by Gee, Colin
Captain Christian Moreno was experienced enough to understand the task ahead, and he pushed his element hard towards the track he had selected.
Strassfeld was the first objective. He studied the map closely and decided to change the approach.
“Mohawk-three-three, Mohawk-three-one, over.”
The reply from 1st Lieutenant Garcia was tinny and light, the effect of the radio, not the man himself.
“Mohawk-three-three, Take D/3rd and your group south onto the Strassfelderweg. I'll send a platoon of the armored infantry and some change to back you up. Push up, do not enter the village. Leave D/3rd to cover, shift right, and then envelop, understood, over?”
“Mohawk-three-one, Mohawk-three-three, roger and understood. Sixty-one on my right flank. I’ll need one of those platoons to cover my right flank and rear, over”
“Mohawk-three-three, Mohawk-three-one, the Stonewalls will come with the doughs. They are for the flank and rear cover. Now move ‘em out. Over and out.”
The Stonewalls were the M36 Jackson tank-destroyers, the civil war reference having been too hard to ignore.
Hardegen checked with his binoculars, watching in satisfaction as the well-trained men of his command implemented his orders.
“Driver, move up.”
His own Sherman surged forward towards Strassfeld.
1344 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, Strassfeld, Germany.
Artillery started to drop in and around Strassfeld. Large calibre rounds of all varieties, all with the potential for death and injury in common.
Artem’yev could simply not believe it.
After all they had been through, yet again, he and his men found themselves in the hottest of places.
He shouldn’t have been there by rights, having been summoned to a 1400hrs meeting with the Army Commander, but the weather had cancelled the trip, so he found himself in command of three hundred and forty-seven exhausted men and women, sat on a piece of German real estate that the Allies very much wanted.
Again.
He turned to his officers.
“Once more then, Comrades. It seems once more before we can escape this hellhole!”
On the wall of the old carpenter’s shop, a hand-drawn map of their positions had been carefully created, positioned next to a German army map that held the more precise details of the position.
Because the hand-drawn map was in larger scale, Artem’yev briefed from it.
“The Amerikanski are advancing cautiously, and our men will slow them down for a while. It won’t last, and they will be here soon enough.”
He circled the village with his hand.
“Our anti-tank guns will do what they can, but it won’t be much, I think, so we’ll pull them out early on, clear?”
The young anti-tank Lieutenant commanding the last handful of AT guns from the 179th didn’t actually understand, but was grateful for the reprieve he had just been given, having resigned himself to dying at Strassfeld, alongside his three gun crews.
“The timing of that… well… that’s your call, Leytenant. Hurt the Amerikanski for sure, but I want you out and redeployed here, with as much as you can salvage,” he pointed out a small raised area of no more than fifteen hundred square metres, sat just north of the junction of Routes 182 and 210.
“Your job then is to stick fast to the hill, come what may. Cover the road… and Müggenhausen to the north, and watch our flank to the south here.”
The AT officer didn’t bother to remind the Colonel that there was only one lorry and that the other two Zis-3s would have to be pushed by hand. Artem’yev wasn’t that sort of Colonel.
“I’ve asked for a couple of the SP’s from the 378th, and anything else that can be spared. Comrades, for what it’s worth, I think they’ll swing their whole advance through here if we don’t hold.”
Weary men suddenly felt wearier at the thought of more heavy fighting.
“This will be the last time. When this one is over, I’ll march you to the rear myself, Comrades. With or without orders!”
He lifted them enough with his words. None the less, none of them were under any illusions.
“We will not resist at distance, not until we get tank support, otherwise the Amerikanski tanks will just swat our men away with their shells. Entice them closer, where we can fight their infantry up close, and their tanks cannot fire for fear of killing their own, clear?”
The nods were controlled, but they knew why Artem’yev was choosing this path.
“We’re better in close, so their numbers won’t count. Getting them in close’ll also switch off their artillery.”
Artem’yev held up a hand, silencing two of those present before they started to complain.
“I know, Comrades, but, at the moment there isn’t any, and that’s the way it is. Our units have taken heavy losses at the hands of their air attack regiments, and we may not get any artillery or rocket support at all.”
He needed to lift them again.
“Commander 11th Guards Anti-tank is going to release some of his 76mm’s to form an artillery unit for this area. If we hear a unit called Murmansk on the system, that’s them, and we get them working straight away.”
“Back to the village, Comrades. Keep their tanks out and make them go around. Once they move round the flanks, then the big boys can pick them off.”
That was easily understood.
“No retreat, Comrades, Not one centimetre beyond the plan. It cannot be allowed, or the Capitalists will split open the two Rifle Corps, and there’ll be hell to pay.”
Artem’yev knew, just as they knew, what that order meant.
“Here is important.”
He pointed to the area east of Strassfeld.
“We must not let them past us and round there or we will be cut off. The 52nd Corps will be moving units into Heimerzheim, but that will take time. We must expect no help from that quarter for now. When we pull back from Strassfeld, these positions, north of Olsheim… we hold them, come what may.”
He emphasized the position.
"There are two AT guns already in the defences, plus some of the engineers. We will hold there."
A partial company of engineers had taken a wrong turn, and found themselves unable to refuse Artem'yev's 'suggestion' to remain, so now formed part of his force, part in Strassfeld, part in the secondary defences.
The plan was relatively simple and without frills, not that there were the resources or time for either them.
Artem’yev addressed the interloper, a highly decorated tank commander, who had arrived without warning.
“Starshina, you’ve already chosen your ground and it suits our purpose. I know you have special orders but, for all our mother’s sakes, just let me know if you have to move back.”
Kon nodded his understanding, also acknowledging that the infantry Colonel understood the value of his vehicle.
“I hope it won’t come to that, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“Remember, Comrades. Listen for Murmansk and no retreat. Good luck now.”
The orders group broke up as the enemy artillery increased in its fury, a sure sign that an assault was about to begin.
1349 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, outside of Strassfeld, Germany.
“Roger, Mohawk-three-three, out.”
Moreno ordered his units to advance, despite Garcia’s contact report.
After all, it was just a handful of mud bandits, and they had been dispersed.
The anti-tank fire had stopped abruptly, the sole victim, a halftrack, lay smoking just off the track ahead. The track’s .50cal was working the building line ahead, the gunner desperate to avenge the two buddies that lay unequivocally dead in the front seats.
The unrecognizable bodies had taken the full force of an anti-tank round striking the engine, and passing through to the dashboard before exploding.
It was a miracle that anyone had survived, not that the gunner would see it until the tears and anger subsided.
Other inf
antry had dismounted and run forward, encouraged by the relative absence of fire from their target.
The lead Sherman, a 105mm howitzer equipped M4A3, seconded from the gun platoon, put one of its large shells into the nearest building with unusual results.
Fire spurted from every window as it exploded, but the structure itself seemed to hold, until something gave and it folded in on itself like a house of cards.
The snow reduced visibility and thus affected all ranges of fire, helped further by the smoke and dust from the German village.
The 105mm closed a little more, encouraged by its destruction of the large house.
Alongside, Garcia’s Sherman moved level, ready to provide support as the howitzer tank did its job.
From a hole to one side rose its killer, clutching a grenade. Taking rapid aim, the Soviet guardsman threw his RPG-6. He was an experienced tank hunter, and the RPG-6 was a much improved anti-tank weapon.
He had dropped back down into the hole before the American tank crew could raise a shout, and the grenade detonated before they could scream.
When the grenade exploded, its HEAT charge focussed its power and punched through the side of the turret.
Apart from a modest hole, no external damage was evident.
Inside, the story was different.
The loader and gunner had been transformed by the explosive blast. Garcia had lost both feet from the knees down, as he was pushing himself up and out the hatch at the time of impact.
His upper body strength came to his rescue and he propelled himself out into the cold, rolling onto the engine cover and off the back of the vehicle. He screamed as his shattered left leg hit the ground first; the second scream that followed immediately afterwards was louder than the first. The right leg came down, still with a partial foot attached, the swinging lump of boney flesh welting his left stump above the separation point.
Mercifully, Garcia dropped into unconsciousness.
His driver, shocked and stunned, reversed the tank.
The hull gunner sprayed bullets in all directions, hoping to stave off a repeat from any nearby grenade thrower.
It was not until the Sherman had reversed back some forty yards that the driver noticed the flattened body of his commander.
The machine gunner was too busy to notice, seeing only the shapes of the enemy in every shadow and swirl of snow He only stopped firing when he realised that the driver was vomiting into his lap.
They both abandoned the damaged tank and ran for their lives.
The infantry went to ground, and took the grenade thrower’s positions under fire.
Two more RPG-6’s hit the 105mm Sherman, but the throwers were less skilful.
Neither exploded and both bounced off the tank, which slowly continued on its advance, seemingly unaware of either the grenade attack, or the loss of their cover.
One of the watchful infantry put two Garand rounds through the chest of a grenade thrower, dropping him back into his snowy hole.
A special group from the 39th Engineer Sapper Brigade watched closely, assessing the position of the enemy tank, preparing to fire the explosives buried in the road.
The turret traversed and the gunner selected a building at random. In the blink of an eye, a 105mm shell blotted the group out. The Sherman crawled forward, rolling over one hundred kilos of Soviet explosives that would now not be detonated.
Inside the tank, the realization that they were alone suddenly hit the commander, and he ordered a halt.
The tank lashed out at all the surrounding buildings, leveling them one by one, as the hull machine gun sought out targets, or just expended ammunition to calm the crew’s growing nerves.
When Garcia’s tank had been knocked out, Moreno had pushed more of his force forward, and two Sherman ‘Easy Eight’s’ moved on either side of the howitzer tank.
Two Soviet soldiers rose up with RPG-6s, but both were cut down before they could release their grenades.
Despite the lack of fire from the village ahead, all three Shermans lashed the rubble.
The armored infantry pushed up again, their halftracks supporting with .50cal fire. They rushed past their armored comrades, achieving the edge of the village without loss.
Pushing his own element forward, Moreno took the lead and broached the edge of the village, seeing only friendly GI’s moving ahead of him.
As per his plan, the remainder of his armor switched to the right, intent on enveloping the village.
He had started to key the mike, having mentally rehearsed his message about the impending fall of Strassfeld, when he realized that such a message would be premature, as the uniforms moving to his right were not those of his own men.
The group of Soviet soldiers charged into the armored infantrymen, PPShs and PPDs lashing the position with a hail of bullets, dropping many of the men before they had a chance to respond.
Moreno could offer no support, but screamed into his radio, summoning more of the 53rd’s infantry forward.
The position was reoccupied by triumphant enemy soldiers. Not one GI escaped, and Moreno watched helplessly as four men were dragged away.
In his peripheral vision, he now noticed that the assault he had watched was being repeated in a number of other places and, all except in the rubblised gasthaus nearest his tank, repeated with exactly the same bloody result.
Hardegen was in his ear, desperate for information.
Moreno called it as he saw it and, in many ways, he was right. As he suggested, the lack of resistance on the run in had been to draw the force forwards, and into a close encounter with the Soviet infantry.
“Mohawk-six, Mohawk-three-three. I urgently need more infantry. The place is full of commie foot soldiers and we can't progress, over.”
“Roger, Mohawk-three-three. Use your reserve for now. Pot’s dry 'til I get reinforcements, over.”
Moreno had hoped to get his own extra resources but, as that wasn’t going to happen, using the combat reserve seemed reasonable.
“Mohawk-six, Mohawk-three-three, roger. We are moving around the objective, but we won’t be able to help you for some time, over.”
Hardegen had figured that one out for himself, knowing now that his flanking manoeuvre had bogged down, and had simply resulted in him losing part of his own resources in Strassfeld, resources that would not be able to support him at Müggenhausen, hence his own plea to his commander, Greenwood.
Next to no assistance was forthcoming from that quarter, as the rest of CCA had its own problems on Route 194.
Greenwood grudgingly released another refugee from the 808th, only recently arrived and on the strength of CCA, plus a short company of men formed from the supporting services, and a platoon of German kommandos from Euskirchen, who had come out of hiding and presented themselves when the US attack rolled the Russians back.
The new troops came at a price, as Brigadier General Greenwood ordered Hardegen’s force to push through Müggenhausen, and on into Weilerswist, without delay, which in Greenwood language meant ‘at all costs’.
Hardegen remonstrated, to no avail, and Greenwood’s radio fell silent as the fighting on Route 194 grew in intensity.
1414 hrs, Wednesday, 11th December 1945, Route 182, west of Strassfeld, Germany.
“Fuck, fuck, and double fuck!”
“Santa Maria, Major! It’s that good, is it?”
Hardegen grinned uncomfortably at his gunner.
“Well, Giuseppe, you could say that. The old man has his own problems… leastways, so it seems. Apart from a few bits of extra change, we’re on our own.”
‘Bismarck’, Hardegen’s M4A3E8 Sherman, accelerated smoothly as the force moved into the attack.
Soviet artillery was light and ineffective and, as was the case with Strassfeld, little or no resistance was offered on the run in.
All save whatever it was that fired at the lead Sherman, missing by, as Hardegen’s driver quaintly put it, ‘a gnat’s cock’, before burrowing into a snow drift an
d exploding against a tree trunk.
Hardegen, having ordered his tank to move towards cover, searched hard and found what he was looking for.
“Gunner, target at ten o’clock, four hundred and fifty. Load HVAP. C’mon DeMarco, move it.”
The turret swung past the position and Hardegen was about to override before the gunner corrected.
The words almost blended together.
“On!”
“Fire!”
Hardegen watched through his sight as the 76mm shell struck the ISU-152 on the right-hand side of the barrel, appreciating, almost in slow-motion, the impressive display of white hot sparks as the HVAP deflected and moved on into the housing, where it burrowed through the armor and struck the trunnion of the huge weapon as the 152mm was starting into recoil, its own shell flying harmlessly over the top of Hardegen’s vehicle.
The displaced gun wrought havoc inside the Soviet SP, taking it out of the fight.
In the absence of any orders from his commander, the ISU driver made a judgement call and quit the field at the highest possible speed.
“All Mohawk elements, Mohawk Six, orient left and manoeuvre towards that high ground.”
In so doing, he took a calculated risk by exposing his right flank to Strassfeld but, based on Moreno’s report, he felt it was a risk worth taking, especially as part of the other force was moving around to the east of Strassfeld.
“Dragonfly, Mohawk-six, over.”
“Mohawk-six, Dragonfly, over.”
“Dragonfly, put some arty on the height ahead, then advance north in stages,” he consulted his map as the Sherman started to rock from side to side as it pushed forward over uneven ground, “Up to five hundred yards. Make sure you steer clear of the junction on the K3… err… Vernicher Strasse, clear? Over.”
“Mohawk-six, Dragonfly, Clear, Out.”
The 191st Artillery again showed what it could do under the guidance of a competent observer and, within two minutes, the position around where the ISU had fired from was carpeted with HE rounds.
Hardegen drove his force forward, urging his commanders to push their drivers, the command cascading down, as the commanders ordered their drivers to get everything possible out of their tanks.
