by Gee, Colin
Major Crisp and his party moved up the line of a small stream, using the banks as cover where possible.
The Soviet infantry holding the farm started lobbing rifle grenades in their direction, and not without success, as a yelp from one of his signaller’s revealed. The man hobbled on, his hand slapped hard to a bloodied hip.
In the cover of a small stand of trees, he found Timmins being bandaged by a medic.
“Why have you stopped?” the absence of Crisp’s normal friendliness not wasted on anyone present.
“Sir, Sergeant Hawkes is organising some troopers with the Russian machine guns to give us a base of fire. We have no support from the 370th yet, so I figured we are going to get only one bite so we would do it right, Sir.”
The unhurried calmness of the reply immediately removed Crisp’s concern.
“Fair enough, JJ, but we have got to move it soon. How’s his head?”
The medic spoke without stopping his work.
“Bleeds a lot, and the Lootenant will have a powerful headache come sun up, but he’ll live, Sir.”
Timmins smiled at his CO.
“Guess that reinforces the theory that I’m a meathead then.”
“Dirty that bandage up some before you stick your turnip up JJ. Ivan will see you coming a mile off.”
Another rifle grenade dropped nearby, shrapnel fizzing through the tree above them and dropping a smattering of twigs and leaves on Timmins and the medic.
“Right, let’s get this show on the road. Take me to Hawkes so we can coordinate.”
A short run across open but sheltered ground brought the group to the south-westernmost building, wherein Hawkes had placed the two captured DP’s, with crews and a security squad.
The Sergeant was in animated discussion with the 2nd Lieutenant commanding the point platoon.
The one-sided discussion ended with the appearance of the unit CO.
As per the habit of a combat veteran, Hawkes saluted neither officer.
“Sir, we’re set up and ready to go. The stream is good for cover up to the track and beyond. We can use it to get within about thirty yards if I’m right. At least a coupla squads, Sir.”
Easy Company’s second platoon had previously been posted in ‘Goodnight’ and Hawkes had confirmed the geography with them.
“Good work, Hawkes,” the wounded officer pulled his map out and knelt beside the Sergeant.
The two others also took a knee.
“I will drop some mortars on them...here,” he looked at both men for agreement, which was immediately forthcoming.
“King Company can bring some fire on the farm. They should be up by now.”
Timmins thought for a second.
“Last minute, the mortars stick down some smoke across the frontage here, the squads in the stream put in a flank attack. Once the Russians are confused we go straight up through the smoke and in the front of the farm.”
He got no argument from either man. As swift plans went it was as good as any.
“Get King Company on the horn.”
Crisp watched the reinvigorated officer go about his business, the confidence flooding back despite the nasty head wound he had suffered.
A work party had finished policing up ammo and grenades from the dead and wounded and were distributing their spoils amongst the living.
2nd Battalion’s Commander helped himself to a pair of frags and spent a moment rechecking his Thompson.
Easy Company prepared to advance again.
On the mark, the high-explosive changed to smoke and the farmhouse became a hazy shape before disappearing completely, the lack of any wind helping the plan.
Fire from both King Company and the captured DP’s stopped in an instant.
The squads of Second platoon rose from the stream bed and rushed the edge of the ‘Goodnight’ buildings, preceded by a swarm of grenades.
They caught the Soviets looking the wrong way.
Bullets ripped into vulnerable Soviet flesh, as the mechanised infantrymen suddenly found themselves without appropriate cover.
Shouts of alarm focussed the defenders on the new perils and a volley of ill-aimed shots hit flesh before Second Platoon had found cover.
None the less, find cover they did, although there was an immediate territorial dispute as a group fell on top of a Maxim machine-gun team concealed behind a destroyed wall, silently waiting their chance to spring a surprise on the Amerikanski.
One of the Russians got off a pistol shot before all six were taken down by carbines and Garands at close range.
Hawkes reloaded his Garand, looking around but failing to locate the platoon commander.
A grenade landed next to two troopers whose sole intent was to keep their heads down out of the increasing torrent of Soviet fire.
One of them swung his rifle butt and batted it away, making himself small once again as the deadly little charge exploded out of harm’s way.
‘Home run,’ thought Hawkes. A Soviet soldier threw another grenade, trying to learn from his mistake and hanging on to it a tad longer. It exploded too soon and only caused his comrades to seek cover. A small piece of shrapnel laid his cheek open to serve as a permanent reminder.
Through the smoke, dissipating now that the mortars had stopped firing, swiftly moving silhouettes could be seen closing on the Soviet positions, obviously men from the main assault force taking advantage of his diversion.
The ping of a bullet off the brickwork next to his head reminded him that not all had turned to face the main force.
The attackers had now swarmed over the first positions, and Hawkes could see some men engaged in hand to hand struggles.
“Smoke!” he shouted, pulling his own smoke grenade and arming it in one easy movement.
Five smoke grenades skittered across the track creating an effective screen within seconds.
“Move right! Charge!”
The squads rose as one and angled right, Hawkes’ call being vindicated within seconds as tracer lashed through the smoke into the area they had previously been.
Picturing the scene in his mind’s eye, he ran into the smoke, hoping that the unequal combat he had witnessed had not yet ended.
Emerging from the smoke, he instinctively pulled the trigger, putting down two of the Soviets that had cornered Timmins. One of the others lay with a shattered skull, courtesy of a swinging blow from Timmins’ Thompson, which broken and useless submachine gun was still clutched in his hands, the young Lieutenant desperately fending off his assailant.
Sergeant Hawkes ploughed into the back of the Russian, sending him flying and into the ground, where three kicks in the face from Timmins drove his jawbone into his brain.
Both men turned and ran on, stopping at a double doorway. Dead men from both sides lay on the threshold, freshly killed, blood still seeping from multiple wounds.
Hawkes risked a quick peek and received a peppering of brick splinters for his pains, at least two automatic weapons covering the entranceway.
Two more paratroopers joined them and military sign language explained the plan.
A grenade went through the doorway, deliberately bounced off the door to get a reverse angle.
Timmins and the other soldier made a human chair and Hawkes stepped up, gaining enough height to see through a narrow window in the upper wall.
One of the sub-machine gunners was holding his face in his hands, grenade splinters having ruined it.
Another four men concentrated intently on the expected assault route through the door, a fifth was deliberately aiming his Mosin rifle at a suddenly terrified Hawkes.
The Garand spoke first, two bullets killing the rifleman, whose reactions were slowed by the blast effects of the grenade.
Another Russian was shot before a PPSh started to destroy the window around him, forcing him to rapidly drop from sight.
“Let’s go!”
Hawkes rushed the door and rolled rapidly, his last three bullets hitting the PPSh gunner, smas
hing the weapon from his hands.
Not realising he was alone, Timmins having stumbled and brought down his comrades, Hawkes pointed a rifle he knew was empty at the two remaining defenders.
After two seconds they dropped their weapons and raised their hands.
Hawkes breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing that the appearance of Timmins and his two men had made all the difference.
A medic also arrived and made his way straight to the Russian with the ruined face, whose cries of pain were becoming increasingly loud and penetrating.
Detailing one of the men to ride shotgun over the medic, Timmins moved on.
In the main building, a bloody stalemate had developed.
Upstairs, heavy machine guns lashed out in all directions, even causing casualties in King Company to the north-west.
Inside, the dog-legged staircase was an unassailable barrier that had already claimed the lives of four airborne troopers in the first rushed attempt to gain the upper floor.
Occasionally, a Soviet grenade would bounce down the stairs, forcing the troopers back into cover, and scuppering any attempts to gain good positions.
Detailing a sergeant to command, Marion Crisp went off to reconnoitre the situation and come up with alternatives.
Eagles outside the building were coming under fire from Soviet soldiers upstairs, so much so that it seemed almost impossible for any more men to get up to the farmhouse itself.
Crisp turned back and almost ran headlong into Timmins.
Dropping into cover at the base of the farmhouse wall, he explained the tactical position, although a possibility had immediately suggested itself.
Both Timmins and Hawkes turned to look at the roof of the garage building that they had recently taken, checking out how it joined the main building.
“Same as, JJ. I will get you and Sergeant Hawkes some more men and you’ll give it a go.”
He checked his watch and grimaced.
‘20:07 hrs!’
They had already fallen well behind schedule, such had been the defence so far.
‘Fucking hell.’
His mind suddenly digested the picture in front of him and within seconds he had attracted the attention of a bazooka man from the HQ Company.
More sign language and within a minute the team was set up ready to go.
Eight other men from the machine-gun platoon were placed under Timmins’ command and the plan was set.
On cue, the bazooka spat its rocket out, accurately entering the window nearest the garage. What damage it caused was unknown to those outside. A second rocket followed for the next window, and so on, until five had been fired, none being wasted outside of the structure.
Inside, they had caused devastation and death.
On hearing the second explosion, Timmins propelled himself out through the hole in the garage roof, and across the tiles towards the side window of the main farmhouse. The Soviet rifleman positioned there had escaped the explosions unscathed and shot the US officer down instantly, his wounded body dropping and rolling off the roof to the ground below.
Hawkes, his Garand reloaded, avenged the officer, decorating the garish floral wallpaper behind the Russian with brain matter.
He threw himself through the window and dropped into the first floor bedroom, quickly beckoning the others forward as the sounds of increased firing gave testament to the diversion organised by Crisp.
The curtains were smouldering, small red bull’s eyes coming and going with every breath of wind. A small fire burned in a pile of clothes next to the door.
Two badly wounded and unconscious Soviet soldiers lay on the bed, two others, beyond help, lay on the floor.
A Soviet medical orderly came through the doorway backside first, dragging another wounded comrade behind him.
One of Hawkes’ troopers smashed the butt of his carbine across the back of the orderly’s neck, dropping the man on top of his dying charge.
The rest of the assault team gathered in the bedroom and Sergeant Hawkes quickly formed them ready for the attack. A quick look through the door was all that was needed and Hawkes held a grenade out for the rest to see. Resting his Garand across his thigh, he used his other hand to inform the group of his plans.
Nods and grins indicated their understanding.
The clip sprung off and the deadly charge bounced along the upstairs hall, coming to rest behind a group of four Soviet soldiers behind a barricade at the top of the stairs.
The weapon exploded and two of the Russians were propelled over the heavy table they were hiding behind, both men landing hard on the stairs. The Airborne troopers below shot them immediately, unsure if either was still capable, or even alive.
The other two defenders were thrown aside by the blast and their resistance ended.
Hawkes stepped through the door and immediately felt a bullet tug at his arm as it passed through the tunic, nicking the skin on its way to hitting one of the troopers behind.
Sensing, rather than seeing the enemy, Hawkes dropped and rolled, discharging his entire clip into the ceiling where he now saw an open hatchway into the loft. As he swiftly rammed another charger home, the damaged ceiling started to bleed, drops of bright red blood raining freely on the carpet below.
The rest of the assault force swarmed through the doorway, having been held up by the fallen body of their comrade, wounded by the bullet that had nicked Hawkes.
Fanning out according to instructions, two man groups moved through the upper floors, killing and wounding, their appearance behind the defenders a surprise.
The team that moved through the rooms hit by the bazooka found less resistance, much of the grisly work already done by high-explosive.
As soon as the upper hall was secured, Hawkes hollered the agreed word down the stairs.
“Geronimo!”
Identical shouts rose to meet his own, and quickly fellow troopers were springing up the stairs, confident that the way was now clear.
A rattle of automatic weapons gave them a direction in which to move, and the first four men moved to the back route to support Hawkes’ men.
The next group secured the landing area, and were accompanied by a bedraggled Major Crisp, now sporting a head bandage.
In reply to Hawkes’ unspoken question, the officer grinned the grin of a man made slightly mad by the proximity of detonating explosives.
“Someone was passing on the plan and yelled ‘Geronimo’ to his men.”
By the way Crisp looked at the back of the Corporal positioned defensively at the top of the stairs, and the way the man hunched in shame, the responsible party was close at hand.
“I ran out and got blown up for my goddam troubles!”
The Corporal seemed to shrink further.
“No harm done, and lesson learned.”
Crisp slapped his hand on the shoulder of the Corporal by way of forgiveness, although he promised himself a quieter and sterner word when the battle was over.
Lieutenant Timmins, his jacket bloodied and rent, gingerly mounted the stairs.
“Hell, I thought you were a goner, Lootenant!”
Hawkes moved forward and assisted the wounded officer through the gap in the barricade.
“Fortunately he was a lousy shot and just clipped my side. Also I fell on something soft.”
His words coincided with everyone realising that something truly awful was clinging to his battledress, a realisation that was both visually and nasally challenging.
As one, the men surveyed the unfortunate man, unconsciously moving away from the awfulness he carried on himself.
Crisp couldn’t help himself.
“What the fuck have you been swimming in, JJ?”
Tearing his eyes away from the apparition, Crisp acknowledged a signal from a Sergeant, indicating that his team had swept the area clean.
“A dead cow, boss.”
Looking at himself, he added, unnecessarily.
“A long, long, dead cow.”
The putrefaction was all pervasive, and a hand pressed to the face, seeking to seal the nose, did nothing to keep the abhorrence at bay.
Speaking through his fingers, Crisp issued a swift direction.
“Jesus, JJ, but go and get yourself cleaned up before the cavalry decide they don’t wanna rescue us after all!”
The afflicted officer made his way back down the stairs, but the awful smell lingered long after he had gone.
However, for some reason known only to those who have shared the rigours and comradeship of combat, wide grins like Cheshire cats were everywhere, even on the Corporal who had nearly killed his commander.
“Right men,” and pointing to Hawkes, “Let’s get this place secured,” and to his radioman, “And get me King Company on the horn now.”
Finding a stepladder, Hawkes and two men prepared to check out the loft.
It contained only the dead bodies of three Soviet soldiers.
2029 hrs, Saturday 25th August 1945, GuteNacht Bauernhof, south-west of Eggenthal, Germany.
The reports were all in from Crisp’s units, every objective having been carried in good time.
Fox Company had taken more casualties but the Soviets had fallen back, resorting to light mortaring, seemingly closing up shop for the day.
George Company had done their job in record time, and King Company had suffered few casualties in achieving their first objectives.
For Item Company, 370th Colored Infantry Regiment, the Rothaus has indeed proved a tough nut, earning its name as it ran with the blood of men from both sides.
It had taken three assaults to clear the position of enemy, costing thirty-eight dead and as many wounded.
Perversely, it was the ravaged Item Company that was first relieved by a unit from Petersen’s force, the recon troops of the 2nd/1st Brazilian Cavalry, late to the field but now in the van.
Along the 101st’s line, purple smoke marked friendly positions to the relieving forces as the mission moved from success to success.
