Opening Moves

A Mosin rifle on his side of the river fired and was joined by other weapons as his troops engaged a small group of American infantry that was falling back down the eastern bank of the river. Most were successfully dropped to the ground and the others ran back to where they had come from, only to fall back into the hands of the advancing 1st/1323rd Rifles.

As the sunlight began to spread further, the welcoming shapes of BA64 armoured cars and ISU-152 self-propelled guns became evident on the southern approach road.

From the north-west side of the bridge emerged more enemy soldiers, some of whom were immediately killed by the engineers nearby.

However, this was a company of American engineers from the 308th Engineer Battalion, now galvanised by orders to protect the bridge, coincidentally defended by Soviet engineers of the 14th Guards Sappers with the precise same instructions.

Steady fire started from the buildings to the west of the bridge, increasing as more American troops were set to the task.

It now seemed to Chekov that a severe battle was taking place to the south-west of Trendelburg as well as on his own doorstep.

A panting Starshiy-Serzhant arrived with a report, rivulets of water running off the shivering man.

“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, the attack was successful and the mortars have been destroyed with grenades or by smashing sights. However, Comrade Kapitan Smina was wounded in both legs and ordered his men to withdraw while he covered them.”

Chekov would have expected no less from Smina.

“Serzhant Iska saw him disarmed and taken alive.”

‘Good,’ thought Chekov, ‘The Motherland will have need of such men when this abomination is concluded.’

“Starshina Neltsin says that, with your permission, he will remain on the east bank to assist.”

“Agreed. Thank you Abramov.”

He considered that news.

Neltsin wouldn’t do that unless there was good reason.

‘Good luck and stay safe Mikhail my old comrade.’

Bringing himself from his thoughts, he grabbed a blanket from the pile next to the ammunition boxes and passed it to the NCO, who had done the river there and back in record time.

“Thank you for your effort young Abramov. Get yourself dry Comrade. There will be hot work here soon enough for you.”

Firing immediately next to his position took on an almost desperate quality, and he saw his men rise to receive a charge.

Abramov threw aside the blanket and fell, all in the same motion, the grenade exploding behind him, killing him instantly, punctured by a score of hot fragments.

Chekov was aware of two thumps on his right side but felt nothing as a mixture of courage and fear drove him forward to repel the assault, his men grabbing their close-combat weapons.

He fumbled for his Tokarev automatic.

Shouting for reinforcements, he charged up the bank into what had instantly become a whirling mass of bodies.

Standing back from the throng, he careful selected target after target, dropping each American engineer with an aimed shot, turning the tide single-handedly and allowing his men to gain the upper hand.

One wounded enemy Sergeant rushed at him, bayonet lunging, but he sidestepped it, allowing momentum to carry the exhausted American down the bank. He shot him in the back of the neck, dropping him into the water to drown in a combination of blood and river water.

One of his own men cartwheeled dramatically away, the top of his head distorted by the impact of a bullet fired from vengeful Americans who had witnessed the massacre of the assault party.

Another wounded engineer was dragged into cover before both sides recommenced a steady exchange of fire at distance.

Suddenly feeling his own aches and pains, Chekov examined himself. A lump had been taken out of his right calf. Painful now the adrenalin was abating, but no more than that.

The pain in his hip was worse and required him to drop his waist belt to examine the area.

His PPSH had been struck by a grenade fragment and the wound in his hip was actually caused by splinters from the sub-machine gun’s wooden stock. He pulled out three obvious ones and felt instant relief, but the sharp stabs of pain told him there were more present.

His PPSH was of no use, neither was his Tokarev, as he had no more ammunition for it.

Looking around he took up the rifle and bayonet his recent attacker had carried.

With no qualms, he grabbed the legs of the body lying half in, half out of the water and dragged it ashore, undoing the belt containing its ammo and trying to remember how to use the impressive weapon. Loading an eight round clip, he shouldered the rifle and moved around his bloodied engineers getting reports, encouraging the living and noting the dead.

Smina was in pain but he reasoned that at least he was alive to feel it.