by Gee, Colin
‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition. And gentlemen in England now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhood's cheap while any speaks, that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.’
Henry V’s speech to the English Army before the Battle of Agincourt.
William Shakespeare
The Battle of Agincourt was fought on St Crispen's Day, Friday, 25th October 1415.
Chapter 100 - THE HELL
[BLOODY BARNSTORF]
1ST BALTIC FRONT - MARSHAL BAGRAMYAN
0430hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, the Hunte River, Barnstorf.
‘Can there be any more bloody water in the heavens?’
It seemed a very reasonable question to Ramsey, as he was drenched yet again, the cold water penetrating to every part of his body.
There was no time to change.
There was no point in changing, even if there had been time.
“My other uniform is probably just as bloody wet.”
Exchanging looks with McEwan, Ramsey could only grin at the man, who looked more miserable than the rest put together.
The first attack came in hard, direct, and with power behind it.
Fig #68 - The start, Bloody Barnstorf.
The Allied forward forces positioned in Eydelstedt were pushed out quickly. In truth, they ran, for there was no sense in the sacrifice of their lives when the Soviet attack was so large.
Waves of infantry, fresh troops from the veteran 31st Guards Rifle Division, supported by tanks from the 128th Tank Brigade, all under the umbrella of fire support from the elite 9th Guards Mortar Brigade and elements of the 4th Breakthrough Artillery Division.
The Katyusha rockets of the 9th Guards fell to the rear of Walsen and Barnstorf, giving the reserve elements a very torrid time, 4th Artillery hounding the shadowing Allied response force, occasionally scratching a tank here or an APC vehicle there.
Lighter mortars from the Guards infantry were deployed, also adding their weight of shot to the barrage endured by the defenders of the Hunte River, and all the time the assault waves drew closer.
The Battalion comprising the Seaforths had it easy enough, as no fire was directed at the front line troops, sat in sodden foxholes between Walsen and the river.
Linking between the Seaforths and 7th Black Watch were some MG troops from the Northumberland Fusiliers.
Ramsey’s Battalion, and in particular, B Company, had been allocated the prize position, or at least that was how Blake had put it.
It was the prize, in as much as it was Barnstorf itself, and for B Company, the main Osnabruck road bridge, which even in its damaged state, seemed still usable for tanks.
Some explosives would put it down permanently, but there were none to be had. In any case, the rail bridge, as the most intact structure, would get priority attention when they did arrive. For now, the rail bridge was a problem, but there were mines covering the approaches, and Allied eyes were more firmly fixed at Ramsey’s position and the bridge to the south.
That second structure, on Friedrich-Platte-Straβe, was also damaged but, in the view of the 116th’s present hierarchy, was likely to fall down ‘if so much as an ant farted near it.’
None the less, it was covered by a short company of men from the 1st Black Watch.
The rail bridge itself formed the junction between the British and American defenders, the other 1st Black Watch company defending up to the rails, the bridge and south from that point was the responsibility of the newly designated ‘Yorke Force’, the recent arrivals thickened out with stragglers and the reorganised engineers of the 29th Composite Engineer Company.
The other four units of the 116th Infantry either held the Hunte, sat close by ready to respond, or in the case of the 1st Battalion, waited silently in Dreeke and Duste.
The 116th Regiment had absorbed the survivors of the 175th, and was unique in having four reasonable sized battalions, plus Yorke Force.
They would all be needed.
The human wave approached the Hunte, and defending commanders gave the order to fire.
Much of Barnstorf was in ruins already, but the use of defensive artillery, mortars and grenades, did little for the remaining architecture.
The assaulting troops ducked down low, using the rubble and ruins to mask their approach, but the bursts of high explosive often grabbed the running soldiers, tossing men skywards, grim indicators of the progress of the attack.
7th Black Watch was pouring fire down the channels, hacking down any soldiers brave enough to try and form for a direct assault on the bridge.
The Soviets were already seeking a solution, working their way through the wrecked houses and shops, getting closer in safety, if not in sufficient numbers.
Such a group inadvertently betrayed themselves, a helmeted head popping up directly opposite Ramsey’s position.
Two Mills bombs removed the threat quickly and permanently.
Bullets clipped off the road surface around the Black Watch position, as some distant Maxim machine-gun tried to give support, its crew oblivious to the friendly casualties they caused amongst another group, previously enjoying a measure of safety behind the rubble from a collapsed building.
The infantry attack in the town ground to a halt, and the Soviet commander screamed for tank support.
A gaggle of T34’s pressed forward, confined to the roads, and vulnerable, but none the less answering the call.
Behind the bridge was a piece of high ground, not lofty, but sufficiently raised for an anti-tank gun to be able to work efficiently from its crest.
One of the 61st’s six-pounders barked, the high-velocity shell burning white-hot as it roared down Osnabrücker Straβe, crossing above the bridge and striking the turret of the lead tank, two hundred metres beyond.
Sparks flew, but no great harm was done, the medium tank advancing slowly over the rubble, its machine-guns lashing out at the defending Scots.
Again, the six-pounder fired, this time missing altogether, the gunner almost beside himself with fear.
A steadying hand was placed on his shoulder, the gun commander, a young subaltern, himself a boy of twenty years, calming the frightened youth with his presence and soft words.
The T34 fired at its tormentor, decapitating the anti-tank officer. The torso stood rigidly in place for a full two seconds, which was long enough for the gunner to put his own shot on target, penetrating the hull and the driver. The shell travelled at high speed through the fighting compartment and exited the rear wall, before the engine block put up enough resistance to prevent further travel.
Thick black smoke filled the street within seconds, enabling the surviving tank crew to get clear unhindered.
The tank behind commenced pushing its damaged compatriot forward, offsetting the risk of track damage for the bonus of extra protection that the smoking hulk offered.
A scream startled Ramsey. The veteran Lance Corporal next to him sank to the ground, clutching what had been his shoulder.
A large chunk had disappeared, leaving ivory bone on open display.
The medic sprang forward, dropping into cover, and immediately setting to work to stem the flow of blood.
The medical orderly didn’t scream when the bullet hit him, his death instantaneous, as the metal passed through the back of his head.
“Stay down, stay down. Sniper has us, Lads.”
“I canna see him, Boss.”
McEwan had his own weapon ready, a beautiful precision engineered Lee-Enfield.
“Well, he has us bang to bloody rights, Corporal!”
Another bullet ended the life of the wounded Lance Corporal.
McEwan whispered in self-congratulation.
“I see ye.”
The muzzle of the Enfield shifted almost imperceptibly and fired, the muzzle flash greatly reduced by the special flashless ammunition McEwan always se
emed to have access to.
In less than half a second, the Scot was squealing in pain, as the rifle was hammered from his grasp. A bullet tore away the telescopic sight and struck the body of the rifle, just in front of the redundant rear sight.
His right index finger protruded at a funny angle, dislocated by the impact of the rifle as it was knocked aside.
“Ah jings, but yon man is good!”
“Is good or was good, McEwan?”
“Oh, the bas is still there, Boss. Make nae error on that.”
Staying in cover, Ramsey made a quick assessment. The positions to either side were firing as normal, clearly unseen by the enemy marksman. The assault forces were still not grouped enough to attack successfully, so he estimated he had time to do what was needed.
“Right-ho McEwan. Is that bundook still working?”
The Scot had retrieved the Enfield, showing his open horror at the abuse caused by a Soviet rifle bullet.
“Well, the sights and mounts are fecked.” Almost as if examining the grazes on the knee of a beloved child, McEwan continued his inspection.
“Damage is nae so bad. Rear sight is fine, so I can fire, but I canna vouch for the accuracy n’more, Boss.”
“Will it do the job?”
“Aye, it will do the job for the now, but the bas will have shifted his sen, Boss.”
“Sort your bundook out man, and I will find a way to flush the quarry.”
McEwan’s interest peaked, the opportunity of revenge overtaking common sense.
Patiently, Ramsey alternated between glimpses of the fighting either side of him, and the slow deliberate actions of McEwan reassembling his pride and joy.
He knew better than to rush the man.
A bullet pinged off the brickwork, forcing him back into cover.
Sitting against the wall, with his back to the enemy, the Black Watch Major slid his canteen out and washed away the accumulated smoke and brick dust, his throat welcoming the clear, cool liquid.
‘Dear God, a bloody mirror!’
As he raised his mouth up to drink, his eyes had followed, and there it was. A previously unseen mirror hanging in the hole between floors, perfectly angled for him to see the road to the bridge and beyond.
He watched closely.
Nothing, save two burning T34’s, the second one having fallen victim to something unseen as it pushed forward.
Robertson scurried through the door, momentarily exposed.
“Get down, Sarnt-Major!”
The bullet must have missed the NCO by no more than an inch.
“Got him. McEwan?” Ramsey looked over to his number one marksman, receiving a businesslike shake of the head, “Junction about two hundred metres up from the bridge. House on the left as you look. Three holes in the roof. Have a careful look at the middle one.”
Slipping his middle finger into the trigger guard, the Corporal edged the rifle carefully into position. McEwan stopped as a barrage of rockets hammered the area behind them, the Guards Mortars firing as fast as they could in support of their infantry comrades.
The rifle moved forward again.
The whine of artillery shells interrupted McEwan’s concentration once more, but this time it was friendly 4.5” shells from the 127th Field Artillery.
The Enfield slipped into position and McEwan took sight on the damaged roof, in time to see the first of two impacts.
The initial explosion blasted the whole of the roof skywards, the top floor accompanying it, as the blast split the upper storey into fragments.
The Soviet sharpshooter was ripped apart, all shape or form lost in the unforgiving process.
As the pieces started to descend, another 4.5” shell plunged through the building, exploding on the fifth step of the basement stairs.
Nine members of the Bergmann family, taking shelter there, evaporated in a split second, never to be seen again.
The whole building imploded, collapsing spectacularly, and killing a dozen Soviet guardsmen as it came to ground around their ears.
Ramsey’s position could now respond, free from the threat of the Soviet marksman, and they added their weight to the defence once more, the stalled attack becoming even more bogged down, as dead bodies and vehicles started to clog the streets.
At the middle bridge, the story was different, there being less cover to mask the Soviet approach, and less cover to grant them some scant refuge from the storm of bullets.
The men of the 1st Black Watch had a score to settle, and they did so, ably supported by two venerable Vickers machine-guns.
Both weapons fired continuously, their water jackets hissing, as the heat generated steam, and steadily consumed the coolant.
Men brought water from the river, or urinated into buckets, anything to keep the guns firing.
The constant rain of bullets matched the driving storm for ferocity, hacking down scores of Soviet infantry as they tried to advance.
It was the nearest thing to murder possible in war, but not one Jock tear was shed, for the 1st had been on the receiving end themselves, and this was payback time.
At the rail bridge, the situation was again different, those attackers to the north of the tracks vulnerable; those to the south better off, gaining cover from the woods and embankment.
The US defenders enjoyed almost limitless supplies of ammunition, and flayed the woods with bursts of .50 and .30 cal from machine-guns spread all along the Hunte.
Again, huge gaps were torn in the Soviet ranks.
T34’s rushed through, intent on getting into a firing position, and ripping up the defences whilst their infantry comrades formed for another assault.
Equipped with a number of bazookas, the 116th’s doughboys smashed T34 after T34, leaving seven dead on the field before the tanks drew off again.
Not without cost, as the bazooka teams themselves took heavy casualties in order to keep the tanks at bay.
The courage of the attacking Russians was impressive, the infantry rising up again, shouting their ‘Urrahs’, and throwing themselves forward, the human wave coming to a high water mark only four yards from the end of the bridge. Its terminus was marked by a pile of bloody bodies, men smashed into the ground by the soldiers of Yorke Force.
As the surviving Soviet guardsmen started to give ground, Yorke stood up and called to his men.
“Up and at ‘em, men! Charge!”
Some of the younger soldiers started to rise, only to be dragged back into cover by older hands.
Yorke charged forward, his Thompson spitting at the backs of distant men.
Not one soldier followed.
Each man kept his own thoughts on the fool who disappeared into the rain to their front.
0620hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, the Hunte River, Barnstorf.
Brigadier Blake was in good form, doing the rounds of his battered, but unbowed, infantry, the sights of the enemy dead in front of the river impressing him greatly.
Ever the stickler for the military niceties, he formally saluted the hallowed piece of ribbon.
Major John Ramsey, 7th Black Watch, returned the salute, and reported on the state of his unit.
“Jolly good work, Ramsey. Tell your boys, a big well done from me.
Old though he may be, with his best soldiering years behind him, you could not help but like the affable old man.
“That I will, Sir. Now, may I offer you tea?”
Again, Blake was impressed, the seemingly empty position suddenly yielding strong hot tea, just as he liked it.
“Thank you, Corporal,” he grinned at the NCO who thrust the mug into his hands, the look fading slightly as he took in the strange angle of the man’s index finger.
Ramsey beat him to it.
“I will get it sorted directly, Sir. Just leaving him be for the moment, but I will sort it.”
The tea was divine, and Blake hated to spoil the moment, but he had made a decision.
“Ramsey, we have about an hour or so before the next pha
se, if they play the game according to form.”
Plucking a tatty map from his pouch, Blake showed the infantry officer his intentions.
“I want you to wait here until relieved by the Argyles,”
‘That is music to my ears,’
“And set your company up here, at Nagelskamp.”
‘Couldn’t be more perfect,’
“And be ready to act as my reserve force when I call,”
‘Sod it!’
“Just the job for you, eh Ramsey?”
The slight delay was deliberate.
“Delighted, Sir, really.”
“That’s the spirit, old chap!”
“Now, I have arranged for the Argyles to leave enough of their transport there,” he indicated the agreed position, “So you can have mobility in your role.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Command of the 3rd Battalion will now pass to Major Cound of the Argyles, who I have detached from 2nd Battalion, so all you need to worry about is being in the right place at the right time.”
“Now,” he drained the last of his tea, returning the mug to the magically reappeared Corporal, who had clearly been listening from a concealed position, “Get yourself and your men back into reserve, and be ready when I call, and not before I call if you please, there’s a good fellow.”
Throwing up a magnificent salute, Blake was gone in the blink of an eye.
Robertson emerged from the same hidey-hole that had spat out McEwan a moment before.
“Och! Oot of the fucking frying pan, intae the fucking fire, Sah.”
“I think that puts it rather well, Sarnt-Major!”
Ramsey finished his own tea, pressing the mug into McEwan’s reluctant hand.
“Get the men ready to move, once the Argyle’s get here, if you please, Sarnt-Major.”
“Sah!”
0755hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, the Hunte River, Barnstorf.
