Opening Moves

The solid AP shell would have missed the tank but the vertical commander’s hatch increased the height by a short distance. Even then, the round only lightly kissed the top side of the hatch on its way past and into the buildings behind. That ‘kiss’ was enough to slam the heavy cast of metal into the NCO at a speed, which destroyed his chest in a micro-second, leaving him trapped in the hatch and hanging down inside the turret. His crew were oblivious to his death until the smell of blood, urine and faeces overtook them. They withdrew immediately, the turret gunner firing parting shots from main and coaxial weapons as they went.

It was ‘D’ Company RWF who had the hardest fight to date, with scores of Soviet troopers breaking into the ground floor of the Rathaus and forcing the fusiliers back. This permitted more Russian troops to charge across Große Johannisstraße relatively unhindered.

Major Llewellyn immediately ordered the 555th Engineers forward and made efforts to push the stubborn Soviets out of the Rathaus.

A runner was dispatched to bring forward ‘D’ Coys reserve platoon and this arrived within minutes, less two men wounded in the Soviet artillery and mortar barrage.

As Allied reserves plunged into the fight, the 134th Flamethrower Company was sent forward to expand on the success of the ravaged 215th Rifles.

Yells accompanying Welsh and English success were soon replaced with screams in the universal language of fear and pain as Scelerov’s men set to their grisly work.

CSM Richardson’s valour went unnoticed, the fate of many acts of bravery in wartime. He charged a flamethrower group preparing to launch a flank attack through a corridor and offices. With absolutely no expectation of surviving the experience, he fired short bursts with his Sten until all bullets were expended and his life’s blood was draining from his body, his legs and stomach ravaged by a dozen wounds. In the full knowledge of what he was doing, he drew his Webley pistol and exploded the fuel tank on a dead sapper, setting fire to the corridor and a number of attacking engineers, saving the situation with his own sacrifice. The flames reached him and started to consume his flesh so he used the Webley one last time.

The Royal Welch were good troops, but there are few soldiers who will stand their ground when concertedly attacked with the flamethrower. They gave ground slowly, inflicting losses upon engineers and infantry alike, but the screams of the horribly burnt, wounded, and dying started to have a psychological effect upon the defenders.

The Rathaus was now alight on every floor but still the fighting and dying continued, men fighting for and escaping burning areas at the last minute.

A section of Soviet engineers found an undefended staircase and moved up a floor, intent on going over and coming down behind the defenders.

Only McEwan heard them coming, having been driven back from his perch on the Rathaus’ first floor when accurate Maxim fire started peppering the position. Quickly, the indomitable little Scot exchanged his sniper’s rifle for the PPSH sub-machine gun he had taken from a dead Russian the day before.

The Soviets came on, oblivious to his presence, and he easily wiped the group out with two long bursts of fire.

Two of the knapsacks were leaking fuel product so he decided to withdraw after quickly grabbing a round PPSH magazine from the nearest corpse. He tossed a grenade into the pile of dead and wounded for good measure, transforming the stairwell into a maelstrom of flame and preventing further enemy sallies as the resultant fire cooked off more fuel and grenades. He had no sympathy for the wounded enemy who screamed as they were consumed by his efforts, simply reasoning that they had brought the flamethrowers to the party so they deserved everything they got.

Reloading his PPSH, he set it aside again and took up the rifle, spotting a group of enemy all over the disabled Sherman in Hermannstraße. Prioritising the two carrying what looked like teller mines, he took steady aim and dropped the first man to the roadway. Missing the second man, he gave himself a stiff reprimand and chambered another round, hitting the running figure in the left knee.

Puzzled, he relaxed the rifle away from his body, swiftly examining every inch of the beautiful Standard 4 Lee-Enfield, seeing nothing to disturb him and, blowing away an imaginary speck of dust, placed his cheek into the modified stock and held his breath.

This shot took his target perfectly in the chest, slamming him to the ground instantly. That the next target in his sights was a woman gave him an unusual moment of pause, but he pulled the trigger and she went to her maker just the same, the impact throwing her against the tank she was circling as she exhorted the others to greater efforts.

The woman’s dying screams reached his ears, high-pitched and penetrating.