Opening Moves

A young sapper took his place, Garand rifle in hand, cape and helmet in position and to any distant observer looked pretty much the same as any other American doughboy in the storm.

The special party continued with its urgent work, the moment of the attack growing closer.

0412 hrs 11th August 1945, US Front Lines, Stammen, Germany.

Brennan and his group approached the farm buildings which comprised his company headquarters, taking in every sight and sound in the unrelenting thunderstorm.

It was Brown who saw the boots, or rather the soles, and signalled for a halt. The detail went to ground, watching, listening, tense.

The Lieutenant pointed and eyes followed the direction of his gesture. Drag marks in the grass and US Army issue soles facing them, attached to god knows what but none the less a warning that something bad was happening.

Collins gestured one of his men forward and the man slipped away, appearing adjacent to the boots some minutes later, making the universal gesture of a finger pulled across the throat, telling them all they needed to know.

Gathering his force together into a defensive perimeter, Brennan discussed options with Brown and Collins.

The thunder grew in intensity until they all realised that it wasn’t thunder at all and the flashing away to the north was artillery not lightning.

Lopez hissed a warning as numerous swiftly moving shapes could be seen running parallel to their position heading northwards.

Whirling around to face east, some of the detail became aware of the sound of engines, both light and heavy.

They did not know that a company of Soviet motorcyclists and armoured cars was hammering past the heights, intent on mischief to the north, or that heavy self-propelled guns were moving up to position themselves on the ridge east of Stammer.

Roughly where they were presently positioned.

Brennan made a decision to bug out and took his men back the way they had come, all the way to the mortar platoon positions.

The change was marked, with firing positions fully cleared and ready to go, dinghies nowhere to be seen and just a faint suggestion of a collapsed marquee on the ground.

Two .50cal MG teams had arrived from the Heavy Weapons Platoon, and these were set up to guard the route from which Brennan emerged and the ridge line to their front.

Caesar immediately spotted a flaw and detailed a half-squad to positions watching the western approaches.

Small arms fire was building to a crescendo, seemingly from locations to the east, punctuated by thunder and dramatised by lightning.

Brennan detailed Brown to investigate whilst he made his way to the halftrack, where Addison Watkins was still working the radio.

“Give me the good news Corporal.”

Watkins tossed off the headset and examined his notes, water dripping off the greaseproof pen notations.

“1st and 3rd Platoons are under attack, big attack, infantry, and armour. I just finished on the horn with 3rd and they are bugging out right now, heading this way.”

Brennan made his mental changes to the positional map.

“No contact with company HQ Sir.”

“They are off the net Watkins. The 453rd?”

Watkins checked his notes.

“Nothing heard Sir.”

No more than the Major had expected, given the rush of Soviet infantry they had seen.

“Heavy weps, the anti-tank platoon, and 2nd Platoon all report noise but no contact as yet.”

Was that good news Brennan asked himself?

“Battalion HQ is screaming for a sitrep. I just told them what I know but the Colonel and General Clough both want you on the horn a-sap Major.”

Composing his report in silence, Brown arrived to trash his preparations before he had delivered a word.

Taking his commander aside so as not to be overheard Brown passed on his observations.

“Jeez Buck, but we are in deep shit.”

No arguments there.

“We lost 1st and 3rd.”

“What the fuck Harold?”

“3rd Platoon were flushed out of Exen by a horde of reds, figure at least two companies worth on foot and a whole lot more in armoured cars and on motorcycles.”

Brown had his map in his hand and described the movement with a wet and bloodied finger.

“They headed west towards Stammer and 1st Platoon.”

Buck looked at the painful finger and gave Brown a questioning look.

“I slipped,” was the sole explanation forthcoming.

Brennan’s mental map was redrawn in an instant.

“1st Platoon moved out of Stammer and bugged out east towards Exen.”

So two platoons, bereft of cover, were moving towards each other in darkness and in the full knowledge that the night held the enemy but without the faintest idea that the other was on the move.

“Great. Go on.”

“They engaged each other from what I could see. No idea on casualties because some huge Russian SP guns turned up and brought fire down on the boys.”

“So what happened?”

Brown was embarrassed.

“They surrendered Buck, the whole two platoons.”

Brennan took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair.

Taking the moment to compose himself, he worked out his plan.