by Gee, Colin
Fig#99 - US forces committed to the assault on Dahlem, 6th December 1945.
Five halftracks were knocked out, some burning, some just resembling Swiss cheese, some of the enemy heavy machine-guns equipped with ammunition capable of penetrating the armour plate. The 12.7mm DShKs claimed victims amongst the men packed in each vehicle.
One vehicle disgorged its crew, the men heading for the cover of a gully that proved to be a deadly nest of anti-personnel mines.
The explosions continued long after the squad of men had been ripped to pieces by unforgiving metal.
Mortar shells were arriving all over the area around the stranded advance party.
Handset to his ear, Towers shouted and waved his fully functioning arm at his men.
“Get back into cover, goddamnit! Baines! Baines! Back there...move back there!”
Fig#100 - Soviet forces committed to the defence of Dahlem, 6th December 1945.
Baines, the NCO in command of the nearest track, missed the message, but knew his trade well enough to order his M5 into some excellent cover, mainly provided by a thick stone wall.
The woods swallowed up the rest of the men and machines, as Love Company pulled back.
There was a sudden silence in Towers' ear, as the insistent voice stopped demanding situation reports, offering him a chance to reply.
Towers shouted back into the radio, blood flying from his lips, split open when he collided with the back of the driver’s seat.
“Jupiter Six, I’ve five tracks down, including my air co-op... probably twenty of my boys outta the fight. Can’t advance without armor, Sir. The commies have got heavy MG’s cited everywhere to my front, some to my flanks. Mortars coming in all over, accurate too. Ground’s open and all white. No cover at all. I’ve a hatful of men down... I need air... and more men and tanks...above all tanks. Over.”
Fig#101 - Battle of Dahlem, first attack, 6th December 1945.
A mortar shell sent snow and pieces of undergrowth flying over the frozen pond he was sheltering beside.
“Jupiter Six, yessir, that’ll be great. I’ll wait for them to arrive...”
Apparently, that was not the Colonel’s plan.
“Say again, Jupiter Six.”
Towers found himself hugging the snow as the angry zips of passing bullets seemed to grow in intensity and volume.
“Jupiter Six, I know that, Sir, but suicide’s still suicide, and that’s just what you’re ordering me to do.”
Removing the handset from his ear, the exasperated infantryman calmly handed it back to the radio operator and then exploded
“Goddamned son of a fucking bitch!”
A figure tumbled in beside Towers, sending up a flurry of snow.
“Goddammit, soldier!”
Wiping the snow from his face, Towers checked out his panting 2IC.
“You’re hit, Harold.”
“Just a scratch, Cap’n.”
Henderson played with the material, demonstrating the passage of a bullet.
“Get that arm looked as at soon as you can, Harold.”
“It can wait, Cap’n.”
Towers held out his map, ending the exchange.
“We’re here. They’re here, here and... I guess... here.”
“Definitely seen fire coming from the road ahead. Nothing from those trees yet though, Cap’n.”
“Forget air. It’s all gone sour... Colonel Bell, bless him, wants us to push on a-sap... straight up the goddamned road. Barrel through, he says.”
Henderson wrinkled his nose up in disgust.
“Well, that ain’t happ’nin is it?”
“No way. Neither am I going into the woods to the right there. That stinks to me.”
The two pored over the map, subconsciously registering the decrease in enemy fire.
“Here, Harold, just here. That’s where I’m going. I’ll leave you some of the boys, plus the heavy weapons... and the arty boys. All you gotta do is make enough noise to keep them occupied. I’m going to hook up here, moving left, almost to Baasem... and then come hard up these roads, parallel with Route 110.”
It was a plan, better than the frontal assault ordered, but the area was restrictive, as was the timescale placed upon the 90th Division, pressure that had cascaded down to find a place firmly on the shoulders of Captain William Speke Towers, commanding Love Company, 359th Infantry.
Both men risked a look over the edge of their cover.
Towers gesticulated right then left.
“Over there, see? Looks perfect, don’t it? Bet yer ass they’ve sown it all up ready. On the left flank here it’s more open in many ways, but I reckon we can deploy out of sight, and use those tracks and the hedges to get close enough.”
Henderson could see the reasoning behind the call, but still felt that the left was too exposed, and said so.
“I hear you, Harold. But we’re behind the goddamned eight-ball. Can’t stay here, and we can’t go straight up the road, so it’s the best I can do.”
A mortar shell arrived nearby, making both men duck. The screams that followed drew their gaze, and the cries of ‘medic’ told them all they needed to know.
“Goddamnit! I’m moving off at 1230. Get your heavy weps online to support me.”
He consulted the map once more.
"I think the airfield, up on the left flank here, may be necessary, once we've taken the village, but have your boys ready to switch fire to this area here," Towers circled a patch of trees and open ground around Route 110 as it wended its way northwest, past the old Luftwaffe Dahlemer airfield.
"If any surprises come, I want the heavy weps ready to put down some fire on it, ok? I'll dial Travers in on that location too."
He checked the air, almost as a dog does when sensing change.
“Best shift the boys some. Betcha this is all vectored too. Keep a good eye on the right flank there, just in case, Harold. I don’t trust those woods. And if the tanks turn up, make sure they come to me first, but hang on to enough to make noise up the main road, ok?”
“Gotcha, Cap’n. Good luck, sir.”
“And to you, Lieutenant.”
Towers checked first and leapt up, running for all he was worth towards the halftrack he had shouted at earlier. He arrived, breathless and aching, his backside reminding him of its recent brush with Soviet metal.
The radioman barrelled into him, helped by the nearby explosion of something larger than a mortar.
The wood that Towers had declined to occupy disappeared in a volley of Katyusha rockets, fired by a unit missed by the ground attack squadrons.
Towers got his men into position, and found enough time for a face to face with the Artillery support officer.
2nd Lieutenant Travers had upped his game since the mistakes on the Argen River, and the 359th had managed to keep him close, getting him transferred into the 345th Field Artillery.
Sergeant Baines welcomed the arrival of his CO with a wave, his own facial injury preventing effective communication for the moment.
A piece of mortar shell had removed four of his teeth and opened his cheek from ear to lips.
It hurt, and bled like hell.
Back on the radio, Towers briefed in the platoons he was taking with him and then checked his watch.
‘Time to get moving.’
“OK Driver. Move over to the left there. Nice and steady.”
He grabbed at the .30 cal side mount as the halftrack surged backwards.
Placing a reassuring hand on the young driver’s shoulder, Towers tried to calm the frightened boy.
“Easy, son, easy. Try not to shake the old man around too much, eh?”
Again, the halftrack surged, causing him to grab at the mount again, this time moving forward and to the left, but with more control this time.
Dropping his mouth down to ear level, Towers gave the driver directions.
The halftrack stopped behind a wooden barn, adjacent to another vehicle, this one undoubtedly belonging to First
Sergeant Micco.
Most of Love Companies tracks sported a .50cal as main armament, with two .30cal on either side.
Micco’s track benefitted from some serious scrounging; the .30’s had been replaced with .50’s, the pulpit .50 removed and the position field modified to take a 20mm Oerlikon.
It gave the unit an extra bit of firepower, and Micco was Micco, so even Towers let it go.
Acknowledging the wave from Micco, Towers spoke into the radio.
“Tombstone Four-Six to all stations Tombstone Four-Two, Tombstone Four-Three, move ‘em out.”
Two platoons of Tower’s company pushed forward out into the fields to the west of Route 110, seeking out the tracks that would take them closer to Dahlem, willing the halftracks to shrink beneath the level of the vegetation that covered the approach route.
Travers had some of his 105mm guns set ready to bring down smoke to permit the tracks to close; the others maintained a steady fire on the outskirts of the German town.
The smoke shells started up on cue, restricting Artem’yev’s vision almost immediately.
He spoke in grudging respect.
“This one knows his business, Comrade.”
The Major next to him grunted, examining the advance, as best he could, through his own binoculars.
Artem’yev placed his own prized German set on the brick wall, his arms suddenly weary, the impending combat already weighing heavily upon him.
Bailianov looked at his commander and smiled.
“Yes, he knows his business, but so do we, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“That we do, Boris Ivanovich... although Comrade Karamyshev might offer a different opinion.”
General Karamyshev had attempted to relieve Artem’yev prior to the final assault on Sittard. Both Artem’yev and his second in command had refused to accept suicidal orders, and used their experience to achieve the same results in a different way, albeit at the cost of the latter’s life.
The General received promotion and a new command as a result, preventing him from following through with his threats.
None the less, in a private meeting, Karamyshev had made sure that the Colonel understood he was permanently on the shit list.
Fig#102- Battle of Dahlem, second attack, 6th December 1945.
Bailianov checked to make sure that the Communications officer was poised ready, before returning to survey the battlefield; the static enemy force was still sat astride the main road, and the new force, only occasionally visible through the smoke, moving up on the right flank, behind the hedges and trees heavily laden with snow.
Artem’yev waited.
Bailianov waited.
The Communications officer waited.
Seconds seemed like minutes.
Artem’yev nodded.
Bailianov slapped the Communications officer on the arm.
The Communications officer spoke one word.
“Fire!”
1238 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, Dahlem, Germany.
Even with the cover of hedgerows and small copses, Towers’ men had taken casualties when the Soviet gunners opened up.
76.2mm and 85mm guns engaged the half-tracks direct, and heavy DSHK machine guns lashed out at the soldiers abandoning knocked out or damaged vehicles.
Travers got the divisional artillery responding and at least two of the defensive AT guns were knocked out.
Henderson had the Heavy Weapons platoon working hard on supporting the attack.
A dozen Sherman tanks from the 746th Tank Battalion had arrived, sent forward by Colonel Bell in response to Towers’ plea. Bell was a competent commander and, contrary to Towers’ belief, fully understood the predicament that Love Company now found itself in. He even added some combat engineers for good measure.
Henderson retained one Sherman platoon, and directed the remainding seven tanks to follow in Towers’ wake, up the left flank.
The infantry Captain threw the handset away in disgust.
On the back of the Sherman was an EE8A telephone system, put there as a means to communicate with the tank commander. In this instance, the means simply refused to communicate.
Climbing on the back of the tank exposed him to enemy fire, but he needed to talk to the man in charge.
He rapped on the hatch three times and shouted his name, rank, and unit.
The hatch moved upwards cautiously, revealing a white face and the muzzle of an M1911A.
“Say again, pal.”
“Towers, William S. 359th Infantry.”
The grip on the pistol visibly relaxed, and the hatch opened a few more inches.
“Ayres, 746th.”
“Your squawk box is bust, Captain.”
It was not an admonishment, just a statement of fact.
“Noted.”
Captain Ayres spoke rapidly into his microphone before giving Towers his full attention.
“What’s the buzz then, Captain? Whatta we got ahead here?”
“Bunch of anti-tank guns for certain, spread along the front in front of Dahlem there. We got reasonable cover all the way, but the bastards’ve still picked off a few of my tracks. Arty’s slackened off some; probably counter fire has knocked ‘em back”
Ayres lit two cigarettes and passed one to Towers.
“Thanks. We gotta pick up the pace again. Dahlem’s an important piece of real estate, and we’ll get chewed out if we don’t get it soon. So, here’s the deal.”
Towers quickly moved his finger around the map, indicating a couple of tracks, central to the advance of the Shermans.
Ayres ventured a small alteration and the plan, such as it was, became set in stone.
Looking at his watch, Towers worked out the time he would need to brief in his leadership and get the company online for another surge.
Taking a deep draw, he savoured the unfamiliar taste of the British Players cigarette.
“I might have to take up with these. Easy to come by?”
“Easy enough when you have lots of shit that the Limeys wanna trade for.”
Flicking the butt to one side, Towers returned to business.
“I’ve got 1254. You?”
“Same as. How long do you need? I can be done in three.”
“Longer... 1310... say... 1315.”
Towers nodded in confirmation of his calculation.
“OK...1315 we kick off straight down the tracks. I’ll get my men to your tanks in good time. The rest of my outfit’ll be in the tracks. Good luck, tanks.”
“Break a leg, infantry.”
1315 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, Dahlem, Germany.
Colonel Bell had scared up as much artillery support as was humanly possible in the short period of time available.
Shells from 75mm to 8” fell upon the Soviet positions in and around Dahlem.
Towers ordered the assault in, and the lead tanks slowly moved forward, each with a knot of infantry in its wake.
Behind them came the remaining halftracks, ready to surge forward once the tanks had beaten a gap in the defences.
Last of all came the combat engineers, acting as a reserve, mixed in with two ambulance tracks and Towers’ newly commandeered command halftrack.
As the assault force moved forward, it almost seemed like parts of the German town were rising hundreds of feet into the air before returning to ground level, only to be propelled skyward again by some new explosion.
The supporting US artillery was right on the money, and the Soviet defenders were taking casualties.
Henderson’s heavy weapons group was silent at the moment; their own mortars would do little to add to the shock and destruction of the main barrage, and Towers’ concerns about the airfield had increased.
A shell emerged from the wreckage of Dahlem, streaking past the lead Sherman by a comfortable distance.
The sole noticeable response was a small increase in speed from its intended victim, but the men inside the tank were sweeping the ground to their front, seeking out the danger.
>
Soviet mortar rounds started to drop around the two lead elements, causing the infantry groups to stoop more, their crouching advance would have seemed almost like a comedy act if it wasn’t being played out on such a deadly stage.
Casualties were remarkably light as only three men were plucked from the groups, none of which was hit fatally.
But there was a problem.
‘Slow...too goddamned slow!’
Towers was conscious of the fact that the Katyushas had already been used, and it was part of his plan to get as tight to the enemy as possible whilst they reloaded, where the notoriously inaccurate rockets could not be fired.
“Healthy-two-six, Healthy-two-six from Tombstone-four-six over.”
He had to repeat the message before Ayres acknowledged.
“Healthy-two-six, you gotta push ahead a bit quicker. My boys’ll keep up, but you gotta get tighter, Healthy.”
“Roger, Tombstone.”
Within seconds, the Shermans had all accelerated and the accompanying infantry groups had raised themselves from jog to run to stay with their mobile shields.
One of the supporting halftracks, easily recognisable as Micco’s, fired off every weapon aboard as concealed Soviets soldiers rose from cover to engage the tanks at close quarters.
“Shit! They’ve got tank hunters in the hedges!”
‘FUBAR!’
Towers already had the radio in his hand.
“All Tombstone and Healthy call signs. Be aware, enemy infantry concealed in the hedges, Tombstone-four-six over.”
Even as Towers formulated the second part of his message, he noted his doughs rushing past the lead tank, putting in an assault on an unseen group of Russians.
Other groups pushed forward, moving ahead of the tanks, some charging into unoccupied clumps of hedge and trees, others assaulting a position that suddenly erupted violently.
