by Gee, Colin
“Stand to! Stand to!”
The shout, once voice at first, then repeated around the whole Black Watch position, as other voices took up the warning.
On the extreme corner of the hillock, one Corporal gave an order to fire, and the Vickers started its deadly work.
Through the trees to their front came a horde of Soviet infantry, driven forward by their NCO’s and officers, their losses growing as more weapons joined in the defence.
Ramsey spared a look towards the underpass, from where men emerged carrying the artillery shells, two men to each, bodies hunched in fear and anticipation.
On the other side of the railway embankment, more firing erupted, proof that the Americans had troubles of their own.
“Mac.”
The corporal raised his head.
“Aye, Boss?”
“I want you and your pair to watch the top of the embankment. Kill anything on it, and keep me informed please.”
“Right enough, Boss.”
As the volume of offensive fire increased, more and more Soviet bullets whipped through the trees and undergrowth, removing pieces of the greenery in large clumps. A smaller fir tree fell to the earth, its trunk sawn in half by hot lead.
Sparing a swift look at the bridge, Ramsey was encouraged to see that the pile of artillery shells had grown.
A nearby Bren gunner screamed as the top of his head was removed by fast travelling metal, his weapon falling silent.
The loader looked on in shock, immobilised by the sight of his friend and the spray of blood that had lashed his face.
Ramsey shouted from his position.
“Private Fraser!”
Nothing.
Ramsey repeated himself, drawing the same blank.
Shouldering his Sten gun, he propelled himself up and over the edge of the position, rolling and slithering into the Bren pit, beside the petrified Fraser.
“Come on now, Fraser. There’s work to do, lad.”
The nineteen year old looked at his commanding officer through watery, uncomprehending eyes.
“Come on lad, come on now! What will you think of yourself in the morning?”
The tears continued, but the soldier started the process of composing himself.
Ramsey grasped the boy’s neck and gently shook him.
“Come on now, laddie, show the Reds how the clans make war eh?”
A Lance Corporal, keen to know why the Bren was silent, rushed to the pit, and threw himself on top of Ramsey.
“Jings, ah’m sorrah, Boss!”
Although winded, Ramsey managed a response.
“Don’t make a habit of it, McClendon, especially as we haven’t been formally introduced.”
“Aye, Major. We’ll no be daeing it tomorrah anyways, and that’s fer sure.”
The Major grinned and slapped the NCO on the shoulder.
“Stay with young Fraser for a bit, just until you can get back safely to your own position.”
That was not what Ramsey meant, and both McLinden and Fraser knew it, but it sufficed to save the young lad’s blushes.
Ramsey was up and out of the hole in an instant, fighting the new pains in his chest and stomach, and making the distance to his own position in short order.
He collapsed into cover, conscious that McLinden’s unexpected arrival had probably sprung a couple of ribs.
McEwan waited for the officer to recover.
“The bas tried the top like ye said, Boss. They’re all doon.”
A swift look was enough to confirm the presence of nearly a dozen bodies, some wearing the tell tale cylinders of flamethrower troops.
“Well done, Mac.”
“Oh, there’s more, Sah.
The finger pointed down a path that afforded a restricted view of the top of part of the embankment, almost certainly some seven hundred metres away.
“I dinna know what they are, but for sure, they’re big bas, Sah.”
Searching his memory, the briefing document he sought came clearly into view.
“Stalin tanks, look like mark three’s, Mac. Very nasty.”
‘Well that’s us up shit creek without a paddle!’
“RSM!”
Robertson heard the call and stopped bandaging his wrist, laid open to the bone by a wood splinter.
He sprinted to the HQ hole.
“RSM, the enemy is pushing heavy tanks up the rail line, on top of the embankment.”
Ramsey extended his arm down the same line that Mac had indicated. They both looked, but the monsters were now not apparent, a cloudburst obscuring them.
“They’re there for sure. The Yanks have got two Bazookas. Get a runner over to them, and let them know the Stalins are their problem for now.”
‘Until they become our problem!’
“I need you to hold here, and keep the boys at it. I’m off to see the engineers and chivvy them along with the good news.”
They shared a laugh, unforced, two professionals doing their jobs as best they could.
“Let Grayson know about the Stalin’s. He might persuade our Derbyshire friends to have a crack at them.”
“Aye, that I will, Sah. But they’ll run in the other direction if they have any sense!”
Ramsey was up and out of the trench once more.
Bullets lashed the ground around his feet, and he realised that the fire came from three Soviet infantrymen who were nearly at the underpass, having crawled on their bellies, unobserved.
His run had taken him directly at them, and they fired instinctively, believing that he had spotted them.
Throwing himself behind a fallen tree truck, he landed heavily, increasing his chest and stomach pain.
‘Grenade? No, too close to the Yanks.’
In confirmation of his decision, one of the US Engineers risked a peek around the corner, and was shot dead immediately.
‘Too close.’
One of the Russians flopped lifelessly, as others noticed the small group.
The two survivors rose up, intent on finding sanctuary in the underpass.
More of the engineers emerged, stooping low with their heavy burden.
‘Oh my lord!’
Reacting instantly, Ramsey charged and yelled, his lunacy bearing fruit, the two Soviet survivors drawn to him, rather than the struggling engineers.
Firing a burst from his Sten, the Black Watch Major was amazed to see both men go down, blood flying from numerous wounds.
Ramsey was unaware that RSM Robertson had seen his plight, and chopped both men down, his own burst having buried itself uselessly in the embankment.
Struggling for breath, Ramsey placed his hands on his knees, trying to conquer the achy chest pain that was all encompassing.
The cane, slid between his webbing, proved obstructive, and Ramsey slid it out, quickly massaging his bruised torso.
Fielding emerged from the underpass and found the Black Watch officer in some discomfort. He had seen the cane before, but never expected the stuffy Englishman to actually carry it in combat.
“Major, you ok, Sir?”
“Tanks... Lieutenant... Stalin tanks... on top of... the embankment... half a mile off... need this... blown now.”
Checking the work behind him, Fielding replied confidently.
“This is ready to go when you give the order, Major. We just need to ship out more shells for the bridge.”
“How many... more?”
“Twenty, Major, no more’n twenty.”
“Speed it up... please... we’re running... out of time.”
Hässler appeared.
“Hey, LT. I was coming to tell you we have enemy armour coming,” he looked at the dishevelled Black Watch officer, “But I guess you’ve got the dope already?”
“Yes, I got the dope, Master-Sergeant. What’s happening out there?”
Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Hassler reached for his canteen, pouring some water over his face to clean away the muck of combat.
&nb
sp; “The commie infantry are held, LT, for now anyways. They got up real close, but they fell back after Bluebear ripped them up some.”
He spat at the memory of what he had seen.
“The Chief is sure something else when he gets up fighting close, and that’s a fact.”
He had no wish to go further than that, but he now had more understanding of the horrors that the legendary US Cavalry must have experienced.
Fielding had an idea.
“Maybe we can speed things up, if some of your boys fall back through here, and grab a shell between pairs?”
Ramsey liked it slightly more than Hässler, but the Master Sergeant saw the sense of it, although not the desirability of carrying a lump of metal filled with high explosive in a close-quarter fight.
Unable to speak, Ramsey nodded his agreement to Hässler, who took it as an order.
“I’ll drop a squad back through here right now, LT.”
Something that passed for a salute quickly followed, and the NCO disappeared back from where he had come.
“So, what’s the situation, Major?”
Taking a deep breath, Ramsey tried speaking normally.
“Not good, I’m afraid Lieutenant.”
Grasping the man by the arm to move him out of the way of two men struggling with a larger shell, Ramsey lowered his voice.
“The Reds are coming at us... from both sides now. A Regiment’s worth of tanks and infantry from Rechtern. Heavy tanks across the embankment... infantry on both sides. Mortars only at the moment... for reasons known only to themselves.”
That was a lot for a Lieutenant of Engineers to take in.
Ramsey laughed, the act increasing the stomach and chest pain.
‘Only when I laugh. Yeah, right!’
Fielding look at Ramsey as if he had just arrived from another planet.
“What’s so funny, Major?”
“I was just remembering another Lieutenant of Engineers, faced with a similar situation, Fielding.”
The memory of one Lieutenant Chard RE, commander of Rourke’s Drift, kicked his mind down another path, and he quickly wondered how Llewellyn was doing in these dark times, before switching back to the present.
“We have no time, By hook or by crook, get what you need piled on that bridge in five minutes. Clear?
“Yes, Sir!”
Turning away, Fielding saw something that displeased him.
“Private, set that det cord out properly, knucklehead!”
Ramsey returned to his positions, ready to ensure that Fielding would get his five minutes.
He dropped into the headquarters pit, finding Robertson in complete control of a hopeless situation.
“Sah, the buggers rushed us agin, but we stopped them the now. They’ve dropped back into the trees awa’s back there.”
The RSM spoke more softly.
“The bas had flamethrowers, Sah. They dinna get within range, thank God.”
A bullet passing through the tree overhead severed a small branch, the lump descending and striking the RSM on the shoulder.
“Perhaps you should wear your tin helmet, RSM?”
Ramsey often spoke of his RSM’s preference for the Tam-o-shanter in combat, never pushing, only cajoling.
“Where would I be wi out ma tam, Sah? The bhoys demand it of me you know.”
Soviet mortars brought a pause to their discussion, their suddenly increased rate of fire, coinciding with growing sounds of battle from the west bank.
“The engineers are nearly done; just a few more shells on the bridge, then they’ll blow the underpass.”
The noise of battle grew in an instant, the ‘Urrah’s’ of the Soviet infantry rising as they launched themselves forward.
“We must give them enough time, Sarnt-Major!”
The men of the Black Watch needed no orders on who to put down first. The Soviet soldiers carrying the deadly cylinders were singled out, and fear lent them accuracy, as all six of the Soviet operators were shot down. One cylinder exploded, the deadly yellow flames grabbing out for more victims, engulfing men for yards around.
The screams were hideous, but the Scots spared the writhing figures no thought.
This was not a day for pity.
Now within grenade range, the leading Guardsmen threw a number of devices into the British positions, some explosive, some smoke.
The surviving Black Watch Vickers stopped firing immediately, water flowing from its ravaged cooling jacket, as blood dripped from its dead crew.
Ramsey prepared himself, knowing that the enemy could not be stopped before they closed on his positions.
He became aware of some screaming and shouting, feet running past his hole, heading to his front.
Some soldiers fell, men clad in the uniform of the 1st Battalion, Black Watch, but others, led by the mad Irish CSM, charged headlong into the Guards infantry, putting them to flight with a combination of rifle butt and bayonet.
Recalling his men, CSM Green spread them out to fill the gaps in the depleted B Company positions, and then went in search of Ramsey.
“Close call that, Sarnt-Major. Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it, Sir. But if you’ll take my advice, I’d get the feck out of here, soonest.”
Turning back to point across the river, Green did a double take.
“You sneaky fucking bastards you! Major!”
Soviet infantry were moving slowly up the riverbank, intent on making a surprise rush on the bridge.
Ramsey kept his eye on them, assessing the risk. He shouted at Robertson, and he pointed in the direction of the river.
“RSM!”
Robertson saw them immediately, and shouted in his best parade ground voice.
“Second platoon, with me, action to the rear!”
A handful of men rose up and followed Robertson to the back of the mound, flopping into loose cover, waiting on the word.
Ramsey was already on the field telephone to Grayson.
“Captain Grayson, there’s at least a company of reds moving up tight to the river to your south; some in the water, some on the bank. The RSM is about to engage, but you might like to make arrangements yourself.”
On cue, Enfield rifles and 2nd Platoon’s surviving Bren gun began their deadly harvest, the wading men horribly exposed and vulnerable.
Within seconds, the gently flowing waters were tinted red, bodies floating, wounded men floundering and drowning.
Fielding dropped in beside Ramsey, his cheek laid open by a mortar splinter.
“We’re all ready, Major. Ignition point is just to the left of the entrance there. Two minutes of fuse. Safe point is this end of the bridge and no closer.”
“Two minutes? I wanted the position at the end of the bridge, Lieutenant!”
“We couldn’t do it in the time, plus we had problems, bad det cord, Sir.”
He could not decide if that was good or bad.
“But we’re set, yes?”
“Yep, we sure are, Major. Some of the cord was unusable, but we done the best with it we could, and I guarantee it’ll do the job. Plus,” conscious of the fire fights that raged in all directions, Fielding added unnecessarily, “Two minutes seems like all we’re gonna get.”
“Fair enough. Well done, Lieutenant.”
“We’ll save that for when the fucker blows, I think, Major. Now, I’ll do it, but we have to get your boys well back. The 29th boys are already moving.”
“What?”
“The 29th boys are already moving, Major.”
“Too soon, they’re falling back too soon!”
“But your commander ordered it. The Kraut top kick took orders from a runner, direct from your man Dunne.”
Ramsey knew that could not be the case, as the last information he had was that Dunne was totally incapacitated with shock.
Ramsey did not know that a GRU agent within Kommando Friedrich had acted on instinct, and interfered with the defence in a dramatic and terminal fashion.
>
That the man was killed by his own mortars was just the fortunes of war, his sacrifice forever unknown to his family, peers, and Motherland.
1218hrs, Thursday, 25th October 1945, astride Route 48, Barnstorf.
Six of Yarishlov’s tanks were knocked out, the others either hidden away from the demon tank, or scurrying at top speed for anything that could provide safety.
The infantry had pushed up, and it had seemed that they would carry the position, until innocuous bushes exploded into life, and whole lines of men were swept away.
From his rear position, he was able to spot some of the vehicles responsible, and destroyed two, but the others continued to flay Deniken’s men as they milled around, thrown into total disarray.
“What the fuck are they firing? I want some, Sarnt!”
Griffiths was also in awe of what they were witnessing.
A number of different weapon systems had come together to halt Deniken’s men.
Gun mounts from the 554th AAA, quadruple .50 cals in Maxson turrets, mounted on M20 trailers, did great damage. However, they were vulnerable to counter fire, as the crews exposed themselves when re-ammunitioning the weapons. Similarly, the three 40mm Bofors that hammered the approaching masses with HE shells were vulnerable, their servants all exposed to the lightest of fire.
The weapons which drew the admiration of ‘Lady Hamilton’s’ crew were T33 Motor Gun Carriages, sporting 37mm guns, weapons more effective in the previous decade but thrown into the fight here, instead of languishing in a run-down depot on Salisbury Plain.
As anti-tank guns they were obsolete, but in the role needed that the day, they ruled supreme.
At short range, the 37mm’s M2 canister shells were like shotguns, producing a widening stream of 122 steel balls, each one capable of taking a man’s life.
Whole squads were wiped away, chopped to pieces by streams of metal, all reminiscent of a battlefield, another continent, and century away, when a place called Cemetery Ridge ran with the blood of brave men.
It was a slaughter that shocked both sides, those involved, and those watching.
Yarishlov shouted into his radio.
“Pull them back, in the name of the Motherland, pull them back, Deniken!”
Command and control was lost, but Deniken was already doing what he could to rescue his command.
