Opening Moves

“Heavy machine gun troops to move up as soon as the defenders have been moved off the river line. Support my group, the boat group and defend the bridge from any counter-attack.”

Addressing the badly scarred Engineer officer, Deniken sought a loan of equipment.

“Comrade Major, if you could let me borrow some spare rubber boats from you then I can put more men across south of the river.”

The Major and the Regimental Commander exchanged looks.

“Unfortunately I have no spares Comrade Captain. I have sent my spares to the 134th to cover equipment losses.”

There was no more to be said.

He looked at his watch.

“Synchronise now, at 1215 on my mark,” noting everyman, including his commander ready with their watches, “3,2,1, mark.”

“Mortars and support machine-guns will start firing smoke at 1258, infantry will attack with the boats at 1300, I will commence the main infantry attack at 1305, tanks to roll on green flare from Grabin. Questions?”

The Regimental Commander spoke once the silence had confirmed everyone knew the plan and their part in it.

“Comrades, I must stress that the bridge must fall into our hands intact. I have men from the Army engineer unit here”, he indicated the scar faced Major of engineers who looked stonily at Deniken. Nods were exchanged.

“They have bridging equipment but I would rather not use it. Understand me comrades?”

They understood perfectly. The man who permitted the bridge to be brought down would not survive the day.

And with that thought, the orders group dismissed and the preparations for the attack got underway.

Divisional artillery was still pounding away at Oedeme for all it was worth but the area around Heiligenthal was relatively quiet until two LA-5’s fighters, one smoking badly, flew low over the bridge heading southeast.

Some enthusiastic machine-gunner sent stream of tracer skywards, narrowly missing the wounded bird. The wingman lazily pulled off his guarding position and conducted one quick strafe run of machine gun and cannon fire before returning to babysit his damaged companion back to their base.

Two men were hit by the strafing run, and both were killed, as aircraft cannon shells tend to be hard on the human body.

One was the young machine gunner who had climbed on the jeep and sent .50cal rounds skyward. The other was the airborne units senior Non-com, the hard-bitten old Sergeant, who had run to the boy to drag him off the gun, determined to beast him for attracting such unwanted attention.

The Sergeant had been with the unit since it was formed and had seen O’Malley and his comrades through many tough scrapes, pulling them through with his skill and courage. Once the consuming fire of the burning jeep had abated O’Malley promised himself he would bury Master Sergeant Thompson properly and mark his grave. It was the least that could be done.

Disturbed at the loss of the unit’s senior man, O’Malley drew a camel from his pack and lit it, even though 1 o’clock chow time was approaching. The rich smoke wafted around him as he crouched in his foxhole, wondering who would give the mess call now that Thompson was in bits.

His thoughts were disturbed by distant coughing, not from the throats of men, but rather distinctly, from mortars.

All around his position shells exploded, bathing the river and foxholes in choking smoke. No one needed to be told what was happening.

Machine gun fire could also be heard, but they were visiting their brand of hurt on someone else so O’Malley kept his head up for now.

The wind was very low and so the smoke stayed pretty much where it was laid, occasionally wafting one way or another as a small gust pushed it around.

Steadying his BAR into his shoulder, he checked around him to make sure his section were up and alert, ready to do their jobs when the moment came. The BAR was not his normal weapon but the squad needed the firepower and as its previous owner was back in the aid station having been clipped by a bullet in the second attack, O’Malley took the job.

More firing started, this time in the background.

A scream came from one of the men stationed just north of the bridge as he was struck directly between the shoulder blades by a smoke round. The unlucky man had bent over to pick up his helmet, dislodged by the previous round to arrive. He was dead before anyone could move to his assistance, spine smashed, lungs, and heart wrecked and bloody, the light smoke gently discharging from the unexploded shell making the corpse a particularly ghoulish sight.

To O’Malley’s left a carbine stuttered and he turned to chastise his man. The wind wafted the smoke and created an arched clear zone in which Soviet soldiers could be seen running hard straight at his position, holding wood, looted inner tubes, anything that would float.

No orders were needed and bullets reached out, dropping many at the full run.