Opening Moves

He could hear the tanks on the bridge now, the distinct rattling of the track pins louder than the firing around him, main guns still reaching out to kill the American paratroopers.

Attracting the attention of those around him, he steadied himself, ready to take them forward into the defending foxholes.

Rising to his feet, he yelled his small group forward and they plunged into the thinning smoke even as some of them had the life plucked from them by American bullets.

O’Malley changed magazines but held his fire. It was the last one after all. Ready to hand by the side of his foxhole were one grenade, his M1911, and a combat knife.

He automatically winced as a Russian tank exploded in a fireball, victim of a bazooka team to the south of the bridge.

His attention was drawn to four others moving towards his rear, infantry hanging on for all they were worth and other running figures fanning out in support.

The bridge had fallen and it was time to bug out. He wondered where the order was, but the young inexperienced Lieutenant who should have provided it had broken down. He was mentally shattered and useless, cowering and crying loudly behind the watermill, where he was heard and dispatched by a compassionless Soviet sub-machine gunner.

The sounds to O’Malley’s left changed now and he became aware that his squad was being overrun, soldiers grappling, stabbing and screaming, slashing and shouting, all in a frenzy of close quarter combat.

Suddenly to his front came a group of seven Russians, all seemingly intent on running straight at him.

They saw him too.

Weapons spat bullets in both directions, and found their mark in American and Russian alike.

O’Malley did not feel his left arm break as two PPSH bullets struck home and shattered the lower bone structure, ruining his radial artery in their travel.

Neither did he feel his right ear nicked by another bullet.

He was aware of the bullets hitting the ground in front of him, throwing earth and pieces of grass into his eyes, reducing his vision.

Through his squints he finished his own work, putting down another Russian, the lifeless body flung backwards to join the three already cut down by fire from his BAR.

Three more enemy remained and he pushed the now useless Browning away and grabbed for his pistol, bringing it up and firing, simultaneously dropping another Russian as more PPSH bullets smashed into his right shoulder, wrenching him round like a rag doll even as he discharged the rest of his magazine uselessly into the ground.

He swung back round, suddenly aware of the tattered and bloody apparition stood over him and experienced excruciating pain as he was slammed against the side of his hole by an eighteen inch bayonet forcefully penetrating his upper chest. The blade travelled on and destroyed his trachea, blood pouring straight into his lungs in an instant. The unforgiving steel carried on, deflecting off his spinal column and out his back into the earth wall beyond.

It was stuck and no amount of twisting and pulling would free it, even with a boot planted firmly on O’Malley’s chest, so the Russian holding it chambered a round and fired point-blank to blast the metal free, reloading the weapon as he quickly moved on to do more killing elsewhere.

O’Malley had but a few seconds of active thought before darkness forever overtook the mental pictures of family and home.

It was still there. Slightly damaged and scorched from the heat of the burning tank, but the bridge that had cost so many lives still stood.

In Heiligenthal, fighting continued as the surviving four tanks and their accompanying infantry pushed hard for complete control.

Deniken sat beside the bridge near a burning jeep and watched as his wounded were brought in to be treated as best they could be. The dead were also being reverently recovered and he could not take his eyes off the lifeless form of the young medical orderly who had bandaged his arm that very morning. No marks on her body, just a small trickle of blood from her mouth.

His newly acquired rifle lay propped by his side, its bloody bayonet testament to the hand-to-hand gutter fight that had resulted from the desperate charge.

They had died hard, these damned Amerikanisti, as hard as the German to be sure.

The headache was extreme now and the bandage seemed to get tighter by the second, squeezing his head.

Grabin had reported to him but he could not remember what was said, except that he handed command of the battalion over to his old soldier.

The Regimental Commander’s GAZ moved up the track amongst the dead and dying, clearly on his way over the bridge.

Deniken struggled to his feet quickly to give his report and, just as quickly, dropped to the ground.

His fight was over for now but he had done his duty and the line was broken.

It would be many hours before the newly-promoted Commander of 3rd Battalion, 49th Guards Rifle Regiment regained consciousness.