”
“Stay here until you hear our grenades, then push up. If safe… only if safe, klar?”
The man hummed his understanding, his eyes firmly glued to the scope.
The whistle sounded on Von Scharf’s lips, and first platoon surged forward.
Ahead, small arms fire started to rattle and grow in volume.
Making an instant decision, Von Scharf waved a hand and took his group left, the platoon’s commander already ahead and to the right.
The section with him sped up demonstrably, as hot metal started to ping around them.
Behind them, two men of their platoon had gone down, as Russian fire spat from upper windows in front of them.
The lieutenant leading his platoon crashed into the rubble face first, as a bullet passed through his throat.
His men surged, opening wider to create more gaps in their line.
Another soldier spun away, his thigh ruined by the passage of a Mosin bullet.
The de facto platoon leader, an experienced Feldwebel, grabbed at a stick grenade as he ran, weaving quickly as he unscrewed the cap and grabbed the cord.
In one easy movement, he lobbed it through the open first floor window, narrowly avoiding the body that was thrown out by the blast.
A landser shot the moaning lump as he ran past.
Inside the building, the defending Soviet soldiers were quickly overtaken by a combination of bullets and bombs.
To save time, Von Scharf detailed one of third platoon’s sections to make up the shortfall in first platoon, adding his own group to third platoon.
“Raus!”
The two platoons rushed forward, leaving behind a section to support the machine-guns set up behind as cover.
Von Scharf screamed lou
dly, partially because his wounded foot cannoned off a lump of brick, and partially because the muzzles of a lorry-mounted twin-DShK swung in his direction.
His brain quickly calculated that he was a dead man, but his heart drove his legs forward and worked his right hand, the index finger pulling the Gewehr-43’s trigger in a futile attempt to preserve his life.
The muzzles stayed silent, despite the efforts of the gunner.
The loaders ran as the grey-green tide swept over them.
Eyes wide open in terror, the gunner evacuated both bladder and bowels as one of Scharf’s men dragged him from the gunner’s position.
“Prisoners, Herr Oberleutnant?”
“Ja…”, Scharf took in the surroundings and pointed to a large bomb hole off to one side.
“There… put the boy in there… stand guard and no risks. Alles klar?”
The foul-smelling gunner was pushed along by the muzzle of a rifle, taking refuge in the hole where he was subsequently joined by two more prisoners, each equally young and equally scared.
Keller appeared, his cheek streaked with blood.
“Just a scratch… grenade splinter I think.”
He nodded at the prisoners.
“They’re just boys, Herr Oberleutnant. All of this lot were just boys… fifteen at best I reckon.”
Von Scharf automatically checked his weapon as he spoke, his face altered by a wry smile.
“Then maybe this war’ll be over quicker than we thought eh, Keller?”
The low laugh betrayed the NCO’s views on such stupid thoughts.
“Right… I’ll get this lot organised and we’ll attack immediately.”
Soviet mortar rounds started to arrive, clearly called in to keep the assault force away from their target.
“Let’s move, Keller!”
A dull swooping sound and one German soldier dropped to the ground as his stomach started to spill from his riven belly.
The three Soviet prisoners on whom it had dropped barely resembled human beings.
“Sani!”
The orderly was already on his way to the stricken guard, knowing all he would achieve would be to ease the veteran into the afterlife with morphine.
