by Gee, Colin
“This here looks like an underpass of some sort? Anyone seen it at all?”
No takers.
Ramsey continued.
“If it is, then you have to be able to drop it with what you have available. An underpass won’t be so easy for the Soviets to repair.”
There was a general nod of agreement, but most noticeably, not from Fielding.
“There is an issue for you, Lieutenant?”
“You betchyer goddamn ass there’s a fucking issue, Major.”
Robertson grimaced at the remark, but held his peace.
“You want my boys to wander over onto the commie side of the river and lay a load of charges? Sure sounds like a suicide mission to me, Sir.”
“If you were alone, then possibly so, Lieutenant. However, you won’t be.”
Making his mind up, Ramsey snapped into action.
“Can you carry the explosives with just your unit, Lieutenant?”
“I guess so, Sir,” replied Fielding, tentatively, in case the Limey had not got the message.
“I will move my lads over the water, to here,” his finger picked out a small raised area to the south of the supposed underpass.
He drew Hässler and Bluebear in tighter.
“This railway embankment is a natural divide for us, so you will take the left flank.”
They nodded.
“I want your boys to position here,” he indicated a wooded area diametrically opposite the intended Black Watch position.
“How long do you think you’ll need to drop the underpass, Lieutenant?”
Fielding grabbed his chin in thought, happier now he knew that others were exposing themselves too.
“Based upon what I’ve seen of these things before, I reckon half an hour at the rush, forty minutes to be comfy, Major.”
Others may have dithered, but not Ramsey, and the move was set in motion immediately.
“Right then, gentlemen. Get your troops up and moving immediately. Robertson, you take the first platoon over and secure the other side straight away. We’ll cross on your signal. Clear?”
It was.
“Lieutenant, as soon as the covering force has moved forward, bring your men and equipment over, come up whichever side, but get cracking on that underpass. Clear?”
“Will do, Major.”
The Captain commanding the recently arrived Gordons was last of all.
“Grayson, your men will filter into the positions we vacate as soon as we move off. Be careful who you fire at. We may not have time for the niceties when we return. Make sure your lads are clear on that point.”
“Sah.”
Addressing the whole group, Ramsey concluded his brief.
“We’ll stay, no retreat, as long as the engineers have a job to do. Once their job is done, we’ll retire to a safe distance, on the east bank, for detonation. I assume the end of the bridge will be a suitable firing point, Lieutenant?”
Fielding cast a quick eye at the map scale and nodded.
“Once successful, we’ll fall back over the river, you 116th lads first, my men last. There are no further orders. Any questions?”
It was simple enough in concept, but had all the makings of a hard battle ahead.
“RSM, as soon as you’re ready. We will work off the RSM for our timings. Up and at ‘em, Gentlemen.”
1145hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, The Rechtern Bridge area, Barnstorf, Germany.
Deniken had no need of any relay from Yarishlov, Obinin’s voice carried very clearly over the radio net.
Obinin had just received a verbal lashing from those above, and, as usual, the threats cascaded downwards.
“Get your men moving now or you’ll be counting trees, Polkovnik. Now!”
Yarishlov smiled half-heartedly to himself, recalling a conversation not so long ago, when the same officer had feted him as a hero.
‘The line between success and failure is thin indeed.’
“Moving now, Comrade General. Out.”
Deniken received a whispered verbal report from one of his officers and nodded in response, dismissing the man with a pat on the back.
“Bad, Comrade Deniken?”
“It could’ve been much worse, but I’ve lost many good men, Comrade Yarishlov.”
“It’s up to us to make sure our men haven’t died uselessly, so we’ll move forward immediately, as the General demands.”
Deniken’s map was to hand, so the two pored quickly over the terrain they were about to traverse.
Yarsihlov spoke with conviction.
“Your platoons that crossed the river downstream; they can advance along the river to here?”
Deniken nodded his agreement.
“Good,” and quickly moving across the map, Yarishlov found Route 48.
“We have a single road, and I will use it wisely. Get some of your men on board my tanks, and we will drive like hell into their rear, here.”
He indicated the west end of the rail bridge position.
Pressing his finger against the area to the west and south-west, Yarishlov was less forceful.
“I have ordered most of the remaining forces of the 128th Tanks and 31st Guards Infantry up to here, providing us with a secure base, and sparing them any more suffering for now.”
He indicated the area to the west of the Wagenfelder Bridge.
“That will release my first battalion and SMG Company to probe westwards here, where your men ran into that little hornet’s nest.”
He referred to the Dreeke road positions, recently stiffened by the 1st Composite Battalion, 116th Infantry.
As if to reinforce his next point, sounds of sawing and hammering reached both men’s ears.
“Our comrades from the 77th are working to make good the damage to this bridge, but I intend to take as many of them with us, in case the Amerikanski damage our prime objective.”
Deniken’s eyes were drawn to the map, despite his full knowledge of what the tank colonel was pointing at.
Yarishlov continued.
“Our comrades of the 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps and 22nd Guards Rifle Corps are already preparing to move up, the two armoured trains will do so, the moment we report contact to the rear of the Allied positions, and that the track is clear.”
Yarishlov folded his map quickly, finishing the brief in a conspiratorial tone.
“At the same time, we will order our surprise package forward, against the eastern end of the bridge.”
Deniken understood, and made a final notation on his pad.
“Comrade PodPolkovnik.”
Yarishlov extended his hand.
“Comrade Polkovnik.”
The two shook hands and went their separate ways.
1145hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, Soesterberg Airbase, Holland.
Before the Second World War, Soesterberg had been a military airfield for the Dutch Air Force. During their time as residence, the Luftwaffe had created a much larger facility, but it was still very tight for the squadrons from all arms of the RAF that found themselves shoehorned in, as the Soviets advanced, and airfields were lost.
Blue Flight, 182 Squadron RAF, gathered around the door to the Wing Commander’s office, straining to hear the conversation above the panting, all three out of breath having sprinted from the main radio room, once they understood Hall’s purpose.
“Absolutely not, John. They’d have my guts for garters if I let you go!”
“Sir, I respectfully request permission to try.”
“No, John, that’s final.”
“Sir, we have to give it a try, we simply have to. Those boys need us.”
“No, John, no, no and thrice, no.”
“Sir, the weather has a window, a small one. Old Runes says so,” he referred to the Station Meteorological Officer by his nickname, “And he’s never wrong, is he? Never wrong.”
The Wing Commander stood up abruptly, eyes flashing with anger, controlled, but only just.
“Flight Lieutenant Hall
, you will not, repeat, not be given permission to fly. I have my orders, so there it is.”
The silence that followed was an opportunity for both men’s frustrations to become apparent.
Hall’s, because he wanted to get his aircraft up and into the battle. The Wingco’s because he did too, for he had been a pilot. He understood what made such men tick, but rank and responsibility made him take a different course.
Hall tried one last time.
“Sir?”
The one word carried much in it, the tone, the inflection, the absolute dejection of a man who saw his duty clearly.
The pilot in him struggled with the leader, and won.
‘Fuck it!’
The thought occurred, and the expression on the Wing Commander’s face changed almost imperceptibly.
Almost.
“John, understand me clearly. I cannot, and will not, grant you permission to fly. If I see you on the apron, I will have you confined to quarters. If I see you near an aircraft without my express permission, I will have you thrown in the guardhouse. Is that clear enough?”
“Yes, Sir.”
‘Understand me, son, please, understand me!’
“Now, let’s hear no more of it. I’m off to my quarters for some well-deserved kip, and I do not intend to rouse myself before dinner. Flight Lieutenant.”
The salute was returned and Hall found himself staring at an open door. Wing Commander Smith, the notoriously heavy sleeper, was already on his way to his quarters, some distance from the runway apron, having knowingly cast an eye over the three men who seem too preoccupied with a poster outside the office to bother with a salute.
Hall’s grin was genuine.
‘Well, you slippery old bastard!’
“Boys, we’re on!”
Wing Commander Smith lay on his bunk, wide-awake, his ears straining at every sound, his tension increasing at the noise of Sabre engines dragging aircraft into the watery skies, rose above the sound of the rain on the tin roof of his hut.
Looking at the greyness outside his window, he spoke quietly, sincerely, longingly.
“I wish I could be with you, boys.”
1145hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, the Underpass, Barnstorf, Germany.
Fielding was excited, and out of breath.
Ramsey waited, taking the extra time to survey the hastily scraped positions that his Highlanders were occupying on the small wooded mound.
“Major, we can do it; we can blow that motherfucking rail bridge sky high!”
“Go on, Lieutenant,” exchanging a swift look with the newly arrived Robertson, his attention drawn by the US engineer’s noisy dash.
“It’s full of artillery shells, hundreds of them.”
“Pardon?”
“Major, the underpass was secured and marked with unexploded munitions signs. Seems to me like the Krauts used it as an ammo store. It’s wall to wall with HE shells, Sir.”
“And you can use them?”
“Sure thing, Major. I can do both, underpass and bridge, if we have enough time to stack them on the middle of the fucker.”
He waved a finger at the solid structure, already imagining the trek of three hundred yards, staggering with a heavy artillery shell.
“How many do you need on the bridge?”
“A hundred would make a pretty mess, Sir.”
“And you have enough left to drop the underpass too?”
Fielding was extremely enthusiastic.
“More’n enough, Sir.”
“Then we shall get it done.”
He quickly checked to see if the field telephone was ready; it wasn’t.
“Corporal McEwan!”, he shouted, and the man magically appeared from the next hole.
“McEwan, my compliments to Captain Grayson. I need him to send forward a work party of twenty-five men immediately, reporting to Lieutenant Fielding in the underpass. He can have them back in twenty minutes. Off you go, and be smart about it, man.”
McEwan was gone as quickly as he appeared.
Turning to Fielding, Ramsey continued.
“We will hold and give you your time, Lieutenant, but make it as quick as you can, if you please.”
The engineer threw up a hasty salute, and departed as quickly as he had arrived, armed with renewed purpose.
Robertson stayed silent, waiting, his face set.
“Yes, RSM, I know.”
Looking to the sky, Ramsey jumped automatically, as a large raindrop hit him in the eye.
“Angel’s tears, Sah, angel’s tears.”
Ramsey nodded, knowing in his heart that there would be a heavy price to pay this day.
“Nae room for jessies and bairns here, Sah, not today.”
“Quite so, Murdo.”
The shock of hearing Ramsey use his first name was only superceded by the Major’s offered hand.
“Good luck to you.”
Murdo Robertson took the hand of the man he admired most in the world.
“And the same to yersel, Sah.”
Ramsey smiled, knowing that the RSM had crossed a huge boundary with the handshake, and accepting that Robertson could not go so far as to call him by his name.
“Pass the new plan onto our American cousins, if you please, Sarnt Major.”
Along the Allied rear positions, a few extra units arrived and slid in beside the exhausted men of the 116th and 154th Infantry. Some 4x4’s with AT mounts, the occasional platoon of infantry rounded up by MP’s at the rear.
There were no more tanks to be had.
Droves had found the problem, and fixed it. The loose connection had been squirting a mist of oil over a hot manifold, leading to the smoke problem.
Meanwhile, Griffiths had consulted with the first officer he found, namely Aitcherson, and established what was happening.
Deciding to relocate, just in case any surprises appeared from Rechtern, the Comet tank snuggled in behind a protective wall, near the junction of Route 48 and Rechterner Straβe. A small mound offered a dominating position, whichever route the Soviets selected.
The first inkling of possible disaster for those at the rail bridge was the sharp crack of the Comet’s 77mm weapon, closely followed by Griffith’s urgent message over the radio waves.
“All stations, all stations, enemy tank and infantry force on Route 48... FIRE! TARGET LEFT 15! ENGAGE! ...approaching positions from Rechtern, in Regimental strength... FIRE! ...over.”
In his excitement, the tank commander forgot to unkey his mike, sending his local instructions over the radio to all listeners.
The Soviet attack fanned out, two of their tanks already smoking after receiving fatal attention from the British tank.
“I’m down to ten AP shells, Sarnt, the rest’s all HE.”
Butler, the normally unflappable gunner, expressed his alarm in his own special way.
“Ten fucking AP ain’t e-bastard-nough. We’re fighting a fucking army out there, Sarnt.”
There were nine tanks to the front.
“Well, don’t fucking miss then, you pillock. Show me you’re as good as you reckon you are, eh?”
“ON!”
Butler’s automatic call was responded to equally automatically.
“FIRE!”
Another T34 shuddered under a hammer blow, the engine compartment immediately spouting a firm candle of fire.
“Apparently, you tell everyone you’re the fucking bees fucking knees, so prove it!”
A shell struck the wall, sending pieces of stone smashing against the armour plate.
“Five degrees, left gunner! Target tank.”
The turret rotated effortlessly.
“ON!”
“FIRE!”
The shell struck, deflecting off through the frightened men clinging to the back of the T34, sending a deluge of pieces in all directions.
“You tosser! You missed!”
“I hit it, Sarnt.
“Well then, hit the bastard again!”
“ON
!”
“FIRE!”
The shell punched through the turret ring, transforming the interior into a charnel house.
“Right, Bert, shake it up, man! Reverse up behind the building, then right across the street. Move it, will you!
The Comet moved back, as two more shells struck the stonewall.
Ramsey did not have a radio with him; that remained in the western defensive positions.
However, he now had a field telephone in position, a working EE9 US Army model, which now screeched at him in an urgent fashion.
“Ramsey.”
As he could see the other position, code and formality was unnecessary.
“Major, the Reds have tanks and infantry in our rear, coming from Rechtern in Regimental strength.”
Thought and deed were very different
‘Jesus Christ!’
“Righty ho, Captain. Orient yourself mainly on that axis. I assume that racket is our lads from the Derbyshires?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Fine, make sure you support them with some infantry. I’m relying on you to hold them back for as long as you can, clear?”
The reply was lost in a whirl of thought.
‘This bridge is suddenly very important. I’m missing something.’
Back in the now, Ramsey issued further instructions.
“I think the next bridge up had extra reserves. 1st Black Watch lads. Send a runner. Get them up here, as quickly as possible.”
Soviet mortar shells started to fall, to the second that the rain stopped once again, and sunlight burst through the clouds.
“Once that’s done, get onto Brigade and tell them the situation. I am going to destroy the bridge within the next forty-five minutes. You...,” he summoned up a mental image of the pale face of the modest blonde officer, “We...We must hold for an hour. That is an order, Captain.”
“Yes, Sir. Good luck, Sir.”
Ramsey looked automatically towards the bridge defences, and caught the end of Grayson’s salute.
He returned it across the divide, and prepared to live his last few minutes on earth in a manner befitting an English Officer.
