Opening Moves

Both men made it in safety and offered the suggestion made by their now dead Sergeant, shot down as he drew the enemy fire from his two young lads.

Makarenko regained cover and promised himself that the man’s sacrifice would not go unrewarded. He also understood the dead man’s plan perfectly and briefed a nearby Kapitan on what to expect before slipping back to find out how Rispan was doing.

The defenders of the Greater Bastion had stopped the enemy attack by the North wall, inflicting great loss for no casualties of their own.

Having dropped the enemy sub-machine gunner, the Bren gun crew relaxed and reloaded their weapon, their position at the top of the tower guaranteeing them early warning of any further Soviet efforts.

A single rifle shot rang out and the view was temporarily obscured by the body of a commando plucked from the roof. The falling man screamed briefly on the way down until he struck the rock at the base of the tower, the flare pistol springing from his grip as he bounced.

Yefreytor Nikitin, Hero of the Reichsbrücke, chambered another round and waited for the machine-gunners to stick their heads up once more.

Rispan was in agony, a grenade fragment having carried away part of his left testicle in the last but one attempt to force the lower courtyard approach.

Makarenko found him below the Lion Gate, trousers down, a medic plugging the wound and trying to construct a bandage that would do the job of staunching the flow of blood.

“Ilya, can you continue?”

“The bastards just continued the Rabbi’s work Comrade General. I can still fight but I won’t be running anywhere for a while. I’ve sent men back to look for the flamethrowers.”

Makarenko nodded as the wounded Major grimaced with pain, the bandage tightening around the wound.

“There are no more panzerfaust’s and we are out of grenades. I have men stripping the dead for more. I will not waste more of my men attacking until I have the tools I need Comrade General.”

With the Soviet Paratrooper General such talk was safe enough, especially as Makarenko knew his man well. None the less, the job had to be done.

“I will lead your men Ilya. We have no time to wait and we risk being trapped here if the enemy gets organised. Outside someone is already raising hell with our pickets.”

His hand shot out to silence Rispan’s protest.

“You said yourself, you cannot run Comrade Mayor.”

Men trickled up the stairs, distributing recovered grenades to eager hands, their own hands often contaminated with the blood and detritus of the former owners.

A familiar figure toiled up the stairs, weighed down with a flamethrower pack.

“Comrade General, this is the only one we have. We found another but it is unusable.”

“It will have to do then Starshy Serzhant. You too are wounded Nakhimov?”

Egon Nakhimov held up his hand, displaying the gap where his little finger had once projected.

“Have no fear, I salute with my right-hand Comrade General.”

Such was the comradeship of the 100th Guards that the response elicited a laugh and a fatherly pat from Makarenko.

“Get them ready Ilya.”

Pulling up his trousers, the Major saluted formally and turned to the tired men around him.

At the barricade in the lower courtyard, the confidence of the defenders was high. Each assault had been bloodily repulsed at little cost, the narrowness of the approach restricting the options for their enemy as well as negating their superiority in numbers.

Amon Treschow, late of the Luftwaffe, was apparently enjoying his first proper taste of ground action, despite its intensity. By his side, the sizeable figure of Rettlinger did not relish the return to close-quarter fighting, as he possessed intimate knowledge of its primitive nature.

Wolfgang Schmidt sat against the door frame of the converted cellar, a female French agent binding his wounded left forearm.

A commando Corporal tapped out his cigarettes and shared them with German and Frenchman alike. Bruno flicked his Calibri lighter and lit the young NCO’s Gauloise.

A grenade arrived from the stairwell, bouncing back off the barricade and exploding.

Another caught the door frame, rolled along the threshold like a deadly ball, hit the other side of the woodwork and dropped back down the stairs, where the sound of the explosion mingled with cries of pain.

Grenades continued to arrive at regular intervals, only one lodging against the barricade. Fragments of red-hot metal penetrated gaps in the structure and dropped the Corporal to the floor, the Gauloise still clamped between lifeless lips.

Two more followed but with no result and then there was the briefest of pauses.

Three grenades bounced against the wall and two of them settled perfectly against their barricade. Men scattered in expectation, none noticing their benign state, pins in place.

As planned, the assault party swiftly charged forward, flamethrower to the fore.