Opening Moves

“Yes Comrade General.”

All present had heard the Kapitan speak before, but that didn’t make him sound any less sinister now. The man’s vocal chords had been damaged at the same time as his body, all victims of a German Flamethrower in 1942.

That Kapitan Scelerov was alive was, in itself, a miracle. That he returned to active duty was remarkable. That he chose to adopt the flamethrower as his weapon of choice was incomprehensible, until you listened to the hate that drove him on each day, through the pain barrier.

Then you understood.

Revenge is a powerful force.

“And so to the tanks. Close support, paying particular attention to machine-guns obviously. Tanks and infantry will remain together at all times, no-one gets isolated.”

Directly addressing the infantry officers, he expanded on their role.

“Your own mortars will support your attack obviously, but make sure they can be redirected to take out the anti-tank guns which hurt 39th the last time,” he looked at the tank battalion commander, stating with honesty, “That was an oversight on my part. I will not have it repeated.”

“Thank you Comrade General,” said the Colonel of Tank Troops, although his inner self wondered why the 60th’s mortar units had not done so as a matter of course.

Dug-in anti-tank guns could be a real bitch but plunging fire tended to be an excellent remedy.

“Here, at the end of RathausMarkt is where 106th will do their job,” he indicated where the Schleusenbrücke had once stood, “And where I want you to ensure that you have sufficient tanks and riflemen in place to cover them while they construct a crossing for us.”

His commanders understood perfectly but it would not hurt to remind them.

“The 106th is extremely valuable and cannot be frittered away, so take great care to make sure they can do their job unhindered Comrades, or we may all be counting trees before the week is out!”

Again, the pencil hit the map as he stood upright.

In the silence, all eyes were drawn to the gentle sound of the pencil rolling steadily and inexorably to the table’s edge before dropping onto the floor.

“Comrades, we will not stop until we have moved over these obstacles and are beyond them. Push on and on. Once it is dark we will stop, and not until then. All units will defend their positions when they halt.”

He pulled up his sleeve and signalled for a time check.

“On my mark it will be 1514 hrs. 3,2,1, mark.”

Fingers pressed down and watches were synchronised as required.

“I think you can all sort out your liaison and pass on your orders in good time. 1st Rifles will take about an hour to get into position so the attack will commence at1645 hrs exactly. Artillery will commence in earnest at 1630 hrs.”

He dropped his left arm, shaking his sleeve down.

“Get the job done and kick these bastard English back to their little island. Good luck Comrades.”

1515 hrs Sunday 12th August 1945, The Rathaus, Hamburg, Germany.

Actually, they weren’t English at all. Some five hundred and thirty years beforehand, these men’s ancestors had provided the backbone of Henry V’s Army at the Battle of Agincourt. To the inexperienced eye, they looked like the standard British Infantryman, pudding bowl helmet, khaki uniform, boots, gaiters, and all sporting either the SMLE, Sten or Bren. To call them English was an insult.

They were Welsh and proud of it.

For two days, the 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers had stood in the face of huge enemy attacks, side by side with actual Englishmen in the form of men of the 1st Oxford and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.

That ravaged battalion had endured such heavy casualties that it had been withdrawn and 4th RWF had spread out to cover the full front, which was why they now found themselves in the strange position of being integrated with jocks of the Black Watch, who had arrived just in the nick of time in the previous attack.

A quick officer’s orders group had decided to wait for a definite lull before shaking the two different units out and so, for now, men with names such as Jones and MacDonald shared the same positions in and around the Hamburg Rathaus.

Over one-half of the battalion’s officers were either dead on the field or bleeding in aid stations behind the lines. Even the Lieutenant Colonel commanding the Royal Welch had been carried from the field, torn and bloody, leaving a young Major in command.

He was inexperienced but led his men well, turning up at the hottest points of contact and directing his meagre reserve forces to critical points in order to stave off defeat.

None the less for him, the sight of the ‘Legend’ rushing in with his men had been truly inspirational, which feeling quickly spread through his whole unit as word spread that Ramsey VC was fighting alongside them.