by Gee, Colin
The fields between Dagersheim and Sindelfingen seemed to be crawling with armour, well over a hundred vehicles committed to action.
Braun became aware of more high-velocity weapons firing, and was relieved to discover comrades from 4th Company moving into position.
4th Company was a hotchpotch of vehicles, which was why it had been left out of the assault.
Now, its SP’s and tanks started working the field efficiently, killing and killing and killing.
The T34 drive vanished, gutted further by the arrival of 4th Company, the survivors turning and running, exposing thin rear armour to vengeful Legion tankers.
Another wave of T34’s moved forward, but this time mingling with the IS-II’s, the centre of the battlefield containing an inexorable wedge of advancing Soviet armour, still outnumbering the defenders.
Braun checked his watch, surprised to find it was precisely ten o’clock.
Uhlmann ordered a forward movement all across the defensive line, regaining their previous positions. The Katyusha barrage arrived as the tank companies relocated once more.
0937 hrs, Thursday 30th August 1945, The Hedgehog Position, designated ‘Leningrad’, Dagersheim, Germany.
Two of his men lay dead, torn to pieces by a machine-gun that was covering the trench leading to the bunker. Another man had exposed himself above the parapet for the briefest of moments and was now coughing out his life as his ruined jaw and windpipe leaked vital blood into his lungs.
Sounds of combat from Durand’s platoon moved further away, as the Legion Lieutenant drove his men to fulfil his orders.
Two of Von Arnesen’s men equipped themselves with some grenades and made speculative throws over the top, aiming at the machine-gun.
Both failed, and one man earned a bullet in the wrist for his troubles, an alert guardsman shattering his ulna.
Reinforced by some more stragglers, Von Arnesen could still only muster two dozen men. In any case, two hundred men wouldn’t be any good unless the present tactical problem could be overcome.
Höffman dropped down by the edge of the trench, accepting a Mauser rifle, its bayonet fitted and stained with recent use.
Wiping the blood away, he extended the weapon, using the reflective blade to look up the trench, assessing and planning his own move.
Returning the rifle to its owner, the fanatical NCO slid across to his commander, who was on the radio ordering mortars onto the target.
“Sir, I think I can sort this. I need a smoke grenade and the ST44.”
No explanation was required, indeed, there was no time for it.
The ST44 changed hands for the third time that hour and a nebelgranate was pressed into his hands.
Ensuring the assault rifle magazine was full, Höffman moved to the edge of the trench and prepared his grenade.
“Don’t do anything until I shout, Kameraden,” he spoke with black humour, “If I’m fucking dead, act independently, and send my mother flowers.”
A mad grin split his face and he tossed the smoke grenade over the top and into the trench some thirty yards up.
Giving time for the smoke to obscure the view, he scuttled on his belly, hugging the ground as the Soviet defenders fired speculatively through the spreading cloud, adding random grenades for good measure.
His reflected view had been correct, in as much as there was a depression in the trench floor, framed by the bodies of Soviet guardsmen killed previously.
Sliding into the depression, he organised the dead body to give him both protection and a place to steady his weapon.
The smoke cleared slowly.
Höffman could clearly see two riflemen in cut-outs down the trench sides, but it was another minute before he made out the barrel of a DP light machine-gun some metres beyond.
He made a professional judgement, and settled himself for the shots.
The ST44 was a modern weapon designed for the modern battlefield, range less than a rifle but greater than a sub-machine gun. The intent was to provide improved firepower to the infantry facing the Soviet juggernaut, giving the Wehrmacht superior firepower in the ‘middle ground’ of battles.
The magazine contained thirty short-case 7.92mm rounds, capable of being blazed off on full automatic or, as Höffman intended, in semi-automatic mode.
He could see the enemy peering down the trench and felt that the left side rifleman was becoming far too interested in his hiding place.
He pulled the trigger and sent a burst into the DP position.
The MG fired, its bullets zipping through the air above the Sergeant.
Höffman fired again, assisted by the muzzle flash, silencing the crew.
A bullet nicked his shoulder, the enemy rifleman having got his bearings quickly.
The ST44, momentarily out of control because of the impact, lined up with the guardsman and fired. A bloody body tumbled out of the niche and onto the trench floor.
The second rifleman picked up a grenade, armed it, and threw it high.
Höffman was horrified to see it land the other side of the dead Russian he was using as cover.
He pressed his face into the mud and felt the shock wave as the grenade exploded.
Unharmed but disoriented, he struggled to aim the ST44, not realising that the foresight had been neatly removed by shrapnel.
None the less, he pulled the trigger twice, sending bullets into the right-hand niche, smashing the knee and shoulder of the rifleman, taking him out of the fight.
The sergeant retained enough presence of mind to shout to the assault group.
“Schnell Menschen! Vorwärts!
Needing no second invitation, Von Arnesen’s group crashed around the corner at high-speed, closing down the deadly machine-gun position before it could be brought back into action. The first man there used his MP40 to repulse an attempt to man the DP, leaving three Soviet dead in the trench beyond.
Propping the damaged ST44 against the trench, Höffman selected a discarded PPSh, and slid an extra round magazine under his belt.
The second Soviet rifleman was crying tears of pain, moaning softly as his shattered knee and shoulder brought him to the extremes of agony.
The ex-SS man drew level with the noise and examined the Russian with emotionless eyes. He moved his PPSh into the crook of his left arm, grimacing as the extra weight provoked his new shoulder wound.
Höffman took out his pistol once more.
“Bastard Russich.”
Hate replaced pain in the guardsman’s eyes.
“Germanski bastard.”
The Colt spoke twice, the naked fury in the Russians eyes inspiring Höffman to make doubly sure, the second shot masking the sound of the arming lever on the US issue fragmentation grenade, now dropping from a lifeless hand.
It rolled against his foot.
Höffman’s impaired reactions gave him no chance.
“Du verdammter bastard Russich!”
0940 hrs, Thursday 30th August 1945, Soviet Defensive Position designated ‘Rostov-5’, south of Dagersheim, Germany.
The first assault had failed, falling short of the enemy position on a small rise two hundred metres from the main road out of Böblingen.
5th RdM’s 3rd Battalion were tasked with Rostov-5 through to Rostov-9, a frontage of just under a kilometre, and they had fallen at the first hurdle.
In fairness, it was not their inability or lack of courage, but the fact that Rostov-5 was bristling with everything in the Soviet infantry arsenal.
Lange, his teeth gritted against the pain as the soldier bound his ankle, swept the approaches with his binoculars, the bodies of 7th Kompagnie’s commander and some of his men still burning bright enough to be remarkable on the extensive battlefield.
A few metres behind Lange and his command group was his headquarters vehicle, its engine wrecked by shells from a light anti-aircraft gun brought into play against the easier ground targets.
Salvaging a couple of radios, the group set up in a shell hole, moving ea
rth to form a raised ridge on the rim, behind which they could more safely observe the battle.
Lange had dislocated his ankle in the mad dash to escape the anti-aircraft gun’s cannon shells, and the swollen joint stuck fast in his combat boots.
Refusing to have them cut off, he allowed one of the signallers to bind it tight with a bandage as he tried to organise his forces.
“Gelbkopf to Gelbbruder-one-two over.”
The second in command of 7th Kompagnie did not have a radio, so no reply was forthcoming.
“Gelbkopf to any unit Gelbbruder come in.”
“Gelbbruder-two-one to Gelbkopf receiving.”
The commander of the 8th Kompagnie was an old soldier, and Lange’s enthusiasm got the better of him, formal radio procedure suspended.
“Status, over.”
“Gelbbruder-two-one to Gelbkopf, one-one is dead, one-two is wounded. I have command. I need Adler on this location immediately, and be aware, light flak is in the target zone, over.”
“Gelbkopf received. I will advise.”
Lange waited whilst the other signaller went to switch his radio channel to contact Adler direct. He was curtailed by an authoratative voice on the main scheme radio.
“Anton to Gelbkopf, Gelbbruder-two-one. Adler will be inbound. Mark Rostov-5 with red smoke, repeat red smoke over.”
8th Kompagnie’s Captain acknowledged and Rostov-5 was bathed in an expanding ruby red cloud within seconds.
Knocke spoke to the air controller, who in turn directed his last support strike in on target.
The self-propelled guns of the anti-tank unit were warned, and readied themselves to move closer still.
Three glass-nosed A-26 Invaders of the 640th Bomb Squadron lined up and attacked.
Many eyes were on their approach. The legionnaires of 5th RdM waited, coiled like a spring, ready to charge into the devastated position.
Knocke and Lange observed from their command positions, ready to react as needed.
The Soviet machine-gunners and flak crew waited, fearful for their lives if they should not knock down the aircraft.
The Invaders carried delayed-action bombs, enabling them to come in low and strafe as they attacked, each aircraft producing a devastating fire from eight nose-mounted .50cal machine guns, a heavy firepower bolstered by a further eight .50cal’s in four wing pods. The combined effect being to place over nine thousand rounds per minute on the target area from each aircraft.
It almost seemed to the observers that the smoke was beaten down by the passage of lead, angular lines appearing in the redness, and often, other redness appeared marking the fatal passage of heavy bullets.
Experienced observers noted that the central Invader had its bomb bay open, and it was this aircraft that released eight 500lbs bombs, the weight loss causing it to swiftly rise above its comrades, receiving a line of tracer through its open belly for its trouble.
The three bombers turned sharply to starboard, moving over friendly territory, angrily pursued by a hail of Soviet bullets.
The fuses ran their course and exploded.
Rostov-5 rose into the air, or that was how it seemed to Knocke through his binoculars, the force of the bombs raising up earth, stone, metal and flesh, before it all came crashing back down again.
8th Compagnie’s commander gave the order and his second in command charged forward, leading 7th Compagnie onto their objective.
The French officer shouted for all he was worth and plunged into the cloud of dust, closely followed by the 7th’s legionnaires, shouting and screaming in the charge.
A Soviet guardsman staggered out of the smoke and dust, his hands holding his ruined face, ears bleeding from the concussion of the explosions.
He was shot down, and the legionnaires ran on.
A dead Soviet officer, his legs neatly severed at the top of both thighs, stood erect in a shallow pathway, acting as a diminutive gatekeeper and attracting humorous shouts as the legionnaires swept on.
The Invaders lined themselves up.
7th Compagnie pushed on, dispatching a few shocked guardsmen as they progressed.
The Invaders approached.
“Anton to Adler. Call the eagles off. Friendlies on target. Repeat, call the eagles off!”
Those on the command net who heard Knocke’s words realised that a disaster was in the making, their commander’s voice carrying a fear and worry that none could miss.
8th Compagnie’s leader could only watch in horror as the USAAF bombers approached again.
All three opened fire together and ceased fire just as quickly, flying straight over the wrecked position without dropping any ordnance.
“Adler to Anton. Attack aborted. Eagles are low on fuel and returning to base, over.”
The radiomen in the Command Panther heard a defined sigh of relief from their leader, and they shared one together.
The Invaders had fired for a split second, enough time to get nearly two hundred rounds on target. Enough to kill three legionnaires and wound five others.
7th Compagnie pressed on finding no resistance, dispatching a wounded man here and there, until they reached the edge of the position and could overlook the road to the south-east.
7th Compagnie’s Senior NCO beckoned the radioman forward and reported in, confirming that their mission was accomplished, and also that he was in charge, the Invaders having killed the 8th Kompagnie’s French officer.
Behind schedule, 8th Compagnie assaulted Rostov-6, taking the position with ease.
0947 hrs, Thursday, 30th August 1945, Soviet Defensive Position designated ‘Leningrad’, north-west of Dagersheim, Germany.
Von Arnesen’s group was now down to thirteen on their feet. Whilst none of the others were fatally wounded, they were out of the fight, and the Soviet resistance was not getting less; far from it.
Allowing his men a few moments to get their breath back, he risked a swift look over the edge and saw just enough to know that they were close to their target.
He also saw a movement in the trench to their front and realised it was helmeted heads moving swiftly.
“Achtung! Counter-attack!”
His warning made all the difference.
Two experienced legionnaires, one, a man who had learned his soldering with the Leibstandarte-SS, and his loader, similarly versed in the art of war by his service with the SS-Wiking, had just finished preparing their weapon for the new assault. They quickly deployed, in text book fashion, the loader kneeling, the gunner placing the weapon on the offered shoulder.
The MG42 had a phenomenal rate of fire, so much so that it super-heated the barrel if fired without pause. The German Army issued instructions to reduce rates of fire, and to use the weapon in short bursts.
Experienced or not, the gunner decided to ignore that particular instruction, and proceeded to unload the entire two hundred and fifty round belt into the group of Guardsmen that charged round the corner, holding grenades that remained firmly within dead hands.
The bullets literally cut some of the men to pieces.
The belt gone, the two machine-gunners dived for cover as the armed grenades started to go off amongst the recently fallen, transforming that piece of trench into something completely unspeakable.
More Soviet soldiers yet to emerge from the angled trench fell to shrapnel, and those that remained had no stomach for a further attempt.
‘No time like now then.’
Von Arnesen rose swiftly, the pain stabbing his thigh and causing him to wince.
“Forward Menschen! No stopping, press hard!”
The two gunners already had another belt fitted and dragged another from a Legion corpse nearby.
At the front ran an ex-Hitler Youth soldier, screaming at the top of his juvenile voice whilst firing short bursts from his MP40 into the backs of the broken Soviet infantry.
He tripped and fell but the attack didn’t falter, a French Caporal-Chef took up the lead, his recently acquired PPSh pushing the enemy on
quicker than before.
The trench took a few more turns until they could see the log bunker just ahead.
At the next turn, a Soviet officer had stopped some of his men and they rallied.
The caporal-chef flew back round the trench corner, the impact of the bullets knocking him off his feet.
Through bloody lips he screamed as the Russians used his legs as a target, exposed as they were.
Von Arnesen and the medic dragged the man by his straps, but were horrified to see both his feet detach, severed by the stream of bullets.
“Grenate!”
A stick grenade was thrust into his hands and the cord was pulled. It was airborne with seconds, landing on the top of the trench and doing no more than distracting the defenders.
He risked another look over the top.
“Menschen, stay ready to charge. I’m going over the top here, you,” he pointed to the ex-Hitler Youth soldier, “Young Fischer, I want you over that side. Come down in the trench behind them, but let’s not shoot each other. Klar?”
Aloisius Fischer grinned like the child he was.
“Alles Klar, Sturmbannfuhrer!”
“And you all stay ready and attack when they have us to worry about. In the meantime, keep them busy as soon as we move. Klar?”
It was clear, and no further explanation was needed.
Von Arnesen checked his MP40 and took up another grenade, a British Mills bomb.
Fischer put a new round magazine on his submachine gun.
Both men ensured that their pistols were ready and correct, as such a weapon would be a life-saver and a life-taker in the environment they were about to create.
“Ready?”
A nod was sufficient.
“Go!”
Von Arnesen leapt up and out of the trench, half expecting to be instantly cut down by machine-guns.
Nothing.
He could see Fischer moving like a Gazelle, nearly halfway already, and so he drove himself forward hard.
Fischer was close to the trench now, and had his grenade ready, waiting for his leader.