by Gee, Colin
2nd Lieutenant Finch was lying fast asleep in a cot nearby, oblivious to his commander’s presence.
Master Sergeant Julius Augustus Collins looked across to his own boss snoring softly, then up at his company commander who shook his head in understanding and then gestured comfortably so that Collins knew he didn’t need to interrupt his game.
Collins passed the Major a bottle and pointed him at an ammo box stack where he could take the weight of his legs.
Concentrating on the hand, the bald non-com carefully counted out $20 in $1 bills, and pushed it forward, announcing a raise.
Cards were thrown down in disgust until the only other player holding was Lopez, the swarthy little Mexican.
Pulling deeply on a cigar nearly as large as himself, the card player contemplated the Sergeant with apparent disdain.
The Master Sergeant similarly drew heavily on his Cuban, knowing that that Lopez had taken 3 cards, and knowing that his own ace-queen flush was good.
After a delay during which Brennan took a slug of the cool coca-cola and passed it on to Brown, Lopez pushed all his money forward and dropped his cards face down in front of him, staring unblinkingly at Collins.
“All in muchacho.”
The Master-Sergeant laughed loudly in triumph, pushing his own stack forward, laughing harder as he threw down his flush in spades and stopped only as Lopez slowly leant forward and started to arrange the pile of bills. His full house, eights on tens, sat proud for all to see.
“Sonofafuckingbitch! You Mexican bandit!”
Lopez was the card king and Collins really though he had him there.
Laughter was a good indication of a happy unit and, even in the face of the casualties and defeats of late, this group were high on morale.
“Good morning Major, Lieutenant Brown. Want me to wake him up?” He indicated the still snoring Finch.
Brennan did need to speak to the officer and was debating the point inside when something registered in his mind, the same thing that was registering in a few minds within his field of vision.
‘That wasn’t thunder.’
A sentry was through the tent flap within a few seconds.
“Gunfire, two shots Sir. Perimeter secure.”
The man disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.
Finch would have had a gentler awakening a few minutes earlier but now the tough as nails non-com known as Caesar roared his troops into business at the top of his voice, startling the sleeper into life, and then being startled some more when his CO stood over him.
“No time Finch. We just heard two shots. Some distance away I think. None the less, get your unit ready for bear a-sap. Send a runner to heavy weapons platoon next in line and get them to hustle up here with some extra support.”
Leaving the startled lieutenant to gather his wits and his uniform, Brennan cast his eye around the controlled mayhem before him.
He singled out an old Corporal.
“Watkins, get on that horn and inform all company call-signs that we may have infiltrators and to stay alert.”
The Corporal was on the job within seconds.
“Master-Sergeant, I want three of your men.”
Collins, fully dressed and armed, clicked his fingers at three men putting them to the duty and ran out into the driving rain.
Major Brennan followed him out and immediately saw that the mortar positions had lost their dinghy protection and were ready to go.
Collins was in conversation with one of his Corporals and took in the man’s information and agitated pointing.
“Major, Runcieman reckons it came from the direction of your hooch.”
Brennan nodded.
Collins understood the moment too.
“More security Sir,” and he gestured to a squad to follow on the heels of the CO’s group, steadily picking its way towards the headquarters location.
Safety catches were off.
0400 hrs Saturday 11th August 1945, Trendelburg, Germany.
Chekov’s men had reached the bridge undiscovered and moved off the water and into the surrounding undergrowth to wait for the signal.
A special party stole silently under the bridge.
From the darkness a red torch flashed twice and the special party received ten further engineers to help them cut wires and make safe the demolition charges prepared and laid by the American defenders.
The designated security force stood watch and was forced to act immediately, pulling a wandering American soldier into the darkness where his life was ended, all for the want of a pee in the river.
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-ta
nk 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.
“Right Harold, get this lot ready to move, except don’t break down the mortars yet. Get Caesar on finding us a route that isn’t full of commies. I’m gonna dial in the bad news to the Colonel. Don’t get outta sight.”
Throwing a cursory salute up, Brown went efficiently about his orders.
Brennan turned to a worried looking Watkins.
He grabbed his shoulder firmly.
“Don’t worry Addison, I will see you home to your porch in Mobile, come what may. Now get the Colonel on the horn please.”
0513 hrs 11th August 1945, Trendelburg, Germany.
Lieutenant Colonel Chekov’s men had not finished their dangerous work by the time the attack started in earnest but it appeared that the Americans had no orders to blow the bridge in any case. His men, now combat infantry rather than specialists, moved into firing positions from where they could defend the bridge from all sides.
Fig#23 - Trendelburg - Sound of shots
Chekov’s orders were to maintain fire discipline and to not reveal their presence unless they were attacked.
A squad of running men clattered over the structure and off to the east of the bridge, carefully watched until out of harm’s way.
Machine guns started to hammer out their staccato song off to the southeast and shortly afterwards mortars closer by began to add to the noise.
As dawn’s light began to make itself known, the thunder and lightning started to abate but no one noticed, as man was creating his own type of noisy storm on the Diemal Plain.
Chekov worked out that the 1st Battalion of the Siberians must be attacking enemy positions somewhere near the road from Stammen.
A red-faced and soaking engineer emerged from the water close by and coughed his way up the bank to where the CP had been set.
“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, Kapitan Smina requests permission to attack the Amerikanisti mortar positions,” he turned and pointed, “Which lie roughly one hundred metres east of the bridge.”
A deeper cough to remove the detritus of his swim and the young soldier continued.
“Kapitan Smina states that he believes he can easily destroy the position with the twelve men he has ready and awaits your reply, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”
Chekov smiled. Of course it would be Smina who wanted to attack.
And of course, he would let him.
“Tell your Kapitan that he may do so, but not get involved in anything else, He is to return back once his mission has succeeded or is not possible. Is that clear comrade?”
“Yes Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. I will return immediately.”
The engineer ran back to the water’s edge and plunged into the river once more.
A figure Chekov recognised as Smina met the exhausted man at the water’s edge. A swift discussion took place before the Captain raised his hand to his CO and organised his section for the attack.
The Engineer commander watched as the group all but melted into the ground beyond the bridge.
The firing was increasing in volume and intensity.
Looking at his watch, Chekov correctly calculated that the main advances would now be approaching Deiselburg from the south and Trendelburg from the south-west and southeast.
Whilst Deiselburg was too far away from him for now, he looked out for more opportunity to get involved with the fighting and help his comrades in the infantry and tanks.
His attention was suddenly focussed on intense firing closer at hand as Smina launched his attack. There was no doubt that it had an immediate effect, the distinctive mortar sounds ceasing within seconds, replaced by the unmistakable sound of PPSH sub-machine guns hard at work.
He suddenly remembered the engineer who had donned the American uniform and looked for him but the man was experienced enough to have already cast off the enemy trappings.
‘No sense in getting shot by your own side’.
A new sound emanated from the south-west, unlike anything he or his men had heard before. A low ripping of cloth. Whatever it was the Chekov suspected it was bad news for someone. It was an M16 quad .50cal AA mount, and it was visiting hell upon the motorcycles and armoured cars of the 12th Guards as they tested the Seilerfeld road approach to Trendelburg.
The noise at the mortar position was abating and Chekov was watching carefully for signs of his men returning.
Eleven men had gone forth and the first of them scurried back with a second senseless over his shoulders.
The next two men were supporting another whose screams rose over the increasing sounds of nearby battle. He had no legs.
Four more men slid into view, one of them favouring a wounded side.
‘No more?’
Turning to question his trusted Starshina, he saw that the man was already on his way to the water to swim across and find out what had happened, in company with another NCO he didn’t recognise from the back.
Chekov noted with grim satisfaction that the mortars had not started again.
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 d
oorstep.
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.