by Gee, Colin
“Yes, Sir.”
His voice betrayed him.
“You got Neuwiller and Petite Pierre, George. Just get in there and keep them ours. The Legion boys are having one hell of a time.”
Pierce wished it could be otherwise, but the 2nd Rangers was it. He still tried to sweeten the pill.
“I’ll shake you out some armored support... and some artillery too, George.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Your orders are to move to Petite Pierre, through Neuwiller, as quickly as possible. You’ll defend both villages in harness with the Legion Mountain Battalion in situ... and you will not, repeat not, relinquish your hold on them. When the 2nd Division arrives, then give ‘em Pierre, and focus on Neuwiller. Are we clear, George?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The 2nd Rangers had been to hell and back over the last few days, and had been placed in a rear position to recuperate. The Soviet counter-attack changed that but they, as well as their commander, were tired and washed out.
Pierce knew this, but difficult decisions are always the privilege of rank.
“Good luck, George. Get your boys moving. I’ll send the support to... Griesbach... to rendezvous with you.”
Williams saluted and turned on his heel, followed by the other Ranger officer. Both men had arrived the evening beforehand to plead in person for some reinforcements and time out of the line, and now left with a half-cocked mission that would cost more Ranger lives.
As he watched their backs, Pierce felt a spreading chill of belief that he was sending them into the fires of hell.
‘Goddamnit!’
Daring to venture outside once more, Rettlinger rolled across the small gap and crawled up behind the MG position.
He came to rest face down in the crotch of the loader.
The former SS-Gebirgsjager was quite dead, a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth being the only indicator of his passing.
“Just happened, Sturmbannfuhrer. Fucking mortar round.”
To his front, the building was burning fiercely, adding to the illumination from other fires that were gradually claiming Petite Pierre from end to end.
Cradling the ammo belt in his left hand, Ackerman pulled the weapon’s trigger, sending round after round into a group of enemy soldiers forming for a rush.
“Could do with some more ammo, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
Casting his eye around, Rettlinger could only see the one belt, and that was around the fresh corpse.
Pulling the man up, the cause of death became apparent as the head lolled to one side, and a huge hole was revealed in the rear of the soldier’s skull and neck.
Derbo clipped the fifty round belt to the end of the one already inserted into the deadly machine-gun.
“I’ll get more to you as soon as I can.”
Rettlinger didn’t wait for a response and threw himself back across the gap and into the doorway of the headquarters.
Scrambling further inside, he grunted in pain, his wounded arm announcing its displeasure at a thumping impact with the doorframe.
“Sanders! Grab as many of those as you can carry and act as loader on the ‘42 outside.”
The Sergeant, once an Oberscharfuhrer in the 24th SS Gebirgs Division “Karstjager”, moved swiftly to obey, snatching up four boxes of ammunition and disappearing from sight.
“What news, menschen?”
“General Pierce’s coming from the east; he’s moving his forces now, Commandant. Nothing from the western force, but we are assured they are on their way.”
The French officer was clearly rattled but still doing his job, not prepared to let his country down in the face of the Germans.
“Good. And us?”
Milke, the Battalions Operations officer, produced a hand drawn map.
“Sturmbannfuhrer. This is our perimeter. We may still be able to breakout to the south-west... if you order it.
The short Captain waited for a moment to let Derbo think on that.
“Do we have orders to withdraw, Hauptsturmfuhrer?”
“No, Sir. General Lavalle’s orders are to remain in place for as long as possible. This is an important junction, and it protects the Amerikan Panzers rear.”
“Then we move on to matters of defence.”
“Sturmbannfuhrer, the untermensch penetrated our lines here, here, here, here, and here. We have counter-attacked successfully here and here. They still hold these other positions. For now, the enemy attacks have stopped.”
“Reserves?”
“Us.”
That drew laughs from the veterans present, which bemused the French reporter, whose German language skills were insufficient to share the joke.
The camera now shared the shoulder quite comfortably with the grease gun, the thrill of killing a new and wondrous thing to him.
Rettlinger consider the sketchy map.
“Well, we must have some bodies. Take them from here, where we have not yet been pressed. One in three... and here also... but make it one in five only. That should give us,” he made the quick calculation. “Thirty-two men.”
Milke made it less, but he would manage to find the extra bodies to make his commander’s maths a reality.
“Right, that’s one twenty man storm group. Who to command?”
All but the reporter stepped forward.
“Koch. Plug any hole, retake any position. Reform your men once the situation is restored. Klar?”
“Zu befehl, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“The remainder will be positioned here under my command. Any questions?”
The Mountain Battalion made its preparations for the next bloodletting.
0602 hrs, Saturday, 7th December 1945, Mobile Headquarters, Task Force James, 2nd US Infantry Division, south of Rimsdorf, Alsace.
“Hell yes! We’re going to war, Major. We’re goddamned going to war!”
Major Carter had already seen enough of what war had to offer, unlike his new Regimental commander, a recent arrival, sent to replace the one recently promoted to be Cheif of Staff for an infantry division just arrived in theatre..
Colonel Albert Mortimer James Jnr was a stereotypical pompous asshole, portraying himself as a ‘Southern gentlemen’, but who was, in reality, a man who existed without many of the redeeming features of those he so badly caricatured.
His Regiment had been banded together with some extra support elements, rebranded as Task Force James, and hastily sent to the support of the French Foreign Legion forces now floundering in the face of the increased Soviet military presence.
He saw himself as Custer-like figure, leading his men to the rescue, and had said so a number of times.
Carter, a student of American History, glibly reminded him of Custer’s fate, which reasonable observation earned him a fifteen minute tirade.
James apart, the leadership of the Task Force were all combat veterans, so the tanks and infantry were soon rolling towards their rendezvous with the Legion at Neuwiller.
0700 hrs, Saturday, 7th December 1945, Mobile Headquarters, Task Force James, 2nd US Infantry Division, Ottwiller, Alsace.
The column of smoke and the noise of the explosions announced the problem before the radio crackled into life.
Colonel James was relieving himself outside the command track, so it fell to Carter to receive the report of contact from the lead elements at Petersbach, three kilometres up Route 9.
The point, part of the 2nd Recon Troop, had taken solid hits on the outskirts of Petersbach, losing two vehicles to enemy fire.
The unit’s commander was calm enough to identify T34 tanks as responsible for the ambush.
Carter’s mind was already addressing the problem. For a moment, he considered not calling James, but relented, sending the clerk to fetch the Colonel.
Drawing heavily on his pipe, James stumbled into the halftrack.
“What gives, Major? I see the smoke up there.”
“Sir, the enemy has ambushed our point outside of Petersbach. T
34 tanks are reported, as well as infantry and mortars. I’ve prepped the tank-destroyers to move up to back-stop the lead elements on your order, Si...”
“You’ve what?”
“I’ve prepped them for a move up to form a defensive line here, Sir.”
Carter indicated a point of higher ground, just south of the junction of Route 9 and 107.
“Well, we won’t be doing that, I can goddamn tell you, Major!”
Carter looked at the Colonel in a neutral way.
“We are attacking. Our orders are clear, Major. Order the lead elements to coordinate and push the enemy out of that village.”
Carter looked at the Colonel in disbelief.
“Sir, we have T34 tanks identified in that position, supported by infantry and mortars. Our intelligence report tells us that Petersbach is in our possession. Clearly it isn’t, so it would seem that the Soviets are attacking. To send our boys forward into that is...”
He stopped and deselected the word that would have put him way out of line.
“Is what, Major Carter? Bold? Carrying the fight to the enemy? Carrying out our orders? What?”
Carter looked at the Colonel in a neutral way.
“Sir, we don’t know what we face. If we are savaged, we’ll not be able to discharge our orders, and those Legion boys’ll pay the cost of our failure.”
James looked at the Major with contempt.
“If I didn’t know that you’d been decorated for bravery on a number of occasions, I’d think that you’re a fucking coward, Major Carter.”
Every head in the halftrack had been studiously avoiding looking at the pair, but such words drew them all to gaze at the two officers.
Colonel James saw the silent reactions of his men.
“As you were, soldiers!”
The men snapped round to focus on their own posts once more.
“Major Carter, you will order the lead elements to form for a frontal attack on Petersbach, straight down the ‘9, using speed and superior fighting ability to overcome the defences.”
Carter considered his response carefully, but had only started preparing it before the radio crackled into life and the world changed.
He held eye contact with James, both men silent, listening to the reports from the point column as they were assaulted by a large wave of T34’s, probably a regiment’s worth, with infantry support.
Keeping his eye contact with Carter, Colonel James spoke rapidly.
“Tell the lead elements to hold and await reinforcements. Radio the TD’s and have them move up as previously discussed.”
James paused as 105mm shells streaked overhead, artillery support fire brought down to halt the Soviet thrust.
“Is all of Second Battalion closed up?”
Carter suddenly realised that the words were directed at him.
“Yes Sir. When contact was made, the battalion spread out either side of Route 107, on that higher ground, north-east of Lohr.”
James looked down at the map and made some decisions, bringing Carter in closer.
“Get First Battalion positioned at this stream here,” he ran his finger along a small watercourse on the outskirts of Lohr.
“Third can move up the Route here,” he tapped Route 13, that joined the ‘9 just west of its junction with Route 107.
“Get ‘em up to the junction and then we’ll see what gives. Send a company of the 741st boys with them.”
Task Force James had two companies of the 741st Tank Battalion in its inventory.
“Yes, Sir.”
Carter translated the Colonel’s words into orders that could be transmitted and, within moments, the soldiers of Task Force James were tasked and organised.
James relit his pipe, making no effort to hide his annoyance, staring at his Major without a hint of comradeship.
Carter reported back that all had been done as ordered.
“Thank you, Major Carter. Troops, listen in!”
The surprise was tangible, but more was to come.
“You heard the exchange between Major Carter and me. I withdraw my comments, and apologise to him without reservation. He was right. I was wrong. I’ll do better next time. Now... as you were.”
James brought his lighter to his pipe bowl and puffed away madly, his eyes fixed upon Carter, the faintest hint of a smile mainly concealed by the flurry of smoke.
Carter nodded gently, understanding that James had just demonstrated a quality scarce amongst men, let alone leaders of men.
‘Son of a bitch.’
Task Force James had run into an advancing element of the 25th Tank Corps, detached from 3rd Guards Army, tasked with threatening the northern flank of the Legion incursion.
The 2nd Division’s soldiers would advance no further that day, or the days to come.
The Legion would get no help from that quarter.
0728 hrs, Saturday, 7th December 1945, Mobile Headquarters, 16th US Armored Brigade, Ringendorf, Alsace.
Pierce received the two reports without emotion, or at least, any external display of note.
Inside, he part screamed and part bled.
The parts that screamed understood that the 2nd Infantry had been halted by a Soviet combined armored and infantry force at Petersbach, and that the Rangers push had all but withered in the woods, west of Griesbach.
The part that bled had listened impassively to the news that Williams, the Ranger commander, had been carried from the field, felled by an enemy mortar round.
“Jeez, Ed. Tell me there’s some good news. Neuwiller? Dossenheim?”
“They’ve had no contact from Dossenheim yet. Our advance is slow, but we are still moving forward. Nothing from Neuwiller, Sir.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing since the last report, made when the Legion boys occupied it.”
Pierce took a deep breath and a big decision.
“Hold the Rangers in place, Ed.”
Pierce waited as Greinert issued the orders in clipped tones.
When his number two had finished, he continued, albeit briefly.
“Let’s get ‘em some more muscle before we ask ‘em to move forward again. Talk to me.”
“There’s a unit of the 712th at Imbesheim. It was missed off the maps initially, as the majority of the battalion had moved on.”
The much-reduced 712th Tank Battalion had been added to the 16th’s inventory late in the day, but proved a welcome addition with its mix of late model and very special Sherman tanks.
“Two platoons of Sherman Calliopes. They were left behind because of supply issues. These have been resolved, Sir.”
“What’s that... two miles?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then get ‘em up there right now, Ed.”
The orders were sent.
“Now, what else can we send the Ranger boys?”
0810 hrs, Saturday, 7th December 1945, five hundred metres north-west of Griesbach le Bastberg, Alsace.
“Roger that, out.”
Lukas James Barkmann took a moment to compose himself. His ankle continued to remind him of its condition, even though he had been off it for some time now, hidden away in the roadside ditch that represented his command post.
The initial advance from Greisbach had been stopped dead, enemy tanks and guns forcing the Rangers to ground virtually as soon as they moved off.
Two of his supporting Shermans were burning on the field, joined by at least six transports, victims of the intense defensive fire.
Lieutenant Colonel Williams had been in the nearest one, the upside down jeep smoking, but not alight, oil cooking on the hot engine.
The Rangers’ commander had suffered no wound that could be seen, but was insensible and could not be roused, having been thrown from the jeep by the force of the explosion. He came to rest in a snow drift that received him far more gently than a stout tree accepted the Colonel’s driver. The dead man remained wrapped around it in an embrace of death, his bones shattered by the unforgiving
immoveable trunk, his ankles almost touching the top of his head.
Barkmann shifted his eyes from the sight and concentrated on the job in hand.
“Ok fellahs, we’ve got some more armor now. Rocket-equipped Shermans. They can get close enough to put down a world of hurt on the Commies in the tree line.”
The Sherman concealed nearby fired at something distant and, even through the sound of the steady enemy barrage, the officer group heard whoops of joy celebrating that something with a Red Star on it died.
The tank’s commander, the senior man of B Company, 5th Tank Battalion, celebrated with a smile and a joke.
“Seems like the boys are doing ok without me!”
Barkmann spread his map on the pile of snow that counted as a table.
“Captain, the 712th boys wanna go in just behind you. They need to get closer.”
“Makes sense,” Captain Ewing conceded, “They’ve only got the 75, so they’re under gunned for this party.”
Barkmann nodded and accepted a cigarette with a snort of derision.
“Still smoking these goddamned corks, Al?”
Gesualdo pretended offence.
“Only Herbert Tareyton’s for me, Lukas. My body’s a temple.”
Barkmann took a deep draw and feigned disgust before continuing.
“We’re going to go on 0830.”
He looked around the other Ranger officers, the weariness evident on each dirty and bloody face.
“Those Legion boys need us. Reports are that they are close to being overrun in Pierre. There’s nothin’ from Neuwiller at all. The northern relief force has run into a whole bunch of trouble. It’s stuck and going nowhere fast.
“So, it’s the normal shitty deal, but it seems that it’s all up to us.”
“So, we lead the way again, eh?”
“Very poetic, Al. I’ll remember that.”
Gesualdo had referred to a statement made by General Cota, in Normandy, which later became the basis of the Ranger motto.
“The attack will focus on the flanks... here and here,” Barkmann pointed out the tracks that ran parallel to, and north and south of, the main road, Route 233.
