by Colin Gee
Scharf failed to see it as a success, as only one man from the six who had attacked the tanks returned.
The remains of the five others lay in clear view, three ravaged bodies entwined behind a pile of rubble to the left of his vision; to the right the two others, less distinguishable as German soldiers, the effects of HE having spread the two brave men for yards around.
The sani had finished redressing his foot, and Scharf felt the improvement immediately.
It had been over ninety minutes since the enemy had last attacked and, for young boys, Scharf could only admire the effort that drove them to the walls of the church itself and, in one instance, through a window.
The three enemy bodies had been placed to one side and the position reoccupied by the dwindling defenders.
Scharf had started the assault with sixty-eight men, and achieved the church with a group numbering thirty-one.
One section of eleven men from the other platoon group arrived during a lull and brought his strength up to twenty-seven fit or slightly wounded soldiers; the rest lay either dead or severely wounded amongst the church stalls.
One in two men were presently resting as the other kept watch.
It was a rude awakening as Savvushkin’s alternative arrived on cue.
“Alarm!”
The cries rang out, not only in the church of St Bartholomew, but at the bridgehead, as the commanders of the 513rd Motorised Rifle Division threw their ravaged battalions forward, the sacrificial lambs to cover a swift withdrawal of more valuable units, such as the Guards Engineers.
The defenders cut loose, knocking down the leading attackers, their silhouettes easily picked out against the shifting orange background.
Scores went down, scythed like corn in a field, but there were hundreds more of them.
“Keep it up, menschen!”
Schneider spotted the Soviet stick grenade deflect off the stonework of the small window.
“Grenata!”
He threw himself forward and grabbed the charge, flinging it into the nearby stone recess.
No one even noticed his heroism.
The Soviet pressure was immense and started to tell as weapons flailed at windows, showing where the attackers were close enough to lash out with rifle butt and bayonet.
“Schneider! Don’t leave your radio, man!”
Von Scharf scuttled over as bullets pinged around the stonework.
“Tell Surfer... we’re being overrun... fire on our location immediately!”
Appreciating the significance of the order, Schneider was immediately on the radio and commenced an exchange with the US artilleryman some ten miles away.
Von Scharf caught only one side of the brief conversation.
“Yes, we’re all in the church, over... yes... it’s intact, over... right. Thank you, out.”
Schneider looked at his officer.
“They are firing now. He said they have VT so keep away from the windows.”
Whatever VT was, Scharf decided to take the advice, and immediately got his men to keep their heads down and deal with the enemy outside solely with their few remaining grenades.
Within a few seconds, modified M-101f shells, with proximity fuses, started to arrive around the church.
The M-101f had a fragmentation core instead of the supplementary charge, which made it a great shrapnel killer. Combined with the T-76E1 proximity fuse, the 155mm shell was an airburst with immense killing potential.
The effect upon the massed soldiers of the 513rd Motorised was similar to the simultaneous firing of a hundred shotguns.
Men went down everywhere, including inside the church, as the angle of burst inevitable propelled metal in through the windows and other holes in the structure.
Fanaticism had driven the young Soviet soldiers all the way to stand toe to toe with their enemy; the carnage and inevitability of death in the open herded them into the church, despite dying in their droves.
“Keep it up, Kameraden! They’ll break... they’ll break!”
For every two or three that went down under an MP-40 burst, one got close enough to grapple with one of Scharf’s men, and within seconds, only Schneider and Scharf were not close up and personal with a screaming Russian.
Swinging his Gewehr from side to side, the Oberleutnant selected single targets, where there was no risk of hitting his own men.
In front of him, superior size and build, combined with years of experience, meant that the landser were killing and wounding in great numbers, but occasionally a veteran would go down, allowing more enemy into the fight.
An American shell, its fuse faulty, crashed into the ground in front of the main entrance.
Outside, there was carnage.
In the entranceway, there was carnage.
The shrapnel and pieces of stone pathway continued through the men fighting in the main church, cutting down German and Russian without favour.
Even though he was appalled, Von Scharf seized the moment.
“Fall back, on me! Menschen! Fall back on me!”
Disciplined as ever, the survivors moved quickly back to the corner area, removing the threat of a rear attack.
The Soviet boy soldiers threw themselves forward again, perhaps realising that the end was near for one or other of the two combatants.
Scharf put a bullet through the face of a blonde haired youth. The scream pierced every ear and went on for some time.
Caught as he inserted his last magazine, the Oberleutnant could only parry the thrust of a bayonet.
The momentum carried the enemy soldier forward and Scharf swung the Gewehr, slamming the butt into the left ear and mashing the skull in an instant.
The next attacker received two bullets in the chest.
Schneider was puffing and squealing as he rolled over on top of another boy, one of heavier build and greater strength than most, trying to throttle the life from the Russian.
Wading in quickly, Scharf kicked out, landing hard on the boy’s forehead as he squirmed his head from side to side. The stunning blow robbed the Russian of his strength, giving the radio operator time to grab his knife and open up the farm boy’s heart.
A sharp pain focussed Schneider.
The bayonet sliced through his side and then ripped the flesh as the weight of the thrust carried the weapon forwards.
Instinctively, he turned and flailed with the blade. He was rewarded with a squeal of agony and felt the heavy bump of flesh contacting his hand.
Not that he cared, but the blade had cut across the man’s eyeball, which spilled clear fluid in an instant.
Schneider punched his blade into the soldier’s throat, killing the enemy NCO in a heartbeat.
Von Scharf discharged his Gewehr for the last time, the final round missed its immediate target, but hit enemy flesh in the mass behind.
He bought himself a valuable second by throwing the useless weapon at his next assailant, taking up the Mosin dropped by Schneider’s nemesis.
The enemy’s bayonet thrust rammed hard into the stock and skipped off under Scharf’s right elbow.
Using the damaged butt, the Oberleutnant shoved upwards with his right arm, breaking two of the man’s fingers as they gripped his rifle, before angling off the Soviet soldier’s shoulder without landing a heavy blow.
Another German soldier dispatched the wounded Russian with a butt thrust to the back of the head.
His attention drawn to saving his officer, the man was quickly set on.
Stabbed in the gut by a bayonet, Grun went down and in an instant, he was underneath two boy soldiers, whose combined age was probably less than the veteran Obergefreiter.
Von Scharf moved to help, but was immediately knocked off his feet by two more Russians, ending up in a similar predicament to Grun.
Hands scrabbled at his neck, mouth, and eyes.
The corner of his mouth gave way, splitting towards the right ear in a squirt of blood.
The pain was intense and Von Scharf bellowed.
The split caused the enemy hand to lose purchase. The returning fingers found themselves lodged firmly between Scharf’s teeth as he took three digits down to the bone in an instant.
The other Soviet soldier relinquished his hold on the officer’s throat, as Schneider slammed his bayonet into the back of the man’s skull, scrambling his brains.
A hand came across Von Scharf’s vision, hooking its fingers into the screaming boy’s nose, moving the head up enough to permit a knife to sever anything of value in the soldier’s throat.
Ignoring the hot blood that gushed over him, Scharf pushed away at the dead bodies, trying to regain his feet before another threat arrived.
Keller wiped his knife on the enemy’s greatcoat and held a hand out to his officer.
Köhler arrived with the dead sani’s pack and started to work on Von Scharf’s disfigured face whilst Schneider helped himself to a bandage for his side.
Unteroffizier Keller called his men forward, intent on posting one of the dozen or so survivors on each window, from which the enemy seemed to have melted.
Only two live Russians were in the church, lying amongst their own fallen on the cold floor and moving in the slow and considered fashion of the badly wounded.
The artillery had stopped of its own accord, something that Von Scharf only now appreciated.
2359 hrs, Tuesday, 26th March 1946, St. Bartholomäus, Ahlen, Germany.
Sixteen men remained alive in the end, one of which was still seeing stars; Scarf’s other men would never see anything again.
It appeared that grenades had done for the German wounded at some time during the combat, the alcove in which they had been housed showing clear signs of an explosion.
Only Keller had not acquired a new wound, although his helmet and uniform showed signs of his close calls.
Köhler had sustained another wound, a clip on the thigh; nothing serious but enough to make his eyes water when Schneider bumped against him.
Von Scharf sat on one of the intact pews to take Keller’s report, his face afire with pain.
His watch had been broken at some time in the hand-to-hand fighting so he ‘borrowed’ one from Grun’s corpse, vowing to see it returned to the dead man’s family.
It was midnight.
Keller came to attention in front of him.
Scharf waved him to sit beside him.
“No ceremony now, Unteroffizier. Report.”
At least, that was what he intended to say, but he couldn’t manage an understandable word.
In any case, Keller made his report.
“The enemy has disappeared completely, Herr Oberleutnant. There is no one between us and Berlin, or back to battalion, as far as I can see anyway.”
He coughed violently, probably because of the smoke that invaded every space in sight, then took out his canteen. Scharf refused the proffered container but allowed his NCO a moment to drink.
“The men are keeping watch, and I have the remainder scouring the bodies for ammunition and supplies.”
Keller took another swig.
“It seems that I am the only man unwounded. Fourteen men capable of duty, including yourself, Sir.”
A final tug on the canteen and then the exhausted Unteroffizier put it away.
“Herr Oberleutnant, we have two Panzerfausts, no grenades, depending on what they find amongst the enemy dead, no machine-gun ammunition, two clips for the MPs, three for your Gewehr, and no more than five rounds per carbine.”
Von Scharf nodded his understanding.
‘We are finished here...’
He wrote out a swift message for his man to transmit.
Schneider read it back.
“Contact battalion. Tell them we’re not in contact and are withdrawing back to the bridge for 00:10. Sixteen survivors, including wounded. Blue smoke as marker.”
That got a nod of confirmation from his officer.
The funker got through immediately, and although Oberstleutnant Bremer wanted to speak directly to Von Scharf, Schneider deflected him, knowing that his Oberleutnant couldn’t speak.
Raising himself unsteadily, Von Scharf squeezed Keller’s shoulder in thanks and moved off around the men. Whilst unable to talk, he enquired with raised brows or a throaty sound, and each man replied wearily, assuring him of their ability to keep fighting.
It didn’t take him long to do the rounds.
Taking out his notebook, he wrote a swift instruction, showing it to Keller.
It gave command of the short evacuation to the Unteroffizier.
Accepting the coloured smoke grenade, the Unteroffizier nodded his understanding.
Keller called to the men around him.
“Achtung, menschen!”
He detailed those to take the lead, those to bring the wounded, and those to bring up the rear.
“Alles klar?”
Their voices chorused in understanding.
“Marsch!”
The move back was slow and precise.
Two runners were sent to bring back any survivors from the other group.
They returned empty-handed.
The sniper still sat in his prime position, watching the enemy positions through glassy lifeless eyes. How he had died was not immediately apparent, but he was certainly dead.
The small party pushed on, arriving at the T-junction on Weststrasse, just forty metres short of the bridge.
Keller looked at the exhausted men around him.
“One more hop, Kameraden.”
He tossed the smoke grenade ahead and waited until the smoke bathed the street, its blue colour obvious even in the firelight.
“Marsch!”
The survivors moved off and through the smoke, moving as fast as they could, expecting a bullet in the back with every footfall.
No shots were fired, and the leading men emerged to see comrades waving frantically, gesturing at them to speed up.
Man by man, they tumbled into the German positions, where their comrades helped them down the bank to waiting boats, that carried the survivors across the river.
At 0300, a three-pronged assault squeezed the life out of Ahlen and the area around it.
By 0500, apart from a handful of stragglers, 513rd Motorised Rifle Division and a handful of smaller support units had been utterly destroyed, and there seemed to be a hole rent in the Red Army’s defences.
The Allies hailed it as a victory, whereas Malinovsky knew it was actually his victory, and that he had preserved 4th Motorised Army to fight another day.
0639 hrs, Saturday, 30th March 1946, III/899th Grenadiere Regiment Rest Area, Gütersloh, Germany.
As in any army at war, there was nothing quite like combat to bring about advancement, and newly-fledged Captain Von Scharf profited from the woundings and deaths of a number of the 266th’s hierarchy.
Whilst he retained his company, the new rank gave him seniority, in the event that Battalion headquarters suffered more of the sort of discomfort such as was inflicted upon it at the end of the Battle of Ahlen.
An extremely rare Soviet air attack had opened up a number of vacancies for experienced men.
Von Scharf had declined Bremer’s invitation to leave his front line post and join him in Battalion.
His refusal had been met with understanding. Bremer was a quality leader, unlike the oaf Major Hinzig, who was 2IC.
Von Scharf and Hinzig had never seen eye to eye. Von Scharf had been through the latest reports from 3rd Korps headquarters and, in the main, the reading was good, with the exception of the 35th Division’s problems south of Oerlinghausen.
A Soviet tank and infantry force had counter-attacked across lands known well to any German tanker; the Sennelager-Paderborn training grounds.
Panzer Brigaden Europa and the 519th Panzerjager Abteilung had quickly slammed the door on the enemy advance, making the lead elements bunch into a rich target for their heavy guns.
The work had been finished by the 13th Sturzkampfstaffel, its dozen J
U-87Ds and four HS-129/B3s completing the rout of the large Soviet force.
For good measure, the retreating force also received the unwelcome attention of two flights of Tempest V’s, decked out with the latest Hispano V cannons and topped off with a pair of two hundred and twenty-seven kilo bombs apiece. The after-battle report made great play of the assistance offered by the French pilots of 3e Escadron de Chasse, led by the famous Pierre Clostermann.
1st Panzer-Grenadiere Division again took up the advance but floundered on the slopes of the Teutobergerwald’s high ground.
Part of the 35th Infanterie Division had been assigned to break the defences to the north, and failed bloodily.
Von Scharf sipped his coffee and re-read the concise report of the 35th’s assault.
A knock on the partially ruined door broke his concentration.
“Ah, come in, Unteroffizier. Take a seat, man.”
Von Scharf’s voice was still not normal, but he had mastered the art of making himself understood, even with the stitches that held his cheek together.
“The men are rested?”
“Another two weeks should see them in top shape, Herr Hauptmann.”
“That would be wonderful, of course”
He passed his NCO a coffee.
“Anyway, I think not, Keller. We have orders.”
The Regiment had been withdrawn whilst a Kampfgruppe from 35th Infanterie Division had been moved in. The 266th Infanterie had only two line regiments at the commencement of the assault, with a third one being organised, with a view to reinforcing the division by mid-April. Until then, the 266th needed bolstering from time to time, so Corps command had a force based around the 109th Grenadiere Regiment to lead the way.
That force, Kampfgruppe Aldegger, named after its now deceased Colonel, had run into severe difficulty north of Sennelager and Paderborn training area, successfully driving the Soviet defenders out of Sennestadt and Lippereihe, before grinding to a bloody halt on the hills that run north-west to south-east through the Teutobergerwald.
“Oerlinghausen.”
